An Unsuitable Job For A Man free porn video

Author's note: Apart from obvious place names such as Bournemouth and London, all people, places and events are entirely fictional. Seacombe is a fictitious seaside town on the south coast of England. The story contains adult actions, some of which are naughty, but nice, and others are plain naughty and evil. Don't read it if you're not an adult, or if you may be upset or offended by the content. Apologies to PD James, from whose book I adapted the title, and gained the idea of the plot. *** An Unsuitable Job for a Man by Charlotte Dickles "Hi Chris. It's Suzanne. I need you to do something for me." How typical, I thought, that those should be Suzanne's very first words since we had ended our steamy relationship almost a year ago. No, "How are you?" or, "Are you in another relationship?" or even, "Do you miss me?" Simply, "I need you to do something." That had been the whole problem with our relationship. The sex had been incredible, but Suzanne wanted little else, except perhaps someone to perform a few trivial tasks or accompany her to the occasional official function. If she'd been born a man, she'd have had no problem in having a little wife who played the mouse to her dominant role. But I believe it will take a long time for human relationships to catch up with the changes in society that sexual equality has brought on. Plenty of women are turned on by rich and powerful men; but not many men by rich and powerful women; and certainly not me. Whatever. Suzanne had departed to a high-powered job working for the European Commission in Brussels and I hadn't heard from her since, until that Wednesday afternoon, when the telephone in my home office rang. "Hi Suzanne," I replied. "How are you?" I deliberately didn't respond to her demand. "Oh, er, great, actually." She seemed a little put out at my diversionary question, which pleased me, in a childish way. "I've had a promotion since I've been here, and I'm pretty certain I'm going to get another one fairly shortly. And er..." she paused slightly, as though the thought of social niceties had just struck her, "How are things with you? Are you... seeing someone?" "Nothing serious," I replied, when what I really meant was, "No one at all." "How about you?" I asked. "Are you in another relationship?" "I'm quite close to one of the Commissioners," she said, "but he's already married, so we're both quite happy to keep it low-key." I idly wondered how much her career advancement had resulted from being 'quite close' to a Commissioner, but instead of pursuing it, I gave her the conversational lead she wanted. I was gaining no pleasure from prolonging this exchange. "You said you wanted me to do something." "Yes." I could hear the relief in her voice that we had got back onto safer ground. "A few months ago, my niece, Lucy, died in Seacombe. As I'm her only living relative, I had to go there to identify her. The problem is that they want me to go over again and clear her effects from the cottage where she was living with her boyfriend. Only I'm right in the middle of difficult talks over the EU Budget, and I simply can't get away. I wondered if you could pop down there for me?" Seacombe was a long way from London - a four-hour drive I guessed, so 'pop down' was not quite the phrase I'd have used. "It's a long way. Can't you get the boyfriend to send you the things?" "Jason Farr? He was a real slime-ball, and it was all his fault. He was a drug pusher - it was him that got Lucy into drugs and it was a drug thing that killed her. Good riddance to him. But Lucy's name was on the lease agreement for the cottage, so it's my responsibility to get it cleared." She sounded more upset that her name might somehow be linked with drugs, than she was about her niece's death. "Well, there are companies who will do house clearance for you..." "But I don't know whether there's anything of value in the cottage. I need someone I can trust to go through it all. "Look," she continued, "I'll be honest with you; I've tried several of my female friends in London who have all refused. I realise it's an unsuitable job for a man - but all you have to do with Lucy's clothes is simply stuff them into plastic bags and take them to a charity shop." Suzanne always did find the way with words to goad me into action. Her comment about it being an unsuitable job for a man was a deliberate challenge, a reference to a remark I'd made to her when she obtained her first project from the Commission - a report on the affects of pornography on males. She had proved me wrong - even I had to admit her report was not only unbiased, it was excellent. So of course, she had reasoned that I would now have to rise to her challenge. "If there's any of Lucy's furniture in there," Suzanne was continuing, "do a deal with the landlord, or simply take it to a refuse tip. Obviously, take anything you want for yourself, but if you do find the family jewels around, or insurance policies or anything like that, then let me have them." She didn't say what I was to do if I found any illegal substances; presumably, that was the real reason why she wanted someone else to take on this job. A person in the European Commission certainly could not be allowed to come into contact with illegal drugs. The thought didn't particularly bother me; I could either flush the stuff down the toilet, or contact the police. There was no skin off my nose either way, although I guessed I'd get involved in a far fewer procedural issues with the former. "It's not difficult," she continued. "I suppose not." I sighed, thinking about all the good times we'd had together. I guess I owed her something. It was also true that my computer consultancy business had been so busy that I hadn't had a break for months, but I was now in a lull between projects - I could afford a little time away from work. A trip to the seaside - even in April with the current forecast of continual showers and chilly weather - would make a nice change provided I didn't try to rush the job, as Suzanne would obviously like me to do. "It's a good drive," I said, "and it will probably take some time to clear out the cottage. I may need to spend a few days down there." "No problem. The rent is paid until the end of the month, so you have almost two weeks. I'll email the coroner's office, who are holding the keys, and tell them you'll be picking them up, and I'll email you with all the details. Thanks Chris." And she was gone. After I put the phone down, I turned that conversation over in my mind several times. I had intended to ask a few questions about her niece's death, but she had abruptly rung off, perhaps predicting my questions and unwilling to discuss an issue which disturbed her. On the other hand, if I was going to stay in Lucy's cottage, using her mugs, sitting in her chairs, and sleeping in her bed, perhaps I, too, did not want to know too much about her. After all, it was an unfortunate fact of life that young women are dying all the time - car accidents, cancer, drugs - and you can't get emotional about their deaths - unless you knew them. So when Suzanne's email had come through, I deliberately didn't try to look up the details of her death on the web. The email gave the address of her cottage, the coroner's office, and the landlord's agent. Like Suzanne, Lucy's original surname was Richards. But she'd been calling herself Mrs Lucy Farr, using her boyfriend's surname, although there was no record of them ever having got married. Hell, I thought that habit had died out before Lucy was born. Suzanne had added a note at the bottom of the email, "You don't have to tell anyone they weren't married or what her real name was." No doubt it was not concern for Lucy's reputation that had prompted that rider -more likely she was worried that her own name might be linked to her drug- user niece! *** The drive down to Seacombe the next day was an easy one. I deliberately left later, rather than earlier, thus avoiding the normal horrendous congestion around the M25, and once I was clear of the motorways and suburbia, the traffic dropped to a trickle, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and the journey became enjoyable. I found a pleasant pub to stop for lunch, and consequently arrived in Seacombe around three pm. Conveniently, the coroner's office and landlord's agent were within a minute's walk of each other, so after picking up the keys from the coroner, I called in at the agents and got an inventory of the contents that I'd need to check were all present when I handed the property back to the agents. A few minutes later and I was back in my car, heading for the cottage. In Britain, there are two meanings of the word, cottage. The first is the classic chocolate-box picture of a small house, probably hundreds of years old, set deep in the countryside or in a small village. In more recent years, estate agents have purloined the word, and used it to describe any small, elderly house they are trying to sell, usually in the middle of a town, almost certainly a terraced house. With Lucy's boyfriend pushing her onto drugs that led to her death, I wrongly assumed that their cottage would be a run-down version of the latter. So I was surprised at the quiet country lane on the edge of Seacombe, with the scattering of small country cottages spread along it. Lucy's cottage was almost at the end, at the point where the tarmac turned into hard-core. Inside, it was certainly compact - just a kitchen and main living room downstairs, with a bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Not much in terms of rooms, but the rooms were by no means tiny, and they were nicely furnished, although the window in the bathroom had been broken and was boarded up. I guessed the place was mainly used as a holiday cottage, for most of the essentials, including plates and cutlery, a TV and small Hi-Fi were on the agent's inventory. The only problem was that everywhere was covered in a layer of white dust. At first, I thought it was simply because the place had been empty for some months. Certainly, I would need to clear it up before bringing in my suitcase, or getting anything out of the cupboards or drawers, otherwise, the contents would quickly become as dusty as everything else. But after I'd found a vacuum cleaner, cloth and spray cleaner and started to clear up the mess, I realised there was a more sinister cause. This was no normal dust - it was fingerprint powder. Presumably, after Lucy's death, the police had fingerprinted the place to find who had been involved in whatever drug dealing Lucy's boyfriend had been up to. I sighed. An all too close reminder of the untimely end met by poor Lucy. On the other hand, it meant I probably would not have to deal with a cache of heroin under the floorboards - the police would have already thoroughly searched and taken away any illicit substances. I did hesitate for a few seconds before opening the Jiffy bag lying on the doormat beneath the letterbox, along with a pile of junk mail and free newspapers. It had obviously been delivered subsequent to the police search, since it hadn't been opened or covered in fingerprint powder. It was addressed to Mrs Lucy Farr, and it had a return address of a company in Seacombe, which sounded respectable, so I found a pair of scissors and slit open the bag. I wasn't quite certain about the contents of the two clear plastic bags inside; each appeared to contain a skin-coloured garment, and the packing note referred to them as a Bustlet and Hiplet. Obviously some kind of clothes that Lucy had ordered for herself. I took the things upstairs and popped them on top of the now-clean dressing table. I could put it inside the bags of clothes I would take to Oxfam next day. It was only at that moment that I noticed that the mattress was missing from the bed. That was really a nuisance. Not only had I been counting upon sleeping there for the next few nights, having brought my own clean bed linen, but a quick check on the agent's inventory showed that it had been provided and they would certainly be expecting it still to be there when I handed the cottage back. If I didn't buy a new one, the agents would certainly charge me an extortionate price for replacing it. It was almost six pm. Many shops would already be closed. My only hope was to find an out-of-town trading estate with a bed store. I groaned, and pulled the Yellow Pages from its shelf. *** It was eight o'clock, dark, and pouring down with rain by the time I returned - a mattress filling the inside of my car to the point where I had to drive with my head twisted down to my shoulder. Fortunately, I'd chosen the cheapest - and consequently the thinnest - mattress the bed store had in stock, so, with a bit of assistance from the store, I'd been able to double it up and feed it through the rear hatch. At least there had been a McDonald's on the trading estate, and I'd popped in there for a Big Mac, so I didn't need to eat. Without further ado, I could get straight onto the difficult handling bit. But I seemed to have even more of a fight pulling the mattress out of the car than I'd had getting it in, and then I had to carry the thing up the narrow stairs and around the tight bend at the top, and finally plop it down on the bed. The combination of the rain, and the sweat that was pouring off me by the time I'd finished, meant my clothes were wet through and I felt cold and miserable. The cottage was heated by night storage heaters, which had unfortunately been set to their frost setting, and were completely cold. I turned them right up, but of course, would not get any heat from them until the early hours of the morning. Fortunately, I had switched on the immersion heater as soon as I'd arrived that afternoon, so the water was plenty hot enough for me to take a shower. I pulled off my sticky clothes, ran the shower and stepped inside. Of course, it wasn't until I had stepped out of the shower and dried myself off on Lucy's towel, that I realised my clothes were still in the suitcase in my car. Damn it! The things I had been wearing were soaking wet and felt most unpleasant. Still there was a flowery dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door and, wonder of wonders, it was large enough for me, although I can't say it did anything for my masculinity. I switched on the heated towel rail and draped my clothes over it. Hopefully, by morning they would be dry enough to put back on again. I certainly wasn't intending to go out to the car that evening wearing the pretty dressing gown; Sod's law would dictate that someone would come out of the cottage opposite at just the wrong moment! I had a rummage through Lucy's drawers and wardrobe - I hoped wherever she was, that she wouldn't mind - and pulled out a pale blue sweater and a pair of jeans. I'd been expecting them all to be too small for me, but in fact they were both quite a loose fit. A quick check on other clothes hanging in Lucy's wardrobe established she was a size 18, which surprised me. Suzanne was tall and very thin, a shape made fashionable by Princess Di all those years ago, before people realised her associated health problems. Suzanne had determinedly remained thin ever since, and rather foolishly, I'd assumed her niece would have been the same. Which of course got me thinking about the two items I'd pulled out of the Jiffy bag, which if I remembered correctly, were called a Bustlet and a Hiplet. I went over to the dressing table and shook the two items out of their bags. I picked up the nearest and held it up in front of me. It was like a skin-coloured crop top, with a long neck, and with painted rubber nipples protruding from the front. "Adjustable Bustlet," said the heading on the leaflet packed with it, followed by, "Be the breast size you want to be, depending upon your mood." I smiled, and sat down at the dressing table. This sounded like a good read. "Be the breast size you want to be, depending upon your mood. Feeling shy? Then go for the little girl look. Want to get noticed? Then instantly become the biggest girl in town. So quick and simple to change, you can alter your breast size in the cloakroom! Includes Sensotouch for the ultimate in touch sensitivity." Reading the instructions, it appeared that the breasts on the Bustlet could be inflated with water to make them any size a girl wanted. I couldn't help but be amazed just how gullible some people are at buying such a device and expecting blokes to be taken in by it. I stared at it. Just for a laugh, I thought, I could put it on and fill it until I'd got a superb pair of mammaries, and have another laugh about how stupid they looked. Well, why not? I'd got the rest of the evening to myself, I could hardly go down the pub dressed like this, and I didn't even fancy sitting downstairs in Lucy's clothes, in case the Mormons came knocking on the door, trying to save my soul. They'd be in for a shock! So I took off Lucy's sweater, pulled the Bustlet over my head, pushing my arms through the armholes, then pulled the garment as far down my chest as it would stretch. Well, I had to admit that, when I looked in the dressing table mirror, everything appeared all right. The join at the top was hidden under my chin, and I could hardly see the join where my arms protruded. Even the breasts looked like - well - breasts. Admitted, they weren't inflated, so my tits were hardly bigger than normal, but without my chest hair and with the rather prominent nipples, they looked just like the tits on a slim sexy woman - Suzanne, perhaps. Still, the real test would come when I filled them. I went into the bathroom, taking the dressing table stool with me so I could sit at the washbasin. The flat, flexible piping was exactly where the instructions had said it would be, underneath the lower edge of the garment, and I pulled it out. The end fitted snugly over the hot tap and I turned it on. Sure enough, my breasts started to fill out, and although I'd been pretty sceptical about them a few minutes before, I had to admit that as they filled, they looked bloody good - in fact, they looked exactly like the real thing. Whilst still holding the pipe onto the tap with one hand - I'd had plenty of experience of being liberally sprayed with water whilst connecting washing machines and the like - I raised my other hand to cup a breast. Well, that's where the illusion failed. I hadn't let the hot water run though the tap before fitting the pipe, so my breast was full with cold water. But hot water was now coming out of the tap, and I could let it continue to fill my breast until the temperature was about right. Only then did I turn off the tap, pull off the pipe (fitted with a one-way valve, the instructions said, so my breasts didn't immediately deflate) and stand up so I could look at them in the mirror on the bathroom cabinet. What a pair of beauties! Never before had I been this close to such a large pair of knockers. OK, you can see them in porn magazines and on the internet, but never before had I seen them on a real woman. Except, of course, I wasn't a real woman! What a bloody pity! For the first time ever, I thought about what I had missed. "Don't be stupid," I thought, "these aren't real tits, just inflatable ones." But, I had to admit, incredibly realistic-looking inflatable breasts. It crossed my mind that perhaps one or two women whom I'd recently dated might have been wearing a Bustlet - although inflated to only the half the size of my two. Why would any woman, I wondered, choose to have surgery, when she could have a beautiful-looking pair as easily as this? Of course, what really spoiled my look in the mirror was the head above the torso - mine. I hadn't bothered to shave recently - I only did that when meeting clients - and I had several days' growth. Having lived with a few women, off and on, during my life, and being a fairly curious person, I'd always taken note of what women did to enhance their beauty, so on a sudden whim, I wondered whether Lucy had any face wax - after all, that's how some of my girlfriends had got rid of unsightly facial hair. I took my stool back into the bedroom and sat in front of the mirror. A quick rummage through the dressing table drawers and I found Lucy's face wax. "Hmm," I thought, "this is going to hurt." *** Forty minutes later, I sat and stared in the mirror, astonished at the face staring back at me. It had almost been as though Lucy had been sitting at my shoulder, advising me on what to use at each stage, and where everything was stored. Perhaps even, I thought, goading me on at each step to achieve an even more realistically feminine look. Sure the waxing had hurt quite a lot, but the little voice inside told me that if women like Suzanne and Lucy could put up with it, then so could I. Afterwards, I'd smoothed a little cream over my wounded skin, and then figured that a little camouflage make-up would disguise its raw appearance. Then I'd added a little powder, and gone on to trim my eyebrows with a pair of Lucy's tweezers. After that, I'd discovered some brown contact lenses in a drawer. Although in the past, I'd never been able to get used to lenses, I managed to get these in without difficulty. What's more, the prescription was more or less right for me. Then I'd found some mascara and eyeliner, and gone on to use a little eye shadow. Finally, I lined my lips with a pencil, and then used gloss to give my lips a wonderful cherry-red sheen. The piece de resistance had been when I'd rummaged through the cupboard next to the dressing table and found a wig of short, brown hair in a pageboy style. So now, as I looked in the mirror, I wasn't looking at myself, but at a woman, naked from the waist up, exposing firm, large, rounded breasts, and a face which, although not particularly pretty, was definitely female beneath the make-up. What was truly amazing is that I'd had so little problem with the make- up. Most women seem to take ages to do the simplest make-up jobs, but without any previous experience, I had totally transformed my face. I grinned back at the reflection. "Thanks Lucy," I said to it. "You were a great help with the make-up." I shuddered, suddenly cold, as though a draught had come through the open window, but a glance around showed that all the windows were as tightly closed as when I had come into the house. I turned my gaze back to the mirror. What really spoilt the effect, I decided, were the hairs on my arms. I really needed to wax my arms. I glanced downwards. For my legs, I thought, I would need all the wax Lucy had, and more, if I wasn't careful. *** In fact, Lucy had plenty of wax, which proved sufficient to do my arms, legs, and the rest of my torso. I'd even given myself a nice triangular patch around my genitals. The next stage, I reasoned, would be to put on the Hiplet. I wasn't quite certain what it was, but since Lucy had purchased one, then I wanted to wear it. I found the instructions for the Hiplet and read a similar blurb to before. "Be the shape you want to be, depending upon your mood. Want to look the little girl? Then stay slim. Want to get noticed? Then instantly get the biggest curves in town. So quick and simple to change, you can alter your hip size in the cloakroom! Includes Sensotouch for the ultimate in touch sensitivity." It was strange, I reasoned. Most women I knew (especially Suzanne) had wanted to be as slim as possible. They would use girdles and waist- clinchers to pull in their shape, but I'd never heard of women trying to add inches to their hips. Personally, I'd always found a round arse and shapely curves added attraction to a woman, but just try telling that to a modern woman! I read a bit more of the instructions. The Hiplet was normally worn by transvestites! So why did Lucy buy one? Okay, the instructions did say that women who wanted to gain curves could also use it. There was even a special instruction enclosed to show how to push the artificial vagina inside a real vagina, allowing 'fully- protected sex without a condom'. I pulled the Hiplet over my legs and up my body. There was a gusset hanging from the front, and I had to feed my prick inside a pouch, and then pull it back between my legs and fasten it. A glance in the mirror confirmed it appeared to function like an invisible panty-girdle, slightly compressing my waist, but not adding appreciably to my dimensions. A further look at the instructions told me to pull out the piping from the waistline, and attach it to the tap in the same way as I'd done for the Bustlet. Five minutes later, I had a wonderful round arse and well- padded hips. I needed some clothes, and with a shape like I had, something far more elegant than the sweater and jeans I'd put on earlier. I turned to the wardrobe. *** No one could have guessed that the person facing me in the mirror was anything other than a woman, with vivacious curves in all the right places. I had on a black dress with a deep scoop neckline. I wore black, high-heeled sandals, having first painted my toenails to match the colour of my acrylic fingernails. I had a dazzling necklace, which matched the long earrings hanging like chandeliers, almost to my shoulders. I still couldn't believe that, without a moment's hesitation, I'd pierced my ears, when I discovered that none of Lucy's earrings were clip-ons. It had hurt a bit, but nothing as bad as the waxing. I knew that I'd have to take care of the piercings for a few days, but what the hell, I looked fantastic! I was ready, I reasoned, to go downstairs. So what if a couple of Mormons did come knocking on my door? I could flash my tits at them and tell them to piss off and go and bother some other poor women. Anyway, it was almost ten pm. Far too late for any casual callers to come knocking at the door. I paced around the bedroom a little before trying to walk downstairs - I didn't want to fall arse over tit in my new heels - but quickly got the hang of it, even managing a sexy little swing of my hips as I did so. I went downstairs. *** Considering the police had presumably been all over the cottage, I was a little surprised that they'd left Lucy's supply of wine untouched. I'm not accusing police of being bent, you understand, but I would have thought they would have sent all those bottles to the police laboratory for 'checking'. I found a rather nice red wine. In fact, every bottle in Lucy's wine- rack looked 'rather nice' - she had obviously not wasted all her money on drugs, and she certainly hadn't wasted it on the wine. As I took the first sip, it tasted excellent. I switched on the CD-player. One of those smoochy, romantic songs was already in the deck so I let it play - it matched my mood. I sat down on the settee, and relaxed. Yes, this wine really was excellent. I replenished my glass and wriggled down in the settee. It really was very comfortable, and I'd had a long, hard day. I closed my eyes and relaxed. *** The rattle of the front door opening made me jump, even though I'd been looking forward to it. The guy who came in from outside was in his early twenties, about five feet, nine inches high, rather thin, with a pasty complexion and a shaved head, and a stud in his nose. He wore a dark- green fisherman's sweater and blue jeans. He looked at me, and a big smile lit up his face. "Hi Lucy, darling," he said in his Liverpudlian accent, which made him sound just like Paul McCartney. "You look incredibly hot tonight." "I'm waiting for you, my super stud. I've been thinking about you for so long that I'm all wet down here." I wriggled my hips at him, to show the area of wetness, but I think he'd guessed that already. Unfortunately, the wriggle caused the wine to slop out of my glass and over my hand. I transferred the glass to my other hand and used my tongue to lick first the back of my hand clean, and then, in an incredibly suggestive way, each of my fingers. He stepped over to me, took the glass from my hand and placed it on the side table. Then he leant over and kissed me. His kiss, as always, was fantastic. His lips were so warm and soft, and then they parted and his tongue was forcing its way into my mouth. I let myself flop sideward on the settee, so I was lying along it, and he followed me down, so he was almost, but not quite, lying on top of me. My hands slid down his body to the hard bulge that was already trying to push its way out of his trousers. "Oh Jason," I said, unzipping his trousers and helping to ease out his wonderful prick. "I do love you." I think I almost did too. Okay, maybe I'd started this relationship purely for what he could bring to it, but I'd got to like him very much. And there was no doubt he knew how to pleasure a girl. My hand gave a few thrusts on his prick, just to spur him on a bit. "Fucking hell, Lucifer," he said, "you're gorgeous. I've got to have you. Now." He sharply pulled my dress down my shoulders until my tits burst out, popping off a couple of buttons as he did so. I should have been angry with him because it was one of my favourite dresses and I think he might have torn some of the buttonholes, but I found the experience so incredibly erotic that I almost had an orgasm on the spot. "Ah, you are so beautiful," he breathed on my tits, and that's when I did have my first mini-orgasm. I had the Sensotouch on my Bustlet turned onto eight, which I'd found was about optimum. I knew from experience that a setting of nine could be incredibly painful if he got too rough. "I'm going to give you the fucking of your life," he said. "Yes, please," I said, getting both my feet flat on the floor and thrusting my pussy up towards him. Simultaneously, I pulled up my dress so he could get at me without doing any more damage to it. My panties were expendable; I'd specially chosen them to be so flimsy that they would easily tear off. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Not a gentle tapping on the door; certainly no Mormon missionaries. There was only one group of people who knocked the door like that, making it sound as though they would kick the door down if you didn't answer it. "Shit! Who's that?" Jason stuttered. "The Old Bill, of course," I told him, pushing myself to my feet and pulling down my dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it, and button up the top. Damn! The buttonholes really WERE torn. I'd have to get them mended now. I strode over to the door as the knocking was repeated. "Okay, okay," I said. "I'm coming. "At least," I added, purely for Jason's benefit, "I almost was." I turned the latch, glancing back towards Jason to make certain he was respectable before letting them in. Except that Jason wasn't there! The room was empty! Of course it was empty. I was staying here on my own. I'd taken a shower and then put on Lucy's clothes and made myself up to look good. After that, I'd come downstairs and sat down on the settee and drunk too much wine. I must have fallen asleep and been dreaming, and now I'd opened the door to... I turned my head to look through the open doorway. A policewoman stood there. Shit! "Sorry to bother you," she said. "I'm PC Sally Wright, and we've been keeping an eye on this place, and I noticed the lights on. Can I ask you who you are, and under whose authority you're here?" Gulp! I had to say something. "Yes officer, of course." God knows how I'd managed to produce the voice. I think by creating the sound in my mouth, rather than in my throat and chest, but it sounded all right. "My name is Chris Jones, and my friend Suzanne Richards asked me to come down here and clear the flat, and hand it back to the landlord. There's no problem is there?" She smiled at me - not a nasty, police-type, cynical smile, which according to the TV, they always give before arresting or baton whipping you - but an open, wide smile, that made her whole face light up. "Oh no, but in view of what happened, we are obviously still taking an interest. Do you have any documentation with you to prove what you say?" An instant's panic, and then, "Yes. I brought the emails down with me that I had to show the coroner's office, before they'd release the key." Thank God I'd brought my laptop case in from the car, into which I'd stuffed a printout of the emails. And for once, I also thanked God that my name was Chris, and not Bob or John or Jason. At school, I'd been nicknamed Christine, but at last, my ambiguous name had turned out to have some benefit. I got out the email and showed her. She gave me another smile to show she was satisfied. "Thank you very much, Chris. I'm sorry if I disturbed you." She paused for a second before adding, "That's one of Lucy's dresses, isn't it?" I nodded. "Yes, officer. Suzanne said I could take anything I wanted, so I thought I'd try it on." "Please call me Sally, and I wasn't trying to suggest you were stealing it. It's that it really suits you." Her glance dipped to my bust line, before returning to my eyes. "Of course, you have the figure to fill it properly, rather than having to pad it out, as Lucy did. It fits you really well, and you look very good in it." "Thank you, Sally," I said, and I gave her a nice smile. "I suppose..." Sally said. "Yes?" "No, that's silly. I can sense you are one of those women who really like men." She gave a little smile. "I'm the other way, myself, but that's life. I'll leave you now. Goodnight." "Goodnight," I said, watching her walk down the path to the gate onto the road, where her police car was parked. I closed the door on her, and then punched the air in exuberance. "Yes!" I gasped, in my little girl voice. I had fooled her. I went over to the settee, poured some more wine into the glass, slumped down on the settee and spread my legs wide, making my skirt ride up my legs, and exposing my panties. I giggled. So, lesbian PC Sally Wright had not only been taken in by my makeover, she had fancied me enough to almost ask me out. Only she could sense I was 'one of those women who really like men'. Where had she got that from? I had another giggle, and then took a large gulp of wine. *** Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Well, at least I knew who knocked in that fashion. "The Old Bill, of course," I said, pushing myself to my feet and pulling down my dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in it, and button up the top, made all the more difficult by the torn buttonholes. I strode over to the door as the knocking was repeated. "Okay, okay," I said. "I'm coming. "At least," I added, "I almost was." I turned the latch, glancing back at the room. Jason was zipping up his fly over his huge bulge. He gave me a leer, and mouthed, "You just wait." I would too. I turned my head to look through the doorway. Two men stood there, pointing guns at me. Shit! Before I had time to even think about shutting the door in their faces, they were marching through it, one stuffing his gun into my stomach, the other pointing his directly at Jason. "Ed. Barry. What are you doing here?" Jason sounded very nervous, and, surprise, surprise, his erection had completely disappeared. "On the floor. Both of you." The taller of the two, an evil-looking bastard spoke with a Dorset accent. Of course! Jason had spoken about a couple of hard nuts that he'd known in Bournemouth - Ed Little and Barry Tool. No one ever called them by their surnames, in case they thought you were taking the piss! Both men gesticulated with their guns, and Jason and I did as they said. As I got down, my mind was working overtime. Jason was frightened, which probably meant he was going to get a slapping. I had to make certain they didn't do the same to me. Well, there was one way of making certain of that, and after all, I was still feeling bloody randy after my foreplay with Jason. As I got down onto my hands and knees, I pushed my bum in the air, so that my dress rode up and exposed my little panties. "Fucking hell, Ed! Look at the arse on that," the shorter of the two men, the one who had been covering me, spoke. He, I reasoned, must be Barry Tool. I hoped he had the equipment to match his name. "Shut your face. Cover them, whilst I tie them up," Ed said. "Both of you, flat on the ground, and put your hands behind your backs. Any funny business, and Barry gives you another arse-hole." He flicked the safety on his own gun and thrust it into his pocket, and followed that with such a tremendous coughing fit I was pleased he'd managed to put his gun away in time. With Kung Fu training, we might have leapt up at that moment, kicked the gun out of Barry's hand, and then swiftly dealt with Ed. Instead, both of us lay flat on the floor and kept our hands behind our backs until Ed had recovered. Lying in that kind of position limits your view, but it didn't take much to work out that Ed fastened our wrists behind our backs with those plastic cable ties. Once pulled tight, they are impossible to get off without cutting them with a sharp knife, preferably wielded by someone else. I had a feeling we weren't going to be given that opportunity. Time to put Plan A into action. "Please," I whimpered, struggling to turn over, and incidentally managing to let my left breast topple out of the torn front of my dress, "they're very tight. Couldn't you loosen them a bit?" "I think I could." Now we were both tied up, Barry also put away his gun, and he knelt down astride my torso, slipped his left hand inside my dress to squeeze my right breast. With his right hand, he viciously tore open the dress, almost down to the waist. Jesus! That was erotic. I almost had another instant climax. I have to say that I found being tied up was an unbelievable turn-on. I'd thought about trying it in the past, but you've got to have a lover you can put a lot of trust in, and I'd never been in that position. Now it was being forced on me, I could hardly wait until one - or preferably both - of the buggers raped me. "Leave her alone." Ah, Jason had responded at last. It was a pity that he sounded such a wimp, terrified in case they told him that little boys should be seen and not heard. Both Ed and Barry turned to stare at him, and I managed to give Jason a wink without them noticing, to try and calm him down a little. Provided things didn't get out of hand, we could talk our way out of this, come to some kind of agreement. But only, of course, after they had both shagged me something rotten. "Have you got a problem?" Barry asked, standing up, and walking over to where Jason lay on the ground. We all heard Jason gulp, as he tried to swallow. "She's my wife," he said. Well, at least he was keeping up the pretence, I thought. "Well, we're all going up to the bedroom now," Barry said. "And I'm going to fuck your wife, and you are going to watch me do it. And if you raise one word of fucking objection, I'm going to cut off your balls and make you eat them. Do you have a problem with that?" "No," he said, in a quiet voice. No heroics there, I thought. Good job that I don't mind. Mind? Hell, I was getting so horny at the thought of being shagged by these two baboons that I was on the verge of climax. Normally at this point, I'd have been fingering my clit to bring relief, but with my hands behind my back, there was absolutely nothing I could do. Sweet ecstasy. Barry turned round and bent over and grabbed me around the shoulders, and lifted me to my feet. He must have been pretty powerful to do that, since I'm no lightweight with my Bustlet and Hiplet on, but he hardly seemed to struggle. As for Jason, Ed simply grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled. A few buttons came off, but no worse than what Jason had done to me earlier, so I didn't think he could complain. So, we proceeded up the stairs, which goes straight into the bedroom, and Barry pushed me towards the bed, and twisted me at the same time, so that I fell onto it on my side. He grasped one of my ankles and lifted, and then grasped the other ankle, so he was standing between my legs. "Oh please don't do anything," I whimpered. (I thought that would add to the excitement.) Barry had pushed himself between my legs, and was pulling down his trousers and underpants. Lying on my back with my arms tied behind me, it was bloody uncomfortable, but it did mean my head was elevated slightly, so I could see his prick leap into view. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed by it. It was far shorter and thinner than Jason's, but in that kind of bargaining position, you don't have to be totally honest. "Oh God! You can't put that inside me. It's evil. Please! No!" "Condom," Ed said. "Fuck off, I'm going to make her pregnant," Barry said. "No, please," I sobbed. (Although the makers of my Hiplet ought to sob more, because I'd sue the bastards if he did.) "And leave your semen inside her cunt?" Ed said. "Grow up. Fuck her if you want, but use a condom." Fortunately, Barry was still wearing his jacket, and he had a condom in his inside pocket. Thirty seconds later, he was slamming his prick inside me. It may have been smaller than Jason's, but it was still a very nice feeling. But then, I never could resist a nice prick - even less could I resist a nasty one! "No! No! No!" I moaned. There was no finesse about Barry, but to be truthful, finesse was the last thing I wanted at that moment. I was tied up; I was being raped by a gunman in front of my boyfriend. All I wanted was to have a bloody great orgasm. "Please stop it!" I groaned. Suddenly, I knew I was going to achieve it. I felt my body responding to his thrusts. I wrapped my feet around Barry, and dug my heels into his inner thighs, to give him a bit of extra leverage. "Fucking hell! Your wife's enjoying it, Jason. Just look at the bitch on heat. She can't get enough." "No, he's horrible. His thing is so big. He's hurting... Ah! Oh God! Oh yes! Yes! YES! Y-E-E-E-E-S-S-S!" I squeezed my eyes tight shut as the wave came over me, and then I could feel Barry squirting his load. What a shame he had on a condom. I always like to play with semen afterwards, and there appeared to be an awful lot there. "No!" I heard Jason shout. Bloody hell, I thought, don't tell me Jason has found his balls at last. I only hoped that Barry didn't go looking for them as soon as he'd finished with me - I had grown rather fond of them, after all. Just then, Ed pushed a pillow over my head, and that was followed by a massive explosion of pain in my head. *** "H-u-u-u-u-h!" I gasped, struggling upright. It was as black as hell. Where was I? What was I? I had been on the bed, flat on my back, hands tied behind me, with Barry giving me a superb shagging. I'd had a wonderful climax. Jason had shouted, "No!" and Ed had pushed a pillow over my head and the world had blown up. The bastard had shot me! It was unbelievable! Things like that happened to other people, not me. But I'd been instantly transported to this world of blackness. I was sitting on something soft - perhaps a bed - only my hands weren't tied behind me, and I didn't have a nice cock inside me, and certainly not half a pint of squidgy semen. My vision was adjusting - it wasn't totally black. In front of me, I could see a ghostly white shape, some distance away. Was it St Peter, I wondered, come to tell me whether I was allowed in or had to go to that other place. I moved forward towards the blurred shape, and as I did so, the shape moved towards me. As we got closer together, I could see it definitely formed the silhouette of a figure, so I guessed it must be St Peter. How weird, since I didn't believe in heaven and hell, and all that religious stuff. Closer and closer we got, until I could reach out a hand to shake St Peter's hand, and beg for entry. Then my hand struck the wardrobe door, and I said, "Shit!" and the image of St Peter disappeared as the mirror swung to the side. *** Thirty seconds later, I'd managed to locate the light switch and the bedroom was bathed in light so bright that I had to tightly close my eyes. I fumbled my way back to the bed, and sat on it until my eyes had adjusted enough for me to open them. I remembered everything quite clearly now. After PC Sally Wright had left, I had finished off the bottle of wine and then come up to bed. Not having any pyjamas of my own, I had rummaged through Lucy's drawers to see what she had, and found this wonderful, white, full-length, sleeved nightdress, in a filmy fabric that was so beautiful, I wanted to weep. I hadn't hesitated for a moment, before slipping it on and standing in front of the mirror. I looked ravishing! I must have spent five minutes simply staring at myself, before realising that I was not only getting cold, I was also very tired and fairly tipsy. It was time to go to bed. I found where Lucy kept her clean bed linen, and made the bed. I removed my make-up and earrings, took out my lenses, but left on my wig because I didn't want to revert to being a man just yet, and slipped into bed. Then I quickly got out of bed and opened the wardrobe door and adjusted it so that I could look at myself in the mirror as I lay in bed. I'd turned out the light and promptly gone to sleep. And had a continuation of my earlier dream. *** Of course, many people would have presumed I'd had some kind of contact with the dead - or perhaps picked up vibrations left in the building of a dreadful murder. But I'm a computer engineer. Everything has a scientific explanation. Ghosts don't exist, although, of course, I am frightened of them! But at times like this, one should behave like a scientist. First record, then investigate and analyse. I pulled on Lucy's sweater and jeans over my nightdress and went downstairs. I located my laptop, plugged it into the mains, and booted it up. I went into my word processor and started to type in everything that I could remember since I'd arrived. An hour later, I'd written as full an account as I could recall, and had been through it several times, until I was fairly satisfied it was reasonably complete. Only then, did I plug the laptop into a telephone line, and connect to the internet. Entering 'Lucy Farr OR Richards Seacombe' into Google produced hundreds of hits, from sources such as TV news, the national press and The Seacombe Echo, the local newspaper. I turned first to the most authorative, unbiased source of news in the world, the BBC. "Rape, murder and torture in seaside town. "A young couple were shot dead in their home in Seacombe last night, after the woman was raped and the man tortured. Police were called to the scene at about midnight, after neighbours dialled 999 and reported hearing breaking glass, a man shouting for the police, and the sound of a gunshot. An armed response unit was sent from county headquarters, but unarmed officers arrived at the scene first and established the intruders had already left. "The dead man was later identified as Mr Jason Farr, from Liverpool, who has been living in the area for some time. The dead woman is thought to be his wife, Mrs Lucy Farr, although formal identification has yet to be made. Police say they hope to make an arrest very shortly." The national daily papers gave a lot more sensationalism to the story, and reported how Jason had been tortured before being murdered (and I'm definitely not going into that detail - read the papers if you're interested). In a fit of desperation, he appeared to have smashed his head through the glass in the bathroom window and screamed for the police. He had promptly been shot in the head, and just as promptly, the intruders had got in their car and driven off. The papers went quite deeply into Jason's background. He'd been in trouble with the police since his early teens in Liverpool. When he'd left home - or, as some papers suggested, been thrown out by his parents - he'd moved first to London, and then gone to Bournemouth on holiday. He had found the relaxed atmosphere of a seaside town provided easy pickings for petty thieving, so he stayed on, until the police got to know him, whereupon he moved to Seacombe. It was the local Seacombe Echo which found a number of unnamed people who said they had bought cannabis or Ecstasy from Jason, although in more recent times he seemed to have stopped dealing in small stuff. The suspicion was that he'd got onto dealing in more serious drugs, and was a casualty of the gangland warfare that regularly accompanies their distribution. Lucy had arrived in Seacombe as the wife of Jason, although at the time of the press reports, no one seemed to know where she had come from. The police couldn't find any trace of their marriage, and their investigations were hampered because the bullet, which had entered the back of her head, had removed most of her face. There were no photographs around of either of them, so the police had to undergo a time-consuming process of circulating dentists around the country with details of the teeth in her lower jaw, the only part of her face still intact. All newspapers described Lucy as a lovely girl-next-door, who had got dragged into the dirty world of drugs by her no-good husband. She had worked as a barmaid at the local Smugglers Inn. *** So there it was, the life and death of Lucy Farr, nee Richards. No doubt many readers will, by this time, believe that the press reports proved that my dream WAS a direct communication with her spirit. But as I indicated earlier, I am a scientist; I believe science can always provide an answer, even if that answer has not yet been discovered. A simple analysis of my dream from a different angle provided a much more logical solution. A double murder of a young couple would inevitably have been broadcast on national TV news and I'd seen the ample evidence of the abundant coverage in the national press on the internet. Although not a regular reader of any newspaper (I appreciate the truth too much for that!), I do watch TV news. I would undoubtedly have seen the report, sandwiched somewhere between an account of the dozens of Iraqis killed that day in Baghdad, and the number of times that day that a ball had been kicked between two white posts into a net. I may not have taken much note of a 'trivial' murder story, but the news would have been stored somewhere in my memory and, when Suzanne's email arrived, my sub-conscious would have associated the name. It had now taken the opportunity to point it out to me in a highly graphic manner. The opportunity to live the life of Lucy for just an hour, following on from the excitement I'd experienced by cross-dressing, was something I'd tremendously enjoyed, even in the knowledge of hindsight of how that life had ended. Hopefully, I thought, I might have some more nice dreams about being Lucy. I went back to bed with a warm feeling of excitement in my heart, and willing another sexy dream. *** I awoke next morning without having experienced any more of Lucy's life. As I stared at myself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, I couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that, in daylight and without makeup, I didn't look nearly as convincing as I had done last night. So, I decided I had better get out of bed, take off the Lucy attire, put on my own clothes which hopefully had dried overnight, and return to the world of Chris Jones. I had to get my living arrangements sorted today, go to the supermarket and buy food, as well as start to clear out the cottage. But I have to confess that my heart gave a little beat of pleasure when I went into the bathroom and discovered that, although the heated towel rail had supposedly been switched on all night, it was stone cold. My damp clothes from last night were, if anything, even worse after being in the cold, condensation-ridden atmosphere of the bathroom. Oh dear, I thought, I'll have to put on some more of Lucy's clothes, at least until I'd gone out to the car and brought in my suitcase. Last night, I'd been terrified of anyone seeing me as I did so, but that morning, it didn't hold the same terrors. For one thing, my attire had passed the fairly stringent test of being observed by a policewoman (and a lesbian at that), and almost being asked out by her. Secondly, people walking about are generally not so noticeable during daylight hours. Last night, in order to avoid falling over in the pitch black as I walked up the garden path, through the gate and around to the car, I'd had to have put on an outside light, which would have illuminated me like an escapee from Stalag 13. Now it was daylight, I could check through an upstairs window there was no one in the lane outside, before going out. Then I could creep out of the front door and up the path under cover of the tall front hedge. Finally, I could keep the car between me and the cottage opposite, whilst I opened the hatch and whipped out my suitcase. And most of that went according to plan. I selected a pretty, white dress with a scoop neckline, which I thought would really show off my boobs a treat. I found a white suspender belt and white stockings with flowery pattern, white panties and decided to go without a bra. After I'd put on my underwear, I felt I had better put on some make-up as well, just in case I did bump into anyone - better safe than sorry - so I spent another twenty minutes making myself look just as good as I had done last night. I put a couple of one-inch gold hoops through my ears, although it hurt quite a lot as I slipped them through the holes I had made the previous evening, and I vowed to keep these on for as long as I could. I was right about the dress nicely showing off my boobs, but decided it needed something else to finish it off, and rooted around in the wardrobe until I found a nice white hat with a wide brim. I really did look, I thought, like the girl-next-door. Finally, I found some shorty, black boots with relatively low heels, which looked quite sensible to go into the muddy lane outside. From the bedroom window, I was able to see the lane was completely deserted. I went downstairs, quietly opened the front door and silently walked down the path towards the gate set in the high hedge. I lifted the latch on the gate, pulled it open, and stepped out into the lane. Behind me, the gate slammed shut with a loud bang. Damn! Just the thing to attract the attention of my neighbour. I had to get on with things quickly. I turned to my car and... My car wasn't there! It had gone! I'd left it there last night, as I struggled to carry the mattress up to the house. Had I locked it after that fight to get the mattress out of the car? Had I even closed the hatch? Shit! After a brief thought, I decided that for the purpose of my insurance claim, I had definitely closed and locked the car. In actuality, I thought I had probably not. Now, I would have to ring the police and tell them it was missing and, certainly for the time being, I would have to continue wearing Lucy's clothes. I turned back towards the gate, reaching towards the latch to open it. "Lucifer!" The cry had come from the cottage almost opposite mine. Too late to try to open the gate and disappear; several hours too late to hide behind my car! I turned towards the sound, trying to put a nice smile on my lips, and thinking, "Lucifer. That's what Jason had called me in my dream." She came through the front gate of her cottage, and walked towards me as though she was in a trance. On her face was a weird look, almost as if she had seen a ghost. I guessed she was around sixty-five, although it's difficult to tell nowadays. She was quite short and tubby, with dark brown hair turning grey, wearing a dreary grey skirt and blouse, and a black cardigan. When she was only ten yards away, she stopped abruptly, her face relaxed, and she said, "You're NOT Lucifer." "No," I confessed, in my little girl voice. "I'm not Lucifer." Then I added, although I thought I already knew the answer, "Do you mean Lucy? Lucy Farr?" As I said the words, I realised how obvious the nickname was. "Yes," she said. "I... it's just that... well, from the cottage you looked just like Lucifer - off to get milk and eggs from the farm - she did that every morning - and... Well, I've never been able to accept it was her that was killed. Lucy was such an innocent, and the face of the body they found was unrecognisable. You see, I've always hoped that someday the real Lucy will turn up alive and well." She shrugged her shoulders and added, "I know, it's just the hopeless ramblings of an old woman, but she was such a lovely child." She gave me a more critical appraisement and said, "It's strange. From the cottage you looked just like her, yet now I'm close up, there's little physical resemblance. But there is something about you that makes me think of Lucy." "I'm wearing one of her dresses," I said. "Perhaps it's that." "No," she said. "I realise the dress is the same, but it's something deeper than that. Presumably, you're a relative?" "My name's Chris Jones. I'm from her aunt's side of the family." Why had I not confessed outright that I was not a relative? "That must be it, then; you have some family resemblance. Incidentally, my name is Irene Collins." She scrutinised me again as we formally shook hands, and I smiled back at her. It was strange, but I ought to have been terrified she was going to realise I was really a man. Instead, I felt a tremendous exhilaration. "You have that same excitement inside you," she said, "but tempered with experience. You know what the world is about. Lucy was such a child in a woman's body. I was always afraid for her. She used to work at the Smugglers Inn, you see, and she had to wear such a low-cut blouse, and she simply didn't realise the effect it had upon men." "So you expected something like that to happen?" "Oh no," she quickly said. "Nothing like a shooting. I was always worried she might be attacked and raped - well, you do, these days, don't you - but I never thought she might be murdered. The police think it was all to do with her husband. You could see he was no good, as soon as you set eyes upon him. I simply didn't know what she saw in him. Everyone said the same; she was an innocent and he was a piece of shit." Her description strangely shocked me, as though sixty-five-year-old ladies should never swear. "You looked upset, when I saw you from my house," she said. "Is there a problem?" "My car," I said. "My car's been stolen. It's such a quiet lane, I wouldn't have expected any car thieves to operate down here." "They're coming home from The Smugglers, you see." "I didn't realise the lane went anywhere." After reaching our cottage, the tarmac surface turned into an unmade road, and sloped sharply downhill. Surely, there was no pub down there. "It's a path down to the foot ferry across the river. The Smugglers Inn is on the other side. If you've got a car, you can go into town and over the lift-bridge and drive around, but it's about four miles that way. If you haven't got a car, this is the shortest route. The problem is that you sometimes get people coming home from the pub late at night, drunk. They walk past here looking for a way of avoiding a long walk all the way home. With a bit of luck, the police will find your car near one of the estates on the edge of town." "Thanks. I'd better go and call them." "Of course, if luck isn't with you, it will have been stolen by one of the early-season holidaymakers, who want to get home. In which case they'll find your car in London or Birmingham, or somewhere like that. "And it will probably be burnt out," she optimistically added. "Thanks," I said, and went inside. *** I felt quite pleased that my scientific scepticism of my dream had turned out to be justified. Lucy wasn't the sex-mad vamp that my dream had attributed her to be. "Just a child in a woman's body," Irene had said. In fact, I reasoned, not even that, for even her body was false - or parts of it were. I'd assumed, for no apparent reason, that Lucy would be in her late twenties, but she might have been much younger, perhaps still a teen. Maybe giving herself the wig and big boobs and hips was a way of making herself look older. It was weird though, the way that Irene had said there was something inside me that made her think of Lucy. Perhaps it was the dress I was wearing, but I, too, felt very close to Lucy, living in her cottage, wearing her clothes, and putting on her make-up. *** The police seemed hardly interested in my car theft. They took down the details over the phone, gave me a reference number I could quote to the insurance company, and told me they'd be in touch if it turned up. They weren't even as optimistic as Irene had been. Which left me without any food or drink, or transport to get to the shops, even supposing I plucked up the courage to go out dressed as a woman. But hunger is a tremendous motivator. Irene had said that Lucy used to go out every morning to the farm and buy milk and eggs. Therefore, the farm must be close by. Fortunately, I had stuffed the local map, which I had printed off the net, into my laptop case. I pulled it out. On the map, I could follow the lane down to the river, which was still tidal at this point, with the ferry across to the inn the other side. But going back along the lane which I'd driven yesterday from Seacombe, I could see there was a farm marked only a short distance away - a few minutes walk. I got my wallet out of my still wet jacket pocket, extracted the cash and found a purse of Lucy's to put it in. Then I took three deep breaths, before opening the front door again and stepping outside. This was to be my first intentional meeting with other people since my transformation. *** And it all went OK. The farm was only a few minutes walk. I opened the five-bar gate and went into the farmyard, and could hear the hum of machinery in a shed to one side. I walked over to the door and glanced into the dark interior. There was an elderly man bending over some equipment. He noticed me standing in the doorway and stood up. He was quite short, say five feet, five, and stooped, with a well- weathered face (to give it a polite description). He must have been well into his seventies. He tilted his head to one side, and peered at me. I guessed it was difficult to make me out, silhouetted against the brightness outside, so I stepped inside and walked towards him. "Lucifer?" he said in a hushed voice. "No," I said, and turned slightly so he could see me more clearly in the light from the door. "Fuck me," he said. "You gave me a fright. Only you reminded me of someone I know. I thought she'd come back from the..." "I know," I said. "I'm Chris Jones. I'm staying in Lucy's cottage. I've come to clear it out and close it down." He nodded. "I'm Mick Walters," he said. "Such a terrible thing to happen to her. I couldn't believe it. She was such a lovely girl, very pretty, but very young for her age. She reminded me of my daughter when she was about seventeen. Always smiling and ready to lend a hand." He looked at me some more and asked, "Are you a relation? Because it's funny, I thought you looked just like her when I first saw you. But you're not really like her, except for the..." He trailed off, clearly not wanting to say "big tits". I smiled at him. "I'm from her aunt's side of the family," I said. (Always be consistent in your lies.) "I was hoping to buy some milk and eggs. And do you have any other things, like butter?" "No problem," he said. "We always keep a few things for the people on the campsite down the lane." (I'd noticed the campsite as I passed it, yesterday, further down the lane.) His eyes narrowed as he added, "Did you, er... want to open an account?" I shook my head. "No thanks," I said. "I'll only be here for a few days. I'll pay cash." "Fair enough," he said. "Come through to the farm shop." He led me though an internal door into the farmhouse, where he showed me the simple range of goods they sold. There were a couple of cats runnin