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New Life Out Of Desth free porn video
New Life Out of Death
By Alexandra Mountferris
I used to enjoy working with the dead. They are very undemanding. By which
I mean that don't grab at your backside when you get near the bed and they
don't complain. The third part of my life started when I was working in a
hospital mortuary in a seaport town in the South of England. I was not
really qualified to work with the living as I could not complete nurse
registration in those days without revealing that my birth certificate
clearly said I was male but my lifestyle was anything but. Nowadays it
would be possible to change the birth certificate but I no longer need to
do so.
Then as now I took a pride in the way I dressed. I know that the
'patients' did not appreciate it but it was, and is, the defining thing
about me. It was clothes that caused me to live that lifestyle, work at
that job. Mark Twain said, "Clothes make the man". In my case it was the
clothes, and a little surgery that I had in Thailand, that made the woman.
By appearances anyway, inside my panties I was still a functioning male
but my 36C bra needed no padding. It was all me. Adipose tissue had been
redistributed from my waist and back to my breasts and my backside in a
way that seemed to convince most of the young trainee doctors who passed
through the mortuary on training attachments. I saw them eyeing me despite
the unflattering apron and scrubs. None of them ever asked me out. Perhaps
it was my work 'down among the dead' that prevented most of them from
asking me out. I kid myself that it was. The fact is that I did not
encourage it. I even practised an air of studied aloofness with medical
students. In those days most of them were upper class males and they did
not do anything for me.
Possibly the fact that I was not blonde also put them off. My father had
been a visiting US soldier who promised to come back for my mother and
really meant it. They were actually married before I was even conceived.
He was released from his marriage vows in the hell that was Omaha beach.
He never knew about me. My mother's last letter to him was returned
unopened with a note from the regimental chaplain. All I had from him was
a genuine Cherokee surname, a shoebox full of souvenirs and medals, deep
brown eyes and jet-black straight hair. What's a genuine Cherokee Surname?
You may well ask. The name on the offending birth certificate is Louis
Carl Smith. In the area where I grew up it did not help that my mother's
maiden name had also been Smith. It is common amongst the Romany too. War
brings about some unlikely meetings.
The second phase of my life started after my mother died. I sold up our
little house in South London, took my trip to Thailand then took up
residence in a seaport town on the South Coast. I did not fiddle with my
birth certificate but added an 'e' and an 'a' to one or two other
documents and job application forms. As 'Miss Smith' to my work colleagues
and 'Louise' to my few friends I was happy enough. I lived alone in a flat
near the hospital and spent all my spare money on clothes and make-up. I
honestly did not know if I was waiting for Mr Right to come along or for
Miss Right to appear. It was a question that I avoided until the events
which I am about to describe provided the answer and changed my life for a
second time.
The body was brought in late in the afternoon. The famous publisher Sir
Richard Mountferris had dashed into the road in the way of a runaway lorry
in order to save the life of a child who had slipped away from her mother.
Unable to run fast enough to get them both to safety he had somersaulted
out of the way of the lorry holding the child in his arms. The child
survived unharmed. Sir Richard had a broken neck and the expectation of a
posthumous medal. He had been pronounced dead at the scene and brought
direct to the mortuary without passing through the main part of the
hospital. The pathologist's examination was hurried and none too thorough.
The cause of death was quite obvious. There would be no need for a post-
mortem. There was nothing much more to be done.
A tearful Lady Pamela Mountferris had identified her husband. Lady Pamela
was an authoress and had been a famous society beauty. She was still, at
50, fantastically glamorous. Even in her obvious state of shock and grief
her shoulder length blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, her makeup perfect
apart from the slightest smudging caused by tears. Her lipstick was a
tasteful pink and, as always, in good order. She wore a salmon pink
twinset above a black pencil skirt. Lady Pamela moved with the grace of a
catwalk model on stiletto shoes with 5 inch heels. I had seen her often
in newsreels and magazines. I envied her look and had sometimes tried to
copy her style. She did not see me. I stayed behind the one-way mirror as
the Coroner's Officer ushered her out of the building.
I was left alone with the body. The expectation was that it would be
collected on the following Monday by the undertakers appointed by the
family. In those days nothing much happened on a Sunday. I looked down at
the handsome, smooth skinned man. His hair, once as black as my own but
now greying at the temples, had been combed and neatly arranged for the
identification. He looked almost as if he was posing for a formal portrait
photograph. His lips were arranged in a neutral way and his chin tucked in
against his chest. He was still wearing the suit and tie he had been
wearing at the time of the accident. I set about the job of stripping the
body whilst the Coroner's officer was escorting the grieving widow to her
car. There are really supposed to be two people present when this is done
but it is a rule more honoured in the breach. Nothing has ever gone
missing in my mortuary. Well nothing up to then. I undid Sir Richard's
trousers and pulled them off his legs. Like so many middle-aged men he was
wearing white Y fronts.
I silently apologised to the dead man as I hooked my thumbs into the
elastic and gave them a tug. I only got them as far as his knees and
stopped. Something was definitely missing. There was no pubic hair for a
start. That was unusual in itself but the shocking thing was that there
was no penis or scrotum either. Sir Richard was perfectly formed and
complete. Labia majora and minora were present and normal the clitoral
glans was quite pronounced but fully covered by the hood. This was no sex
change. Sir Richard was and always had been female. Imagining that I could
hear the coroner's officer returning I quickly covered him with a sheet
and moved to the upper part of the torso. I needed time to think. I had
some knowledge of reconstructive surgery on breasts having studied it at
some length before going under the knife. The scar tissue was minimal and
well healed but there were two faint crescent-shaped incision marks about
three inches under each nipple. They would have been missed by anyone not
looking for them. I covered the body and pushed it into the cold chamber.
When I got back the coroner's officer was going through the deceased's
belongings on the table and making a list.
"I'm about finished here, Louise, are you going to lock up now?"
"Yes, Tom," I replied, trying to sound as if everything was normal. "The
temporary death certificate is on the front desk. The doctor signed it
before he rushed off to the football"
"Yes, well there wasn't much to be gained by him staying was there? A
straightforward case at last"
"Yes, I suppose so, Tom, but a sad one nevertheless."
Tom took his certificate and left me with my thoughts. Sir Richard would
be all right where I left him (I still to this day think of him as male).
Even if the pathologist was called out over the weekend he was unlikely to
spend time with a cadaver that had already been 'signed off". I went into
the changing room and put a plain blue mac on over my scrubs and covered
my hair with a paisley scarf. Before I locked up I copied Lady Pamela's
address and telephone number from the next of kin details on the official
paperwork. I walked the short distance to my flat deep in thought. Once
inside I ran a bath with a liberal dose of scented bath oil. Later I sat
at my dressing table, drying my hair and made my mind up. I would have to
speak to Lady Pamela. If the body in the mortuary was a look-alike
substitute for her husband she would need to know. If she already knew
then I needed to know the story for my own peace of mind. I telephoned the
number given and spoke to a member of staff in her house. I was told that
she would see me at 6:30pm.
My hair was shoulder length at the time but when I curled it inwards at
the bottom in a 'long bob' it hung clear of them. I decided that if I was
going to visit Lady Pamela then I would have to pass the minute
examination that she would be bound to give me. I laced myself into my
black waspie corset and put on matching bra and panties. I have never had
much of a problem with my male parts showing. Sturdy elasticated panties
are normally enough to keep me in control. Fully fashioned black stockings
followed, I attached them to the six suspender straps with care to ensure
that the seams were straight. I went to my wardrobe to choose what to
wear. A black nylon slip was the obvious next stage. In those days one
would rarely go out without one. I decided against wearing all black as
might appear to be a mockery of her mourning. I also thought that my
favourite red silk blouse would be out of place. I settled on a high neck
blouse in royal blue silk. It was not an easy thing to do up as it
buttoned down the back but I managed to get into it without upsetting my
hair.
I them put on a cotton cape and sat down to do my make-up. Despite my
coloration I have never shaved. A few whispy hairs appeared when I was 16
or so but I did not use a razor. My grandfather, who died before either of
us could save enough money for a trip across the Atlantic, wrote that I
should pluck them, as was the custom of our people. I cleansed my face but
did not apply any foundation. I honestly did not need it. In any case
there was none available for my skin-tone in those days. Blue eye-shadow,
black eye-liner and black mascara followed (this was 1969 but I still use
them!) and I pencilled in the line of my plucked and arched eyebrows with
a black pencil. (With my colouring I am allowed it!) I outlined my lips in
deep carmine the filled in with red. The effect may sound a little
dramatic but I knew that I had to make an impression to get a hearing. I
took of the cape and hung a sting of faux pearls around my neck over the
blouse. Matching pearl studs in each ear and a ring with a rosette of five
pearls completed my jewellery. The pencil skirt of my grey suit followed
then I sat down and put on my best shoes. They were plain black court
shoes with 4" stiletto heels. They were now disappointing to me since I
had seen the shoes that Lady Pamela wore earlier that day but they were
the best I had.
Sitting back down at my dressing table I attached my false nails and
touched up the red varnish. I sat for a while to think and admire my own
image. With my eyes almost closed I could see the effect of the mascara
and shadow. Just what I wanted! At five o'clock I sprayed some Estee
Lauder on each wrist and picked up my black leather gloves and handbag,
checked myself in the hall mirror and walked down to the bus-stop.
Thinking back now I really believe that was the last time I ever went on a
bus! I sat on the top deck because I intended to have a cigarette to calm
my nerves but decided against it in the end. I did not want to have an
accident with ash or spoil my lipstick.
The Mountferris House was on the top of the hill overlooking the town. The
higher up the hill the better the quality of the house. You can't go
higher than the top. I paused at the gate and looked down over the town. I
could see vehicles moving between the streetlights and ships waiting
outside the harbour. I rang the bell. It was very quickly answered by a
maid in traditional black and white uniform. She said nothing but
indicated that I should follow her and turned away.
As I walked behind her I noticed the sound of our heels on the wooden
floor of the wide square hallway. Looking down I could see that she was
wearing five-inch heels. There was little time to reflect that this was
unusual in a domestic servant as I was shown into a sitting room furnished
like a gentlemen's club with leather chesterfields either side of the
impressive fireplace. The maid left without a word and I was left
standing in front of the fireplace. I was looking at the clock on the
mantelpiece when Lady Pamela's modulated upper-class voice almost made me
jump out of my skin.
"This was my husband's favourite room. He used to come here to read."
I turned to face her but was initially unable to speak. Lady Pamela had,
of course, changed since I saw her at the mortuary. Widow's weeds never
looked so elegant. A black jersey knit dress just above the knee,
sleeveless and with a scoop neckline and a single diamond brooch at her
shoulder. Lady Pamela was clearly not the sort of person to greet a
visitor in her carpet slippers. She now wore black stilettos with at
least six-inch heels. I had to look up to her. This was obviously what she
had in mind.
"What can I do for you Miss Smith?"
"Lady Pamela, I must ask you something. It's very delicate and I am
anxious not to distress you anymore than you already must be but I believe
that it really is necessary."
She moved, gracefully as ever, to the sideboard, opened a silver cigarette
box and took out a cigarette which she fitted into a white holder about
six inches long. Picking up the box she held it out towards me.
"Can I offer you one?"
I took one. "Thank you."
She gave a very short smile in acknowledgement.
"I think we will be more comfortable if we sit down, don't you?"
I readily agreed and moved back towards where I had left my handbag and
gloves, turned and waited for her to take a seat first then sat on the
chesterfield and took my own holder out and fitted the cigarette into it.
With my lighter I lit her cigarette first then my own. She blew out a
stream of smoke upwards to the ceiling and spoke first.
"Isn't it fascinating, the way that little things tell us so much?"
"Little things?"
"For instance the fact that a woman uses a cigarette holder tells us that
she is fastidious about the condition of her lipstick. We have that in
common, Miss Smith. But I digress, what was it you wanted to ask me. I
presume it concerns my late husband."
"It does. I told the person I spoke to yesterday that I work as a mortuary
assistant. It is my job to deal with the bodies once the investigation of
cause of death has been determined. I also present them for the
identification,"
Lady Pamela looked pale but listened intently, taking an occasional puff
on her cigarette.
"I did this for Sir Richard ... for the body that you identified as Sir
Richard. I also collected together al his personal effects. Including his
clothes, all of his clothes."
"Ah"
"It was necessary to take them off him of course."
"The point you are trying to make is that you discovered that 'he' was in
fact a 'she'."
"So you did know."
"Yes of course I knew. We were married for twenty seven years."
"I thought that there might have been some elaborate substitution, a hoax,
an insurance scam or something."
"No. I assure you that the person in your mortuary is the right one. That
is the famous publisher known to the world as Sir Richard Mountferris."
"I sensed that you believed that. I watched you through the one-way
mirror. I needed to know if you had been deceived or coerced in some way."
"I understand that. When I first heard that you were coming to see me I
made the presumption that you were going to attempt to blackmail me,
However since meeting you I find that you and I have more in common than
you might think and that you are really not in a position to blackmail
anyone."
"I don't know why you make that judgement. It's immaterial really because
I never did have the slightest intention to blackmail you, I really am
flattered to think that we might have something in common but I don't know
what it might be."
"Please, hear me out. When I was a young writer of romantic fiction I
approached a publisher. I was told that the work was good and publishable
but I would have to change my name. Readers have expectations,
preconceived notions of what an author of romantic fiction should be
called, should look like. The publisher had just the name I needed. Pamela
Mountferris. It was the name of the publisher. I took her name and she
took mine. When we married we both became Mountferris. I live as Pamela
and she... he lives...lived as Richard. We both have perfectly valid
birth certificates and our external physical characteristics were similar
enough to use each other's passports. I was not always blonde, you know."
She re-crossed her legs, patted her hair and took a long pull at her
cigarette.
"The knighthood came five years ago. The right person was honoured. It was
Richard who set up the children's charity and funded it from his own
money. He had an abusive childhood and would do anything to protect
children, as today's events illustrate."
She paused here and for the first time I thought that she might cry. She
composed herself with an effort and went on.
"I was born Richard but I will die, when my time comes, as Pamela. My main
consolation is our child, Alex. Yes ours. We covered Richard's pregnancy
by going to the Scottish Highlands for seven months, ostensibly for me to
research and write a book. We stayed out of sight even though we were not
so well known then. We emerged in our new roles with our child. Alex is in
Dublin on business. He is due back today."
All this time she had been looking at the ceiling. She now looked directly
at me.
"You were not, I think, born as Louise."
"Is it that obvious?"
"No, not at all. I suppose it is a case of it takes one to know one. The
main giveaway was your behaviour towards me over the cigarette. You waited
for me to sit. You lit mine first. It was gentlemanly behaviour. I was
your hostess. It was up to me to do those things for you but you were
raised as a polite young man and it gave you away. You have no beard,
though"
"That's hereditary, and a long story."
We were interrupted at that point. A tall young man came into the room. I
knew straight away by his build and colouring that it was Alex.
He went straight to his mother. I stubbed out my cigarette and got up to
leave.
Pamela said, "No, please stay."
Alex turned to me and time stopped. I looked into a pair of deep dark
brown eyes and he looked into mine. Later Pamela told us that she thought
at first that we were merely embarrassed and too shy to speak, but she was
holding Alex's hand at the time and had sensed a change in him then turned
to look at me. I was caught like a rabbit in headlights. Stunned, with my
mouth partly open and my right hand extended in what had started as a
gesture towards leaving but was now frozen. Pamela brought Alex towards me
leading him by the hand. I broke from the trance and made to leave
"No, sorry," I heard myself say. "I must leave you."
"No" Said Pamela firmly, "you really must stay. Louise, you need to know
that Alex is really like his father in almost every respect and certainly
in all physical ways. Alex, you need to know that Louise is just like me
in all physical respects and, I suspect, in most other ways too. What I
have just seen is something that very few parents ever have the privilege
to witness. Even on this difficult day it is not something that can be
ignored."
Alex just said, "Louise."
His mother put his hand in mine and turned and walked out of the room. We
stood there holding hands. After a long pause Alex broke the silence.
"My mother...she..."
"... is very beautiful and very brave" I said.
"You are very beautiful" he said, and pulled me towards him
Dear reader I did not melt into his arms. I put my free hand around his
neck and pulled hum towards me. As first kisses go it was clumsy and
urgent. All I remember is that it was electric. When we broke he said
"Are you really like my mother, I mean, like you know? I mean I don't mind
if you are not but she is really my fa..."
I put my finger on his lips.
"Yes. And you are..."
"She said you knew about Dad."
"Yes."
"My real name is Alexandra."
"And mine is Louis."
"I have dreamt about meeting someone like you. Someone like mother."
"I am not yet convinced that I am not dreaming. If I am not then I
certainly will dream about this."
"You are not dreaming. I am here and you are here and we are real."
should I write more?
Sherry
- 13.07.2021
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