Murder Misstery Melange
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Murder Misstery Finis free porn video
Murder Misstery Finis © 2007 by Nom de Plume
For those who came in late, Matt McCoy - now Madeline Moreau - is on the
run for a crime he did not commit, and a murder which she did....as the
saga concludes, Maddy vows to end her life on the lam. By the author of
The Jessica Project
"Jacques, when I saw Dr. Villiers, the name I gave him was Madison
Monroe. Do you think we can trust him not to talk to the police?"
"How did you pay him?"
"Cash, under the table."
"Then you can trust him to keep quiet. He'd have problems of his own if
the National Health System knew he was working off the books.
Nevertheless, I'll have a word with him to make sure."
"While you're at it, could you ask him something else?" He blinked when
I told him what I wanted. "I have my reasons," I assured him.
"It's somewhat bizarre, but I'll see what I can do."
Jacques hailed a taxi, and he insisted on dropping me off at the
apartment before returning to his office. We rode in silence, each of us
preoccupied with our separate thoughts. Jacques may have been brooding
over my macabre request or the possible implications of our relationship
on his medical license. I was primarily concerned with where I would be
spending the night! When the taxi pulled over in front of the apartment,
I put on a brave front. "Thanks for lunch! Don't call me on my cell
phone again, okay? If the police are onto you, they'll have the record
of all my calls. I'm going to have to get a new phone, when I do I'll
let you know my new number."
"Where are you going to go?"
"I can't live like this, Jacques. I need to put my old life behind me,
once and for all."
"I'm worried about you."
"I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl." I kissed him hard on the
lips and slipped away before I lost it. As soon as his taxi was out of
sight, I brushed past the doorman and raced for the stairs. I took them
two at a time, not an easy thing in a skirt and heels, determined to make
it back to the apartment before I broke down.
The exertion of racing up the stairs had a calming effect, and by the
time I got to the apartment, I had almost composed myself. Think, Maddy!
When was the last time I used my cell phone? Wasn't it the night I left
Marseilles, when I'd made my abbreviated call to Jacques from the train?
Madison Monroe had disappeared from the face of the earth that night...
now all I had to do was make sure her disappearance was permanent.
Once again I sat down at the computer and watched my manicured fingers
flit over the keyboard, searching the Internet for another escape route.
Only this time I was determined to travel in the style to which I'd
become accustomed: no more couchettes for this girl! Soon I had come up
with the outlines of a plan, and the details fell into place with
surprising ease. Once I was sure where I was going, I packed my trusty
Vuitton suitcase like a seasoned female traveler, put my new passport as
well as my old one and a few other items in my purse, and called down to
the doorman for a taxi to the Gare d'Austerlitz.
Just before I went out the door the doorman called to inform me that a
messenger had arrived with a package for me. I asked him to hold it for
me downstairs. When I went to the lobby, he handed me a brown paper
envelope about the size of a teacup. I tucked it into an outside pocket
of my suitcase and got into my waiting taxi.
I asked the driver to stop and wait for me at a large electronics store a
few blocks away from the station. There I purchased another throwaway
cell phone, with a Paris prefix this time. I'd already crushed my old
cell phone under a stiletto heel before I left the apartment. I also
splurged on the latest, thinnest notebook computer with wireless Internet
access.
When I got back into my taxi, I called Jacques' mobile number to try out
my new phone. I got his voice mail and left this message: "Bonjour
Jacques, je vous manque! Appelez-vous quand vous pouvez. Je t'aime,
Madeline." Despite six months of self-instruction in Provence, my
Berlitz French was still pitiful, but hopefully any prying ears would
mistake Madeline for just the latest of Jacques' many mistresses.
I asked the driver to make one more stop before he took me to the
station: a branch office of Banque BNP Paribas, where I opened a new
checking account in the name of Madeline Moreau. The account came with a
credit card, which was essential, since my cash reserves were almost
gone.
I had enough euros left to tip the driver generously when he dropped me
off at the Gare d'Austerlitz. With my purse over one shoulder, and my
new computer bag over the other, I tugged my suitcase into the colossal
concourse, following the signs to the ticket office for the Elipsos
Trenhotel. Using my new credit card I reserved a Grand Class sleeping
compartment on the Joan Miro to Barcelona, which was leaving in a few
hours. Dinner was included with my fare, so although I was getting
hungry, I killed some time browsing in the station bookstore, where I
purchased a Michelin guide to Barcelona and a spent a long time studying
a nautical chart of the western Mediterranean Sea.
I was so preoccupied that I almost missed my train! Fortunately there
were no check-in procedures before departure, as ticket control and
passport checks were taken care of on boarding the train. There seemed
to be an attendant for every passenger, and I was ushered with elaborate
courtesy into my compartment, which in addition to a bed with crisp
linens included a toilet, sink and shower. I was given a menu for the
four course dinner which would be served by Wagon Lits in the dining car,
and reserved a table for one at 10:00.
It was very sad to watch the lights of Paris fade away as my train
streaked south towards Spain. I missed Jacques terribly, and I wondered
if I would ever see our little love nest again? One way or another, I
was determined to reclaim my destiny. I turned on a reading light,
kicked off my heels and sat down at the little folding table by the
picture window in my compartment. Then I reached into my purse for some
stationery and envelopes that I'd taken from the Plaza Athenee, and
carefully composed this letter, using a ballpoint pen with indelible ink:
Dearest Tracy,
I don't know where to begin. Since our night together in London I've
thought a lot about what I've done. My life is so screwed up! I am a
man, living as a woman, who can never come home. You asked me how can I
live with myself? The answer is, I can't. I'm sorry for any hurt I
caused you. Love,
Matt
I sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Tracy in Rosemont,
put a French postage stamp on it, and put it back in my purse. I knew if
I sent the letter, it would lay a heavy guilt trip on Tracy, but that was
not my intention. Just then my cell phone rang. "Allo?"
"Madeline?" It was Jacques.
"Bonsoir, mon amour."
He picked up my cue and continued the conversation in French, asking me
where I was. I told him I was in the south of France, technically true,
and assured him that I missed him and wanted him in my bed again soon.
Jacques played along perfectly, and rang off with a promise to call me
tomorrow.
A glance at my diamond watch told me that I was late for dinner. I
stepped back into my heels, grabbed my purse and made my way down the
gently swaying corridor to the dining car. It was quite elegant, half-
filled with well-dressed diners seated at intimate tables set with linen,
crystal and silver. I was shown by a uniformed attendant to a table
already occupied by a smartly dressed woman of about my age.
I took the opposing chair and fumbled in my purse for a cigarette. She
put down her Financial Times and lit one of her own. After we shared
guilty smiles, she introduced herself as Gabrielle. Although I'd studied
Spanish in high school and college, her Catalonian dialect was
incomprehensible to me, and her French was as bad as mine, so we settled
on English as a default language. I had to remind myself to dumb it down
and speak with a French accent!
"My name is Madeline," I told her. Although I was supremely confident in
my passing ability by now, it occurred to me that this would be my first
sustained conversation with a woman other than Tracy. How did girls talk
to each other anyhow?
"I like your sweater," Gabrielle said. "So feminine. Did you get it in
Paris?"
"No, in London, at Burberry's."
"Is that where you got your skirt?"
"Uh huh."
"Very nice."
"Thanks." I glanced down and saw her foot sticking out from under the
tablecloth. A Gucci pump was dangling from her stockinged toes. "Umm,
those are cute shoes," I said lamely.
"I hate them! Sheer torture if I walk more than a few meters," she
confided. Our conversation continued along those momentous lines while
we waited for a waiter to take our orders. Gabrielle was drinking
Campari and bitter lemon, which looked light and refreshing, so I ordered
one too. Our chatter continued over entrees, salads and much wine. It
turned out that Gabrielle was a newly-licensed architect returning from
an internship in Paris. I deflected her questions about my livelihood,
and soon the conversation turned to the inevitable. "Do you have a
boyfriend?" she asked me.
"Yes, his name is Jacques," I said with reflexive pride.
"What does he do?"
"He's a doctor in Paris."
"Excellent. Is he...older?"
"Yes."
"Are you in love?"
"Yes, except...he's married." I guess it was the wine talking.
"Married men are much better. I'm so sick of the boys I'm seeing. All
they want is to fuck, get pissed and watch football!"
Don't knock it, I thought sadly. Not so long ago I would have been
trying to figure out how to get into your pants. Now I'm sitting here in
a skirt, talking to you about shoes and boyfriends....
We lingered over dessert and coffee. "How long are you staying in
Barcelona?" Gabrielle asked.
"I'm not sure. Do you live there?"
"All my life. Where are you staying?"
"I thought I'd try the Hotel Arts. Is it nice?"
"Very! It's not too far from everything and right on the beach. Would
you like to get together one night?"
In my past life I would have pounced on it. Now, I could only smile and
tell her that might be fun. Maybe we could go clubbing and meet some
cute guys, she said. On that distressing note I stubbed out my last
cigarette and wished her a good night.
It was past midnight by the time I returned to my posh compartment. I
was feeling very sorry for myself as I peeled off my stockings and
stepped out of my skirt. How my life had changed! I'd just spent two
hours with a hot chick, but now that I was a eunuch, I'd felt nothing
downstairs. All I could think of as I undressed myself was how much I
missed being a man, and how like a woman I'd become.
The feeling of my satin nightgown against my smooth skin was some
consolation. What are you complaining about? You're free, you're rich,
and you're going to have sex again someday, only as a beautiful woman. I
pulled up the covers, rested my head on the soft pillow, and fell into a
dreamless sleep.
I awoke to the first rays of sunlight peeking under the window shade. The
Spanish countryside was baked to a golden brown, under a bright blue sky.
I had a lot to do today, so I showered quickly, put on a little makeup,
and selected my favorite sundress to wear with some comfortable
espadrilles. Gabrielle was sitting at the same table in the dining car,
and we passed the next few hours sharing girl talk over espressos and
croissants. At one point I asked her to recommend the best place in
Barcelona to find a cute swimsuit, and tried to stay with her as she
critiqued the latest styles. We exchanged phone numbers and air kisses
when it was time to return to our compartments to collect our things.
It was a short taxi ride to the Hotel Arts. As Gabrielle had assured me,
it was well-located on an esplanade which connected the beach to a modern
shopping and entertainment district along the Port Olimpic marina. I
inspected and rejected two rooms before I settled on what I was looking
for: a suite with a small lanai, on an upper floor, fronting directly on
Barceloneta Beach.
As soon as I'd unpacked my things, I went out in search of a hardware
store, where I purchased two ten liter buckets with snap-on lids. These
I placed on the lanai. The rest of the morning I spent shopping for an
oversize beach bag, several large bottles of spring water, and after I
dropped these off in my room, my new swim suit. The shop recommended by
Gabrielle was on Las Ramblas, which was a short taxi ride from my hotel.
The bustling thoroughfare was full of life, lined with smart stores and
restaurants. I lost myself in the crowd, savoring my freedom and the
sheer enjoyment of being a pretty girl in a sundress on a sunny day.
Eventually I came to the beachwear boutique, where for the first time
since my transformation, I saw how my body looked in a woman's swimsuit.
Not bad! Some of them made me look fat, and others accentuated various
flaws, but eventually I found two modest one piece suits which hugged and
highlighted all the right places, and a skimpy bikini that made me look
downright hot. I bought several cover-ups and some sandals to go with
them, along with a pair of oversize sunglasses and some girly ball caps
which matched my swim suits. My final acquisition was a supply of
tanning oils with minimal sunscreen.
The shops were just closing for the afternoon siesta as I made my way
back to the Hotel Arts. It was warm and sunny, a typical late summer's
day on the Costa Brava, so I changed into one of my modest swim suits,
filled my beach bag with water bottles and tanning oil, and headed for
the beach. I tipped a beach attendant after he set me up with a chair
and towels, and took my time applying tanning oil to my soft, smooth arms
and legs. I pulled down the straps on my swimsuit and covered my back
and shoulders as best I could.
After I'd strapped myself back up I went straight to work. First I
opened my water bottles and poured their contents completely into the
golden sand. Then I carried them into the surf, wading out up to my
waist before I bent over and filled each of them with Mediterranean sea
water. After I screwed the tops back on the bottles, I put them in my
beach bag and returned to my hotel room, where I poured them into one of
the buckets on the lanai. By my mental calculation it would take another
ten trips or so to completely fill both buckets, so I returned to the
beach and continued with my one-woman bucket brigade throughout the
afternoon. Fortunately the beach was crowded, and if anybody noticed the
strange woman's comings and goings, they paid her no mind. By five
o'clock, my shoulders aching and my back burned to a crisp, I'd filled
both buckets almost to the brim.
After that I returned to my room, where I selected a small purse - the
type a woman tucks under her arm when she's wearing a summer dress - and
filled it with a compact, lipstick, some miscellaneous female junk, the
letter which I'd composed to Tracy on the train, my boarding pass and
ticket for the Tangier ferry, and Madison Monroe's passport. Then I
dropped it into one of the buckets full of sea water and snapped the lid
tightly shut.
My next task was more difficult. The package which had been delivered to
my doorman the day before was still in an outside pocket of my suitcase.
Carefully I removed it from the brown paper envelope and removed the
bubble wrapping which surrounded a clear plastic case. There they were,
looking like two passed-over prunes. A little tear ran down my cheek as
I removed them from the case and wrapped them in my cotton panties, a
pathetic burial shroud for Matt McCoy's manhood. I wadded them tightly
into the panties and sank them to the bottom of the other bucket.
After a quick shower to rinse the sand off my exhausted body, I flung
myself down on the bed like a rag doll. My sordid tasks had killed my
appetite, and I was lying there disconsolately, contemplating my tan
lines - I'd always found them so sexy on a woman - when my cell phone
rang. "Allo?"
"Bonsoir, Cheri." It was Jacques. We spoke in French, using simple
words and phrases, the language of lovers. I told him how much I missed
him, and he asked me how I'd spent my day. When I told him about my new
swim suits, he demanded a detailed description. I complained about my
tan lines, which delighted him, and before I knew it, I was playing with
myself while he whispered eroticisms into my ear. My neutered penis was
unresponsive at first, but to my surprise I felt myself becoming aroused
when I started to play with my breasts, which Jacques referred to
lovingly as my grand tetons... then he told me to kiss my finger for him,
and insert it into my derriere, which I did, arching my back in delight
while my other hand continued to stroke my hardening nipples, until my
whole body shivered as I succumbed to wave after wave of exquisite
pleasure, my little penis twitching and dribbling like a forgotten
bystander.
I made Jacques promise to call me again at the same time tomorrow, and
every night after that until I returned to Paris.
The next day, what was to become my routine for the next two weeks, began
with a room service breakfast at the table on my lanai. I requested that
housekeeping make up my room first thing, and I smoked cigarettes and
drank espresso on the lanai until the chambermaid had come and gone. Then
I locked the lanai door and put on one of my conservative swimsuits for a
day on the beach. The weather was predictably hot and sunny, and I took
up my position near a lifeguard stand and began to observe the beach
scene. It had a rhythm of its own, and gradually I became familiar with
the characters and their routines. I noted when the scavengers came
around to look for lost items, and which lifeguards were the most
conscientious. Every day my tan got deeper and deeper, and by the end of
the first week I was as brown as a bean.
The only break in my routine was when I had lunch one day at an outdoor
caf? on Las Ramblas with Gabrielle. She'd called to arrange a night on
the town, but I'd declined, suggesting a ladies lunch instead. That was
fine with her, and she told me to meet her at a little bistro the
following day. I wore my chicest summer dress from Saint Tropez, and we
spent a delightful afternoon sipping Sangria and sharing pizza topped
with brie and walnuts. We were hit on several times, which annoyed
Gabrielle as much as it amused me. There was a whole new world waiting
for me, a world of girlfriends who shared a bond unlike anything
experienced by guys, and a world of guys who were after the one thing
that I didn't yet possess...
When we were finished our lunch, I asked her if she could teach me how to
say a few words in Catalonian Spanish, the dialect of Barcelona. "What
exactly is it you want to say?" she asked.
"Look at what I found in the water. It's a public disgrace! Shame on
you!"
"Why would you want to say those things?" she asked.
"Oh, it's just a little joke I'm playing on a boy. Can you tell me how
to say it?" She shrugged and taught me the words. I made her repeat
them several times, writing it all down word for word and practicing my
pronunciation until she assured me that I had it right.
On my way back to the Hotel Arts I stopped at a shop on Las Ramblas to
purchase a good pair of binoculars. Then it was back to the beach to
continue my strange routine. Every night, after phone sex with Jacques
and a room service dinner, I used my notebook computer to search the
Internet for information about the corrosive effects of seawater. I
never came up with anything conclusive as to cause and effect, so I would
just have to go with my gut. Finally one morning I decided that it was
time.
After breakfast at my normal hour I opened one of the buckets on the
lanai and carefully fished out the remains of my purse, which looked more
like a glob of muck than an expensive ladies' handbag. Perfect. I
dropped it into a plastic hotel laundry bag, which in turn I put into my
beach bag. After I'd settled myself on the beach at my usual place, I
waited until a few minutes before the lifeguards got on duty before I put
my beach bag on my shoulder and started to take a casual stroll along the
beach. When I was right in front of the lifeguard stand, I quickly
removed the laundry bag and deposited my water-logged purse on the shore,
so that the gentle waves were just lapping it. I continued to saunter
along the beach for a few minutes before I circled back behind the
lifeguard stand and returned to my chair to see what happens.
As always the conscientious lifeguard who had the first shift arrived
promptly at ten. He made a quick survey of the beach in front of his
station, and when he spotted something unusual in the sand, he hopped
down and picked it up. I had my binoculars with me, and I watched
surreptitiously as he peered inside my purse and started to extract
something. Then he stopped and returned to his station, where he picked
up the telephone and said something down the line.
It seemed to take forever before a jeep with police officers pulled up to
the stand. I watched them put my purse into a large plastic bag and
drive off. Then I rolled over onto my tummy, eased off my shoulder
straps, and concentrated on my tan.
My routine changed the next morning. Instead of going to the beach after
breakfast on the lanai, I remained there with a stack of local
newspapers, trying to decipher the Catalonian print as best I could. I
was just finishing the last of them when I observed a commotion on the
beach. Picking up my binoculars I observed two familiar-looking figures
in suits and ties walking Nixon-like on the beach. Sure enough it was
the same two FBI agents who had interrogated me in Tracy's apartment, a
lifetime ago. I watched in fascination as they talked to the lifeguard
who had found my purse, writing in their notepads as he pointed to where
he'd found it. They left soon afterwards, but about an hour later a low-
flying helicopter began to search the waterfront, making lazy circles
farther and farther out into the Mediterranean until eventually it
disappeared.
It was time for my second act. Quickly I changed into my bikini, noting
with smug satisfaction that it barely contained my breasts. God, I
looked hotter than hell! Of course that was the whole idea... I tucked
my blonde hair into a hot pink ball cap, put on my oversize sunglasses,
and returned to the lanai to fetch my soggy panties. I rinsed them out
in the seawater, making sure the sad remains of my manhood were no longer
recognizable, before I tucked them into my bikini bottom and returned to
the beach.
I hung back until I made sure that the FBI agents were nowhere to be
seen. Then I sauntered into the sea, gradually splashing my body until I
was in up to my breasts. A glance up at the lifeguard on duty confirmed
that the hot chick in the bikini was commanding his complete attention.
I turned my ass towards him, pulled the panties out of the front of my
suit, and started to squeal. "Ai...yi...yi...!" I shrieked over and
over. The guard jumped down from his chair and sprinted towards me
through the water, asking what was wrong.
I pointed at the bloodstained panties floating in the water and repeated
the lines that Gabrielle had taught me in Catalonian: "Look at what I
found in the water. It's a public disgrace! Shame on you!" I waited to
make sure he picked them up before I turned away and swam out to sea.
Once again I retreated to my lanai to watch the show. Sure enough it
wasn't long before Mutt and Jeff returned to the beach in their suits to
interrogate the lifeguard. No doubt they asked him a lot of questions
about the woman who'd discovered my panties, but having been a guy once
myself, I was confident that his description would begin and end with my
tits.
I returned to Paris the next day, although I flew Air France this time. I
was desperate to see Jacques again, and I knew I had done all that I
could do in Barcelona. When he picked me up at the airport, Jacques was
blown away by my tan, and after two weeks with Madame Bochy I could tell
that he was hot and horny. Although neither of us had eaten we went
straight to the apartment, where I performed my first ever blowjob. It
wasn't as bad as I expected. I almost enjoyed the sensation of stroking
a robust cock again, even if it wasn't mine... When it was time to take
him into my mouth, I had an incredible feeling of power over him, and
when he was done, he told me that he loved me. I zipped him up,
freshened my lipstick, and insisted that he prove it by taking me to the
most expensive restaurant in Paris.
For the next few days I searched the Internet and newspapers for any
developments in the manhunt for Matt McCoy. Finally, after three days,
the story broke in the Chicago Tribune:
CROSSDRESSING FUGITIVE COMMITS SUICIDE
CHICAGO - A joint task force of the FBI, Interpol and the Chicago
Police Department announced today that Matt McCoy, the Chicago securities
dealer who has been the subject of an international manhunt, is believed
to have drowned at sea. McCoy, who allegedly swindled millions from
elderly investors, then murdered his co-conspirator and fled to Europe
disguised as a woman, was last seen in Marseilles, where he boarded a
ferry to Tangier using the name Madison Monroe. The task force declined
to release more details, although sources within the CPD confirm that DNA
taken from a hairbrush in McCoy's Chicago apartment provided a positive
match with DNA found on a woman's undergarment which washed ashore on the
Mediterranean coast of Spain. According to the same sources, McCoy's
effects also included a purse containing a suicide note. Although badly
deteriorated after several weeks under water, the note suggested that
McCoy was despondent and had decided to take his life, presumably by
jumping overboard somewhere off the coast of France. Although the
manhunt for McCoy has been discontinued, an investigation continues
against his former employer, and a fund has been established to help the
elderly investors who lost their life savings.
Although I'd planned it down to the last detail, I couldn't believe that
it was finally over! I should have been over the moon, but for some
reason I felt a tremendous letdown. Maybe part of it was knowing that my
friends and family, and especially Tracy, would go to their graves
thinking that I'd killed myself disguised as a woman. But the more I
thought about it, the more I realized that it was much more than that. I
re-read the article, and did a little Internet research into the fund
which had been set up to compensate Norman Wolf's victims. They were the
poorest of the poor, yet hard-working and conscientious enough to have
tried to set something aside for their old age, and now they were facing
utter ruin.
I phoned my Swiss banker and inquired into the status of my account.
Interest continued to pile on top of my stolen millions, and my balance
was up to $3,100,000 and change. I instructed my banker to wire the
$100,000 into my new account at Banque BNP Paribas. That should be
enough to pay for my sex change operation, and to keep me in skirts and
dresses when I was back in my heels. Before I allowed myself too much
time to think about it, I told him to wire the rest as a unanimous
contribution to the fund set up in Chicago. After all, it was their
money...
When I hung up the phone, there were no regrets. I'd paid my price to
society, and I had a lifetime as a beautiful woman to look forward to. If
Jacques ever tired of me, I'd have to fall back on my wits and wiles as a
woman. After all that I'd been through, I wasn't all that worried about
my future.
By the author of The Jessica Project
Anastasia
- 08.01.2022
- 13
- 0
