Costume Gun Michelle
- 4 years ago
- 23
- 0
Costume Gun: Coming Full Circle free porn video
Costume Gun: Coming Full Circle
By Heather St. Claire
It seems like no matter how far you travel in life, all the roads lead
back to your starting point.
My name is Martha. Martha Collins. I'm a 58-year-old widow and the
mother of three fantastic children. It's kind of an old-fashioned name,
but I like it, and I should. I chose it when I became a woman twenty-
three years ago.
No, I didn't get a sex-change operation, although gender reassignment
surgery really is a more correct name for that procedure. The surgery
and hormone therapy doesn't change a person's gender; it simply matches
the gender of their body to the gender of their mind.
Twenty-two years ago I was the warden of this facility. I was a 62-year
old man named Howard Adams. I had worked here for thirty-nine years,
ever since my graduation from the police academy, and had been promoted
to warden seventeen years earlier. People always said my work was my
life, and they were right. I had no social life, and I had never
married, due to my gender identity issues.
When I was a very young man, I realized that I identified with the
female role in society in every aspect. I knew by the time I was eight
years old, and maybe sooner, that I should have been born a girl. Of
course I never told a soul, though I was unusually close to my dear
mother, God rest her soul. I hurried home after school every day so I
would have plenty of time for homework, my own chores, and helping her
take care of the household.
By the time I was in my mid-teens, I was a pretty good cook. I could
sew, mend clothes, and any room I cleaned could pass the white glove
inspection.
When I left for college, my mother cried and I did too. I had no idea
what I wanted to do with my life until I attended a career fair and
heard a talk on law enforcement. I always had a strong sense of right
and wrong. My mother had taught me that the good would be rewarded and
the guilty would be punished. It also seemed like a field that was
dominated by men and masculine values; perhaps, I thought, immersing
myself in this world might help me deal with my continued longing to
express my feminine self.
Of course, it didn't work.
I had never dated in high school, except for attending the senior prom
with my cousin from across town. I thought that was a cruel switch. It's
usually the wallflower girl who ends up going to the prom with her
cousin. But here I was on the arm of this lovely girl in an elegant
black off-shoulder dress and four-inch spike heels. Her hair and makeup
were perfect. How shocked she would have been if I had admitted to her
how much I envied her. That was my first and last date with a woman.
When I was in my mid-twenties, I finally screwed up my courage enough to
visit gay bars. Perhaps, I thought, I could find comfort in the arms of
another man, even if my own body was wrong. I don't want to go into
detail about the half a dozen sexual encounters I had with men. Suffice
it to say it was not satisfying; that, and the fear of what discovery
would do to my career, caused me to shut away all dreams of intimacy
forever.
Everything changed the night I found the advertisement for the costume
gun in my email inbox one day. It seemed like some kind of gimmick. The
picture made me think of something from the Flash Gordon serials, yet it
claimed it actually worked, and could transform anyone struck by its ray
into a wearable costume. I found the whole idea to be ridiculous, yet
something compelled me to place an order.
I never saw a receipt for my purchase, and found the email had vanished
from my inbox. I hoped I hadn't opened the door to become a victim of
identity theft, but soon concluded the whole thing had been a joke, or
perhaps a sign of early senility.
Imagine my surprise when the gun arrived on my doorstep one day. I was
impressed by its heft, its detailing, and the thick instruction manual
that came with it. They even included the three batteries needed to
power the gun. You don't find that sort of thing much anymore.
I didn't know how I was going to use the gun, or if I would use it. Then
I thought of Sophia.
Sophia Lekas was 35 years old, and had been in my prison for almost 17
years. At age 18, she had been arrested for the execution-style murders
of her stepfather, mother, younger brother, and two neighbors. She had
been convicted by a jury of her peers and sentenced to die. Her series
of appeals had spent years winding their serpentine way through the
justice system, but now, the U.S. Supreme Court had refused to hear her
final appeal, and she was sentenced to die in two weeks.
My course of action was clear. I would become Sophia. But first, I had
to make arrangements to disappear. I told my neighbor I was going on
vacation and asked her to feed my cat. I paid all my outstanding debts
so that my only living relative, a nephew, wouldn't be burdened with
winding up my affairs. I began withdrawing my life's savings from the
bank.
The day before Sophia was scheduled to die, I asked her to be brought to
my office. I knew she was a heavy substance abuser and had engaged in
sex with multiple partners before her arrest. I had reviewed her medical
records and found her lungs and liver were still in good condition and
she was free of any STDs. But I had to see her up close, in person. I
had to carefully examine the skin I would be living inside for the rest
of my life.
While I was waiting for her, I looked around at my heavy, mahogany desk;
the plush carpet; the wall full of books; the leather chairs; and
realized I would miss none of that. I could feel my heart beating and
saw my hands were trembling. I went into my private bathroom to splash
water on my face. I looked into the mirror and saw the face I hated and
said a prayer that I would never have to look at it again.
Soon, Sophia was escorted into my office. She was handcuffed and had leg
irons on. I had met her before, but was looking at her in an entirely
new light. At 35, she still had traces of youthfulness, but it was clear
that hers had been a hard life. She was only five foot-two, and didn't
weigh more than 110 pounds. Most people gained weight on our prison
diet, as heavy as it was on starches. Her arms were covered with ornate
floral tattoos. Her brown hair was cut in a short bob. In my mind's eye
I saw her as she had been when she had arrived 17 years before, her hair
dyed an electric shade of pink with neon blue highlights.
I sat on the corner of my desk, studying her carefully. Her eyes made me
think of deep wells. But they were empty, devoid of feeling. I didn't
say anything. She glared at me and finally spoke: "So what the fuck do
you want, warden? Are you going to give me a pardon if I can blow you
good enough? Or don't you like girls? Word is you've got a boyfriend on
Block D. Hell, I'm not gonna beg for my life. You're going to be doing
me a favor if you kill me. I'm dead already."
I stood up and walked around behind my desk. "I'm glad to hear you say
that, Sophia," I said, removing the costume gun from the desk drawer.
She looked at me with a combination of anger and amusement. "What the
fuck are you gonna do with?" Those were the last words she ever spoke.
The ray of white light hit her, and she was instantly transformed into
an empty costume. It was easy enough to slip what remained of her out of
the cuffs. I quickly stuffed her into my briefcase, walked out of the
building, got in my car and drove away.
I knew Sophia would be discovered missing in minutes, as would I; every
second was crucial. I soon pulled into the parking lot of an empty
warehouse in the city's industrial area. There, behind the building, I
had parked a cheap used car I had purchased for cash a few days earlier.
I transferred my suitcases and briefcase from the trunk of my Lincoln to
the trunk of this car, and headed for the Interstate.
I was three states away and it was closing in on 11 p.m. when I stopped
at a budget motel and registered for the night, paying cash. I had to
avoid the motel chains, which would demand an ID. I had put on a hooded
sweatshirt and dark glasses when I made use of a roadside rest stop a
couple of hours earlier. I didn't want to be recognized in case my
disappearance had made the news.
When I got to my room and flipped on the television, I found my fears
were not unfounded. As I was switching channels, I saw my own face, and
Sophia's, on the TV screen. It seems we were the lead story. I was
exhausted, but also still felt the adrenaline pumping through me. I
decided I had waited long enough. It was time to begin my new life.
I removed the Sophia costume from my briefcase, stripped out of my
clothes, and stepped into my new life. It was amazing to see how my
larger male body was completely contained in the smaller form of Sophia.
I was already marveling at the sensations of my new female form. I
couldn't wait to close the "zipper" of the costume under my chin to seal
myself inside.
....what the fuck? What did that asshole do to me? Why am I in some
cheap motel room? The son of a bitch kidnapped me! God, they're all
alike, every one of them....
After several more moments of confusion, my head cleared, and I realized
I wasn't actually Sophia, I was Howard Adams in the Sophia costume. But
I actually had to start thinking of myself as Martha Thomas?the new
identity I had already carefully established for myself. I sat down on
the lumpy bed and inhaled deeply. Even the musty scent of the motel room
couldn't overwhelm the new, wonderful female scent coming from my body.
I looked carefully at my arm and their shoulder-to-wrist tattoos. These
were not in keeping with the new life I had planned for myself. I had
looked into having them removed, but the results would likely be
unsatisfying. I would simply have to spend most of my time in long-
sleeved dresses and blouses. This meant a climate without too much warm
weather. I settled on the Pacific Northwest as my new home; it also had
the advantage of being more than 2,000 miles away.
I was thinking about the future when I felt the past, Sophia's past,
demanding my attention. My God, what an awful life. Her father had
deserted her mother when she was five years old, leaving them destitute;
four years later, her stepfather had come into their lives, which meant
an end to their poverty, but the beginning of a far more painful phase
of their lives. Her stepfather had hit her regularly, and starting at
age 12, had raped her on several occasions. When she had begged her
mother for help, she had been told, "Live with it. I have to."
Sophia had run away from home at age 15. She lived on the streets for a
time and finally turned to prostitution as a means of survival. Shortly
before her 18th birthday, she had met Sam and fallen in love. He
promised to take her to Mexico so they could start a new life
together?if only she could come up with enough money. She knew one place
to turn?her stepfather. He was one of the biggest drug distributors in
the region, and I'm not talking about the legal kind.
She went to their house and demanded money. When he told her to get out,
she reached into her purse for the semiautomatic handgun she always
carried and shot him. Her mother, who had been upstairs, came down the
stairs screaming, and she shot her. Her little sister came behind her
mother. She hadn't expected this; the girl was supposed to be at a
sleepover; she fell next. Her parents' neighbors, the Simmonses,
attracted by the commotion, came bursting through the front door, and
they also fell.
The strangest thing about the tragedy was that Sofia didn't even try to
get away. When the police arrived they found her sitting on the floor in
the middle of all the carnage. When I closed my eyes, I could see it
all. Her hand?my hand, still clutching the gun. My leather jacket and
jeans splattered with blood. The fallen bodies. It was the worst thing
I've ever experienced, with the exception of these past few days.
Her lawyers had tried to argue she had acted under extreme emotional
disturbance, based on her history with her parents. But it was too
difficult to explain away five murders.
I sat there stunned, and began to cry. To cry for Sophia, and her
victims.
It wasn't the beginning to my new life that I had anticipated. By this
point, I was so exhausted, I climbed into the bed, and despite the poor
condition of the bed and the unfamiliarity of my new body, I quickly
fell into a deep sleep.
I was up early the next morning to enjoy the luxury of a long shower.
Then I dressed quickly in a turtleneck sweater, a below the knee skirt,
black heels, and a curly blonde wig. I turned on the television to
discover that "our" disappearance had actually made the national news. I
would try to stay as inconspicuous as possible for as long as possible.
I was glad I had stocked the car with plenty of water, non-perishable
food and bedding.
I reached Washington State two days later and had soon found an
apartment in a small town. I used my forged identity and credentials to
secure a job as a receptionist for a local accountant. I began attending
the local Methodist Church, and that's where I met my future husband,
Ted Collins. My Teddy Bear, as I always called him. He was a little over
six feet tall and weighed about 260 pounds. He had a classic football
player's build and I soon found out that's exactly what he had been?the
star quarterback for the town's high school. He had gone off the
college, earned a business degree, and come home to work in his father's
insurance agency. He asked me out at a chuck potluck supper, and I
happily accepted.
On our first date I learned that he had been divorced four years
earlier. He had married his high school sweetheart. They had never had
children, to his great sorrow, and she had been restless throughout
their marriage, looking for an undefined something more. She had left
him after a years-long affair. His heart was just beginning to heal; I
was the first woman he had asked out since their breakup.
On our second date I told him about the tattoos. I told him that I had
been a reckless teen, but had found the Lord as a young adult and my
great dream was to find a wonderful man, settle down with him, and have
children. He said that I sounded like the kind of woman he had always
dreamed of meeting. I felt so safe and secure in his strong arms.
My fairy tale dream came true. We were engaged a month later and married
six months after that. I found an elegant long-sleeved dress that
covered my tattoos completely. I had three children, two boys and a
girl, over the next five years, and lived a life that exceeded my
fondest dreams....at least until a month ago, when Ted dropped dead of a
massive heart attack.
My children and my church family were wonderful. They saw me through all
the arrangements, but everyone has their own lives to deal with, and
about a week I had been alone in the big old house that had once rang
with Ted's boisterous laugh and the cries of three young children.
I have never been much of a drinker, as I wandered through the empty,
lonely house, I opened a cabinet in the dining room found a bottle of
wine we had received as an anniversary gift a few years before. I took
it to the kitchen, opened it, and began to drink. As the liquor took
hold, I found my pain began to dull a bit. Before I knew it, I had
emptied the bottle. More than anything, I wanted this numb feeling to
continue and deepen. I picked my purse up off the counter and headed to
my car, bound for an all-night grocery store.
I had spent my twenty-three years as a woman living an extremely careful
life. I always paid our taxes on time. I never exceeded the speed limit,
always used my turn signals, never got a parking ticket. But twenty-
three years of caution was about to be wiped out in an instant.
Not paying close enough attention, I blew through a stop sign. A patrol
officer saw me and pulled me over. I heard the words that sent a chill
down my spine: "Ma'am, have you been drinking?"
It's all a blur after that. I am sure I failed the field sobriety tests.
I was taken to the local jail where I was booked and fingerprinted. When
they ran my prints, they of course discovered that I was not Martha
Collins; I was Sophia Lekas, convicted murderer who had escaped from
prison twenty-three years earlier.
I look at my mug shots and see a bewildered-looking woman. My hair is a
mess, and I'm not wearing any makeup. I usually take such pride on
looking my best.
Now I sit in a maximum security cell in the prison when I was once in
charge. I have refused to explain how I escaped all those years ago. No
one would believe the truth, anyway. I am pondering my options; none of
them seem ideal. I could unzip the suit, but that would reveal an 85-
year-old man who would probably be near death anyway, and to restore
Sophia at this point seems a greater cruelty than letting her remain at
peace. I could fight for a new trial or clemency; the famous lawyer,
Gloria Allred, has tried to contact me offering to do just that.
My biggest anguish is what this has done to my children. Finding out
their mother is a murderer, and so soon after losing their father, must
be a terrible blow. I don't know how they're dealing it for sure,
though; none of them has tried to contact me since my arrest.
There's one other alternative. I could let myself be executed, and pay
for Sophia's crimes in her stead. It seems like a harsh but just price
to pay for the years of happiness I stole this way.
Mikhaela
- 17.09.2022
- 22
- 0
Costume Gun The Ultimate Gift
- 4 years ago
- 22
- 0
Costume Gun A Dish Served Cold
- 4 years ago
- 21
- 0
