The End Of Jessica Munroe. Part 2 free porn video

It was his fifth glass of wine. A nice white wine, not too heavy but quite alcoholic. He didn't care. He downed it quickly. Art looked at himself in the mirror, just to the left of the front door of his house and took a deep breath to steady himself. It had been six weeks since Art had first taken the dress from his mothers wardrobe and slipped it over his head. Six weeks since he had sloppily applied foundation and eyeliner and lip gloss to his face in an attempt to pass himself off as a girl. Six weeks since he had lay on his mothers bed, revelling in the feeling of the dress against his body, of the waxxy feel of his lips, in the sensation of escapism he had felt in them moments. He had done it all in an attempt to prove something. To prove that anyone could be just like her. Jessica Munroe. The vapid and simple Jessica Munroe, who represented everything Art hated. Everything wrong with the world. A lazy, drunken, smirk danced across Art's mouth. What a stupid idea. The idea that he, Art Bellows, chubby, freckled and most importantly male could hope to match or compete with an amazonian woman like her was laughable. It hadn't taken Art long to realise it himself. In fact it had happened mere minutes after trying on the dress. He had taken another look, a closer look. It was clear he wasn't Jessica. His nose was too long. His body too fat. His brow was too low. On closer inspection Art was convinced it was clear he wasn't even female. The idea that had cemented in his mind the day she snatched Linton away again had already collapsed. Art had resolved to merely hate her from afar, just as before. He had taken off the clothes, he had hastily removed his make up and he had returned the room to the way he had found it. And yet, two days later, he had once again found himself in his mother's bedroom, paused, gazing into her open wardrobe. He had once again found himself reaching into her closet and pulling out a dress. He had once again found himself following the instructions of a Youtube video and applying layers of make up to his face. It hadn't taken long before Art had moved onto his older sisters wardrobe, a much younger and more fashionable set of clothes, a brighter and more varied palette of make up. He had begun to recognise styles and clothes that matched, hoovering up fashion articles and learning how pairing the right shoes with the right dress drew an outfit together. His ability with a make up brush had improved. He had learned to create a smokey eye look. He was close to perfecting his winged eyeliner. He had even purchased a few items of his own after noticing how the near constant use of his mothers had begin to drain the supplies. After only three weeks Art acquired his first pieces of womens clothing, from a cheap online store. A few pieces of lingerie, a dress and a pair of shoes. He kept them all in a locked, backpack under his bed. Art couldn't explain why his passion for dressing as a girl had evolved so quickly and organically. In just six weeks he had gone from a boy who had never considered wearing anything other than a t shirt and jeans, to a boy with a deep and extensive knowledge of accesorising, styling and womens clothes. He didn't know why he had carried on after that initial time. He didn't even have the motivation of Jessica Munroe anymore. What he knew was that being dressed, whether only for a few hours before his mum arrived home, or for the whole day on the increasing amount of days when she wasn't there made him feel good. He also knew this wasn't considered normal. It wasn't considered normal for a boy like him to spend his days thinking about what shade of lipstick he should pair with his siters denim pinafore dress. He knew if his friends wouldn't understand. He didn't understand it himself, but in the privacy of his home he didn't care. He felt good. He would continue as far as he could. Quite accidently, Art had become a crossdresser. He took another deep breath in. The padding in the bra on his chest to give the illusion of breasts rose as he did. He looked himself in the eyes. Eyes that were rimmed with black, glittery make up. An almost perfect winged eyeliner and mascara making the whites of his eyeballs pop. He licked his lips nervously, tasting the chemical flavour of his nude lip gloss. He turned his head from side to side, considering the job he had done. His hair was short, much shorter than a girls would usually be but he was satisfied that he had styled it in a way that could appear as if he was wearing a cute pixie cut. He lowered his eyes to the rest of his body, wrapped in a short, tight maroon red bodycon dress. The first dress he had bought. A little puppy fat stck out from his belly. He had lost some weight over the past few weeks but he had a way to go yet. His legs were covered too, encased in two layers of dark black tights. Art had made sure that no body hair was visible. On his feet were a pair of his mothers heeled ankle boots. They had been a struggle to get on but this was not the first time Art had worn this outfit. He knew what shoes looked good with it. These were the shoes. He grabbed at the empty wine glass again, lifting it to his mouth in an attempt to collect the very last remnants of his wine. It was pointless. Nothing left. He sighed to himself as he placed the glass back on the table by the mirror and resumed his examination. He was happy with the look. From a distance no one would be able to tell he was a boy. Or at least he hoped not. The hair might be a give away but that would be covered. Another long deep breath to calm his nerves. He could feel his heart beating in his ears. He wasn't sure if these deep breaths would help. He suspected his nerves would not subside. Maybe that was a good thing. The adrenaline would help, surely. It would certainly help if he ran into any trouble. Mentally, he shook the thought out of his head. Better not to think like that. He stood up straight, leaning back on the heels of the boots and pushing his "breasts" out. Another look in the mirror. He looked good. He couldn't look any better now. Without stopping to pause he spun around, grabbing a large coat from the end of the bannister rail and swung open the front door. The door slammed shut again as Art stepped out of the house in a dress and heels and make up for the very first time. The wine had been planned. A night in with his sisters clothes and his make up practice. He would visit a few chatrooms, speak to a few people. He would take some pictures, posing and pouting before uploading them to the web. The wine would make it all that bit better, he had figured. Being a little tipsy never hurt. What Art had not planned for was his ability, or lack thereof, to hold his alcohol. He had not drank much in his sixteen years, a few around friends houses or family gatherings. A whole bottle of wine had proven to be a bit much. While he had planned to be tipsy he had now found himself decidedly drunk, and the little voice in the back of his head that had been telling him to dress up and leave the house for the past couple of weeks had become impossible to ignore. And now he found himself outside, the slight breeze of the nightime tickling his pantyhosed legs. The hood of his coat was pulled up over his head, covering his short hair from any suspecting eyes, even if there was no one about. Art might not have planned to leave the house but when the idea had become to impossible to ignore he had known better than to leave the house at a reasonable time. It was 3 a.m. Art began to walk. He had a vague idea of where he wanted to go. A route he reckoned would be short enough to get home quickly and quiet enough to be deserted at this time. It was a suburban road which lead downhill towards a small common, only ten minutes away. It was a park that Art had regularly played football on as a kid. He would never have expected to be heading towards there in a minidress and heels in the middle of night. He chuckled to himself quietly. This was ridiculous! The idea that he could be out of the house dressed like this was thrilling to Art. He lifted his head slightly. There really was no one around. No one to hide from. Stretching his back and puffing out his chest a little he slowed his stride from the franctic pace he had started at. He was making a concious effort to walk in the correct manner, one foot in front of the other, placing his foot from heel to toe. The sight of his long, dark legs stretching out in front of him as he strode along the pavement lifted him. He smiled. The sound of his heels on hard concrete echoed around the empty street. It was a sound that lifted Art's drunk, fuzzy heart more than he ever thought it would. He considered for a second lowering his hood but he decided against it. No need to throw all caution to the wind, Art reasoned. The dark windows of the houses he walked past stayed dark, and the empty road stayed empty. As he reached the bottom of the hill he laid eyes on the park, lit only by the harsh, orange light coming from the lamposts and, thankfully, empty. Art quickened his pace a little to cross the street and stopped at the gate. He scanned the horizon. There were three roads that surrounded the park, all quiet. All empty. Slowly, he opened the gate. He physically winced as the heavy metal entrance squeaked loudly in the otherwise silent night. Resolving to take more care he pushed the gate open all the way. Still nobody else. Still silent. The gate shut behind him with a soft tap, much quieter that when it had been opened. Art hadn't even realised he had been holding his breath the whole time. He exhaled slowly as he once again surveyed the park. There was the football pitch where had played as a kid. The BMX ramps that he had always been too nervous to attempt. The childrens play area. It was in the oppsite corner to the one Art had entered from. The swings and slides stood silent, casting strange angled shadows across the soft floor of the play area. He may have been wearing a dress and heels but Art was still sixteen and drunk. The idea of an abandonned play area was too much to pass up. Art licked his lips again and began to walk along the concrete path around the outside of the grass, his heels clicking as he went. "No one over the age of 13 is allowed to enter this childrens play area, unless they are a parent or carer." Art could just about make out the jolly comic sans font on the sign outside the play area. A happy smiling kangaroo was printed next to the lettering, one cartoon finger outstretched to stop any would be intruders. Art had come this far. No kangaroo was going to stop him now. He was incredibly relieved to find the gate to the play area had been well oiled as he entered. No squeaking. He didn't know where to start. There was a a short balencing beam that stretched across the length of the area. "Time to see how good I am in these heels, I guess." Art slurred, to no one in particular. As it turned out Art, was not as good as he had hoped, falling off before even reaching the halfway point. It took him three tries to get across all the way. The hard sole of his heel clanked loudly against the metal ladder of the slide as he climbed to its summit. He didn't wince like he had done with the gate. In fact he hardly even noticed. The cold metal of the slide against his nylon covered rear sent a shiver up his spine. He smiled again. It certainly wasn't a bad shiver. His hood flew off, as he rushed down to the bottom. He didn't bother to pull it back up. He really was all alone out there. His confidence growing he sauntered over to the swing, throwing his hips out from side to side in a overlly sexy manner. If no one was around he might as well tart it up a bit. He was dressed up after all. He reached one arm out to grab the support pole of the swing set, before bending his knees and slut dropping dramatically. As he stood up he pushed his ass out and stroked the pole, pouting and looking over his shoulder. He couldn't hold it. Stifling his laugh he swung round the pole and sat down heavily on the swing, pushing himself lazily on his heels. Breathing in deeply he felt the cold, nighttime air enter his lungs. He smelled the dew that was beginning to form on the early morning grass and wondered just how long he had been outside. He had not planned to come out tonight but he was glad he did. This experience had been brain tingling. The initial adrenaline that had driven him to the park still buzzed in his ears, as did the effects of the wine. The sense of freedom he had felt outside was new and exciting. He had completely let himself go and he was loving it. Any thoughts of Jessica or Linton were long since banished. He was happy in himself. Turning his head skywards he gazed out into the inky purple sky. The first few rays of sunlight were beginning to turn black too blue. He looked back down at his heeled feet. While the front of his mind enjoyed the experience of being outside the back was racing with questions. Why did this make him feel so good? Would he be doing this forever? If so, would he ever tell anyone? He reasoned not on the last question. He was having far too much fun on his own. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? Nothing wrong with him enjoying his own company, even if he happened to enjoy his own company while in a dress. He didn't think he was transgendered. He had read up on it. People who feel as if they were born in the wrong body. That wasn't him, not as far as he could tell. He certainly wasn't gay. He was just a boy in a dress. Smilling broadly with his eyes closed he began to rock further on his heels, the slight creaking of the swings chains not too far above him. He stretched out his long, black legs and bent them again, bringing them back underneath himself and feeling the nylon of his thigh press against that on the back of his calf. He loved that feeling. He pushed himself off from the ground and let himself swing freely, the wind whipping up under his skirt and lifting it slightly to reveal his crotch. He laughed a little as he swung, loving the rush and the disorientation that the alcohol was causing. The crossdressed, happy boy pendulummed, higher and higher and faster and faster. The wind rushed in his ears almost blocking out all other sounds. Almost blocking out his breathy laughter. Almost blocking out the creak of the chains. Almost blocking out the loud, thumping bass of a car stereo. Almost. Art dug his heels hard into the floor of the play area, bringing himself to an adrupt stop. He strained his ears. It was definitely the sounds of a car. As well as the music he could hear heavy revving and screeching of tyres, and what was more, the sound was getting louder. The car, wherever it was, was heading his way. Frantically, Art reached behind his head, grasping for the hood of his coat. He pulled it up far around his face, covering his made up eyes and his painted lips. He reckoned whoever it was in that car would likely not appreciate his efforts. He sat, completely still, gripping the chains of the swing. As hard as tried, he could not determine from which direction the car was coming. What should he do? He could stay where he was, alone on the swing, and hope the car simply drove past or he could move, try and head out into the back streets and gamble on them bypassing him completely. Or he could hide. The idea of crawling into a bush in his dress and heels wasn't an appealing one, but being caught like this was less so. He strained his ear again. The car was definitely getting closer. It sounded as though it was almost on top of him. Out of the corner of his eye the bright, white flash of headlights caught Art's attention. He spun around and caught a face full of it. The screech of tyres on asphalt announced the arrival of the car. It span around to meet the park at the opposite corner to where Art was sat, the corner from which Art had entered. The corner that lead back home. Art rubbed his eyes, trying to desperately to get rid of the green and purple blobs that danced across his vision. In his druken, panicked mind there was only one idea. Run! He obidiently listened. Clumsily, Art staggered to his feet. If his mind was beginnning to rapidly sober on the arrival of the car, his body wasn't. He made a dash for the exit and stumbled out into the street, his eyes still blurry and his brain still foggy. He started walking. He didn't know where he was going, all he knew was it was away from the car and it was the opposite direction from home. Behind him the car screeched around another corner. Even in his drunken state Art could tell the car was now on the same road as him, and approaching rapidly from behind. He tensed up but kept on walking, and hoped his hood would be enough to shield him from view. The car was fast. It didn't take long before it was upon him. Art sank as he heard the engine slow. He didn't dare look out from the corner of his hood as the car idled past him. He could tell he was being watched. All he could do was walk. From inside the car he could hear voices over the sound of thumping house music, loud and boorish. He heard laughing. Art was wrong. He thought he could pass. Clearly whoever was in the car had seen through it. He tensed up even more. The engine of the car roared into life as it's wheels squealed and left black lines on the road. Art watched as the red lights shrunk away. He stopped walking. Again, he was holding his breath. He daren't exhale. In his minds eye, he crossed his fingers hard, hoping that whoever had been in the car had seen their fill. That they wouldn't question the boy in the dress. That they would just chalk it off as some weirdo to tell their mates about. Art hoped hard, but his hopes were in vain. As the car crested the hill further up the road and disappered from sight the unmistakable sound of brakes bringing a car to a fast stop echoed their way back to Art's ears. Whoever was in that car had not seen enough. They were coming back. Some twenty yards ahead of Art there was a side road. It was small and narrow and there appeared to be only a few traffic lights. He could make a break for it. He could try and get down that road and hope they missed him. It was that or head back into the park. Art knew where he fancied his chances more. The side road would have to do. The booming bass music that blead out from the car still echoed in the suburban nighttime air. It was moving, but Art could not yet tell how close it was. It took a huge effort to will his mind and force his heeled foot to move, but Art manged it. He trotted, as fast as his heels would allow, over to the mouth of the road, desperately tugging at the hem of the dress in an attempt to make it longer than it was. Why had he worn this on his first night out? Why couldn't he have just worn jeans? The side road was as dark and as narrow as Art could have hoped. Along the opposite side of the pavement the road was narrowed even further by parked cars. There was only a few lamposts to illuminate the street. Again, Art considered diving into a bush, but decided against it. He hadn't gotten away yet. Being found in a bush wouldn't have served him any better. Another wave of bass, coupled with horsepower. Art clicked his way up the road a few yards before spinning around. The car was getting closer and closer again. If they thought to go down the side road there was no way he was going to escape now anyway. He held his breath. The car was only metres away.The main road was still dark. No headlights. Art was confused. The car was extremely close he should be able to see something by now. He could definitely hear it. It sounded like it was only seconds away. Unless...He span around, almost tripping on his heels. In front of him the bright spotlight of two headlight beams seared their way down the narrow road. He was right. The car was only seconds away. There was no getting away now. The car pulled up right next to Art. The second blast of headlights had once again left him with splotchy, blurry eyesight. He turned away from the car as best as he could, not wanting to let the driver see his face. "Hello beautiful," Art recognised the voice, even if he couldn't quite pinpoint it, "You out here all alone?" "Why don't you get in. We'll give you a ride home." A second voice. Art didn't reply. He was sure he recognised that voice too. He refused to turn to them, instead looking out across the darkened front gardens of the houses. Where he had earlier been grateful to see them deserted and empty, now he hoped someone, anyone, would emerge and save him from this. "Hey," The first voice again, trying to catch Art's attention, "Hey! We're trying to be nice here.Why don't you get in the car." Art still didn't turn. "OY!" The second voice shouted louder, as a wide open palm smashed the horn of the car sending a shrill klaxon into the air. Art jumped, startled by the noise. Without realising it he turned towards the drivers window. There, leaning out, was the fat ape like face of Doyle, grinning at having got the boy too turn around. Across from him in the passenger seat sat Marcus, just as ape like, with just as big of a grin on his face. Doyle spoke first. "There you. Rah, you are fit." This comment took Art by surprise. Even with knowing he was a crossdresser they were really playing the part. Art could tell whatever joke that was being played was at his expense, he just hadn't worked out the punchline yet, "What are you doing out here all on your own?" "You working?" Marcus piped up. Art didn't understand what he meant. He turned away again. Another angry shout by Marcus made him turn back towards the car. Art's knees were shaking. Not only had he been caught crossdressing but it was also by two boys from school. His academic life was over. At least he wouldn't be a nobody anymore. "What's your name?" And yet the boys in the car hadn't yet made their move. They hadn't yet jumped out and beaten him up. They hadn't yet taken a picture, and now they were asking him his name. Art wondered if they were just stringing him along, trying to make his suffering worse. It didn't seem likely. Doyle and Marcus weren't usually that smart. "Oy, what's your name?" Marcus again. He was certainly the less patient of the two. Art still didn't answer. A mistake, "I said, what's your fucking name?!" Art panicked. He went to say Art, not thinking. He had never been more happy to hear his words catch in his throat. Instead he made a low, small coughing noise that didn't sound like anything. Doyle cut back in. "What the fuck was that?" Again, no answer. "So are you working or not?" "Look just get in the car!" Marcus was getting angry now. "Are you working?" The question seemed so alien to Art. Was he working? What did that mean? "It's a simple bloody question. Are you working tonight?" "No." Art surprised himself when he spoke. The voice that left his lips was not his own. It was soft and higher than his. It was a girls voice. He had practiced adapting his voice before but he had never expected his brain to override him. To use this voice without being told to. Secretly he was extremely happy it had. He was also beginning to suspect the truth. Neither Doyle nor Marcus recognised him. He suspected neither of them even recognised him as male. As far as both of them were concerned they were speaking to a girl. A girl out on her own in the early hours of the morning. A girl wearing an extremely short dress and heavy make up. With a sudden rush, it dawned on Art what Doyle had meant by, "are you working?" The boys in the car thought he was a hooker. "Are you sure. You look like you're working." "I'm not." Art knew what danger he was in. If either Doyle or Marcus figured out what he was they wouldn't hesitate to end him. He knew he should run.He knew he should be terrified. He knew he should be offended by the idea that he was a prostitute, but he wasn't. Inside Art's heart was fluttering. They thought he was a girl. They didn't recognise him and they thought he was a girl. It had worked. He was passing. "Look, I don't care if you're not working. Just means we don't have to pay you. Get in the car!" Marcus was seething in the passenger seat car. Art steeled himself. He bent down slightly, looking past Doyle and over towards Marcus. "No." The passenger door was open in a flash. Marcus stood up, glaring across the roof of the car. Art straightened back up to look at him again. "Fair enough. We'll just do it out here" Marcus slammed the car door and began to stomp his way around the back of the car. Art tensed again. He had gone too far. He would pay for it now. The flashing blue lights of the arriving police car had never been more welcome. Marcus stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide. Doyle froze in the driver seat of the car, his face white and gaunt in the presence of the new arrival. Art turned towards the blue, his face fully illuminated under his hood. The car pulled up directly in front of the boys car, boxing them in and preventing them from escaping. From the drivers seat a portly middle aged officer, with a balding head and fat moustache emerged. A younger officer got out from the passenger seat, his narrow eyes focused on Art. "Alright boys! That's enough of that!" He strode over towards where Marcus was stood, "C'mon. Back in the car." Art was stood stock still. He watched the older police officer grip Marcus slightly by the arm and escort him back to the passenger seat. The younger officer was still staring at Art. For his part, Art tried hard to avoid his gaze. As Marcus got back into the car the officer leant down, sticking the full mass of his sizeable head into the open window. Art waited anxiously as he heard the stern words being passed across between the three. It seemed like a very long time before the officer stood back up again. Art heard the engine of the car start up again as the car spluttered back into life. Marcus kept his eyes pinned to Art as the car reversed and turned onto the main road, before disappearing from view and silently slipping off into the night. Art was alone with the two police officers. A cold wind blew around his legs as he held the nylon surfaces of the tights together. He shivered slightly. Turning back around after watching the car leave, the older officer began to approach the Art. As he approached he stooped slightly to see under the hood. The younger of the two was still stood strong, still staring in Art's direction. "Now then. What to do with you," Art had no idea what was going to happen, "Jesus you look young. We've had reports of a woman socilicting sexual wares. I didn't believe it myself. This is a nice neighbourhood. Don't usually get that sort of thing here." From across the road Art noticed a curtain twitch. Clearly someone had been paying attention to the commotion going on outside. "Sorry." Art's answer was weak. Why was he even apologising? He wasn't a hooker. "Now, as I'm sure you're aware, prostitution is illegal. Me and Dave here should really take you down to the station." Art looked up at the officer from under the hood. His eyes were wet and big, pleading. He was relieved to see the upturned smile of the officers moustache looking back at him, "It's OK sweetheart. Let's get you home. Where do you live?" The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon as Art opened the back door of the police car. The warm interior was a welcome relief from the brisk spring morning. Art slid in first, before pulling his legs in and keeping them together. He huddled himself up, making sure the hood never left his head. Slowly he began to relax as the car took off back past the park. What had started as a simple day of crossdressing had ballooned into a rollercoaster evening, one of the worst of his life. His first time out of the house dressed and he had almost been caught out, by two bullies from school no less. He had taken too big of a risk. He had gone to far. And yet, as he reflected on the night, and the threats by Marcus, and the proposition from Doyle, and the police escort he was now the beneficiary of, one thing occurred to him. He had almost been caught, but he hadn't been. He had stood a foot away from Doyle, a boy who he had seen almost everyday for the past six years, and still had not been caught. He had looked Marcus straight in the eye, and still had not been caught. Whoever was sitting in the house making frantic calls to the police had seen him, and still he had not been caught. Even now sitting in the back of this police car, neither of the officers showed any evidence that they knew he was a boy. As far as every single person he had met tonight was concerned they had been speaking to a girl. And not just speaking to. Art's mind drifted back to the way Doye had looked at him. With hungry, lusting eyes. He remembered the way Marcus had been desperate for him to get in the car. They hadn't just seen Art as some girl. He was a girl that they wanted. A girl that they were willing to pay to sleep with. The idea was strange to Art. As far as knew no one had ever wanted to sleep with him before. He had seen himself. Sure he could look cute, for a boy, but he had been convinced he wasn't passable, let alone good looking. He never would have entertained the idea that he could be attractive. Yet the evidence was there. Inside himself he felt a lift. It was pride. Pride in his ability to pass as a girl. Pride in not being caught. Pride in his looks. The warmth of the cars heather was now nothing to the warm glow Art felt inside himself. He loved it. He loved the idea that he could be admired for his looks. A nobody like him. He had never known it before. This must be how somebodys feel. This must be how she feels. Jessica. For the first time in a long time Art found himself thinking about her again. This must be how she feels all the time. Pride in knowing she was admired. Art had given up on ever matching her with his looks. He had given up on ever feeling the same way she did, and yet here he was. Admired. Proud. Reinvigorated. He had given up on his goal at the first sign of doubt, but that doubt was dying a quick death. Why couldn't he do what he had set out to in the first place? He had fooled Doyle and Marcus. Why couldn't he fool others? Why couldn't he fool everyone? He loved this feeling. He would be damned if he was easily going to give up on it now. The idea that had burrowed into his head all them weeks ago was back, and this time it was not going away. He could pass. He could be a girl. He hated Jessica Munroe and he was coming for her. Art lifted his head and pushed back his shoulders a little. Up ahead he could see the eyes of the younger officer in the rear view mirror, leering back at him. Well, Art reasoned, who could blame him? Purposefully, Art stared right back into the gaze of the officer. He smirked. He winked. A slow, long wink. The officer turned away. The car drove through the quiet suburban lane as the sun rose on another day.