The Resort free porn video

The exclusive island resort offered the ultimate vacation experience - a week in someone else's body. What could possibly go wrong? THE RESORT by BobH (c) 2018 - 1 - "Jeez, everyone here is so *old*!" said Wanda, with that mixture of horror and distain that only a fourteen year old girl could manage. To be fair, her equally fourteen year old friend Christine looked embarrassed by her outburst, though she tried to hide this by fumbling awkwardly with her glasses. But then everything about Christine was awkward. She was angular and gawky where Wanda was every inch little miss beauty queen, and knew how to use this to her advantage. Theirs was a friendship where Wanda was very much the leader and Christine her follower. We'd only just entered the departure lounge Wynwood FutureTech maintained at Terrance B. Lettsome International Airport for the exclusive use of their clients, an entrance I'd liked to have been more low-key. "Why don't you repeat that only louder," said Meredith. "I think there might be one or two people who didn't hear you the first time." Wanda glared at her mother, but said nothing more. The two were more alike than either would ever admit, and not just because Wanda could have been a younger clone of her mother. I stayed out of this exchange, as I usually did those between the pair, preferring to gaze out the window at the long runway that seemed to take up most of Bear Island. Meredith and I might have been a couple for four years now but I wasn't Wanda's father and so had never felt comfortable trying to exert parental authority over her. Meredith patted my arm, and I smiled down at her. Short and blonde-haired, she was as cute as she had always been. She was plumper now than in photos I've seen of her in her youth, but as far as I was concerned her attractiveness was in no way reduced by a bit of middle-aged spread. "Feeling nervous yet, Jim?" she asked, with a mischievous grin. "A little," I admitted, looking around at the others in the lounge with us. "This is a bit of a leap into the unknown for me." "For all of us. It's not as if the girls and I have done this before either." That was true, but while this might be just a vacation for the girls, there was more than that at stake for Meredith and me. I sipped my champagne, impressed again at its quality; this was not just a cheap sparkling wine. Then again for what this week away was costing we had a right to expect the best of everything, and over the past four years I had developed a taste for the finer things in life. Having a wealthy girlfriend has its perks. I thought we'd be the last to arrive, but I was wrong. A murmur went around those present when a newcomer appeared, giving us all a megawatt smile. "Sorry I'm late!" he said. Everyone immediately recognised him. This was Richard Janson, the British billionaire entrepreneur and playboy, a man known as much for his daredevil exploits as for his airline, train company, and myriad other businesses. He was tall, solidly built, and in his late fifties, and only now were that famous beard and thick head of hair becoming streaked with grey. "Good morning ladies and gentleman," came a voice, cutting through the conversation. "My name is Jane Balfour, and I'll be your host for your trip to Wynwood Island." "Good morning, Jane!" replied several of those present, which she acknowledged with a little nod. Jane Balfour was a five-ten, dark-haired, young American in her mid- twenties. She had a bluetooth headpiece in her right ear and was wearing the red slacks and jacket of the resort staff over a plain white blouse. Her smile revealed perfect teeth and she exuded a peppy confidence. "Before we begin I'd just like to check that everyone has swapped their SIM cards into the new phones they were given and has handed in their existing phones for safekeeping." There was general murmured assent at this, mixed with a few grumbles. Wanda had *not* been happy when told she would have to part with her beloved phone for the duration, but private cameras were strictly forbidden on the island. The replacement phones we'd been issued with, while top of the range in all other respects, had had all their photo and video functions disabled. "Before taking you out to the helicopter for your shuttle flight," Jane continued, "we'll be showing you an orientation video. A lot of what it has to say is on the website and in our brochure, but we like to make absolutely sure you're up to speed before you get to the island." At six-foot-six I was the tallest person in the room, a situation not unfamiliar to me, and I found the seats we settled into to watch the video a little cramped, also a situation not unfamiliar to me, alas. I looked around at the others in the departure lounge with interest. Richard Janson was staring at Jane Balfour intensely, then there were the Nadals. A reserved and very proper Indian couple in their mid fifties, both apparently worked at the University of Delhi where she was Professor of Anthropology. Gary Radowski and Jamaal Sutton were a gay, twenty-something interracial couple in their early twenties who had both played for the Seattle Seahawks until the car crash that left Sutton in a wheelchair. Former porn star Lindy Timm, now in her late- forties and looking somewhat the worse for wear, had featured in many of my teenage fantasies. She was here with her elderly mother, who had also been a porn star in her day. Besides them, there were a couple of people who seemed vaguely familiar and several others who did not. These included a fat and balding middle aged nerd type wearing thick- lensed glasses whose name badge - he was the only one wearing one - identified him as 'Russell', and whose saltire print T-shirt identified him as Scottish. Then there was the shrivelled-up sixtyish guy in a wheelchair, the tubing running to his nose feeding him oxygen from the tank strapped to the chair's rear. I'd seen enough terminal cancer patients in my time to be reasonably certain this was what was eating away at his body. He did not look long for this world. An eclectic bunch, to be sure. Then there was us. My partner Meredith Vandervoort was paying for this vacation, something I could never have afforded on my salary even if I was still drawing it, and we would be spending the next week living it up on Wynwood Island along with Wanda and Christine, the only pair in our intake group apart from Radowski and Sutton who were under forty. There were around thirty of us in the group which consisted mainly of Americans and Brits, with a smattering of people from other nations such as the Nadals. Oh, and me? My name is James Candy. I'm a former homicide detective, a fifteen year veteran of the LAPD about to take the plunge as a Private Investigator. The lounge's large wall screen came to life and we all turned to watch the presentation. It began with an aerial view of Wynwood Island. "This is Wynwood Island," said the voice-over narration, "one of a number that are privately owned among what are collectively known as the British Virgin Islands. The islands have a tropical rainforest climate that is moderated by trade winds. Temperatures vary little throughout the year. In the summer months they average 27?C, in the winter months 25?C. In other words, perfect swimsuit weather all year round." The camera swooped low over impressive inland swimming pools and golden beaches where uniformly attractive, scantily-clad young men and women could be seen soaking up the sun or frolicking in the water. "The island is about two-and-a half miles long by slightly over a mile in width, which makes it the same length as New York's Central Park but twice as wide. Despite its size it had been uninhabited for a number of years prior to Jeremy Wynwood buying it. Barren soil, exposed rock and no source of drinking water on the island made it a less than ideal place to live before Wynwood FutureTech spent millions turning it into the paradise it is today." The camera then rose up the buildings on the high ground in the middle of the island - a modern, multi-storey five-star hotel and a mostly windowless building of similar dimensions, standing back from it by twenty or so yards. This had a large mast on one end of its roof, a helipad on the other end, and was referred to in resort literature as the 'operations block'. The image then cut to the inside of the hotel showing its ballroom, gymnasium, sauna, casino, and fine restaurants. The accompanying commentary sang their praises as you'd expect, pointing out the range of available wines, world-class chefs, etc., but I mostly tuned this out. The pictures alone were enough to sell me on Wynwood Island Resort, just as they had been when I'd first seen the online brochure. Of course, this video was different from the sales pitches of similar resorts in one very important aspect, an aspect covered right at the end when the camera panned across a group of beautiful twenty-something men and women: "At Wynwood Island Resort, however old or infirm you might be when you arrive, you can enjoy the facilities on offer in an attractive and healthy young body as a person of the gender and ethnicity of your choice. All our mounts are over the age of eighteen, but we allow riders from the age of fourteen provided they are accompanied by a parent or guardian. No one else can offer you this unique experience because no one else has our technology. Which is why we don't just *hope* you enjoy your stay - we *guarantee* you will!" I glanced across at Wanda and Christine and frowned. Originally this was going to be a vacation for me and Meredith alone, but Wanda had talked her mother into bringing them along with us over the Christmas break if she did well in her school tests. Merry had agreed, after which Wanda became more focussed on her schoolwork than I'd ever seen before. She was always a very bright kid, but she'd been prone to all the distractions available to teenage girls of late and her schoolwork had suffered. Not any more. The video ended and Jane Balfour stood up. "When you arrive on Wynwood Island," she said, "you will be taken to the reception centre where, after a brief examination, you will be strapped into projection rigs. Shortly thereafter, you will awaken in the bodies you've hired for the coming week. These are your mounts, and as riders you will have complete control over their bodies every minute of the next seven days. We call this 'projected consciousness'. The inputs and outputs from the brains of both rider and mount are 'disconnected' from their bodies and a temporary connection forged between the brain of the rider and the body of the mount. The mind of the mount goes into an induced 'sleep mode', while to an outside observer the body of the rider would appear to be in a comatose state. When riding you are in complete control of your mount's body. It will feel in all respects as if it were your own." "But only for a week," said Lindy Timm, her voice raspy from three decades of smoking two packs a day, "why can't we hire them for longer if we have the money?" "Because much more than a week at a time is not considered healthy for either riders or mounts. For example, while your bodies are strapped into projection rigs and fed intravenously there's inevitably going to be some muscle wastage, even though the rig is designed to also work your limbs. Then there's the disorientation. Both are manageable on the scale of a week, but the longer you're in the rigs the more pronounced the effects when you emerge from them. It's also psychologically healthier for the mounts to work a one week on/one week off shift pattern. On their 'off' weeks they're employed as the resort staff and hosts that interact with guests, so that works for the efficient operation of the island, too. This is switchover day, the one day every week where staff become mounts and mounts become staff. During the day we fly in several new intakes such as this one so that by late afternoon every newly arrived guests who has signed up to do so is riding their mount." "If I may...?" said another voice. "Yes?" "I'm Dr Rasool Nadal, and this is my wife Professor Indira Nadal," he said, she giving a little smile and nodding demurely. "The young men and women who are to be our mounts? I've never really understood why so many of them are American. Wynwood Island lies among the British Virgin Islands, after all." "Because student debt is insanely large in the US and they - we - are very well compensated. We're hired for three month stretches in any given year, and a couple of such stretches earns you enough to pay off most student loans." "Aren't you worried about someone damaging your body," asked Jamaal Sutton from his wheelchair, "of them not taking the same care of it you would?" "No, because of the safeguards that are in place. You have to accept that riders will want to have sex while in your body, that's just part of the deal. But we can specify things we don't want riders to do with them that we'd consider damaging. These might include, say, anal penetration, flagellation, vaping, or smoking, though there are mounts who'll allow some or all of those - which earns them bonuses, of course. And as you would expect, female mounts have contraceptive implants to prevent pregnancy. Also, those of you here to vacation with others who are riding us but who aren't themselves riding have to agree to be tested for STDs before being accepted to ensure you don't infect any mounts, just as all would-be riders had to undergo psychological assessment so that we can weed out anyone likely to deliberately harm their mount and turn them away." "Is that likely?" I asked, frowning. "They've not encountered such a person yet," said Jane, "but the possibility of doing so is greater than zero, so they prefer not to take that chance." "Huh," I said, nodding, "that's actually a very sensible precaution. If someone is going to self-harm in their own body they might do it in someone else's too." "We mounts also provide lists of people we don't want anywhere near our bodies. I don't need to tell you how creepy it would be if a stalker was able to become the rider of someone they'd stalked." She gave a little shudder, and so did I. "How would you enforce something like no anal or no smoking conditions set by a mount?" asked Gary Radowski, running a hand through his blond locks. "The neural web in the brain of every mount constantly monitors the condition of their body, sending back a continuous stream of data. The computers assessing that data have been programmed with what each mount has set as things you're not allowed to do while riding their body. Go against this, and the connection between mount and rider will be terminated. Depending on the degree of infringement, that rider will then have to spend the rest of their stay in their own body or be immediately expelled from the island, no refunds. The management has a duty of care to the mounts that it takes very seriously. And speaking of breaking the connection, there are a series of buoys around the island forming a line you should not cross if you don't want to risk that happening. As you'll know from the literature you've read, the neural link between rider and mount can't be sustained over distances much beyond two miles. The buoys are sited along a circle with a two mile radius centred on the broadcast tower in the middle of the island." "Why not boost the power and extend the range?" asked Wanda, surprising me both with her question and with the fact she'd been paying attention. "I can answer that," said Richard Janson. "They don't boost the power because however much you do so it won't increase the range in the slightest. And that's because of physics. Talk to someone via a transatlantic link and there's a small but noticeable delay that can lead to you talking over each other. Talk to someone on the moon and there's a two and a half second delay. The moon is a quarter of a million miles away, so the delay over a distance of two miles would be negligible, right? So you'd think, but it turns out the brain/body link is a very finely calibrated thing. A delay of more than the infinitesimal one involved over that short distance breaks the connection." "Mr Janson is correct," said Jane. "Are there any more questions before we head out to the helicopter?" She looked around the lounge expecting we could now be on our way, but there's always someone who has that one last question they just have to ask. In this case, that someone was me. "I'm interested in the neural webs," I said. "Does it hurt, having one fitted?" "Having something injected onto the base of your skull is always going to hurt, but less than you might imagine. The nanite package slowly burrows through the skull, resealing the bone behind it as it goes. Then the assemblers gradually construct the web, which settles across the brain. That takes about two weeks. When all the connections have been made and the web is up and running a small, flashing red light appears in the centre of your vision. You acknowledge you've seen it with five rapid blinks, and it goes away. Apart from the initial injection, you don't feel a thing. Right, let's make our way out to the helicopter." We did as she asked, trudging out to where the chopper awaited us, those with hats holding them down for fear of the downdraft from the rotor blades whipping them away. Once inside we took our seats, Jane Balfour strapping herself into a solo seat facing ours that was hard up against the cockpit bulkhead. Take-off was smooth and actually quite a pleasant experience. Helicopters are not usually the quietest of vehicles, but conversation was possible, as were announcements. "Attention, Ladies and gentlemen," said Jane after we'd been in the air for a while, "we'll shortly be within two miles of the island, and Mr Wynwood will be addressing you personally before we land." She closed her eyes. Ten seconds later she opened them again, but it was no longer her. Something about the way she looked at us told the detective in me there was someone else behind those eyes. "Greetings one and all!" she said, her voice now several notches lower, her accent British. "Welcome to Wynwood Island Resort." So this was Jeremy Wynwood, founder and CEO of Wynwood FutureTech, owner of the island, and a notorious recluse. "Thanks to the miracle of Wynwood consciousness projection technology you'll soon be experiencing what it's like to have another body. Only we have this technology, and only we can give you that experience. Enjoy your stay!" She closed her eyes. A second or two later she opened them and once again it was Jane Balfour at the controls. There was a lot of murmuring at this, our first glimpse of what riding a mount looked like in the flesh. For my part I was a bit surprised to discover Wynwood still running things here. A few months ago Rockland Pharmaceuticals had launched an aggressive hostile takeover bid and had succeeded in buying the company out from under him, one of the perils of having publically traded stock. Rockland Pharmaceuticals had formerly been known as Crimax Pharmaceuticals, a renaming considered advisable after one of their drugs caused birth defects in thousands of children. Crimax CEO Jonah Bowman was defiant in the face of criticism, contemptuous of it in fact, but even so I wouldn't wish what happened to him on anyone. It was the board at Crimax that had insisted on the rebranding in the aftermath of the affair. "We're coming into land now," announced Jane Balfour, and indeed we were. I looked out the window, seeing Wynwood island and its imposing hotel for the first time. "That's an impressive penthouse on top of the hotel," I said. "Jeremy Wynwood's private quarters," said Richard Janson from the seat behind mine. "Off-limits to everyone but his immediate personal staff." "Huh," I replied, my attention switching to the helipad atop the hotel's featureless twin as it rose up to greet us. - 2 - "We hook up your catheter, IV drip, and the other stuff after you've taken possession of your mount," said the male technician. "No point you experiencing the discomfit of all that when there's no need." I was strapped into a 'consciousness projection rig', which looked something like a dentist's chair, but had loads of built in and apparently individually programmable massage pads which worked your muscles while your mind was elsewhere. At the head of the rig was what looked like a cage of wires, while around it were various consoles and screens as well as just about every type of non-intrusive biomedical monitor, along with several of the intrusive ones. It took up most of the small room it was in, Merry and the girls having been led into their own individual rooms adjacent to this one. The wire cage was lowered over my face, twin pads clamping it gently to my temples. "Just relax, and close your eyes," said the technician, flicking a bank of switches. I did as he instructed, felt a moment of dislocation as all feeling from my body was cut off, then opened them again when that feeling returned. I was in another room, staring at a different ceiling. I sat up, and as I did long, blonde hair fell forward and over the firm, round, breasts that now adorned my chest, their weight both surprising and strange. I cupped them with hands whose slender fingers terminated in brightly painted fingernails, squeezing them gently to confirm they were real, thumbing their prominent nipples in wonderment. "Wow, you're even cuter in person than I expected from your photos!" said a sultry voice from my right. I turned to look at the olive-skinned woman sitting on the bed next to me. She looked Mediterranean, had long black hair, pert breasts, the lean, muscular figure of an athlete and, of course, she was beautiful. She was also taller than me as became even more apparent when she took my hand and we stood up. She towered over me. "Christ, I can't be more than five-two, Merry!" I said. "Why so short?" "Being taller than you for one week is part of the fun," she said, "but apart from the height, what do think of the body I chose for you?" Clasping my shoulders, she turned me so that I was facing a full-height wall mirror. My first impression was of just how curvy I was, with full, round breasts, a large round ass, and a small waist. My face was also round, with plump, pouty lips, a tiny button of a nose, and large, startlingly blue eyes. "Nature made me small, blonde, and cute," said Meredith as she turned this way and that, examining her new body in the mirror from every angle, "but I always wanted to be tall, dark, and sensuous. Now I am." "So I'm the one who gets to be small, blonde, and cute?" I said, frowning at my own reflection. "Merry, you turned me into a younger version of *you*." Meredith slid her arms around my waist. "Yes," she said, nibbling my ear, "I did, and it looks good on you, really, really good, though I was never as pretty as you are now." When Meredith had said she wanted to use our vacation to act out her lesbian fantasies I was more than happy to go along with it, as I'm sure a lot of guys would be given that opportunity. When she told me she'd be choosing the bodies we'd be wearing and mine would be a surprise, I'd gone along with that, too. Now I was wondering at the narcissism of a fantasy that involved making love to, well, yourself. I turned, momentarily caught off guard by now having to look up to face Merry rather than down. She took this opportunity to drop her hands so they were cupping my buttocks while also pulling me into a tight embrace. She surprised me with a kiss more passionate than any we'd shared in months Meredith started slowly fondling my breasts and it felt good, it felt *very* good. She gently pushed me down on the bed and slid a hand between my legs. I was already experiencing an unfamiliar wetness down there, one that helped her fingers slip inside me. I now possessed a clitoris, and Merry knew exactly what to do with it. Under her ministrations I was soon climaxing, enjoying a multiple orgasm the likes of which I'd never known. "That was...that was...amazing!" I gasped. "Wasn't it, though?" grinned Merry. "Welcome to womanhood! My turn now." I'd gone down on Merry before, but I was now smaller and she larger so the experience was still different for me. Judging from the power of her own climax, it was different for Merry, too. But then why wouldn't it be? She might still be female, but a different body had to mean different sensations. Plus we both had the energy of youth once more. We spent a couple of hours enjoying that energy, then it was time to get ready for the evening. While the closets contained clothing that fitted our current forms, full bodily measurements for all mounts were also included in the resort's brochure for riders who wanted to bring along a set of clothing of their own. Meredith did, and she now threw open our luggage, pulling out a little black dress, pantihose, and a pair of strappy, three inch heels for me. "Put these on," she said, tossing them on the bed before diving into another bag for a dress of her own. When we were both dressed she led me over to the vanity. "OK, now sit down and I'll do your hair and make-up," she said. "Is this really necessary?" I protested. "Of course it is. You're a pretty girl and while we're here I want you looking your sexiest for me at all times, Candy." We'd agreed I'd simply reverse my name while riding my mount, so for the next week I was Candy James. Sighing, I let Merry paint my face and, I have to admit, the final result looked very elegant. The lipstick felt odd on my mouth and I had to resist the temptation to lick it off, though that was nothing compared to how peculiar having false lashes attached to my eyelids felt. "OK, I need to do my own face now," said Merry, "so go and get the girls. Their room is one floor down, directly below our own." Leaving her to her task, I set off, finding it easier to walk in heels if I didn't think about walking in heels and just let this body's muscle memory take over. It was kinda like putting it in 'automatic pilot' mode. It took me less than two minutes to reach the girls' room. When I knocked on the door was answered by a red-haired beauty in her early- twenties who stood a good six inches taller than me. She was smoking a cigarette and wearing a negligee, heels, and very little else. "Oh hi, Candy," she said, looking me up and down with an amused expression on her face. "Wow, you're even cuter than in the photo Meredith showed me! C'mon in. Chris is in the shower." *This* was Wanda?! I followed her in as she went over to the bedside table, where she took a final drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray. "Does your mother know you're smoking?" I asked her. "Of course!" she replied, tipping her head back and blowing a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "I told her I was going to pick a mount who was a smoker and she didn't object. Meredith sees this vacation as a safe way for me to take being an adult for a 'test drive', and so does Chris's mom." "Someone say my name?" said a deep, male voice. I turned to see a tall, seriously ripped young guy emerge from the bathroom, drying his dark, curly hair with a towel, another wrapped around his waist. I stared at him in disbelief. "Christine?" I said. "Chris," he replied, grinning, "just like you're Candy now." "Isn't he *gorgeous*!" said Wanda, wrapping her arms around his waist, and gazing up at him adoringly. "Uh, your mom sent me get you so we could go down to the meet'n'greet together," I said, "but you're not even dressed yet." "Sorry about that," said Chris, sheepishly, casting a glance at the bed with its very dishevelled bedding, "but we got a bit carried away and lost track of the time." "You'd best go without us," said Wanda, running her long, painted nails through his chest hair "We'll join you when we're dressed and we've pulled ourselves together a bit more." I returned to my own room in a daze. "Did you know Christine would be getting a male mount?" I asked Merry. "Of course," she said. "Don't look so surprised. They're both level- headed girls. Also this is a controlled environment where I get to keep an eye on Wanda. She can do the sort of 'exploring' you can't stop girls her age doing, only without the possibility of getting pregnant." "But isn't...what they're doing now likely to mess up their friendship afterwards?" "I don't see why it should. Their generation has a lot more casual attitude about gender than ours does. Right, I'm ready now. Let's go." As we were leaving so the door to the room opposite ours opened and its occupant stepped out. Tall, with silver-blonde hair and a classic 'hourglass' figure, her magnificent breasts and ass emphasised by her tiny waist. She was dressed in a body-hugging pink mini-dress with matching four-inch heels, and had large hoop earrings swinging from her ears. "Howdy, neighbors," she said. "Are y'all headed down to the meet'n'greet?" Her accent was fake-Southern, though I couldn't have told you which US state she was trying for. I doubt if she could have either. "We sure are," said Merry. "Care to join us?" "Love to, but I don't think my mama is ready yet. I'm Tammy Lindsay, by the way." "Meredith Vandervoort," said Merry, sliding an arm around my waist, "and this pretty little thing is my girlfriend, Candy." "Pleased to meet you both. Guess we'll see you downstairs later." "OK, see you there," said Merry. We headed for the elevator, leaving Tammy knocking on the door of the room next to hers. Well, that was one pair identified. 'Tammy Lindsay' was an obvious play on Lindy Timm. Who was here with her mother. I glanced back at her, this woman returned from the faded glory of her late-forties to the juicy ripeness of her early-twenties, and I wondered if others not using their real names would be as easy to identify. On the way down in the elevator Merry and I donned our name badges, she then taking the opportunity to pull me to her. Her hands were all over me as we kissed. The mid-evening meet'n'greet in the main bar was for us to get to know those we'd be sharing the island with for the next week. Apart from the Nadals, none of us had introduced ourselves to the others when we were first gathered together in that airport lounge as we would usually have done. I don't think it was a conscious decision on any of our parts, but perhaps we all had a vague apprehension introductions could be premature under the circumstances, that they might prejudice any relationships that might form between us when we were riding our mounts. When we entered the bar the place was already filling up. Tiny quadcopter drones were flitting about, taking photos. The only person I immediately recognised was Gary Radowski, though it was easy to deduce that the slim young black guy he had his arm around was his lover Jamaal Sutton, now freed from his wheelchair. One of the first people we bumped into was Jane Balfour. She'd swapped her staff uniform for a yellow, floral pattern A-line dress with matching two inch heels, and tastefully understated jewellery. I almost didn't recognise her at first. Not so Merry. "Oh hi, Jane!" she immediately said. "I'm afraid not," replied Jane, her American accent now replaced by a British one. She pointed to her name badge: Carol Sefton. "Of course," I said, explaining it to Merry, "Jane accompanying us to the resort was the last job she had during her off week. As soon as she got here it was the start of a mount week for her." "That's right," said Carol. "I made the same mistake," said another woman as she joined us. She had shoulder-length curly brown hair, was slim and very pretty of course, and like almost everyone else there was taller than me. She also had a Scottish accent. A quick glance at her name badge confirmed my suspicion: Ashley Russell. It seemed clear that just like me she'd simply reversed her name and that Ashley Russell was in fact Russell Ashley, the fat, myopic, and balding middle aged nerd type wearing the 'Russell' badge we'd first seen in the airport lounge. Someone else had drifted over with Ashley. He was about six-six, dark-skinned, bearded, and was wearing a polo shirt above cargo pants that showed off his very hairy and seriously muscular arms and legs. "Seems like we all did," he said. His accent was American, and his badge identified him as Karl Chandler. "I should've expected that," said Carol, ruefully. "Still, word that I'm not her should've got round by the end of the evening." Deciding to circulate, we left the trio chatting. As we did so I noticed that one of the guys behind the bar seemed *very* interested in Jane Balfour/Carol Sefton. He couldn't take his eyes off her. "We saw those in our intake at the airport and we know what their real bodies look like," said Merry. "It's so strange not knowing who's riding who and that we could introduce ourselves to someone we've met before with none of us knowing it." "Welcome to the internet," I said. "What do you mean?" "People hid behind pseudonyms from its earliest days. A LiveJournal username, a twitter handle, or the like was adopted to conceal your true identity. This could be in order to protect you or it could be something you hid behind when you wanted to attack others and not be identified. Either way, it gave you anonymity. What we have on this island is in-the-flesh anonymity, which is something new in the world." The next people we got chatting to were the Lumley twins. Jill and Jenny were dressed in the latest teen fashions and looked no older than fifteen, which they obviously weren't since mounts had to be over eighteen. Even so they acted the part. They were just as giggly and playful with each other as real fifteen year old girls would be. Weird to think they could actually be a middle-aged husband and wife, a pair of brothers, or even a couple of grannies. Wanda and Chris finally arrived, accompanied by Tammy Lindsay and a mousey-looking middle-aged woman who had to be her mother. Wanda was dressed in a white evening gown with a plunging neckline, while Chris looked uncomfortable in a tux that barely contained his impressive frame. Wanda was talking as animatedly with Tammy as if they had been old friends, which was impressive given they could only have just met on our floor when both were heading for the elevator. Seeing us, the four came over. "Howdy again, neighbours," said Tammy. "This here's my mother, Ruth." We shook hands, Ruth giving us a shy little smile. "That dress looks amazing on you, sweetie," said Merry, smiling approvingly at her daughter. "Thanks, Meredith," she replied. "Hey Tammy, what do you say to stepping outside for a cigarette?" "I say that's a great idea. See you in ten minutes, folks." That left Merry and me to engage in slightly awkward small talk with Ruth Lindsay and Chris. Fortunately, within a minutes or so of Wanda and Tammy leaving us a British voice rang out. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please." We turned to see a young Hispanic guy standing on a table. He was dressed in the staff uniform of red jacket and slacks over a white shirt. "Good evening to you. This is Jeremy Wynwood again, wearing a different body as you can see. I briefly welcomed you on the 'copter and now that those of you riding have taken possession of your mounts I'm welcoming you to the resort properly and I have a few safety pointers. Firstly, while there are no roads here there is a cycle path that circles the island. This is lit by low-level solar-powered lamps so that even after dark you can find your way back to the hotel. No roads means no motor vehicles, but bicycles are freely available to all as are bicycle rickshaws for those who prefer to be chauffered. The casino is underground and the hotel has been built to withstand the strongest hurricane. In the event of any level of tropical storm we can continue to provide entertainment without you needing to go outside. Finally, all guests whether riding or not are reminded that displays of racism, homophobia, or violence towards others while on the island will not be tolerated and are grounds for immediate expulsion. Right, that's it. Enjoy all the resort has to offer, and enjoy your new bodies." And we did. It was a fabulous evening of drinking, dancing, and laughter, but Merry still had us slip away early. "I brought a top of the line strap-on with me that I can't wait to try out on you," she explained, squeezing my shoulder excitedly. "I just know you're going to *love* being fucked by me!" - 3 - Years of working the early shift meant I still woke before most people did. I had hoped being connected to a different body might change that, but apparently not. It was still my brain in the driving seat so I suppose I should've expected this. Sighing, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up. I stared down at the sleeping form of this strange, tall, dark-haired woman so unlike the Merry I thought I knew. She had been more sexually aggressive since we got here, almost as if being in a different body had given her licence to reveal a side of herself she'd never been able to give free rein to before. And she had been right. We'd spent hours having sex last night, and I *had* loved being fucked by her. I'd have breakfast with Merry and the kids later, but for now I slipped on a T-shirt, cut-off jeans and wedge-heeled sandals, and headed out. I opened the door just in time to see Tammy Lindsay, her door already open, taking delivery of a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket that had been left outside her room. She was bending over to retrieve it, her impressive cleavage barely concealed by her black silk negligee. Seeing me as she straightened up, she grinned. "'Morning, cutie," she purred. "Hurry up with that champagne, honey!" came a man's voice from inside the room. I recognised that voice. It belonged to Karl Chandler. "Coming, baby!" she replied. She gave me a lascivious wink, then closed the door. Well, I guess that's one way to start the day, assuming this *was* the start that is. Chances are 'Tammy' was still partying from last night. Foregoing the elevator, I wandered downstairs my mind filled with what I'd just seen. She might be calling herself Tammy Lindsay on the island, but young Lindy Timm was still hot as hell. I made my way down to the main bar. I was the only one there, but I took a stool anyway. The bartender came over to me. He was tall, slender, and sandy-haired. His name badge identified him as 'Michael'. "What'll it be?" he asked. "Scotch, bourbon, a cocktail?" "Isn't a bit early for alcohol?" "It would be, but all our drinks are either low or no alcohol." "Oh, that's right," I said, remembering, "since we can't get drunk anyway you decided it's safer not to serve alcohol. Okay, why not? Get me a Scotch and water." The link between them allowed the rider to experience pleasure felt by the mount's body - something to with the release of endorphins or maybe dopamine if I remember the brochure correctly - but there was a problem with alcohol. Since it was only in the mount's blood and not in the blood reaching the rider's brain, the rider would not experience the usual mental intoxication. However, the physically numbing effect of the alcohol would still be felt by the mount's body. This being so those running the resort had wisely decided it was safer all-round if riders didn't get to ride physically-impaired mounts. Michael brought me my drink and I took a sip. "It tastes like a real twelve year-old malt!" I said, surprised. "Down to the burn at the back of your throat, am I right? Wynwood FutureTech has recently come up with a range of authentic-tasting drinks. They were developed mainly for use at the resort, but they'll be rolling them out internationally in a few months. So how are you enjoying being a rider so far." "It's...interesting," I said. "I'm not quite sure what I think yet. Ask me again at the end of my week on the island." He looked thoughtful. "Most people come here thinking that riding another person's body will all fun and excitement and nothing else, but there's more to it than that. It can be a deeply profound, even revelatory experience. And it can change you. When you leave the resort you're not always the same person you were when you arrived. Ah, here's my relief. It was good talking with you but I've been tending bar all night and I need to hit the sack." He headed off to bed and the replacement bartender took his place. Young, dark-haired, and solidly built, his name badge identified him as 'Ben'. I studied his face closely. "You're the same bartender I saw keeping an eye on Jane Balfour yesterday," I said. "Yes, ma'am, I am." "Call me Candy," I said. "Being addressed as 'ma'am' feels weird." "OK, Candy it is," he said, chuckling. "So why the interest in Jane Balfour?" "My name's Ben Balfour. I'm her husband." "Oh, wow!" I said. "That must be weird for you." "It is, particularly when her rider is a man." "You can tell?" "Nine times out of ten, yeah - no offense." "None taken," I replied. "What gives us away?" "The way you carry yourselves. It gets better as the week progresses but you're not used to moving through the world as women, and it shows. As advertised in the brochure, there's a free posture and movement class for those who want to improve that, if you're interested." "Are there a lot of takers?" "You'd be surprised. At any one time between a quarter and a third of mounts on the island have riders of the opposite gender. I've always been amazed it isn't higher, actually. I mean, given this opportunity I'd have expected most people would use it to see what it's like on the other side of the street. Or maybe that's just me." "It says a lot about crippling student debt in the US that you and your wife were both prepared to be mounts," I said, regarding him thoughtfully. "My sister was too, but she got rejected." "Because she didn't meet the required beauty standard?" "Peanut allergy. Pam's plenty beautiful, but it's too dangerous risking a rider being careless and killing their mount to allow anyone with severe allergies to be one." "Can't really argue with the logic there," I said, nodding. "So that's a man in Jane's body calling himself Carol Sefton?" "Yeah, Richard Janson." "You know who it is?" I was surprised. "I thought when a rider wasn't using their own name they kept that stuff private." "They do, but I've got a friend in administration who lets me know. You'd want to know too if it was your wife." "I suppose. Wouldn't it be easier on you if you both worked the same on and off weeks as mounts?" "Yeah, and that was the way it was supposed to be until a guy on the other track broke his leg just hours before his next rider got here. They needed a replacement at short notice, and I was drafted with a new replacement being flown in and taking my original slot while I was being ridden." "Couldn't Jane have swapped tracks with another woman at the same time you crossed over?" I wondered. "Nope, because of her menstrual cycle. Female mounts have to menstruate on their off weeks, not when they're being ridden." "Huh, they don't mention that in the brochure." "There's quite a bit they don't mention in the regular one," said Ben. "There's another?" "Oh, yeah. Just because you see an old or fat person here, a dwarf, or occasionally an amputee, don't assume they're ordinary guests accompanying others who are riding. Some of them are mounts being ridden themselves. Not everyone's fantasy involves being back in their twenties and beautiful." "Huh." This explained Ruth Lindsay's mount. "The 'specials' are not here all the time like the eloi are. They get called in as and when someone chooses them from the other brochure. If you're curious to see what's on offer, I can give you the URL and passcode for it." "Maybe another time," I said. "What did you mean by 'eloi'?" "Sorry, that was an in-joke. It's what the staff guests never see - the women who clean your rooms, the maintenance workers, and others - call those of us you actually interact with." "Let me guess - they call themselves 'morlocks'." "You know your H.G. Wells. Not surprisingly, some of the older guys riding female mounts are here to get a taste of what being a young woman is like before deciding whether or not to be ReStorred and taking the plunge." Just then someone else arrived in the bar and Ben went off to tend to them. I smiled wryly at his ReStorr revelation. My LAPD detective colleagues John Daniels and Eric Murphy usually pulled cases involving ReStorr, but we'd discussed them together many times over a meal in this McDonalds we knew that would do Big Macs breakfasts specially for us, so I knew all about that particular wonder drug. I sipped my Scotch and pondered what else Ben had told me. I shouldn't have been surprised by the level of transgender riding, or by the more unusual mounts, but for some reason I was. Even after fifteen years as a detective I could still be caught out it seemed. If anything I was most surprised by the revelation that Richard Janson was riding a female mount. He'd always struck me as the type of extreme alpha male who regarded women as weak and inferior to men, yet here he was rocking a female body. Now *that* I didn't understand. The only way it made sense was if he was considering ReStorr and testing the waters first. Except that he had at least another decade to go before I'd expect him to start seriously considering going that route. ReStorr not only turned you into a woman but made you twenty again, give or take a year or two. Since it was a one-way, one time only deal most men waited as late as they felt they could risk before taking it. Which made sense. The longer you left it, the longer your life would potentially be. Sighing, I took out my phone and scrolled through the drone photos I'd been sent from last night's meet'n'greet. The resort didn't let us take our own photos and videos since these weren't our bodies and they didn't want us to take any that would embarrass our mounts if they got out into the world. That might seem overly protective, but it's not. Take it from a veteran of the LAPD who worked vice for several years before transferring to homicide: if they thought they could get away with it, I guarantee someone would film a porno in their room and put it out there. The resort's answer to the problem was to take all photos themselves, delete any they deemed unsuitable, then to send us copies of all the ones we were in. "Ready for breakfast?" said a very familiar voice. I turned and there stood Merry, Wanda, and Chris. "God, yes," I said. "I've built up quite an appetite after last night," Merry smirked knowingly at this but said nothing, leading the way into the restaurant with us following behind. - 4 - "In the five years the resort has been in operation certain trends have emerged. A surprisingly high percentage of our cross-gender riders are middle-aged men who return every year to spend a week as a young woman. Middle-aged women are more likely to want to be young and pretty again than to experience being male. That's something younger women and older women seem more eager to try out. There's probably a major work to be written on the topic someday." "You were a sociology major, right?" I said. "Busted," said Miguel, laughing. "I'm curious about your relationship with Ashley Russell. You guys are not just allowed but *encouraged* to flirt and have affairs with guests on your off weeks. But why choose her? Yeah she's hot, but so is almost everyone here." Like Ben Balfour and Michael (whose surname was 'Danson' I'd since learned), Miguel Sanchez was a bartender. He hailed from Puerto Rico and was also the guy whose body Jeremy Wynwood had borrowed on our first night. In the three days we'd been here Miguel had been working his charms on Ashley. Given the way he and she had sneaked off upstairs together after his shift last night, I was pretty sure those charms had finally worked. "I try to make out with her every week she's being ridden," he explained, "regardless of who her rider is or what they're calling themselves. There's just something about being with someone who appears to be the same women every time but who can have such very different personalities that really turns me on. I like it best when her rider is male, particularly when at first they're resistant to being seduced. You'll notice I said 'at first'. Although some worry about it being 'gay', you just know every guy who chooses a female mount has to have at least wondered what sex is like from the 'other side'. So their defences almost always crumble. When they do and they really get into it they're usually a great lay. We get repeat business, too, a few men who tell their wives there's this annual week-long business conference they have to intend when they're actually coming here instead to strut around in hot young female bodies and get their brains fucked out by other guys." "That would be difficult to explain if you ever got found out," I said. "One guy was." "Really? Do you know what happened?" "Yeah, he confided in me the next time he came to the resort. Turns out his experiences here made him a better lover. He became much more considerate of his wife's feelings and what she had to put up with moving through the world as a woman. She was so pleased by the improvement in their marriage, what a better person he was now, that she insisted he carry on coming here every year. She considers it an extended therapy session he undergoes annually that keeps their marriage healthy." "Huh, I wasn't expecting that." "Neither was he, but he was very happy with how things turned out." I'll bet he was. And that was when Merry and the kids arrived to take me to breakfast, just as they had every morning so far. Even here, tiny drones hovered, taking photos. Some of the other guests mugged for the cameras, ensuring they'd get the shots they wanted in that evening's photo dump, but not me. Why anyone would want pictures of themselves eating I couldn't imagine. After breakfast, the kids headed off to find the Lumley twins. The four of them had become friendly and, when they weren't fooling about in their room, Chris and Wanda liked to hang out with them, which meant we didn't actually see much of them most days. As for Merry and me, on this, our fourth day here, we'd finally worked up enough courage to venture on to the nude beach. Wynwood Island was ringed with what was essentially a continuous sandy beach, one only significantly broken at a single point where a stretch of sand was conveniently isolated from the remainder between a pair of rocky outcrops. Add a few strategically sited palm trees on the landward side and hey presto you have a nude beach. There was a changing room at the entrance to the beach. Here we stripped down to our sandals, which we needed to protect our feet from the hot sand, leaving our clothing in a locker. This done, we grabbed our towels, sun hats and bags and made our way over to one of the many protective umbrellas that had been set up on the beach to provide shade. We unrolled our beach towels onto the sand beneath one of these, then Merry headed off to the beach shack bar to get us drinks. While she was gone I gazed around me. Among the faces I recognised were those of Ashley Russell and Karl Chandler, who were throwing a beach ball back and forth, and Carol Sefton who had settled down on a towel further down the beach almost at the water, then pulled her umbrella right down on the sand so I could only see her feet thereafter. Then there was Tammy Lindsay, whose magnificent body was stretched out on a nearby beach recliner to the right of us. She was flirting with two muscular and remarkably well- hung young guys who were vying for her attention, and she was close enough for me to hear their conversation. "Would you be a dear and get me a Scotch on the rocks, Kyle?" she purred, and the fair-haired one trotted over to the bar to do just that. She then turned her attention to his dark-haired companion. "Pass me my bag, if you would please, Marcus," she said, giving him a dazzling smile, "I'd like a cigarette." Nearby, Tammy's mother Ruth was sitting in a beach chair beneath her own umbrella, avidly watching all this while demurely sipping on a large, fruit-festooned cocktail. I shook my head, not understanding this particular mother/daughter dynamic at all. Lying on a beach towel not too far away on our left was a six foot tall African-American beauty sporting a magnificent afro. This was Yasmin Carter, one of the resort hosts who had been tending to our needs over the past few days. Since she was here sans her red uniform she was presumably between shifts. Out on the sun-dappled water people were canoeing, sail-boarding, and swimming, while at the water's edge Gary Radowski and Jamaal Sutton emerged from the surf as I watched, jogged up to where they had left their stuff, and immediately commenced vigorously towelling each other down. No-one was water-skiing, the few speedboats on the island being for staff use only. Like all other dangerous sports, water-skiing was not allowed at the resort, and rightly so. It's a sad comment on human nature that many people would take chances in someone else's body that they would never take in their own. "I got us mai tais," said Merry, handing me mine then plopping down on the towel beside me. "Ben Balfour and Michael Danson are serving behind the bar." Interesting. Ever the detective, I found myself wondering if this was just coincidence or if Ben had asked for this particular assignment so he could keep an eye on his wife's body. "Michael is completely hairless," Merry continued. "He's as smooth as a dolphin. I wonder if that's natural or if he waxes?" "You could always ask him if you're that interested," I said. "Nah, I'm good. OK, turn over onto your belly and I'll rub in your sun- screen lotion for you." I did as she asked, but no sooner had she started applying the lotion with one hand than she slid the other between my legs. "Merry!" I gasped in surprise. "Shush, baby," she cooed, sliding her fingers into my rapidly moistening pussy and starting to gently work my clitoris. "Just relax and enjoy." Merry loved pleasuring Candy, and I loved having her pleasure me, crying out as I came. I'd had more orgasms in the previous three days than in the previous three months. Now I experienced another, this time biting back my cries. Afterwards, wrapped in a mixture of sun and post- coital bliss, I slipped into a happy slumber. - 5 - I was woken by a sudden scream. Old instincts kicking in, I scrambled to my feet and ran down the beach to where Carol Sefton was sunning herself. Standing in front of her was Ashley Russell, the woman who had screamed. As soon as I rounded the beach umbrella and caught sight of Carol the reason for Ashley's scream became clear. Carol Sefton was dead, blood oozing from a wound in her chest and soaking into the sand. Though I had got here first, others had also come running in response to the scream. "Stay back!" I warned them. "I'm a homicide detective and this is a crime scene." They did as I asked, remaining at a sensible distance but still rubber- necking. "Tell me what happened, Ashley," I asked, gently. "I..I was swimming and I happened to come up out of the water in front of Carol," she said, the water still dripping from her confirming she had indeed been swimming. "I was heading up the beach and that's when I saw her...like this." "Was anyone else near her?" "No, she was by herself." Looking down at the well-trodden sand it was immediately clear to me I was going to get nothing in the way of useful footprints from it, nor could I see anything around the body that looked like it could be the murder weapon. The wound had been inflicted with a knife, the obvious weapon of choice both because stringent baggage checks made it all but impossible to smuggle firearms onto the island and because it's easy enough to get hold of a knife in a hotel. There was another cry, this time a man's, and I looked up to see a distraught Ben Balfour being restrained by Michael Danson. "You need to take him away from here," I told Michael. "Stay with him but send someone else down with rubber gloves, plastic bags of various sizes, and adhesive tape. I have to bag up all Carol's effects. Oh, and get me a camera. I need to take crime scene photos." Merry was among those gathered around. I shrugged, and she gave a sigh of resignation, both of us realising the rest of the day was shot as far as vacationing was concerned. After the things I'd asked for had been brought and I'd completed my work, Carol Sefton's body was carried away on a stretcher, covered by a sheet. Accompanying the stretcher bearers when they arrived was a third red-jacketed staff member, who informed me that Jeremy Wynwood wanted to see me. "Lead on," I said, then followed him up the beach and on to the hotel. I was led into a large suite where a familiar, tall black woman wearing a dashiki and sporting a magnificent afro awaited me. "Ah, Ms Candy James, aka Mr James Candy formerly of the LAPD," she said in a British accent. "I'm Jeremy Wynwood. I was impressed by how you took charge on the beach." It seemed Yasmin had been there in body only. She held out her hand and we shook. "Last time I saw you you were riding Miguel's body," I said. "This is a lot different look." "Yes, Yasmin is rather spectacular, isn't she? One of the perks of my position," she laughed. "I get to leave my penthouse whenever I want without ever actually leaving it." "How does that work, anyway?" I asked. "I thought mounts worked a week on and a week off." "They do, but they're also required to give up up to twelve hours in total during their off week should I choose to ride them." "If you're switching bodies that often, how does anyone know the person they're talking to is you?" "Every time I ride, a photo of my current mount is automatically sent to the phone of every employee on the island so that if they need confirmation I'm me they have it. But never mind that. I called you here because I need your help." "The murder of Jane Balfour." "Or the attempted murder of Richard Janson, yes. Frankly we're not equipped to deal with a homicide." "Have you called the local authorities?" Being privately owned Wynwood Island did not have a police station, but it still fell under the jurisdiction of the British Virgin Islands Government. "I'd prefer not to get the RVIP involved just yet, if possible," she said. "It's less disruptive to the running of the resort to have someone like you investigate first, a guest with the relevant experience. We can then present CID with your findings." RVIP was the Royal Virgin Islands Police, while CID - as in every British territories police force - was their Criminal Investigations Division. CID wore plain clothes, but I bet I currently blended in here better than they would. "OK," I said, after thinking about it for a minute or so, "on two conditions. First, I'll need a phone with full photo, video, and audio capabilities, and an office to work out of." "Agreed," she said. "And the second condition?" "I get to question whoever I deem it necessary to question. At any given time there are some very rich, very powerful people here and I can't have them playing the 'rich'n'powerful' card to get out of this." "Also agreed. Make it clear to anyone who refuses that you will report them to me and they will then be ejected from the island with no refund and barred for life. That should do the trick." "I think so," I said, impressed by the determination in her voice. "Good. Who do you think you'll be questioning first?" "Since you're already here, let's start with you. What were you doing on the beach?" "Just what it looked like I was doing: enjoying the sun. The resort isn't just a business for me, it's also my home." "I'm surprised Rockland let you stay on when they bought the island." "Why? They still needed someone to run it, so why not me?" I could think of any number of reasons why not, but for now I let this slide. "Did you notice anything unusual on the beach, anything at all?" "No, I'm sorry to say I didn't, but then I was off the clock and more concerned with relaxing on my recliner than checking out the patrons." "OK, I may need to question you again later, but that's all for the moment." "Good. By now Doc Kelly will have finished her initial autopsy." "'Doc Kelly'?" "Head of medical services on the island and my personal physician. Check in with her and we'll continue this conversation tomorrow." Small it might have been, but Wynwood Island's infirmary was fitted out with the most cutting edge medical technology money could buy. In the rear was fully-equipped morgue, a necessity given there would inevitably be the occasional death in any large enough group of people. Gretchen Kelly was not at all what I expected. Stout, short (no more than five-two, so my current height) with cropped greying hair, a prominent hose that supported thick glasses, and a face that was starting to wrinkle, she appeared to be somewhere in her mid-fifties. But it wasn't so much her appearance as her energy and sheer 'presence' that immediately hit you. "Private dick, eh?" she chuckled, not looking up from her examination of Jane Balfour's corpse as I entered the morgue. "Yeah, but I used to be a homicide detective," I replied somewhat defensively. "That's why I gave the OK for you to be here. Interesting choice of mount," she said, finally standing upright and giving me an appraising look. "My girlfriend's choice, not mine." "Helping her act out her lesbian fantasies, eh? Good for you. Every boyfriend should be as considerate. Tox screen is back." "That was fast!" I said, impressed. "State-of-the-art equipment and doing it myself," she said. "Results are negative." "Given how strict the resort is about screening our luggage for drugs that can't be a surprise." "No, it's not, but in the case of a murder there's always the possibility the victim was sedated first, as I'm sure you're aware. Tell me what you see when you look at the body." "Knife wound, upper left-thoracic region," I said, "minimal bruising around the wound." "Suggesting?" "A short, sharp thrust rather than a blade driven home with force." "I concur. Given the location of the wound death would not have been instantaneous." "No," I agreed. "It would have taken a minute or two." "During which the screams of the victim presumably brought others running." "There were no screams," I said. Doc Kelly looked at me in surprise. "No screams? That...makes no sense. In order to keep her from screaming the killer would have had to have put their hand over the victim's mouth and kept it there until she expired. That would have caused bruising, and there is none. Also, unless the killer stabbed and ran she would have fought back, clawing at them. This would've left some of their skin under her finger nails. Again, there is none. Which makes this look self-inflicted." "I'd agree," I said, "if not for the fact that no weapon that could have caused the wound was found anywhere near the body. Nor was there a thermos flask in which a blade fashioned from ice could have been concealed and brought to the beach. Which means it was definitely murder. Yet everyone on the beach was naked and no one was seen carrying a knife." "A very odd murder." "Yeah, it really is. I don't think I'm going to understand it until I've found the killer and discovered their motive." "What a shame the nude beach is the only part of the whole island that doesn't have camera drones flitting about constantly taking photographs." "It is. Which has to be why it was chosen as the location for the murder." "I assume you've seen all you need to, that we're done here?" "We are," I agreed. It was now early evening, and I was indeed done for the day. "Good. Then I'm stepping out for a cigarette." I was surprised that someone I knew to be such an eminent doctor would be a smoker. "Those things are slow suicide," I said. "That's alright," she replied with a grin, "I'm in no hurry." - 6 - "What's Doc Kelly's story?" I asked Jeremy Wynwood, who was wearing the body of a short, very curvy brunette this morning, one about three inches taller than my own mount. "I googled her so I know she used to be head of medical research at Johns Hopkins. However much you're paying, her position here is a big step down from that." "Not all remuneration is monetary," Wynwood replied. "What do you mean?" "Gretchen Kelly loves sex, absolutely loves it. It's her favourite thing in the world. She's never been a looker but she did OK when she was younger. Now, not so much. Having free riding be part of the package so that she's herself one week and a gorgeous young twenty- something sexpot the next, was an offer I knew she couldn't refuse." "OK, yeah," I said. "I guess I can see how that might be irresistible to her." "Who else will you be questioning?" "Apart the victim's rider, everyone who was near where the murder occurred. I think I'll start with Lindy Timm and her mother." She frowned. "But they weren't at the nude beach." "Yes they were," I insisted, "I saw Tammy Lindsay and her mother there with my own eyes." "Ah," Wynwood replied, realisation dawning, "you're mistaken about who's riding whom." "I am?" "Yes. Despite the coincidence of names Tammy Lindsay is not Lindy Timm." "Then who is she?" "Tammy Lindsay and her mother Ruth are actually Professor Indira Nadal and her husband Rasool. They've been coming here every year since the resort opened and they always choose bodies that let them cosplay as Tammy and Ruth." "But...why?" I said, nonplussed. "They have three grown children, several grandchildren, and are apparently devoted to one another. They live very respectable, very prim and proper lives, yet for one week every year she gets to play the sexy nympho, bedding lots of men while he looks on, playing her mother. Since no recording is involved, and based on my assessment of them as responsible individuals, we've even given the Nadals special dispensation to have a hidden camera in her room feeding live video to the TV in his while she's getting it on with her lovers. 'Tammy' is always blonde, always a smoker and a drinker, while Professor Nadal is none of those things in real life. You ask why they chose these personas, and the only answer I can give you is: who knows? The sexual cosplay that goes on here takes many different forms and clearly fulfils some need or desire for those who engage in it. It's not for me to judge anyone else's choices, and I don't." My mind still reeling from this revelation, I then asked the obvious follow-up question. "If that's the Nadals then who are Lindy Timm and her mother." "The Lumley twins. Who haven't actually been engaging in any sort of sexual cosplay. Their vacation here appears to be about reliving a more innocent time in their lives, getting as close to experiencing childhood again as they can. They were frolicking on another beach at the time of the murder." The Lumley twins? That blew my mind. Then I had a thought. "Can you enable the phone so I can hack into the video feed or even kill it if I need to?" I asked. "I think so, yes, but why?" "I may not need it, but if it turns out the Nadals are involved in this in any way I might, particularly if they're conspiring with others." "I guess I can see that," she said, nodding. "I'll see what I can do." "Apart from the Nadals, those I know were in the vicinity at the time of the murder were you, the victim's husband Ben Balfour, Michael Danson, Ashley Russell, Karl Chandler, Gary Radowski, Jamaal Sutton, my girlfriend, and whoever those two guys were who were fawning over Tammy Lindsay. That pair and Karl Chandler are the only ones whose real identities I don't know." "You'll have to get Tammy to tell you who her admirers were, but Karl Chandler's real name is Vincent Smith." "I don't know that name." "No reason you should. He was the wheelchair-bound guy with terminal cancer in your intake group." I snapped my fingers. "I've just remembered," I said. "The guys with Tammy were called Marcus and Kyle. I don't know the last names they're using." "Not to worry," said Jeremy. "I'm sure I can find that out." "Good, but before I interview anyone else I need to speak to Richard Janson." "I'll take you to him immediately." On every floor of the hotel there was a locked door that led to the operations block via a connecting corridor/bridge. Wynwood took me to the nearest of these, typed in an access code on the keypad adjacent to the door, then led me across to the block. As we rode an the elevator to the floor where Janson awaited us, I couldn't help reflecting on how strange it was that I was actually lying in a room somewhere else in this same building, my mind being projected into the body I was currently wearing. For a moment it gave me a vertiginous feeling of dislocation...but only for a moment. We found Richard Janson in a relatively spartan little room, and he was not at all happy about it. "Look at this place!" he said as soon as we entered. "This isn't the five-star luxury I'm paying for and I expect better!" "It's only temporary, Richard," said Wynwood. "Given the traumatic nature of how your link was broken we needed to keep you under observation overnight. Unfortunately there is no luxury accommodation in the operations block, only rooms like this where doctors and technicians can take a nap." "Why's *she* here?" asked Janson, finally noticing me. "In real life Candy James is a former homicide detective with the LAPD. Given her expertise, I asked her to help with the investigation." "Sensible," he grudgingly conceded. "So I assume you're here to question me about the murder?" "I am," I said. "Begin by telling me what you remember." "Very little, I'm afraid. One minute I was lying on the beach, eyes closed, enjoying the sun on my naked body, and the next I was lurching awake in my consciousness projection rig here in the operations block." "He pressed the panic button and that brought doctors and nurses running," said Wynwood. "At that point we only knew the connection between Richard and his mount had been severed, not why." "And you remember nothing of the murder itself?" I said. "No, nothing at all." "The reason I ask is that I've dealt with a lot of homicides in my time. From what I saw it would have taken several minutes for you to die, a conclusion Doc Kelly agrees with." He shrugged. "If you say so. I can only assume the trauma was such that I blacked out all memory of the event." "Hmmm. Do you have any enemies that might want you dead, Mr Janson?" "A man in my position is always going to accumulate enemies, but what has that got to do with anything? Whoever committed this murder had to have known it would break the link between me and my mount but not otherwise harm me, so surely it was Jane Balfour who was the target, not me." "That does seem the most likely scenario, yes," I admitted, "but I have to explore all possibilities. People do not always act logically. This might have been a way of getting at you by someone who wouldn't face up to you in the flesh." "OK, then when it comes to enemies it could be anyone who dealt with one of my various companies and lost money as a result. It's expensive to vacation here, which keeps out the riff-raff, so I'd imagine there are quite a few people among the riders who have had dealings with us." He turned to Jeremy Wynwood. "Now what about me? I paid a lot of money to come here and I demand you provide me with a replacement mount for the rest of my stay." Wynwood looked at me questioningly. "I don't see why not," I sighed, "but I didn't think any would be available until the next switchover day." "Sometimes we get cancellations late enough that there isn't time to book a new rider. Miguel Sanchez still owes the company three days from his last cancellation. You can have those." "Excellent," said Janson, grinning. "Send him to my suite and I'll return to my consciousness projection rig to mount him. Are we done here?" "For now," I said. "If I need to question you further I'll know where to find you." "John Portillo," he said. "Pardon?" "John Portillo. Since I don't speak Spanish, he'll be the son of a Spanish father and English mother who was born and raised in Oxford." "Fine," I said. When riding a mount of the same gender there's no particular reason not to use your own name as Merry and others had, yet Janson had chosen to cosplay instead like the Nadals and thus conceal his identity. Perhaps he was less convinced he hadn't been the intended victim than he was making out. - 7 - I stared at the guys seated across the desk from me in the room that had been set aside for my investigation and shook my head. Even though I'd known it could be anyone behind the faces of this pair of seriously ripped young bodybuilders, this place had once again managed to surprise me. "So you were both seen hitting on Tammy Lindsay," I said, glancing once again at the computer screen that was showing me their details. "Kyle Hudson and Marcus Cohen, aka Angela Ryland and Rachel Kurtzberg, both sixty-one years old, and you've known each other since childhood. How does that work, exactly?" "We both married wealthy older men," said the blond guy, "so when they died within a year of each other we decided to go on an adventure together." "I wanted us to come here and be young women again, but Angie said we could do that any time. She convinced me that it would be a bigger adventure if we became young men." "And Tammy Lindsay?" "When we figured out she had to be the porn star Lindy Timm we had a bet to see who could get her into bed." "But why?" "Because it was exciting," said Marcus/Angela. "This is an adventure, right? And aren't adventures supposed to take you out of your comfort zone?" "Hmm, I suppose. But you're wrong about Tammy Lindsay. She isn't Lindy Timm." "She's not? Then who is she?" "I'm afraid I'm not allowed to tell you, but for the purposes of your wager does it actually matter?" "No, I suppose not." "Now, I want to know what connection if any you have to Jane Balfour or to Richard Janson and his various businesses...." It turned out their husbands' companies had both had dealings with Janson, though they were vague on the details. As for Jane, they claimed to have met her the same time I did, at the Wynwood terminal on Bear Island. I dismissed the pair after that. Between them and Richard Janson I hadn't actually gotten very much to work with yet. I had some hope for better from my next interviewee since staff are more likely to be alert to what guests are doing than other guests are. "So, Michael," I began, "you and Ben Balfour were manning the shack bar on the beach. Was that something you were assigned, or did you ask for it?" "We switched with the guys who were supposed to be there. Ben likes keeping an eye on his wife's body, and I've been trying to work up the courage to ask Yasmin out." "Yasmin? The mount Jeremy Wynwood was riding?" "Yeah, but since she often comes here between shifts I thought it was Yas. I didn't realise it was Mr Wynwood until I got to the shack bar and checked my phone. I was not happy about that." "Didn't want to try it on with the boss, eh?" I chuckled. "No, though I might actually have scored there. It's a funny thing, but I did three months here last year and he only ever rode male mounts. This year they're always female except when he's addressing a new intake in the bar." Interesting. I filed this away for future consideration. "Had you noticed anyone hanging around Jane?" "Not really, I mean not for any length of time. A few people stopped and chatted with her for a bit." "Like who?" "Ashley Russell, Karl Chandler, and your girlfriend." Merry? What had Merry had to say to her? "There was no-one else?" "No, no-one. We'd have noticed if there was." "When did you know something had happened?" "We heard the scream, saw you racing down the beach towards where Jane was, and the next thing I knew Ben was vaulting over the bar and running down the beach, too. I ran after him, caught up to him, and held him back. That's all I know." I would have interviewed Merry next had my investigation not inevitably been part of our pillow talk the previous night.... "So you saw nothing?" I said. Merry paused in her nibbling of my ear. "No, nothing at all. When I went and said hello to Carol she was in good spirits. Others chatted briefly to her as well - you have their names - and that's all I know." "Hmmm." "You're going to pursue this investigation, aren't you?" "I'm probably the only person on the island with the necessary skills and experience, Merry so I feel a responsibility." "I understand," she said, gently stroking my breasts. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't. I love you, Candy." "I love you, too, sweetie." "I know," said Merry. "This place is so perfect I wish we could stay here forever." As a result of my interviews, I'd narrowed down my list of likely suspects to two: Ashley Russell and Karl Chandler. I did internet searches on the real names both had given. One I found plenty on, the other was a mystery. I'd gone about as far as I could without a proper background check, something I no longer had the access to perform myself. Fortunately, I still had friends in the LAPD. I rang the number. "Hello, Los Angeles Police Department, how may we help you?" said a surprisingly chirpy voice. "Hi, I'd like to speak to Detective Eric Murphy, please." "Just one moment, putting you through." The phone rang for a few moments, then a gruff voice answered. "Murphy here, whaddaya want?" "Hi, Murph, this is Jim Candy. I need a favour." "You sure don't sound like him, lady. Or are you gonna claim you're him ReStorred?" "It's really me, Murph, and me sounding like this is not down to ReStorr. I'm vacationing with my old lady on Wynwood Island. Merry wanted me to wear a female body while we're here." "She's certainly has the dough to afford a week there for the both of you," he admitted, "but I'm still gonna need more than just your word." I'd expected this, and so started reminiscing about shared experiences. After about thirty seconds of this he conceded. "OK, OK, it really is you, Jimbo," he said. "Jeez, so you're dickless and have tits now?" "For a few more days, yeah, but more importantly there's been a murder here. Something like this is more than island security is equipped to handle, so I've gotten roped into the investigation. I have a suspect, but not a motive, so I need to find out all I can about him. There's something fishy here and I figured he might have a record. Also, I need his financials." "OK, send me his photo and his details and I'll get back to you when I have something, which probably won't be 'til tomorrow." "Thanks, Murph." "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he said, grumpily. Nice to see he was still as much a grouch as ever. Thinking over all the interviews I'd done, I had a sudden thought. I still had my phone in my hand, so I did a web search on what to look for if you think someone is faking a British accent. What I discovered was interesting. *Very* interesting. Later, when I was returning to our room, I chuckled at the sight of Tammy Lindsay entering hers with 'Marcus Cohen'. It looked like Rachel Kurtzberg had won their bet. - 8 - "Do you know why you've been brought here, Mr Smith?" It was the afternoon of my final full day on the island. Tomorrow morning Merry, the girls and I would be packing our bags and returning to reality. "Probably because of your murder investigation," he said. "Have you got more questions for me?" "Not really. I already have answers to all my questions. I had you brought here to charge you with the murder of Jill Balfour, which I now am." "That's ridiculous. Why would I kill her?" "Because someone paid you to. When your real body is lying in a consciousness projection rig in what is basically a coma it's really easy to take your fingerprints. I got friends in the LAPD to run a search on them, a search whose results I received late this morning, and whaddaya know? It turns out that Vincent Smith is actually Paul Monticello, a hitman with a record as long as your arm." "Former hitman," he corrected. "I'm dying - terminal cancer. My docs figure I've got maybe two months left, so I came here for one last taste of what it was like to be young and healthy. Why would I waste any of my remaining time on a hit? It's too precious to me for shit like that." "Oh that's easy," I said. "A look at your bank account and your medical bills answered that one for me. Just as Americans have insanely high levels of student debt, our lack of the sort of universal health care every other first world nation enjoys also means we have something they don't: medical bankruptcy. Your medical bills were burdening your family with levels of debt that would keep them in poverty the rest of their lives. So when someone offered to clear that debt in return for one final hit before you died, it was an offer you couldn't refuse." "Assuming what you claim is true, you don't expect me to give up my client, do you?" "No, this was just a courtesy," I said. "I already know who your client is. Now I just need to prove it." "Good luck with that. And since you have no proof you can't hold me." "No, I can do better than that." I'd had my phone in my hand all this time, the line open. Now I raised it to my ear. "Operations," I said, "cut the link." His head lolled forward for a second, then he straightened up and smiled. "Ah good, another switchover day!" he said. He spoke noticeably slower, his New York accent now a west coast one. "Not yet, Tommy," I said. "We pulled you out a day early because your rider, a man named Paul Monticello who called himself Karl Chandler while you were his mount, has been a very bad boy...." After this, accompanied by Doc Kelly, I had the sad duty of officially releasing his wife's body to Ben Balfour in the morgue. Ben was flying his wife home to her family. I discussed this a little later with Merry and the kids in one of the restaurants over a fine meal made from locally caught fish. "Oh, that poor man," said Wanda. "Do you think he'll ever come back here?" "The money's great and he still has college loans to pay off so it would make sense for him to return for another stint next year, but who knows? Even when he's finished mourning, the memories Wynwood Island holds may just be too painful for him." "You said you know who ordered the hit," said Chris, who had listened avidly to every word of my story. "Can you tell us who it is?" "Don't be silly, babe," said Wanda, stroking his arm affectionately, "you know Candy can't reveal that yet." "And since I can't prove he did it, maybe not ever," I said. Watching them together it was hard to believe they were a pair of teenage girls. Merry was right when she described them as level-headed and I trusted her judgment, but if it were up to me I still wouldn't have brought them along with us. Merry said very little during the meal and seemed distracted, but insisted everything was fine when I pressed her. I could tell something was up with her, but unfortunately whatever it was would have to wait. When we finished eating it was time to bring the drama of the past couple of days to a close. I'd arranged for Richard Janson and Jeremy Wynwood to meet me in Janson's suite. I was gratified to find both waiting for me when I got there. "I hope this won't take too long," said Janson. "It won't," I said, momentarily surprised to hear a British accent coming from the mouth of Miguel Sanchez again. "Do you know who the killer is?" asked Jeremy. "Yes. It appears that Vincent Smith, who was riding his mount under the name Karl Chandler, is actually former hitman Paul Monticello. Paul has terminal cancer, is confined to a wheelchair, and was in dire financial straits until someone offered to clear his debts in return for one last hit before he died." "No one's going to pay all that money to have Jill Balfour killed," said Wynwood, "which means that Richard *was* the target." "Yes and no." "What do you mean?" "You take your duty of care to your employees very seriously and do everything you can to minimize the possibility of harm coming to the mounts, correct?" "You know that I do." "Since this includes not allowing any sort of dangerous sport then, beyond the novelty of actually moving about in a different body, the resort's appeal could best be described as lying in how safe it is, wouldn't you say?" "Yes, I suppose I would." "So would I which is why, from the time I first saw him in that airport terminal, I couldn't understand what possible attraction a week on the island could hold for a famous adrenaline junkie like Mr Janson here. Sunning himself on a beach for days isn't something he does, regardless of body. It took me longer than it should have, but the penny finally dropped. For someone who loves dicing with death the ultimate thrill would be violent death itself. To be able to experience dying yet still live on would be irresistible." I turned to address Janson full on. "This also explains the knife. Paul Monticello didn't bring it to the beach you did, wrapped in your towel. After he'd stabbed you, Monticello kept it in his hand with the blade held along his arm, then walked down to the water with it. That's why you were sunning yourself so close to the water. The shorter the stretch of sand he had to cross the lower the chance of someone seeing the sun glint off the blade. All he had to do then of course was to swam out a fair distance and drop the knife in the sea." "Even if I had done what you say, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to pay a hitman with money that could be traced back to me," said Janson, "so you can't prove a thing." That was is. No denial, just an arrogant assertion we had no proof of his guilt. Jeremy Wynwood and I shared a glance, and he nodded. In that moment we both knew I was right and that Janson was guilty, just as we also knew we could never prove it. "Now if you'll excuse me, there's a young lady waiting for me." "A shame you decided not to go with your John Portillo cosplay," I said, "because it's kind of sleazy bordering on rape to let Ashley Russell think she's still having sex with the same man she has been up 'til now. You even have to put on a fake accent." I'd seen the pair sneak off together last night and had suspected some sort of collusion until a talk with Ashley earlier this morning had satisfied me she had no idea Miguel was now being ridden. "There's excitement to be had in not knowing if or when you're going to be found out," he said, "and as you rightly pointed out, I'm a thrill seeker." With that he turned and left. When I'd googled Russell Ashley, I discovered he worked as a bus driver in Edinburgh and that among his hobbies was writing transgender fiction for various websites. He seemed to be a decent, pretty harmless guy, and his had been an unremarkable life. Until he won the lottery. This enabled him to live out his fantasy of being Ashley Russell, because now he could afford the resort. Ashley was one of the very 'riff-raff' Janson had been glad the cost of coming here kept out, so there was more than a little irony in his pursuit of her. I wondered if I should warn her, then decided against it. Why ruin the vacation of her dreams? It was kinder to let Ashley return home tomorrow with only happy memories of her stay. When Janson had gone I turned to Jeremy. "I can no more prove his involvement in a court of law than I could Paul Monticello's," I said. "Everything I have is entirely circumstantial. Monticello will be dead in a few weeks so he doesn't matter, but Janson's going to get away with it." "Perhaps," she replied, eyes narrowing, "perhaps." Merry and I spent the evening in the casino, with me done up to the nines for the final time. Even here I caught her giving me wistful glances. Something was definitely up, but it wasn't until we returned to our room that I learned what. "The other night," she said, "when I said this place was perfect and I wished we could stay here with you forever, I meant it." "Vacations are a wonderful, carefree time," I replied, "and people often don't want them to end." "No, you don't understand," said Merry, biting her lip. "I want to stay here forever with you as you are now, with Candy." I was stunned. "B..but this isn't real!" I protested. She put her hands on my shoulders and stared down into my eyes. "But it could be. If she's prepared to be a mount, I'm sure the girl whose body this is would be willing to sell us a tissue sample. We could use it to prime a dose of ReStorr and you could become Candy for real." "I've only just turned forty," I said, "it'll be at least another twenty years before I consider taking ReStorr. And even if I do go that route, this body isn't the one I'd choose. This just isn't what I want." "But it is what *I* want, I realise that now," said Merry, dropping her hands, "so where do we go from here?" "Are you saying you don't want to be with me any more, Merry?" "No, I'm saying I don't want to be with you as a male any more. I don't want to be with any man ever again." We stared at each other for a moment in silence, until I broke the tension. "I think I'd better sleep somewhere else tonight," I said. Not giving Merry time to say any more and fearful of what I might say, I turned and left the room. When I was in the corridor I stood there, shaking. I'd known for months our relationship was in trouble and believed Merry when she claimed this vacation would bring us closer. It had, but it was clear to me now that Merry's actual agenda was to confirm the truth about her sexuality, something I was guessing she'd only recently begun to acknowledge. While I was standing there, not knowing what to do next, the door of the room opposite ours opened and 'Kyle Hudson' appeared. He shared a long kiss with a lingerie-clad Tammy Lindsay, gave me a nod, then headed off down the corridor. It appeared Angela Ryland and Rachel Kurtzberg's wager had ended in a tie. Tammy looked at me and frowned. "You OK, honey?" she asked. "I've been better." "Come here," she said, opening her arms. I did, and she wrapped me in a warm embrace. Then she lifted my chin, kissed me softly on the lips, and smiled at me expectantly. "I thought you were only into men?" I said. "Mostly, but I like to do it with women occasionally, too. They say variety is the spice of life, and I'm a firm believer that when you're feeling down there's nothin' like sex to perk you right back up. What do you say?" I might now know this was really Indira Nadal, Professor of Anthropology at the University of Delhi, but for tonight I could pretend she was porn goddess Lindy Timm, my adolescent crush. That's what fantasy is, after all, and fantasies were why this place existed. I nodded, and she laughed happily. "Awright, awright, awright!" she drawled. "Looks like I'm gonna get to use my strap-on this trip after all." For me sex has never been a spectator sport, so before we got down to it I used the app I'd requested Jeremy Wynwood put on my phone to block the signal to the TV screen in the next room. Just this once, Tammy's 'mother' could find some other way to amuse himself. - 9 - It was Wednesday - switchover day. Merry and I barely spoke a word as we packed our bags then lay down next to each other on the bed. As soon as we did, the fact we had done so registered somewhere, the link between our minds and our mounts was cut.... ...and I found myself waking up in the consciousness projection rig I'd been strapped into seven days earlier. Fortunately, the catheter, IV drip, and other stuff had already been removed, so the technician was able to help me to my feet and to provide a shoulder to lean on as I took my first, unsteady steps. My limbs, unused for a week, were stiff and ached a little, but life was returning to them. "I'll wait outside while you dress," said the tech, "then I need you to come with me. Mr Wynwood would like to see you before you depart." It was good to be pulling on trousers after a week in short skirts and bikini bottoms. I'd enjoyed my little excursion into womanhood but, despite what Merry had hoped, for me it had been nothing more than a vacation and I was happy it was over. I wasn't going to miss putting on heels and make-up in the evenings for her, that's for sure. Thinking of Merry led me to wondering what would happen next. We were booked into adjacent seats, so the flight home was going to be awkward and uncomfortable. Then there was the question of where I was going to live. I'd moved into her mansion three years ago. How much longer could I stay there before she expected me to move out? And when I did, where would I go? When I was dressed I joined the tech outside and we proceeded down the corridor. After having adapted to being so short, being my original height again was a little disorienting and I felt awkward and ungainly, a feeling I hoped would soon pass. I was ushered into an office where a tiny Asian woman in a cheongsam dress awaited me. "Hello, Mr Wynwood," I said. "Please, call me Jeremy." "This is a doctor's office," I observed, looking around the room. "Yes, it's Doc Kelly's office. Switchover is a busy time for her, so she's off doing her rounds. Also, I'm afraid someone died in their rig during the night." "How?" "I imagine there was a pre-existing condition we were unaware of. I'm sure Doc Kelly will certify it as a heart attack." "Who was it?" "Richard Janson." "Really?" I said. "That's...convenient." "These things happen," said Jeremy, shrugging. "They do, but not usually to people as fit and active as Richard Janson was. I imagine it would be as difficult to prove it was anything other than a heart attack as it would be to prove he hired a hitman." "I would imagine so, yes." We couldn't prove either Monticello or Janson had anything to do with the murder, so the case was officially 'unsolved', which was what it said in the report I'd agreed to write for the RVIP. Unofficially, since Janson would otherwise have been in the clear and the resort could not have the super-rich thinking they could get away with anything they wanted to here, I was pretty sure rough justice had been meted out. I could live with that. The law was often one thing, and justice another. Still, I didn't want to leave with Wynwood thinking she could get one over on me. "Before I go," I said, "I just wanted you to know that I figured out you're not really Jeremy Wynwood." "I'm not? Then who am I?" "Jonah Bowman, CEO of Rockland Pharmaceuticals. Your British accent is very good and would fool most people. In fact it fooled me, until I began to suspect the truth. Then I looked into it more closely." "What gave me away?" she said, reverting to an American accent. "First there was Rockland letting you stay on here, then there was Jeremy Wynwood being all guy before the takeover and all girl after, almost as if he was two different people." "Being ReStorred usually turns heterosexual men into heterosexual women, and it did me. When I was kidnapped and injected with ReStorr primed with the DNA of one of those affected by Crimax's disastrous pre-natal wonder drug it turned me into an adult duplicate of her, just as my kidnappers intended. She was one of those most physically deformed by the drug, so I'm sure this must have seemed a fitting punishment to them. I went from being a healthy, athletic, middle aged male to a twenty year old cripple whose many deformities mean I need round-the-clock medical attention." "And Crimax/Rockland? How did you manage there?" "I was still running things but I could hardly appear in public any more, so my wife Alice became the face of the company. Fortunately, Wynwood FutureTech offered a way out of sorts for me. If there hadn't been such a way I'd have killed myself. I went after the company aggressively, determined to buy it at any cost and to relocate permanently to this island, the only place where I could live a normal life again. I sleep in my own body, and spend the minimum amount of time in it necessary to maintain it, but most my waking hours are spent in others." "How did you taking Jeremy Wynwood's identity come about?" "Fairly or not, I'm a widely hated figure. Having me in charge of the resort would be bad for business, yet I needed to live here. So I struck a deal with Jeremy. Since he's a notorious recluse anyway his identity was ideal for me. Also, if everyone believed he was here no- one would look for him elsewhere, which suited Jeremy just fine." "So what's he calling himself now...wherever he is?" "No idea. That was also part of the deal." "Huh," I said. Jeremy looked at me appraisingly. "You really are very good at this detective stuff, aren't you?" "So I've been told." "What I've been told is that you've just broken up with your girlfriend and you're about to start work as a p.i., but I have a better idea. What would you say to a job here as the resort's head of security? I'll pay you double what the LAPD did, and you've seen for yourself what else the resort has to offer." I'm sure my surprise showed in my face, but though the idea was very appealing I wasn't sure it was enough. "I'm interested," I said, "but how much clout do you have with the local authorities?" "Quite a bit. Why do you ask?" "One of the things that helped me solve the murder was being able to access a national criminal database via the LAPD, but that's not a favour I can keep asking." "Ah, I understand. Given that you've actually served as a law- enforcement professional I might be able to get you designated as a special auxiliary to the RVIP, one outside the normal chain of command but able to access Interpol's criminal database via them. How does that sound?" "It sounds like you've just hired yourself a security chief," I said, holding out my hand. As we shook, a by now very familiar, very tall black woman wearing a doctor's white coat over a yellow bikini burst in on us. "What are you doing in my office?" she demanded. *Her* office? Oh, of course. This had to be Doc Kelly. It was switchover day, which meant that while last week was Yasmin Carter's off week save for the twelve hours when Jeremy was riding her, this was a mount week for her. It looked like Doc Kelly was in the saddle for the next seven days. Lucky her. Doc's attention had been on Jeremy. Now she noticed me. "Oh my, and who's this tall drink of water?" she asked, looking me up and down approvingly. "You met him as Candy James, but this is the real Jim Candy. He's just broken up with his girlfriend." "Really?" she said, her interest piqued. "Yes, and he's accepted my offer of a job here. Gretchen, meet the island's new security chief. He'll need to know where everything is so I'd like you to show him around the operations block" "My pleasure," she said, hooking her arm in mine and gazing up at me. "I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship." *** The End. *** Notes: This is my first story set at the Wynwood Island Resort. There will be others. Those who follow my stuff will have noticed one or two references in this tale that were familiar. This is because when thinking this one through I realised my recent science fiction tales could be made to fit on a common timeline. The societies they depict may appear incompatible now, but I assure you I *have* worked out how they fit together. In a note at the end of 'ReStorr: A Day in the Life' I said they didn't, so that note no longer applies. Here's my suggested reading order for the stories published to date: 0: Biofem 1: ReStorr: ...and then there were none. 2: ReStorr: A Day in the Life 3: The Resort Yes, 'Biofem' is set furthest ahead in time, but by reading that one as a prologue you then know the future everything else is ultimately building towards and will be able to see it gradually unfold in subsequent stories. These will be set at various different points along the timeline, written as and when they come to me. Keeping it loose like this should also keep it enjoyable for me as a writer.