Losing Evan Discovering Emma The Final Part
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Losing Evan, Discovering Emma Parts 4 And 5 free porn video
Losing Evan, Discovering Emma.
By Tanya H.
Part 4 - Moving.
When I went back to work (flat shoes, jeans, plain top, curly hair
undressed, no make up) Evan was clearly excited to see me, but I turned
a cold-shoulder. He persisted in trying to get to speak to me so a
couple of Kirsty's mates warned him off. When that didn't have any
effect, Denise - my manager, took his manager to one side and made it
clear that disciplinary proceedings were coming his way if he didn't
leave me alone. Maybe that was harsh, but when I was trying to fumble my
way along the maze of Kirsty's life I didn't need his take on it all.
People, from my work and his, had been giving him shit about his
behaviour and most wished he'd just leave. I had my share of abuse over
the whole thing as well; some women coming up to the till had refused to
be served, "by that slag" but I didn't rise to the provocation - what
was the point? I was spat at a couple of times walking home, some
Kennedy clones gave me vile verbals about what they'd do to me, which I
kept to myself - already well into my leaving town plans.
Many times when I was out walking, riding the train to work, standing by
the tills at work, staring unseeing at the television, waiting in lines
at supermarkets I found my thoughts wandering along the well used path
of, what kind of person am I going to be?
Not Kirsty Connor, that was for sure - her interpretation of humanity
was not for me, and I couldn't have pretended her life anyway. That hurt
her mam, family and the few few friends who cautiously came from the
background as I went back to work. Mostly those friends, mates at best,
were women like Kirsty who I had no common ground with. I wasn't
interested in discussing soaps, make up, hair products, gossip. When
they realised I had nothing to contribute to these topics, when, despite
their prodding, they found I had no public outrage for Evan, no
complaint against the police or even disgust for Kennedy then their
interest and society drifted away from me. I didn't miss them.
Could I be Evan again? Biology was against me there. Whether I liked it
or not, I was a blonde woman, though I did consider declaring myself
male and becoming a transgendered man. I could have taken hormones to
rediscover the joy of shaving, had a double mastectomy to ged rid of the
wobbly boobs, go through a hysterectomy (more appealing after enduring
my first period) and obtain a surgically reconstructed penis to play
with. The more I considered and researched this option the more I knew
that I wasn't hungry enough for such commitment. I didn't miss my cock,
I didn't miss the society of men, I didn't feel that I was going to
improve my life by going through those interventions. I couldn't sculpt
myself into a facsimile of what I was before.
So what did that leave me?
I handed in my notice at the clothes shop, gave notice on the flat's
tenancy and started applying for jobs in any place that was more than a
two hour train ride from Newcastle. On my last day at work there, when I
was hurrying home for my last night in Kirsty's flat, looking forward to
my last few hours pretending her life, Evan stepped out from behind a
skip at the back of the shop and started towards me.
"I need to talk with you," he pleaded as I strutted away, nose in the
air and knuckles tight about the strap of my handbag. Yes, I was
carrying a handbag by then - a single, very small concession to playing
female: pockets in women's trousers weren't big enough for anything!
Some edge of desperation in his voice caught at me and against my best
intentions I turned and faced him, arms folded, a sceptical sneer
arranged on my face.
He was so surprised I'd stopped he blundered forward a couple of paces.
"Talk then," I snapped.
"Not here," he shook his head and to see my body, my face, made alien by
the stranger wearing it almost made me stamp my foot with outrage.
"I've got nothing to say to you."
"Kirsty! Can't we have a coffee or something?" There was real pleading
in those eyes of mine.
"After what you did to me!"
"I didn't start this off."
"You set him on me."
He closed his eyes, his shoulders went down. "I didn't mean for that to
happen."
"Say it."
"What?"
"Say it. Say what he did to me. Then you can buy me a coffee."
"Don't, please."
"Say it." Taking a step forward I pushed my face towards his, pushed
hair back from my face so he could see the marks Kennedy had left.
"I'm so sorry."
"Say it!"
"I'm so sorry," in a barely audible whisper, "he raped you."
"He never raped me, Kirsty. He raped you, only you weren't there, were
you!"
Tears gleamed in the poor light, she was screwing her face up against
them, but they came anyway and as much as I wanted to turn away I
couldn't leave her, leave him like that.
"It wasn't the first time," she said, tiny voice, words forced out.
That made it my turn to close my eyes tight shut against the emotions
running across what had once been me. "Oh, Kirsty. Why didn't you just
leave him?"
Better with Mark Kennedy than being alone? We went for coffee, in a
Costa around the corner and I saw Denise as we went and nodded to her,
it would be okay. One coffee to hear her apologise, to see the pain in
her eyes when she knew what she'd done to get away from that bastard.
And part of me could empathise with what she'd done - after the shock of
finding we'd changed places she'd just seized the moment.
"It's not easy being you," she confessed, as her coffee cooled. Even
though she resided in my body, with my genes, she still liked her latte
with sugar and my coffee still had to be black - I'd always thought milk
took the edge off a good brew. Taste must be wired up somewhere
different from biology.
She said, 'Everything of yours was so perfect, so organised. I don't
know how you did it."
Imagining the kind of mess she'd brought my flat, to my very existence,
made me shudder.
I didn't reply, so she added, 'And finding my way with your mates. I
don't know what to do. Most of them won't talk to us anyway, not
after..."
What would we have done if she hadn't followed her plan? How would we
have resolved all these body-swap issues?
"Why don't you move in with us?" she asked. "We could help each other
work it out."
It was superficially tempting, but didn't stand up to anything more than
a moment's consideration. She didn't want me; she wanted somebody to
clean, to cook - to add some idea of acceptance, forgiveness,
understanding to her struggles being Evan. And I had already decided to
leave.
The loss, hurt and fear in her face when I turned her down forced me to
look away, but I didn't change my mind. Like I said, I'm a glass-half-
full type and there was a life to get on with. I left Kirsty Connor at a
table in Costa's and didn't look back.
Part 5 - Surviving.
With very little planning, I ended up as a receptionist at the police
headquarters just outside Lincoln. Have you ever been to Lincoln? I
hadn't, there had never been any reason why I should, but it's alright.
Relatively quiet, colourful enough with the university and, as a woman
who had experienced the worse of men, a place I felt reasonably safe.
Being a receptionist was better than selling clothes. For a start, I
didn't have to hang around trying not to look bored and picking up all
the things customers knocked off the rails, dealing with their petty
complaints and feeling my life running away. Secondly, as a front-facing
staff member, I got a uniform which suited my androgynous wardrobe,
namely: white shirts, black tie, black epaulettes with Police Staff
woven on them, and smart black trousers. I politely declined a uniform
skirt when I picked up my kit from the stores. My wardrobe was austere
and androgynous - like me, apart from the hair.
Obviously I had to give Kirsty Connor's details when I applied to join -
thankfully she hadn't any criminal convictions. The final part of the
process was vetting and that revealed my interactions with
Northumberland Police. I was fully supported when I asked to be known by
my Great Grandma's name. From the first day I started work in the HQ
Reception my name badge said Emma Connor.
My new flat was only five years old, on a relatively peaceful side
street in an unfashionable area, but still close enough to hear the
cathedral bells. I was on the ground floor and enjoyed a cosy
kitchen/diner and single, quite large bedroom all furnished by careful
shopping at charity shops around the city. Within a week a slinking
black cat had adopted me. I think it saw in me a kindred spirit - clean
and solitary. It had one ear and a kicked face had left it with a
permanent sneer so I called it Clint. Clint brought me headless mice and
made it quite clear I was the lucky one in the relationship. I joined
the library, found a small, unpretentious gym and counted myself
relatively content.
Despite the boobs and curls, child-bearing hips and menstrual lows, I
kept facing forwards and made sure that all visitors, police personnel
and staff who came past my desk were met with a smile. Some evenings I
wanted to scream and stab my tits, hack off my hair and weep with what
had been done to me, but such rage and despair came more and more
infrequently.
Some nights Mark Kennedy haunted my dreams, he left me waking with
sweats and ghosts of old bruises. Sometimes, in those nightmares,
Kennedy didn't knock me out and Nigel didn't come to my rescue. One
memorable nightmare finished the rape with me burying a kitchen knife in
his neck.
Despite all, even with my glass being woman shaped it was still half
full. To be honest, when you striped away baggage and preconceptions I
was still me, I just looked like somebody else.
But looking like somebody else was not going to change me. I bought
woman-sized walking boots, waterproof trousers, a coat, hat and gloves
so I could get back into my love of open, windy spaces. From Lincoln it
was an easy train ride through Sheffield to stretch off on a station
platform at Edale or Hope then get your thighs burning with a determined
lope up the side of Kinder Scout or Mam Tor. When the weather warmed up
I planned camping expeditions up there, just me and the moors, and maybe
a pub lunch afterwards.
Blatant flirting was a weird thing to manage at work. Some of the old
and bold of the police clearly missed the 1980s when anything with an XX
chromosome and a pulse was there to be oogled and patronised; one of the
IT techs was always trying to improve my machine's performance by
sitting on the edge of my desk and talking to my breasts: a veteran
Inspector from some office based department assumed I loved his tales of
"back in the day" and was often to to be found hanging around to let me
have another one. Sometimes he brought tea and biscuits, which was
pleasant. He was in fact old enough to be my dad, as I found out one
morning when his daughter, a probationer my age, came to take the piss
out of him while he was distracting me from my work.
I was resolutely unflattered by male attention. As much as Kirsty had
apparently been attracted to self-centred wankers, my one experience of
fellatio had not changed my mind about sex with men. Having already
learnt that nipples, clitoris and labia were amazing (and the feel of my
finger easing inside my slippery vagina was always shivery) I did
sometimes wonder about it might be to make love with a man. None of the
blokes I saw at work ever made me wonder it might be one of them.
Not that my resolution deterred them. Janine, my supervisor, thought me
merely picky. I did nothing to dissuade her from this.
"All these wonderful men, Emma. Try a few out, see what you like.
Experiment!"
A joyful gossip, built like a stick with sharp green eyes and long,
chestnut hair she always wore in a French roll, Janine seemed to know
everyone's business and delighted in the near constant "who's been
caught shagging who" tales that spread through the organisation.
My background was a constant draw for her. The less I told her the more
she probed, as discreetly as she could manage, which was blatant, until
I finally gave in.
"I'm only saying this because I can trust you and my handler says it's
okay," I whispered in her ear after swearing her to secrecy. Her eyes
were shining with delight and she bent closer, after furtively checking
Reception contained no eavesdroppers. "I was a gangster's moll in a
Gateshead speakeasy. My evidence put him away for thirty years."
Her eyebrows arched magnificently, then she frowned her disbelief. I
nodded, wide eyed, and put a finger to my lips.
As well as all the scandal I was treated to endless updates on the
adventures, antics and mischief from her own three children and
electrician husband and kept abreast of developments in the world of
Lincolnshire high fashion by reading all the county's society magazines.
"Oh, Emma - you'd look simply amazing in that! Look at those shoes! Oh
my, imagine how you'd feel in them, Emma."
Emma deflected her attention by pretending to like all the clothes
Janine scoffed at, generally the very bright, boldly patterned
creations, and shaking my head at the stuff she raved about. I made up a
game off "too high" or "not high enough" for all the footwear she showed
me.
"I don't think I've ever seen you in civilian clothes," she said one
morning.
"I only have black trousers and white tops," I said, which wasn't far
from the truth. My wardrobe was bland. Shopping for women's clothes was
confined to Tescos and still felt weird enough without actually trying
anything feminine.
But one afternoon, maybe four months after starting with the police, I
did find myself sitting in a beauty parlour waiting to have my nails
done. Not my fault, you understand! The blame for my nervous presence in
that alien environment lay squarely at the door of Lincolnshire's Chief
Constable and her lead receptionist - Janine Murray.
This is how. The Chief, who I liked, decreed that each course of police
recruits had to actively raise money for her favourite charity of the
time. One of the methods chosen by the first course to go through after
I took up my job was a raffle. At the time when I was subjected to the
smiling request of some lad to buy raffle tickets I'd been wrestling
with an intractable IT problem and hadn't paid much attention to the
prizes - I just pushed ?5 his way. I didn't even look at the strip of
tickets he handed me.
About four weeks later that same smiling lad came back, did a bit of
flirting and handed me my prize in an envelope. Never having won
anything before, except the booby prize (literally) of getting to suck
my own cock and living life in Kirsty's body, I was pretty surprised
while Janine, who had bought a tenner's worth of tickets, was most put
out she didn't even get the Toblerone.
Inside my envelope was a dark pink ticket, with the bold emblem of the
Butterfly Beauty Parlour on it. I had won a voucher for a Gold Standard
manicure and pedicure.
"Oooh, I fancied that," said Janine.
"Me too," smiler laughed.
"You're welcome," said I, offering the voucher to them both. He shook
his head. "Not even for your girlfriend?" I pressed.
"Haven't got one. Unless..." He raised his eyebrows and smiled what he
must have thought was his most disarming smile.
"Janine?"
"He's too young for me," she cackled.
"Manicure, pet?"
She shook her head, though there was a wistful look to her, like she'd
have loved to have snatched it form my fingers.
"Well, I don't need it." I enforced the point by waggling my slim,
practical fingers at her.
"Having your nails done is always cheering."
Smiler said something then - a fishing comment about my boyfriend being
cheered if I had my nails done and it wasn't until I'd finished fending
off that enquiry that I caught up with what Janine was doing.
"That's right, Emma Connor, two-thirty tomorrow - gold manicure and
pedicure. See you there. Thank you."
I got a full, shark smile. "All booked."
"You sounded different on the phone yesterday," the bright lass with
stunning pink hair said when I presented myself at the salon at the
appointed time. I couldn't have explained why I went, why I just didn't
refuse to go, or send the voucher back with Smiler as a prize for a
future raffle. Probably didn't want to annoy Janine. Standing there in
the smells of hair products and nail varnish, seeing the confidence and
ease with which the women around me carried on made me feel like an
alien intruding the mating chambers of a different species.
A haughty looking woman, with a ruler-straight bob and a whole make-up
counter's worth of product artfully blended into a mask across her
features, looked me coldly up and down, like she could see through to
the cowering Evan. "Oh, darling," she drawled, waving a hair dryer
towards my curls. "Give me three hours and I'll transform that mop of
yours."
Speechless, fists clenched at this assault on the only bit of optional
femininity I'd carried with me, I turned abruptly for the door and
almost collided with the salon's next customer. There would have been
contact if she hadn't taken me gently, but firmly, by the elbows. I
found myself losing my irritation in an apology to one of the women I
saw regularly at work. I didn't know her name, she wasn't in the kind of
job that had her spending much time in reception, but was always eye
catching on her way through. In a building where people were either in
uniform or suit-smart civilian clothes this lady was usually to be seen
in jeans and tennis shoes, hair in a nondescript ponytail, without make
up or adornment.
"Hiya," she said, letting go of my arms. "Thought the fire alarm was
going off there."
"Just..." Still speechless I waved a hand dismissively behind me, but a
shoulder check told me the arrogant hairdresser had gone to belittle
some other customers.
"I know you from work."
Her hair was pure, shining jet, her height maybe an inch or two shorter
than mine, she was perhaps five years older, her gleaming eyes had an
asian sweep to accompany the oriental tint to her skin and her lips were
warm with a lop sided smile.
Flustered, I made some self-depreciating comment about being only a
receptionist which she brushed aside. "Rubbish! Gatekeeper for the whole
building!. Essential staff, particularly ones who smile so much." Her
voice was very clear, with that neutral confident tone of the Home
Counties. She pushed her hand towards me. "Olivia de Souza."
It was warm and soft and strong. Despite myself I laughed. "I'm Emma and
now I can put a name to a face?"
That one sided smile again. She tilted her head. "Oh?"
"You're always wandering away from your office without your phone."
Her brows came together a little.
"Would Olivia de Souza please return to her office?" I said, mimicking
the act of speaking into the HQ building's public address microphone.
A warm shade rose in her cheeks and she glanced away from me, just for a
moment before that crooked grin came back.
"I do like some time away from my desk, and phone. And now we can have
some girly time together! I'm here for nails, wedding at the weekend.
What about you?"
I wriggled my fingers at her. "Won a manicure on the raffle. Never tried
it before."
"Very relaxing," Olivia said. "Try not to nod off."
Ever since I had hacked off Kirsty's talons I'd kept my nails
practically cut and colourless, but neat and presentable. Kyra, the
broad-faced lass with night black skin and weighty hoop earrings,
offered me gel extensions (covered by my gold standard voucher) which I
politely declined. As if I had somehow offended her she hardly said
another word while she sanded, trimmed and poked at my nails and
cuticles. Olivia made up for her silence, she was at the table next to
me with a pouting East European woman, wearing shimmering, emerald green
eye-shadow, attending her fingers. Being gently interrogated about how a
North-Eastern girl had ended up in Lincoln and I gave my usual woolly
account of how I'd fancied seeing a bit more of the country and was
working my way south. If she spotted my evasion she was polite enough
not to say and in turn told me she'd been to university in Lincoln, got
a degree in criminology and joined the police straight afterwards. I was
surprised to learn she was a Detective Sergeant, assuming from all the
TV dramas that they turned out a bit smarter than jeans and tennis
shoes, but she tapped the side of her nose when I wondered which
department she was in. Her dad had been a Naval officer who met her Mum
in Hong Kong when the colony was in the process of being handed back to
China. She spoke Cantonese, French, German and Spanish and laughed when
I said being such a linguist was canny as I could only speak the North
Eastern version of English.
"I love your version of English," she admitted, touching my arm to
enforce the point. "You make it sound beautiful."
"What colour should I do these nails, darling?" Olivia's manicurist
interrupted.
"I suppose they should match my dress," she said, pursing her lips. "But
I've a gorgeous shade of blue in mind, could you do them that colour for
me please?"
"Which blue, darling?"
"Open wide, Emma," Olivia grinned indicating my eyes. "That one."
I left the salon with my fingernails a gleaming raspberry pink that kept
startling me. Olivia had picked it. I'd have struggled to articulate why
I'd even had my nails painted never mind let a comparative stranger
choose the colour.
Because I enjoyed her wonky smile? I liked the way she listened to what
I was saying and because she'd said my eyes were the most gorgeous shade
of blue. Because she was so dynamic? Right after we were both done
Olivia looked at her watch and announced that for sitting still for so
long we deserved a coffee and that she knew just the place.
My first instinct was to make some kind of polite excuse and head for
home. It was my half-day and there were jobs to do around the flat - it
didn't keep itself tidy, particularly with Clint shedding hairs all over
the place. But she must have read something of that from my expression;
her mouth went down at the corners and her shoulders slumped.
She actually wanted to spend some time with me! After just an hour or so
of forced company while we had our nails done? I'd enjoyed it, sure, but
I hadn't imagined it to be anything more than time filling for her.
"I'd like that. Very much." As her asymmetric grin came back I realised
how lonely I'd been since Kirsty had happened; for all Clint's best
efforts.
We talked of her home, in Hertfordshire, where Mummy and Daddy were well
off in consultancy and estate management - amused by their girl's
perceived hobby in public service - and her eyes lit up when I told of
Hexham, where'd I'd been a boy (didn't tell her that bit!)
"I love it up there! The history and the wild places, the people and
clean wonderful skies. Me and friend walked Hadrian's Wall while we were
at uni, and it rained every day and we got piss-wet through, Clara got
bronchitis afterwards, but it was wonderful. I love the wild places."
You always take for granted the place where you live, but those old
Roman stones had always pulled me and I'd spent many hours exploring
their remains before moving closer to Newcastle to find work after Dad
went East. I enjoyed that Olivia and I had shared the same skies, walked
the same ground. Maybe I had even passed her and her mate on some
drizzly day, never imagining that one day I'd be sitting opposite her in
a cosy, Lincoln coffee shop.
If only I wasn't a woman! Watching the unsynchronised way Olivia's mouth
made her words made me want to take her in my arms and give it a long,
special kiss.
Instead, I told her of Kinder Scout's moors, the rocks and streams, the
great food and good beer in The Ramblers pub by Edale Station. That made
her grin. "You like a pint?"
I shrugged, "Depends on the company."
She was delighted. It was agreed that we'd be getting the first train
from Lincoln to Sheffield the Saturday after her family wedding. When we
said goodbye I prayed for good weather and smiled every time my gaudy
nails startled me. They reminded me of her.
Olivia waved discreetly when next I saw her at work. She'd swapped her
usual casual wear for a flared, knee length skirt, smart pullover and
flat, knee length riding boots. Her hair was free and loose around her
face, but couldn't conceal that wonky grin I'd enjoyed the day before.
As with everyone else who came past my desk, she got my best smile, but
her's wasn't for work.
About thirty minutes later the phone rang and a pleasant sounded lady
announced she was DC Akamba from the Signal Team and would I mind
putting out a tannoy for Olivia de Souza to return to her office.
"I've only just seen her walk in."
Akamba gave a musical laugh. "Her coat's here, but she's already
missing."
"I'm right on it," I said, and leaving Janine to look after the visitors
I filled the buildings corridors, offices and meeting rooms with, "Would
Detective Sergeant Olivia de Souza please return to her office."
"What are you looking so pleased about?" Janine asked.
"Enjoyed me manicure. Thanks for pushing us into it. What's the Signal
Team?"
Olivia was part of the force's specialist domestic violence team.
Suddenly Kirsty Connor didn't seem so far away.
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