Murder Misstery

I hung back until I made sure that the FBI agents were nowhere to be seen. Then I sauntered into the sea, gradually splashing my body until I was in up to my breasts. A glance up at the lifeguard on duty confirmed that the hot chick in the bikini was commanding his complete attention. I turned my ass towards him, pulled the panties out of the front of my suit, and started to squeal. "Ai…yi…yi…!" I shrieked over and over. The guard jumped down from his chair and sprinted towards me through the water, asking what was wrong.

I pointed at the bloodstained panties floating in the water and repeated the lines that Gabrielle had taught me in Catalonian: "Look at what I found in the water. It's a public disgrace! Shame on you!" I waited to make sure he picked them up before I turned away and swam out to sea.

Once again, I retreated to my lanai to watch the show. Sure enough, it wasn't long before Mutt and Jeff returned to the beach in their suits to interrogate the lifeguard. No doubt they asked him a lot of questions about the woman who'd discovered my panties, but having been a guy once myself, I was confident that his description would begin and end with my tits.

I returned to Paris the next day, although I flew Air France this time. I was desperate to see Jacques again, and I knew I had done all that I could do in Barcelona. When he picked me up at the airport, Jacques was blown away by my tan, and after two weeks with Madame Bochy I could tell that he was hot and horny. Although neither of us had eaten, we went straight to the apartment, where I performed my first ever blowjob. It wasn't as bad as I expected. I almost enjoyed the sensation of stroking a robust cock again, even if it wasn't mine…when it was time to take him into my mouth, I had an incredible feeling of power over him, and when he was done, he told me that he loved me. I zipped him up, freshened my lipstick, and insisted that he prove it by taking me to the most expensive restaurant in Paris.

For the next few days, I searched the Internet and newspapers for any developments in the manhunt for Matt McCoy. Finally, after three days, the story broke in the Chicago Tribune:

CROSSDRESSING FUGITIVE COMMITS SUICIDE

CHICAGO – A joint task force of the FBI, Interpol and the Chicago Police Department announced today that Matt McCoy, the Chicago securities dealer who has been the subject of an international manhunt, is believed to have drowned at sea. McCoy, who allegedly swindled millions from elderly investors, then murdered his co-conspirator and fled to Europe disguised as a woman, was last seen in Marseilles, where he boarded a ferry to Tangier using the name Madison Monroe. The task force declined to release more details, although sources within the CPD confirm that DNA taken from a hairbrush in McCoy's Chicago apartment provided a positive match with DNA found on a woman's undergarment which washed ashore on the Mediterranean coast of Spain. According to the same sources, McCoy's effects also included a purse containing a suicide note. Although badly deteriorated after several weeks under water, the note suggested that McCoy was despondent and had decided to take his life, presumably by jumping overboard somewhere off the coast of France. Although the manhunt for McCoy has been discontinued, an investigation continues against his former employer, and a fund has been established to help the elderly investors who lost their life savings.

Although I'd planned it down to the last detail, I couldn't believe that it was finally over! I should have been over the moon, but for some reason I felt a tremendous letdown. Maybe part of it was knowing that my friends and family, and especially Tracy, would go to their graves thinking that I'd killed myself disguised as a woman. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was much more than that. I re-read the article, and did a little Internet research into the fund which had been set up to compensate Norman Wolf's victims. They were the poorest of the poor, yet hard-working and conscientious enough to have tried to set something aside for their old age, and now they were facing utter ruin.

I phoned my Swiss banker and inquired into the status of my account. Interest continued to pile on top of my stolen millions, and my balance was up to $3,100,000 and change. I instructed my banker to wire the $100,000 into my new account at Banque BNP Paribas. That should be enough to pay for my sex change operation, and to keep me in skirts and dresses when I was back in my heels. Before I allowed myself too much time to think about it, I told him to wire the rest as an anonymous contribution to the fund set up in Chicago. After all, it was their money…

When I hung up the phone, there were no regrets. I'd paid my price to society, and I had a lifetime as a beautiful woman to look forward to. If Jacques ever tired of me, I'd have to fall back on my wits and wiles as a woman. After all that I'd been through, I wasn't all that worried about my future.

The next few months were among the happiest of my life. Long, lazy mornings puttering around my apartment, fixing myself breakfast while I picked up French colloquialisms from amusing television programs…then blissful bubble baths while I pondered how to spend my afternoons…sessions at my makeup table in a silky peignoir, brooding over my imperfections while I worked on my feminine mystique…then the daily drama of deciding which dress to wear to lunch at Le Relais.

Jacques and I had become a fixture there, always secluded at the same romantic booth. Sometimes he would be late getting away from the office, and I would wait patiently, bantering with the staff after I was shown to our booth and pretending to ignore the stares from the other men in the restaurant.

I say other men, because medically speaking I was still technically a male, even though my body was unmistakably female above my waist. The removal of my testicles had kicked my feminization into overdrive, and the hormones prescribed by Jacques had all but finished their work in reshaping my body. My breasts were large and lovely, my skin was soft and smooth, and my hips and butt made me look like a model for Renoir.

As autumn faded into winter, I broke out my woolen skirts and nylon stockings, and on that particular day I was dressed in one of my Burberry's outfits with black pumps which hurt my feet. I kicked them off under the booth, and was brooding over my plans to spend the afternoon trudging through the Louvre when Jacques greeted me with a kiss and an apology. "I'm sorry, Cheri, the usual crisis with one of my female patients."

"You and your female patients," I pouted. "Did this one start out like me?"

"No," he chuckled. "Be happy that you will never have to deal with menopause."

I punched him on the arm. "After all you've done to me, I'm surprised that's not coming up."

He gazed at me with a critical eye. "As I've said many times, Madeline, you are one of my masterpieces. And the time has come for the final brush strokes."

I knew what that meant. "Is my waiting period finally over?" I asked, suddenly terrified by the prospect of a sex change operation.

"Oui. I spoke to Dr. Villiers this morning. He has an opening in his schedule tomorrow. Assuming that's still what you want to do," he added quickly. Tomorrow! I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the pain. Suddenly, my appetite vanished, and I began to fumble under the booth for my shoes. Jacques looked at me with alarm. "Is everything all right, Cheri?"

"Yes, my love. Tomorrow it shall be." No sense in putting it off, the less time I had to worry about it the better…I found my heels somehow and got up to leave. "I'm sorry about lunch. There are some things I need to do before tomorrow. Will you be there for me?"

"Of course, Cheri. I'll pick you up at 6:00 and take you to the hospital. I'll be with you until they put you under, then I must leave you to see to my patients, but I'll be back by the time you come around." He stood up and kissed me on the cheek. "Are you sure you're ready?"

I stifled a sob and ran out of the restaurant before I could change my mind.

Mercifully, I remember next to nothing about my surgery. Although I was full of drugs, I do recall Jacques holding my hand in the recovery room as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally I was able to sit up and look in a mirror, and I was shocked when I saw my bruised and bandaged face. When Jacques told me that one of his colleagues had bobbed my nose while I was under, my cries and curses brought the nurses running to my bedside. Several times a day, they would remove the dressings between my legs and impale me with a nasty dildo to dilate my vagina. The pain was excruciating, and when I wasn't cursing Jacques I was begging him for more drugs.

I fell into a deep funk as my sutures slowly healed. Jacques would visit me every day, often finding me staring out the window at the leaden gray sky, sullen and incommunicative. When I did speak to him, there were relentless recriminations about how he had seduced me into changing my sex, and altered my face without my permission, even though I had complained that my nose was too big before the operation. At his insistence, I was visited by a psychiatrist, and I'm sure I was squirming as I evaded any mention of my past misdoings. Nevertheless, he concluded that losing the last remnants of my manhood had triggered an onslaught of guilt and remorse for something that I had done, pushing me to the brink of clinical depression.

On the day when I was to be discharged from the hospital, I sulked in my hospital bed, unable to bear the prospect of dressing myself in women's clothing. The sight of Jacques at my door, a beautiful bouquet of flowers in one hand and my Vuitton suitcase in the other, unleashed a torrent of tears, and I fell back against my pillow, sobbing uncontrollably. Jacques sat down next to me on the bed and stroked my unkempt hair while I choked out the words. "I hate you for doing this to me! I'm never going back to that apartment. Please, just leave me alone!"

Jacques' response was cool and professional. "You are not going back to the apartment, Madeline. Your mental condition is too unstable for you to be left alone. In an hour, another psychiatrist is coming to see you, only this one has been appointed by the state, not me. I fully expect him to institutionalize you for your own protection." That shocked me back to my senses. "There is one other alternative," he went on, "but we must act quickly."

"What are you talking about?" I whined.

Jacques reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and produced an airline ticket. "I'm no psychiatrist, but you are my patient and I think I know what's best for you. A total change of scene, and an escape from this dreadful climate. This is a first class ticket on Air France to St. Martin. If you can make yourself presentable, I will get you out of here and take you to the airport." He stood up to leave. "I'll be back in forty-five minutes." Then he was gone.

I stared at the Air France ticket in my hand, and at the women's suitcase on my bed. Mechanically, I opened it and reluctantly surveyed the contents. It was full of summer skirts and dresses, even a getaway outfit consisting of a wool skirt and cashmere sweater which Jacques had selected for me somehow. I ran my hands over the soft fabrics, bringing back forgotten memories of delightful days in Province, and magical nights in Paris with Jacques…with a sudden sense of urgency, I pawed through my suitcase to make sure he packed my makeup, and shampoo and conditioner so I could do something with my hair…I couldn't go anywhere looking like this! Then I hopped off the bed, and sprinted for the bathroom.

I showered almost as fast as I used to as a guy, considering that I had to shave my legs and wash my hair. It seemed to take forever to blow it dry, although it was still short enough to style with a few easy strokes, then it was on to my makeup. For the first time, I admired my new nose in the bathroom mirror as I smoothed on foundation and went to work on my eyes. Although I was never plain, with a cute upturned nose my face was now very pretty, and I smiled in spite of myself after I put on my lipstick and sprayed myself with cologne.

I returned to my suitcase, wondering what kind of lingerie Jacques had selected. Naughty boy: the lacy black brassiere enhanced my cleavage, and for the first time in my life a pair of panties fit me the way they should. By the time I'd finished pulling on my sweater, stepping into my skirt and easing on a pair of sheer black pantyhose, the silk and lace had worked their magic, and the tears I'd shed over my operation were almost forgotten. I was just stepping into my heels when Jacques came to the door. "Mon Dieu, is it really you?" he gasped.

"Yep," I said as I snapped my suitcase shut. "Did you forget to bring me a purse?"

He hadn't, and after a mad dash down the corridor, we were laughing like teenagers as we raced down two flights of stairs and out an emergency exit to his waiting car. Sure enough, my black Gucci purse was on the passenger seat, with my wallet and phony passport inside. Fortunately, I had been staring directly into the camera when the photograph used by my Danish forger was taken, so my new nose would be scarcely noticeable.

Jacques rested his right hand on my silky knee as we sped through the midday traffic. "You will be staying at La Belle Creole on the French side of St. Martin," he explained.

"Why St. Martin?" I asked.

"Three reasons. First, it's very French. Second, although I thought about renting a villa in your beloved Provence, as you know the weather this time of year can be almost as miserable as Paris. Third and most important, I am presenting a paper at a medical conference in Montreal next month, and I thought I might visit St. Martin on the way…."

I sat back in my seat and smiled in contentment. "I should have my tan back by then."

"No doubt I am taking a terrible chance."

"What kind of chance?"

"That you will still be a virgin by the time I arrive."

Although we made it to Charles de Gaulle with no time to spare, Jacques and I lingered over a kiss in the car, and there was a new kind of spark between my legs when he slid his hand up my skirt. I felt myself responding like never before, a warm, wonderful feeling that made my toes tingle. Like it or not, I was stuck with this body now, and suddenly I couldn't wait to take it for a test drive. "I'm sorry for all the terrible things I said to you in the hospital," I stammered.

"They are already out of my head. Au revoir." I grabbed my purse and suitcase and hurried towards the first class counter. After checking my bag, I raced through security and presented my false passport to border control, where it was accepted without incident. By the time I got to my gate, they were just closing it out, and I was exhausted by the time I collapsed into my sumptuous seat. No doubt I was still feeling the after-effects of my surgery, because by the time I finished my first glass of champagne I was fast asleep.

I slept right through dinner, only awakening in time for the pre-landing snack. Another glass of champagne with my quiche, and I was feeling almost normal by the time we touched down, if anything about my life could be described as normal these days. It was dusk in the tropics, and the warm fragrant air felt sticky against my stockings when I emerged with my suitcase into the riot of hustlers and taxi drivers outside the terminal. I was tempted to peel them off after I selected a cab and climbed into the back seat, but modesty prevailed and I sat uncomfortably with the window open as we lurched along the two lane highway towards my hotel.

La Belle Creole is nestled on the tip of a secluded peninsula, with spectacular views out to sea towards the islands of Anguilla and St. Barths. After passing a guarded gate and traveling up a long, winding drive, my driver deposited me at a large plaza with an elegant fountain. Everything seemed to be built of stone, creating the effect of a French fishing village amongst the palms.

After I registered in a formal, high-ceilinged hall cooled by tropical breezes, I was escorted down a cobblestone walkway to my enormous room. The terra cotta floor was blessedly cool, and after tipping the bellman I gratefully removed my stockings and explored my surroundings barefoot. From the wood-beamed ceilings to the colorful tropical furniture and well-appointed bathroom, it was charming. Although it was late and I was exhausted, I made a quick tour of the lushly landscaped grounds, discovering two lovely beaches and a large pool linked by meandering footpaths. I was in paradise!

I was up early the next morning, hungry for breakfast and ready for some sun. My chauvinistic Jacques had only packed skirts and dresses for me, so after a quick shower I put on my most casual skirt and top and had an omelet on the terrace of La Provence, the hotel's elegant restaurant. I was almost finished when my cell phone rang. It was Jacques. "Is everything to mademoiselle's liking?" he asked.

"Oh darling, I love it here!"

"What are your plans for the day?"

"After I finish breakfast I'm going to get some sun. Unfortunately none of the finery you packed for me is quite right for the beach, so I guess I'll have to go shopping first…."

"An oversight on my part, but your swimsuits from Barcelona may not have fit your new physique anyway."

We chatted for a while before he rang off to attend to his patients. I idled over cigarettes and espresso until the hotel boutique opened, where I purchased a swimsuit and cover up along with some simple sandals and a beach bag, hat, sunglasses and tanning oil. My yellow bikini hugged my new female figure in all the right places, and it was almost comfortable too!

I quickly settled into a delightful routine. Breakfast every morning on the terrace of La Provence…the mornings by the pool, sunning myself in my bikinis (I bought two more) followed by a siesta in my room, a light lunch at the Plaza Café, and then more sun at one of the two beaches, with frequent dips in the warm Caribbean Sea. By late afternoon, it was almost midnight in Paris, and I would wait by the phone for Jacques to call after Madame Bouchy retired.

When I unpacked my suitcase, I discovered a sex toy that Jacques had thoughtfully surprised me with. Every night, while Jacques whispered encouragement from 3,000 miles away, I would explore my new equipment, teasing and probing myself with my buzzing vibrator. There were moments of surprising pleasure and some close calls, but I never quite crossed the threshold….

Every night, after Jacques and I whispered our goodbyes, I dined alone in my room. One night, after another frustrating session with my vibrator, I decided on a whim to have dinner at La Provence. It felt nice to get dolled up in one of my Saint Tropez sundresses, and I enjoyed the attention from the maitre'd as I was shown to my table and fawned over by an attentive waiter. Looking out across the restaurant at the happy couples enjoying their romantic dinners, I felt a little sorry for myself, until I noticed a handsome young man staring at me from across the room. He appeared to be alone, and although he quickly averted his gaze when I returned his stare, I caught him looking at me several more times as the evening progressed. He left before I did, walking out of the restaurant with a noticeable limp. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him, and what might have been….

The next morning, when I took my usual place by the pool, I was surprised to notice someone swimming laps, his powerful strokes making waves over the usually placid water. I had just settled into my lounge chair when a shadow fell across the Cosmopolitan I was reading. Squinting up into the sun, I saw the glistening body of a Greek god, the same guy who'd caught my eye at dinner the night before. "Is this chair taken?" he asked as he sat down beside me.