All The Pretty Girls Ch. 03

Chapter Three -- Susan

The killer had gone to an all-male college. Although he was majoring in business studies and accounting he was also a performer in the campus amateur theatrical society which liked to put on light musical comedies and modern farces. Being an all-male school the men played the female roles.

It was during one such a production that his fetish began to intensify. The play was a nonsensical musical comedy in which he was playing the role of a school jock who is besotted by the head cheerleader. For most of the play the boy playing cheerleader is dressed in only in a little pleated skirt, leotard, and tights with big hair and heavy makeup. The boy playing the part of 'Susan the cheerleader' was slim and effeminate; perfect for the role. If the killer hadn't known that it was an eighteen year old boy under the makeup and wig he would have sworn it was a young woman. It was easy for the killer to think of Susan only as a girl because she was so convincing.

The killer was raised in a very wealthy conservative household, hence his enrolment in the all-male college. His father wore suits and his mother wore dresses or skirts and blouses, never pants. She wore hosiery as a matter of course and high heels, full makeup and coiffed hair were the convention. Growing up he had sometimes seen his mother dressed only in her lingerie: pantyhose with high-cut satin panties worn over and a matching bra. He'd been fascinated by his mother's smooth mound. He knew that hidden under the layers of satin and nylon was something forbidden, otherwise why would his mother go to such extremes to cover it up and to scowl at him if she saw him staring?

That mound had captivated him. The shiny nylon pantyhose stretched across his mother's firm thighs, the little crinkles in the crease where her legs joined her torso, the smooth lustrous V-shaped satin covering her pubis. He knew that something wonderful existed under there, something forbidden. He'd sneak into his mother's bathroom and caress the garments he found in her laundry hamper. He'd hold them to his face delighting in the feel of the delicate fabric and the scent of his mother's perfume and something else... something musky and decadent.

He'd wrap the silky garments around his turgid member and masturbate into them, imagining that his cock was pressed against his mother's satin-clad pubis.

When their housekeeper told his mother that she had found ejaculate in his mother's underwear his mother knew immediately who the culprit was. She'd fired the maid and even though he was nearly a grown man she had put Mitch across her knees and spanked him until his buttocks were red raw.

There was one night when he'd come downstairs because he couldn't sleep and heard his mother crying. He'd padded his way barefoot to his father's drawing room to investigate the noise. His mother was on her back with her legs high, her dress rucked up. His father was between his mother's legs, his trousers around his knees and he was thrusting against his mother who was whimpering and crying, but not in a bad way.

He'd stood in the doorway staring at his mother's legs sheathed in sheer nylons, red nail-polished toes pointed to the ceiling while his father grunted and groaned between them. The look of alarm on his mother's face when she saw him sent him racing back upstairs to bed.

His mother had pulled him from under his bedclothes and laid him across her lap and paddled his ass. All he could think about was the feeling of her silky nylons on his bare flesh as she beat his buttocks until they glowed pink and felt like fire. He knew that between her legs was that silken mound that had somehow attracted his father to the extent that he'd put his wife on the couch, pulled down his trousers and put his thing inside it.

After this episode he became more fascinated with his mother and was caught again and again by her spying on her and each time she put him across her knees and spanked him.

There was a scene in the play where they kissed. It was a superficial, fatuous scene where the footballer kissed the cheerleader and at first she welcomed his advances but then pushed him away, rejecting him. Their tutor Mr Fabisher, who all the boys suspected was gay, told them it was ok if they just air-kissed or if he kissed Susan's cheek.

They could both feel the tension whenever they rehearsed the scene. At first his lips brushed Susan's cheek while he held her at arm's distance. They both agreed that it was unconvincing so he held her closer, at first awkwardly, but soon her tiny body seemed to fit perfectly against his when he held her.

They both knew. They never spoke about it or admitted it but they both knew immediately that they were attracted to each other. Why else would they need to run-through the scene continuously and then agree to dress-rehearse the scene repeatedly alone in Susan's dorm. She was always Susan, never Grant, the boy whose body Susan inhabited.

The killer could recall their first fumbling embraces, neither of them willing to admit what they felt for each other. He recalled his lips brushing her soft cheek, the feel of her soft body pressed against his, his lips moving to the side of her mouth, feeling her tremble when they did. He recalled the first time they kissed properly, his lips closing over hers, the taste of her lipstick, the scent of her perfume, which she really didn't need to wear for the role. Then the day she opened her lips tentatively and he slipped his tongue into her sweet mouth, her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his, standing on tippy-toe in her high heels. Why was she wearing high heels with a cheerleader's costume? He didn't care.

He recalled the first time Susan's hand brushed against his cock. They had both pretended it was an accident but the next time they rehearsed in private his hand 'accidently' glided across her mound; the feel of the hem of her little skirt on his wrist, the caress of her tight smooth lycra-clad mound and her soft silky gossamer-clad thighs on his fingertips.

Susan had gasped into his mouth and he had pulled her tighter into his embrace. She made no pretence of it being accidental when Susan gripped his cock through his pants and squeezed it. He ejaculated into his trousers whispering obscenities into her sweet mouth. The next time, at his insistence, Susan had taken it out and stroked it while his fingers caressed her pubic mound. He could feel the heat coming from the thing between her legs but as long as it stayed safely tucked away it didn't matter.

That time his seed had spattered across her belly and she had trembled in his arms whispering endearments into his mouth as he kissed her. Then came the time she allowed him to guide her to the bed and lie on top of her. She'd helped him undress, neither of them caring to admit that what they were doing had nothing to do with their characters in the play. The first time he had pressed his cock against her mound and she had locked her legs around him, encouraging him to rut against her. He suspected that she had ejaculated into her tights but he didn't want to know.

Then the time she rolled over and unsnapped the clasps on the crotch of her leotard and pulled down her tights exposing her soft buttocks. It was Susan who had taken him in her fingers and guided his throbbing manhood into the cleft between her cheeks and pressed it to her puckered sphincter. It was Susan who had pushed back against him so that his cock slipped into her pre-greased hole like a knife through butter. The killer had felt the warm moist flesh of her anus envelope his cock and had experienced the most intense orgasm he had ever felt as he gripped her thighs and pulled her ass against his body so could empty every single sperm into her.

The next time she had lay on her back with a pillow under her. He liked this better because it was more like she was a woman. He recalled the images of his father lying between his mother's legs. He liked it because he could kiss her while he fucked her, she could wrap her legs around his and he could gaze into her pretty eyes enhanced by her colourful eyeshadow, mascaraed eyelashes and eyeliner. He insisted that she keep on her tights and panties and keep herself tucked. He'd make a little cock-sized hole in her tights so he could fuck her tight little ass.

Susan was his. She was his lover, his sweetheart, his mistress and his whore. He never wanted to see her undressed without her wig and her makeup, her male counterpart did not exist. He certainly did not want to see the repugnant thing she kept taped between her legs.

Then one day she had ruined everything. She had let it spring free and tried to guide his hand to it. He told her it was disgusting and repellent and that he didn't want to see it never mind touch it. She'd told him that he was a hypocrite. That she didn't mind him pretending that she was girl but not touching her genitals was unreasonable and tormenting given that she gladly offered him her mouth and her anus.

They argued. They fought. Lucky for him their raised voices were not heard over the loud music and cacophony of booming male voices coming from the other rooms in the dormitory.

He entered a fugue, coming out of it to find Susan lying dead on the bed with her legs spread wide, her skirt hiked up and his drying semen on her panty-clad pubis and nylon-sheathed thighs. Her neck was red-raw, the marks of his fingers evident, his hands stung where she had scratched him during the struggle. Later that night when the dorm was quiet he had lifted Susan into his arms and carried her out to nearby woods where he had put the noose around her neck and put the end of the rope over the branch of an elm tree. His muscles had burned as he hauled her up and tied off the rope.

He'd tried his best to wipe away any evidence on her body; he didn't leave any footprints because of the soft mat of dead leaves on the forest floor.

He was euphoric when Susan's death was ruled a suicide. He never thought of Susan's male persona, she was only ever Susan to him. So when the other boys talked about Grant's suicide it felt as if they were talking about someone that he didn't know.

So he rationalised the killing that way. He tucked it away, deep in his subconscious. He tried as hard as he could to supress his fetish, to drive it away. He concentrated on his studies and then on work. After graduating he did a three-year stint in the Army because all of the men in his family had served and it was expected. He served as a logistics officer and completed a deployment to the Middle East, leaving the Army with an honourable discharge. He started working at an accountancy firm where he dated the pretty office girls but they never stayed with him for long. They found his fascination with their panty-clad mound pubic mounds and insistence they keep on their nylons and panties during sex a little freaky.

He moved frequently until years later he found his dream job. He was managing a bar in Balwyn Texas called Ride em' Cowgirl where every day he was surrounded by beautiful men-women who wore provocative costumes as a matter of course. Even his boss was a beautiful trans-woman.

He let his fantasies run wild but he never acted them out until he was finally overcome with the urge to find release. He was smart enough not to engage with any of the girls who worked at the club, they just fuelled his fire. He sated his lust with professional 'ladies' but the memories of Susan slowly crawled out of the hole in his brain where he had buried her and eventually he had no choice but give in to his primal urges. He called them tranny whores, he raged at their lifeless bodies, he shouted obscenities at their corpses after he had finished with them.

Including Susan, Mitch Freeman had so far killed only three of the special girls that were his addiction but he knew that he couldn't stop. He would kill more.

*****

Steve pulled up to the curb outside his apartment block and sprung the locks on the car doors. Wendy Beaumont lifted herself up from the tiled steps like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was wearing a denim skirt and matching jacket with a flannel shirt, matte black tights and low cut high heeled ankle boots. The blue denim she was wearing accentuated her flaming red hair.

Wendy opened the passenger door and leaned in. Her heavy eye makeup had run down her cheeks. She had been crying. She was wearing some sort of exotic perfume that excited him, even though it was inappropriate.

"What are you doing here?" Steve asked the obvious question.

"I've been to Police Plaza every day but they won't tell me anything. They say I'm not related to April and because the investigation is ongoing they wouldn't tell me anything anyway," Wendy's voice was hoarse from crying and smoking too many cigarettes.

"Did you call Alice?" Steve asked.

Wendy shrugged.

"She put me onto someone called Penelope Bishop who gave me the same line I got from Police Plaza," Wendy produced a battered pack of Marlboro Menthols from her pocket.

When she saw that it was empty she crumpled it and dropped it in the gutter.

"You know you can be fined for littering," Steve tried to make light of the situation.

"Arrest me," Wendy forced a smile which lit up her face.

"Go home Wendy. I promise I'll call tomorrow and update you," Steve tried to suppress a yawn.

"I don't want to go home. Everything there reminds me of April," Wendy mumbled.

Steve paused and contemplated what he should do.

"Get it," he finally conceded.

Wendy slid into the seat, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Steve couldn't help but look and she saw him looking and he snapped his eyes away.

"I don't wanna go home," Wendy pouted.

"I'm not taking you home but I'm not parking on the street," Steve stared ahead, already regretting his decision.

He drove around the block and entered the underground car park and parked in his assigned place. He opened the door for Wendy and helped her out of the car, his eyes once again drifting to her firm thighs sheathed in the black matte tights. Wendy knew he was looking but she said nothing and didn't look at him. He guided her to the elevator and used his pass card to activate it.

"Nice place," Wendy whistled as she strode around the open-plan lounge room softly touching the tchotchkes and baubles that Felicity liked to collect.

She ran her hand along the back of the white leather sofa and Steve once again noticed her chipped acrylic fingernails, the red nailpolish pared back to halfway along the nail.

"Take a seat and I'll make us some coffee. I'll update you on the case then I'm calling a taxi or an Uber to take you home," Steve said from the kitchen where he was fussing with the coffee maker.

"You got anything harder?" Wendy asked, sitting herself down on the couch and pulling off her boots.

"I don't think that's a good idea. It's late," Steve replied snapping the little button to turn the coffee maker on.

"They took April's laptop and Penelope asked me about Alan," Wendy picked up the current edition of Vogue off the coffee table and fanned the pages without really looking at them.

"You mean Alan Wright? The man who performed with April on her OnlyFans," Steve found cups, cream and sugar and put them on a tray.

Wendy didn't answer; she didn't need to.

"Penelope eventually found him in Wisconsin visiting his mother; he's been ruled out as a suspect," Steve continued.

"Alan wouldn't hurt a fly. He just likes to fuck us but he's friendly too... a real fuck buddy," Wendy dropped the magazine back on the table.

Steve wasn't fazed by Wendy's profanity but he did pick up that Wendy had used the word 'us', implying that Steve was the lover of them both.

He carried the tray over to the couch and put in the table. He'd put two tumblers of scotch on the tray alongside the coffee.

"I thought you said it was too late," Wendy said, picking up the scotch and ignoring the coffee.

Steve just shrugged and took a sip of his scotch and then picked up his coffee. Wendy had curled her legs under herself and was sitting on the couch just like she had when he had interviewed her in her apartment. She'd made no effort to smooth out her denim skirt and her legs were openly on display. Steve wasn't sure if this was done purposely or she just didn't care.

"I'll be honest with you we haven't made as much progress as I would have liked with the case. We have a ton of forensic evidence but we don't have a viable suspect to match it against," Steve explained.

"We're working through a list of men who solicited April's services from her OnlyFans but it's difficult, some of them used blocked numbers or anonymous email accounts set up specifically for that purpose," Steve admitted.

"There's a lot of so-called straight guys out there who wanna fuck a tranny," Wendy swallowed the last of her scotch.

"Sorry I shouldn't have said that, it's disrespectful to April," Wendy sighed.

She eased herself off the couch and went into the kitchen and found the bottle of scotch and brought it back to the couch and settled back into it, pouring herself a hefty slug. She held the bottle out to Steve and gave him a questioning look.

"No thanks," he finished his coffee and poured another cup.

"And to you," Wendy said, her voice flat.

"What?" Steve at first didn't understand what she meant.

Wendy nodded to a life-size framed poster of Felicity Goodnite dressed in her best eleganza. She looked radiant and was wearing a jewelled crown and holding a sceptre having just won a pageant title.

"I know her. She was all April could talk about that last week before... before she died. She was so excited that she was going to work at the club owned by Felicity Goodnite," Wendy downed her drink and made to pour another.

Steve reached across and put his hand over the glass.

"Just one more; then I'll go," Wendy said.

Steve nodded.

"You didn't say," Wendy said not looking at him as she poured her drink.

"I didn't say what?" Steve was nonplussed.

"You let me explain to you about April's drag like you were some novice and all the time you're living with..." she nodded at the poster.

"I don't make a habit of sharing my personal life with potential witnesses to a crime," Steve said a little harshly.

"But here we are," Wendy sighed.

"Yes, here we are," Steve sighed too.

"Do you have anything positive?" Wendy steered the conversation back to April's murder.

"We have something else. I wouldn't say it's positive but it's linked," Steve said tentatively.

"Go on," Wendy looked at him intently.

Steve took a beat to study her face which was surrounded by a shock of red hair. Her bangs came down over her wide blue eyes, her nose was a little too big and crooked, and her pale skin was sprinkled with freckles, her lips were full, remnants of her pink lipstick in the corners of her mouth. She was by no means a beauty but she was uniquely alluring.

"There has been another murder. It will likely make tomorrow's news cycle. It's the same guy," Steve said solemnly.

Wendy reached out and squeezed Steve's wrist.

"You're certain?" Wendy drilled her gaze into Steve's eyes.

"Yes we're certain. Same signatures, same fingerprints, some other stuff that I can't tell you and we're waiting for a DNA match but it's him," Steve said.

"And the victim?" Wendy asked expectantly.

"Trans woman prostitute," Steve didn't go into the specifics.

"Jeeze. Oh my god! Is there a serial killer out there?" Wendy sounded genuinely frightened.

"We aren't saying that and technically a killer isn't serial until he had killed three victims," Steve blurted and instantly regretted saying it.

"Anyway you don't fit his victim profile," Steve realised he'd just made it worse.