Mr. Wallace and Me Pt. 06

Mr. Drummond must have heard me. He was wearing what looked like an expensive suit, and his eyes got very wide when he saw Mr. Wallace's huge body covering me, my slender arms suspended by my wrists tied to the headboard. Whether it was the ordeal I had been through or the relief that I would be rescued or the shame I was feeling for Mr. Drummond seeing me like this, I couldn't stop crying.

"Help me," I sobbed. "Oh, Mr. Drummond, please ... help me."

Mr. Drummond tilted his head, trying to see Mr. Wallace's face.

"Ted?" he said. "Ted, are you OK?"

Meanwhile, I was getting hysterical, illogically pulling against the apron string holding my wrists above me.

"He's dead!" I screamed through my tears. "He's dead! He's dead! He's dead!"

Mr. Drummond hurried over, ignoring me and placing the index and middle fingers of his right hand on Mr. Wallace's throat for several seconds. Then he sighed, lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Mr. Wallace's cock was still inside of me, and I couldn't endure his putrid, greasy, fat corpse on me for one more second. My blonde hair in my face, I got even more hysterical.

"Get him off me! Get him off me!" I cried, dissolving into sobs. "Please .... please ... I ... I can't stand it."

Mr. Drummond's well-trimmed bearded face was calm as he walked back a few paces and took off his suit jacket and necktie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. Although I was crying and begging him to help me, I could see that he was thinking, planning his strategy.

Finally, he walked slowly to the bed while unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling his sleeves up his muscular forearms. He was Mr. Wallace's age, but in so much better shape. Still, I wondered if he would be strong enough to get Mr. Wallace's body off me. Mr. Drummond went to the far side of the middle of the bed, put his right hand on Mr. Wallace's left elbow and the left on the left knee and pulled him onto his side and off of me.

Mr. Wallace's fat cock finally slid out of me, and I felt a rush of cool air over my slender body. The apron was damp with Mr. Wallace's sweat and my perspiration and clung to me by the halter top. I was still sobbing.

"Untie me, Mr. Drummond," I begged. "Please, oh ... please?"

Mr. Drummond still seemed to be thinking, pondering the situation. He looked down at me. My arms were suspended helplessly above me. The apron revealed my puffy right breast, just barely covering my left breast and my penis as I moved my slender legs trying to restore some feeling in them. Miraculously, my high-heel shoes remained on my feet. As I looked into his serious eyes, I thought I detected just the barest hint of ... yes ... desire.

He shook his head almost imperceptively, then walked over and untied the apron string from the headboard. Still crying, my wrists still tied in front of me, I moved off the bed and stood on the carpet in that little apron, breathing hard, trying to regain my composure, without success. Mr. Drummond came over and tried to untie my wrists, but I was so worked up, moving my hands so erratically that finally he grasped my bare shoulders, holding me firmly. I looked up at his handsome face, and I thought for a moment that he was going to try to calm me down by kissing me.

But instead, he slapped me. I stopped crying and looked up at him quizzically.

"Billie," he said as if giving me an order, "You must get ahold of yourself. We don't have a lot of time. Now, I take it from your ... well ... situation when I came in that Ted forced himself on you. Is that what happened?

Seeing that I had calmed down, Mr. Drummond moved his hands from my shoulders -- I kind of missed them being there -- and began untying my wrists.

"Yes," I said. "Something like that."

"Now, Billie," he said. "This is very important. Did anyone else see you here today?"

My mind was still in a whirl.

"No," I said. "No, I don't think ... wait ... I ... yes ... yes. When I was wearing a dress, I went to take out the trash ... the mailman ... and this couple with a baby. Yes."

Mr. Drummond asked if I had spoken to them and whether I had told them my name.

"No," I said, trying to remember. "I don't think so ... maybe ... I might have told them my name is Billie."

Mr. Drummond sighed and glanced at Mr. Wallace's enormous corpse. I started to panic again.

"Mr. Drummond, what's going to happen now? If my parents were to find out .... my friends ... please ... what am I going to do?"

Mr. Drummond was silent for a few moments while I stood there looking up at him in that revealing little apron. His hands returned to my shoulders, this time in more of a caress. His voice was soft, but urgent.

"Listen, Billie," the older man said, his dark eyes locked on my hazel ones. "You must do exactly what I tell you to do. Do you understand?"

I nodded. His hands on my shoulders, his face confident. There was no question. I would obey him.

"We don't have much time. You're going to take a very quick shower," he said. "Then you're going to fix your makeup, make yourself pretty and wear the same dress you wore when those people saw you. Our story will be that you were cleaning the kitchen and living room and Ted went into the bedroom to lie down, then he got a heart attack and died. I discovered him when I got here to visit my old Marine buddy.

I nodded.

"Billie, you're going to have to be very brave," he said. "After I call 911, you're going to be hearing sirens and this place will be crawling with paramedics and cops and the coroner, and you're going to have to just sit here, be pretty and don't say anything until everybody's gone. If anyone asks you, you don't have any identification on you and your name is Billie .... ummm ... let's see ... Smith. You're Billie Smith. If anyone asks you anything else, you tell them that I'm your attorney and I told you to refer all questions to me. Do you understand, Billie?

I felt a glimmer of hope. I looked up at Mr. Drummond worshipfully and with his hands still on me, I told him I'd do exactly what he ordered. A kiss would have made me feel much better, but it wasn't to be. His hands guided me toward the bathroom adjourning the bedroom. He turned on the hot water in the shower and told me to wear the apron in it for a minute or two to wash it. He handed me the apron string and told me to rinse that, too.

"We'll toss those things into the washing machine so they'll look like they've been washed," he said.

I took off my shoes and eased my sore body under the steamy water as the apron clung to me before I peeled it off. The shower spray stung my raw nipples and breasts, but it felt almost good. Naked, without any female attire, I didn't feel the least bit masculine. I had been fucked like a woman by Mr. Wallace, then -- as the horrible thought overtook me -- I had sex with Mr. Wallace's corpse, even kissing him and passionately licking his unmoving tongue while I orgasmed.

I let the hot water cascade over my mouth and tongue, as if to cleanse it. Then I let the spray run over my torso and little penis before trying to let the water help me drain Mr. Wallace's cum from inside me. I gingerly fingered myself. I was a little sore down there. Mr. Wallace's cock had hurt me so much at the beginning, but it wasn't that long before I just felt so full. There was no denying that once he started kissing me that I had easily -- maybe too easily -- evolved into the feminine role. I had to admit to myself that in a way, it was disturbingly appropriate for me to have sucked his cock and surrender my girly body to a dominant male.My mind hearkened back to the very first time when I wore that blue house dress and Mr. Wallace kept kissing my neck. Could it be possible that it was only about a month ago? Now that Mr. Wallace is gone, will I be able to resume my male life? Will I want to?

I thought about the ordeal ahead of me and wondered if I would be able to carry it off. I shivered when I thought about what I would have done had Mr. Drummond not taken charge, and my little penis started to grow at the memory of his hands on me.

Remembering that Mr. Drummond had told me to hurry, I dismissed those thoughts, left the shower and wrapped a towel around me vertically so that it covered my breasts as well as my bottom. I quickly applied a small amount of foundation, makeup, eyeliner and lipstick, then brushed out my long, blonde hair. I was feeling tired, but a lot more fresh and yes, feminine.

Holding the apron and its string in front of my bare upper chest and shoulders, I emerged from the bathroom into the bedroom. Somehow, Mr. Drummond had gotten a shirt and pair of pants on Mr. Wallace's huge body, which was on its back on the bed with his bare feet flat on the floor. He told me to put the apron and string into the washing machine but not to start it, and then to put Mr. Wallace's socks and shoes on him. As I walked out of the bedroom toward the washing machine, I felt pretty sexy in the towel. I wondered if Mr. Drummond thought so, too. I peeked over my right shoulder to see if his eyes were following me.

They weren't.

I'm going to have to get over this crush I'm starting to have on Mr. Drummond. Today, I'm still a girl. Tomorrow, I'll be back being Bill, a boy.

As I knelt in front of Mr. Wallace's enormous legs, gathering two dingy white socks and a pair of brown shoes from where he had left them on the floor, Mr. Drummond carried the computer that had the stuff Mr. Wallace was using to blackmail me out to his car. When he returned, I asked if that was legal. He said he had Mr. Wallace's power of attorney, whatever that was, so it was OK. I shuddered as I put the socks on Mr. Wallace's cold, lifeless feet, then put his shoes on him and tied the shoelaces. Mr. Drummond then dragged Mr. Wallace's body higher on the bed and told me to get dressed.

I put the towel into the washer, hurried into the living room and oozed into that frilly, green dress that revealed so much of my back, legs, shoulders, arms and just a hint of my small cleavage. I found the rubber band that Mr. Wallace had ordered me to take out of my hair. I used it to fashion a pony tail, walked into the bedroom and slipped the high heels back on. Mr. Drummond was in the bathroom. He came out with his shirt rebuttoned and his necktie and suit jacket on. He looked so dignified and handsome.When he saw me in my dress, he looked a little stunned before recovering quickly. His voice was barely above a whisper and admiring as his eyes took me in.

"You're a very lovely young lady, Billie," he said, "very lovely."

He wanted me. Every molecule of my new femininity could see that. I walked slowly up to him, got up on my toes and girlishly straightened the knot in his necktie before crossing my arms around his neck. I tilted my face up at him in an unmistakeable sign that we should kiss. Mr. Drummond's hands went to my tight waist. I closed my eyes ... and he gently lifted me up and moved me away from him. I opened my eyes and stared at him, the surprise evident on my face.

"I'm a married man, Billie," he said a bit sadly. "You're very beautiful ... so very young and beautiful, but I have three adult children older than you, and ... I'm a married man."

That did it. I was in love. He wanted me. There was no doubt about that. No one would have known if he had kissed me, but he had too much decency and honor to give in to his desire. I looked at him, so tall, strong, dignified. He was everything a man should be. I felt like a young, pretty girl, so unworthy of such a man.

Mr. Drummond strode into the living room, picked up the telephone and called 911. I sat daintily on the couch, fluffed the frilly straps holding up my dress and crossed my legs as he urgently said on thephone that he needed paramedics, that he thinks his friend is dead.

I didn't have to wait long for all hell to break loose. Within minutes, sirens were wailing. The paramedics arrived first, rushing at Mr. Drummond's instruction into the bedroom. A lot of police came later. A couple of them smiled at me as I sat there, and one of them winked. After about 25 minutes, a handsome, young policeman with a notepad and pen came out of the bedroom and told me that Mr. Wallace was dead. He asked me my name and what had happened here. I told him I was Billie Smith, and that I had been instructed to refer all questions to Mr. Drummond, who was my attorney. His eyes quickly glanced at my small cleavage before returning to my face. He smiled at me, closed his notebook and put his pen away before walking back into the bedroom to join the other authorities.

There was a knock on the front door. I got up to open it and saw that neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the house. The man I had seen earlier with his wife smiled at me and gave me a little wave that I didn't return. At the front door carrying what looked like a medical bag was a thin, officious-looking man, about 5-8, maybe 50 or so years old, in an ill-fitting gray suit. He had a pencil-thin moustache and light gray hair on either side of his otherwise bald head, which had visible blotches. He had combed a few inadequate strands over his baldness, which looked ridiculous. He wore pince-nez glasses. His eyebrows rose and his eyes grew wide when he saw me.

"I'm Dr. Phillips," he said, offering his hand. "I'm the medical examiner."

"Medical examiner?" I asked. His hand felt moist and icky.

"The coroner," he said, frowning. "Where might I find ... the paramedics?"

I pointed toward the bedroom, which was still filled with police and paramedics, then sat back down on the couch and crossed my legs.

The coroner went to the room for a minute, then came over and sat next to me on the couch.

"They're not ready for me yet," he said, as if I expected an explanation. "It's still a crime scene."

"A crime scene?" I thought while trying to look calm. "What did that mean?"

Meanwhile, Dr. Phillips' eyes were all over me, and he was trying to be charming, but didn't come close to succeeding.

"I must say," he said, "as a medical examiner I rarely meet anyone as lovely as you."

Most of the people he met were dead. The horrid little man gave me the creeps. Besides, I was far too nervous for chit-chat. I gave him the briefest of smiles, then looked away.

"I didn't catch your name, Miss," he said, again offering his hand for me to shake. Reluctantly, I said my name was Billie Smith and offered my hand. He took it in his fishy right hand and I shuddered as he tried to be suave by covering it with his left. His eyes, which had been surveying my bare arms, shoulders, chest and legs, sharpened when looking at my slender wrist. He said it looked bruised and red.

"Oh," I said, trying to take my hand away from him, but he held it fast. I hadn't noticed what the apron strings had done to my wrists while I had struggled. I tried to think of something fast.

"I ... I .. um ... I went horseback riding this morning," I said, not convincingly. "The rope ... the rope scraped me."

"That's very interesting, Miss Smith," he said with an unctuous smile that revealed uneven, gray teeth. "That rope must have scraped your other wrist, too."

I reflexively moved my other wrist behind my back, trying to hide it. All I could do was smile wanly and nod.

Dr. Phillips finally let go of my hand. He continued almost non-stop chatter about his job and what an important man he was while I tried to ignore him and his wandering eyes. While he was talking, he nonchalently placed a hand on my bare knee. I wanted to move my knee away, but I didn't. There was something about this mousey little man that made me feel like a witness under cross-examination. He kept staring at me. Then, he smiled triumphantly just as the young policeman summoned him. Dr. Phillips rose and looked down at me, smiling. I felt like he was undressing me with his eyes. I nervously adjusted my pony tail.

"I'll look forward to seeing you again, Miss Smith."

I gave a small, polite smile before looking away.

Dr. Phillips and the policeman walked into the bedroom. A series of policemen and paramedics went in and out while I sat nervously on the couch for another hour and 15 minutes. The house slowly emptied of people until there were only a few left when paramedics wheeled Mr.Wallace's body under a sheet out the front door to a waiting ambulance. I heard one of the paramedics tell another that "the dead guy was so big" that they couldn't fit him into a body bag. I shuddered to think that I was under that huge mass of flesh only scant hours before.

Finally, there was just Mr. Drummond, the handsome cop who had asked me those questions and Dr. Phillips left in the house. Mr. Drummond came out and said that he would have to officially identify the body at the morgue.

"Everything's fine. You did well," he said. "Pending the coroner's report, it's just a routine death by heart attack. By the way, all the unmarried cops were asking me about you, some of the married ones, too. Lock up the house when the coroner leaves. I'll call you tomorrow."

He left, and then the handsome cop came out and asked me if I needed a ride anywhere. He looked disappointed when I told him I had a car.

"Maybe another time then," he said and made for the front door. "Oh, by the way, Dr. Phillips said he needed you to answer a few questions."

With that, he was gone. The house seemed eerily silent as I walked haltingly into the bedroom to see Dr. Phillips standing by the nightstand, putting away his coroners equipment.

"Ah, Miss Smith," he said as if especially pleased to see me.

"You ... you wanted to see me, Mr. Phillips?" I said as I stood in the middle of the room in my pretty dress, one high heel shoe ahead of the other, pointing at him.

"That's DOCTOR Phillips," he said seriously as he walked slowly behind me and closed the bedroom door.

"I'm sorry, sir," I said, not turning to face him. "Dr. Phillips."

"A shame about Mr. Wallace, isn't it, Miss Smith?"

"Yes, sir," I say, looking down at the carpet, "I really didn't know him well."

"You know, it looks for all the world like the big fellow came in here all by himself and had a heart attack."

"Yes sir," I said timidly.

"Yes siree," he said, still behind me. "Fat man comes into his bedroom in the middle of the day to take a nap, then has a heart attack with all his clothes on. Clear as day."

I was getting a little anxious to leave and end this horrible day.

"The policeman said you needed to ask me a few questions, sir," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "What would you like to know?"

"Well, yes," he said, his voice confident as he stood behind me. I could feel his eyes on my nearly backless dress. "The late Mr. Wallace's shoes were tied, but you know what was unusual? The knots on his laces were made as if they were tied by someone facing him, rather than away from him like he would have tied them himself."

Of course, I thought. I hadn't thought of that when I tied those shoelaces. I stood there, staring forward, my posture straight. What does the creepy little man know?

"Do you find that curious, Miss Smith?"

Dr. Phillips smelled like formaldehyde as he whispered in my ear and the back of his right hand slowly traced down my bare back, making me shiver.

"I ... ummm ... I don't ... I don't know, sir," I said as my heart sank. He wouldn't dare to touch me like that if he didn't know something.

"You sound a bit nervous, Miss Smith," he whispered. "Do I make you nervous?"

"No ... no sir," I say as he flips his hand over. I can feel his fingers trace their way up my spine.

"Because I would hate it if I made a lovely young lady like you nervous," he said. "Oh, and there's another thing."

I didn't say anything. I stood there breathing hard, my small, tender breasts heaving, my bare shoulders back.