Murder Misstery

To this day I don't know why, but I responded to him without my usual fake French accent. "Nope," I replied. He was drop-dead gorgeous, tall and ripped, but what I noticed most about him was this: while his face and forearms were deeply tanned, the rest of his body was almost comically white. I started to giggle in spite of myself. "Did you park your tractor yourself, or leave it with the valet?"

He swatted me playfully with his towel. "Very funny." Upon closer inspection, I also noticed that he was totally shaved, except for his full head of blond hair. I was trying to figure him out when he solved the mystery. "You like my tan lines? Got them playing baseball. Are you going to make fun of my limp, too?"

"Sorry," I blushed through my tan.

"That's okay, I needed a laugh," he said good-naturedly. "I've been down in the dumps since I banged up my knee. Sprained my MCL sliding into third base," he explained.

I have to explain that I've been an avid baseball fan all my life, in fact I was a very good second baseman myself in college. I felt a twinge of remorse as I looked down at my totally feminized body, and I couldn't help but notice that he was looking at it too! "Where were you playing baseball?"

"In the Dominican Republic. I just signed on with the Chicago Cubs, and they sent me down there to play some winter ball before spring training. I had a good shot at making their AAA team," he sighed.

He played for my Cubbies! So as not to give myself away, I decided to play the dumb blonde. "What's AAA, like their team for alcoholics?"

He swatted me with his towel again. "No princess, it's one of their minor league teams." He called me princess! "The trainers told me to stay off my leg, and I have some bonus money to burn, so I asked my travel agent to book me into someplace warm and I wound up here."

It was so strange sitting there, pretending to be a girl who knew nothing about baseball, secretly envying him for living the life that I always dreamed of…I could tell that he was interested in me, and he was so easy to talk to, before I knew it we were bantering back and forth like boyfriend and girlfriend. His name was Brad Wilcox, and when I told him I was Maddy from Chicago, he bombarded me with questions about the nightlife and the best places to live. It was fun to relive my Chicago life from a girl's perspective!

"Hungry?" he asked during a lull in the conversation.

"Wow, where did the time go? Are you trying to pick me up?"

"I'm trying to buy you lunch, if you don't mind being seen with a cripple."

I got up and stepped into the tube dress that I used to cover up my bikini. "Just cover up your farmer's tan," I teased him. After he pulled on a tee shirt, I took his arm and helped him hobble along. I couldn't help but feel his bulging biceps….

After a lovely lunch, we spent the rest of the afternoon together at the beach, splashing each other in the water when the heat got too intense. I noticed that his pasty white skin was getting redder and redder, and insisted on helping him protect his shoulders and back with sunscreen. What a body he had! I took my time rubbing the lotion into his muscled physique, marveling at how nice it felt to touch a man's body. I'd had my moments with Jacques, of course, but now he seemed like an old man compared to this magnificent physical specimen.

I didn't hesitate when Brad asked me to have dinner with him that night. When he said he'd meet me at the restaurant at six o'clock, I almost forgot about my nightly call from Jacques! I told him I needed a little more time to get ready, and killed some time waiting for the phone to ring by deciding what to wear for my big date. I was in a tizzy until I selected a colorful tie-back blouse, a flowing white skirt and a cute pair of ballet flats.

When Jacques finally called, I'm sure I sounded distant and distracted. Perceptive as always, he asked me what was the matter. I mumbled something about a headache from too much sun and rang off as soon as I could. Then it was into the tub to shave my legs, a little more time than usual getting my hair and makeup just right, and a last-minute decision to change into a bra, panties and my favorite sundress. It was way past seven when I made it to the restaurant, where Brad was waiting for me at a table for two on the terrace. If he was angry he didn't show it, in fact the look on his face told me that I'd been worth the wait.

"You look terrific," he smiled.

"Thanks, you too." And he did, in a Hawaiian shirt and white slacks which showed off his buff body.

He ordered tropical drinks for us, a potent concoction that snuck up on me as we talked on and on about nothing in particular. When he asked why a pretty girl like me was vacationing alone at a lovers' getaway, I shrugged my bare shoulders and told him that I was recovering from minor surgery and a friend had recommended La Belle Creole as a nice place to get away from it all. When he started to probe, I cut him off with "I really don't want to talk about it, Brad," which was enough to steer the conversation onto safer ground.

Brad ordered another round of drinks with dinner, and I was feeling a little woozy as the evening progressed. It was almost like having a boycrush on a professional baseball player, except I really was a girl now, and if I didn't know better, I could have sworn that my panties were getting a little damp. By the time we finished splitting a piece of key lime pie, the rum had done its work, and I was feeling very uninhibited.

"Let's go for a walk along the beach," I suggested, and I guess Brad was feeling no pain too, because his knee scarcely bothered him as we slowly made our way across the sand under a full moon. I kicked off my flats and splashed my toes in the gentle surf, tugging on the hem of my dress to keep it dry. Brad splashed in after me, and when his knee suddenly gave out and I tried to catch him, we tumbled together into the warm sea. "Are you okay?" I gasped when we came up for air.

"I'm fine," he laughed. "How about you?"

"Look at my dress!" I cried. It was clinging to my trembling body like a second skin, and I could tell that Brad liked what he saw in the moonlight.

"God, you're beautiful," he said, and suddenly I was in his powerful arms, his lips found mine, and I was kissing him eagerly. When his hands started to roam, I moaned as he squeezed my ass and pressed his manhood against me. And then, the most incredible thing happened: even though he had only one good leg, he swept me up out of the sea and started to carry me unsteadily back towards the hotel.

"Put me down," I scolded him, "you can hardly walk!"

"Stop squirming!" he commanded, and I did as I was told, hanging on for dear life while he manfully made his way to his room. When we were there, he lowered me gently to the ground, opened the door, and took my hand. "Let's go to bed," he said, and without hesitation I followed him inside.

The next morning, I woke up with a start to find myself in a strange bed. The sight of Brad sleeping next to me brought me around, and I lay back and reveled in wonderful memories of my first night as a woman.

I was scared to death when he undressed me, terrified that he might discover some imperfection while he peeled off my dress, unsnapped my bra and tugged down my panties. But he said nothing as he tore off his shirt and stepped out of his slacks and briefs. God, he was huge! What if he tore me up down there? Before I could back away, he picked me up again, staggering unsteadily, and our naked bodies fell together into his waiting bed. My head was spinning with conflicting emotions: what was I doing with a guy…it's okay, you're a woman now…how could I do this to Jacques?

Then his fingers started triggering my erotic hotspots, and I gave up thinking and lost myself in ecstasy. He teased my nipples with his teeth while he played with my womanhood, and I responded in kind by stroking his raging cock, knowing all too well that he couldn't hold out much longer. Suddenly he lowered himself onto me, and instinctively I took him in my hand and started to guide him in…I shuddered at the first shock of penetration, then he was inside me, and I surrendered to him as he thrust forward, deeper and deeper, until he eased back and pushed back in, again and again, it felt so good! He was groaning and I was moaning, then he sucked in his breath and I felt him starting to throb inside me, and before I knew it I was spasming along with him, blown away by wave after wave of exquisite pleasure as I experienced the delights of my first female orgasm.

So I'm really a woman now! I thought to myself as he held me in his arms and we drifted off to sleep. Twice more during the night, he woke me up, placed my hand on his stiffening cock, and we did it again and again, each time better and better than the time before. Now, in the soft light of dawn, I gazed at the sleeping body of the man who had claimed my virginity, and thought guiltily about the man who had really made a woman out of me….

I eased myself out of bed and found my wrinkled dress on the floor, dry by now although covered with salt and sand. My bra and panties were nowhere to be found, so I stepped into my dress, zipped it up, and tiptoed barefoot back to my room. When I got there I realized that my little purse with my room key was also missing in action. Fortunately I'd left a window open, so I was able to crawl back into my room without embarrassment.

My heart sank when I saw the message light blinking on my phone. I picked up the receiver, punched in the answer code, and listened in despair as the mechanical voice said, "You have two new messages."

"Madeline, I was just calling to see how you are…you must be feeling better to have left your room. I'll call you again in a little while. J'taime."

I knew what was coming while I waited for the second message: "Madeline, it's me again. Unfortunately I've had to cancel my trip to St. Martin. Your room is paid up through the end of the week. Au revoir."

My hands were shaking as I looked up his office number. His officious receptionist put me on hold for a long time. "Allo," she finally answered.

"Hi, it's Maddy Moreau. Is the doctor in?"

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but he is with patients."

"Can you leave him a message that I called?"

"Certainly."

I sat on my pristine bed for a long time, feeling very foolish and ashamed. When I finally got up and looked at myself in the mirror, I was shocked by the sight of my tangled hair, wrinkled dress and smeared makeup. Good thing Brad hadn't seen me like this! Screw Jacques, I said to myself…suddenly I was all business, drawing a hot bath, shampooing and conditioning my hair, and dressing myself in my hottest bikini and cutest cover-up. I had breakfast on the terrace as always, but there was no sign of Brad this morning, so I took up my usual place by the pool and waited for him to join me. My heart jumped each time I heard footsteps approaching, but as the sun slowly climbed across the sky, there was no sign of Brad.

By noon, I was getting desperate. There was a house phone by the pool, so after a moment's hesitation I asked the operator to connect me to his room. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but Mr. Wilcox checked out this morning."

What a fool I'd been! Throwing away everything for a one night stand with a baseball player! In a trance, I picked up my beach bag and walked slowly back to my room, where a large manila envelope was waiting for me outside the door. I tore it open to find my bra, panties, purse and a letter written on the hotel stationery:

"Dear Maddy,

Where were you this morning? When I woke up my knee was killing me – did I really carry you back to the room? Anyway I called my trainer and he ordered me to fly to San Juan for an MRI, I don't think it's serious but I gotta go. Last night was amazing, you are a great girl – maybe if I make the big club someday you can show me around Chicago. Love,

Brad"

Well, that was something! I still felt like a total tramp, but at least Brad had some feelings for me, not that they would help pay the rent after Jacques kicked me out of my apartment…with grim determination, I hurried to the hotel business center, where a quick web search confirmed that a big medical conference was scheduled to begin on Monday at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal. I found a flight on Air France that would get me to Montreal on Friday afternoon, booked a seat in economy, and reserved the cheapest room I could find at a downtown hotel.

As I packed my trusty suitcase once again, I thought back over all that had happened to me since I left Paris. A few short weeks ago, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Now, I felt strangely confident in my newfound womanhood, and I was bound and determined to reclaim my place in Jacques' life.

The journey from St. Martin to Montreal, on a charter flight crammed with sunburned Canucks, was sheer penance. Stuck in a miserable coach seat between a snoring slob and a psychotic woman who talked my ear off, I endured a horrid meal featuring tough, tasteless chicken, a moldy bread roll and an undrinkable split of wine, serenaded by a screaming infant in the seat behind me. The worst part was having to climb over the slob in my skirt to stand in line for the coach toilet…hoisting up my skirt and tugging down my panties and hose to straddle the pee-covered seat, I bemoaned my decision to become a woman.

Despite the wine and a sleeping pill, I couldn't even doze off as the endless hours droned on. Finally, after circling the airport for what seemed like an eternity, we were lucky to be able to land in a near blizzard on the frozen tundra. When I stepped outside the terminal to find a taxi, it was immediately apparent that my pathetic skirt, sweater and nylons would be no match for the brutal Canadian winter. I'd spent most of my life in Chicago, but not in a skirt, so the blast of frigid air took my breath away. Fortunately, the turbaned taxi driver heated his cab to 90 degrees, and it almost felt like I was back in the Caribbean as we made our way into downtown Montreal.

My hotel, which catered to road warriors and government types, was located in a tatty section of downtown Montreal, and my threadbare room was immediately depressing. Fortunately, Montreal is connected by a maze of underground shopping centers, and I was able to avoid the elements while I bought a sturdy woolen topcoat and a pair of calf-length leather boots, as well as gloves, a long scarf and a beret. I lingered at a little bistro over onion soup and red wine before I trudged through the snow to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. I asked the concierge to show me the agenda for the upcoming medical conference, and learned that Jacques would be presenting his paper in three days' time.

Wondering how to maintain my sanity until then, I decided to kill some time at an Internet café. As always, I began by Googling my old name to see if there was any news about Matt McCoy. Instead, I got the shock of my life when I found my father's obituary on the Chicago Tribune website:

Bradford T. McCoy, age 71, of Winnetka, IL. Beloved husband of Marie, nee Rickerson of Winnetka; dear father of Michael McCoy of Evanston, Mark McCoy of Barrington, and the late Matthew McCoy of Chicago; devoted grandfather of two; fond brother of Beatrice (the late Arnold) Foster of Fort Myers, FL. Retired owner and President of Great Lakes Industries. Vet U.S. Navy. Funeral Services 3 p.m. Monday, at the St. James Cathedral, 55 East Huron Street, Chicago IL. Burial private.

Tears were streaming down my face as it slowly sunk in. My father and I had never been close, and my thoughts turned more towards my mother, widowed and facing the rest of her life alone. She was fortunate in that my two brothers and their families resided in the Chicago area. With chagrin, I realized that Matthew McCoy was a sad footnote to our family's history…at least my father's death notice didn't mention that his youngest son was wanted for embezzlement and murder before he fled the country and committed suicide disguised as a woman!

Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the need to be there with them. Impulsively, I logged onto on online travel site and searched for flights to Chicago, before I stopped myself. Returning to the United States would expose my bogus passport to the scrutiny of US immigration officials, and there was a good chance that it would be flagged as a forgery. Think, Maddy…what if I were to fly to the Canadian side of the border and cross into the USA unobtrusively? It didn't take me long to come up with a plan.

I wasn't sure how my family would react to me, but I was determined not to embarrass them, or myself. Returning to Montreal's subterranean shopping mecca, I searched until I found a tasteful black dress, black hose and simple pumps which were appropriately funereal. I also stocked up on some more cold weather clothes. Then it was back to my room for a restless night in my lumpy bed.

Early Sunday morning, without checking out of my dreary hotel, I packed my suitcase with my new dress, put on some wool slacks and a turtleneck sweater that I'd purchased the day before, and called for a taxi to take me back to the airport. All of the flights were delayed on account of the lingering winter storm, but I finally was able to fly from Montreal to Windsor by way of Toronto. It was early evening by the time I got in, which presented no problems since my chosen means of transport across the border was a courtesy bus from the Windsor Casino to downtown Detroit. Passport inspection was cursory, as I anticipated, but it was almost midnight by the time I found myself back in the United States.

Downtown Detroit is no place for a single woman, day or night, and I was fortunate to hail a roving taxi which took me to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. The last fight to Chicago was long gone, and I was too exhausted to search for an airport hotel, so I curled up in a plastic chair next to my suitcase and nodded off until the airport came to life on Monday morning. I'm sure I looked like death warmed over, but I was too groggy and grungy to care. After a chocolate croissant and a bracing cup of hot coffee at an airport Starbucks, I passed through security and boarded the 6:00 am flight to Chicago. Thanks to the time difference, I arrived into O'Hare a few minutes after I departed, Chicago time.

How strange it felt to be back in Chicago, almost a year to the day since I'd dressed as a woman for the first time! What a roller coaster I'd been on, losing my identity, my sex, and now my father…I found myself scrutinizing the flight attendants as I walked through the crowded concourse, wondering what had become of Tracy, the girlfriend who had first set me on the path towards femininity. Trying not to think about the enormity of all that I'd been through, I checked into the airport Hilton, asked for noon wakeup call, set the clock radio as a backup alarm and collapsed into bed.

"Okay, honey, time to play dress up again."

I switched off the electric train and reluctantly started up the basement stairs. "Oh Mom, do I gotta?"

"You know how much fun we have, please do it for me one more time, and I'll let you help me make a fudge cake and you can lick out the beaters."

That was incentive enough for me. Both of my brothers were still at school, my Dad was at work, so Mom and I were alone in the big old house, as usual. She gave me a big hug when I joined her in my bedroom, where my usual outfit was laid out on my bed: a frilly white blouse, pleated skirt and tights. First, Mom made me take off all my boy clothes and put on a pink robe before she braided my long hair into pigtails, which she tied with ribbons while humming to herself. Then there was the usual spat over the cotton panties and cami which she insisted that I wear under my girl's clothes. When I was finally dressed, she helped me squeeze my feet into a pair of Mary Jane's.