On the Run

“There’s a carport just outside that’s reserved for this apartment,” she said.

“How soon can I move in?”

“Today.”

* * *

A few hours later, I returned from Fashion Square, laden down with shopping bags. My first serious excursion as a woman to an upscale mall had been a revelation. Although I started out looking for the bare essentials to tide me over until I could return to my male identity, one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had tried on dozens of skirts and dresses, and bought most of them. I was leery about wearing anything that might make me look too masculine, so I steered away from pants and jeans, although I did buy a few pairs of shorts and some casual tops to wear around my apartment.

I stocked up on lingerie and hosiery, including a few nightgowns, and I also came home with several pairs of shoes, from casual sandals to low-heeled pumps. I even bought some fashion jewelry and a woman’s wristwatch, along with several new handbags and some other accessories. But my most daring purchase had been a one piece swimsuit, with a little skirt to help conceal my package, and a matching cover-up.

I found the shopping bag with my final acquisition, a pair of realistic breast forms, the kind designed for mastectomy cases. They would be perfect under my swimsuit. Although my apartment was air conditioned, it was a hot afternoon, and I gratefully kicked off my shoes and peeled off my stockings before I busied myself with putting away my new things. When I was done, I pinned up my hair, put on my swimsuit and sandals, and headed out for the pool.

It was deserted. I lowered myself into the water and began to swim laps, exaggerating my strokes to make them appear more graceful. The cool water felt wonderful against my shaved body, which slid through the water like never before. My heart-stopping confrontation with Mr. Atwater, and the traumatic days since, seemed to fade into distant memory as I relished the sensation. I was rich. I was free. I was starting a new life.

* * *

The next morning, after sleeping late, I sat out on the terrace in one of my new nightgowns with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee. Today was going to be a busy day: a trip to the grocery store to fill up my pantry, getting a telephone number, some more towels and linens, another trip to the drugstore for female essentials, and making an appointment for a haircut. My ponytail had gotten me by so far, but it was a pain, and I wanted something shorter. Besides, once I jettisoned Victoria Ross, I intended to cut my hair very short to distance myself from my old male appearance, and I assured myself that this was just an interim step. I also needed to make a quick trip to a local branch of my bank. My final stop would be to a computer superstore, so I could begin to work on my next identity.

What to wear today? The night before, I had ducked out to a 711 for some provisions after my swim, attracting no odd looks in my cover-up and sandals. Still, I felt more confident when I decked myself out, as if the more feminine I made myself look, the less likely I was to be read. And my body was yearning for some forbidden arousal.

I luxuriated in my new tub, a far cry from the grungy motel bathroom, before I went through the hair and makeup routine. My nails still looked reasonably good, although a trip to a nail salon was something I should add to my to-do list. I walked into my closet and sifted through the hangers, selecting and rejecting different outfits. Decision, decisions! I finally decided on a black pleated skit and a soft white top with short sleeves. I went with a one-piece body briefer which I hoped would give me more of a figure, and sure enough, the sweater clung to my new curves like it was made for me. “Sheer black pantyhose and my new heels should look good with this skirt,” I said to myself, trying to get back into my feminine voice. My new stockings were more expensive than the drugstore variety, and I reveled in the feeling of sheer luxury as I slipped them on. My legs looked sleek and sexy, and they felt wonderful.

As I zipped up my skirt, I noticed that I did not have a raging hard-on like the ones I had experienced while dressing up the past few days. Instead, I felt more of a glow, like the sweet feelings that precede an orgasm, and they intensified as I accessorized my outfit with a colorful scarf and some jewelry. I stepped into my heels and marveled at what they did for my legs as I minced in front of a full length mirror. Suddenly, the overwhelming feelings of arousal came back with a vengeance. I pressed my hands against my skirt and coaxed my penis through the layers of silky fabric until it shuddered in ecstasy.

While feelings of relief and relaxation washed over me, the wet spot triggered an undercurrent of self-loathing from my tortured male ego. I tuned him out as I applied a flourish of fresh lipstick. I added it to the contents of my purse, and remembered to put on my delicate new wristwatch. Then Victoria Ross went out to start her busy day.

* * *

The telephone was ringing as I juggled my packages and tried to get my key in the door. I had a phone! I dropped everything and raced across the apartment to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Is this Victoria Ross?”

I was suddenly on guard. Could the FBI have tracked me down? “Who’s calling please?”

“How would you like to enjoy a fabulous weekend in Las Vegas?”

“Just a minute…let me put my husband on the phone.” Then, in my normal voice, “Fuck you, asshole! Never call here again!” I slammed down the phone. Fucking telemarketers!

I returned to the packages strewn across the carpeting and put them all away. Then I sat down next to the phone, kicked off my heels, and stretched out on the sofa, flexing my aching toes in my nylons. I found Brian’s card in my purse and punched in his number.

He answered on the third ring. “Brian Robbins.”

“Hi. It’s Vicky.”

“Hey! Can I call you right back? I’m with a customer.”

“That’s okay, I just called to give you my new number, for the checks.” I gave him my phone number and rang off.

I had accomplished all of my objectives except buying the new computer, deciding to have my nails done instead. The irony of that wasn’t lost on me as I admired my manicure. The computer would be the first step towards my re-emergence as a man, and the truth was, I was having too much fun right now to even think about that. Maybe I should stay like this for a while, just until things settled down. I was living in more luxury than I had ever known, and there were so many things about my new world to explore.

The only problem was, I would have to explore them alone. Up until that point, I had been too stressed out to appreciate how lonely I was. At that moment, the telephone rang again.

“Yes,” I said in a firm voice.

“Vicky?”

It was Brian! “Hi. Sorry if I sounded rude. I just hung up on a timeshare salesman.”

He laughed. “You tell ‘em, Vicky.” There was a long pause. Finally, he said, “I’m returning your call.”

“Oh. I thought I told you, I was just calling to give you my new number. Obviously you got it.”

“Obviously. We’ll take care of the checks. Listen, I must be a sucker for punishment, but I just scored two tickets to a Suns game tonight, and I was wondering if you’d like to go.”

I loved basketball. But a date? This was getting way out of hand. I mean, he was a nice guy, but come on! Still, if I didn’t go, what would I do tonight? Sit home again in my apartment and watch TV? Besides, it wasn’t like we were going someplace romantic. How much trouble could I get into at a basketball game? “Sure,” I heard myself tell him. “Sounds like fun.”

“Really? That’s great! I’ll pick you up at seven, and we can grab a bite before the game, if that’s all right.”

Why not? A girl had to eat. “Okay. Sounds nice.”

I gave him my apartment number, and glanced at my watch. I had about an hour to get ready! My hair and nails were perfect, but I would have to take a quick shower, then put on my makeup again. What should I wear?

* * *

The doorbell rang as I was zipping up my denim skirt. It was short, almost six inches above my knees, and I wore it with a peasant blouse that was tucked loosely into the waist. A yellow silk scarf was tied gaily around my neck. I tried to slip on my new pair of weejuns, but they wouldn’t fit! So much for going bare legged tonight. I raced back to the dresser, shouted “Coming!” and tore open a pair of nude pantyhose. There were no erotic feelings this time as I tugged the nylons up my legs and lifted up my skirt to twist them around. I must have snagged them, because I noticed a small run on one of my legs, from just above my knee to my crotch. No time to change them! I slipped my feet into my shoes while I gave myself a final inspection in the mirror. With my new shag hairdo, I looked younger than before, and very cute, if I did say so myself.

The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” I shouted once more, throwing lipstick, compact and keys into my new shoulder bag. As an after-thought, I added my new woman’s wallet. When I opened the door, Brian gave me a double-take. “Wow. A new look. I really like it.”

“Thanks.”

He peered into my apartment. “Nice place. Well, we better go, or we’ll miss the tip-off. I have a dinner reservation at a little Italian place nearby.” He walked me to his car, an Acura Integra, and opened the door for me. I sat down as best I could in my short skirt, knowing that he was staring at my legs, just like I used to do when I helped girls into my car.

Brian drove fast, but well, and I folded my hands in the lap of my skirt as I repeated to myself, over and over, “I’m a girl. I’m a girl.” By the time we got to the restaurant, I was humming “I Feel Pretty” to myself. The valet opened the door, and I got out as gracefully as I could. I had to reach down onto the floor of the car to retrieve my shoulder bag, giving the valet and Brian a clear shot at my panties, and I saw them exchange smirks as I followed Brian into the restaurant.

It was cool and dark, and the maitre’d led us to a quiet booth. Brian ordered a bottle of Pino Grigio, and we studied our menus in silence for a few minutes as our eyes adjusted to the light from a flickering candle. I looked over at Brian, who was concentrating on the fine print. He was extremely handsome. I had never been attracted to a man in my life, and I wasn’t particularly attracted to him now, but for some strange reason it made me feel nice to be in the company of such a good-looking guy. It was the same with dating girls, I supposed. Let’s hope things stayed that superficial.

A waiter appeared, and after he recited the specials of the day, I ordered angel hair pasta with basil and tomatoes in olive oil. Brian ordered veal Marsalla and fettuccini alfredo, and once again I felt a pang of envy. No self-respecting girl would tuck into a meal like that on a date. Maybe I could wheedle a few bites out of him.

We made small talk as we sipped our wine. I neatly deflected his questions about my background, turning the conversation back to him whenever I could. He seemed to enjoy it when I asked him questions about the sports he played, the music he liked and the places he had traveled to, then our dinners were served and we ate in silence as I tried not to make a pig out of myself with the thin pasta.

Brian did offer me some of his dinner, but I thought the better of it, although once again I began to feel light-headed as I finished my second glass of wine. At least he was driving this time. The waiter offered coffee and deserts, which we declined, and we chatted about nothing in particular as we waited for the check. I was beginning to think my first date was going well when I felt Brian’s hand on my leg.

Thank God I had to wear pantyhose! I could feel my cock jump when Brian caressed my silky thigh. Gently but firmly, I took his hand and slid it back down to my knee. He seemed to content to leave it there, and I was so relieved, I let him.

Brian pressed his head against mine. “You’ve got a run in your stocking,” he whispered.

“One of the dilemmas of being a woman.”

“I think it’s sexy.”

So did I, when I was a guy, I thought ruefully. I looked down with chagrin when he squeezed my knee. On the run.

* * *

The excitement of the game was a blessed relief. The Bulls were in town, and I pretended to cheer for them, even though they were truly pathetic. We had great seats, which Brian had picked up for free when a senior officer at the bank had to give them up. He explained this to me in the car on the way back to my apartment, once again resting his hand on my silky knee.

I was trying to figure out how I was going to get rid of him when I saw something strange. Two police cars were parked outside my apartment building. Stranger still, the lights seemed to be on in my apartment, and I was sure I hadn’t left them on. Before Brian could stop, I asked him, “Where do you live?”

“About a mile from here. Would you like to see my place?” he asked, never in a million years thinking I would accept.

“Sure, why not?” Brian stepped on the gas and popped the clutch, and my head was thrown back as we sped out of the driveway. Out of the frying pan, and into the fire, I tried to calm myself as we drove towards his apartment. The law had found me, there was no way around it. How were they able to connect the dots? If they found out from my computer that Victoria Ross was my alter ego, it would only be a matter of time before they located the Chicago bank account where I stashed the money. Once the money was on the wire, they would follow the trail straight to the address I used to open my account. I closed my eyes and tried to think. The walls were closing in. It was a good thing I enjoyed being a girl, because I would be spending the next fifteen to twenty years as the plaything of a hardened criminal.

I realized that Brian had parked the car. “Something wrong?” he asked me.

I tried to act natural, natural as a girl. “No. I was just waiting for you to open my door. Is chivalry dead in Arizona?”

Brian sprang out the door and raced around the back of his car. I gave him a good look at my thighs as I climbed out of his car, and put my arm through his as we walked up a flight of stairs to his apartment building. He opened the door, and led me to his apartment.

I followed him inside. It was a typical bachelor pad, with a big screen TV, a monster stereo system, a leather coach and a matching recliner. An exercise machine and free weights took up a corner of the room. “Care for something to drink?” he asked me.

My mind was racing. “Sure,” I said, as I sat down on his recliner. Girls had used that move to frustrate me when I wanted to get them onto a couch. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs under my skirt.

Brian opened a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass. He perched on the edge of the couch as we pondered our next moves, like a mongoose and a cobra. “I like your place,” I said to break the ice.

“I’m thinking of buying a condo. It would be nice to have an extra room for my weights and stuff.”

I sipped my wine demurely.

“Would you like to watch TV?” he asked.

I was about to say yes when I stopped myself. What if the local news stations were carrying bulletins about the manhunt for a Chicago man masquerading as a woman? That would be sensational enough to merit team coverage. “How about some music instead?” I said.

Brian liked that idea, and he put on some soft rock. “You know, Vicky, I’m really glad you came in to the bank on Monday.”

Was it a Monday? I couldn’t even remember what day it was. If that was Monday, this must be, let’s see…Wednesday. Nine days after my escape from Chicago. Who said the FBI was slipping? I emptied my glass, and Brian got up to pour me a fresh one. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk,” I said with a smile.

“Not hardly. It’s scientifically proven that a woman’s ability to enjoy sex is greatly depressed by alcohol. I should cut you off right now.”

It was such an outrageous line, I had to laugh in spite of myself. It was the kind of thing I would never dreamed of saying to a girl on a first date. Maybe that’s why my sex life as a man had been such a disaster. It took real cajones to say something like that to a girl.

“Are you always this pushy on a first date?”

Brian went around behind the chair and rested his chin on top of my head. “Only when the girl is really hot.” He turned my face gently with his hand, and kissed me. No tongue, just a soft kiss on the lips, and I kissed him back the same way.

He reached down and took my hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

I stood up unsteadily. “You were right about that wine,” I said. “And there’s another problem, scientifically speaking.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m having my period.”

“Ouch. Oh well, I’m game, if you are.”

`“Yuck! That would make this a first date to remember, all right. I can see us in our golden years, harkening back to it.”

“Now we are getting ahead of ourselves,” he laughed. “Seriously, I really like you, Vicky, and I want to see you again.”

“Who’s stopping you?”

He put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me again. I hugged him and felt his erection, hard with desire against my belly. “Goodness!” I said.

“I guess you bring out the best in me.”

I made a calculated decision. The longer I stayed there, the more time I would have to come up with a plan, anything to get away from the stakeout back at my apartment. I reached down and stroked him through his trousers.

He led me into the bedroom, and I pushed him down on the bed. He lay back as I unzipped his fly, and I took his enormous cock in my hands. There was no way I was going to give him a blow job, but a hand job I could handle. Then I had an inspiration, and I removed my silk scarf and wrapped it gently around his penis. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that it was my cock I was stroking. As I did so, I could feel my own penis struggling furiously against its silken restraints. Faster and faster, I stroked him, and although my penis was bent over double between my legs, I could feel it stiffen and start to pulse. We came simultaneously, Brian’s cock spewing gobs of hot semen into my scarf as my own load gushed into my panties.

I lay down beside him and we both stared at the ceiling for awhile. “Thanks,” he said. “You do that real nice.”

“I’ve had years of practice,” I felt like saying. Instead, I said, “Glad to be of service.”

I lifted one of my legs over his and started playing with the buttons on his shirt, making sure to keep his hands away from my chest, although my breast forms felt and looked like the real thing. “Even if we can’t do it, we can still have some fun, right?”

“Oh, baby, whatever you say,” he whispered. His refraction time was remarkably quick, and before long I was pulling on his penis again, without the scarf this time, watching it grow and stiffen in my manicured fingers. Once again, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I was doing this to myself, and once again my body responded in kind. For the second time, we came together, and the pleasure was more intense this time for both of us.

Three in a row was my personal best, and I was counting on Brian to be up to it. I needn’t have worried. After he cleaned himself off and got us each another glass of wine, I pushed him back down and started teasing his cock with my stockinged foot. He groaned as his member grew hard once again, and once more I took him in my hand and pulled and jerked on him. It took much longer, of course, and I could see that he was gritting his teeth as another orgasm began to well up inside him. What the hell, he couldn’t have much left in him… I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and took him into my mouth. I nibbled and sucked as he started to throb, and as I hoped, his sac was nearly dry. From someplace deep within me, I felt another orgasm coming, and although my penis stayed soft, a wicked glow spread between my legs. My panties were a soggy mess.