By the author of The Jessica Project, http://www.geocities.com/thejessicaproject/author

 

On the Run

by Nom de Plume

© 2003

 

Part Two

 

After a restless night, I put in a call to Brian shortly after nine o'clock the next morning. I wanted to be a safe distance away when I got the answer to my question. I had to remind myself to adopt a girlish voice when he got on the phone.

"This is Brian Robbins."

"Hi. It's Vicky."

"Hey! How you doing?"

"Fine, thanks. I wanted to know if the wire went through."

"Yep. Got confirmation about ten minutes ago. You now have $586,412.18 in your savings account. Want to celebrate tonight?"

"Pushy boy! Would you ask me out if I wasn't rich?"

"For sure."

"We'll see, Brian. Thanks very much." I hung up and leaped off the bed, pumping the air with my fist. "Yes! Yes!" I shouted. I was rich! I was free!

The sight of my dress hanging in the closet brought me back to reality. I was also a woman, for the foreseeable future. Until I could manufacture a new identity, I would have to establish myself as Victoria Ross. The very idea released a torrent of mixed emotions. When I got back to the motel the night before, exhausted from my masquerade, I tossed and turned for hours, trying to block out the erotic sensations I had experienced before I went out. Although I was ashamed of them, I was also becoming excited about the prospect of wearing women's clothing again.

I surveyed my face in the bathroom mirror. There were tell-tale traces of the makeup I had managed to scrub off with soap and water before going to bed. My stockings and panties were still on the curtain rod above the tub, where I had hung them after trying as best I could to rinse off the dried cum stains. I made a mental note to add makeup remover and Woolite to my shopping list.

Faint stubble was already growing back on my legs, so I drew the tub and swirled in more bubble bath. My disposable razor was adequate to the task this morning, and for the first time, I shaved my legs the way a woman does, slowly and carefully easing the razor over each one as I held them in turn above the bubbles. I shampooed and conditioned my hair in the tub this time, then toweled myself off and gave my face a close shave before starting in on my makeup.

It took me a fraction of the time it had yesterday, and even less time to dry and brush my hair into a ponytail. I retrieved my panties and stockings and returned to the bedroom, once again pulling a chair in front of the full length mirror. My stomach was churning as I stepped into my panties, and I quickly fastened and stuffed my bra.

I watched myself in the mirror as I slowly, lovingly slid my nylons up my freshly shaved legs. Once again, the sensation was delicious, and I could feel my penis beginning to pound as I eased my pantyhose higher and higher. This time, I stopped just in time and pulled down my panties, feeling my knees buckle as my semen jetted onto the mirror. The feelings of pleasure were so intense, I cried out like a girl having an orgasm.

I stroked myself until my penis finally went limp, dripping occasionally onto the cheap carpeting as I fell back into the chair. Once again, I felt ashamed, but also more relaxed somehow, as if having an orgasm had temporarily emasculated me. I tucked my flaccid penis between my legs and straightened out my panties and hose.

Now that my libido was sidelined, putting on my slip, dress and flats seemed almost natural. After I finished getting dressed, I sat down in front of the mirror and contemplated my reflection as I tried to get a grip on what was happening to me. For some reason, I was turned on by wearing women's clothing. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? A little kinky, maybe, but just harmless fun, right? I didn't really want to be a woman, and I was certainly not attracted to men. Could it be that I was really attracted to the woman I was becoming? Then why had I allowed myself to flirt with Brian?

I practiced crossing my legs and sliding up my dress to reveal a glimpse of slip. God, it was happening again. I tried to ignore the sweet ache in my panties as I double-checked the contents of my purse and left my room for the last time. My makeup and other feminine essentials were crammed into a shopping bag. I wouldn't be needing the things I left behind.

* * *

I hopped off my bus and walked half a bock to my first destination, a Mazda dealer.  There were three or four Miatas in the parking lot, and I was examining the sticker on a red one when a salesman materialized.  "Hello, little lady, can I help you?"

He was about fifty, wearing a cowboy hat and boots and a string tie.  I smiled at him as I leaned against the red Miata.  "I like this one," I said.  "How much is it?"

He squinted at the sticker and quoted me the price on it.  I pouted and said, "Aren't you supposed to give me a deal or something?"

He laughed and said, "Little lady, we usually sell these cars for more than window."

"Okay, well, thanks anyway," I said, and I started to walk away.

"Now hold on, Miss, don't run away.  How soon were you thinking of buying a car."

"This morning," I said over my shoulder.

"Well now, why didn't you say so?  I can work with you."

I turned around and returned to the car.  "I want two thousand dollars off the sticker price."

He laughed again.  "Shoot, little lady, I can't do that.  I'll lose my job.  Come on inside, and we'll sit down and do some figuring, and I'll go to bat for you with my sales manager."

"No, thanks."

"How's that?"

"I don't want to play games.  I want to buy this car, this morning, if you'll meet my price."

"I told you, I can't do that."

"Okay.  Bye!"  Once again I started to walk off.

"Okay!  I'll go ask my manager.  He'll probably kill me, but let's give it a try."

"I'll wait here."

"Come again?"

"Go inside and have your make pretend conversation, and if you're back within five minutes, you'll sell this car."

With a shrug, he went inside the dealership.  I walked around the Mazda again, trying to imagine myself driving it, a pretty girl in a red convertible.  The salesman returned in a few minutes and said, "Good news.  I got him to take $1200 off the sticker, but that's it.  We haven't sold a Miata for that price all year."

I knew that was a super deal.  "Thanks," I smiled sweetly.  "Can I drive it home now?"

"Well, you'll have to pay for it first, honey.  How were you intending to finance it?"

"Cash."

"Let's go inside and do the paperwork." He escorted me to his cubicle, and offered me something to drink.  "Diet Pepsi," I said, and he buzzed the receptionist and asked her to bring me one while he started to fill in some forms. I gave him the same information I had given to Brian the day before. When he gave me the total price including sales tax, I opened up my temporary checkbook and started to fill out one of my pretty checks.

After I handed it to him, he sat back in his chair, and let out a weary sigh. "Ah, a temporary check. How long have you been in Phoenix, Miss Ross?"

 

"A week."

He frowned at me. "We can't accept this check."

I pulled Brian's card out of my purse and handed it to him. "Why don't you call my banker?"

He studied the card, then picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Bob Eisen at Sun Devil Mazda. I have a little lady in my office who says she just opened an account with you. That's right, her name is Victoria Ross." He listened for a few seconds, then his face went white. "Thank you, sir. That would be great. The total amount is $21,815.42. I really appreciate it. Thanks again, sir."

He handed me back the card, a big smile on his face once again. "Well, little lady, everything's going to be just fine. That's some banker you got there. He's going to stop by personally during his lunch hour with a cashier's check. The car will be prepped and ready to go in about an hour, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the lounge?"

It suddenly dawned on me that I was wearing the same dress Brian had seen me in the night before. Wouldn't that make him suspicious? I gathered up my purse and shopping bag and said, "Thanks, but I have an errand to do. Be back around noon." I left before he could respond and walked out towards the bus stop.

I had to wait for the next bus, and it was almost eleven thirty when I got off and hurried into the Marshall's. I was much less self-conscious, shopping for women's clothing while dressed as one, and soon I had picked out a slim black skirt and a pink short sleeve turtleneck which I tried on in the changing room. The skirt was shorter than my dress, and I had to remove my slip, but it looked terrific on me, and the sweater fit me perfectly. If the dress made me look feminine, this outfit made me look downright hot.

I changed back into my dress, paid for the clothes with my new ATM card, and then returned to the changing room to put my new things on again. I remembered to switch the scrunchie on my ponytail with one of the other ones I had stuffed in my purse along with my extra pair of nylons, and I carefully folded up my dress and slip and placed them in my shopping bag. Then I was back outside, waiting for the bus. The next one came along a few minutes later, and I arrived back at the dealership to find Brian and the salesman standing outside next to my gleaming red convertible.

The salesman did a double take when he saw me, but said nothing as Brian gave me a big smile. "Congratulations, Vicky, she's a beauty. Just the kind of car I pictured you in."

The salesman opened the door for me and I sat behind the wheel, tugging my short skirt back down as I swung my legs onto the pedals. "Are you sure you know how to drive a stick shift?" he asked.

"Yep."

"The paperwork is in the glove box. Let me take you through some of the features."

"Can you put the top down for me?"

"Sure, honey, it's easy as pie." He told me to press down on the clutch, and after I turned on the ignition, he showed me how to unfasten the clasps. I watched as the canvas top folded neatly away.

Brian stuck his head inside and smiled at me again. "Are you going to take me for a drive?"

How could I say no? "Sure, big boy, hop in." He sat down in the passenger seat, and we both waved to the salesman as I shifted into gear and started down the driveway. Each time I put my foot on the clutch, my skirt inched up my thighs, and I could tell that Brian was staring at my legs as we cruised down the boulevard.

"Thanks for coming to my rescue," I said above the breeze. "You didn't have to do that."

"Are you kidding?" He reached over to switch on the radio, and his hand brushed my knee as he set the buttons on the best rock stations in Phoenix. "I'm a full service banker. Have time for lunch?"

I didn't want to say yes, but after skipping dinner the night before, and not eating a decent meal in over a week, I was famished, and it would look odd to turn him down. "Sure, that would be nice."

He gave me directions to a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away, and after parking my little car, I fumbled with the top before Brian took charge and fastened it back into place. He led me to an outside table, shaded by a market umbrella, and a waiter materialized as soon as we sat down. "Something to drink, Seniorita?"

"Go ahead," Brian said.

"I'll have a margarita." Why not? After a week in my dreary motel room, I needed to unwind.

"Corona with lime for me," Brian said. Although my stomach was growling, I reminded myself that I was supposed to be a girl, so I just ordered a Mexican Caesar salad. I felt a pang of envy when Brian ordered a beef chimichanga.

He tried to make small talk while we waited for our drinks. It was delightfully warm under the shade of the umbrella, and I just sat and tuned him out as he rambled on about this and that. When my margarita arrived, my first sip on an empty stomach hit me like the kick of a mule.

I nibbled on a chip until I realized that Brian was staring at me. I took another sip and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm waiting for you to answer my question."

"Sorry. Could you repeat it?"

"God, I'd like to be a girl sometimes. Do you know how hard it is for a guy to ask a woman out and get a response like that?"

Buddy, if you only knew. I reached forward and touched his hand. "I'm sorry, Brian, it's just that, well, I just got over a bad relationship, and I need some time to myself, that's all."

"Is that why you moved to Phoenix?"

"Yeah. Anyway, I thought you weren't allowed to date your customers."

"I'm not. I'd probably get canned if my boss knew I asked you out."

"But it's okay for us to have lunch, right?"

"Sure. I just performed a valuable banking service for one of our best accounts."

Our entrees arrived, and I forced myself to cut dainty forkfuls of lettuce while Brian wolfed down his chimichanga. My stomach must have shrunk, because I found myself getting full before I finished my plate. I was definitely feeling lightheaded from the effects of the margarita.

"Look, Vicky, I'm sorry I came on to you like that," Brian said between gulps. "And I'm sorry about your breakup. All I can say is, the guy who let you get away must be a total idiot."

I patted my lips with my napkin and smiled back at him. "Thanks for the lunch. I had a great time." Brian seemed to brighten, and after he paid the check, he walked me back to my car. I was still feeling a little woozy, and I was grateful when he asked if he could drive us back to the dealership. I needed some time to sober up before Victoria Ross rented her apartment.

* * *

"Can I help you?"

The rental agent was young and pretty, and I had to remind myself who I was now. "I'm looking for a furnished apartment."

"You're in luck. They're almost impossible to get, but we have two at the moment, a studio and a one bedroom."

"How much is the one bedroom?"

"$2000 a month, but it's a fantastic apartment. It overlooks the pool and tennis courts. Would you like to see it?"

I nodded, and followed her out to a golf cart. I had to be careful with my skirt when I slid into the seat beside her, and hold on for dear life when we bounced over some speed bumps in the driveway. "It's on the first floor, so it has a private terrace that's much nicer than a balcony," she said over the whine of the electric motor as she pulled up in front of one of the low-rise buildings. I followed her down the hallway to the apartment, and when she opened the door, I could tell at once that it would be perfect. It had a bright kitchen with a small breakfast area and a pass-out counter, a smartly furnished living room, a large bedroom with a walk-in closet, and a stylish bathroom. Compared to this, my old apartment in Chicago looked like a flophouse.

We walked out onto the terrace, which was beautifully landscaped and furnished with lounge chairs and a small eating area. The stucco walls were covered with bougainvillea, and sure enough, a sunken garden with a pool and tennis courts was visible in the distance.

"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.

  

  

  

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