Chapter 1
Bill Trumball took pride in personal accomplishment and this-his plan-was downright clever. Everything was in perfect readiness.
Yesterday, using an assumed name, he had rented a sleeping room in the outskirts of Queens. That was step number one.
In subsequent phases of the operation, Bill had driven his white Thunderbird out there this morning, parked it on a deserted side street and reached the office by way of the Eighth Avenue express.
There was only one remaining step to his plan. He would have to convince his boss, Mr. Sinclair, that he was ill and needed the rest of the afternoon off. Sinclair would cry-the office was behind on their quotation prices for incoming queries-but what the hell could the old man say?
And with that done, Bill would hurry down to 34th street, get his secret package out of the bus station locker, and then board the subway train back to Queens.
He was not worried; confidence was the essence of success. He had but one thing to fight. That was his own growing sense of guilt...
He ate a light lunch at Howard Johnson's and returned to the office at one-thirty. Clara, the young switchboard operator, had left a memo on his desk advising him that his wife had phoned while he was out.
Bill was neither surprised, nor disappointed. After 3 years of marriage to Edie, he could safely predict the time of her daily call. And in a voice that was laden with sweetness and melancholy, she would tell him that she was lonely, implore him to come home, and then tease him with a graphic description of how they would make love after he arrived.
Her sultry pleadings never failed to excite him, and several times-not only to please her, but also to release his own damning excitement-he had gone home early.
But not today.
Today, there were other plans.
And his guilt continued to grow.
He lit a cigarette, decided that he would keep their conversation to a minimum and, of course, provide himself with an excuse for coming home late.
He dialed and after the initial 'hello's', Edie explained that their 2-year-old daughter, Karen, had eaten lunch and gone in for her nap.
"That's what I'd like to do, Bill. Go to bed."
"Why don't you?"
"I mean with you, silly."
He dragged nervously on his cigarette. "Tonight. Okay?"
"But I need you now." The game.
"I know," he answered.
"Then why don't you leave early?"
He didn't reply.
"Do you know what I've got on?"
He envisioned Edie her misty blue eyes, soft flowing blonde hair that teased the tips of her shoulders, and a mouth that was full and eager and sensuous. "So what are you wearing?" he asked.
"Short-shorts. Those blue ones that you like."
"Mmmmmmm."
"And if you come home, we'll go to the bedroom, and you can lay on top of me and put your hands up the leg of my shorts, and I'll let you undress me, and then I'll undress you and...."
"Edie?"
"...and then you can start kissing my breasts and feeling me all over and...."
"Edie?"
"...and later, I'll get on top of you, and I'll rub my body back and forth on yours, and back and forth and back and forth...."
"Dammit, Edie!"
"Are you coming home, darling."
"You keep that up," he said, "and I'll be coming right here."
Edie laughed mischievously. "I'll do anything you want, Bill. Anything."
Bill mentally appraised all that that would include, but it only added to his increasing sense of guilt. "Look, honey. You know I'd love to be home right this minute, but...."
"I know," she cut in. "You have another woman waiting for you...."
He gave Edie a nervous laugh. She had joked her way dangerously close to the correct answer. "The reason I can't come right now...." He brought his voice to a whisper and told Edie that he was going to pretend illness and get the rest of the afternoon off. "...so that I can go shopping and buy you a birthday present," he finished. "Now are you satisfied that you found out?"
"I love you, I love you." Then, like an anxious child: "What are you getting me, Bill?"
"That's my secret, so if I'm a little late getting home...."
"I do love you, Bill. Bushels and bushels and bushels."
"I know," he said, thankful that she could not see his worried expression.
"And do you know what."
"What?"
"If you're going to have a present for me, then I'm going to have one ready for you. I'm going to take off all my clothes and...."
"You stinker...."
"And I'm going to make love to you like its never been done before. I'm going to...."
And Bill groaned and let her describe the frenzy of what she had planned. He could visualize it as if it were happening now-her naked lusting body crawling all over him, bringing him to a wild summit of excitement, drawing thrills from his body that were the offerings of Satan and the fruits of heaven.
"And the sooner I get out of here and go buy that present," he interrupted, "the sooner I'll get home and we can...."
"Hurry, Bill. I need you."
"I know," he said, and paying her a 'good-bye,' he sounded a kiss, cradled the phone and then stared vacantly at space.
Her birthday present? No sweat, he thought. It was in his desk drawer. He had purchased the gift three days ago...
By four-thirty, Bill had reached the sleeping room up in Queens. He locked the door, drew the shades and let out a heavy sigh. He was deserving of self-praise. Thus far, everything had gone exactly as planned.
Old man Sinclair had beefed-most unhappy that Bill wanted the rest of the afternoon off-but with his usual grumbling, he had finally acquiesced.
And then, in planned sequence, Bill had picked up his strange package at the bus station locker, caught the Eighth Avenue uptown express to Queens and arrived here at his Eden.
He had taken all the necessary precautions to insure that he was not followed-not much-likelihood of that, he thought-and leaving nothing to change recognizance, he had worn dark glasses and kept a hat pulled low over his face.
But that part of it was over.
Now came the fun. Weird fun.
And in consuming, breathless excitement, Bill Trum-ball began to tear off his clothes.
When he was finally naked, he noticed that he had forgotten to secure the door's chain lock. He immediately did so. He didn't want that nosey landlady bursting in on him. She had given him the fish eye when he rented the place, and if she came in on him when he was naked...
He broke off his thoughts and opened the package. He was nervous, but why not? He had never done anything like this before and it seemed like another person who was doing it now. And then-as if to impede his evil acts before they took place-he reminded himself that he was Bill Trumball, the rising young cost analyst for the Sinclair Specialty Company. He had a brilliant future ahead of him and he was all man, but this other Bill Trumball...
Bill removed the delicate pink panties from their wrappings. He pressed the gauzy briefs to his cheek and caressed their dainty silkiness. They were Edie's-a pair that he had secretly removed from her dresser-and if she ever found out...
He mustn't think of that. That would spoil it. That would spoil everything.
He blotted his fears from his mind. He kissed the panties lingeringly and felt the imagined warmth of Edie's soft white thighs. His excitement was building fast, and as the hot desires grew and grew, the moral implications of his behavior became locked in the depths of a mind below a mind.
He was not Bill Trumball.
He was a beautiful, desirable young girl.
And in minutes-mere minutes-he would be Edie...
Bill's outward physical transformation from man to woman was startling in its credibility. Standing before the mirror that backed the closet door in the sordid sleeping room, Bill appraised the end product of all his efforts.
Since he was short and of light stature, his size had presented no problem. A blonde wig that he had rented from a Fifth Avenue coiffeur was both realistic and alluring. His make-up job, aided with artificial eyelashes, was agreeably convincing. However, the real woman-maker was the dress.
He had purchased the dress in a theatrical supply house in Times Square-a slinky patent leather thing with long tapering slits at its hem, black, with an array of matching colored sequins at its oval neckline, and lent added eye appeal by the false bra that he wore beneath.
Shiny patent leather spike heeled shoes set off his legs, and he had the rest of the paraphernalia-black mesh hose, a connecting panty girdle, a purse, and he had even remembered to bring an appropriate perfume.
Over it, and for street wear, Bill donned one of Edie's light spring topcoats. It was one that she had asked him to drop off at the dry cleaners, but with a frown, he noted that it was much too short in the sleeves.
Well, he'd simply drape it over his arm. Besides, the men wouldn't be looking at his coat. They'd be looking at other things.
When it grew dark, Bill slipped out of the sleeping room and hurried downstairs. A light rain was falling and had emptied the streets, but that made it all the easier.
The bar he had selected was about six blocks away, and from previous observations, Bill had noted that it was patronized by factory workers who spilled from the nearby manufacturing plants.
Some of his earlier nervousness had returned and it served to remind him that he could still change his mind. But, no. His sexual fantasies had led him this far and he was not going to back out now.
Minutes later, he entered a tawdry cafe, noting as he did, the sign outside which read: Ladies Welcome.
Passing through the swinging door, he was immediately conscious of the stares of male patrons. The spike heeled shoes caused his entrance to be somewhat awkward, but he managed to maintain his calm and found an empty booth along the side wall facing the bar.
The place was like others of its kind-dimly lit with barren floors, smelling of urine and stale beer, exhibiting a juke box that played loudly if not well.
Shortly, a gray-haired waitress arrived and Bill ordered a gin collins. Effecting a woman's voice was the most difficult part of his masquerade, but he was careful to use restraint and a minimum of words. His tone was soft with measured sultriness, and the waitress-too rushed with other customers to suspect, or care delivered the drink and presented him with a check.
His initial nervousness disappeared and, inserting a cigarette in its holder, lighting it, he leaned back in the wooden booth to consider the men who so hungrily watched him.
His confidence in the masquerade grew. He could almost read the men's thoughts. An unescorted female, hot stuff and could she be made?
Bill let his sexual daydream run away with him. He was now Edie, and her skirt had risen recklessly to reveal the lush promise of her dimpled knees and gartered thighs. And the men were getting hot. He could feel it. They were getting hot and looking between Edie's V'd thighs.
And then he held himself back...
He mustn't be garishly obvious about the exhibition. That would detract from the tease. Rather, he thought, let it happen slowly. Let it seem accidental, as though the revealed warmth of Edie's silken thighs was the most casual unaffected show in the world. And it worked...
The men were obviously hot, squirming uncomfortably on the red-leather stools, stealing glances at Bill's (Edie's) exposed undergarments, and one of them-a coarse-looking dock worker clenching a glass of beer-unashamedly stared.
Knowing that he had caused this much agitation in the men at the bar produced an equal effect on Bill. He felt the unmistakable stirrings of manhood, and in the peculiar man-woman role that absorbed him, he now felt the pounding need for sexual release.
He paid a passing glance at the young unshaven dock worker. The man was openly staring under the table of Bill's booth. Bill shifted and caused the patent leather dress to rise still higher.
The dock worker's hands tightened on his beer mug. Even in the dim light of the ramshackle cafe, he could not fail to see the glowing invitation before him.
Bill's excitement mushroomed. Edie never sat like this, he thought. At least, not before other men. But this living fantasy that Bill had created had no shackles. He was Bill and, yet, he was Edie, and if he wanted to spread his legs, invoke vicarious thrills for those who watched, there were no moral codes to bind and hold him.
To reinforce that conviction, Bill ordered another drink. Then a third. He let the patent leather dress rise higher. Then higher.
Suddenly, the dock worker climbed off his stool and approached Bill's booth.
Bill felt the spreadings of alarm. He had only meant to tease. That was as far as he had planned it to go.
"Looking for company?" the man asked.
Bill did not look up. He was aware of the glassy-eyed, unshaven youth in the rough work clothes. The problem now was how to discourage him.
"Whatsa matter? You too good to talk to someone?"
Bill kept his eyes trained on his drink. He didn't want trouble, but if it started, he was ready for it.
The youth studied him for another minute, then ambled sullenly back to his bar stool.
Bill breathed a sigh of relief. He'd gone further than was wise, he realized. What had started originally as a passing thought, had in the months that followed, swelled to a maddening obsession. He had wanted to dress as a woman to see if he could excite men, and the passing episode had very nearly been his undoing. If the scene had erupted into a fight and the police had been called and Edie found out...
Bill promptly got up, paid his check and left. He felt the shame of his experiment. A thing like this could ruin a marriage, his career-everything. He must have been out of his head.
He tried to swallow his guilt and now quickened his steps against the rain and the darkness. A few minutes, he thought, and he would be back at the sleeping room for a hasty change, then on to the Thunderbird and home.
And then he heard the footsteps behind him...
Bill glanced over his shoulder. It was the stupid dock worker from the bar. He was about a hundred-feet back, hands stuffed in his pockets, and gaining on Bill with every step.
Bill attempted to quicken his gait but the damning spike heeled shoes hindered him.
"Hey, you!"
Bill crossed the wet street and hurried along to the next block. The idiot punk gained on him. "Hey, you!"
Bill went between two parked cars and ran across a deserted side street. The punk caught him when he stepped up on the opposite curb. He seized Bill by the arm and pressed him toward a darkened alleyway.
Bill saw what was coming. He lashed out with his fist and exploded on the punk's jaw. The youth stumbled backwards and fell against a brick building. His eyes bulged in surprise. He leaped at Bill.
Bill was prepared for him. He sent his fist wrist-deep into the punk's gut. He folded over like somebody with the heaves. The follow-up blow was even harder than Bill contemplated. It caught his attacker's face with blinding, deadly impact. The punk's head rocked back. His skull cracked against the brick wall and he sagged to the wet pavement like a string-less marionette.
Bill bolted out of the alleyway. He knocked a woman down and spilled her groceries all over the sidewalk. The woman screamed.
Bill hobbled, half-ran across the street. He neared his Thunderbird. Two small boys coming out of a drug store saw him, pointed and laughed.
Bill jumped into his car. He searched through his purse, found the keys and put the giant engine to life.
An instant later, he sent the white bird hurtling into the night, and only when he was a safe mile away, did he pause to examine his hands.
They were covered with blood...