This story is fiction; although the placenames used in this story do exist; the events described in this story never actually occurred. Any resemblance to anyone anywhere (except to Michele who is actually me) is coincidental. Feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome.
Michele drove carefully through the cold wet dark streets. She was not used to using the accelerator and brake pedals of her compact sedan in high heels and she was debating whether to pull over and unbuckle the strap of the high heel on her right foot and kick it off. She didn't want to bring attention to herself by stopping on the deserted street but she was concerned that she might commit a driving offence if her shoe slipped on the accelerator or brake pedal. She had deliberately chosen this route after pondering the street directory for hours. It was not the most direct route to where she was going but it was the one that had the least traffic at this time of night and the least amount of traffic lights. She knew that the poorly lit streets of this industrial area of Bankstown in the outskirts of Sydney would be deserted this time of night.
"Fuck it!" she hissed to herself in frustration.
There were no police cars around this area at this time of night and it was unlikely that anyone was around to even see her, let alone report her for erratic driving. She was being paranoid. Michele took a deep breath and concentrated on driving on the slick wet streets; she was only about fifteen minutes away from her destination, the parkland at Picnic Point, and she was getting excited in anticipation. She had never done this before, but she had wanted to for so long, that she could hardly believe that she had mustered up the courage to go ahead with it.
"Concentrate, you silly bitch," Michele swore to herself after swerving at the last minute to avoid a mangy cat that ran in front of her car.
She slowed down another five kilometres per hour so that she was driving well below the posted speed limit. Would driving this slow bring more attention to her?
"Fuck it!" she giggled to herself in nervous anticipation and drove on through the deserted streets.
Five kilometres away three figures cursed and threatened each other as their high-powered sedan roared down the back streets of Padstow; the shrill of a burglar alarm siren receding into the background.
"You fucking dumb cunt! I told you to leave the cash in the till and just take the money from the safe!" the leader hissed.
Stan, the leaser, was a big man, weighing in at over one hundred kilos and well over 190 centimetres tall. His long oily black hair, dark features and sunken eyes looked grotesque because of the nylon stocking he wore on his head. He tore it off and stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans.
"You two fuckers take off those masks now and don't fucking leave them in the car so the coppers can get your DNA!" he bellowed as his two accomplices stripped stockings from their heads.
"Fuck me Stan, I never would have thought that wiry little cunt would have the guts to pull that gun on you!" the smallest of the three uttered excitedly.
At just over 167 centimetres, Davo was a full head shorter than Stan, their leader. He was a full-blood aboriginal with a lithe body and small bunched muscles; his black curly hair hung in a mop almost covering his deep-set brown eyes. A few men had mistaken his slight build for weakness; most of those who had, lived to regret their mistake.
"Well you dopey black bastard, if you hadn't insisted the owner take the money out of the cash register he never would have been anywhere near the fucking gun or the fucking alarm would he!!!" the third member of the gang bellowed.
'Wassa', as his friends called him, was 182 centimetres but weighed in at 105 kilos. Middle-aged spread was having its effect on him and his large gut hung over his belt. He was scrunched into the driver's seat concentrating on the road as he floored the accelerator.
"Hey! Don't call me dopey! I admit to being black 'cause that's a bit hard for me to hide; but don't call me dopey," Davo spat back, but he was chuckling to himself.
"Ok you two, enough of the gobfest; we'll have a think about what went wrong once we're safe. Right now we need to get rid of this fucking car; it stands out like dogs balls and even with the bullet I put in him I reckon that fucking shop owner will be able to tell the cops what this car looks like," Stand said.
"I should have put one in his head!" he spat angrily.
"Fuck off Stan," Wassa whined, "its bad enough that we'll get done for armed robbery."
"Well then Wassa, why don't you get us the fuck off this main road and onto the back streets where we can relieve someone of their vehicle and get to somewhere safe?" Stan growled.
The dark sedan with the three criminals embarked made a right turn and disappeared down the dark wet streets; it was now speeding towards Michele's compact only a few streets away.
All three of the crims were hard men. They had all done time for various crimes including robbery, armed hold-up, home invasion and rape. They were desperate men with little care for society's values; they cared only for themselves and what they could take from others. They had met in Silverwater Jail and had formed a loyalty for each other based on mutual viciousness. Stan was the natural leader; but Wassa and Davo were not far behind him when it came to being ruthless. The three had escaped from a prison transport vehicle, leaving one prison officer in a coma, and they had since been lying low except to commit the odd armed robbery to finance their plan to escape to somewhere in Southeast Asia.
Michele was concentrating on the road, and anticipating that soon she would have to cross a couple of lighted streets to get to her destination. She though that she looked passable but was worried about the car breaking down or getting pulled over; anything that would mean she would have to leave the car. She was just being paranoid she thought to herself and her mind drifted to how she had come to be in this situation tonight.
One year ago Mike, a chubby bearded man in his early forties, had left his solicitor's office in Brisbane as a brand new divorcee. He had sold everything that his bitch wife hadn't taken from him in the divorce and all that he had in the world was an airline ticket to Sydney and enough cash for a bond on a one bedroom flat in the western suburbs. He did have a well paying job at an accountancy waiting for him though, and it didn't take him long to save up enough for his needs.
He bought a second-hand compact sedan and some pleasant functional furniture. He bought a good quality PC and signed up for a broadband plan that allowed him unlimited internet access and unlimited downloads. He shaved his beared and took up jogging and lost weight. At seventy two kilos he was now slim and well proportioned for a man of 190 plus centimetres. He shaved off all of his body hair before he started his new job and kept it shaved so that people would think that his body was naturally hairless. Once he had slimmed down he bought blouses, skirts, women's suits, lingerie, high heels, hosiery, makeup and wigs.
Mike was a crossdresser. He's had a penchant for stockings and panties as a youngster and this had grown stronger as he got older. God bless that bitch of an ex-wife, at least she understood his fetish and had worn nice lingerie and stockings for him when he had asked her to. Well, that was until she became an evil witch and fucked his best friend and then cleaned him out in the divorce. What she hadn't known was that Mike had liked to dress in her lingerie and hosiery while she was out of the house. He was secretly glad when they split up and he was able to move to Sydney where nobody knew him.
More and more the urge to dress as a woman had grown on him until he was no longer happy being a 'hairy-legged panty-wearer' as he had seen his type described on the internet; he wanted to be a transvestite. Now he could become a closet crossdresser in the privacy of his own flat.
Mike deliberately avoided making friends and kept to himself. He didn't want to worry about anyone dropping in on him whilst he was at home dressed as Michele, the name that he had selected for his en-femme persona. He went to the better opportunity and second hand clothing shops and bought a selection of quality skirts, blouses and suits. He had no compunction in telling the sales ladies that he was shopping for himself if they got nosey and asked. Some tisked and tutted, but most were actually helpful. He bought a large selection of makeup, lingerie and hosiery at a Big W department store and didn't bat an eyelid when the lady at the checkout stared at his purchases; it was the same when he went to Payless Shoes and bought three pairs of high heels in size 10. What the fuck did he care about what these women thought of him or his purchases; he'd never see them again and, other than his work colleagues, he knew no one in the whole state of New South Wales.
Mike found the lady at Celebrity Wigs in Sydney's Oxford Street particularly helpful. She advised him against getting a long blonde wig, which is what he wanted, and showed him why when she placed it on his head. He looked like an old queen; even with makeup he would look like an old queen in this wig. She selected a couple of nice shoulder length bobs in brunette and black; both had highlights in them and finally Mike selected a nice shoulder length hairpiece that was dark brunette with red highlights. The saleswoman complimented him on his selections and relieved him of nearly seven hundred dollars.
.... There is more of this story ...