Watching as they leave the lot, one behind the other, she starts to follow, to stop them, then stops herself, makes a u-turn in the middle of the street, drives past the front door, parking next, but not too close to the dark colored conversion van. Checking the mirror one last time, again unbuttoning the top couple buttons of her white, silk blouse, spreading her fingertips across the black fringe of her French cut bra, she’s satisfied, ready. Sliding her radio, gun and I.D. under the passenger seat, she flips the cigarette butt from the window, closing it. Squatting, stepping from the car, her short, black leather skirt rides up her thighs as she leans, slips her five inch stilettos on. Straightening, she feels her hardening nipples pushing against her stretching blouse, her stomach tingling with the air of anticipation. She’s decided to let the whole thing unravel, to find out where the abducted girls are taken, to follow in her car, contact the dispatchers once she’s. I still looked like a student, blue jeans, t-shirts, andsandals. I kept my blond hair long and unkempt, but it was usually in aponytail. I was not skinny, but did lack a lot of muscle as my exercisewas limited to an occasional run. However, we were a typical youngcouple in most ways. The one outstanding variation with in ourrelationship was that I was a cross-dresser. I confessed this to her assoon as I asked her to marry me, and cried as I could see no way to freemyself of this desire. I had tried many times as a teen to quit, butalways succumbed to my weakness for women's wear. Soon after our honeymoon, I read about a treatment I thought might workfor me and suggested it to her. It was called petticoat desensitization.It required that the man wear women's underwear under his regularclothing and the premise was that if a man had to wear feminineundergarments all the time he would become desensitized to them. Theywould no longer be a sexually exciting item to wear. He would see.
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