The sun was starting to brighten the window when Danny began to feel more like himself. Vaguely conscious of his settling mood, he felt his heartbeat slow to more normal parameters, his fright and anguish receding like the morning tide. His feminine persona withdrew as well, gradually disappearing into the secret galleries of Danny's mind. There was no line of demarcation, no visible boundary between his twin selves. There was, at most, a sense of merging, as two streams unite to form a river. The waters of Danny's soul flowed from a single well-spring, but the source divided much deeper than anyone could have suspected.

If nothing else, Danny Milner was a survivor. It was his one redeeming quality. Loners tend to live on the ragged edge of human existence, plodding resentfully through their minimum income lives. Danny was no different. Years of hurt and disappointment had steeled him to expect failure at every turn. But it had also honed his subsistence skills to a fine degree, allowing him to adapt to his frequently desperate circumstances. Bitter, selfish and staggeringly lazy, Danny had nonetheless developed a pragmatic streak, one which had served him well over the past four years.

He dried his eyes with the hem of the babydoll, stubbornly choking back his tears. No point in crying, as his father had often reminded him (usually with a stunning blow upside the head). He could almost hear Dad's voice rasping contemptuously in his ear: Stop that SNIVELING, you ugly little SHIT! Patience had never been Dad's strong point. Still, the old geezer was right on this occasion. Blubbering in self-pity wouldn't improve his situation. Nothing would. Except maybe tracking down that fortune-teller. The one who'd done this to him.

(don't blame HER, you lousy chickenshit bastard! YOU did this to YOURSELF)

Danny stood up, shaking his head in denial. No, this wasn't his fault. He was the victim of some vicious, malign joke. The Gypsy must have taken advantage of his drunken state, erasing his masculinity out of sheer cruelty. What other explanation was there? He hadn't walked into the antique store asking for a sex-change. What man in his right mind would? Granted, he had residual memories of making some kind of agreement with the Gypsy, something to do with a mirror and a small sum of money, but that didn't make any sense.

Nothing made sense right now. How was any of this possible?

Short answer: it wasn't.

Long answer: it still wasn't, but here he was anyway. And how wasn't particularly important at this stage. If he'd been transformed into a girl, there had to be some way to change back. He had to find the antique store, barter with the Gypsy, get his old life back. No ifs, ands or buts; he couldn't afford to take no for an answer. Whatever it took, he had to walk into the shop a girl and walk out a man.

Where am I? He asked himself, looking around the room more carefully than he had earlier. Whose place was this? Despite the expensive furnishings, it had a blank, anonymous feel, as if anyone could have lived here. Bedsitter? Unit? No... hotel room. A four star hotel room on the upmarket side of Chamberlain. Sort of place he'd never stayed in because he was a shiftless loser with no money, no prospects and no girlfriends. Well, none who were willing to visit a hotel with him, anyway.

(so what am i doing here now?)

He had no memory of arriving here; couldn't even recall if he'd paid for the room. His recollections of the previous night were chaotic, disjointed. Whatever the Gypsy had done to him, it had scrambled his brains like an omelette. What part of the city was he in? No idea. Where was the antique store? Absolutely no idea. Somewhere in the Westside, maybe. He'd found it after he'd left the Blue Rose, out on Pitt Street. How long ago was that? Seemed like days, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. It was early morning now, no later than five thirty.

He walked over to the closet, his hips swaying with an unfamiliar gait. He was a girl now, his balance seemed to have shifted by at least ten degrees. His footsteps were light, almost fragile, the footsteps of a waif. The girl in the mirror had been frail and slight; a child still growing out of her baby fat. Her large breasts were the only indication of her physical maturity. Exactly the sort of girl Danny used to -

(don't go there)

No. Don't even think about that. Stay focused, or you might find yourself trapped in this body forever. There was a subtle temptation to simply accept this paradox, to surrender himself to its seductive influence. His body had changed, taken on the form of his deepest fantasies. Part of him desperately wanted to return to the mirror, slip lithely out of the nightie, explore the terrain of his supple, yielding figure. How often had he wondered...

(DON'T)

Shoving the image to the back of his mind, Danny opened the closet, standing on tip-toe to inspect the interior. As he'd guessed, it wasn't completely empty. Obviously, he hadn't arrived naked, and he couldn't have booked into the hotel wearing nothing but a pink baby doll. He must have been wearing something when he left the Gypsy's shop.

Not much however, by the look of things. There was a short black dress mounted on a hanger, a classic opaque mini barely long enough to touch her thighs. Below that was a pair of red stiletto heels and a black leather shoulder bag. Danny reached down and picked it up, heart accelerating with sudden hope. Maybe his wallet was inside, along with his keys and bank card. He didn't have much in his account; less than three hundred dollars as far as he could recall, but his position wouldn't seem quite so desperate if he could access some money.

Unfortunately, the shoulder bag contained very little. And none of it was even remotely connected to his former life.

Biting his lip in disappointment (a gesture he'd carried with him since early childhood), Danny emptied the carry-all over the dressing table and started sorting through the contents. He scrutinized each item in turn, silently cursing his growing misfortune. A pink compact and two tubes of lipgloss. A stick of eyeliner, a set of ear rings and a packet of hygienic napkins. A black lace bra and a matching pair of satin panties, both sealed in plastic envelopes. A red spandex hairband wrapped around a brush. An empty key ring shaped like one of the Powerpuff Girls (Buttercup, maybe, though he didn't know for sure). Danny shook his head in despair. Could there be anything more useless than an adolescent girl's shoulder bag?

(YEAH: a mooching, parasitic FAG who likes dressing up in WOMEN'S clothes)

"Shut up," Danny whispered, picking up the carry-all and shaking it briskly. There had to be some money in it somewhere, he wouldn't have made it past the front desk otherwise. Sixteen year old girl wanders in at two-thirty in the morning, dressed like a cheap hooker; the night clerk would have taken one look at her and demanded payment up front. This wasn't some backstreet clip joint either; he'd be asking at least seventy dollars a night, breakfast not included.

Hearing the tell-tale jingle of loose change, Danny remembered to breath and quickly located the source. There was a small, zippered compartment set into the side of the bag. Odd that he hadn't noticed it before; scavenging petty cash was one of his very few innate talents. Probably the reason he'd garnered a reputation for being tight-fisted back in high school (a label he'd rarely deserved, in all fairness).

Upending the bag, Danny spilled a tiny handful of coins onto the dressing table, his pretty face falling in distress. A swift count totaled no more than thirteen dollars. A trifling, insignificant amount - wouldn't last him half a day, even if he skipped breakfast and lunch. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into? How much had he spent last night, pickling his liver at the Blue Rose? How much had he gleefully pissed against the wall in his unending crusade to prove his manhood? No recollection: it was all part of that ceaseless grey limbo that descended on him after the sixth drink.

What have I done to myself? Danny thought, his eyes stinging with encroaching tears. He might have emptied his account for all he knew. Two hundred dollars over a single weekend was nothing unusual: at the end of the day, he was a fledgling alcoholic. Even if he found his bank card, there might be nothing left. And what would he do then?

Well, that wasn't hard to imagine. What does any teenaged girl do when she finds herself alone and homeless in the big city? Desolation broke over him in a dark wave, almost driving him to his knees. He leaned on the dresser with both hands, slim shoulders heaving with misery. Was this all his life came to - twelve sixty-five in quarters, nickels and dimes? He must have been worth more than this, surely. Why had this happened? What had he done to warrant this waking nightmare? The storm finally broke. Sobbing in near-hysteria, he wept over the dresser's varnished surface, soaking the meager pile of money.

(stop. stop NOW!!)

Drawing back from the abyss, Danny slowed his pulse by an effort of will. He'd shed enough tears for one day. He had to control himself, stay calm, stay focused. He couldn't afford to give in to his anxieties, no matter how extreme the conditions. His father had been wrong: he wasn't weak, wasn't worthless, wasn't an aimless, simpering drifter. He had to draw on his inner resources, marshal his reserves. He'd been struggling all his life, fighting the blind, cruel misfortune which had plagued his every step. This was simply one more disaster, the latest in a long line of catastrophes he'd endured since the old man kicked him out.

Returning to the closet, Danny started undressing, pulling the transparent nylon baby doll over his head. The morning was rising slowly into day, and the trail was growing cold. The path led back to the Westside; he was absolutely certain of it. Now that he'd managed to suppress his panic, the direction seemed clear. It was time to get moving. Get up. Get dressed. Get out.

Find the Gypsy.

He stood before the closet in his sleek, naked body, ignoring the impulse to look down. Women's genitalia were an undiscovered country for Danny; his entire knowledge of female anatomy came exclusively from porn magazines and videos. He hesitated nonetheless. Despite his overwhelming curiosity, he still had the universal male phobia of emasculation. Much as he wanted to run his fingertips over that soft, dimpled mound, he was terrified of what he might (or rather mightn't) find between his legs. Best to keep his mind on the task ahead, which involved nothing more complex than stepping into a pair of black satin underpants.

The panties were high-cut bikini briefs, cool and liquid smooth to the touch. A dainty red haze encircled the waistband, an elegant lace trim adorned the legs. Danny studied them in breathless awe, his temperature rising to feverish levels. The thought of actually wearing these silken wisps brought a faint crimson hue to his cheeks. How could he possibly walk down the street, knowing what he had on underneath? The mere sight of them made his blood quicken with excitement.

Not that he had much choice in the matter. It was either this or the pink baby doll he'd woken up in, and he sure couldn't go cruising the streets of Chamberlain in that. He could only hope the black mini turned out to be a lot longer than it looked.

Bending low from the hips, Danny slipped on the satin pants, gasping with unexpected pleasure as the shimmering fabric touched his flesh. He was at a loss to explain his reaction; the spiking blood pressure, the loss of breath, the butterflies swarming through his belly. He was almost fainting with desire. True, he'd had a passion for lingerie since grade school (a furtive vice which both shamed and exhilarated him at different times) but he'd never worn women's underwear in his life. Not that he could recall, anyway. There had been the dreams, of course - he'd had them as far back as he could remember - but dreams don't mean a thing.

(don't they?)

No, they don't. Face burning like a storm lantern, Danny picked up the bra and removed the clear plastic wrapper. He paused, stretching the black Lycra garment between his hands, and inspected the elaborate arrangement of hooks, clips and straps. It was unbelievably pretty, a delicate collection flimsy lace remnants. Like the panties, it was embellished with an ornate red frill, the cups edged with sweet floral patterns. So sheer, so skimpy; he doubted it would adequately cover his ample bustline. His stomach began to clench with unreleased tension, a rich, sultry colour suffused his face and neck and shoulders.

What am I doing? Danny asked himself in errant disbelief, what in God's name am I doing? He hadn't a clue how to put on a brassiere. It was some foreign, unfamiliar device he'd rarely seen outside of the Victoria's Secret catalogue. He'd certainly never handled one until today. The knickers had been a relatively simple matter - underpants of either sex having the same basic design - but this was ... well, strange. Alien, exotic, complicated. Maybe he'd better just leave it off, fold it away in the shoulder-bag and forget it ever existed.

No. It was only a bra, for God's sake. There was no eldritch mystery here. We're talking about a brassiere, the same as any pre-teen wears to the skating rink! If a twelve year-old kid could master the intricacies of an adjustable bra, then he could too.

Of course, it was more than that. Much more. Danny wanted to try it on, wanted to feel its gauzy texture against his ivory skin. His breathing had shallowed, he felt delirious, light-headed. Electric fire cascaded through his sensory network, raising gooseflesh along his arms and torso. He ran his tongue over his full, rosebud lips, trembling like a leaf in the rain. What was wrong with him? How could he feel so aroused? He wasn't gay, wasn't effeminate, wasn't the limp-wristed Nancy everyone had labelled him back in high school. And he would swear on his mother's grave that he'd never wanted to be a girl. Never!

Danny fastened the bra around his waist like a belt. His fingertips fumbled with the hook-and-eye attachments for nine seconds, missing the mark several times. Finally popping the clasps into place, he paused to double check his handiwork. The cups were at least two sizes too small. The underwires would probably pinch like an angry lobster (underwires? Where did that come from? Wasn't part of his vocabulary. Must've seen it in a magazine somewhere. He used to read Cosmo back in his teens, kept a small cache hidden under his mattress for years. Yet another covert operation he'd had to conceal from the old man. Dad would have beaten the living crap out of him if he'd caught him reading a women's magazine).

Reversing the bra so that the clasps were at the back, Danny worked the straps over his shoulders, easing his breasts into the cups one at a time. His head spun as the lace slid across his nipples. A burst of exquisite pleasure flared through his nervous system. Exhaling deeply, he shifted the brassiere into the most comfortable position, wavering on the verge of ecstasy. His eyelids fluttered in delight, a chill breeze whipped up and down his spine. What did he look like? How would he appear, squeezed into this gossamer harness?

Biting his lip in an agony of indecision, Danny glanced towards the mirror. The temptation he'd felt earlier was stronger than ever. Overpowering, in fact. He had to know, had to see the girl he'd become. She was the culmination of all his fantasies, all his lonely, frustrated daydreams. He hadn't been willing to admit that before, but there could be no question of it now. She was his holy grail, his muse, his incubus. All he had to do was step in front of the mirror -

But he didn't dare.

He could feel his masculinity dissolving, fading into the darkest corners of his subconscious. His personality was shifting, melting into something else, the way it had the last time he'd looked in the cheval. He'd fainted over a bed and woken up female - in mind as well as body. The image in the mirror had altered his consciousness, his self-perception. If he gazed into it again, he might lose himself for good. He might become a girl in every sense of the word.

Yet how could he resist this urge, this... compulsion? He could already hear the voice of his Otherself whispering at the back of his head. Calling to him, luring him forward. Preparing to take control. Her influence was overwhelming. Much stronger than he would have thought possible. How could she be so powerful? She was only a girl, a sixteen year old child. She should have been his pet, his plaything. His slave. He was a male, she was female; capitulation was out of the question. He had to retain command of this body at all costs. But standing here in his bra and panties, struggling to keep his eyes off the looking glass -

(i want to see her)

One glimpse. That was all he needed. A single peek wouldn't erase his ego; no way. The Girl couldn't harm him; she didn't really exist. She was a glitch, an aberration, the personification of his unfulfilled sexual yearnings. "Danni" was nothing more than a ghost in the system, a psychological mirage he'd created in a moment of infinite stress. He'd been a man for twenty three years now, a mirror couldn't obliterate over two decades of social conditioning.

Or so he hoped.

Bloodstream thundering with anticipation, Danny turned and walked barefoot across the room.

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Danny halted in mid-step, transfixed by what he saw.

The girl had changed. She was different. Not substantially, not in any way he should have noticed - but she was different nonetheless. More distinct, more... herself. There was no other way to describe it. Her eyes had deepened to a clear glacial blue; her hair shimmered like fine gilded silk. A thousand subtle alterations had taken place over the last hour or so, from the tone of her skin to the smooth curve of her thighs. Almost as if she were... what? Transforming? No. Evolving? Closer, but not quite. Developing? Yes, that was it. She was coming into focus, like an image sharpening to a higher resolution.

He raised a hand to his throat and drew it slowly down to his cleavage, reveling in the aria of sensations his fingertips raised over his (her) body. The desire to caress that soft, ripening form was overwhelming. And why not? She was beautiful. Staggeringly beautiful, impossibly beautiful. He roamed his gaze over her lithe, pliant figure, indulging his voyeuristic impulses.

Of course, he could do a lot more than look. He could touch. Touch her in ways he'd never touched a woman before. His girlfriends had always refused him any kind of intimacy (they invariably dumped him as soon as he tried to get physical), but who was going to stop him now? It was his body; he could do anything he pleased. Jesus, he could take her back to the bed and live out every darkroom fantasy he'd ever had. And why shouldn't he, for fucksake?! He had every right. And anyway -

(she wants it)

Yes, she wanted it. Why else would she have dragged him over here to the cheval? Why else would she be posing in the mirror, flaunting her breasts and thighs and underwear like some cheap 'Frisco streetwalker? Yes, she wanted it. They all wanted it, no matter what they said in the women's magazines. He'd learnt that much through painful experience. Look how often he'd been ditched in favor of someone better looking; some rich, fast-talking scumbag with a leather jacket and a Porsche. The sort of guy who treated women with the most abject contempt, lying and cheating and tossing them aside like used condoms once he'd had enough -

(oh, they want it all right. They just don't want it from YOU)

"Fuck off," Danny replied. Why should he be overlooked, simply because he'd lived off welfare cheques all his adult life? That's what he resented most about women. Despite all their self-righteous, feminist rhetoric about justice and equality and everything else, they still dismissed him as some worthless, unattractive failure. Lower on the scale of humanity than wife-beaters, racists or petty criminals. And Christ, if convicted felons were allowed conjugal visits, why wasn't he?!

Well, he finally had an opportunity to make up for the years of frustration he'd been forced to endure. He had access to a young girl's body. And not just any young girl - no, she was a nymph, a goddess, the Erotic Virgin every man secretly yearns for. He'd be a fool if he didn't take advantage of the situation. It wasn't as if he'd be hurting anybody, after all. It wouldn't be a rape, because there'd be no victim. As he'd reasoned before, Danni wasn't a human being, she was just some excess storage space in the emotional warehouse of his brain. It certainly wasn't her body, it was his. Which meant he could fondle and play with it any way he damned well chose.

Unaware he was employing the same logic used by generations of serial killers and rapists, Danny looked into the mirror and slipped the bra straps off his shoulders. He'd forgotten about the antique shop, forgotten the Gypsy and her magic looking glass. None of that mattered any more. The only thing that mattered now was satisfying his libido, his voracious, carnal appetite.

He tugged the brassiere down, exposing his breasts to the mirror. The breath caught in his throat as he surveyed their firm, supple contours. His nipples were as huge and dark as cherries, their carmine tips throbbing with arousal. He could almost see them pulsing in time to his heartbeat. A gentle, sensuous warmth began to spread through his torso, flowing downward through his belly.

He cupped his palms under his breasts, carefully slipping his fingers over the engorged nipples. A flare of pain erupted from each point, as sharp and bright as the edge of a razor. Danny gaped in shock, looked down, and - inexplicably - squeezed again. Gingerly at first, then with increasing force. Streaks of pleasure lanced through his body, all the way down to his tummy button. Oh my GOD, he thought, arching his back, this is GOOD. Better than Cosmo said it was, better than he'd ever imagined. It hurt - bordered on agony, to tell the truth - but he liked it.

And this was only the beginning.

Eyes wandering over his reflection, Danny lowered one hand to the trim of his panties and slid his fingers under the red lace. A surge of adrenaline seemed to hit his bloodstream. His knees weakened, the room lurched beneath his feet. He felt a surge of delight in his nether regions, far more intense than anything he'd experienced as a male. It was alien, exotic, unfamiliar. And the most wonderful thing he'd ever known.

Was this how it felt to be a girl? He inched his way a little further south, threading his fingertips through the downy blonde thatch at the junction of his legs. He'd have to proceed with caution; Danny knew from a thousand Cosmo articles that the feminine organ (what was it called? Clitoris? Clytoris?) was unspeakably sensitive. He'd have to go gently, at least at first. He explored a little further, swallowing air in swift, panting spurts. God, he felt aroused. If he'd been a man, he would have been hovering on the brink of orgasm.

His fingers encountered a series of complex folds, moist and slick with some hot, sticky ejaculate. Lubricating fluid, Danny guessed. Her panties were almost saturated with it. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, moaning through half-parted lips. A wild, transgressive joy seized him, so profound it was almost a bolt of panic. It wasn't only the illicit thrill of probing a girl's trinket box. It was her defenseless, helpless state. It was as if he was inside her, violating her semi-naked body by sheer will. It was power. Power he'd been seeking for as long as he could remember.

Her vestibule was an intricate, fleshly rose, covered with tiny bulges and dimples. Lubricant seeped from its pulpy heart (oozing with pussy-juice, Danny thought, relishing the obscenity for no apparent reason), soaking her upper-thighs. He delved into her tight little girl-thing, feeling it melt in his hand. So unfamiliar; an alien landscape waiting to be mapped and charted.

The minutes drifted by in a purple fog. His fingers darted back and forth, teasing and tickling and nibbling away like a minnow. His temperature rose to feverish levels, he could barely stand upright. He found himself shivering like a leaf in a hurricane; his belly was strumming like an over-tuned guitar string.

Huge, mauve stars suddenly exploded across his field of vision. His index finger had brushed against something. An inconspicuous bump near the top of her cleft. A hairtrigger, waiting to be squeezed. The slightest prod would send him into a vast, spiraling climax. He paused in his crude fumblings, unwilling to launch himself over the precipice. It was too soon, he wasn't ready yet. He wanted to get his fingers inside first, feel his way around that soft, dripping labyrinth.

(i want to fuck her)

Yeah, that was right, no sense denying it now. He wanted to screw her, hump her, spread her legs and make her scream for mercy. May have lost his weapon somewhere along the line, but he still had his fingers to work with. They'd do the job just as well, given his unique circumstances. Who needs a harpoon when an awl was sufficient for the task? The girl was practically begging him to mount her saddle - Jesus, she was wetting her pants with expectation. As he'd said before, she wanted it. She may not actually exist, but she wanted it all the same.

Danny's questing fingertips followed the line of her cleft, searching for an opening. It had to be here somewhere, all women had one. His pulse was cantering in his head, his tummy began spasm, shaking his frame from crown to heel. He was approaching some physical zenith; he wouldn't be able to postpone his orgasm much longer. He drove his middle finger into the centre of her labia, groaning with exhilaration. So close, so close...

Realization burst on him with blinding urgency. She was a virgin. That was why he couldn't find the opening. It was blocked by some kind of membrane, he remembered that from high school. Well, that shouldn't prove a problem. From what he'd read, it wasn't very strong, he could probably pierce it with a little effort. Might sting a little, but that didn't matter. Most girls lost their virginity by before they turned seventeen, so obviously, it was no -

(what?)

She was here.

Danni.

He could feel her presence all around him. Growing, spreading out through the pathways and conduits of his mind. Danny stepped away from the mirror, almost tripping over in his desperation to escape that haunting, alluring image. She'd tricked him, tempted him with her body. Distracted him long enough to take possession of his consciousness once more. The little whore had seduced him!! How could he have been so blind, so gullible, so fucking stupid?

(no! NO!! STOP IT, DON'T!!)

This couldn't be happening. She was nothing, just a collection half-forgotten memories and infantile daydreams. She had no reality, no identity - she wasn't a person, for Chrissake! She couldn't drive him out, couldn't usurp his birthright this way. He was a man, not some mincing teenaged slut. He'd proven his right to exist. It was his life - miserable, pointless waste though it was - and she couldn't have it.

The transition hit him with seismic force. There was no gradual blending of the waters this time. It was a storm, a cyclone. Danny fought to maintain his dominant position, but felt himself being swept away in the deluge. His psyche began to dissipate before that torrent of thought and emotion. A chasm seemed to open up beneath him, an endless, black ravine beneath his conscious mind. Falling into the abyss, he clawed desperately for purchase. Once, twice, three times -

and was gone.

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