A grifter with an unusual technique has to take things further when he finds himself in a tough spot. (This was supposed to be my entry in the “March of Fools” contest, but I missed the deadline by a few months, so I reworked it to fit the new theme and then finished it.)

I came back to my motel room feeling dejected. I’d been trying to find a target for my next big scheme and hadn’t yet. My last con up in New York had been nearly perfect, and so I didn’t want to follow up a big score like that with some penny-ante job. But so far I wasn’t finding any good prospects in Atlanta, and it was the third big city I’d tried. It was the damn economy! I still had around fifty thousand in cash left so I didn’t need to hurry, but it was frustrating.

If I was my old man, I’d be carrying a sixpack, but that kind of solution only brings more problems. I just wanted to get a good night’s sleep and start the next day with a clear head. I didn’t bother to turn on the light and just headed straight for the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face and then took care of things.

When I came out, the light was on and I saw that there was a stranger sitting in my room. I tried to leave, but he was faster than me and he got to the door first. He fastened the security chain lock and turned to face me. He was a big guy in a loose-fitting suit. He probably had me beat by a hundred pounds and almost a foot. He had thick black hair just starting to go gray, and a bristly moustache.

I tried to play it cool, and put on the Southern twang I’d been using since I’d got to town. “Hey, Mister! I think you’ve got the wrong room.”

His accent was from somewhere in Eastern Europe. “No, I’m in the right room. You are the one known as Elizabeth Preston, are you not?”

I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I tried not to let it show. I chuckled, “Do I look like an Elizabeth? I ain’t no chick!”

He surprised me by rushing toward me and shoving me up against a wall. He put his arm across my throat and held me there, and then used his other hand to rip open my shirt, exposing my breasts. They were not quite a full A cup, but with their large round pink areolas and thick nipples, they were hard to pass off as merely flabby man-boobs. He gave them a squeeze. “So these aren’t Elizabeth’s tits?”

I tried to keep up the bluff. “The doc says I got a hormone imbalance. Do I got to drop my pants to prove to you I’m a man?”

“No need for that. I know exactly what you are.” He then grabbed my goatee and tore it off. The spirit gum that had been holding it on stung like hell, so I couldn’t help but shed a couple tears. “Male or female, it doesn’t matter; you’re a bitch, Mr. Turner. Can I call you Quinn?” I was sunk. It seemed that this guy knew everything.

***

Maybe I should explain. My old man was a grifter, and he had me helping him out on cons even before I was out of diapers. Suckers were more likely to fall for a sob story from a guy with a kid than a guy just there by himself.

Then one day when I was around three, something happened which changed everything. Some rubes mistakenly thought I was a girl, and my dad didn’t correct them (The fewer details people get right if they bother to file a police report, the less chance there is of getting caught.) I think it was due in part to his letting my hair go a little too long between cuts, and in part to my wearing a t-shirt that had turned pink in the wash.

But mostly it was probably because I’d told one of the grownups my name. “Quinn Lee Turner” seemed to be just as appropriate a name for a little girl as for a boy. And the real irony is that my father had named me after his two favorite tough-guy movie actors. Sometimes I wonder if I would have still ended up the same if he’d called me Anthony Marvin instead.

We’d made a bigger score that day and he figured it was because a guy with a little girl in tow got more sympathy than a guy with a little boy. So he decided to do it again in the next town, and started dressing me in more girlish outfits. At first it was just girls’ shirts and pants or shorts, but the more I accepted it the more he pushed. Eventually he had me in cute little dresses with my hair in pigtails once it had grown long enough.

He taught me how to act like a little girl, crying my eyes out and sniffling cutely when he’d tell some sucker about how my mother had gotten sick and we just needed a few bucks for bus fare. Then we’d head back to whatever motel we were staying in and I’d turn back into just a long-haired boy in jeans and a t-shirt, and we’d laugh about how many people we’d fooled.

The whole girl thing continued through my childhood. It got more intense the year I was ten and we spent a whole year working a long con in Tallahassee, and I was even enrolled in school as a girl. I had my first kiss that year, during a game of Spin the Bottle at a birthday party. Jimmy Adams said he thought I was cute. And I couldn’t break character, so I had to act like it was something I’d enjoyed but was embarrassed about, like all the other girls did. I forced myself to giggle and blush.

Eventually we moved on, running other cons in other towns. I was still usually playing a girl, but then I hit puberty and everything went downhill. I was just too tall to be believable as a little girl anymore, and I wasn’t the right shape to be a girl my real age. We tried a few different things, but when I tried helping out as a boy we just didn’t make as much money as we’d gotten used to.

My dad said we just needed to find a new gimmick for me that would work as well as the old one. But to me it felt like he was disappointed that I wasn’t doing my share anymore. When I was fifteen, I thought I’d found the solution — instead of trying to be a little girl, I’d turn myself into one my own age. There was a guy we knew who sometimes helped my father get pain killers when his old back injury was acting up again, and I secretly asked him if he had access to other kinds of pharmaceuticals. After I explained that I wasn’t looking to get high but rather wanted to see if he could get me female hormones, we arranged a deal where I would do certain favors for him (that I don’t care to describe here) in exchange for the drugs.

It took months, but they did their job. Meanwhile, I spent all my free time studying fashion magazines, and watching teenage girls wherever I could find them. I shoplifted myself some clothes and makeup and practiced when my old man wasn’t around. When I was ready, I went back to our motel room a couple hours ahead of him and surprised him when he got home.

I was in a short denim miniskirt that showed off my smoothly shaven legs, and a tight green spaghetti tank that let my bra straps show. My hair was blown out and clipped back with a pair of barrettes. My eyes were accented with shadow, liner and mascara; my cheeks were dusted with blusher, and my lips were shiny and painted the same shade of pink as my finger and toenails. Gold hoops were stuck through the holes I’d made in my earlobes. I balanced expertly on my two-inch heels and did a twirl so he could take it all in. In my practiced girly voice, I told him that I’d found a way we could continue to run father/daughter cons.

I thought he’d be all proud of me, but instead he just frowned and said that it wouldn’t work. He told me to “take all that crap off,” and I started kind of crying a little. I tried to turn away from him when I took my bra off, but he slapped me and made me look at him. When he saw my breasts, he lost it. He forced me to tell him what I’d done and then he beat me raw for doing who knows what kind of permanent damage to my body. The next day he went and kicked the shit out of Lou for giving me the hormones.

Things just weren’t the same between us after that. I left and struck out on my own when I was seventeen. I was determined to make the girl thing work for me - since I had boobs I figured I should use them. The trouble is, most of the cons I knew how to run needed two people. I put the word out in our community that I was looking for a partner, and found George.

At the time he seemed so much older and wiser than me, but looking back I think he was only around thirty. Like most men, he was also bigger and taller than me, so naturally I fell into a pattern of letting him be in charge. We started out running some of the same “father/daughter” cons that I’d done with my dad, but he didn’t like having to play older.

So he shifted us to working a variation on the old “jealous husband” routine — I’d flirt with some middle-aged married guy at a bar and bring him back to our motel room. I’d get him worked up and tie him to the bed for some kinky fun, and then George would pop out from his hiding spot in the bathroom and snap a Polaroid of the scene, with my hand on the guy’s erection. He’d go through the guy’s wallet and get his address, and then threaten to send the photo to his wife if he didn’t pay us.

That bit worked most of the time, but sometimes the target didn’t want to be tied up. At first, I’d just open the door for George to come out and he’d chase the guy off. But then George decided that in those cases, I should just go ahead and start giving the guy oral sex and then he’d come out and snap the picture. I was reluctant, but I was kind of afraid of him so I went along with the plan. It was also embarrassing when George would point out my Adam’s apple in the picture, and tell the guy that not only would his wife find out he’d been cheating but that he’d had gay sex. And sometimes he’d even pull my panties down to make it clear to the target that he’d been sucked off by another guy.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out that the guys in that situation ended up willing to pay more that the others, so George said that I should always blow them even when they were tied up, so that they’d feel more guilty and ashamed and we could get more money. It wasn’t pleasant, but at that point I really had no grounds to refuse to do something I’d already done.

Those days, I spent all my time in female clothes. George scolded me if he caught me acting male, like if I didn’t sit down on the toilet. He took to putting his arm around me or holding my hand when we were out in public, and at first I thought that was just part of our cover story, but he started calling me “Baby Doll” and stealing kisses even when we were alone.

More and more often, he’d check us into a motel room that only had one bed, and we’d have to cuddle. He thought the t-shirts I’d been sleeping in were too boyish, so he got me some lacy nightgowns. He said they looked very sexy on me, and inevitably he started making me give him the same kind of oral treatment I was giving our marks. It didn’t seem worth it to complain.

I guess he took that as encouragement. It wasn’t long after he’d gotten me going down on him regularly that he surprised me with the gift of an enema bottle and a tube of lubricant, and told me it was time to take our relationship to the next level. Without realizing it, I’d become George’s girlfriend. He wasn’t a horrible boyfriend, but I really wasn’t interested in having one. I let him do what he wanted to me, and like so many other girlfriends I pretended to enjoy it. He wasn’t physically violent, and he always said he loved me whenever he had an orgasm, so I put up with it. Besides, I thought I needed him to make money.

Then after a couple months of letting George fuck me, I had a moment of perfect clarity. I wasn’t really a con artist anymore — all I’d been doing to make money was giving head to men. I was a whore. And therefore I didn’t really need a partner; I could suck dicks for cash without needing any kind of elaborate scheme or setup. After I let George have his way with me one last time and he fell asleep, I packed up my things, took half of our money, and left. I hitched to the bus station and caught the first Greyhound heading south.

I settled in Miami, working the streets and turning tricks with strange men. I kept on my toes and managed to stay one step ahead of the cops and the pimps. I met some other girls like me, and learned a few techniques for keeping things hidden, as well as ways to keep a john from noticing that you’d slipped a condom onto him. It was only dumb luck that I’d avoided catching anything before. Most of the girls were on one drug or another, but I resisted their offers to make things more bearable. They did introduce me to the amazing power of padded push-up bras, and I was suddenly able to show off cleavage, despite my breasts’ small size.

Even though my new friends didn’t know I was switching back and forth, I took their advice and started getting electrolysis. Even when a client knew he was hiring a “special girl,” no one likes to get whisker burn on his thighs. I have a fairly high pain threshold, so I was able to get my face clear and smooth with only a year or so of treatments. It gave me a little more confidence in my feminine appearance, but I still avoided trying to pass as a natural girl except at night in places with poor lighting.

In a tight sports bra and a loose shirt, I could usually look okay in male clothes. Since I had to keep my arms and legs shaven for my other job, if I wore shorts or short sleeves I looked kind of gay. But I stood out even more if I wore long pants and long sleeves in Miami. I tried it anyway, if only so I could keep my skills up by running small cons on tourists — bar bets, that kind of thing.

And then I met Ruth. She was older, but she’d kept her body in great shape, and her face was ageless thanks to her doctor. She was my first real girlfriend, and probably the first person who ever accepted me completely. Ruth believed my “glandular imbalance” story, and even took advantage of my condition to teach me the proper way to caress a woman’s breast by demonstrating on me. It was one lesson that has really stuck with me. Ruth was amazing!

The time I spent with her made the rest of my life in Miami bearable. I even nearly took her up on the offer to move in with her and stay. But I knew that I’d just end up as dependent on her has I had been on George and my old man. I needed to be in control of my own life.

I told her most of the truth — that I was living part-time as a girl, and that I’d been saving up my money so I could get surgery to reduce my Adam’s apple and I’d be able to pass convincingly without having to lurk in the shadows. I’d thought that would turn her off, but instead she introduced me to the best plastic surgeon in the state of Florida, and told me not to worry about the money; she’d take care of the costs. I was amazed.

The doctor taught me that there were other differences between a male and a female face than just the lump on my neck. Ruth was willing to pay for it all, so he went ahead and gave me a full treatment. Ruth was also kind enough to nurse me through my recovery. When all the bandages had come off and the bruising was gone, I was a completely different person. Besides having a flawless new throat, the bones under my eyebrows were smoothed, my jaw was round instead of square with a smaller chin, my eyes opened a little wider, my nose was smaller and turned up slightly at the end, and I had new cheekbones.

The surgeon had done more than merely make me look feminine; he’d made me pretty. And after Ruth took me to get my hair and makeup done professionally, I was absolutely beautiful. There was no longer any question of my ability to pass as a woman. As I’d guessed, Ruth really wasn’t interested in continuing our relationship as a lesbian one. I thanked her for everything that she’d done for me, and left Florida to go start a new life for myself.

I adored the attention I received now that I was a gorgeous woman, so I stayed female full-time for almost a year as I wandered around on the east coast. I was living out of my car much of the time and it was a major chore shaving my legs in restroom sinks, so I decided to get more electrolysis to have my body hair zapped off. I even had my genitals made baby-smooth, since it made it easier to use adhesives when I wanted to tuck things out of the way, leaving just a neat little triangle in the front.

Getting men to give me their money was almost too easy. If I played some of the oldest cons in the book like begging for money to buy a bus ticket to go see my imaginary sick grandmother, guys would fall over backwards to try to be a pretty girl’s hero. Sometimes I’d get reckless and do dangerous things like make a fifty dollar bar bet with a guy that he wouldn’t follow me into the ladies’ room and give me oral sex. I really should have gotten beaten up more often. I must lead a charmed life.

I reconnected with the community, and helped out some old acquaintances work cons that needed extra people. Since I’d been doing the whole “girl thing” before, they weren’t too surprised to see my perfectly feminine self. But I did look different enough that when my friend Obie told me my dad had been working out of Charlotte, I swore Obie to secrecy and went to go play a trick on him.

I drove around for four nights checking the kinds of bar he liked before I found him. I was dressed to kill in my highest stilettos and a tight sexy dress that showed off plenty of my artificially enhanced cleavage and gave an enticing view of my silk-encased legs, and painted for war with smoky, sultry eyes and glossy red pouty lips.

I did my slinkiest walk past where he was seated at the bar and perched myself on a stool a few spaces down from his. It didn’t take long before he came over and bought me a drink. I let him flirt with me for a while, and just when he leaned in close and it seemed like he was about to steal a kiss, I grinned and asked, “So, Dad, do you still think no one would believe me as a girl?” When the realization hit him, he swore and laughed so loudly we both got thrown out of the place.

We ended up going back to his motel, swapping stories until morning. We partnered up for a few jobs, but he preferred much lower class targets than I did, so we went our separate ways after a while. Every so often I’d help him out if he was running a complicated scheme and needed a pretty face to act as a distraction. But then he put together a team for a big job and it felt too dangerous for me, so I refused and he had to go with a different girl. Things went bad.

I was on my own again for a while, and then I tried working with a new partner, a female one this time. We clicked fairly well, both personally and professionally. We landed quite a few big scores, but the last one we tried fell apart and we ended up going in different directions at the end.

After that, I worked bigger deals, but by myself. When I needed help, I’d hire someone legitimate, like an accountant or a secretary, who didn’t know that everything wasn’t on the up and up. For the most part, I worked scams that were just over the edge of legality, selling things for more than they were worth, rather than committing outright fraud. What I was doing wasn’t all that different from what the respectable businessmen down on Wall St. do.

****

Okay, now where we we? That’s right. The Russian gorilla had just told me he knew who I was. “Last December, you took Dmitri Glubonin’s money. You really should research your targets better. His uncle is a very powerful man, and he sent me to see that you pay what is owed.”

I thought I had thoroughly checked Glubonin out. He was an executive in a new Russian energy company. He was young and ambitious and very easily swayed by a pretty face. As Elizabeth Preston, a well-dressed redhead with an Ivy League vocabulary, I “accidentally” bumped into him in his hotel lobby and hooked him with just a little flirting. Over dinner I told him I was a venture capitalist about to invest in a sure thing. I said I expected my quarter of a million to sextuple in size (when trying to lure a guy, it’s always best to use words with “sex” in them) within a year, but I wouldn’t tell him exactly what I was investing in.

On our third date, I finally told him that I thought I could trust him, and told him about Solatic Research, the company I was putting my money into. I said that it was oriented around a new way of boosting the efficiency of solar cells that these university scientists had stumbled across and formed a company to develop. I rooted through my purse and handed him a business card for the CEO of Solatic, Lee Turner. He tried calling it right away, but it went to voicemail. I stopped him from trying again with a kiss, and said there were better things we could be talking about than business. I let him think he’d be getting lucky and we headed back toward his hotel, but then my phone rang and I looked to see who was calling. I told him it was my sister, and excused myself to talk to her. When I got back to him I apologized and said that my sister was having yet another crisis and she’d probably keep me on the phone for hours. I asked if we could pick up where we’d left off the following night, and kissed him deeply enough that he thought I was still interested.

The next morning I called him back with a male voice from the phone whose number I’d given him. I told him that Elizabeth had vouched for him, and he sounded like the kind of investor I was looking for. I asked him to find the fax number for the hotel, and I’d have my lawyer send him a nondisclosure agreement. Once we got it back, I’d messenger him a prospectus. The company was an actual legitimate thing; I’d filed all the proper paperwork, and I’d hired a real lawyer. The only fake part was the technology; the con itself was mostly legal.

Once he read the documents, he decided to invest, and my lawyer set up a meeting with him. He actually ended up giving me a full two million instead of the quarter I was trying to get. It was my biggest score ever. He called Elizabeth me to celebrate his decision, and I accepted a dinner invitation, but at the last minute I had to call and cancel, telling him that my sister needed me to go help her through her problem. I promised to get together with him the next time I was in town.

What I really did was use some mud brown drugstore hair dye and then trim my hair into more of a mullet, attach my fake moustache and bushy eyebrows, and then change into male clothes before leaving the hotel where Elizabeth had been staying. I’d already moved most of my stuff out, so I only had one suitcase with me. I went to the parking garage where I’d left my generic white cargo van, and left town.

Now what I should have done was just have Solatic pay me a huge salary and then go out of business. But I thought I’d get clever and tried to launder the money and make a profit at the same time by having the company theoretically buy me a piece of real estate. I figured I’d wait a few months and sell it and have it made. Unfortunately for me, the housing market collapsed, and by the time I put my property up for sale I could only get back a fraction of what I’d paid for it. In a way I got taken just like one of my own marks — I’d gotten greedy and thought I was betting on a certain winner. That had been a hard lesson to learn.

I gave bluffing my way out of this one last try. “Look, you’re making some kind of mistake. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The big guy slapped me across the face. “I don’t make mistakes. I was intelligence officer before the Union fell, and I have no doubt you are the person I’m looking for. Now no more games. Just give me the money.”

I was toast. I tried honesty for a change. “I haven’t got your two million. I got taken by an even bigger swindler. I don’t have any deals in the works right now, but give me some time and I should be able to get it for you.”

He snorted derisively. “That’s the wrong amount. You promised Mr. Glubonin twelve million.”

I took a deep breath so that he’d get another good look at my chest. It was about the only card I could play. “Maybe we could come to some kind of arrangement?”

He reached out and grabbed my crotch and gave a squeeze. “Creatures like you do not interest me.” He let go just before I was ready to pass out from the pain. “But don’t let it be said that Sergei Volkov is an unreasonable man. You told Dmitri he’d have twelve million in a year. It’s been six months already, so that gives you another six to come up with the money.”

I relaxed a little. I’d have to top my biggest score ever, but I might be able to swing it. I’d have to pull in a few favors and try to work on as many jobs as I could. “That does sound reasonable.”

His forehead wrinkled as he thought about something. “But this number twelve million is so awkward. Let’s round it up to an even twenty, to compensate for the trouble you’ve put Mr. Glubonin and his uncle through.”

That much could be a problem. I couldn’t help stammering, “That’s not fair!”

Volkov smiled, an act which made his face take on the toothy aspect of a predatory animal. “A cheater does not get to decide what is fair. And just to remind you who is in charge here, you now only have four months. Have twenty million ready for me by the first of October, or…” He drew his finger across my throat, so that I knew exactly what the stakes in this deal were.

I tried to be as humble and polite as possible as I asked, “How will I find you when I get the money?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be watching, even when you think you can’t see me. And don’t even think of trying to run and hide from me. I will find you. Are we clear, Quinn?”

I swallowed my fear. “Yes, sir. Twenty million. October first. Or else.”

He nodded, let go of me, and left the room. As soon as I was alone, I relaxed and tears poured out of me and I began shaking uncontrollably.

***

The next morning I set my self-pity aside and set to work attempting the impossible. I needed a plan to pull in five million a month. I considered trying some kind of internet scam that would take like a thousand each from twenty thousand marks, but that kind of numbers would attract the interest of the feds. That started me thinking that maybe I could just turn myself in and get locked up in a nice, safe jail. But the kind of connections Volkov talked about were the kind that can get a jailbird shanked. Not to mention the fact that my looks would be certain to turn me into the most popular girl in the men’s prison. So that option was out.

I needed to do one or two really big jobs. My research still hadn’t found me any potential targets, so I’d have to leave Atlanta and go looking somewhere else. Maybe someone else knew where the big fish were biting. I took my laptop to a coffeehouse and spent the day checking my buddy list to see if any of my acquaintances in the community were online.

I’d been at the café long enough to annoy most of the wait staff and was about to give up for the day, but then my computer beeped. Joey Meatballs had logged into IM. I was in luck — he was one of the best sources of information out there. We exchanged hellos and then had some small talk and then I told him I was in a bit of a jam and wondered if he knew about anyone who was putting together a crew for a big score where I might fit.

I said it needed to be a real motherlode of a job. He wanted to know what ballpark I was talking about, and I told him I needed seven figures at least, preferably eight. He said that was quite a tall order, and at first he said he didn’t know of anything that big being planned. But then he sent, “Actually Pie, I just remembered something.” (My nickname in the community was “QTPie.”) He explained, “A few weeks ago Trixie was nosing around looking for a girl to help her run a game. She didn’t say much, but that it was a big one so she needed someone good. You’re sometimes a girl, so maybe you could check if she’s still looking.”

I knew Trixie, but I hadn’t talked to her in quite a while. I asked Joey where she was living these days, and he told me she was running a swami shop up in Boston under the name “Madame Zaria.” Since I was already on the net, I ran a search on “Boston psychic Zaria” and got a phone number. I thanked Joey for his help and closed the chat.

I pulled out my phone and called the number. A voice straight from a Dracula movie answered, “How can Madame Zaria help you? I sense a troubled soul.”

I chuckled. “Hi, Trix. It’s Pie. All that’s troubling me at present is cash flow. Meatballs said you were working on a big score and needed a girl to help. You still looking for one?”

She broke character and switched to her normal voice. “Pie — now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. How long has it been, three years? Wow. How time does fly!” She paused long enough that I wasn’t sure if she’d heard my question, but then she spoke again. “Actually, I have got a real whale ready to be reeled in, but I’m not sure you’ve got the right bait.”

I shifted to an innocent girlish tone and said, “Please give me a chance; I’m willing to do anything for this job!” Then I added in my most sultry feminine voice, “Whatever kind of girl you need, I can be her. I’m very flexible.” I switched back to my standard female voice. “Seriously, Trix, a really dangerous man wants a whole lot of money from me, so I’m pretty desperate here.”

“You really mean that? You’re desperate enough to do anything?” She sounded incredulous. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Come up here and I’ll go over the details in person, and if you’re still ready to do what it takes, we’ll go forward.”

She was being a little too mysterious for my comfort, but I had to choice. I agreed to go meet her. I closed my phone, shut down my computer and went back to my motel. I needed to be male to check out, but I wanted to be female when I arrived up north, so I removed my fake moustache and eyebrows and then took a shower using floral-scented soap. I shampooed and conditioned my hair, but I only blotted it dry with a towel, so it still clung damply to my head.

I tucked away my junk and taped it up and then finished off with a tight thong panty. I rubbed moisturizer all over the rest of my skin before getting dressed. I pulled on a loose pair of jeans held on by a belt with a large Confederate flag buckle. I strapped down my booblets with a tight wifebeater designed for making fat guys look thinner, and threw a chamois shirt over it, with the distinct outline of a can of chaw in the pocket. I tugged a pair of cowboy boots onto my feet, slammed a trucker cap on my head, and turned into a stereotype.

I packed up everything I’d left in the room and went to the motel office to pay my bill, in cash. I usually stay in places too long to want to use a bogus credit card, and I really don’t want to leave a trail with a legitimate one. So far I’d managed to avoid any messes with law enforcement, and I preferred to keep it that way.

Before leaving Atlanta, I drove my van to a self-service car wash. I removed the magnetic decals that claimed I worked for “Jones Electrical” and then gave it a good wash, so a casual observer wouldn’t notice anything had been there. Trix hadn’t given me enough details to know what my cover story would be, so I wanted to be as generic as possible.

It was about three o’ clock when I hit the interstate. I pulled off at the first rest area in South Carolina and made the switch. I went to the back of the van where I had all the steamer trunks with my various wardrobes in them and decided to go for a comfortable casual look, since I’d be driving a while. I traded my undershirt and shirt for a padded bra and a green scoopneck t-shirt, and then swapped my boots and jeans for a pair of cork wedge sandals and a denim miniskirt. I took the clear acrylic retainers out of my pierced ears and put in some gold hoops, and then coordinated with a thin chain necklace and a bracelet wristwatch. I threw a pocketbook together with my phone, some money, my most girlish sunglasses, a few cosmetics and a license that identified me as Angela Vanderberg.

I used the ladies’ room and then put on my lipstick and mascara in front of the mirror. I’d taken off my hat and had let my hair dry as I drove, so I just needed to brush it out. I wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests, but it looked reasonably feminine. I walked through a cloud of cologne and went back to the van. I flashed a flirty smile at a guy crossing the parking lot, just to check that I hadn’t lost my touch. The way he rubbernecked and nearly walked into a trashcan proved that I still had it.

I got back on the interstate and drove all night. I only stopped twice: once for a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke, and once at the best truck stop east of the Mississippi for breakfast and a tank of gas. Hettie the waitress was very chatty so I told her how I’d gotten a job in sales up North and had rented a van to move all my worldly goods. Even though I’m thirty-two, Angela Vanderberg is only twenty-four (I take very good care of my skin), so I let her mother hen me and give me all kinds of advice that a girl traveling on her own ought to know. It made her feel good, and I got a free travel mug of coffee out of it.

I drove through the night, finally hitting Massachusetts in the morning of the next day. I didn’t want to accidentally run across Trixie’s mark before I knew what the game was, so I didn’t go all the way to Boston. I stopped in Worcester, and found a Motel 6 that had a vacancy. I called Trix to let her know I’d arrived and made plans to meet her for dinner. I hung out the “Do not disturb” card, changed into my most comfortable nightgown (just in case the housekeeper ignored the sign), and crashed into bed. I’d been driving for over eighteen hours and I was beat.

Just before noon, the phone in my room rang, loudly enough to wake me up. I realized that I should have told the desk clerk to hold my calls, but no one should have been calling me. Trix only had my cell number. The caller was probably looking for some guest that had previously stayed in the room. I picked up the receiver and said, “Whoever you’re looking for isn’t here anymore. Please don’t call this number again.”

My blood turned to ice when I recognized the voice at the other end. It was Volkov. “Hello, Quinn. I hope you’re not trying to run. “

I swallowed hard. Admittedly, part of my reason for coming up to see Trix immediately was to get away from him. He must have followed me, but I hadn’t noticed a tail on the drive. He was good. “No, I wouldn’t think of trying. I’m just tracking down a lead on how to get your money.”

“Good. Next time you decide to take any sudden trips, call me first. I’d hate for there to be another misunderstanding.”

“Okay, but I don’t have your number.”

“Yes, you do. Just press number seven on your mobile phone.” He chuckled and hung up.

I grabbed my cell and checked. Sure enough, speed dial seven now said “Volkov.” When had he done that? Was it back in Atlanta, or had he snuck into my room while I was asleep? I’d never felt more vulnerable. Even though I was still exhausted, it took me a while for the fear-induced adrenaline rush to fade so I could get back to sleep.

I woke up around six. Volkov’s call had reinforced my motivation that I had to convince Trix to let me do the job. I needed my look to be perfect, so I spent an hour and a half getting ready. When I finished, I was a sophisticated, glamorous woman. I wore a silk cocktail dress that almost looked black, but when the light hit it right you could tell it was really a very dark green. It clung to curves that had been enhanced and amplified by state of the art lingerie. My legs were sheathed in sheer black hose and deep green crocodile Manolo Blahnik slingbacks were on my feet. I wished I’d had time to get my hair and nails professionally done, but instead I’d just coaxed my hair into a messy updo and filed my nails into ovals and painted them with deep red polish and an extra-glossy topcoat.

My makeup was almost too much for the occasion. The right combination of foundation and powder gave me a flawless complexion, with just a hint of rouge on the cheeks. My lips were a blood red shade that matched my fingernails, and just as shiny. I had a perfectly thin line around my eyes in a deep black that matched the mascara that had thickened and extended my lashes. I’d blended six different colors of shadow to dramatically accent my eyes.

I also drew attention to my brilliant emerald eyes by wearing real emeralds in the jewelry that dangled from my ears as well as the pendant that rested just above the cleavage my dress’s low neckline revealed. When the taxi I’d called for showed up, I covered my shoulders with a black pashmina wrap and grabbed a clutch purse. I could tell the driver thought I was too high-class for this cheap motel, but I let him wonder whether I was a society dame cheating on her husband or just an expensive call girl.

I got to the restaurant fifteen minutes later than we’d agreed to meet, but I wanted to be assured that she’d be there for my entrance. I checked my wrap and introduced myself to the hostess as “Ms. Quincy,” and asked if my guest was already waiting. She told me that my companion had already arrived, and she was waiting in the bar. It was still ten minutes before my reservation, so I was welcome to join her until my table was ready.

I totally owned the room as soon as I walked into the bar. All eyes were on the gorgeous woman whose every movement hinted at sexual paradise. I used my sexiest walk to cross over to where Trix was seated. I smiled when her expression showed that she finally recognized me. We air-kissed our hellos and she told me I looked amazing, which I did, and I told her she was looking fine herself, which she wasn’t.

She was around sixty, but in her swami job she usually tried to look eighty. The outfit she’d put together for our meeting seemed like she was trying to look fifty, and she wasn’t quite pulling it off. Her hair was a brassy red that was either a bad dye job or a bad wig. She was wearing a black sheath dress with a jacket over it, that was probably supposed to be her version of a “LBD,” but really just made her look lumpy and shapeless. Her shoes were so pointy they looked dated and must have hurt her feet needlessly. About the best thing that could be said about her makeup was that she colored inside the lines. Whoever convinced her that pasty coral was a good lipstick for her should be hanged! And don’t even get me started on her jewelry.

I ordered a chardonnay and we reminisced about old times for a while. She wasn’t ready to get into the real conversation yet. Once we had moved to the dining room and were enjoying our meal, (I had a delicious veal saltimbocca, since I was paying she got a filet mignon, and we split a bottle of an excellent Chianti) she started to explain the situation.

“We won’t be breaking any laws, and it’s pretty much the oldest con in the book: matrimony. This really big fish is looking for a wife, and I point him to you, and then you can start bleeding his bank account.” She smiled, and I nodded for her to continue. She leaned in and spoke a little more quietly. “You’re lucky I ended up in Boston. I wouldn’t even be offering you this chance in a state where same-sex marriage wasn’t legal. Or have you gotten surgery down there by now?”

I tried to blush. “No, it’s all still original equipment. I like being able to switch back and forth between genders depending on what opportunities present themselves.”

She thought for a moment. “How important is it to you that you’re able to do that? It might be necessary for you to take steps that aren’t quite as reversible.”

I got a little scared by that, but I was even more scared of Volkov. “I’m not sure what you mean, but if the payoff for this is big enough, I’m willing to take extreme measures.”

She took a sip of her wine. “Let me start at the beginning. About a month ago, this guy comes into my shop for a reading. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but doesn’t hold his head up with any confidence. He looks to be somewhere in his late middle ages, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and serious worry lines on his face. He’s got a strong nose but a weak chin and is looking at me through wire-rimmed glasses. He asks if I’m the kind of fortune teller that can talk to ghosts. I point out the sign that says my services are for entertainment purposes only. I tell him that the law says I show that, but I truly do have the Gift as a spiritualist.”

Her story was drawing me in. I tried to interrupt and ask a question, but she cut me off and continued. “I asked him what ghost he wanted me to contact, and told him it would cost $100. He handed over his credit card and said he needed to get a message to his mother. I went over behind my counter and ran his card through my machine, which not only processed the charge but also did a quick computer search on him. My business is a lot easier with today’s technology than in the old days of cold reading.”

I spoke up. “You sell yourself short. You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen; even without any kind of high-tech assistance you can tell an amazing amount of stuff about a person.”

She appreciated my flattery, but got back to her scene. “His name is Hiram Chillington. He comes from money so old it came over on the Mayflower, literally. The family business is banking, and he’s personally worth about a billion. I decided to try to turn him into a repeat customer. I had him sit at my table and arranged some crystals between us, and told him to pick which one gave him the strongest feeling of his mother. He touched each one and then selected an open geode that was such an obvious Freudian metaphor I was surprised he didn’t notice.”

She gave me a moment to process that image and figure out what she meant. “The message he asked me to send was a short one. He wanted his mother to know that he was trying to do as she’d asked, but he might need some more time. I told him that she’d been watching, and didn’t think he was trying hard enough. Naturally, I’d correctly guessed that he was a spineless Mama’s Boy, so he believed that I was genuinely connected to her.”

I let Trix bask in her brilliance for a bit. “Sounds like you’ve got him right where you want him. So how does all this lead to my needing to take irreversible steps?”

“We’re getting there. I pretended sympathy and asked him what it was his mother needed him to do, and asked if there was anything I could do to help him get it done. He told me that his mother had recently passed from a prolonged fight with cancer. As she lay in her deathbed, she said she was worried that he’d be alone when she was gone. His two older brothers had families of their own, but he was still single. She made him promise that he’d get married before his fortieth birthday, which as it turns out is next September. I was surprised that he was that young; time has not been kind to him. I told him that every soul in the universe has a mate, and I’d use my Gift to try to sense the lines of fate guiding him toward the one he was destined to be with.”

“So that’s where I come in? You’re going to lead this guy to me, and I get him to fall for me, we get quickie married before September (which lines up nicely with my own deadline) and then I deplete his bank account before divorcing him and taking half his fortune? That sounds like something I could handle. I’ve never taken it that far, but I have charmed men out of their money before. I think I might even enjoy being a high society wife.”

Trix looked at me. “That’s the idea, but there’s a complication. I already started telling him about his future bride. I was working the con with Chloe, but she changed her mind and backed out of the deal.”

***

That was a name that took me back. I first met Chloe in Virginia Beach when we were both called in to work as shills on a job run by Sammy Winks, a guy I knew through my old man. It was a fixed poker game to fleece a couple of whales. She and I were there to keep the marks distracted enough that they didn’t figure out what was going on. We were paired with a couple of guys playing our boyfriends, these fake Ivy League douchebag types whose names I don’t remember. The targets thought they were there to there to take the young morons’ money, when secretly it was the other way around.

She was a naturally curvy natural blonde, so most of her expertise was at playing “dumb and pretty.” At the time I was an unnatural strawberry blonde with curves courtesy of my foundation garments, so I’d had to work harder at being a seductress. We hadn’t practiced anything, but we played off each other brilliantly. She played off my cues, and I played off hers, and we drew the players’ attention by cattily flirting with each other’s fake boyfriend. It escalated to the point where we teased about having a threesome with whoever won the game, and exchanged some wet kisses to keep them all turned on.

The plan worked perfectly and we took the whales’ money and talked our partners into giving us a bigger cut. Sammy didn’t care, so he just went along with it. I told Chloe she’d been a pleasure to work with, and complimented her kissing. She caught that I was making a play, and said that she was regrettably not a lesbian. I said that wasn’t a problem since I was a dude. Chloe was surprised, and Sammy just laughed when I tried to get him to vouch for me. The douchebags didn’t believe it, so I bet them the rest of their money that I could prove it. I excused myself to the bathroom to release my adhesives, and then came out and lifted my skirt for them to see. The guy I’d been making out with earlier threw up, I collected my winnings, and Chloe’s eyes widened. Sammy thought the whole thing was hilarious. I tucked things back in place, pulled my panties on, and then Chloe and I went back to her room.

We struck up a partnership in both our private lives and our work that lasted for quite a while. It was a lot of fun. Mostly we worked romance angles, getting rich guys to give us stuff. Often we’d even pretend to be sisters, and they usually bought the ruse. Although there was this time we were on a ship and made so much noise in bed that the people in the next cabin looked at us funny for the rest of the cruise.

It wasn’t completely smooth between us; Chloe was jealous of my skills at luring men. She thought that with her sexy curves she should be the one drawing the boys’ eyes, but I did better at capturing their brains with my subtle movements and driving their fantasies with my words. Since I didn’t have her natural advantages, I’d had to work harder at using what I did have. She could get a guy’s interest just by wearing the right outfit, so she’d never put any effort into improving her seduction technique. The metaphor I usually used was that she was a sexier woman in a photograph, but I was a sexier woman in a video.

I tried to coach her to do better, but it bugged her to have a boyfriend that was better at being a woman than she was. It really bothered her that I could dress her and do her makeup more attractively than she could do on her own. She’d never needed to do much to look good and took pride in her ability to look naturally beautiful. But when I applied my skills and talents to her, I could make her look absolutely gorgeous. Those were the only lessons I gave her that she paid attention to.

The other source of conflict between us was that she had a few problems with my methods. She thought that it was better to tease the mark without actually delivering sex, but I had no problem giving the guy a little something. She thought I was degrading myself by going down on a man, but as long as proper precautions were taken so I didn’t catch any diseases, I saw no problem with it. My position was that the only person who can humiliate you is you, and it’s impossible for someone else to tell you what you’re worth. I’d put a lot of time and effort into improving my oral skills, so I saw absolutely no harm in using them to bring another human being physical pleasure. I also thought it made the targets less likely to seek revenge. But I could never bring her around to my point of view.

All told we lasted about a year and a half. The last con we ran ended badly. We’d set our sights higher than usual, and the guys we’d picked to scam were seriously loaded. Instead of settling for the usual trinkets and gifts, we were trying to get our marks to buy shares of a bogus company we’d set up. I was still new at the investment racket, so my dummy documents didn’t quite pass muster. And to make matters worse, the target turned out to have a friend who was a G-man.

So federal agents crashed the meeting we’d set up in a rented office space, and we knew the jig was up. We didn’t have a contingency plan for failure, so I had to improvise. We ducked and ran, sneaking through back rooms of neighboring spaces. It seemed like the safest option was to split up, and we took separate cars out of the place. I even stopped to switch disguises and genders first.

It was the closest I’d ever come to getting caught; I freaked out and withdrew from circulation for a couple months. I think Chloe blamed me for the game going wrong, because I eventually heard that she was looking for me and wanted money. I wasn’t about to take all the responsibility for what went wrong. I put the word out to let her know from my end it seemed like our partnership was through.

***

She snapped me out of my reminiscing. “I’d given him a general description, so he’s expecting to fall in love with a curvaceous blonde. Changing your hair is easy, but how would you feel about getting a boob job?”

So that was the step she’d been hinting at. “Are you sure that would be necessary?” I gestured at myself. “I look pretty curvy in this dress, don’t I, even if some of my curves do come from what I’m wearing under it? All the men in the room who keep stealing glances at me must think I’m sexy enough.”

She shook her head. “It’s not just a question of being sexy. I think I may have even used the word ‘voluptuous.’ You are beautiful in that dress, but none of the men in here would describe your figure as busty. You’ve got what, maybe a B cup, and that’s with padding?” I nodded, and she went on. “And unfortunately, I’ve already set up the scenario where he meets his dream girl, and padding won’t cut it. He’s supposed to be walking his dog on the beach, and he’ll notice a buxom blonde in a yellow bikini. And he’ll know she’s the one when she loses her top. I think the promise of getting to see breasts is what’s kept him coming back to me for more clues.”

“So I guess you’re right. I’d pretty much have to get a boob job.” I emptied my wine glass. “How much time do I have to get it done? Is there a particular date this meeting is supposed to happen? And what beach will I have to arrange to be on?”

“Does that mean you’re in?” She raised her glass in a toast. “To our success!”

I touched my glass to hers and tried to smile. I was going to have to go back under the knife, and implants would definitely make it hard for me to keep my gender a part time thing. But at this point I really didn’t have much of a choice. This deal would get me plenty of money; I could get the Russians off my back, and I could stay alive; plus maybe I’d be able to get them taken out sometime later on and everything could go back to the way it was.

Trixie’s smile was sincere. “There’s no set time or date, but he spends every weekend at his family beachhouse out on the Cape. And a silver lining for you is that it’s in Provincetown, so if he discovers too soon that you’re a tranny and says you tried to trick him, you can point out that you met him in one of the gayest places on the planet so he should have known. His family is so straightlaced that he’s the only one who ever uses the place, and he only likes it because the beach is dog-friendly.”

Over dessert (we split an absolutely scrumptious tiramisu), we hashed out the details of the plan. I’d need to set myself up a cover identity, for what I was going to tell him. I had to find an apartment in Boston and a job, and because we were trying to make things as legal as possible, I’d need to do everything in my real name. She volunteered to do some internet research and make a few phone calls, to find me a surgeon with a good reputation who could fit me in as soon as possible. My story would be that I was a transsexual who’d recently come into some money and I wanted a bikini-ready body to enjoy the summer.

The next few days were a blur. My first stop was finding a salon that would squeeze me in to get my hair dyed, trimmed and styled. I treated myself to a mani/pedi while I was there. I then worked the classifieds, to find a decent place to live that didn’t need references from my last landlord. I ended up finding a third-floor studio in a relatively safe neighborhood that wasn’t too pricey.

I then needed to go shopping to furnish the place. If everything went according to plan, I’d most likely be inviting my new boyfriend over at some point, so I needed the apartment to look like authentic. I went for a décor that was mostly neutral with just a few feminine touches here and there. One trip to Ikea satisfied most of my furniture needs. I was able to get most of the flatpacked boxes up the stairs on my own, but I’d bought a loveseat that gave me a little trouble. It wasn’t heavy, but it was just a little too big to handle easily. One of my new neighbors noticed my difficulty and offered to carry one end for me. He was a well-built guy somewhere in his mid-twenties, with curly red hair and a ladykiller smile. His name was Chris Farrel, and he lived on the second floor. I introduced myself and said that I’d just moved from Philly and was eager to start a new chapter of my life in Boston. It was the backstory I’d settled on, since I had a valid Pennsylvania driver’s license that labeled me as female, and had my real name. The chance of my soon to be boyfriend meeting my neighbors was low, but it never hurts to keep your story consistent. I thanked Chris for his help, and he welcomed me to the building. I promised to invite him over when I had everything unpacked.

I went to a quality furniture store for a top-of-the-line queen size mattress set, and paid to have it delivered. When the time came, I wanted my bed to look inviting. I did select a comforter and pillows in a floral pattern, but it wasn’t too garishly colored, so I don’t think it was excessively girlish. Besides, some of the flowers seemed rather “Georgia O’Keefe” in shape and might subliminally suggest things to my future gentleman caller.

I used one of my steamer trunks as a coffee table, to keep my room from looking too new. I wanted something that showed that I had a history. I left the other trunks in my van with all my male stuff, and found a storage facility where I could pay to keep it parked. A cargo van didn’t fit with the image I was trying to project. I bought a used Mazda that better suited my style. My apartment came with a permit that let me park on the street in my neighborhood, but there were always more cars than spots. I spent some time getting to know the city’s mass transit system.

***

I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it, but Trix called and let me know she’d found a plastic surgeon that would be able to fit me onto his schedule. She’d made an appointment for me and gave me the address, but she wouldn’t be coming with me; we thought it best to limit the people who saw us together, just in case.

I spent a while before I went to the doctor getting psyched up for my surgery, although really it was more like brainwashing myself. I couldn’t let the surgeon suspect that my heart really wasn’t in it, so I did my best to suppress all my masculine feelings. I had to make myself become excited about the idea of getting implants. I thought about how if I was already able to wrap men around my little finger with merely B-cups through padding, what more would I be able to accomplish with braless D-cups? And there would be so many new fashion opportunities to explore, from strapless evening gowns to sheer lingerie. I made a promise to myself that when the whole thing was over and I was a rich divorcée, I’d go lie on a topless beach somewhere on the Riviera and sneakily enjoy the view. I’d no longer be able to switch to being male sometimes, but I made more money when I was a woman anyway.

My attempt at self-delusion worked; I was almost smiling when I walked into the medical building. Dr. Nolan Stone was a handsome, silver-haired man in a tailored suit. He brought me into his office to discuss what I wanted him to do. He let me know that he’d been told of my gender situation, and said that although he didn’t do genital surgeries himself, he could refer me to someone who did. I assured him that I wasn’t ready to take that step, but I was interested in getting my breasts done.

I gave him the speech I’d rehearsed, and even managed to shed a couple tears. I explained how I’d recently inherited a few thousand, so I was able to budget the surgery. I said that I was just tired of having to wear a padded bra in order to feel confident in my gender. I told him how whenever I had to change in a locker room, I’d felt like all the real women were staring at me as though they could tell my secret. I said that I wanted a figure where when people are staring it’s the good kind of attention. I wished to be able to turn heads if I were to walk down the beach; I didn’t want another summer to go by before I could look good in a bikini.

He said that surgery wasn’t a decision to be made lightly, and I told him that I’d been thinking about this for a while, and it was only that I could finally afford it that I was in a hurry. I also pointed out that I’d already had my face done, so this wouldn’t be my first time under the knife for femininity. He was a little surprised by that revelation, but he took a closer look at me and he could tell what had been done. He said the other doctor had done excellent work, and I had to tell him all about my surgeon in Miami.

Since I seemed to understand all the risks, he agreed to go ahead. He brought in an assistant with a form for me to fill out, and she ran a credit check on me since I didn’t have any insurance and would be footing the entire bill. Fortunately I had opened an account at a local bank and gotten money transferred in from my bank in the Caymans, so my finances checked out fine. Once they were sure I could pay, I was led into an examination room.

I had to strip to my panties and stand still while the nurse took photos of me from in front, behind and on both sides. Then the doctor felt me up and then pinched my skin all over. No, I’m doing him a disservice. Of all the men who’ve touched my little breasts, Dr. Stone was the most respectful. He told me he was checking my skin’s elasticity, to see how big we’d be able to go, and determining how much of my chest was muscle and how much was breast tissue.

He then did something behind my back where he used some kind of tool to pinch at the skin. When he was done, he left the room to let me get dressed and then the nurse took a couple blood samples. I had to wait a little bit but then I was brought back into the doctor’s office.

He had a computer screen on his desk pointed toward me, and he had it show the pictures they’d just taken of me. He said he thought the biggest increase my skin could handle was to go up about three cup sizes to a very full C, almost a D. He clicked a button on his side, and the image on the screen changed so that I had the new breast size he was proposing. They were big! But they still seemed to fit my body; I didn’t look like a cartoon or a freak. The person I saw was just a woman with a large bust that even seemed within the range of natural sizes.

We discussed placement and material options, he handed me some sample implants to squeeze, to get a feel for their weight and consistency. After reviewing the risks and aesthetic differences, we both agreed that the best choice was to go with silicone gel implants inserted under the muscle. He showed me the difference in the simulated image, and I really liked the shape my new breasts would have under those conditions, as well as preferring the less squishy feel of silicone over saline.

The doctor changed the view so I was looking at my new busty self in profile, and my chest seemed even more noticeable. Then he flipped it around to the back, and I saw my same old self. He said that if I really wanted a figure that would be impressive on the beach, I needed some curves on the bottom as well as the top. He said that I still had a thicker waist and narrower hips than a natural woman, and adding more on top would only emphasize my body’s triangular shape more.

He recommended a procedure he called microinjection contouring, or more commonly known as a “Brazilian butt lift,” where he would remove fat cells from my stomach and waist and back with a smaller than usual liposuction needle, and then use them to reshape my buttocks. He clicked something on his computer and the picture on my screen changed again. My rear end was now round and sexy. The front view showed that he’d given me more of an hourglass figure instead of a triangle, but it was the profile view that was the most striking — I was curvy in all the right places.

Dr. Stone cautioned me that my results my not look exactly like the simulation, but he’d used the measurements he’d taken of my body fat to determine how much he had to work with. I was surprised that I had that much; I pride myself on keeping in shape. He assured me that even a healthy person has some extra fat, and I in particular could do this since he’d be helping my fat go from a male distribution pattern to a female one.

What sold me on getting the procedure was when he said that by law he was required to tell me that results were not permanent, and the transplanted cells didn’t always take. Since I didn’t really want to be stuck in a female shape forever, it suited me just fine. On the other hand, he warned me that since the breast size I’d asked for was such a large increase, it was unlikely I’d ever be able to go back to my natural cup size. There’s only so much elasticity in human skin. If at some point after my surgery I were to find that I didn’t like being so large, complete removal of the implants would leave me looking deflated. My only options at that point would be new smaller implants or major scarring.

I really didn’t want to hear that; it threw a monkey wrench into my whole plan for this new look to be temporary, but since the mark was expecting a bosomy blonde there was nothing I could do about it. I’d just have to revise my concept for what I’d do after this job was over.

He gave me a form to sign agreeing to the procedures, and said he wouldn’t accept it any earlier than 72 hours. He always gave his patients time to think about it to avoid making rash decisions.

I asked if it would be possible to get both surgeries done at the same time. I didn’t want to have to go through the whole post-surgical recovery period any longer than necessary, and be able to have a good chunk of bikini season left by the time my new body was ready to be shown off.

He told me that another doctor would be leery of doing both procedures at the same time, having me resting on your back for two weeks after the breast enhancement and then resting on my stomach for two weeks after the buttock contouring. But Dr. Stone said that his practice followed the Rapid Recovery philosophy, a breast enhancement technique invented by a doctor in Texas. He figured that I would likely be able to resume most of my regular activities within a couple of days after the surgery; I’d just have to lay off very strenuous cardio exercise for a few weeks since elevated blood pressure or heart rate could cause bleeding. He estimated that if all went well, I’d be able to show off my new bikini body at the beach within three to four weeks after my operations.

It was a difficult decision, but in the end I really didn’t have a choice. I showed up promptly after the required waiting period with my paperwork all filled out and ready to go, with my signature in three places and my initials in four. The receptionist took my forms and a deposit check so they could order my implants, and then told me the doctor had said he wanted to see me. I had to wait a little, but then I was shown into his office. He surprised me by saying he’d discussed my case with a colleague, and asked if I was willing to come in the following afternoon to see her. I figured it couldn’t hurt, (famous last words) so I agreed.

When I returned for my new appointment, Dr. Stone introduced me to Dr. Sebastian, a tall woman with chestnut brown hair done up in a tight bun and an athletic build under her lab coat. It turned out she was an endocrinologist. He’d brought her in to consult, since he thought I was a transgender patient concerned about my development.

She said they’d tested my blood, and noticed that I wasn’t on a hormone regimen, but from my photos she guessed that I had been at some point. I hadn’t prepared a lie in advance so I told her the basic truth that I’d been on hormones for a year and a half when I was sixteen, and stopped when I couldn’t afford them any more. She gave me a funny look and said that I must be misremembering, since doctors were forbidden from giving a minor hormone replacement therapy, and if I’d been self-medicating that would of course have been illegal. So she revised my story and said that it must have been when I was eighteen.

I had to go into the examination room and strip off my clothes again. Both doctors, plus a nurse, came in to look at me. I felt very vulnerable standing there in just my panties as Dr. Sebastian felt up my little booblets, and even more so when she pulled down my underwear and removed the tape to examine my genitals. I was embarrassed to be seen in my complete state, halfway between the sexes. I think I heard the nurse gasp, like they hadn’t told her what to expect.

Dr Sebastian concluded her probing and let me get dressed. She said she had good news for me, that if I resumed a program of hormone replacement therapy she expected that I’d be able to get the larger bust I desired. Her opinion was that my breast development was only in early Stage Four (out of Five) so there was more potential for natural growth. I thanked her but said that I didn’t want to wait that long for my sexy figure, so I’d be going through with my enhancement surgery instead.

Dr. Stone chimed in and said that I didn’t understand why he wanted Dr. Sebastian to see me. He said he knew I was disappointed in the maximum size he could give me, so he said that his surgery in combination with her hormone treatments could ultimately get me to that D-cup I’d been dreaming of. Also, he said that adjusting my hormone levels closer to female norms would help me keep the new shape he’d be giving my buttocks as my natural fat deposits rearranged themselves. He seemed really happy for me, and I tried to emulate his enthusiasm.

I needed to think of an excuse why I didn’t want the treatment. In retrospect, it was unfortunate that I’d had to keep up the story Trix had given them about me that I was striving to become completely female. If it had been up to me, I might have been able to seek out a doctor willing to operate on a sex worker seeking to improve that “chick with a dick” look. But I’d started out with one story and had already paid them enough that it would be annoying to have to start over with a new doctor.

So I had to stick with claiming to be legitimately transgendered. I took the best shot I could, a hail Mary, and shyly told Dr. Sebastian that I didn’t want hormone treatments because they’d shrink my penis, and when the time came to get my surgery to turn it into a vagina, length would turn into depth and I didn’t want to have trouble fitting a man inside me. She reassured me that I was already on the large side of average, so even if there was some reduction in size I should have plenty of material left for my SRS surgeon to work with. She joked that if I was lucky enough to have a particularly well-hung boyfriend I might end up needing a little stretching and have to work at it for a while to take him all inside, but it would be an enjoyable kind of work.

I’d gotten painted into a corner. I couldn’t think of another way to turn down what the person I was pretending to be would have wanted wholeheartedly, so I agreed to the treatment. I figured that maybe I’d skip a few pills and it wouldn’t be so strong, but she started me off with an injection and a patch stuck to my skin as well as a prescription for some pills, and she’d be monitoring my blood regularly to make sure everything was as it should be. That meant I’d have to take the right dosages at least through my post-surgical recovery, since my doctors would be talking to each other.

When I got home I was an emotional wreck. I blamed it on the new estrogens flooding my system, and had a good long cry over how messed up my whole situation had become. Gone was my plan to temporarily enhance my body’s femininity and put it back the way it was after I’d paid off the Russians, and now in its place was the reality that I’d be living full-time as a woman for the foreseeable future, with more lasting changes to both the chemistry and shape of my body. I was depressed, nervous, and more than a little scared.

***

Fortunately or unfortunately, I didn’t get very long to stew in my emotional juices. A week and a half later, Dr. Stone was able to schedule an operating room for me in an uptown hospital. He gave me a very specific regimen to follow the day before my surgery that included a prescription for some special drugs I had to take. I forced myself to go through the step-by-step mechanical process, and it made it easier to brainwash myself again into appearing more positive than I actually was.

I checked into the hospital and got taken to a nice room, and got introduced to the anesthesiologist and the next thing I knew I was in a different nice room, feeling kind of tingly and foggy and wearing new underwear. When I was lucid enough the nurse fetched Dr. Stone, who told me that everything had gone very well and he helped me out of my hospital gown and showed me that I was in a new bra. I looked down at my breasts, which seemed so huge! It must have been a special recovery room for cosmetic surgery patients, because there was a large mirror on the wall where I could get a better look at my new attributes.

He also explained that I was wearing a compression garment that was kind of like a girdle running from just below my bra to halfway down my thighs. This was to hold my new contours in position as I healed. In the mirror it looked like I was just wearing a waist cincher and a padded brief, but really the only padding there was me. I was still fairly numb, so it didn’t quite seem real. The girdle was crotchless so I’d be able to go to the bathroom while wearing it, and the doctor had been kind enough to tuck my bits into place and put on my panties over it so only a few people in the hospital would have to know my secret. I was supposed to keep the compression thing on 24/7 until he told me it could come off, but he said I could switch the surgical bra for any 36C sports bra whenever I was ready as long as I kept one on most of the time.

I had to wait a little longer in my recovery room before they said I could be released from the hospital. The annoying part is that the way they could tell my anesthesia had completely worn off was by waiting for me to feel pain. There was a nurse hovering around so I did get taken care of pretty quickly, but it was a rough sensation when the fog faded to be replaced by a wave of pain that somehow managed to be both sharp and dull at the same time. I needed to be fully cognizant to sign my release forms, but as soon as I did, I got to take a pill.

After the doctors cleared me to leave, they let me get dressed. I’d brought a loose-fitting cotton dress that buttoned all the way up so it was easy to put on, and a pair of relatively flat sandals. I put on a little bit of lipstick just to feel civilized. It was only when I tried to sling my purse over my shoulder that I realized exactly how big my new breasts were. There were a lot of things I’d have to learn how to do all over again.

Dr. Stone had told me that I should refrain from sitting until the fat grafts in my butt lift took. He had even recommended hiring a shuttle bus rather than a taxi to take me home, so I could ride standing. Also, since I lived alone and most patients need some help the first couple of days, he referred me to a service to provide me with a visiting nurse. The hospital was nice enough to call both services to let them know I was ready, so as soon as I checked out, my transportation and assistant were ready.

The doctor brought a wheelchair with a special donut pillow on it to escort me out. I liked that he was taking personal care of me instead of making an orderly or nurse do it, but it was still a stupid hospital policy to make patients who weren’t supposed to be sitting use wheelchairs in order to be released.

In the lobby he introduced me to the LPN the service had sent. I was surprised that they’d given me a male nurse, a tall, buff Latino named Enrique, but it made sense when he explained that he’d be able to do a better job lifting or supporting me while my legs were sore than a smaller woman would have. He had a sassy lilt in his accent, so I was less surprised when he told me that he was gay, so I wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to take advantage of me.

I winked at him and in my best Miami Spanish I told him that I wasn’t a complete girl so he still might get tempted. It was his turn to be surprised, and he told me he never would have guessed. He took my hand and brought me to my feet, and grabbed my pillow and purse with his other hand. I thanked Dr Stone and gave him a little hug, and then Enrique walked me through the door and across the lot to where our shuttle bus was waiting.

I don’t think I’d have been able to make it up all the steps to my apartment if it hadn’t been for Enrique. I swore that the next place I lived in would have an elevator. He distracted me with small talk about where I’d learned Spanish, which led to a conversation where we discovered that we’d both been to some of the same clubs in South Beach. But he was still focused enough to catch me every time I stumbled. I was exhausted when I finally got inside, I wanted to collapse. But Enrique would only let me lean against the back of a chair while he made me drink a bottle of water.

When it was finally okay for me to take a nap, he arranged the two thick foam-rubber pillows that I’d bought in advance of the surgery so that I could lie on by bed face down with one under my stomach and one under my shoulders, and my breasts could hang free without being squashed. It was an awkward position to sleep in, but I was tired enough that I didn’t care.

Enrique stayed with me for two and a half days, pushing me further than I would have liked, but I do think he was one of the biggest reasons why my recovery went so smoothly and relatively quickly. He had to keep scolding me every time I forgot and tried to sit down. Ironically, it was only now that my shape was more female than ever that I was standing to pee again like a male. My slave driver made me practice going up and down those damn stairs, and we walked to the subway station to get to my first follow-up appointment at the doctor’s office.

It was at the doctor’s that I got my first look at my new breasts naked. I hadn’t looked during my sponge baths, since I was afraid that I’d see bloody bandages or Frankenstein-y stitches, or worse — that my boobs would look misshapen or too fake. But what I saw in the mirror instead was a sexy topless woman with a really decent rack! They could almost pass for real. My areolas had even stretched out in perfect circles, and my nipples were pointing in the right direction. I was amazed. The doctor said I seemed to be healing well with no sign of infection, and then he let me put on a fresh bra.

It was a little harder for him to check on the other work he’d done, since he didn’t want to remove the compression garment. But he did have a special light he could shine that could see through the fabric, and he said I didn’t have any more bruising than he’d expected. I also checked in with Dr. Sebastian for another blood sample.

Enrique left me his number in case I had any emergencies, and said he’d come by to bathe me every other day, but otherwise I was on my own. Since standing around my apartment was pretty boring, I went walking around my neighborhood, going only as far as I thought I could handle. I made myself go just a little bit further and faster every day.

Gradually, I felt up to running light errands. I got some nice flowers to make my place feel more feminine, and that inspired a trip to a thrift shop for the perfect vase, an old porcelain ginger jar with just a tiny chip in it that you couldn’t see when it was full of flowers. But cut flowers don’t last forever, so I went out a couple days later and bought a potted plant for the kitchen, and eventually I needed one in the bedroom, too.

I liked the personality that the vase gave the place, so I went to other second-hand stores for a few assorted tchotchkes and souvenirs of fake childhood memories to make my rooms look even less like a furniture catalog. I also had fun browsing in a used book store to find well-worn copies of what I’d later call my favorite books.

All in all it took eight visits to the office and a little under four weeks before Dr. Stone finally took the compression girdle off of me without immediately replacing it with a clean one. He said the grafts were all healthy and alive, and I was finally allowed to sit down again. He had a pair of full-length mirrors set up so I could take a good look at myself from behind. My new butt wasn’t quite as impressive as my boobs; I wasn’t going to win any “bodacious badonkadonk” contests, but I was nicely rounded and close to the ideal heart shape. It was definitely a female posterior. The square male hips and thick waist were gone. When I was dressed again, I gave my doctor a big thank you hug and a little kiss on the cheek for doing such amazing work on me, and I was kind of sad that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

I really wanted to stop seeing Dr. Sebastian too, but I’d been researching the effects of hormones on the web and stopping them abruptly wasn’t recommended. I looked up the symptoms of getting too much and did my best to convince her to lower my dosage. The problem was I was just getting off the pain killers for my surgery, so I couldn’t claim a headache, and trying to say my breasts were tender would make her blame the implants. It was impossible for me to claim vaginal bleeding, so the best I could do was say I was worried the hormones were screwing with my head and causing mood swings that were too severe. She said my hormone levels were right where they should be according to the tests, and thought I was just being a typical male exaggerating the things all women put up with on a regular basis, so she told me to stick with her prescribed regimen for another month and we would reassess the situation then. It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it would have to do.

***

As soon as I got home I took a long, soothing bubble bath, getting completely clean for the first time since my procedures. I spent extra time moisturizing my skin all over afterward, getting a good feel for all my feminine curves. I felt very sexy, and it was a little frustrating that the few masculine parts I had left didn’t want to come out and play, but I needed my sleep anyway. I slipped on my favorite nightie and evicted those horrible foam pillows from the bed and had my first comfortable night in a long time.

The next day I had a lot of shopping to do so I got up early and glued my tucked-away parts in place after my shower, and then put on a tight thong panty that looked great with my enhancements and one of my new sports bras. I dressed simply, in a light blue sleeveless t-shirt that was a little tighter than it used to be, and a knee-length navy cotton casual skirt with a drawstring I could tighten to fit my new waist. I put my hair up in an easy ponytail and kept my jewelry and makeup fairly minimal. I wore a pair of wedges with a moderate heel, since I needed to learn what impact my new center of gravity had on my posture.

My car was a little filthy from being parked for a month, so my first stop was a trip through a car wash. I tried flirting with the attendant to get the full treatment for the price of the basic wash, and even though I had glammed down my look, I was still a girl with big boobs, so he let me do it. I gave him a made up number and asked him to call me sometime.

I was fortunate in that my favorite lingerie boutique had a branch in Boston. That was my next stop. I asked the salesgirl if I could be measured for a bra fitting, and when we were alone I confided that I’d recently been enhanced and wasn’t sure of my new size. She winked and swore herself to secrecy. Her measurements and calculations had me halfway between a 36C and a 36D, just like the doctor had said. She recommended that I go with the C for a push-up or demi bra, but in a full cup style I might want to try a D.

I tried on twenty or so different bras and left the store with twelve of them in a shopping bag and wearing a new t-shirt bra under my top. It provided much better definition than the sports bra had, and didn’t squish them as tightly so they looked even bigger. I already owned matching panties for most of the bras, but a couple of them were in styles and colors I hadn’t tried back when I was a member of the itty bitty titty committee, so I bought three pairs of new panties for each of those.

My next stop was a sleazier lingerie shop, for some peekaboo and tearaway bras, a merry widow and a couple of teddies in my new size. I wasn’t expecting that my target was that kinky, but I wanted some really slutty stuff just in case. Trixie’s brief had described him as really straight-laced, but some of those uptight guys turn into major freaks behind closed bedroom doors.

Then came my most important purchase. I needed to find a bikini in a shade of yellow that didn’t look hideous with my coloration. I had to go to five different stores before I found one that I liked. It had a triangle top that I thought I could tie in a slip-knot so it would fall off easily enough. And it had a full-coverage bottom, wide enough in the crotch that it would conceal all my secrets. And I could buy the pieces as separates, which was good since my top wanted a larger size than my bottom and I didn’t want to have to buy two swimsuits and get extra parts. I found a nice green crocheted sarong that would work as a coverup, and a coordinating beach hat.

I was almost equipped for my mission. I went back to one of the stores where I didn’t like the bathing suits but they had other things I liked better than at the other one. I picked up a tote bag, a beach towel, a blanket, and a new pair of sandals. Then at a drugstore I got some suntan lotion, a cheap pair of sunglasses, a steamy paperback romance, and a couple liters of water. Now I was ready.

There was still some more shopping I wanted to do. I went to a mall that didn’t seem too cheap or too upscale, and bought some clothes that did a good job showing off my new body. I got a couple pairs of tight jeans that made my ass look so amazing that I had to get them even though they were uncomfortable as hell on my male parts. I got some tops with built-in cups that I could wear without a bra, and a few similarly made sundresses. There were also some casual spaghetti tanks in a style that had a “shelf bra” inside to hold up my boobs. Finally, I got this very sexy black nightgown that clung to all my curves, and a coordinating kimono-style robe to wear over it.

I still wasn’t done updating my wardrobe. When I got all my purchases home, I emptied my closet and tried on all my old clothes. Then I divided them into three piles: things that fit okay, things that didn’t fit quite right and needed to be taken to a seamstress for alteration, and things that didn’t fit at all (like nearly every bra I’d previously owned).

The whole process took quite a while. I decided to have some fun with it, and turned on some music and practiced my sexy moves in each outfit as though I was a model in a fashion show. You never really appreciate how large your wardrobe is until you try to wear it all in one sitting. I had to take a break in the middle to eat my dinner.

Just as I was changing out of a tweed skirt suit that needed a little more room in the jacket, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was Volkov. I’d almost forgotten about him. He said, “I just wanted to let you know I am appreciating your little stripper show. When I saw you go to that plastic surgeon I was worried you were trying to get a new face to hide from me. But instead you were getting a sexy body. It looks good on you. Did you go all the way and get the sex change operation?”

I didn’t know what to say. He’d been following me, and now he was watching me? I channeled my fear into sassy bravado. “No, sorry. I’m still male. You’ll just have to deal with thinking a man is sexy.”

He laughed. “I told you before. You’re no man; you’re a bitch, though maybe a better looking one now. Almost good enough that if you don’t have the money in time I might give you sex before taking care of you.”

I very nearly teased him some more before I caught a glimpse of my reflection and saw the tiny glowing red dot between my shoulders, and it told me that Volkov was probably in the building across the street, and he probably wasn’t just playing with a laser pointer. I was reminded of exactly what stakes I was playing for, and I wasn’t in a mood for teasing any more. I shut the window and closed the curtains. I continued going through my closet, but it wasn’t quite as fun.

***

I let Trix know that I was good to go, and had her arrange my reservation for a weekend in Provincetown. For my part, I needed to see about getting a job for my cover story. I looked through the local newspapers and websites with job postings, and tried to find something I was qualified to do that would believably cover my expenses.

My biggest problem was that I couldn’t prove any of my experience and I had no references. I decided to use that as the core of my plan. I made an appointment for an interview with Thompson Temps to try to get a clerical job. I mixed some truth in with the fabrication and told them that I had just moved to Boston from Philadelphia to start fresh, and that my previous job had been as administrative assistant to the chairman of an investment firm that collapsed due to the recession. I used the name of one of the fake companies I’d used in a scam, so there would be some kind of a history if they tried to google it.

I showed up promptly for my meeting, dressed in a newly re-tailored beige skirt suit and a pale pink high-necked blouse. Despite the summer heat, I was in pantyhose. I wore closed-toe burgundy pumps with a moderate heel on my feet, and carried a matching bag, something between a purse and a briefcase. My hair was in a French braid, my makeup was subdued in natural tones, and my only jewelry was a small pair of pearl earrings. I presented the image of a consummate conservative professional.

My interview went perfectly. I met with a pleasant woman named Mavis Palmer. She was fiftyish and a little overweight, but carried herself well. She seemed to believe I was everything I appeared to be, and I had answers for all her questions about my work history. She was impressed when I told her I was fluent in Spanish and Dutch and could could carry on a light conversation in Mandarin or Japanese, although I couldn’t read or write those.

She then took me into a room with a computer so I could be tested to verify that I knew all the programs I’d said I did. Making all the documents and websites and presentations for my fake companies over the years had given me a decent proficiency at Microsoft’s Office suite. I told her I could use Windows although I had a Mac at home, so either kind of computer was fine with me. She tested me on both, and I proved that I wasn’t lying. Well, not about that anyway.

Then I was led into a room that was set up as a sort of “practice office,” and I had to demonstrate that I could operate a photocopier, a fax machine, a multi-line phone, and even a coffee maker. I felt really silly, but didn’t let it show. I performed all the tasks I was asked to do with aplomb and grace.

Mavis told me I did very well. We went back to her office and she said I’d be an excellent fit with the company. She couldn’t promise anything, but said that it was very likely I’d be hearing from them with an offer. Sure enough, it was only a couple days later that I was returning to sign my employment papers. So I had a job, but I’d only get paid if they had a client who needed me. I still had plenty of savings, so it suited my needs fine. I now had an answer in case the guy I was supposed to flirt with asked, “So what do you do?”

It didn’t take long for me to get an assignment. It was a post that I was tragically overqualified for, filling in as receptionist at Romano Fitzgerald, a downtown architectural firm. I reported to a very industrial/modern office. I was so early that the building was still locked, so I had to wait for someone with a key to show up.

After a while, a silver-haired man in khakis and a sports coat arrived. He asked who I was, so I introduced myself and explained that Thompson Temps had sent me to be the new receptionist. He shook my hand and said he was Andrew Fitzgerald, the junior partner, and asked me to call him Andy. He gave me a brief tour of the place, and then had me wait in the lobby until someone got in who could show me what to do. Apparently the agency had told me the wrong time; the office didn’t officially open for another hour.

I didn’t like sitting around idle, so I did a little snooping, taking time to memorize the nameplates on all the office doors, so I’d know who would be where. I started up the coffee maker in the break room and then lightly knocked on Andy’s door to offer him a cup. He smiled and asked for black with two sugars.

I took a small cup for myself and went back to sit behind what I assumed would be my desk. The phone system was a little complicated, but the buttons for each extension were clearly labeled. It actually rang while I was sitting there. I answered it as politely as I could with a friendly, “Good morning, Romano Fitzgerald. How can I help you?” and took a message for Dan Lopez to call Max Braddock ASAP. I wasn’t sure how the voice mail worked, so I found a pad of sticky notes and stuck the message on his door.

It was kind of funny sitting there as all the staff arrived. I smiled and gave them each a “Good morning,” and nearly every one did a double take. Only a few actually asked who I was. I thought I was doing fairly well until Nora showed up. She was a bookish brunette with an irritated look on her face as soon as she saw me. She told me to get up from my desk and to wait until she came back to show me the job.

It turned out that she was the alpha secretary of the place and was pissed that someone else had usurped her authority and told me what to do. I tried to explain that Thompson had given me the wrong starting time, and Andy had let me in, but I’d just been poking around. No one had formally explained my duties to me.

Nora was in the process of chewing me out for acting on my own when an athletic-looking guy in a green polo shirt and blue jeans came back out from the inner offices. He held up a little yellow note. “Hi, I’m Dan. Did you write this?” I admitted it and he gave me a thumbs up. “Thanks a bunch. Braddock hates talking to machines and can never seem to understand that we open at nine. I’ve got to go check on a problem at a job site, before the delay costs our client thousands. Great instincts on using the Post-It! That’s the kind of improvising we like here.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from grinning at Ms. Bossy Britches. She shifted into a less adversarial tone, and showed me what my duties were in a dry, academic manner. Then she brought me to Sara Kellogg the office manager, who was also in charge of personnel, to have me read and sign some documents concerning office policies.

I’d chosen an outfit as conservative as I had worn for my interview, and it was quickly obvious that I was overdressed. Halfway through the morning, I made a few adjustments. I removed my jacket and folded it under my desk. I undid the top two buttons of my blouse. Then I went into the ladies’ room and took off my hose, loosened my hairstyle a little, and changed my lipstick for a darker one with a glossy finish. It earned me a few more double-takes when people went out to lunch. On the whole, my first day at Romano Fitzgerald had been a positive experience. Over time, I grew to feel more like I belonged there. I almost forgot my real reason for being there.

***

The place Trixie found for me was priced a little steeper than I would have liked, but it was the height of tourist season in Provincetown and beggars can’t be choosers. Since I had a job now, I could only go for the weekend instead of all week like Chloe had planned to do. Reluctantly, I called Volkov and told him where I’d be, just so he wouldn’t think I was trying to run away from him. I asked him not to follow me too obviously; I didn’t want the mark suspecting that something was up.

I didn’t have a lot of time to get my bearings ahead of time, so I hit the highway as soon as I left the office on Friday night. Apparently, most of the greater Boston metropolitan area also had the idea to head to the Cape as soon as their weekend started, because the traffic was atrocious! It was some of the worst gridlock I’d ever been in.

I had a room in an elegant inn with a spectacular waterfront view, but when I arrived I wanted to just collapse on the bed and sleep. However, I needed to do a little reconnaissance. Trixie had found out which beaches my objective regularly went to, and I’d printed myself a little map. She also had given me a photo so I’d know I had the right
guy. I changed into a light dress and a pair of comfortable sandals and took a quick stroll around to get a feel for the place. I found a laid-back bar where I could grab a quick bite and made sure to make a definite impression on several of the locals as a single girl just looking for a relaxing weekend. When the night was at its darkest, I drove around town figuring out where I wanted to set up the next day.

My Saturday morning at the beach went almost too well. The combination of my new bikini and my new figure attracted the eye of just about every straight male and gay or bi-curious female out that day. Granted, it was P-town, so the proportion of straight males was far less than average.

I wanted to establish a pattern, which meant I needed to take interest in all the dogs that passed by. I met quite a few nice doggies and their pet humans. It was a tricky situation trying not to appear too flirtatious. Fortunately a good number of those dog walkers were obviously not interested in someone shaped like me.

I’d been lying on my blanket trying my hardest not to tan (I’ve always taken the best possible care of my skin) for around five hours when he finally showed up. I saw the dog first, and got up to see who its master was. As he got closer, I recognized him as my target. I strolled over to intercept his path and crouched down to look at the dog. “You’re a pretty girl!” I turned my face up to the man. “Can I pet her?”

The angle I’d given him caused him to have to a good luck at my boobs just to talk to me. He smiled and said, “Sure, but only because you could tell she’s female. Most people assume all dogs are male.” She was a medium-sized dog, with wavy chocolate brown fur and long floppy ears and a short tail.

I reached out and let her smell my hand and then gave the back of her head a good skritching. “Of course she’s a girl.” I added, “How could such a beautiful thing be a boy?” I giggled cutely at my little joke, even if he didn’t understand the irony of it. I looked up at her master again. “What’s her name?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “Well, she’s a pedigreed field spaniel, so her official name is Summerfield Montague’s Princess Charmaine Chrysanthemum. Her call name, that’s the name I use for training her, is Chryssie.” He reached down and pet her himself, and our hands almost touched. “Don’t get me wrong; I don’t show her anymore, and I do more than just train her. She’s my best friend.” I could tell by the way she was looking at him that he was telling the truth. They say you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat their dog, and it seemed like this guy was pretty decent.

“Well, it’s nice meeting you, Chryssie.” I pet her some more, and then stood up. “I’m Quinn.”

I hadn’t appreciated how tall the guy was until we were so close. I had to look up for us to be face to face. I think he was finally realizing that I was a buxom blonde in a yellow bikini, just like his psychic had told him his true love would be. He stammered, “Hi. I’m Hiram, Hiram Chillington.”

We chatted for a little bit, and I got a good idea why an eligible billionaire has to go to fortune tellers to find a girlfriend. I flirted heavily, doing cute hair flips, touching his arm with my fingertips, laughing at all his attempts at jokes, and making as much eye contact as possible. I even sucked on the tips of my sunglasses. But the cold fish didn’t seem to be catching any of my signals. He really seemed nervous. I patted Chryssie on the head and said goodbye and he actually shook my hand.

I told him the heat was getting to me and I wanted to take a dip in the ocean. He reminded me that there wasn’t a lifeguard on duty and there was a strong undertow, so I shouldn’t go in unless I was a strong swimmer. I told him not to worry and scampered off toward the water. He watched me go, probably wondering if I was going to fulfill the rest of Trixie’s prophesy.

I did a little swimming and some body surfing and then just before he was out of view, I made my move. I kicked around until I found a stone on the loosened my slipknot and then waited for a big wave. As it was tumbling me about underwater, I tugged off my top and hid it under the rock. It was a strange sensation feeling my boobs float free in the water unconfined. I came up for air and sputtered a bit, then “realized” that my top was missing. I covered myself with my hands and ducked back into the water. I pretended to frantically look around for my missing garment.

I squatted down in the shallowest water that would still guard my modesty, and then grabbed a boob in each hand and blushed my cutest shade of pink. I waved and shouted to get Hiram’s attention and then beckoned him over as close as possible without getting wet.

I looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes and said, “I guess I should have taken your warning more seriously. The undertow ate my top.” I let my fingers slip a little. “I know we just met, but you’re still the only one I know around here. Could you do me a big favor and go get my towel for me? I’m not sure how I can get it and still keep everything covered.” I lifted one finger and pointed. “It’s the big red one on that green striped blanket over there.”

He looked in the direction I was indicating, but then turned back to me. “I’m not sure where you mean, but I can help you.” His next action surprised me. He suddenly became more gallant than I’d given him credit for and pulled off his shirt and handed it to me. “Take this.” He even turned his back to me so I could put it on without him peeking. It’s a good thing he was a heavy guy and his t-shirt fit over my chest. It was gray and had the Harvard “Veritas” shield on it in dark red.

I thanked him with a little hug and then led him to my blanket. I insisted that he let me put some sunblock on him since he’d lost his protection for me. He was pasty white and flabby and probably the last person you’d want to see without a shirt, but I rubbed sunblock on him as though he were an Abercrombie model. Somewhere around there he noticed that I’d just gotten out of the ocean when he gave me his shirt and when you put a light-colored t-shirt on a pair of damp breasts, magic happens. It was sort of cute when he tried not to notice.

I asked if I could get him a cup of chowder from the snack hut down the beach as a reward. He said that if I really wanted good chowder there was a better place in town for it, and I decided to interpret that as a hint. When we parted company, he’d agreed to take me out to his favorite chowder restaurant for dinner. I told him where I was staying and he went back down to where Chryssie was waiting (he didn’t want to hurt her paws on the hot sand so she stayed at the water’s edge) and jogged back toward his beach house.

I went back to my hotel room and did a little happy dance. I’d confirmed my target and was well on my way to luring him in. I spent a couple of hours getting ready, but still made him wait a little when the front desk rang my room that my guest had arrived.

I made a stunning entrance. I was in a white cotton dress with a plunging scoop neckline and rows of eyelet lace on the hem. I’d chosen a bra with just a little extra cleavage enhancement, and hung a sparkly diamond pendant around my neck, to keep his attention down there. My hair was pulled back into a ponytail so that I could show off more gemstones in my ears. I’d chosen expensive jewelry so that my date would know I had experience interacting at his level.

My makeup was glamorous, with thick black lashes, wide eyes, and full, glistening lips. I strode sensually across the lobby in my three-inch heels to greet my date. He got a full dose of my chosen scent, jasmine and sandalwood with just a hint of female pheromones, a moment or two before I reached him.

He understatedly told me I looked great, and I lied and said he cleaned up pretty good himself. In fact, he looked fairly boring in topsiders, Dockers, and a baby blue polo shirt. I took his arm and told him to lead the way.

His car was not as luxurious as I’d expected. It was a fairly common middle-class minivan. He must have chosen it because Chryssie’s crate fit nicely in the back. She wasn’t with us, but the smell of her was; I just had to train myself to ignore it.

The restaurant was in a building that must have been there for a couple hundred years. The décor was classy without seeming too pretentious. Most of the other people dining there were casually dressed. I turned a few heads when we were shown to our table, but Hiram didn’t seem to notice. He ordered for us, selecting a crisp white wine and an entrée of lobster tails to go along with our chowder. The food was delicious. He was probably right about it being the best chowder on the Cape.

We had a pleasant conversation over dinner. I told him my story, about how I’d lost my job in Philadelphia and had been without a boyfriend for six months or so, and so had come to Boston to get a fresh start. I said that I’d originally planned on coming here with a girlfriend, but she’d met a guy and had decided to stay behind. So as a result I was then all alone in a new city.

Hiram said he had a hard time believing that someone like me had any trouble finding a boyfriend. I played dumb and asked him what he meant, and he got all shy and told me I was funny and nice and that I had to know how attractive I was. He said I had beautiful eyes, and that was especially nice to hear even though he wasn’t the first to say that. I didn’t tell him but many men have found my emerald-green eyes captivating, and it gives me a kick since my eyes are just about the only piece of original equipment I have left that people can see.

I told Hiram that my last long-term boyfriend and I had dated for almost a year, and had nearly gotten engaged. But he’d broken it off with me when he found out I couldn’t have children. Hiram put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, and told me that there were plenty of men out there who weren’t looking to start a family, and he should know because he was one of them. I smiled at him and he became aware that he was still touching me and pulled his hand back.

Of course, I’d already known he didn’t want to have kids; Trixie had told me. But we needed to make sure that I let him know I couldn’t get pregnant so that he wouldn’t try to get our eventual marriage annulled. It also gave me something to fall back on if he tried to come after me for fraud. I would be able to say, “I told you on our first date that I didn’t have a uterus, and you met me on the beach in Provincetown. How could you not realize that I was a transsexual?”

To change the subject, I said that I’d chosen Boston because I’d always been interested in early American history, and Boston had almost as much of that as Philly. Hiram was playfully offended by that statement. In what seemed to him like a happy coincidence, he was also a student of the Revolutionary period, and he was able to counter all my examples of Philadelphia’s significance with something in Boston. It took me about six different ways of dropping the hint until we made a date for him to show me around the historic sites of his city the following Saturday.

I would have preferred to make our second date sooner, but Trix had warned me that he was very nervous around women, and I didn’t want to appear to be coming on too strong. He drove me back to my hotel and I gave him a quick peck on the cheek when he walked me to the door.

***

So the next weekend, we went walking around the city along this route known as the “Freedom Trail.” It covered a number of historical sites. Hiram called and suggested we meet at the Constitution. I played innocent and told him I thought that was on display down in Washington, and gave a playful laugh when he explained that it was the oldest ship in the US Navy. I agreed to meet him there and then looked up on my computer that the closest subway station was ten blocks away. Oh well, the exercise would do me good.

Since we’d be walking all day, I wore comfortable sneakers, but I also wanted to look pretty and feminine, so I dressed in a nice breezy tank dress that was cut wide, so my sports bra wouldn’t show. I applied an ample amount of sun block, and wore a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. I looked casual and not too touristy.

The U.S.S. Constitution was actually kind of cool. It was intriguing to think that it had been rebuilt many times, but was still the same boat, kind of like me. I also enjoyed that it wasn’t a bad thing that in flats I was almost six inches shorter than Hiram. The ship was built tight, so he had to keep ducking his head. One time he smacked his forehead on a beam when he wasn’t looking and it wasn’t so funny, but I did offer to kiss his boo-boo and make it better.

After wandering around the old navy yard, we followed the Freedom Trail signs to the Bunker Hill Monument. Despite being kind of doughy, Hiram had decent pace and stamina as a walker. That was probably thanks to Chryssie. I asked him why she wasn’t with us, and he said he didn’t want to have to tie her up outside every time we went into a building. I thanked him for giving up his day at the beach for me.

The Bunker Hill Monument was just another obelisk, but I impressed him by pointing out that I knew the Battle of Bunker Hill had actually been fought on Breed’s Hill, and asked which hill the monument was on. He said he was glad that I wasn’t just another dumb blonde, and I rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek.

Then we walked twelve blocks and over a bridge and then another two blocks and got to one of the oldest cemeteries in the city. It wasn’t the most romantic of places, but it was easy for me to act all girly and comment on how sweet it was when couples got to be next to each other for eternity, or how sad it was when small children died. Hiram had been there before, and led me to the graves of some significant historical figures, but only a couple of them were names I recognized.

A couple blocks over was The Old North Church, the place where Paul Revere’s “one if by land, two if by sea” lanterns had been hung. I teased Hiram that he was a fast operator; it was only our second date and he’d already gotten me to the altar. He blushed, and I think he hadn’t appreciated that what we were doing was a date. It also seemed like he only then realized that I’d been holding his hand since the bridge. But he didn’t try to let go, so I think he liked it.

The next stop on the trail was Paul Revere’s house. It was a really tiny place for someone so important. I was already familiar with his work as a silversmith, from a counterfeit antiques scam I’d been involved with a while back, and had fun showing off to Hiram all the technical terms I knew.

It was eight blocks to our next destination, and I was starting to get tired and hungry. Fortunately that destination was Faneuil Hall, an old colonial meeting hall that was right in the middle of the Quincy Market tourist trap, full of shops and restaurants. He bought me lunch at a nice Caribbean seafood place. I had a nice flounder and a glass of sweet white wine. One thing you can say about chubby guys; they really know how to pick restaurants.

I told him that I was really enjoying his company, and I hoped that there was more of his city he’d like to show me, since I really wanted to see him again. That was almost too blunt for him to handle, and it became even clearer to me why he was still single despite being worth a fortune; he was seriously flawed when it came to relating to women (or reasonable facsimiles thereof). I had to guess and assume that he was interested in me, but really, who wouldn’t be?

We walked together to the nearest subway station, but we needed to get on different trains. We made a plan to go out in the evening the following Thursday, and I gave him a kiss full on the lips, but he wouldn’t open his mouth.

***

I was settling in nicely at Romano Fitzgerald. I was friendly and nice to everyone, without being that annoyingly perky person no one likes. And I presented myself as pretty without coming across as overtly sexual. I was appropriately respectful of my place at the bottom of the pecking order and the other girls in the clerical staff soon accepted me. I offered to do the chores they didn’t want, like fetching coffee or refilling the paper tray on the copy machine. I wasn’t looking to steal anyone’s job or man, so they didn’t treat me as horribly as they would most temps.

And the architects got along with me because I could tell the difference between harmless playful flirtation and sexual harassment, and I gave as good as I got. Just to make things clear, I frequently talked about my boyfriend so they knew I was only kidding around. I was pretty sure Hiram didn’t know he was my boyfriend yet, so I never named him, only making a vague reference to “one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.”

Our third date was at the Museum of Fine Art. He picked me up at home and I was elegantly dressed in a nice emerald green dress that showed off my eyes. Another man would have torn it off me right then and there, but not my Hiram. He was a perfect gentleman.

The museum was amazing. I could have spent days there. Hiram was a member, and said that he’d take me again any time I wanted, so I didn’t need to rush and try to see it all at once. I decided to start with the European Old Masters. Art had always fascinated me, maybe since I was constantly revising my personal façade. We strolled through the gallery, and I took Hiram’s arm and leaned up into him

At one point he got a weird look on his face and he said the next painting was his favorite, but he seemed kind of ashamed to say it. It was a portrait of an old Italian merchant family, and I wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed by it. I told him that the artist was good enough that you could tell from their faces that these people loved each other, so I wasn’t sure why he was uncomfortable about liking it. He said he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, and pointed out that the plate identified the painting as “on loan from the Chillington collection.” I was wowed. That painting had to be worth thousands if not millions.

I acted surprised. “I knew that you dressed nice and had a pedigreed dog and a second house on the beach, but I didn’t realize that you were ‘priceless painting that you keep in a museum’ rich! But you probably think I’m some kind of gold digger or something.” I put a quiver in my lower lip. “Please don’t think I was only going out with you because of money. I really like you, and I would hate for this to be our last date. You’re funny, you’re smart, and I feel like I can talk to you about all kinds of stuff.”

It was Hiram’s time to worry. “But you can do so much better than me! I mean, just look at you.” He waved his hand at me, gesturing like a spokesmodel showing off a new car. “You are breathtakingly beautiful.” Then he waved at his own body. “I am lumpy and blah.”

I brushed my hand across his cheek. “Sweetie, you are infinitely more interesting than any shallow gym rat who spends all his free time working on his abs. Guys like you are way more my type.” I pulled his lips to mine and kissed him, gently parting my lips and poking my tongue towards his. He started out stiff, but eventually began to respond to my passion with his own. We were seriously making out when a security guard came in and shooed us out of the gallery. I giggled and made a pit stop in the ladies’ room to fix my lipstick before we left.

We had drinks and a late light meal at this cozy club with a live jazz band. I pushed our chairs together and made put his arm around me as we finished our sandwiches. I kissed him some more, but he didn’t want us to get thrown out of two places in one evening, so he tried to keep it tame.

After he drove me home, I tried to entice him to come up for a visit, but he claimed he had to get up early for work. So I just gave him my toe-curlingest good night kiss and sent him on his way.

***

Our next date was a Sunday afternoon picnic in Chryssie’s favorite city park. I wore a pair of tight capris that showed off my new ass but were murder on my boy parts, light canvas sneakers, and a spaghetti cami with a built-in bra. As I was leaving my apartment, I happened to pass my nice neighbor Chris, the guy who’d helped me with my furniture those weeks before. I smiled and said hi to him, but he had to do a double take before he recognized me. My figure was completely different than when he’d seen me, but I could tell that he wasn’t sure exactly what looked different about me.

He said, “If I’d known you cleaned up that good, I’d have asked you out back when I met you in your grungy sweats.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” Just because I could, I twisted the knife. “I probably would have said yes. But you’re too late now. I’m off to the park for a picnic lunch with my boyfriend, hence the basket of goodies that I am carrying.”

Chris grumbled, “Just my luck,” and kicked a wall, then scampered off to his apartment, probably to masturbate to a mental image of me.

Chryssie, Hiram, and I had a fun time playing Frisbee and eating finger sandwiches. She preferred her roast beef sandwiches without bread or condiments. As I lay on top of my beau kissing him and feeding him grapes, I could feel his erection pressing against me, so I let him dry hump me a little as we played tonsil hockey.

It was also at that date that I officially became Hiram’s girlfriend. (And I suppose he became my boyfriend, although I’d been calling him that from Day One.) We agreed that it was kind of fast, but it felt right. I told him that I was ready to be exclusive with him, and he jumped at the chance to make the same statement.

***

He still had yet to accept an invitation to come in for a cup of coffee at the end of our dates, so I forced him to enter my apartment by insisting that he let me cook dinner for him as our next date.

I prepared a nice meal of lemon-basted chicken breasts, baby potatoes, and fresh sugar snap peas, with fresh strawberry shortcake for dessert. He brought an excellent bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses. Our conversation was fairly intellectual for most of the meal, but when I got to the dessert, I spoke nothing but double entendres and sucked the cream of my strawberries as sexually as humanly possible, but Hiram still didn’t seem to be taking the hint.

We retired to the loveseat after eating, and our tongues spent some more time getting to know each other. Since we weren’t in public this time, I ran my hands along his body and encouraged him to do the same to me.

We kissed and cuddled for a good while, and he was getting a little too into the kiss and gave my left breast a little squeeze as his hand brushed by. He realized what he’d done and jerked his hand away like I was on fire. I reached out and grabbed both of his wrists and pulled him close to me. I wasn’t letting him get away that easily.

I purred, “Baby, you’re my boyfriend; you’re allowed to touch me.” I brought his hands up to the back of my neck and guided them through untying the back of my dress and then brought his hands to my chest and pulled the top of my dress down. I was naked from the waist up, and he wasn’t sure what to do with a boob in each hand. He tentatively stroked my nipples and I let out a little moan of pleasure to urge him on.

Maybe I’d subliminally suggested it when I called him “Baby.” He brought his mouth to my breast and started suckling at it, while still using his hand on the other one. I grabbed his butt and made him think I was getting into it more that I really was.

He was also rubbing his body against me, and I think he accidentally went off in his pants because he suddenly stopped what he was doing and ran to the bathroom, and when he came out he was ready to go home. Still topless, I walked him to the door and caught him in one last embrace before he left. I had a good feeling that this job was going to be a successful one.

We started dating more frequently after that, sharing most of our dinners. I was over at his place so often, Horace his doorman recognized me when I came in and didn’t need to ask me which apartment I was visiting.

After I’d given him permission to steal second base, every one of our dates at some point would involve a lot of titty-sucking. This guy had a serious oral fixation, and I’m sure he must have been a bottle baby. But it wasn’t all bad; he was pretty good with his tongue. On several occasions he got me very turned on, and I was glad the hormones were keeping me from getting aroused. That would definitely have blown the whole deal.

After one of our sessions of breast appreciation, Hiram’s hands started to wander south. I told him that I wasn’t quite ready to take that step in our relationship, but I didn’t want to leave my guy feeling frustrated. I unfastened his pants and freed the obvious erection from his boxers. He wasn’t particularly long, but he had a sizeable girth. I let myself appear to be as excited about that as a natural girl would have been. I was surprised that he was uncircumcised. I thought all those repressed WASP types were cut.

I started giving him a dry hand job, but then I appeared to have a brainstorm and licked my hands to give him a better sensation, as though I was just then inventing the technique I’d used on dozens of men in my days as a pro. My newly lubricated hands had no difficulty stimulating him to orgasm.

I pretended not to notice when he was about to shoot, and grabbed my tissue a couple seconds too late. It was kind of messy and I was forced to wipe my sticky hands on the nearest available surface, which incidentally happened to be my bare chest. He seemed fascinated by my indirect pearl necklace, but he never got up the nerve to try applying it himself.

***

We’d been dating for about six weeks when he surprised me with a Friday evening date of his own devising. He started by taking me to the priciest restaurant in town for a filet and a lobster. Over dinner he told me a story about how he’d been lost and alone before he met me, and that he’d gotten so desperate he’d gone to see a fortune teller. I said I didn’t believe it. He said Madame Zaria had told him he’d meet the love of his life walking his dog on the beach, and she’d be a beautiful blonde who’d have an accident with her yellow bikini. He said he’d never really believed it was possible until he saw me lose my top. And the more he got to know me, the more he knew he was absolutely, positively, without a doubt falling head over heels in love with me.

I said that I had thought I was so over guys after my last relationships had gone sour, but there was something about him that let me know I could trust him, and that he’d never want to hurt me. I told him that I think it was when we’d been to Paul Revere’s church that I’d realized I loved him, but I wasn’t going to be the first one to say it this time.

We kissed and skipped dessert.

He had another surprise when we left the restaurant. A horse-drawn carriage was waiting there for us. We got in and he drove us along the Common, to a spot where a string quartet was set up under a pavilion tent, for a private concert just for us. We waltzed for a couple songs, and then he led me to a chair where I could sit. But he did not take the chair beside me. Instead, he nodded to the musicians so that they stopped playing, and then he got down on one knee in front of me and retrieved a small box from his pocket.

He held out the open box, revealing a marquise-cut diamond of at least four carats set in an elaborately filigreed band of white gold. “Honey, I know we haven’t known each other very long, and yet it feels like I’ve known you all my life. And I would love to spend the rest of my life getting to know you even better. So I’m asking, Quinn Lee Turner, will you marry me?”

I covered my mouth with my hands and let a couple tears run down my cheeks. I smiled widely. “Oh, yes! Hiram Chillington, I will marry you!” He struggled to put the ring on my finger and then I pulled him up to me for a kiss. The quartet struck up a romantic tune, and we had a slow dance while our lips were still attached.

We went back to his place, and I demonstrated my appreciation. I stripped his pants, pushed him down into his favorite chair in the parlor, and sucked him dry. I didn’t use every trick in my arsenal; I didn’t want him wondering where he girlfriend, no wait, his fiancée, learned such amazing oral technique. I even gave him a brief moment of contact with my teeth, and forced myself to choke a little when he came. It was still probably the best head he’d ever gotten, even though it was far from the best I’d given. I spent the night and cuddled with him, but I claimed that it was my time of the month and kept my panties on. Fortunately I had a pad in my purse to make my story more believable.

As soon as I got home the next day, I texted Trixie, “Mission accomplished.” Although perhaps like George W, I was a bit premature. And engagement is not a wedding, and there was still plenty of work to do.

It turns out that was unnecessary anyway. Hiram took me out to lunch to celebrate our engagement, and then brought me to “Madame Zaria’s” to introduce us. I showed her my ring and thanked her for whatever she did that had brought us together. Hiram asked her to give me a reading, (I later learned he’d secretly asked her to make sure I definitely was the one) and we disappeared into the back room.

I wanted to just giggle like a schoolgirl at how well our plan was working, but since Hiram might have been lurking outside the doorway, Trixie did her swami mumbo jumbo and decided that the spirits were pleased with me. I thanked her again and gave her a hug and asked if she’d like to be invited to the wedding.

***

As far as the wedding plans went, I told him that my only family was an elderly aunt who didn’t travel, so I didn’t need a big fancy ceremony in a half-empty church. We aimed toward a small service on the beach at Provincetown, with a minister friend of Hiram’s and only a couple of friends in attendance.

I’d shown off my ring at the office and had no trouble getting the girls to agree to be my bridesmaids, and that meant going through all the silly bridal rituals with them. We spent a number of weekends trying on dresses.

I was very happy with the wedding gown I chose. It was white satin and had a decadently plunging sweetheart neckline, but there was an overdress of Irish lace that gave the illusion of modesty. Since we’d be outside, I didn’t get a train, but it had a full bell skirt that required a huge crinoline.

The dress we settled on for the bridesmaids was satin like mine and with a slightly more demure neckline, but with a knee-length skirt. For ease of coordinating with the groomsmen and to increase the likelihood of reusing the dresses, we decided on black.

***

I’d thought everything was proceeding well, but then out of the blue I got a call from Trix. “We have a problem, Pie.”

My heart sank. “What happened? Is Chillington onto us?”

Her voice wasn’t quite as panicked as mine. “No, not quite that severe. But he has been to see me for another reading. He wanted to make sure I’d sensed his future correctly. He’s got a feeling you’re holding something back, and is worried that you’re not as into the relationship as he is.”

I was relieved, but only slightly. “Okay, so I need to be more affectionate. I can do that.”

“Well, I’m not sure you can.” She paused for what seemed like forever. “He said that he knew you’d been intimate with previous boyfriends, and wanted to know why you two hadn’t had sex yet. I told him that when a woman’s heart is set on a guy, she’ll usually wait to be sure she’s ready, even if she’s had empty flings in the past that didn’t mean anything. I said that I had a good feeling that you’d be coming around soon. So I bought you some time, but I’m not sure how you can pull it off without getting a full-on sex change operation.”

I chuckled. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve got a few more tricks I can try. Besides, even if I wanted to, I don’t think there’s anywhere I could get a doctor to build me a vagina on short notice.”

Trix sounded doubtful. “I’m sure you’ve got ways to have sex with him, but can you really convince him that you’re genuinely female.”

My confidence was coming back. We were in my wheelhouse now. “You ever see one of those Jerry Springer episodes where a large-framed ‘woman’ says to her boyfriend, ‘Baby, there’s something you don’t know about me?’ Those girls have had sex with their guys without them finding out. Now I admit that those guys are usually idiot yahoos and Hiram’s a Harvard-trained MBA, but the principle is the same. You ever see the movie M. Butterfly? That one was based on a true incident, where the French ambassador to China fell in love with a transvestite opera singer and their romance lasted for years before they were both jailed for spying. She even claimed he got her pregnant and procured a baby to prove it. You can’t say that guy was an idiot yahoo; he was just ignorant to the fact that all parts in Chinese operas are performed by male actors.” I laughed again. “Don’t worry. I’ve taken guys to bed before without them finding out the truth. But thanks for the heads up.”

So I knew I needed to ramp up the intensity of my relationship with Hiram. First things first, I got Dr. Sebastian to take me off the hormone patch. If my fiancé was going to see me mostly naked, I didn’t want him noticing it and asking if I was secretly quitting smoking or something. And switching to an oral version gave me more control of my dosage and I’d be more easily able to step it down gradually.

After another nicely romantic date of dinner and a moonlight stroll, we went back to his place for one of our usual rounds of serious necking and heavy petting. His kissing technique was definitely improving, and he was still very good at stimulating my nipples. I very nearly let him jump my bones right there, but I wasn’t quite prepared. Instead I gave him what I was sure was the best blow job he’d ever gotten.

When I finished, I popped a breath mint and then snuggled into his lap. I whispered in his ear, “I love you,” and then gave him a big wet kiss. When I came up for air I said, “Honey, I’ve been thinking.” I playfully messed his hair with one hand and rubbed his chest with my other. “We’ve been dating for a while, and even though we’re not married yet, I think it’s about time we had an overnight date.” He smiled at the idea and I kissed him again. “I think it would be perfect if I joined you and Chryssie at your beach house next weekend. It’s where I learned you were my knight in shining armor.” I felt a poking beneath me, so at least part of him thought the plan was a good one. Eventually his mouth was able to form words and he agreed that it was an excellent idea.

I went on a liquid-only fast for three days before my romantic weekend. I needed to be as clean as possible for Hiram. I slipped some secret supplies into a compartment in the bottom of the suitcase I packed for the trip. On Friday evening, I took a taxi instead of driving myself, since the insane Boston cabbies could get me home faster. I spent an hour changing out of my work clothes and dressing for my date, but all Hiram noticed when he came to pick me up was that my green silk dress wasn’t quite appropriate for the office.

We drove out to his place on the Cape and let Chryssie out to play in the yard, and then he gave me a quick tour of the place. It was a beautiful old house with more rooms than I’d pictured in a “beach house.” Even if I wasn’t pretending to be interested in history, I would love to spend time exploring the place; there were so many fine quality antiques that I might be able to sell once I legally became the lady of the house. I made sure he noticed me leaving my overnight bag in his bedroom and not any of the guest suites.

We had dinner back at the site of our first date. I had a sole that was succulent and extra delicious because it was the first solid food I’d had in days, and another cup of their chowder. I ordered a scrumptious chocolate mousse for dessert, too! I needed the energy from the sugar rush for my project that evening.

Back at the beach house, Hiram surprised me with a chilled bottle of champagne, which suited my plan beautifully as I wanted him to get more drunk than usual. We sipped and kissed for a while. I passed him several ounces of alcohol as I kissed him. When he seemed ready, I excused myself and took my purse into the bathroom. I douched and lubricated my backdoor. Then I double-checked my crotch in the mirror to make sure the adhesive was holding up and that I looked reasonably authentic. I then put my dress back on and then touched up my hair and makeup.

I walked out to where I’d left Hiram in the parlor. I stood in the doorway and waited for him to notice. When he finally looked up I reached around behind my back and unzipped my dress the rest of the way, and let it drop to the floor. Hiram’s eyes popped. I just stood there in my sheer black bra and matching thong panty, with a coordinating garter belt attached to silk stockings, and still wearing my four-inch pumps. I curled a beckoning finger at him, and then turned and began to walk away, putting plenty of swivel into my hips to show off my tasty new ass.

He caught up with me at the foot of the stairs. He started to say something but I turned around laid a delicately manicured finger on his lips to let him know this little game would be played silently. I then pointed at myself and swept my finger around, then pointed at him all over, and then waved my finger to indicate that he’d been naughty. I started unbuttoning his shirt, and he eventually figured out that I was telling him to get as undressed as I was. To reward him, I unclasped my bra and dropped it to the floor before turning back to climb the stairs.

I lingered at the top of the staircase to watch him come up. He’d stripped down to that ever-popular and oh-so-sexy combination of undershirt, boxer shorts and black socks. Why do all rich white guys think that’s an appropriate look? I thought about his bank account and licked my lips hungrily. I wiggled out of my thong (always run your garters under your panties when you’re planning a striptease) and let him catch a peek at my simulated vulva, and then strutted into the bedroom. Fortunately, Hiram closed the door behind himself so we didn’t have to worry about Chryssie interrupting us.

I’d pulled back the covers on the bed and set the lights dim and had soft music playing. He tried to make me get in bed, but I spun and pushed him onto it first. I straddled his waist and pretended that I needed some foreplay. I brought his hands up to my breasts and let him play with my nipples. So he’d know my vow of silence had expired, I let out a few moans of pleasure and they weren’t all fake.

I put my hands under his t-shirt and ran them up his doughy stomach and flabby chest. I got the impression that he didn’t want to see his naked body any more than I did, and that actually worked nicely with my plan. I got up and turned the lights off completely, and then returned to the bed where I finished undressing him.

By this point his thick penis was very erect. I got back on top of him and guided him into my tight, wet hole. I made a couple gasps to let him know I was impressed with his size. We started slowly, but easily found a good rhythm that grew in speed and intensity as we went. He was a very conscientious lover; he brought me to three fake orgasms and unexpectedly one actual one before allowing himself release.

I felt him soften inside me and held him there for a moment, then I leaned forward and let him fall out of me. We kissed and cuddled a little and exchanged declarations of love, and then I rolled off of him. I pulled out the towel I’d stashed under the bed and wiped him off. The lubricant I use is supposedly designed to mimic a woman’s natural juices and I laced it with pheromones, so I didn’t need to be too careful about getting him completely clean. If he happened to catch a scent or taste of what I’d gotten on him, it would only support my illusion.

I handed him his underwear so he could get dressed again, and then went into the bathroom to clean myself up. I removed my shoes, stockings, and garter belt. I wanted to take a shower, but thought that might make Hiram feel self-conscious or worse make him want to join me. So I did the best I could and cleaned myself off with a soapy washcloth after douching so I wouldn’t leak. I dissolved the adhesive and turned my genitals back into male ones for a bit while I made sure any evidence of my own fluids was cleaned up. I let the boys hang out while I removed my makeup and moisturized my skin. Then I tucked it all back into place and re-glued everything down. I took one of the pain pills I had leftover from my surgery to deal with the discomfort of having my testicles retracted all night, and then slipped on my sexy sheer lace nightgown with matching g-string and returned to the bedroom to snuggle with my fiancé as we slept.

To avoid him seeking morning sex, I programmed my internal clock to wake up early. Just after dawn, I got dressed in a sports bra, tight little shorts, and sneakers and I took Chryssie for a run on the beach. I left Hiram a little note in case he woke up while we were gone, and we returned to find him in the kitchen cooking a delicious breakfast for us. He kissed me hello and told me I was beautiful. I modestly protested that I was sweaty and was wearing practically no makeup. He said I’d look gorgeous in nothing, and chose to interpret it the naughty way and blushed.

After breakfast, he had to brush Chryssie’s fur to make sure she hadn’t picked up any burrs, and I slipped out to take a shower before he got a chance to offer to scrub my back. I put on a simple blue sundress with a halter neckline that Hiram would be able to untie if he wanted to play with my boobs, and pulled my hair back with a coordinating ribbon.

We spent a lazy morning in the house. I made him tell me all about his memories from time he spent there. He recounted a few episodes for me, but was curious as to why I wanted to know. I said that he was important to me, and I wanted to know everything about him. I added that I was especially interested in his family because they’d soon be my family too, and I pointed at my ring.

While he was cleaning up our lunch, I snuck upstairs and broke my enema bottle out of my bag and gave myself a thorough cleansing. I called out to him that I wanted to go to the beach, but then I walked in wearing my yellow bikini bottoms and acted as if I’d only just realized that I hadn’t gotten around to get a new swimsuit. I asked if he had any ideas on what we could do instead.

The room had a little more light than it had had the night before, even with the curtains closed, but he still didn’t seem to notice that he wasn’t fucking a vagina. He wanted a shower afterwards, but I claimed that I liked having his scent on my skin and skipped it.

In the afternoon, I had him show me his favorite places around town. We had Chryssie with us, so we were limited to places within walking distance, but it still seemed like an interesting little town.

In our pillow talk after lovemaking that evening, I made sure he was okay with letting me be on top. I said it was my favorite position, and also I was worried that he might not be as comfortable if he had to support his body on his arms the whole time. I made up a story about having a boyfriend back when I was in college with a similar body type to Hiram’s (to further underscore the idea that he was my type) and his arms would cramp up all the time and he’d just collapse on top of me and that wasn’t fun for anyone. Hiram didn’t seem to feel insulted by that, particularly when I pointed out that my preferred position left his hands free to “do stuff.”

We had a few more overnight dates back in the city the next week, usually at his place so he wouldn’t have to leave Chryssie alone. Over time he grew more comfortable with my body, confidently grabbing my butt when we kissed, or letting his fingers seek out a nipple. But there was an area I kept his hands away from, and he was starting to notice.

***

Trixie called me again and said that we had a more serious problem this time. She told me that Hiram had been back to see her about me, and it took him forever to explain what was bothering him. He said the sex was great, which Trix still had trouble believing, but I told her that penises are fairly easy to fool. Give them a warm, moist place and they’re happy. Anyway, she said that Hiram was getting frustrated because I wouldn’t let him finger me, and apparently it really bothered him that I was okay with blowing him but I wouldn’t let him reciprocate. I should have realized that a guy that orally fixated wouldn’t be satisfied with a pussy he couldn’t go down on. She said he was questioning whether I was truly the one he was supposed to marry. I was totally screwed. I couldn’t think of a way to fix the situation.

Trixie tried to cheer me up. “There is a way we can fix this.” I looked at her blankly. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious before, so I looked into seeing if I could find a surgeon who’d give you a sex change operation, and I found a guy.”

Whoa. This was a big step I really wasn’t sure I wanted to take. “What do you mean? I’ve really got to think it over, but I do know that I need to know more than just whether a doctor is available to choose him to perform major surgery on me.”

“I was websearching and found this doctor in Thailand with fairly reasonable prices, and he comes highly recommended. Their website had testimonials from many satisfied customers, and some of them linked to those customers’ personal pages, and a couple of those were important members of legitimate transsexual support organizations, so I think they’re on the level.”

I was impressed by all the homework she’d done, so I had her email me the links and I opened them on my computer while she was still on the phone. “Can I take some time to think about this?”

“I called their office, and told them about you. They wanted a letter from a psychiatrist to say you’d lived as a woman for a year and still wanted the surgery, but I sent them some photos from when I’d met you a couple years ago, and photos of you today, and said that I thought you’d been living as a female for around twenty years. They said they could probably waive that requirement and just have you see their psychiatrist when you got there. Also, since you’d recently had a cosmetic surgery procedure, they said that if that doctor could send them your bloodwork, they’d be able to skip some preliminary tests. The best part was that they had a cancellation, and so there was an opening for next Tuesday. At least they did when I spoke to them yesterday. Someone else may have already snatched it up. There’s an eleven hour time difference, so their workday doesn’t start for another couple hours. You can use that to think. If you can’t come up with a better plan by then, I say go for it. Or say no and we’ll just scrap the whole project.”

I thanked Trix for her work and ended the call.. I’d already spent months and thousands and reshaped my body for this job, so I really didn’t want to drop it. If I had to start a new deal, I’m not sure I’d have time to land a big enough fish to get the Russians all the money they wanted. So saying no to this might mean I’d have to figure out how to hide deeply enough that Volkov couldn’t find me. Or possibly even figure out how to kill a former KGB agent before he could kill me.

I didn’t have any really good options. On the one hand, I’d be losing my entire self-concept — I’d always maintained that duality, that the feminine persona on the outside was just a mask in front of my true masculine self on the inside. But on the other hand, it seemed like my entire life had been pushing me in the direction of becoming a woman as completely as possible. It seemed inevitable.

I stripped and looked at myself in the mirror. Even with my junk dangling there, the person I saw looked nothing like a man. At best, I was a she-male, a pre-op tranny, a creature built for sex work and the fantasies of perverts. But really I looked more like a bad photoshop, a hot chick that someone had drawn a dick on. Or some kind of optical illusion where a woman was standing behind a penis floating in mid-air.

In a funny kind of way, I thought that I might have a better shot at a more normal life if I went all the way to the female side of the fence. I guessed that I’d probably have more luck finding a regular lesbian girlfriend than finding some kind of partial-bisexual girl who was into trannies.

If I was officially, legally and completely a woman, when I visited my dad in prison I’d be able to get searched by the nice female guard instead of the asshole male guard who always grabbed my breasts. At that was when they were AA’s — with my new D’s, he’d be unbearable.

And it would be more convenient to be fully female. I could wear tight pants without wincing, and wouldn’t need panties with extra-wide crotches any more. Those little bits of flesh caused more trouble than they were worth. Was the ability to pee while standing that important?

If I was going to be having sex with men anyway, it made more sense to have a body part made just for that purpose, rather than having to multitask. It would probably take less effort to keep clean.

The decision just seemed to make itself. There were so many reasons why going from partial male to complete female just made more sense. But I realized that I was crying anyway. Lousy hormones!

My stomach was full of rattlesnakes when I made the call. The nurse or receptionist or whoever it was that answers the phone spoke very good English. I’m not sure why that surprised me. I gave my name and said that my friend said she’d already told them about me, and she routed me directly through to the doctor. He asked me some questions, and I had some for him, and he agreed to email me a packet with some forms to fill out and fax back to him, and instructions on payment and other logistics.

I read the packet and it said I’d need to stay in Thailand for a couple weeks, but that there were still another couple weeks of recover before I’d be able to have sex. (I really didn’t want to think about what that meant, so I focused on planning the project and ignored its end result for the time.) That meant I’d have to hide somewhere for a couple weeks after coming back to the U.S. I did some web surfing for flight information, and looked like it would be easiest if I found somewhere on the West Coast for that, so that my flights to and from Thailand wouldn’t take forever.

I worked on coming up with a cover story, and decided that I’d go with mostly truthful, that I was a transsexual flying to Thailand for an operation, and I wanted to keep it a secret surprise for my fiancé. I figured that I’d have the best luck finding a sympathetic place to stay in San Francisco, so I googled for T-friendly beds & breakfasts in the Bay Area. I found a few and sent them emails asking for discretion and explaining my plan.

***

The next morning at work I went to Nora and asked if she could come with me to Sara’s office. Then I told them both that my only living relative, my Aunt Ursula, was having surgery on her knee and I wanted to go to San Francisco to be with her. I said I was really sorry; I’d stick out the rest of the week to help train my replacement. I loved working at Romano Fitzgerald, but family comes first. I said that I’d understand if they gave Thompson a bad review about my work. They bought my story and we all hugged and cried.

I called Thompson and told them the same story. They said they’d just suspend my contract; when I got back to town I could call them and I’d have to start all over again on working toward earning benefits, and I’d be at the bottom of the totem pole for placement.

After work, I checked my email and had some replies from B&Bs. One seemed sweet but didn’t have any vacancies. I settled for the second nicest, a place called “Rose Arbor.” I sent an email and then called them directly to make sure they were okay with helping me lie. The guy on the other end, a nice man named Armin with a Texas accent, said I was brave to go about fixing my body to match my mind, and that there was no problem using their address for my fake Aunt Ursula. I gave him a credit card number and he took my reservation.

My next step was to poke around and find the best rates for airfare. I got one round-trip ticket from Boston to San Fran, and a second one from there to Bangkok. I splurged and bought business class tickets, even though it left me very little money after processing a transfer of funds to the doctor and paying for my room in the B&B. I didn’t know how tender my sitting parts would be and I wanted to be comfortable on my return flights. I’d be getting my husband’s money soon enough, anyway.

The form from the doctor recommended traveling with a companion, since part of the time I’d be stuck in a foreign country immobilized for my recovery. I thought about it and decided to try to kill two birds with one stone. I called Volkov and told him my travel plans, and asked if he’d want to be my post-surgical companion, since he’d be following me anyway. He found my suggestion humorous, but agreed to do it. I called Armin back and had him change my room reservation to a double.

I told Hiram the “Aunt Ursula” story, and he was very supportive, and asked if there was anything he could do for me. He even offered to come with me, but I told him that wouldn’t be fair to Chryssie, and he’d be needed at his office; it would be horrible if we both ended up jobless. I spent a couple nights at his place just cuddling together. He really was a decent guy; maybe I’d stay married to him for a while instead of going for the quickie divorce.

The girls at work had a cake for me on Friday, since it was my last day. My replacement Ashley was a bit slow on the uptake, but it seemed like she’d be able to handle things. I was genuinely sad to be leaving the place. It had been a great place to work. I got a lot of hugs and went through a lot of tissues. Andy pulled me aside and said to let him know when I got back. He’d been considering offering me a full contract, and depending on how things went with Ashley it might still be a possibility. I thanked him and gave him the biggest hug of them all.

***

Saturday morning, Hiram drove me to the airport and we kissed so long on the sidewalk that the cars behind his honked their horns. I checked in and gave them my two suitcases, and they gave me my boarding pass and told me to proceed to the gate. I was using my Pennsylvania driver’s license for ID and hoped that I didn’t get selected for a cavity search and have to explain why I was smuggling sausage. I made it through security without any issues. I think the guard was disappointed that I didn’t need a pat-down.

I met up with Volkov at the gate, and he showed me that his boarding pass had him in the seat right next to mine. I couldn’t figure out it was possible that he had gotten there before me but had managed to get them to sit him next to me. Maybe it was just blind luck. He must have somehow pre-arranged to reserve a specific seat for me.

He tried annoying me by introducing me to the couple sitting nearby as his girlfriend. He also told them that the purpose of our trip was to get my penis cut off so that I could have sex with him. I willed my mortification away, and playfully told him not to make up stories like that. I said that he shouldn’t lie like that just in case these people knew my fiancé (flash the ring) and didn’t realize he was joking. I explained that we were old friends and he was coming with me to help tend my sick aunt.

It was a long trip. The food was disgusting, the movie was boring, and I had to spend the whole flight next to a smelly Russian. He’d ordered the Kosher meal, which either meant he was Jewish or he knew that the regular meal would suck. I’m not sure if my hormone levels needed adjusting, or if I was just irritable because I only had three days of manhood left. We landed at SFO a half an hour late and they made us wait another half hour until a gate opened up. I was shocked to see that nothing had happened to my baggage; both suitcases arrived in the right place, intact. Volkov traveled light, with only his carry-on. I wondered if that meant he was unarmed, but then again he might know some supersecret spy trick for getting a weapon onto a plane and I didn’t need to risk it.

We took a cab to Rose Arbor. I met Armin and his husband Leo, who ran the place together. They were a nice couple and told me that I was very feminine and extremely passable. I introduced them to my traveling companion, saying that he was going to be helping me with my recovery.

After a nice night’s rest, it was back to the airport. They let me leave my larger suitcase at the B&B. For this trip I’d have to use my Passport as ID, and it listed me as male, so I had to also carry a letter from Dr. Stone explaining that I was transgender and on my return flight I would be female. This made it take longer to get through every checkpoint, particularly customs, and was another thing that would be easier once I stopped being a half-and-half.

The flight to Bangkok wasn’t direct; we had to change planes in Taiwan. And that meant explaining my ID all over again, but it must be a common reason for going to Thailand, because they just scanned my letter briefly. The second flight was a scary one. We hit some bad weather and never seemed to shake it, and I couldn’t understand exactly what the flight crew were saying, but at least the food was good. My fingernails left marks in Volkov’s arm where I’d been squeezing it when the ride got bumpy. He hadn’t said anything about it, so he was either that tough or he had some sympathy for me.

The Bangkok airport was modern, but hectic. I was processed fairly quickly through customs, but Volkov’s Russian papers took longer. For a brief moment I considered trying to ditch him and go home, but I chose the safew course and waited for him.

The doctor’s office wasn’t actually in Bangkok, but had made arrangements to get me there. We had to go find a driver holding a sign that said “Q. Turner” and he took us out to his car, which wasn’t quite a limo but was nicer than I’d have expected in a Third-World country.

He knew a little English and pointed out some landmarks as we drove, but I was so tired I didn’t pay any attention. He took us to the guest house where we’d be staying, and a desk clerk took our names and showed us to our room. I was grateful that we had separate beds; I hadn’t been sure what kind of relationship they were assuming a patient would have with her companion. I made a minimal effort at getting dressed for bed and then crashed.

***

The next morning, the driver was back to take me to the medical center. In a rare act of chivalry, Volkov respected my privacy and declined to tag along. It was only a couple miles so I’m not sure why we needed to go by car, but I guess it made the operation seem classy.

I was brought to a reception desk that could have been in any medical office back in the States. I verified my name, and she brought me to a fairly typical-looking examination room. I took a seat and waited. Dr. Thamthanakom came in and introduced himself and shook my hand. He took the files I’d brought with me from Dr. Stone and Dr. Sebastian, and described the procedures he’d be doing, including every gory detail about splitting some parts open and turning others inside out. I tried to smile and make myself believe that it was what I wanted. Fortunately I was still so fried that he couldn’t tell whether he was reading doubt or exhaustion on me.

I had to remove my clothes and then he gave me a thorough examination. He seemed satisfied with the size of my genitals, and was pleased that they were hairless. I got dressed again, and he gave me a paper with some more instructions printed on it about what I needed to do the day before my surgery, and what I couldn’t do, like no alcoholic beverages and no solid foods after noon, and other stuff like that. Thai food had always been a favorite of mine, and to be in its actual country of origin but not allowed to eat any was sheer torture. As soon as I was done at the doctor’s office, I asked the driver to take me to a restaurant for an early lunch, but he assumed I’d want to go back and pick up Volkov first.

The driver not only brought me back to the guest house, but also said that the really good restaurants wouldn’t be serving lunch until later in the day, so I wasn’t going to get my feast that day. It would have to wait until after my surgery, when I was too sore to enjoy it. It seemed like such a small thing to be upset about when there was this larger thing about to happen to me, but being able to get lunch was like one thing I could control, but now that little thing was gone, and everything was spiraling out of control.

I thought about maybe going out and finding a prostitute, just to give my best friend one last chance at sex with a woman before he got chopped off. But I had to remember I was in Thailand, and the rest of my body would still have any diseases he caught, even after he was gone and I really didn’t want that. Plus, Volkov following me around kind of spoiled the mood. He even made it difficult for me to give the little guy one last date with Mary Palm and her five sisters.

In what would have been early evening San Francisco time and later evening Boston time, I called Hiram and told him I was mostly settled in, and Aunt Ursula would be having her surgery the next day; her doctor wasn’t anticipating any difficulties, but any time older people get anesthesia there is some risk. I told my Sweetie I missed him and we shared some sickeningly sappy sentiments. Volkov was eavesdropping and was making faces to get me to break character, so I threw a pillow at him. Hiram told me he loved me, and I responded in kind and then told him I’d probably be at the hospital for most of the next day and might not get a chance to call him again, but he’d be in my thoughts. After I said goodbye and hung up, I had to laugh at how much I’d been acting like a schoolgirl.

I was supposed to get a full night’s rest before my operation, but I had trouble sleeping. I was worried and frustrated and depressed all at once. I had to struggle to put all that aside and psych myself out. I had to focus on all the good things I’d be able to do after my reconfiguration, like how I’d have a much easier time swindling rich men out of their money if I could take them to bed, or how there would soon be nowhere that I couldn’t pass, be it a nude beach or a women’s locker room or even a gynecologist’s office..

I imagined how with this last stumbling block out of the way, I could marry Hiram and gain half a fortune just like that. Maybe I’d enjoy being a high society trophy wife, but if not I’d be able to use his connections to meet more men in his tax bracket and become mistress to them one by one, until I’d bled Boston’s blue-bloods dry.

I remembered talking to the girls in Miami, and how a couple of them had said that after their transitions, they’d become more interested in men sexually than when they’d just been crossdressers. I hoped something like that would happen to me, so maybe I’d end up enjoying sex with men more. I did know that my doctor had a reputation for making realistic-looking vaginas with a decent amount of sensation, so I had a good chance at getting more stimulation out of sex with a man, at least.

I did like being seen as a sexy woman, and this operation would only make me sexier. So there had to be at least some part of me that would like the new life I was about to start. I concentrated on that aspect of my personality and buried everything else deep down. By the time I fell asleep, I was actually kind of looking forward to my procedure and was very curious about how I’d look afterwards.

I overslept a little, but since I was supposed to dress in loose, casual clothes with no makeup or jewelry my morning routine took almost no time. I wasn’t even supposed to tuck my stuff up, so I picked a skirt with broomstick pleats that hopefully would camouflage any unwanted bulges. My top was a simple button-up blouse and my bra and panties were soft white cotton.

I was more nervous than I’d been before my other surgeries. I guess it was because this one seemed more permanent, even though they all pretty much altered my body in ways that weren’t quite reversible. I knew there were a couple of high-profile examples of men who had become women and then changed their minds and gone back to being men, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities that I could some day be a guy again. But the reality was that what I thought of as the last piece of the real me was about to go away. I pushed that thought out of my mind and imagined instead how amazingly sexy I would look on my wedding night, and pictured all the digits in my future husband’s bank balance. Somehow it was more comforting to consider that I wasn’t losing my manhood, I was selling it for somewhere in the nine-figure range. Put that way it felt like a fair trade.

The driver came and brought both Volkov and me to the medical center, so he could visit me when I came out. I had to sign some more forms, and then a nurse took me to a room where I undressed and put on a hospital gown. I was given some drugs and my memory of what happened next is a little hazy. I think I remember meeting the anesthesiologist and being sedated, but I might be mixing up this operation with one of the other ones.

What I do remember is waking up later that day in my recovery room feeling worn out. My throat was dry and my joints felt stiff. I could tell I’d been given some kind of narcotic, but there was still a tingly sensation in my pelvic area that felt sort of like I’d been having sex with a light socket. Not that I’d ever done that, it was just the first image that sprang to mind.

I wanted to get a look at what had been done to me, but a nurse caught me trying to sit up and stopped me, so that I wouldn’t accidentally tear my stitches. She made me lie back in bed, gave me a couple ice chips to suck on, and went to fetch the doctor to tell him I was conscious.

A couple minutes later, Dr. Thamthanakom was in my room. He peeked under my covers and seemed satisfied with what he saw. He told me to stay still and get some rest and he’d come back to check on me in an hour. I drifted off for a while then. Some time later, the doctor did come back, and he held a hand mirror up so I could see what I had down there without having to sit up. That first day all that was visible was a mass of gauze with a catheter tube sticking out of it. (It was another half day before I needed a nurse to show me how to use that.)

The first time my dressing was changed, it was like when a magician or a clown does that trick with a handkerchief, you know the one where he pulls it out of his pocket and there’s an endless chain of handkerchiefs tied together at the corners? He pulled a piece of gauze out of me, and then there was more gauze, and then more, and it was all coming out of me! Out from a place inside me that hadn’t existed until that day, too. It was hard to wrap my head around the concept.

With the dressing off, I got another look in the mirror. There was still a lot of swelling and some visible stitches, but it was a sort of familiar shape, although unfamiliar on my own body. He pointed to the various pieces. “This is your clitoris; here is the clitoral hood. Your urethra is over here now. These are your new labia majora and minora. And inside here is your vagina.” I blinked away a tear and just gaped. He looked me in the eye and smiled. “Yes, you are now a woman.” I was awestruck, more or less.

A nurse gave me a fresh dressing and then covered me back up, and then they brought Volkov in to see me. I was on too many painkillers to complain when he pretended to care about how I was doing. They gave Volkov a copy of my recovery instructions, and he patted my hand and told me he’d be back the next day to see how I was doing. I asked him to bring my phone, but when he did get it I still didn’t have enough energy to talk to Hiram so I just emailed him that Aunt Ursula got through her surgery okay, but I’d been very busy getting everything ready for her, and doing all kinds of housework that she’d been putting off. While I was at it, I also emailed Trix to let her know I was out of surgery.

I didn’t like being drugged out all the time, so I asked them to cut back my pain medication and switch me from a narcotic to an analgesic, like Dr. Stone had done with my last surgery. I told them that I could handle some amount of pain and discomfort, and I wanted to be able to feel how my healing was coming along. General numbness wasn’t telling me anything. Dr. Thamthanakom agreed, as long as I didn’t clench any muscles when things hurt, and he put me on a sleeping pill at night.

It was very weird when sensation started returning. I had to re-map my brain’s image of which parts were which. Like if I had a dull ache in my balls like I’d been kicked by a steel boot, I had to figure out whether that was a phantom pain in the testicles that had been removed, or if it was a pain in the scrotal flesh that had been rearranged to make most of my new vulva. Or when I’d get sharp pains as though someone had taken a nail gun to my penis, and I wasn’t sure if it was in the part that was now over here, or the part that was in there, or the part that got thrown away.

And it didn’t help that the medications I was taking was sending such vivid imagery to my brain. I don’t know if it was the sleeping pills, or the pain meds, or something related to the problem they were having getting my hormonal balance right, but something was sending my brain to a dark place and giving me creepy dreams. When I started to heal and my seams got itchy, I was forty percent sure there was a giant rat chewing on my crotch. (There wasn’t.)

Four days after my operation, a nice nurse pulled all the packing out from inside me and gave me a lesson in how to shove a plastic stent into my lady hole to stretch it out and keeping it from growing shut. It was very weird, and I could actually feel it touching me inside. The doctor was pleased to hear that, but personally I could care less. I wasn’t looking to be able to have sex for pleasure, just to be able to satisfy Hiram’s needs. My catheter was removed and I got an even more embarrassing lesson in how to pee.

Not long after that I got my stitches out, and the ghostly rat went away most of the time. I got to leave the hospital and return to the guest house. I just needed to come back daily for a checkup. I still felt worn out most of the time. Even though I was allowed to eat solid food again, I kept my meals fairly mild. I actually didn’t end up eating any really good spicy Thai dishes until my last few days there. I called Hiram every day, and I could tell he was missing me something awful. I tearily told him how lonely it was sleeping with no one to cuddle, and always made sure to send my love to Chryssie as well.

***

After two weeks in Thailand, it was time to go back to America. Dr. Thamthanakom said I was recovering nicely, and cleared me to fly. He gave me the name of a doctor in San Francisco in case I had any difficulties. And I got an additional letter to show to the customs agent, to explain why my passport said I was male but a strip search would demonstrate otherwise, but I had no problems at the airport. In fact, at both Bangkok and Taipei airports, Volkov got more hassle from the immigration officers than I did. The only incident I had in San Francisco was an impossibly long line.

Armin and Leo were very sweet, and happy to see me. I’d been in contact with them, so I knew that I had a big bouquet of red roses from Hiram waiting for me, but I hadn’t expected to find a giant “Congratulations, Quinn” banner hanging in their foyer and a fun cluster of “It’s a girl!’ balloons in my room. They wanted to take us out to dinner, but I was so fried from the flight that I took a raincheck.

There had also kindly unpacked for me the suitcase I’d left with them, so I didn’t even have to go rummaging through any bags to find a nightgown before I crawled into bed; they’d left my silk chemise right on the bed where I’d see it.

I wasn’t even thinking when I undressed and forgot Volkov was sharing the room. He saw everything, and I practically heard his jaw drop. He also let out a string of what I guess were Russian words, and regained his composure after I’d pulled my nightie on. He told me it was hard to believe I wasn’t always a girl. Of course he had to ruin it by adding that he still knew I’d always been a bitch

I took it very easy for a few days, barely going out much. Volkov was always hovering around, and wouldn’t even leave me alone when I needed to dilate. It was uncomfortable for me to do in the bathroom, so I just pretended he wasn’t there and let him watch, the perv!

I was a little more active after that and went to some touristy places to get pictures to send to Hiram. I told Hiram that Aunt Ursula was doing better, and I hoped to get back to him soon. I tried to get him to have a little phone sex, but he was too uptight and it just didn’t work. But it did get me thinking about him.

I asked my hosts to recommend a good shop for sex toys and the place they sent me was like in the gayest corner of the gayest neighborhood in the gayest city on the planet. Volkov was hilariously uncomfortable to be there. I took my own sweet time perusing the racks of dildos, until I found one that was the closest approximation of Hiram. I wanted to make sure he would fit before I got back to Boston. The cashier had read my companion’s body language, and told me that if I was planning on wearing a harness to use my new toy on my boyfriend, I’d be better off picking one with a socketed base. I laughed and pretended to think about it, and then declared, “No, I think I’d rather enjoy shoving it into him with my hand. Is that okay with you, Serge?” Volkov flushed so red I almost forgot who deathly afraid of him I was.

Hiram Junior was both longer and wider than my biggest stent, so I had to work my way up to him. It took me a few days, but I got him in. But my fella would be wanting to do more than just stick his cock in my pussy and hold it there. (The phrase “my pussy” still felt weird to say.) Hiram was going to want to fuck me. So once I’d gotten used to sticking a silicone penis into my body, I started using more lube and experimenting with how much thrusting I could handle. I went very slowly and gently at first, being careful not to tear anything.

But after nearly a week of using it, I got to where I could subject myself to some fairly rigorous action. And somewhere along the way I discovered that my clitoris worked, and these test drives turned into full-on masturbation sessions, with my other hand occasionally visiting my nipples.

During one such practice, Volkov came into the room from having taken a shower that expected to go longer. He saw what I was doing and said, “You don’t need to do that. If you want a man inside your pizda, you just have to ask. I can tell you if you screw like a real woman.”

I considered his offer for a moment. “If I have sex with you, will you cancel my debt?”

He chortled. “Your debt isn’t with me; it’s with Mr. Glubonin. It’s not in my power to cancel it.”

I squeezed my breasts in my hands and arched my back. “Well then I guess it’s your loss,” I said before turning my attention back to myself.

He tried to keep the upper hand. “I’ll leave my offer on the table. You’ll change your mind.” However, he went back into the bathroom and I heard the shower come on again. Cold water, no doubt.

So now besides trying to get my newly forged parts ready to be ravished by my fiancé, I had a new hobby: teasing Volkov. I wore the sexiest things I’d packed, and put extra effort into getting my hair and makeup right, just to frustrate him. Okay, so it wasn’t a particularly smart or safe thing to do. But I enjoyed messing with him, even if my impact on him was miniscule compared to how much my life had changed since he’d come into it.

My crowning achievement was when I’d gone out and bought myself a new cocktail dress that was scandalously small, and wore it out to a nightclub with absolutely nothing on beneath it. My nipples were enticingly obvious through the thin material, and I swear I could feel my lips touch the vinyl when I sat on a barstool. I got enough free drinks to get a cheerleader date-raped, and danced with a handful of cute guys. I grinded up against them in a way I never would have dared before my operation and poor Volkov had to watch it all without getting any play for himself.

I came this close to letting a guy follow me into the bathroom, but he noticed my ring and spotted the scary guy who’d been staring at me and put two and two together and got “get the hell away from the hot chick with the psycho boyfriend.” I sobered up and chose to go back to the B&B instead of finding another playmate. I was feeling kind of guilty about almost cheating on Hiram, and that freaked me out more than any of the physical changes that had happened to me. I think all the estrogen in my body was rewiring my brain. I had felt myself attracted to those guys, so I knew something was up with me. But I really didn’t have any time to figure it out.

***

My two weeks in San Francisco went by way too fast. I wasn’t sure if I was completely ready, but I already had my return ticket and my funds had dwindled to the point where I didn’t want to have to pay a fee to reschedule my flight. I called Hiram and told him I was coming home, but lied and gave him the wrong date. I wanted to surprise him.

I left California in the morning and arrived in Massachusetts in the early evening. I still had some sleeping pills left and I took one on the plane, so I was nicely rested by the time we landed. I lost track of Volkov somewhere in the airport and had to grab my own cab after getting my luggage.

When I got home, I had a quick bite to eat and then took a shower. After moisturizing all over, I just stood naked in my closet trying to find a sexy outfit to knock Hiram’s socks off. I flirted with the idea of heels and a trenchcoat, but there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t be alone. If my life was a sitcom, I’d do it and then end up interrupting a dinner party with his brother’s family or something.

So I wanted a look that was sexy without being too slutty. At the same time, I wanted something that would come off of me easily, so I could make it clear to him that parts of my body that had previously only been theoretical were his to do with as he pleased. I settled on a classic LBD with a deep plunge neckline and a diagonal hemline. My lingerie was an insanely sexy red satin set that I’d picked up in San Fran, consisting of a low-cut merry widow with six garters clipped to seamed black stockings with Cuban heels, and a coordinating panty that was so tiny I never would have dared to wear it before. A pair of open-toed fuck-me pumps completed my ensemble.

I selected jewelry that complemented my ring, gold chandelier earrings with tiny diamonds and a heart-shaped pendant with a ruby surrounded by little diamonds. I did my hair in a tousled, messy style and my makeup in a smoky, bedroom look. I stepped into a cloud of perfume and hoped he remembered my scent. Finally and most importantly, I stuck a couple vaginal lubricant suppositories up inside where my body heat would melt their coating. I wanted my man to find me wet and eager.

I called a cab to drive me to Hiram’s apartment. I wasn’t sure about parking in his neighborhood, and I was planning on spending the night anyway. Horace the doorman gave me a funny look when I asked him not to tell Hiram I was there. He let me go on up to spring my surprise.

The way I pictured the scene in my head, I’d knock on his door and I fly into his arms as soon as it opened, and then kiss him until we could no longer hold our breath. Then I’d ask if he was alone, and if he said yes I’d put his hand on the back of my dress and ask to be unzipped. When he got some blood back in his brain, I’d take him into the bedroom and let him make love to me in a position of his choosing, as many times as he could handle. Then we’d fall asleep naked in each other’s arms, and I’d even be willing to be the one in the wet spot. But what actually happened was something else entirely.

***

I knocked on Hiram’s door and a complete stranger answered it. He was a white guy who looked to be in his mid forties, with graying receding hair and a good number of wrinkles on his face. He was tanned, and wore a Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans. He looked at me and wrinkled his nose. “Can I help you? If you’re selling something, we’re not interested.”

I smiled at him. I figured this guy was one of Hiram’s friends or something. “No, I’m just here to surprise my Sweetie by getting in a day early. I didn’t expect he’d have company.” I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “Hi, I’m Quinn. I’m sure Hiram’s told you about me.”

He ignored it and left me standing looking silly with my hand out. He just looked at me and tilted his head. “Is this some kind of joke? I have no idea who you are.”

I was getting irritated with this guy. “Could you just get out of the doorway and let me in? I’m sure Hiram will be happy to see me; go get him and he’ll introduce us.” I saw the dog behind him coming to see who was at the door. I waved at her. “Hi, Chryssie! Go get your Daddy and tell him I’m here, but his rude friend won’t let me in.” She wagged her tail and gave a happy bark at me.

The annoyed guy looked over his shoulder. In a sharp tone he said, “Chryssie, sit!” and she obeyed. He turned his attention back to me. “I’ve never met you, but you seem to know my dog. I think perhaps you’ve been misled.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out his driver’s license. “I’m Hiram Chillington, and we’ve been out of the country on vacation for six months, so if you met someone who said he was me, he was an impostor. Since you know Chryssie and were expecting to meet him here, I can only assume it was my house sitter who lied to you. I hope he didn’t take advantage of you under false pretenses.” He took a step back and gestured at a chair in the parlor. “Do you need to sit down? Wait here. I’ll go get my wife; I think she’d be better at this sort of thing.”

I did as I was asked, since I couldn’t think of anything better to do. My thoughts were racing. My Hiram was a fake? So I wasn’t really engaged to a billionaire? That meant I wasn’t going to get the money for the Russians, so I was good as dead. And I’d be dying as a woman, to boot. All that I’d done to myself was for nothing! I didn’t know what I was going to do, and nothing made any sense. I heard footsteps and looked up and it suddenly became clear that I’d been tricked.

Chloe was standing in the doorway. She’d gained a little weight since the last time I’d seen her, but she still looked good. She was wearing a light blue sundress that pulled the color out of her eyes. Her fashion taste had improved some. She grinned at me broadly. “Hi there, Pie. Figure it out yet?”

I could feel the color leave my face. I muttered weakly, “Why?”

Her nostrils flared. “You dare ask that! Did you forget what you did to me? You promised me a future together. You said you loved me, but all along I was just another pawn in your game. So I wanted you to know what that felt like! And on top of that, I also got to make sure you could never do to some other girl what you did to me.”

I had no words. I just sat and stared,

She wasn’t done gloating. “You always thought you were the brains in our partnership, but I beat you so easily. You fell for all the classic sucker traps: you thought you were getting easy money, you put your trust in people without verifying their stories, and you never asked questions. We even gave you clues, but you didn’t act on them. You knew Trixie was my friend, after all you’d originally met her through me, and she even told you she’d been working with me at the start. But you never once showed any human feeling and asked her about me, how I was doing, or whether I’d gotten over you. You ran out on me when I needed you most, and you didn’t even have the common courtesy to check up on me. And it sealed it for me when you didn’t recognize your engagement ring. Do you remember? We’d been window shopping at Tiffany’s and you picked that ring out and said you’d get it for me when the job was over and we got our money. We were going to live happily ever after! But that apparently had been just another one of your stories. It had meant so little to you, you didn’t even remember it when it was on your own hand.”

I’d never expected her to be this vindictive. I sighed. “It’s too bad your revenge is going to be short-lived. I’ll most likely be shot by Russian mobsters in a couple weeks.”

She laughed loudly in my face. “You silly bimbo! That was all part of my con. There are no Russian mobsters after you; it was just the hook to keep you motivated. When I heard through the grapevine that you’d swindled a Russian oil guy for your biggest score ever and then subsequently lost it all, it started me thinking on how to trap you. I enlisted Trix and planned out everything we wanted to happen to you, and based the whole story on what had actually happened between me and the real Hiram, and took advantage of the fact that we’d be in Europe for six months on an extended honeymoon. I’m more or less retired from the game now and going legit; don’t think you can try to blackmail me by threatening to tell him what I’ve done. He knows about my past.”

She pulled a phone out of her purse. “I’ll prove that I was the one behind it all.” She dialed a number. “Hi, Sergei. It’s me. You can stop tailing Quinn. She’s here now, and I told her the whole thing.” She somehow managed to emphasize the gender on all her pronouns, and each one felt like salt in my wounds. “I’ve wired the final payment into your account. Tell her that she has nothing to worry about.”

Chloe handed me the phone. I spoke into it, “Hello? Is what she’s saying true?”

Volkov’s familiar chuckle came through clearly. “Yes, it is. There is no hit on you, and no one wants money from you. As far as I know, Glubonin isn’t connected to anyone; I’ve never met him. I’m done tracking you.” He paused for a moment then added, “But my offer still stands. Any time you want to experience a real man, give me a call. The number you have for me will be good for a while.” I was disgusted and hung up.

Chloe took back her phone and pulled something else out of her purse. It was a keychain adorned with two metal nuggets of some sort. “Just in case that wasn’t proof enough, Sergei smuggled these for me out of Thailand. He told your doctor he wanted you to have them for a souvenir, and he knew a guy who could get them bronzed.” She laughed at me when the realization of what she was saying showed on my face. “When you had the audacity to break up with me not to my face, but through a friend of a friend, I swore I’d have your balls for that.” She jingled her keychain. “And now I do. And what made it even better was I got you to pay a guy to cut them off. I’ll enjoy knowing that you’ll be reminded of me every time you cross your legs and nothing’s there. Whenever you have to wipe yourself after sitting to pee, you’ll know that I’m the reason why. And each time you let some guy fuck you like the whore you are, it will be in the vagina that I put there.”

I swallowed and tried to keep my voice steady. “Was I really that horrible that you needed to do all this? I’d thought we had a pretty good time together, but its time had passed. Besides, if I was so bad to you, wouldn’t it be better to just put it all behind you instead of carrying around a trophy of the guy who done you wrong?”

She had one more thing in her purse to show me. “You don’t understand. I’m reminded of you every day whether I want to be or not.” She handed me a photo out of her wallet. It showed Chloe and her husband standing in front of The Eiffel Tower. She was holding a little blonde girl whose striking emerald eyes were looking straight into the camera. It was a shade of green I was intimately familiar with, having seen it in the mirror all my life. “This is Riley. She’ll be three in a couple months.” I didn’t even need to do the math. “As far as I’m concerned, your involvement in her life lasted for about a minute and a half, and I don’t intend on changing that now. But I will sleep better knowing that you can’t hurt someone else like you did us.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

My apology meant nothing to her. “If you had cared, you would have known. But you didn’t bother to find out why I needed you. It should have been enough for you that I did, but it wasn’t.” She pulled the photo from my hand and pointed at the door. “Now get the hell out of my house, and if you ever come near me or any of my family again, I’ll see that information reaches certain law enforcement agencies of what you did and where to find you. And don’t think you have any similar leverage on me; I’ve already had some of the best lawyers in the country clean up my evidence trail.”

I rose from my chair as gracefully as I could, and then slowly walked out. My heels made me have to sway my hips sexily, but I tried to be as serious as possible when I turned to Chloe and said, “Okay, I will honor your wishes and leave. But know that I truly am sorry.”

***

I managed to keep myself together until I got in the cab Horace called for me. I barely got my address out before I erupted in a volcano of sobs. It just didn’t seem fair. Why should I have my sex, my body, my life devastated and destroyed so completely? I cried myself to sleep when I got home.

I thought about trying to come up with a way to get revenge on Chloe, but there was a part of me that really did feel bad for hurting her. I think it was those damned hormones at work again!

Anyway, someone once said that living well is the best revenge. So I’d take what she’d done to me and turn it into an asset. I still had a little money, and a place to live, and maybe I could get my job back at Romano Fitzgerald. If not I could sell my ring and my wedding dress, and that ought to cover my rent. I could sell my van and hock the stuff I’d left in it for a few more bucks, plus I’d save having to pay to store it. I was pretty sure I’d get through this okay. Maybe I’d try living like a regular person for a while, or maybe I’d just get out there and find a real billionaire to pull the old matrimony con on while my body was still sexy and vibrant. I hadn’t decided yet, but one thing I knew was that I would make sure I had all the facts before making any choice.