Barbie was the kind of doll that every boy would want to play with. I certainly did, that first time I saw her on display in the station newsagents. But boys should remember that playing with dolls may lead them in unusual directions!

AUTHORS NOTE: Like many of my stories, this is a light-hearted romp which I hope you will enjoy. But it does contain adult themes such as: crossdressing, sex and humour. So if reading material containing those subjects is either illegal or not to your taste, then please do not do it - or at least, don't moan about it afterwards.

I first saw Barbie at the railway station on a Wednesday afternoon, as I was on my way home from college. Wednesdays were always a half day off from lectures and tutorials, in order for us students to develop our sporting and other activities or, as I intended to do, get on with an essay due in the following Monday, and which I hadn't yet started.

Barbie was one of those dolls to die for - blonde hair, tumbling down to her shoulders, framing a gorgeous face with a pert, turned-up nose; large breasts barely contained within a white, scoop-necked tee shirt; and tight-fitting jeans hugging her well-rounded hips. A century ago, they'd have described her figure as hour glass. Nowadays, most women would have called her overweight, and most men would do as I did, and lust after her. Not that I held any hopes of getting anywhere with her.

For one thing, she was obviously much older than me - in her mid-thirties, I guessed. (I later found out she was a positively-ancient forty-two - that's older than my mother, for God's sake!). Oh yes, and she was kissing her husband goodbye before he went off though the ticket barrier.

But neither of those factors prevented me from doing what most males would, and having a good lech.

She turned to go into the station newsagents, and as her husband and I passed in opposite directions through the barrier, I decided that perhaps I might go in there and have a look through the magazines.

I want to tell you now, it was all quite innocent. Sure I fancied her like mad, but there was no way someone like me, who couldn't string together three words when trying to chat up girls of my own age, was going to make even an inane comment about the weather to this sex bomb. The idea of suggesting that, now her husband was safely on his journey, we could go back to her place and shag the afternoon away would have been laughable, if I'd even considered it. OK, I did consider it, but it was still fantasy.

Except that the newsagents was quite cramped, and we happened to meet in the aisle. She was on her way out after buying a Telegraph; I was on the way in, having carefully positioned myself so that our meeting was inevitable and we would have to squeeze by each other, giving me a bird's eye view down her tremendous cleavage as we did so.

As she realised we were about to collide, she gave me a quick smile and twisted sideways so we could pass. But her handbag, into which she'd been putting her loose change, slipped out of her hands and dropped to the floor, spreading its contents everywhere. She immediately squatted down and began stuffing everything back into the bag, and incidentally giving me the opportunity to see not just her cleavage, but her incredible torpedo-shaped breasts barely contained within a tiny, white bra.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry," I said, lying through my teeth, and I instinctively squatted down with her to help collect her belongings. That rather destroyed my superb view, but I was more than rewarded by her glancing up and smiling at me. My heart was suddenly pounding like crazy (as though it hadn't been before).

"My own stupid fault," she said. "I really shouldn't carry so much in this bag."

I'd have been happy sharing that moment forever, squatting on the floor of the newsagents and picking up the usual collection of garbage that women keep in their handbags. Of course, my mind was frantically trying to think up something witty to say, something which perhaps would enable us to go to the station buffet and have a coffee, but as usual, I was mesmerised.

"Do you fancy a coffee?" she said.

Why didn't I think of those words?

"I was just thinking the same," I said. I handed her the last of the items from the floor and stood up. Squatting on her heels, she tottered a little as she tried to stand, and without thinking, I held out my hand to help.

"Thank you," she said, giving me another tremendous smile. "You're very strong," she added, as I pulled her up.

"Not really," I replied, and then kicked myself. I should have told her how I regularly worked out at the gym, and was incredibly fit. But then, as I was to find out later, honesty can be the best policy.

"OK, let's go get that coffee," she said, and led the way - not to the station buffet, but out of the station!

I imagined she would turn right outside the station, towards a coffee house further down the road. Instead, she turned left towards the car park.

"Don't you find that all the coffee served in this town tastes like mud?" she said, seeing the surprised look on my face.

"Well, yes," I said. "I much prefer Nescafe."

She burst into laughter, clearly thinking I had made a joke, and led the way towards a bright red BMW sports car.

"Wow!" I said. "Is this yours? Fantastic!"

"Jump in," she said as she unlocked it and glanced up at the sky. "It's temporarily stopped raining and normally I'd put the top down, but the neighbours might talk, so I think we'll keep it up, don't you?"

"We must avoid the neighbours talking at all costs," I said, smiling as I went along with what I thought was a little joke.

"Absolutely," she said, as she put the car into gear and we shot forward. "It would never do for the neighbours to start wondering what we were getting up to."

OK, so I was then able to work out what you had probably realised ages ago. She was seducing me! She had noticed my interest in her as I approached the ticket barrier. On the spur of the moment, she had decided not to leave the station. Instead, she went to buy a newspaper, even though she rarely read them. She had deliberately dropped her handbag, and leant forward as she picked up her things so I could look at her breasts. She wanted my body, or to be more accurate, she wanted the body of an innocent young male, and who could blame her for that?

It was only after our first round - which lasted over an hour - that we exchanged names. She was Barbara Healey - Barbie to her friends - and since I haven't yet introduced myself, I'm Joe Edwards. Nineteen years old, studying computing at college, and some might say a bit of a nerd - although I don't particularly look it. No, all my mates at college say I look like a twelve-year old, and they call me Baby Face, which does nothing for my confidence in chatting up girls. Now, it seems, my boyish looks were just what Barbie was looking for, and for the first time, I wasn't complaining.

Complaining? I was in heaven! She knew exactly how to ride her new mount for the maximum pleasure of all concerned. She knew how to delay me, whilst pleasuring herself, and how to pleasure me without prematurely bringing things to a conclusion. We were at it all afternoon, and by the end, I was in love.

Not in a "Get divorced and we will marry and live ever happy," way, but certainly in a, "You're the most incredible woman I have ever met, and I want make love to you for ever and ever."

"Can we meet up again?" I asked. There, I had done it; I had actually made a move to prolong our relationship.

"Next Wednesday?" she suggested. I had already told her of my free afternoon.

"Do we have to wait that long?" I whined.

"The weekends are definitely out and most other days are risky. Wednesday is the day when Barry is always late home, as he has to attend a weekly sales meeting."

"Wednesday afternoon it is," I readily agreed. I definitely did not want to meet up with Barry. "I can get the bus over here if that's better for you."

"Probably best if I meet you at the station, again..." Barbie started to say, but was interrupted by the phone ringing.

"230 19... Oh hi. Don't tell me - you're going to be late home again?"

Pause, whilst she listened.

"OK. Another lonely dinner for me..."

Her eyes suddenly widened and met mine.

"That was one of James's friends," she said into the phone. (She'd already told me of her son, James, who had gone off to university.)

"He's called Peter Barker," she continued, "not that you've ever shown the slightest bit of interest in any of James's friends. I was giving him a lift. You know the Barkers live quite close to us."

Pause.

"No! I am not getting up to my old tricks! I simply offered him a lift home. Ring up his parents if you don't believe me. Now go back to your precious sales meeting." She slammed the receiver down on its rest.

"Phew! I had to think on my feet there," she said. "He saw you getting into my car from the train. Damn! He's just so suspicious of everybody I meet."

Not without justification, I thought, but wisely did not say, but she must have detected something from my silence, for she added, "OK, you're not the first attractive young man I've known - in the biblical sense. It must be obvious I have a healthy appetite."

I grinned to try to break her tension. "I think that's reasonable accurate, although I suspect your husband wouldn't agree it was at all reasonable."

She grinned back. "At least he won't ring up Peter Barker's parents," she said. "They are so incredibly boring, he hates speaking to them. The problem is..."

She paused, and with a sudden wrenching in my heart, I knew what she was going to say.

"The problem is," she continued, "I wouldn't put it past Barry to hire a private detective to try to catch me out. I'm afraid that means an end to our planned wholesome and long relationship."

"Shit!" I cried. "No! It can't!" I had only just found sex and it was going to be taken away.

She gave me a sympathetic smirk. "Dear. You are smitten, aren't you? But you must see that if Barry has me watched, we're going to be found out?"

"Isn't there any way I could sneak into the house, perhaps whilst you're driving Barry to the station. The detective will be watching you..."

"And the neighbours will be watching you," Barbie said. "A young man lurking about until the residents leave their house unattended. I think you might end up at the police station."

"But there must be some way?" I was trying to stop a tear forming in my eye.

"Well..."

"Well, what?" I asked. "Have you thought of something?"

"Well," she repeated. "It's just you were almost crying then, and I thought how much you looked like a girl."

"A girl! Thanks a lot!" I felt bitterly hurt.

"Not like that. I know you're a man." She reached down, and grasped my prick, and it responded with predictable results. "It's just that..." she started to move her hand up and down my shaft, "I have an idea."

"Ugh!" I gasped, then, "What idea?"

Barbie knew how to hold a man, and already my balls were indicating that the pleasure to my prick in the next few minutes was of far greater importance than whether the world was about to end in one hour's time.

She said, "It's an idea that would only work if you really, really wanted to continue our relationship."

"Ugh!" Hell! That felt good. "Of course I do."

"You're only saying that. You'll tell me to get lost when I tell you my idea." She was shafting me a bit harder now.

"Ugh! God! Of course I won't. I'll do anything to carry on doing this."

"Anything?" She sank to her knees and her tongue protruded from her mouth, awaiting my answer.

"Anything," I agreed, and she leant forward and her tongue flicked the glans of my prick.

"You're kidding!" I said.

"You said you'd do anything," Barbie said.

"Anything to carry on with our relationship. There's just no way that would work."

"Trust me, it will," she said.

"It will draw attention to me," I said. "Not the reverse."

"We have at least three hours before Barry's return. Let's try it out."

"What?"

She smiled. "You heard. I want to disguise you as a woman. Now, go and take a shower."

An hour later, I stared at the reflection of the naked woman in the mirror. She had large breasts which gave delightful quivers as she breathed. She had medium-length blonde hair, and her face was exquisitely made up with bright red lipstick, black eyelashes and eye liner, pink eye shadow and a skin which appeared to have perfect complexion. She looked the kind of woman I would willingly fuck (all right, yes, that applies to most women).

Barbie's face appeared in the mirror next to the woman. "So what do you think? Is she a passable woman or not?"

The woman spoke, and that's when the illusion disappeared, for she had my voice. "She looks fantastic but the voice is useless."

"It will do for today, and I think there's something you can get to alter your voice. I need to show you how to apply make-up - it's not difficult but you will need to practice over and over. The breasts are good, aren't they?"

I had to admit that the breasts were not only incredibly good - they were the most shocking part of my conversion.

It wasn't so much that the skin-coloured, long-necked vest with large, liquid-filled boobs looked, felt and behaved exactly like the real thing. The neck came right up to the edge of my jaw line, so my Adam's apple was invisible, and it had all been stuck down with a green gel which apparently stopped perspiration from forming beneath. A Bustlet, she called it.

But it was shocking because there was only one explanation why Barbie had such a product in her house - her boobs were as phony as mine! I was wearing her spare Bustlet.

The idea that all afternoon she had been wrapping false tits around my cock and I'd been sucking on them like a new born baby came as a bit of a surprise. On the other hand, I'd suspected from the start that they were false, only in a rather less obvious way.

So Barbie spent some time explaining how to apply make-up to achieve the same brilliant affect she had done, and she made me practice each operation. Then she suggested putting on some clothes.

"Nothing too fancy," she said as she noticed the look of apprehension on my face. "White tee shirt and denim jeans will do very nicely - the same as I was wearing this afternoon."

"You mean you're not expecting me to wear a skirt?" I was relieved.

She laughed. "Most women don't wear skirts nowadays, except for special occasions. Tee shirt and denims are fine. They are also quite anonymous. If I was to lend you one of my skirts, someone might see it and say, 'That's exactly the same skirt as Barbie has,' and you can't buy my clothes from Marks and Sparks."

The fear hit me in the stomach, and I could hear panic in my voice as I said, "What do you mean, 'Someone might see.' I'm not going to wear these outside this house."

"If we're going to make this work, you're going to have to wear them outside, sooner or later. I was going to suggest we get you dressed, and then I drop you off at your flat as I go to pick up Barry from the station."

"Drop me off, dressed like this? But I'd have to walk along the pavement and into the house and up the stairs, and people I know are bound to see me and..."

She held a finger to my lips. "It's up to you, lover. If you want to call this whole thing off then I shall be sorry, but I'll understand. But if you want to carry on shagging me every Wednesday, then you have to pluck up your courage and go through with it. With the breasts, the wig and the make-up you look so different. No one who sees you is going to think that you are really the Joe that they know."

I thought a little and nodded. "OK, I'll give it a go. If I'm outed as soon as I get out of the car, it clearly wasn't going to work anyway."

"Attagirl!" Barbie said.

She turned to a chest, opened a drawer and started pulling out frilly white underwear, tossing it onto the bed. From her wardrobe, she took out a pair of jeans, tee shirt, and a pair of high-heeled sandals.

"The underwear may be a bit frillier, the jeans more stylish, but apart from the bra there's nothing here which is so different from men's wear," she said.

"What about the high-heeled shoes?" I pointed.

"Goodness," she said, "these aren't high-heels, they're the shortest heels I have - they can only be two inches - that's almost flat to me."

"Two-inch heels are not flat to me."

"Oh don't be so picky. Come on, I'll show you how to slip into your bra."

Thirty minutes later, I was moving around Barbie's kitchen, making us both a cup of tea. I smiled to myself as I realised we never did get that coffee she'd offered.

"I've put your money and your keys into this handbag," Barbie said, coming into the room. "All your clothes and everything else are in this bag. She held out a shopping bag. We have about an hour before we need to drop you off and pick up Barry from the station. I suggest..."

I didn't hear whatever she was going to suggest as we heard a key turn in the lock, the front door open and someone come in. I stared at Barbie, whose face reflected my own horror.

"Hi Barbie. I got home early than I expected. Are you..."

The man who came into the kitchen - and it really couldn't be anyone other than Barry - broke off as he saw me.

"Hi," he said, staring down at my tits and coming forward with his hand held out for me to shake. "I'm Barry, Barbie's husband."

I couldn't believe it. If he'd looked me in the eye, he'd have seen the sheer terror there, but he did not. He remained staring at my tits, and they obligingly wobbled as we shook hands.

"This is Jo," Barbie said. "She's here to... clean for us."

"Clean?" For the first time since seeing me, Barry looked at Barbie. Good job he still didn't look into my eyes, as he'd have seen the terror turn into astonishment.

"Oh Barry! We've been talking about getting a cleaner for ages. I decided to do something about it."

"Oh right, well..." This time he did turn and look me carefully up and down, but with obvious approval. "I can see you've made a good choice. Where do you live, Jo?"

I had my terror under control now, and I paused a little as I tried to develop a suitable voice to answer his question. Apart from saying "Hi," in a sort of soft, breathy voice as we'd shaken hands, I hadn't said a word and I definitely was not up to answering questions about my address.

"I think a rather more important question," Barbie said, "is that you told me you wouldn't be home until eight, and here you are at six, forty-five."

"We decided to postpone part of our meeting," Barry said.

"Then why didn't you ring me to ask for a lift from the station?"

Barry gulped a little. "I told you. I wanted to give you a surprise."

"Obviously not the kind of surprise," Barbie said, "which involves a bunch of flowers or a bottle of champagne. Why not tell the truth. You came home expecting me to be in bed with James's friend, didn't you?"

"I thought the chap I saw you with was older than that."

My opinion of Barry improved slightly for at least identifying me as an adult.

"But you still didn't believe me, did you?"

Barbie suddenly turned to me, winked and said, "Jo. What must you think of us? I'm sorry, but I think it's better if perhaps you leave now, and Barry and I can continue our discussion on our own."

"Leave?" Again I managed to make it a soft, breathy gasp rather than a spoken word.

Barbie nodded. "I think it's best, don't you?"

Did I? Out of the frying pan of cuckolded husband returning unexpectedly home and finding wife's lover dressed in her clothes - and into the fire of going out in public wearing women's clothes, finding a bus stop, waiting for a bus, travelling into town and then walking to my flat. I wasn't certain which was worst.

But then common sense broke in. The latter could only result in ridicule, the former in physical violence. I nodded, and had the sense to look around for the handbag Barbie had sorted out for me, and the shopping bag containing my clothes. I picked them up and went to the front door, with Barbie accompanying me.

"Thank you so much for coming to be interviewed," Barbie said in a voice loud enough for Barry to hear. "I really am sorry you had to witness our row, but we're not always like that. I hope it doesn't change your mind about coming to work for us. Give me a ring tomorrow."

She opened the door and stepped outside with me. "I'm sorry you'll have to go home on the bus," she said in a much quieter voice. "And sorry about dropping you in it about the cleaner's job. It came on the spur of the moment, but I actually think it will turn out quite well. It will give you the perfect excuse to come around every Wednesday.

"The other thing is," she added, "Barry was absolutely fooled by you, so you should have no problems in pulling the whole thing off. Back to my row, now. Bye." Before I could say a word, she was through the door and had closed it in my face.

Barbie may have thought there was no problem in pulling the whole scam off, but I was stranded in the middle of an upmarket housing estate somewhere - and I didn't know where - which must be at least ten miles away from my flat. Oh yes, and I was wearing women's clothing, with high-heeled shoes and a pair of melon-sized boobs poking out the top of my tee shirt. Great!

"Oh, Jo!"

I turned. Barbie had pushed her head out of the front door again.

"I forgot to tell you the best way to walk to the bus stop from here is to go along Fir Rise," she pointed to a turning further along the road, and followed it with a number of other directions to the bus stop. "Bye."

The door shut before I had a chance to repeat her directions or even return her goodbye.

I sighed and started walking.

Barbie had given me brief instruction on walking in heels, and I was rather pleased that I could manage to walk along the road without falling flat. But within twenty yards, my ankles started to ache! Damn! I tried to remember what Barbie had told me - settle back and thrust your pussy forward. Put the weight down on your heel, rather than trying to walk on your toes. My ankles still ached, and now my calves had joined in.

I followed her first direction without problem, but then got confused about what I should do next. Within a minute, I was hopelessly lost! Damn! I was going to have to ask someone.

I could feel my breathing quicken as I prepared what I was to say, and more importantly, how I was going to say it. "Can you tell me the way to the bus stop," doesn't sound difficult but you try saying it in a female voice. I rehearsed it a few times as I walked, looking for someone in the deserted streets to ask.

"Excuse me." A car had pulled up just next to me and the driver had wound down his window and interrupted my concentration.

"Hello." There, I hadn't even rehearsed that word and I managed to say it all right. I leant over so I was level with the driver's window.

"I wonder if you can tell me the way to Fir Clo... Bloody hell!" The driver was staring at my chest, and I realised I must be giving him the same kind of view as I had seen in Barbie in the newsagents. I raised my body to block his view, and he had the grace to blush.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm lost myself. I was looking for the bus stop." My words may have sounded a little masculine, but after the butcher's he'd just had, he wasn't going to start quibbling.

"It's just behind you, love. You should have turned right instead of left. There's a bus waiting but I think he's just about to move off."

I turned and stared. Sure enough, the bus was standing there a mere fifty yards away, and I could hear the hissing noise as he closed the doors.

"Stop!" I didn't care whether my voice sounded masculine. This was my only hope of getting out of this maze, and I had to catch that bus. I sprinted towards it, feeling my boobs flying up and down as I ran. My ankles were on fire, no, they were exploding with pain, but I had to catch that bus. My calves were screaming at me. Any minute now, they would pack up.

But they didn't. The bus didn't move, and as I ran up to it, the driver obligingly opened his doors for me to get on board. I got on, bent over double from lack of breath, until I looked up and saw the same look on the bus driver's face as I'd just seen on that of the car driver. I stood up. "Single into town, please."

"We're not going into town, love. You need the other side of the road for that. It'll be along in five minutes."

I grimaced at him but it really wasn't his fault. "Thank you."

"No," he said. "Thank you."

I looked puzzled.

"Best view I've had all day," he said.

After that, I really had no more terror about being outed. All I had to do was to bend over slightly, and every male would immediately transfer all thought to their balls. It was best, I quickly realised, to avoid contact with females who would not be so easily fooled.

Bloody buses! It took me over an hour to get to my flat. But all fears I'd had of being recognised as I walked up the stairs were groundless. The stairs were devoid of life, as they were most days.

I rang Barbie next day.

"Hi sexy," she cooed. "I'm so sorry about what happened last night, but I think we got out of it all right, don't you, and we had so much fun yesterday afternoon, it was well worth a bit of inconvenience. I've been feeling randy all morning, waiting for your call."

I suppose I could have told her it was all right for her - she had not gone through the nightmare to get home that I had, but somehow it seemed rather churlish. After all, it was not her fault her husband had come home early, and he could have arrived in far more compromising circumstances.

"Me too," I said, catching her mood and returning it. "You were fantastic!"

"Do you know what I'm doing with my hand?" she asked, and for the next fifteen minutes proceeded to tell me!

I was telephoning her from the college refectory within hearing distance of half the college, so I was severely limited in the words I could use and, especially, the actions I could take upon my own body to bring some kind of relief. Her talk made me feel bloody ready for it, though!

"Barry tried to make it up after our row," Barbie eventually said. "He was very interested in you."

"What did he say?" I asked, alarmed. Surely, if he had sussed me out, he'd have thumped my head in?

"He asked me a few questions about you - your experience about the job and everything - and I had to make up most of it. After all, if I'd interviewed you, I'd have asked those questions. But essentially I told him you were hard up student, and you had to get a job as a cleaner in order to make ends meet."

"That's virtually the truth."

"I think he fancies you."

"You're kidding me."

"Blokes." I could imagine Barbie shaking her head in bewilderment. "I spend half my life making myself look beautiful, and he fancies a bloke with boobs and a bit of make-up."

"We're easily fooled," I said, a slightly pointed remark in view of her false boobs.

"That's true," she said, "but it was a good job that I, rather than Barry, saw you through the kitchen window as you walked off."

"Why's that?"

"I think we'll have to improve things in the lower half."

I didn't know what she meant. "What?"

"You weren't quite the right shape for a woman."

I was quite hurt. "Most blokes seemed to think I was."

"After they'd leered at your tits, of course they did. But looking at you from a distance, as the neighbours will, you need wider hips and thighs."

"That sounds awfully complicated to achieve," I said.

"The company who make the Bustlet make something called a Hiplet. It's for men like you who want to look like women. It gives them more shape, with padding around the hips and thighs."

"I suppose that's exactly what I need."

"It also hides your cock, and gives you a vagina."

"What!" I gasped.

"It's alright," she laughed. "You can release the gusset and let your rod out. That sounds quite erotic actually, making love to a she-male." She then went on to describe exactly what she would do to that she-male.

A large parcel was delivered early on Saturday morning. Inside was the Hiplet she'd ordered. It was a lot like a skin-coloured, long-legged control brief, except it had padding to make the hips and thighs wider, not narrower. And Barbie was right - it had a cunt!

It was quite a clever design. You had to feed you cock and balls into a pouch on the inside of the gusset and then pull it through your legs and fasten it into a clip on the rear half. It all felt very uncomfortable as I did so, and my balls seemed to go places where they were never designed to go, but once it was in place, it was fine. I decided to shave my legs, as it looked incongruous to have smooth sexy legs from just above the knee, and hairy legs from there downwards. Then I slipped on the Bustlet and the wig.

I'd been fastidiously practising the make-up lessons Barbie had given me, and by now I was quite accomplished, so by the time I stood up and looked in the full length mirror - Hey Presto - there was a nude woman standing facing me.

There had been a pack of pills, labelled "Voice-Changer Capsules, included in the same parcel. I read the instructions then slipped one into my mouth. For a few seconds, it felt like it was burning my throat, but afterwards my voice was quite shrill.

Barbie's jeans were an incredibly tight fit over my wider shape, but when I was dressed, I had to admit that my overall look was very much better.

"You look fantastic, baby," I muttered. Unlike Wednesday, my voice was all female. My illusion was complete.

I was plucking up the courage to go out as Jo onto the busy shopping streets - mingling with people, talking with shop assistants, mimicking the traits of other women and generally gaining confidence prior to next Wednesday.

Then I remembered I had to get on with my neglected essay this weekend and my heart dropped. This would not be the first time I had missed a submission date, and my tutor had made it very plain that this would not be allowed to continue.

Reluctantly, I decided to get changed back to being Joe, and go into college where I needed to look up some references.

Why get changed? The idea smacked me between the eyes, and the blood raced through my head. I could go as Jo.

In the old days, when they employed porters to man the entrance, it would never have worked. They knew every student by sight and no one else would get in unless as someone's guest. Nowadays, a swipe card combined with passkey did the same job, which meant "Jo" would be able to gain access on Joe's card.

I plucked up my courage, gathered together my things, and left to catch the train to the college.

"Excuse me, you're not related to Joe Edwards, are you? Only you look incredibly like him."

I looked up into the eyes of Clare Walker, one of the many pretty girls in the college that, as Joe Edwards, I lusted after. Her photo had recently appeared in the student mag and I had frequently jerked off looking at it.

I'd already prepared my answer for just such an eventuality. "I'm his sister - also a Jo. We're twins."

"Hi." She smiled. "I'm Clare Walker, I'm on the same course as Joe. I thought non-identical twins usually had little resemblance to each other but you two really are almost identical."

"So everybody says," I said. "I think Joe hates it as it makes him look so baby-faced. Apparently that's what all the other students call him."

"I know," she said. "He looks a lot younger than you and I feel quite sorry for him, but he's never shown any interest in me. He's not gay, is he?"

"No." I shook my head a little too emphatically. "He's definitely not gay."

Wanting to change the subject and feeling so at ease with her, I put into words something I had never before dared to say. "That's a superb photo on your student card."

We all had to wear our student ID cards on lanyards whilst in college and hers bore the same photo as had appeared in the mag which I had found so attractive.

She squirmed. "I think it's embarrassing. It makes me look like a little girl who's just been given a big ice cream. I keep meaning to get it changed." This time it was she who changed the subject by glancing down at my work and saying, "That looks like the essay we have to hand in on Monday."

I smiled at her. Thank heavens I'd used the time on the train to think about a few of the questions that might crop up. "I'm giving Joe a hand with it."

She smiled back and we got chatting about the essay. She was so helpful; I wondered why I'd never been friendly with her in the past.

"Hi Clare."

We looked up; it was Wayne Clark - WC he was called.

"Hi Wayne," Clare said. "This is Joe Edwards' sister, who's also called Jo."

"Hi... Wayne." Damn! I'd almost called him "WC".

"Hi Jo. I don't think I've seen you here before."

And so the day went on. I got lots of useful hints for the essay, and the friendly chat made writing the essay so much more fun than when I did it on my own in the flat.

When I woke up Sunday morning, I again got dressed in my Jo gear. After all, I told myself, I needed to be absolutely convincing when I went round to Barbie's on Wednesday. It would be disastrous if her neighbours suspected I was a man.

I was intending to stay in the flat to finish my essay, since I didn't need to do any more research in the library. However, as soon as I sat down at my laptop and started to write, I was bored and restless and thought how much nicer it would be to work in the library.

So after five minutes, I decided I'd go into college anyway and work there.

Wayne asked me for a date!

Can you believe it?

We'd been having a nice chat, and by that time, I'd got used to blokes going cross-eyed as they tried to both look me in the eye and stare down my cleavage. (By the way, did I tell you that on the way home yesterday, I'd gone into town and bought some more tee shirts - similar to the one I already had, but in different colours, and with even more-revealing necklines?)

Then right out of the blue he asked me if I fancied going to the disco in the student union on Monday evening. I was absolutely overjoyed. Sure, some guys in similar circumstances would be upset, but to me it was confirmation I was a convincing woman, and I need have no fears for Wednesday.

I smiled at Wayne and thanked him for asking me, but told him I already had someone special, whereupon he apologised for asking. Isn't it strange how you see different sides of people, when you're looking from a different perspective? I'd always thought Wayne rude and arrogant - certainly, he was one of those who took great delight in belittling me - yet now he was apologising to me for simply asking a question.

"There's nowt as queer as folk," my Yorkshire grandfather used to quote, and I can see he was absolutely right.

As I'd gone through the weekend, I'd had to develop my cover for Joe, giving a bit more padding to the basic stuff I'd come out with on Saturday morning. I'd decided it would be best if he'd caught a nasty cold, which was the reason why Jo was having to fill in for him.

So it seemed only natural that it was Jo who went to the Monday morning lecture in his place. There were so many students who attended each lecture, all on different syllabuses, that I had no problems in slipping in without the lecturer wondering why a new student had appeared.

Clare saw me and came to sit next to me, and then so did Wayne. I was really pleased that I hadn't upset him by refusing his date. If Joe'd had the courage to ask someone, he'd have been mortified to have been refused.

The next two days worked out fine with Jo continuing to fill in for Joe. But it was Wednesday morning when things went haywire, when I attended the Dr Markson's eleven am tutorial.

Attending tutorials as Jo had been a bit trickier than lectures, since the classes were smaller and the tutors knew their individual students, but after explaining about Joe's sickness, none had any problems in allowing me to stay so I could pass on my acquired knowledge to Joe.

But Dr Markson was uncharacteristically late for his tutorial and, after ten minutes of chatting to Wayne and Clare - we'd very much become a threesome - the Bursar, Rick Brooks, came in to tell us that Dr Markson had been taken ill and the tutorial was cancelled. I certainly wasn't displeased, since I was getting quite excited about my impending visit to Barbie.

The other students, including Wayne and Clare, were equally delighted at commencing their free half-day ninety minutes early, and they all disappeared in about ten seconds, which left me and the Bursar alone, and I realised he was staring at my tits in a most unprofessional way.

As I've already said, I'd quickly got used to it, but at the same time I realised there are some situations it's better for an attractive girl not to be in, and this was one of them.

I stuffed my books in my bag, slipped it over my shoulder, and gave him a polite, little smile as I headed towards the door.

"I don't think we've met before, er..." he peered at my student card, "...Joe?"

"No, I'm standing..."

"I can see you're standing," he quipped with a smile, "and very nice you look, too. But I also see we've made a mistake with your student card. We've misspelt your name."

In an instant, he'd reached forward, slid the card sideways out of its badge holder and in so doing "accidentally" brushed my nipple.

"Oh!" I gasped.

I guess I'd better explain here a little more about the Bustlet and Hiplet. They have a membrane embedded on the surface like a touch-sensitive computer screen, and the signals are then decoded and applied to tiny electrodes on the inside of the skin. It means that even though my breasts were projecting several inches from my chest, I could still feel a touch as though it was on my own skin. My nipples were particularly sensitive, and yes, I have played with them at home - along with other parts of my new anatomy - and yes, it's very enjoyable, but that's all beside the point.

The point is that when he brushed my nipple, although I was taken by surprise, I didn't find it unpleasant. Well, actually, it was bloody nice. So nice, in fact, that whilst the right course of action would have been to react angrily, in fact I may have slightly smiled.

It was the only encouragement he needed. He lifted both hands to cup my breasts and gently squeeze and roll both nipples between finger and thumb.

"Ugh!" Another, delighted gasp. "Stop it," I told myself, but unfortunately could not voice it in those same words that would tell him, because I desperately did not want it to stop. Instead, I pushed my breasts further out towards him.

He pulled my tee shirt over my head, and yanked my bra up and over my tits, letting them hang free. He sank to his knees, applied his lips to my left nipple and sucked.

"Urr!" I moaned.

He switched his mouth to my right nipple, lifted his hand to my left breast and rolled the nipple again.

"Urr! Urr! Urr!"

I could feel my knees collapsing, but he caught me before I fell to the ground and pushed me backwards into a chair. Before I even realised it, he was standing before me with this huge, horrible prick thrusting towards my mouth. It looked about twice the size of my own (that is, Joe's) prick!

"No!" I managed to say it that time, and shook my head and rapidly closed my mouth to emphasise it.

He quickly pushed his prick down so it was aiming between my tits, and I obligingly squashed them together, in the same way that Barbie had done for me last Wednesday. He thrust inwards and upwards and for the first time, I had the novelty of seeing the glistening, purple dome of a man's prick emerge from between my tits, and only inches away from my face.

It should have been horrifying; instead, it was not just fascinating, but highly erotic as well. His prick disappeared into the crevice, and then came lurching back up; and again; and again. My nipples were now being viciously rolled and squeezed by my own thumbs and fingers, urgently pushing myself to orgasm before he shot his load.

"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!" he grunted.

"Urr! Urr! Urr!" I moaned, and then, "URR!" - "URR!" - "URR!" - "A-A-A-A-G-G-G-H-H-H-H!!!!!"

"Y-E-E-E-A-A-A-H-H-H!!!" he shouted, and ejaculated straight into my face!

It hit me under the nose, blocking my nostrils and then shooting upwards into my left eye. Half blinded, I opened my mouth to breathe and his next load went straight inside it, causing me to choke. The rest of his cum covered my lips and chin. His final load hit me on the forehead and spread itself all over my hair.

"One final smile for the camera," he said.

"What?" I blearily lifted my right eyelid to see him holding his smart phone in front of me.

Click, it went, and I realised that was not the only click I'd heard in the last few minutes.

"Just for my private collection," he said. "Apart from one, of course."

He was zipping up his trousers and turning towards the door, when he suddenly bent down and picked up something from the floor. He held it out for my inspection; it was my student card.

"I'll get the name corrected," he said with a smile, slipping it into his pocket before going out of the door.

Thank God the wig was synthetic!

I was able to wipe off most of the semen with a damp tissue, and then I used my hair brush to remove the remaining traces. Fortunately, the ladies toilets were empty during what was left of the ninety minute session, and I was able to wash my face, reapply my make-up and put my wig back on before anyone else appeared.

I had intended to go directly to Barbie's, but decided that first I ought to go home and have a shower. But before I could do any of that, I had to recover my student card from the Bursar. I went to his office where Miss Primrose, the Bursar's secretary, sat in her normal tweed skirt, twin set and pearls, with her hair tightly pulled into a bun. Most of the students called her Miss Prim!

"Hello, you must be Miss Edwards," she said. It was the first time I'd seen a pleasant smile on her face. "I've made the corrections to your student card. You should have come to us before, instead of waiting all this time. It's a wonder the mistake wasn't discovered by one of the staff. Your new photograph has come out really nice."

"What!" I stared at the card she held before me. Thank heavens he hadn't used that final photograph, with my face covered with cum. Instead, it was one he must have taken as I'd reached my orgasm. My face was alive with happiness and excitement, my mouth wide open as I screamed, my eyes open wider than I'd have thought possible, with my eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"That makes you one of the Brooks' Babes," she said. "We're virtually sisters now, but most of us don't have such good photographs." She held her ID card up for inspection.

She, too, was clearly in the throes of an orgasm, but her eyes were almost closed and her mouth gaped in a rather unattractive way, as might mine if my photo had been taken an instant before or an instant after.

My mouth must have gaped as wide as hers did in the photograph. "Oh. I hadn't realised... I thought..."

"You thought that Miss Prim could never enjoy sex?" Another smile. "I only dress like this to fulfil Rick's fantasies. The very idea of giving Miss Prim a crashing orgasm turns him wild."

"Oh." I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I think your photograph is even better than Clare Walker's," she continued.

"Clare Walker?" I repeated, my mind reeling hopelessly. Then I remembered Clare's photo which made her look like a little girl who's just been given a big ice cream. It wasn't ice cream she'd been given - simply the Bursar's cream in its normal hot and steamy form. She, too, was one of Brooks' Babes! No wonder I'd found the photograph so erotic that I'd continually wanked over it.

Miss Prim looked at the clock on the wall. "Your half-day started five minutes ago. You'd better get off unless, that is, you'd prefer to stay all afternoon." She nodded her head towards the inner office. "The Bursar has a meeting with the Principal at the moment. You can bet when they've finished they'll call me in to take something down. They both say I have wicked shorthand." She curled her fingers and thumb, and moved her hand in the traditional gesture.

"Er, no, I think I'd better get off," I said, grabbing the student card and heading for the door.

"One last thing," she called after me. "Mum's the word about Brooks' Babes. Not a word to anyone who isn't a member."

On the train journey home, I thought long and hard about what had happened that morning. The logical part of me said I should feel defiled and abused; that I should report it to the authorities, even though it would mean my own position being exposed.

But it had been fun!

The more I thought about it, the more I grinned like a Cheshire cat. Sex as a woman had been very different from when I had sex with Barbie. The urgency to shoot my semen into a woman's body to make babies was simply not there. Instead, it had been all about pleasuring not just myself but my man (presumably because evolution said that women needed them to keep coming back for more, and getting into all that fatherhood stuff).

And I had my student card photograph to prove I was one of Brooks' Babes.

But as I smiled over that, the realisation hit me. My own name and photograph, and presumably my sex, had been changed in the college records. It would not be Joe Edwards who got a certificate at the end, it would be Jo Edwards! When I applied for jobs after qualifying, I'd have to do it as a female! I would have to remain living as a female for the rest of my life.

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

I'd murmured the words quietly to myself, as though surprised I had even had to form the question. Until a few days ago, I would never have contemplated it, but since then, my life had become so much more enjoyable. What I had really loved over these last days was finding it so much easier to talk to people.

And have sex.

It was undeniable. It had taken me nineteen years to have sex as a man; as a woman, I'd been asked for a date within a couple of days, and given a tit fuck in less than a week. I knew, there'd be no shortage of volunteers to give me whatever I needed. It was strange, I thought, that even Barbie was expecting me to arrive and leave as a woman, and that she'd been excited about sex with a she-male in-between.

Perhaps, I thought, I should stop worrying and see what the world brings.

By going home to have a shower, it meant I'd missed meeting Barbie at the station after she'd dropped off Barry, but we'd already agreed that if that happened, I would simply get the bus out to her estate and walk round to her house. No one would query a girl student working as a cleaner for Barbie.

I managed the bus journey and the walk far better this time, but of course, it meant I was much later than we'd been the previous week. I hoped Barry had telephoned to say he'd be late home again, and so give Barbie and me the maximum screwing time. With a female cleaner in the house, he should have little fear that his wife was with her lover.

I rang the doorbell, and Barry opened the door!

"Hi Jo," he said. "Come on in."

"Hi Barry," I replied, trying not to let my mouth sag open in surprise. "Have you a day off work?"

"My time is pretty flexible," he said. "I normally have a sales meeting on Wednesday afternoon, but the boss is sick so it's been cancelled. I thought I'd hang around and make certain you have everything you need. Barbie can be a bit hopeless when it comes to organising cleaning."

"I'm sure I'll make out alright," I said, trying to think what a cleaner would say.

"I'm sure you will, but I think it's best if we first go around the house and I explain what needs cleaning."

"Er, right..."

"Come into the kitchen and I'll show you the special floor tiles. I'm afraid they have to be hand-scrubbed but at least it means there's plenty of work for you to do. Barbie said you needed to make as much money as you could; shall we say you do four-and-a-half hours today?"

"Er, well..."

"That's fine then."

He led the way through to the kitchen, where Barbie was looking murderous as she watched a jug of coffee being made.

"Hi Jo, I'm glad you decided not to let our little argument put you off coming."

"Hello, Barbie," I said, uncertain what else to say.
She directed a black look at Barry and said, "Look Barry, I can look after Jo. You don't have to hang around." She turned back to me and said, "I'll get you started on something simple."

"Barbara," Barry said, "I have just told Jo how hopeless you are at running the house. I have arranged to have the afternoon off to look after her, and I've instructed her on what needs doing so I'd rather you didn't contradict me."

Noticing Barbie's face getting even blacker, he quickly added, "Perhaps it's better if you went out whilst Jo is here. We really can't have another argument in front of the staff, and we can hardly ask her to leave."

For a moment, I thought that Barbie was going to kill him, but then she abruptly stood up, grabbed her handbag and left the kitchen. Seconds later, the front door slammed, and a minute after that, her car roared off leaving me behind to scrub the floors.

"Right," Barry said turning to me with a smile. "Now I've got rid of her, we can forget about the bloody floor tiles. Shall we go upstairs and I'll show you what needs to be done on the bed?"