Author’s note: One of the best things about this site is the wonderful and supportive community that hangs out here, including so many incredibly creative and talented writers who are willing to help one another be better. Rachel Moore and Angela Rasch — both far better and more accomplished writers than I am — have been extremely helpful on Maximum Warp, and I would be remiss if I did not give them both a big shout-out. With respect to this chapter, Rachel provided inspiration when I was struggling with it, as well as a critical metaphor. So it’s fair to say that she literally helped me metaphorically. :-) Thank-you!!!

Maximum Warp
Chapter 6: Transwarp Drive

“Five foot five, 37-24-36. And, at a guess, biologically, you’re around 17. Congratulations.” Janet was shaking her head and smiling. “You are, officially, the youngest, most bodacious professor in the entire history of linguistics. They’re going to have to widen your endowed chair so that it will accommodate your . . . ahhh . . . endowments.”

It was 30 days exactly since the aliens had injected my butt – then, a substantially less substantial part of my anatomy – with a compound which had transformed me into what Janet described as a mash-up between Margot Robbie and Jessica Rabbit. I had to look up both of those women (one real, one not) before I had a clue what she was talking about.

Of course, Margot Robbie is – and Jessica Rabbit always was and forever would be – rather older than 17. Seventeen was still a minor. Not good. But also . . . not five. Assuming the damned termites hadn’t fudged on the timeline, the changes triggered by their magic juice were now complete. So hopefully – hopefully!!! – I would get no younger.

I had flowing golden hair down to my ample posterior and had graduated to a 30-DD bra. Janet, of course, didn’t think “graduate” was the right term.

“Nah, ‘graduate’ doesn’t cover it, darlin’. That’s baccalaureate shit. When you are talkin’ about such a truly impressive pair of candidates, It’s more like a Ph Double-D.”

I had drained my bank account by the simple expedient of transferring everything to my checking account and writing a check to Janet for the full amount. My retirement account was inaccessible, and I might never be able to access those funds. On the other hand, I’d just been given forty or so extra years to make it back, so I refused to get bent out of shape about it. Identity was going to be a problem, and we hadn’t figured out how to resolve it yet. But at least I wasn’t destitute. So long as I didn’t piss off Janet!

We decided to celebrate the end of my 30-day transition with a day of primping and shopping. This was not as frivolous as it sounds, since I had no clothes that still fit. Which was why our first stop was an expensive lingerie boutique where I acquired suitable architectural support for my weightier concerns.

I had my hair done. Tidied, really, because the new me liked it long, however impractical. Got a mani-pedi. Had a lesson in makeup from a gen-u-ine professional. Got my ears pierced. Got clothes and shoes that suited my age and, er, pulchritude. The details do not bear repeating, though I enjoyed myself.

I had stopped pretending – to either myself or to Janet – that I wasn’t loving it. I felt strong and healthy, vibrant and – a complete novelty for me – sexy. It was still confusing to me, but there was simply no doubt that my very female body was strongly attracted to what was now the opposite sex. I found that I had to discipline myself, so that I was not following good-looking guys with my eyes. This attraction was apparently reciprocated, at least if I was understanding the signals correctly.

“Yeah, no, “ Janet said. “As a matter of fact, they aren’t staring at you because they are impressed by your academic credentials.”

Janet enjoyed herself too. She had never had the experience of shopping with a daughter (or, at this point, granddaughter), and she had fun. But it was a long day and she was flagging by the end of it.

By 4:30 we were back home and I was – finally – decently dressed in clothes and underwear that fit. The chime of the doorbell interrupted our discussion of what to make for dinner. I hopped up, disgustingly fresh and eager to spare Janet having to get out of her comfy recliner. “I’ll get it,” I told her.

“Expectin’ someone?” Janet asked, no doubt wondering at my eagerness.

I shook my head and smiled. But I prudently checked through the peephole before opening the door, only to pull myself up short.

Police.

I was still thinking through what to do when the officer hammed on the door with his fist. We were clearly at home, so I opened the door, leaving the chain in place. Mid-thirties, athletic build. Short-cropped medium brown hair, icy pale blue eyes, strong chin, straight nose, firm lips . . . .

Focus!

I had an inspiration. My eyes grew wide. Using my sweetest, most surprised voice, I said, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

I remember a time when one of the coaches was talking with me while we were walking into a lecture, and he failed to duck under a lintel that was built in the early 19th century for a shorter race of men. The expression on the coach’s face just before he dropped was mirrored in the Officer’s face as he stood at the door. Very satisfactory!

“I, uhhh, ummm . . . .” He was stammering.

I allowed a look of concern to cross my face. “Are you alright? Do you need some water?”

He coughed. “Ah . . . no . . . no, I’m, err . . . fine. Thank you! But, ah, I was wondering whether I might speak with Professor Seldon.”

My concern deepened. “She’s resting right now,” I said sincerely. Which was easier to do because, as far as I knew, my statement was true. “She’s not in some sort of trouble, is she?” My eyes grew wider still, and the hint of distress penetrated my voice.

He was quick to reassure me. Such a gentleman! “No, no. No trouble at all! We just hoped she might be able to help us. With an investigation.”

“Really! Oh, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help! If you leave me a card, I’ll have her contact you as soon as she’s up!”

He frowned at that. “It’s really very urgent. I won’t be a moment.”

Distress was back in my face. “Oh, I can’t possibly disturb her,” I breathed. “She would be so upset with me! Please, I promise I’ll have her call!”

He glowered a moment, but my distress was clearly working. “All right,” he relented. He pulled a card from his wallet, wrote a number on it, and said, “please have her call me at this number. Tonight, if possible. May I ask what your name is?”

“Oh! I’m Jessica.”

He was still looking at me, pen poised. The ritual was rather obviously incomplete.

I thought furiously. “Jessica Lapine.” It was the best I could come up with in a crunch. “I’ll have her call you, Officer . . . “ I looked at his card. “Officer Wolf. Thank you for stopping by.”

“Thank you, Miss Lapine.” He stepped away and I closed the door.

I rested my head against it for a moment while the butterflies in my stomach settled, listening for the sounds of Officer Wolf’s departure. When I heard him drive away, I turned ‘round to see Janet regarding me sardonically.

“Was that off the cuff, or have you been practicin’?”

I flushed. “I was . . . improvising. How’d I do?”

“Well, I couldn’t see what you might be doing with your front side, but it was pretty convincin’ from the backside!”

I opened my eyes wide in innocence and said, “Is there a problem, Professor?”

She chuckled. Then guffawed. “Okay, girl! But don’t try those tricks on policewomen!”

“Perish, the thought!” I said in mock horror. But then I sobered up, fast. “I’ve only bought a bit of time, and we’d better figure out what to do with it.”

“You thinkin’ it’s that little shit doctor causin’ trouble?”

“The world is filled with little shits,” I replied, “but he still tops my list of suspects. He thinks you were trying some scam, and trying to pass me off as . . . well . . as me, I guess.”

“No way you can pass as you,” she responded.

“You know how crazy that sounds?”

She just cocked an eyebrow, her look taking in my present superabundance.

“Fine,” I said. “I don’t suppose you know a good lawyer?”

“No, but then, I’ve never seen a pink unicorn, either. I s’pose they might exist anyway. Do you?”

“I have to deal with doctors from time to time; I don’t have to put up with lawyers.”

We looked at each other.

“Google?” I suggested.

She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Works for plumbers and electricians, usually.” She went into the room I was using to sleep in, which was normally the study, and turned on her computer.

“You can do all that on your phone, you know,” I commented.

“Oh, so now that you’re sweet seventeen you know technology?” she snorted. “Your pair of double D’s was less surprising than that’d be!”

Ten minutes later she was placing a call to The Law Offices of Justin Abel. Why him? Because he was the first entry. Sometimes it pays to have the right name. Was Mr. Able available? He was.

I only heard Janet’s side of the conversation. She told him that the police had stopped by and wanted to interview her about an investigation, and she wanted legal advice. No; the situation was likely complicated, and yes, she needed legal representation. No, she didn’t want to discuss it further over the phone. Of course; she could be there in fifteen minutes.

And so, twenty minutes later, we were sharing a conference room with a lawyer. One of those hundred ways you can tell that you are most definitely not having a good day. Justin Abel was probably in his late thirties; he was a bit shorter than I had been a month ago, though he had more bulk. Bulk that was, I thought, nicely distributed . . . .

Stop that!!!

Dark hair, Clark Kent glasses, a mobile face and a booming voice completed the picture. Well almost.

“Professor Seldon! Good to meet you!” he boomed.

After two beats, Janet said, dryly, “Over here, Mr. Abel. This way? I’m the one who looks old enough to belong in front of a lecture hall.”

His mobile face may have shown the barest hint of blush as he quickly tore his gaze away from me. “I’m very sorry, Professor!”

“It’s all right,” she replied. “I expect I’d better get used to it.” As an aside to me, she said, “You were right. Malthus.”

“What?” he asked.

“That’s my line,” I said, joining the conversation. “Though in this case it’s ‘who,’ not ‘what.’”

“Never mind that now,” Janet said. “I’m here for some legal advice. Your Google ad said you do a free consultation?”

He nodded, firmly keeping his eyes fixed on Janet. “Right. You tell me what the issue is and, if I think I can help you, we can discuss fees, expenses and all that good stuff. But first . . . If you want our discussion to be privileged and confidential, we can’t have a third party present. However lovely,” he added gallantly, only flicking his dark eyes in my general direction.

“We’re both going to need representation, if that helps,” I said.

“I’d need signed conflict waivers if you want me to represent you both,” he cautioned.

But we had no trouble with that, so it wasn’t an impediment. Once that paperwork was signed, he said, “who wants to tell me what’s going on?”

I looked at Janet. She looked at me. We hadn’t really figured out what we were going to say beforehand. Awkward!

Finally, Janet looked at the lawyer – Mr. Able – and said, “Well, I think that the police want to talk to me about a missin’ person – my colleague, Professor Wainwright.”

“Why you?” he asked.

“Umm . . . Well . . . .” she fell silent.

Able was looking puzzled.

I said, “Okay, let me try. Professor Wainwright took off hiking on the Appalachian Trail after the semester ended. He isn’t scheduled to be back until August . . . .” I stopped. This was not going to be easy to explain.

“So what makes you think he’s missing?” Able inquired.

“He’s not,” Janet and I said in unison.

“Why would the police think he’s missing?”

“Doctor Bell might have suggested he was,” Janet said uneasily.

“Bell? . . . Oh wait! You mean Quibble?”

We nodded again. It’s a small community.

Able looked at us, cocked his head, and said, “we can play fifty questions, and I’m happy to. I like puzzles and all. I like ‘em better when I’m on the clock and it’s your dime, of course. But it would probably save some time if you just told me the story.”

“I’m worried you won’t believe it,” I said.

“Trust me,” he responded, “I’ve seen and heard a lot of things in this town.”

Janet clearly decided that it was better to just bite the bullet. “Okay, well, Professor Wainwright was abducted by space aliens and turned into a pretty girl.”

“Uh huh,” Able said, noncommittally. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?” he asked, looking my direction.

“Well . . . .”

“Thought so,” he said. “And I imagine you told Quibble and he maybe didn’t buy it?”

We nodded.

“Well, I’m not seeing a problem . . . .”

But Able was interrupted by a pounding on the outside door to his suite. He said, “Excuse me a moment, ladies.”

He came back a moment later, followed by Officer Wolf. “Officer, please have a seat,” Able said briskly. “Ladies, I advise you not to say anything just now.”

Able sat at the head of the table and said, “Officer Wolf, please explain why you are here.”

I was blushing maraschino cherry red, having been caught out in my little subterfuge. And I thought I’d done so well!

“We are investigating the possible disappearance of James Wainwright, a colleague of Professor Seldon’s. We thought she might have information that would assist in our investigation.”

Able cocked his head and looked puzzled. He had a good ‘puzzled’ look that he appeared to deploy tactically. “Why would you think that?”

“I’m asking the questions here,” Officer Wolf responded. He was countering with a “I’ve got a badge and you don’t” look. It was good, but maybe not as smooth as Able’s “puzzled.” This could be fun.

“Well, of course you are,” Able responded, sounding reasonable and patient. “You asked one, then I asked one. So I guess we’re both asking questions here. How special is that? But if you want answers to your questions, you might want to work with me. Just sayin’.” He smiled seraphically.

“Alright, what do you really want to know?” Wolf growled.

“Is my client suspected of wrongdoing, and if so, why?” Able responded promptly.

The Wolf bared his teeth and said, “Not at this time.”

Able shifted his mobile features into an expression that was equal parts “delighted’ and ‘pleased as punch,’ and started to stand up. “Outstanding! Nice of you to stop by, Officer.”

Wolf watched the performance with a raised eyebrow. “I’d still like a word with your client.”

Able sat down again. “I repeat: Why?”

Wolf threw up his hands. “Fine! An informant indicated that Professor Seldon was with a person who was falsely claiming to be Professor Wainwright. Second, Professor Wainwright’s car is parked in Professor Seldon’s garage. Finally, bank records indicate that Professor Seldon cashed a large check from Professor Wainwright that essentially drained his bank accounts.”

Put that way, I guess it did sound pretty damning.

But Able said, “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” He sounded astonished. Looked it, too.

“It’s enough for us to want to ask your client some questions.”

Able looked over at us and smiled. “Based on what you told me, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t answer his questions. Fire away, Officer. I’ll throw up a red light if I think you’ve crossed a line.”

It was my turn to be astonished. We’d barely spoken to him, but he was game to have us tell the story? Huh?

“Professor Seldon,” Wolf said, “Do you know the present whereabouts of your colleague, James Wainwright?”

“I do,” she responded, eyes twinkling.

“Will you tell me where he is?”

“Of course. This young lady is Professor Wainwright. Her appearance has changed as a result of an encounter with space aliens while hikin’. Shit happens when your hikin’, ya know. Pretty much why I don’t do it.”

“Professor, this is no time for jokes,” Wolf barked.

Janet gave him the basilisk glare of a full professor. “The truth, Officer, can be a funny thing. Damned funny, sometimes. No fault of mine.”

“Where did you get the check that you deposited drawn from Professor Wainwright’s bank account?”

“From Professor Wainwright, obviously.”

“The person you claim is Professor Wainwright, or the real Professor Wainwright?”

“You ever met James Wainwright, boy?” she challenged.

“That’s ‘Officer,’” he said forcefully, “and, no, I haven’t.”

“Well, Officer Boy, I’ve known James Wainwright for decades. My closest friend. So at least be open to the possibility that I know what the hell I’m talkin’ about and you don’t know Jack!”

“Or James, in this case,” I added helpfully.

“Let me try this again,” Wolf said. “Did the person who gave you the check look like Professor Wainwright?”

“Absolutely.” Janet’s face radiated sincerity.

When I’d handed her the check I had been around 5’9” with a pretty face, blond hair and breasts that, while not approaching their current peak performance, were still competitive. I was wearing proper makeup, a skirt and a “top” that Janet described as “cute.” But Officer Wolf’s question had been poorly worded, and Janet had spotted the flaw instantly. I am James Wainwright, and when I handed Janet the check, that’s what I had looked like.

“How did Professor Wainwright’s car get in your garage?”

“He drove it there. Natch. Did you have a warrant to go on my property and look in my garage?”

A bit defensively, Wolf said, “This is important! Don’t quibble!”

Janet dramatically recoiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I can’t stand that man!”

“What?” Wolf said, confused.

For the second time that evening, I intervened to say, “Not ‘what,’ ‘who.’”

“Who?” he said.

“Who.”

He tried again. “Who’s the who?”

Looking dangerously amused, Janet surprised me by saying, “Cindy Lou.”

“What?” I said.

“No, ‘Who.’ ‘Cindy Lou Who,’” she responded. At my blank look, she added, “Fiction. You. Need. To. Read!”

I sat up straighter, which had the unintended secondary effect of causing small adjustments to the cantilevered portions of my new anatomy. The tertiary effect was that I suddenly had the close attention of both men in the room.

Well, file that data under both “interesting” and “useful!”

I said, “Weak sallies at literary humor aside, I think my colleague was initially referring to your informant, Dr. Bell.”

Trying manfully to keep his eyes someplace where they might possibly belong, Wolf could not formulate a response beyond, “huh?”

I decided to take a shot at persuasion. I leaned forward and said, in my most reasonable voice, “Officer, based on everything you’ve said, Dr. Quentin Bell – Quibble – is obviously your informant. I can tell you what happened on both occasions that Professor Seldon met with Dr. Bell at his office in the past three weeks, because I was there. Did the doctor describe the person who claimed to be Professor Wainwright?”

I gave him my most earnest look. Tried to layer on sweet as well, but I was stretching my abilities. By nature I am never sweet and I scrupulously avoid earnestness in all its tedious forms.

“That’s . . . I’m not supposed to reveal that.” His efforts to keep his eyes on my face appeared to be taking a bit of a toll.

“If he told you the whole story,” I continued, “which I’m just sure he did, I assume you heard that the person that he described in the first encounter looked and sounded enough like Wainwright that Quibble didn’t initially question his identity. But the person was a couple inches shorter, over a decade younger, and had blonde hair.”

Looking a bit uncomfortable, Wolf said, “there was one other big difference . . . .”

“A renovation involving indoor plumbing, right?”

“Uh . . . .”

“And this person said he had been injected with a substance that was making him young and female, right?” I pressed.

“That was the story,” Wolf confirmed, slathering skepticism.

“And then just one week later, Professor Seldon arrived with someone who appeared to be a woman, and was probably in her mid-thirties, right?”

“Uhhhh . . . “

“And when you show up ten days later, you find a woman who looks a lot younger than that at Dr. Seldon’s house. Isn’t that consistent with what Quibble was told?”

“It fits the story,” he said, thereby confirming the source of his information. He added, “But the story’s an obvious fabrication – just like your name, and your claim that Dr. Seldon was resting!”

“Well, I’ve got to call myself something, since people don’t seem to be willing to call me ‘James Wainwright!’”

“You think you’re the only person who speaks French, Miss Rabbit?”

My face flushed bright red again. Oops.

Observing the dramatic shift in my coloring, Janet said, “Maybe you shoulda called yourself ‘Scarlet’ instead of ‘Lapine.’” But after a brief pause, she reconsidered. “On second thought, that would just lead our good officer to grill you about lead pipes in the conservatory.”

Ignoring my own puzzled look, Janet looked at Wolf. “And for the record, I was resting.”

“Not so hard that you weren’t both on your way here within fifteen minutes! I followed you!”

“Well obviously, I finished resting,” Janet said.

“It’s not like I said she was in a coma,” I added.

Able broke in. “Officer, the ladies have told you what they believe to be the truth. Now, I’ve got a few things for you to ponder on your way back to the station – a journey you will be taking shortly, and alone.”

Able had a pretty good glower too.

“You haven’t indicated that Professor Wainwright has lodged any sort of complaint about his money or his car. In the absence of a complaint, you don’t have any reason to disbelieve Professor Seldon when she says that Wainwright gave her the check and left his car in her garage.”

“Apart from the fact that she’s claiming that the girl over there is Professor Wainwright!” Wolf said, with some heat.

“Sure,” Able responded. “But here’s the thing. Even if she’s mistaken about that, there’s no evidence that Professor Wainwright is actually missing. He went off hiking on the Appalachian Trail. If you don’t believe the ladies’ story, then for all you know Wainwright is right where he ought to be. He’s not due back until August. If you aren’t willing to wait for him to return, you can always try to find him yourself. You know: Take a hike?”

Wolf said, “While this young . . . person . . . goes around saying she’s Wainwright?”

Able re-deployed “astonished.” He did that even better than he did “puzzled.” “You aren’t seriously suggesting that it’s a crime to impersonate a professor?”

Wolf got up, looking annoyed. “Fine. Lie. Joke. Obstruct my investigation. But I’ll be back with a warrant, and we’ll see who’s laughing then!”

“Spare us the theater,” Able said, unimpressed. “You don’t even have any evidence that a crime’s been committed, much less any evidence that either of these ladies committed one. So, what’re you gonna do? Huff and puff? Just so you know, this building’s made of brick.”

Officer Wolf gnashed his teeth. I mean, literally gnashed them. I’d only heard of the expression; I’d never seen anyone try it. It looked tough on the molars.

He managed to say, “I’ll be talking to all of you later!” before storming out.

Able leaned back in his swivel rocker, half-closed his eyes and reprised his self-satisfied smile. “Damned shame I didn’t get time to work out fees before that happened, but it was so much fun, I’m almost happy to have done it for free. Almost.”

“Thank you for your help – and for believing us,” I said. He had, objectively, been fantastic.

He opened his eyes fully, turned them on me and displayed a smile that would make a shark proud. “Oh, I think your story’s completely bonkers. But that just made my job more fun!”

Janet looked at me and said, “No pink unicorn, remember?”

“Ayup,” I concurred. “Why’d you help, if you thought we were lying?”

He shook his head. “Never said you were lying. I said your story’s bonkers, which – you’ve got to admit – it absolutely is. But I’m agnostic as to whether it’s true or false. Doesn’t affect how I deal with the police.”

Janet looked indignant. “Liars get equal treatment?”

“The guy with the badge has to have some sort of evidence that a crime’s been committed before he can just start asking a bunch of questions and acting threatening. And he should have obtained search warrants before checking out your garage or looking at bank records. He dodged your question about that. So, even if you are lying – and understand, I’m completely agnostic about that – he has to follow proper procedures, and I’ll absolutely paddle him if he doesn’t.”

I allowed my right eyebrow to float lazily to the ionosphere of my high forehead. “I might enjoy watching that.”

Well, that finally got our cool lawyer’s face to turn rhubarb red. Good!

We gave Mr. Able a retainer, signed some paperwork, and headed out. The police had been dispatched, and if we were lucky they wouldn’t be back. In which case, we would not need further Abel assistance!

But Janet was beat. We ordered some take-out, and after we had eaten she took herself off to an early bed. “See if you can keep the wolf from the door,” she said.

It had been a long day. The month was up and I now had reason to hope that whatever shot I had been given had done what it was going to do. I had gone shopping and bought real clothes, for the person I was now going to be. I had faced accusations and lawyers, and had been the focus of a lot of attention. By rights, I should have been exhausted too.

But I was too tense to go to bed, or read, or do any of the things I normally would do to relax at the end of a day. I was full of weird energy; I couldn’t sit still. Part of me wanted to go out again. Get in my car; go somewhere. Do something. If I didn’t go out, I might go crazy. The operative word, it seemed, was “GO!”

But Jessica Lapin, or Scarlet, or whatever had no driver’s license. No identity at all. I couldn’t even walk into a bar or a nightclub. I looked like I was seventeen. A well-developed seventeen, but seventeen nonetheless.

I stopped dead in my tracks – the ones that were pacing back and forth over Janet’s oatmeal-brown carpet like a caged cheetah.

What was possessing me? Why was I even thinking about going to bars or nightclubs? I was seldom inside a bar, and I’m not sure I had ever been in a club. I don’t know what they even look like inside!

I thought about the looks I got while I was shopping in the mall. From the boys. From the men. About the ones I looked at. I thought about Officer Wolf and lawyer Able, their eyes following my movements. I thought about Able’s well-built frame, his mobile face. All day, I had felt it – The warm feeling, the tense feeling . . . the rush of being desirable, of being desired.

Of desiring.

That was why I felt caged; why I wanted to go out. I’d been driving a run-down, but still-serviceable Taurus for years, and I’d suddenly been given the keys to a shiny new Maserati MC20. Something deep inside was just itching to get her on the long dark highway, put pedal to the metal and see what she had under that sleek and curvy exterior . . . .

“I am James Marshall Wainwright,” I told myself firmly. I thought it was firmly, anyway. It sounded firm? Kind of? But, maybe a little hoarse. “I’m a scholar. A respected academic . . . .”

My hips swayed. “Sure, Honey,” they cooed. “Tell us all about possessive animate nouns!”

“I have written three books . . .” Firm. Surely firm?

My breasts rearranged themselves in their lacy nests, snuggling in even more tightly. “Talk to me, sugar,” they whispered, voices low and sultry. “The alignment of case forms, right? . . . . You were saying?”

“Scores of peer-reviewed articles in prestigious journals . . . .” I was maybe not sounding quite so convincing?

My lovely, painted nails buried themselves in the waterfall of my hair, causing the silky mass to shift, caressing my back, filling the air with a clean scent, the smell of honeysuckle on a warm summer evening. Each long tendril sighed, “explain the drift towards the invariable word, old man. Do it. We love it when you talk dirty!”

I shuddered. I had no reply, firm or otherwise, to the sensations that were overwhelming me.

Who am I?

I stepped into the bathroom and faced the mirror. A mirror that now showed perfect features, Hair that cried out to be played with . . . lips almost begging to be kissed. Eyes filled with longing. With desire.

I reached up and slowly unbuttoned my sky-blue silk top, each movement revealing more and more of my ripe, full breasts, flushed and straining against the pale pink cups that held them in beds of delicate lace. I hung my top on the hook by the door, raised my arms, and in a motion that was becoming increasingly natural, unhooked my bra. The movement of soft fabric across tender flesh caused me to shiver. My black skirt followed, then the panties.

Naked, and lovely. So lovely! Me?

Who am I?

I turned on the shower and stepped in. The feel of hot water sluicing over my sensitive skin was at once sensual and electric. I just stood for a moment, head bowed, feeling the hot water penetrate my hair, massage my scalp.

I soaped up my hands. By habit, I went first to scrub my chest. As my soapy hands slid effortlessly across my breasts, I was overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure so intense that my knees felt weak. There was a bench in the shower. I sat. Safety . . . first.

I dedicated myself to ensuring that each breast was thoroughly and completely clean, sparing no effort in my hygiene. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, right? No; that’s not quite right. Next to heaven, maybe? Certainly, it was next to impossible. Keep at it!

The waves of pleasure were stronger now, more intense, pulsing like the cascade of the shower. It was all I could do not to cry out when my fingers tweaked my areolas, sending me into a spasm of pleasure. I whimpered softly.

My vagina was aching, warm. My right hand dropped down, exploring. I touched my new lips, and found myself panting. I inserted a finger. Two. Pressure built, pushed, throbbing, pulsing. I was shaking, biting my tongue to keep from groaning, from crying. My fingers moved, pushing . . . probing. Inside, I was warm and wet. My hungry fingers touched a button of . . . something? Fire! Aaaaaagh!!! From the very core of my body, an explosion of pleasure hit, pulled back, hit again. Hammering me, battering me, turning hardened defenses into liquid . . . . And again!

I might have stayed in that zone of pleasure forever, but Janet’s hot water tank was nowhere near as large as my need. The water was no longer hot, then no longer warm . . . before it went straight to frigid, I managed to get on my feet long enough to shut off the water. I was shaking; weak. I felt boneless, my limbs loose.

I stepped out of the shower and looked at the eldritch figure in the mirror, a water nymph wreathed in steamy mist, full, moist lips curled in a smile of pure triumph. “My name,” I said to the mirror, “is JESSICA. You got that, old man?”

It was a long while before I was able to sleep. Even with the aid of a blow-dryer, my hair takes forever to be dry enough for sleeping. But I loved it anyway. I slipped into a long, midnight blue nightgown in a sheer nylon fabric, held up by thin, sexy lingerie straps, and slid under the covers, the smile still on my lips.

I woke up the next morning to the ping of a text message from my phone. I no longer needed to find a pair of glasses before I could read it.

“We will reach orbit in three days. Provide meeting coordinates.”

The wry old Professor in the back of my head said, “Showtime, girlfriend!”

To be continued. With a smile.