Special thanks to Julie O., from whose concepts of magic I have borrowed a little. No Julieverse characters appear in this story.
 
 
Six

Stacy sat me down at the cabinet that was supposed to be a vanity, but that I had converted to a TV desk cum stereo system rack cum clothes storage to take a closer look at me. She ran her fingers through my hair, looked at the ends, looked at my face this way and that and pulled a face.

She said, “You, girl, need The Works!”

“Uh-oh”, I thought, worried what that would mean for me now.

She spotted the tape measure that I had used to take the measurements of myself when this all started and measured under my breasts, across them, around my waist and around my hips. She noted these measurements down and tossed a few figures down.

She said, “You're a 34B or C, you would probably wear a size 6. Shoes, I can only guess, but probably a size 8. Those are not really close to my sizes, so I guess you stay put and I'll pick up some versatile items, a couple of tops, some jeans, a bra, panties and hose. Maybe a pair of flats from a store where I can exchange them.”

I just sat there and looked at her, dumbstruck. She grinned, blew me a kiss and said “Don't do anything I wouldn't do”, winked at me and walked out the door.

The latch clilcked home and I was alone.

Panties! Not really what I'd imagined I'd ever wear. I wasn't a man's man, but I was a man, dammit. Now I'd be wearing panties! Life's not fair! “Well, come to that, at least I'm not some cross-dressing weirdo,” I thought, “at least I have the equipment that is supposed to be in them!” I found I was able to console myself with that thought and I felt a little better. I went into the living room, which doubled as a study, and flicked the switch on my computer. Time to do some research. With all of this, I might be able to take my mind off it by trying to find more news on the dead girls, and to look for the kind of information that, if they were the result of the same kind of transformation, had to be there, somewhere.

I pulled up my email and fired off some messages to friends and acquaintances in law enforcement, forensics and hospitals, asking them for information about young girl suicides, missing young men, or women who seemed to suffer from delusions. Then I settled into the grind of mining the web for the same type of data.
 
 
Seven

What a strange world we live in. There were people who would actually hope and pray for something like this to happen to them. Entire sites devoted to them. Unbelievable, really. Sure, I knew that there were men who want to be women, I watched TV, too. But this subculture of gender variant people was quite something!

My web search had come with a few more dead girls, in notices from newspapers around the country. Nothing that would make it a pattern to anyone not looking for it, but discernible for someone who did. I had taken the atlas I used before Google maps had made it obsolete and made a red dot for every suicide that fit the pattern perfectly, and blue dots for those that might, but I either had too little information, or they had a detail that made them different. I had scanned the page, printed a copy and connected the dots by a line, according to their order. Yes, Ron strikes again! This gave a strong indication that it was caused by a single, moving agent, not something as random as a disease!

A single agent. Agent. Damn! Yes, and it must have been that mystery woman! But, why say sorry? She's obviously done this before, if the 38 suicides I had found are any indication, there must be more than 100 men that had been transformed. She could just stop, if she felt it was wrong! Could she, though? Not like I know that, really. What a mess I got myself into here!
 
 
Eight

The doorbell rang, and a quick look through the peephole told me it was Stacy. I opened the door for her and she came in, laden with bags and boxes.

“Damn,” I said, “did you have to buy half the town?”

“No, I just got you some essentials,” she said.

If that was essentials, I mused, what was going full bore? I suppose my days of needing a pair of boxers, a t-shirt, jeans and socks are over! Not that I cared at the moment, I was sort of numb and not reacting to this girl thing at all, heaven knows why! If the others were any indication, I should probably be slitting my wrists or jumping off a bridge by now!

Stacy went to the bed, pulled up the covers and straightened them with one practiced shake, not something I usually did at all! Making a bed, what for? You only muss it again the next night, anyway! She proceeded to dump out some bags' contents and quickly grabbed a few items.

“Here”, she said, “you need to come out of those boxers,” and handed me a three-pack of cotton panties.

Assorted cotton panties, white, powder blue, and rose. I opened the package and took the white ones, dropped the too large boxers and put on the panties. There, I'd done it. And, actually, they weren't uncomfortable at all! The panties hugged my hips and butt and fit my new, flat front perfectly. Next, Stacy handed me a bra, also white, with smooth cups and what felt like a thin padding.

“That's called a t-shirt bra, because it's so smooth, you don't see it under one.”

I turned the bra around in my hands and looked at the fasteners and straps. I only had experience taking those off, and not off myself, either!

Stacy grinned and said, “Here, hold it with the cups right way, and bring it around behind your back. Hook it in the front, over your tummy, spin it around and slip the arms through the straps,” she said, while helping me along and fussing over the adjustments on the straps, which were way too tight.

Finally, she reached into the bra and lifted each breast slightly to let it settle into its cup. Damn! That felt good, her hands on my breasts. Damn! I shouldn't have breasts! But, still felt nice.

Now I realized how the weight of these protuberances had been pulling my skin, that pull was now gone. That's pretty comfortable actually; I was beginning to understand why women wear these things. I looked at the mirror on the still opened door and I saw a pretty young woman in her underwear. Pretty in a girl-next-door way, with long straight hair and no makeup on. Stacy thrust something at me, a yellow thing like a t-shirt, but with short sleevelets and a much lower neckline.

She saw my look and said “Those are called 'cap sleeves'”, she said, “one thing about being a woman is that you have so many more styles to choose from, and you will need to learn them, over time.”

I pulled the top on and found that the neckline wasn't even cut low at all, it barely showed anything. The opening just looked large, considering what I was used to, but it was actually cut rather modestly. Stacy pushed a pair of blue denim jeans my way, and I grabbed them and stepped into them.

Pulling up the jeans turned into a bit of a problem, they were much tighter than anything I had ever worn before. I had to wiggle my butt and pull up on each side in turn to get them up over my hips, then I couldn't pull them any further. They rode really low on my hips, while I was used to a much higher cut.

“Stacy,” I said, “did you really have to get a style like this? I feel naked!”

“You should feel pretty," she said, "you really have a figure and you shouldn't hide it. Besides, all the styles that are right for your age ride low these days; you'd be hard put to find ones that don't!”

Well, I guess she's right, I remembered seeing them on all the pretty young things!

Stacy handed me a pack of in-shoe sox, they were smooth white cotton weave, very thin, with a little “pom” at the top. I looked at them with a pained expression and said “Stacy! That's so girly! Why'd you get those?”

Stacy gave me a grin and said “You are a girl! So girly should fit you! Seriously”, she went on, “that's the least girly ones they had at that place. I'd hate to cut them off, they're cute and I'd worry about the sox unraveling if we do.”

I sighed, “Ok, I guess I can live with them” and pulled them on.

Finally, she got a box from Lady Foot Locker, and pulled out a girly pair of trainers with light yellow and light pink trim on them.

“Stacy”, I said, with a pained expression, “are you serious?”

She looked at me and said “Yes, serious as a heart attack. Listen, I really toned this down but I'm not going to hunt around town to find something that just doesn't exist! Girls trainers have trim, colors, and they're mostly pastels. You can't use the range of colors that were acceptable for a man before, it's different for girls!”

I took the shoes and slipped into them. I said “Stacy, you're spot on on the size, they're a perfect fit!”

She smiled and gave me a happy hug.

“Ok, she said, let's get that hair of yours seen to!”

I froze up. I simply couldn't move. “Go outside,” I asked? Fear descended over me like a blanket, blotting out all the light and joy in the world. I gave her that “Deer in the headlights” look, and tried to stand up. The room started spinning around me and I fell to the bed. Blackness descended over me as I passed out.

End of part two