Yes, my crossdressing secret was uncovered, and it is indeed true. Here’s how it went:

In the fall of 1989, I was 16 and in my sophomore year of high school. One day that fall (Election Day, to be exact, not that that part of the story matters), I was riding home on the bus from school, about a mile or so away from my stop, when “A Women in Trouble” started playing on the radio. I was getting off the bus alone that afternoon, and I would be at home alone as well; my sister, who usually would have been getting off the bus with me, was staying at school for drill team practice, and our mother and little sister were still on their way back from out-of-town along with our older stepbrother — yes, Evil Ugly Stepbrother — who was going to be moving in with us that day (let’s just say he had a falling out with his mom and still needed a roof over his head and a high school diploma under his arm). ((Watch More emotional Intersting Crossdressing Stories here support Me on Youtube - MTF Feminization Story ))

But when I got off the bus, I wasn’t thinking about my mom, sisters, or Evil Ugly Stepbrother. Rather, I was thinking about dressing up: Having the house to myself for a while, and not having too much homework, would be the perfect reasons to try on some of my sister’s clothing, or so I presumed. So, naturally, I made a mad dash in that quarter-mile distance between the school bus stop and our house. The first thing I did when I walked through the door was head for my sister’s room, where I plucked an orange swimsuit and a bra (if I recall correctly) from her dresser and headed into my room.

I was trying on the swimsuit a short time later when I noticed that Mom and Evil Ugly Stepbrother had pulled into the drive and were getting out of the car. (Uh oh.) At this point, I figured if I put my regular clothes back on, sneaked back into my sister’s room, and put back her swimsuit and bra, Mom would very well catch me red-handed. What I did instead was take off the swimsuit and placed it and the bra into one of my dresser drawers (I placed them underneath my male mode shirts and shorts for good measure).

Well, guess what? With Evil Ugly Stepbrother moving in, he needed space for his clothing. And guess what Mom decided to do? She decided to head into my room and clear out one of my dresser drawers. Guess which drawer she cleared out? Yes, the very dresser drawer where I just hid the swimsuit and bra.

When Mom noticed that swimsuit and that bra in my drawer, she immediately questioned why they were in there. I played ignorant (“Honestly, I don’t know. Was there a mix up? Static cling?”) as she proceeded to put them back in their proper place in my sister’s room.

But less than a minute later, Mom put two and two together and called me into my sister’s room.

“You’ve been wearing them, haven’t you?” she asked in a quiet yet stern voice.

“Yes,” I quietly nodded.

“For how long?”

“I only started it recently.” Well, that was a lie, of course. I feared if I told her the truth and said I had been doing this since I was 11, she would really, really be mad and give me a severe punishment.

What Mom said next (and the quiet yet very firm emphasis in her voice) actually kind of surprised me (then and still today), in that she never took it past this warning:

“Well,” she told me, “this had better come to a goddam screeching halt! I better not catch you doing this again! You are a full grown MAN! You are not a girl!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I quietly replied. “I understand.”

With that, I sulked back into my room and started on my little bit of homework for the evening. Later that evening, Mom did ask me in passing (and out of earshot of anyone else at home) a few other questions about what she discovered, such as if I ever revealed my dressing up to others at school. I presumed she was concerned about my well being when she asked that particular question, thinking of possible taunts and teasing that could have occurred had I told anyone at school (and I struggled a lot in school back then).

After that night, Mom never again brought up what she discovered in my dresser drawer. I’m also pretty sure she never brought it up with my stepfather when he returned from one of his long trips as a truck driver; if she had told him, I imagine he would punish me every which way short of disowning me.

But did I stop dressing up? Well, of course not. However, I did become much more cautious with trying on my mom’s and sister’s clothing after that incident. Yes, there were one or two close calls, but I learned my lesson from getting caught that I should really keep things covert. In fact, from that point on, I kept my bedroom door closed when I was in there, whether I was dressing up or not or whether anyone else was home or not.

Naturally, to this day I have never revealed to any relative (Mom included) that I still dress up as a woman. And “A Girl in Trouble” serves as a very apropos song in my life — it’s like Allison’s personal anthem, really. Any time that song starts playing on the radio or online or even in my head, I think back on that day my crossdressing was uncovered, and how I have matured as both a crossdresser and a person since then. Even though I was caught that day, it didn’t keep me down; my feminine spirit took a bruise, but it was never silenced. For as Debora Iyall says in the song’s refrain, and I’ll add emphasis here, “A girl in trouble is a temporary thing.”

The afternoon sun filtered softly through the sheer curtains of my living room, casting a warm glow over the quiet suburban house I'd recently started calling my own. Today felt different, thrilling even, as I stood in front of my full-length mirror, the smooth fabric of the delicate lingerie hugging my body, transforming my reflection into the stylish, trendy woman I saw myself as. With each piece I adjusted—a hint of lace here, a gentle tug on the satin there—I could feel the thrill of my secret passion pulsating through every fiber of my being. ( Watch Crossdressing Story Here)

"Hmm, not bad, Ethan," I muttered to myself, a small smile playing on my lips. The name felt almost alien in this context, where I was no longer just Ethan, the recent college grad with a degree in marketing and a mundane job waiting for him on Monday. Here, in the privacy of my home, with heels clicking confidently on the hardwood floor, I was more—more vibrant, more me.

As I added the final touches of mascara and a dab of rose-tinted lipstick, the faint sound of a key turning in the front door lock echoed through the silent house. My heart skipped a beat. Panic surged as the soft click of the door signaled an unexpected visitor. I barely had a moment to react, to hide, to transform back into the Ethan everyone expected me to be, when Aunt Clara walked in.

Clara, with her poised elegance and a smile that could light up any room, stood there, her eyes wide not with shock, but with an understanding that seemed to stretch far beyond the confines of this unexpected encounter. Dropping her bags at the entrance, she closed the door gently behind her, her gaze never leaving mine.

"Oh, dear," she began, her voice as calm as the quiet afternoon around us. "I see I've come at quite a time. I was going to surprise you with a visit, Ethan."

My cheeks flushed a deep crimson, the words stumbling out of me. "Aunt Clara, I—I can explain," I stammered, the heels now feeling like they were grounding me rather than elevating me.

Clara raised her hand, stopping me mid-sentence. "No need for explanations, darling," she said, a soft, knowing smile spreading across her face. "I understand more than you think. Let’s just say, I’ve walked in those heels before, quite literally."

The air felt thick as she stepped closer, her presence a comforting blanket in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. "When I was about your age," Clara continued, her voice a gentle whisper now, "I too explored who I wanted to be... quite extensively. It wasn't easy, finding my path. But here I am."

Standing there, in my living room that now felt like the smallest arena in the world, I realized that this moment, this revelation, wasn't just about my secret being discovered. It was a bridge being built by Aunt Clara’s past experiences, her struggles and triumphs, reaching out to my own. And in her eyes, I found not judgement, but an invitation—an invitation to share, to learn, and to be understood. This wasn't the end of my solitary journey, but perhaps, just maybe, the beginning of something extraordinary, shared with someone who had already paved part of the way. As the days began to melt into each other, the initial shock of Aunt Clara's arrival and her unexpected understanding gave way to a new routine, one that felt as refreshing as it was enlightening. Each morning, we'd sit at the kitchen table, our conversations meandering from the mundane to the profound, each cup of coffee growing colder as we lost ourselves in discussions about life, identity, and, of course, fashion.

Clara had an eye for style that was both enviable and inspiring. She didn’t just teach me what to wear but how to wear it. "Posture, darling," she would say, her hands guiding my shoulders back, a gentle nudge that felt like the click of a puzzle piece finding its rightful place. "Fashion is as much about how you carry it as it is about the clothes themselves."

Our afternoons were spent in my cramped living room turned makeshift runway, where Clara showed me the subtle arts of makeup and movement. Each brush stroke on my face, each swirl of blush or sweep of eyeliner was a stroke of her experience, a lesson in transformation that went beyond mere appearance.

One chilly afternoon, as a rainstorm played its rhythmic symphony on the roof, Clara suggested we tackle the attic—a dusty, forgotten place filled with trunks and photo albums that hadn't seen the light of day in years. "There's something I want to show you," she said, her voice a mix of nostalgia and anticipation.

The attic was like stepping into a time capsule. Each trunk we opened, each album we flipped through, was a page out of Clara’s past—a past that until now had been just stories woven into the fabric of our family lore. "Here," Clara paused, her hand trembling slightly as she handed me an old, faded photograph. It was of a young man, confident, with a familiar smile that echoed Clara's. "This was me, long before I became the woman you know now."

The revelation hit me in waves, a mix of surprise and understanding that deepened the bond between us. Here was Clara, not just as my mentor, but as someone who had traversed a path so similar to my own yet under much harsher lights. She shared stories of her struggles and triumphs, each artifact a testament to a battle fought and won.

"This necklace," she held up a delicate silver chain with a small, unassuming pendant, "was the first piece of jewelry I bought for myself after I transitioned. I wore it the day I finally felt like I wasn't just dressing up as myself but actually being myself."

As the rain outside petered to a gentle drizzle, the attic seemed to shrink around us, the air thick with the weight of history and the warmth of shared secrets. It was no longer just a storage space for old things but a sanctuary where Clara had chosen to unveil her most vulnerable truths to me. In those truths, I saw not just the roadmap of her journey but the possibility of my own path being valid, being real. As we sat there among the relics of her past, the boundary between mentor and protege blurred, replaced by something far more profound—a kinship that transcended time, gender, and expectation. The journey to the old family home was quiet, contemplative, as if both Clara and I were preparing ourselves to unearth secrets that might have been better left undisturbed. Nestled in a grove of towering oaks, the house stood as a silent sentinel to the past, its weathered facade a testament to the countless seasons it had witnessed.

As we pushed open the creaky front door, the musty smell of disuse filled our nostrils, the dust motes dancing like tiny specters in the slanting sunlight. "It's been years since anyone lived here," Clara murmured, her voice echoing slightly in the hollow space. "But if we're going to understand everything, we need to start at the beginning."

We began in the attic, much like we had in my own home, sifting through boxes and chests that contained the detritus of decades. It wasn't long before Clara found what she was looking for—a small, leather-bound diary that seemed almost inconsequential among the larger trunks. "This was mine," she said, her fingers tracing the faded edges with reverence. "I wrote in it during the years I was struggling the most with who I was... and who I was expected to be."

As we pored over the diary, the entries revealed a young Clara, torn between her own desires and the rigid expectations of a family caught up in the conservative values of their time. Pages filled with longing, fear, and determination painted a poignant picture of her journey. "It wasn't just the society that was hard to contend with," Clara explained as we read. "It was knowing that accepting myself might mean losing my family."

Our exploration led to more discoveries—hidden letters tucked away in old coat pockets, photographs hidden behind loose panels in drawers, each piece a fragment of Clara's secret history. One letter, in particular, stood out. It was from her mother, written in a shaky hand, expressing both love and a deep, unspoken fear of the unknown. "I don't understand this path you've chosen," it read, "but you are my child, and that is unchangeable."

The day stretched into evening as we dug deeper, unearthing more than just artifacts. We were uncovering the emotional landscape of a family caught between love and tradition, acceptance and denial. Clara's past was not just a tale of personal struggle but a reflection of a broader, societal challenge that many faced in silence.

It was then that we heard the car pull up outside—a sound that seemed both foreign and intrusive in the sacred quiet of our search. Clara looked up, a complex expression crossing her face. "That's my brother, your Uncle John, and a few others. I thought it was time they heard my story from me, in my words." Her voice was steady, but I could see the nervous energy she was trying to contain.

As the family gathered, some sitting awkwardly on the dusty furniture, others standing as if ready to flee at a moment's notice, Clara began to speak. Her story unfolded not just through her words but through the artifacts we had laid out on the coffee table—a tangible timeline of her journey.

The room was filled with a tense silence, punctuated by Clara’s calm, clear voice. As she spoke, I could see the impact of her words on the faces around us—confusion, pain, but also flickers of understanding. This was more than just a revelation; it was an invitation to bridge the gaps that had formed over years of silence and secrets.

As the evening wore on, the dialogue slowly, tentatively, began to open. Questions were asked, some easier to answer than others, as the family grappled with the complexities of a past that had been hidden from them. Through it all, Clara stood as a pillar of strength, her resolve clear in her eyes.

This was not the conclusion of a journey but a crucial waypoint in an ongoing path toward understanding and acceptance. As I stood by her side, I felt the weight of history shifting, making room for new narratives to be written, for secrets once buried to give way to stories of courage and transformation. The decision to step out into the world as my true self, at least the self I felt most comfortable as, didn't come lightly. Clara's strength had paved the way, but as we prepared for the local community event, I could feel every fiber of my being buzzing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

It was a sunny Saturday, the local park abuzz with the familiar sounds of laughter and conversation, the air filled with the scents of popcorn and cotton candy. Today was different, though; today, I would be part of this tapestry not as Ethan, but as the person I felt I was inside.

As I stepped out of the car, dressed in a flowing summer dress that caught the light with every step, and modest, tastefully matched accessories, Clara gave me a reassuring smile. "You look beautiful, and remember, no matter what happens, I'm right here."

The early part of the event passed in a blur of colors and sounds. People smiled, some complimented my outfit, and the freedom of being myself in public filled me with a buoyant joy I hadn't known I was capable of feeling. But the real test came later, as the crowd thickened and faces familiar and not so familiar turned to take in the sight of me.

I felt the weight of every glance, every whispered word. A group of people I vaguely recognized from the neighborhood approached, their expressions a mix of curiosity and something less friendly. "Ethan? Is that you?" one of them asked, a hint of mockery in his tone.

"Yes, it's me," I replied, my voice steady though my heart was racing. Clara's presence beside me was a silent pillar of support.

"Why would you come here like this?" another chimed in, her words sharp, like the snap of a twig underfoot. "You know kids are around."

Clara stepped forward, her demeanor calm but authoritative. "He's here to enjoy the day, just like everyone else. Ethan isn't hurting anyone; he's expressing himself. That’s what makes our community diverse and beautiful, isn’t it? Being true to who we are."

The confrontation didn’t escalate, but the words stung, piercing the bubble of joy I had been carrying. As they walked away, leaving a whisper of disapproval in their wake, I felt a tremor of doubt. But Clara was there, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. "Let’s walk," she suggested.

As we strolled around the park, Clara shared more of her wisdom, the lessons she’d learned on resilience, on picking battles, on finding those moments of support in a sea of criticism. "Every step you take in those heels," she said, gesturing to my carefully chosen footwear, "is a step toward not just accepting yourself, but educating others."

By the time the event drew to a close, the initial sting of the confrontation had faded, replaced by a complex but growing sense of pride. I had faced my fears, bolstered by Clara's unyielding support, and while not everyone understood or accepted me, I had stood my ground. The day had been a test, but also a testament to the progress both Clara and I had made, not just within ourselves, but perhaps, in small ways, within our community too.

As we headed home, the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, a daily masterpiece that no one could dispute. The beauty of the world, I realized, lay in its variety, its myriad forms and colors, and I was a part of that tapestry, no less vibrant, no less worthy of a place in the picture. The road ahead would have its challenges, but with Clara by my side, and a newfound courage within me, I felt ready to meet them head-on, one step at a time. The air was filled with the familiar scents of a family gathering—roasted chicken, baked pies, and laughter mingling with the occasional clink of glasses. Today was different, though. Today, I was not just attending another family event; I was standing at the threshold of a new chapter in my life.

As the afternoon sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the garden where everyone had gathered, I found myself glancing often at Clara, who nodded subtly, her smile reassuring. It was time. The moment I had been preparing for, bolstered by the events of the past weeks and the courage Clara had helped me find, was finally here.

Clearing my throat, I tapped my glass gently, the sound cutting through the chatter. "Could I have everyone’s attention for a moment?" The words felt surreal, like they belonged to someone else. Yet, as silence fell and all eyes turned to me, I knew this was my moment.

"Thank you," I began, my voice stronger than I felt. "I know this might come as a surprise to some of you, but there’s something about myself that I’ve come to understand better over these past few months, something important that I want to share."

The words flowed more easily as I continued, Clara standing by my side, a silent sentinel of support. "For a long time, I’ve felt different, conflicted about who I am and how I express myself. With Aunt Clara’s help, I’ve realized that I enjoy cross-dressing. It’s a part of who I am, and it’s brought me a lot of joy and a sense of true self-expression."

A pause allowed my words to sink in. I watched as expressions varied across the faces of my family—surprise, confusion, but also nods of understanding, the groundwork Clara had laid in her own discussions with them paving the way for my own revelations.

"I understand this may take some getting used to, and I’m here to answer any questions you might have. All I ask is for your understanding and, hopefully, your acceptance."

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable but contemplative. Then, one by one, my family members began to respond. My mother approached first, her expression soft, eyes moist. "Ethan," she said, enveloping me in a warm embrace. "I just want you to be happy. If this is a part of who you are, then it’s a part of you we love."

Others echoed her sentiments, some with words, others with hugs. Even those who seemed unsure offered smiles of tentative support, promising to try and understand more. It wasn’t a seamless acceptance, but it was real, and it was far more positive than I had dared to hope for.

As the evening wore on, the gathering resumed its festive spirit, now infused with a new layer of openness. Conversations flowed more freely, and I found myself engaging with relatives not just as Ethan but as the whole person I was striving to be.

The night ended not with grand declarations or dramatic shifts but with quiet acknowledgments, small steps toward integration and acceptance both within my family and within myself. Clara squeezed my hand as we said our goodbyes, her eyes gleaming with pride. "You did well, Ethan. More than well."

Driving home under the starlit sky, I felt lighter, as if a weight I had carried for so long had been lifted. The road ahead would undoubtedly hold its challenges, but tonight had shown me the power of authenticity and the strength that comes from being accepted for who you are. With each conversation, each shared moment of understanding, I was weaving myself more firmly into the fabric of my family and community, no longer just part of the background but a vibrant, integral thread in the ever-evolving human tapestry.

Oh dear, you wouldn't believe the swirl of emotions that evening. There I was, backstage at our own boutique's fashion show, peeking through the curtains. The runway glimmered under the spotlights, each beam catching the unique shimmer of dresses I had helped design. "Hmm, this is really happening," I whispered to myself, a mix of awe and nerves tingling through me.

My journey here wasn’t just about fashion. It was also deeply personal. Only a few months ago, I had started hormone therapy. A decision that felt like stepping into a well-fitting gown tailored just for me, yet heavy with the fabric of fear and hope. My wife, bless her, stood by me with a strength that seemed to make the ground firmer beneath my heels. She understood the essence of my spirit, which yearned to express itself in flowing skirts rather than the stiff jeans I used to wear.

As models strutted down the runway, flaunting our creations, I could hear the murmurs from the crowd. "Look at those cuts, absolutely daring!" someone exclaimed. Each comment was a thread weaving through my heart, affirming my dual journey in fashion and identity. But not all whispers were kind. Some were puzzled, some harsh—echoes of society's rigid frames.

Our boutique was more than a business. It was our canvas, where colors of identity and acceptance blended into the fabric of our garments. I remember one evening, choosing fabrics with my wife. "What about this silk, love?" she asked, her voice a soft melody as she draped a cerulean blue fabric over my shoulders. It fell in waves, smooth and cool against my skin, each fold whispering possibilities. “Oh my, yes! That feels right,” I responded, my heart syncing with the vibrant hues that I felt represented the real me.

The climax of the show was a dress I had poured my soul into. As the model wearing it took the stage, the room held its breath. The dress was bold, a statement of transformation, mirroring my own. And just as the applause began to rise, like a crescendo, so did the tension.

Suddenly, the back doors burst open. My family—faces stern, eyes like storm clouds—marched in. My father’s voice boomed, slicing through the applause like a sharp needle. "What is this nonsense?" he barked, his words jabbing at the very fabric of my being.

The room froze, the air thick with confrontation. My wife squeezed my hand, her support a silent strength beside me. I stepped forward, the heels of my pumps clicking firmly on the wood. Facing them, facing myself, the showdown was not just about defending my designs but also my identity. The challenge was immense, but it was the opening scene to a story where I was finally the protagonist, not just in a dress but in my own life.

In that moment, I realized that this journey was not just about accepting myself but also about unraveling the tightly wound threads of tradition and expectation. Each step I took was a stitch towards a new beginning, and no matter the opposition, I was ready to tailor my life to fit the truest version of myself.

Aha, the morning after the show, the boutique felt different—like a stage after a play, remnants of drama lingering in the air. Despite the confrontation, life had to go on. My wife and I opened the shop as usual, the bell above the door chiming a welcome to a new day, a new chapter.

That day, we embarked on a special project: redesigning my entire wardrobe. It was more than just updating clothes; it was about stitching my new identity into every seam and button, making it visible and vibrant. "Let's start with something bold, something joyful," my wife suggested, pulling out rolls of fabric that danced with colors. Each texture we touched, from silky satins to soft velvets, spoke to me, telling stories of transformation and truth.

As we draped and cut, measured and sketched, our boutique became a sanctuary. We laughed over designs, my wife teasing me gently, "Oh dear, are you sure about that much glitter?" But amidst our creative storm, there was an unspoken tension, a waiting for the next wave to hit.

And hit it did, unexpectedly. Mid-afternoon, while I was adjusting a mannequin dressed in one of our new creations, the bell chimed. I turned, expecting a regular customer, but instead, I saw her—my aunt, my father’s sister, a woman known for her sharp wit and sharper judgments. "I... I came to see for myself," she stammered, her eyes darting around, taking in the spectrum of designs that filled the room.

Her visit was a surprise, her words a mix of curiosity and caution. "Can you explain this to me? Help me understand?" she asked, her voice a blend of challenge and genuine perplexity. So, I took a deep breath, and like threading a needle, I carefully started weaving the story of my journey, touching each fabric that represented a milestone, each garment that was a testament to my evolving self.

The conversation was delicate, each sentence measured, each reply a reflection of years of hidden truths. My aunt listened, her face a tapestry of emotions, from disbelief to dawning comprehension. "It's like you’re finally stepping into the light, isn’t it?" she finally said, her hand lightly touching a floral blouse, her gesture tentative but kind.

That afternoon turned into evening, and our dialogue stitched a fragile connection. We talked about fear, about bravery, and about the fabric of identity that can be as complex as the most intricate lace. She left not fully convinced but with a promise to keep an open mind, a thread of hope that perhaps this tapestry of acceptance was just beginning to weave itself together.

As the door closed behind her, my wife hugged me, her pride in my strength a warm cloak around my shoulders. "You did beautifully," she murmured. "Just like you, always true to yourself, no matter how tough it gets."

And as we turned back to our fabrics, to our world of colors and creations, I felt a renewed sense of purpose. We were not just designing clothes; we were crafting a life, boldly, defiantly, beautifully. And no matter who walked through that door, we were ready to share it, one stitch at a time.

Hmm, with each day that passed, my confidence bloomed—a flower nurtured not just by my wife's support but also by the acceptance I was slowly weaving from threads of courage and visibility. The boutique had become my stage, and now, it was time to extend that stage beyond the storefront. We decided to host a community event, a bold step to educate others about cross-dressing and transgender issues, to cast light where there had been shadows.

The preparations were like sketching a new pattern, a design we hoped would fit well within the community fabric. Together, my wife and I selected fabrics that spoke of strength and softness—bold prints and gentle silks. Each choice was deliberate, each design a statement. "These will be our banners," my wife declared, her hands running over a roll of vibrant purple fabric, "Symbols of diversity and unity."

As we planned, we also crafted pamphlets and posters, each line of text a stitch in the broader narrative of inclusion we hoped to share. "Let's make sure they understand this is about love, about expressing who you truly are," I mused, my fingers tracing the outlines of a heart on a poster.

But, oh dear, not all threads in the community tapestry were ready to embrace such patterns. The day before the event, we arrived at the boutique to find the front window smeared with graffiti—ugly words trying to mar our beautiful plans. My heart sank, a heavy stone of despair momentarily weighing down the buoyant hopes we'd been sewing. "Don't let this stop us," my wife urged, her voice a soft but firm thread pulling us back together. "This is exactly why we need this event."

So, we cleaned the glass, each swipe of our hands removing the stains of hatred, reinforcing our resolve. And when the day arrived, with it came the flutter of nerves and excitement, like the rustling of silk. The event started tentatively, the air tinged with the scent of apprehension and curiosity. We had set up booths with our designs, fabric samples for people to touch, and panels with information about the beauty of diversity in identity.

At first, the audience was sparse, their faces etched with lines of skepticism. But as we began, my wife and I sharing our story, the threads of our lives laid bare, something shifted. A woman approached, her eyes lingering on a dress made of the softest chiffon. "I never understood," she admitted, "But seeing all this, feeling it... it's beautiful." Her words, simple yet profound, were like a seamstress's needle, precise and impactful.

Gradually, more people ventured in, drawn perhaps by curiosity or by the honest display of our journey. They listened, they asked questions, and they learned. The fabric of the community, once resistant, began to show signs of softening, of pattern changes that included threads of understanding and acceptance.

As the event wrapped up, the boutique was no longer just a shop; it had transformed into a forum of change, a place where barriers were dressed down and identities were celebrated. My wife squeezed my hand, her smile reflecting a shared triumph. "You see," she whispered, "even the toughest patterns can be altered with patience and love."

And as we tidied up, folding away the fabrics but setting aside none of the day's lessons, I felt a profound sense of accomplishment. We had faced resistance, yes, but we had also stitched a new pattern of acceptance into the community's heart, one delicate thread at a time.

Oh, my heart was aflutter like never before. There I was, fully stepping into my new identity with every fiber of my being. It felt as though each thread woven into my new dresses was spun from the very essence of my spirit. My wife, ever my rock, stood beside me, her hands clasped in mine as we prepared to launch our most personal project yet—a clothing line inspired by our journey, our struggles, and our triumphs.

"Let's call it 'Resilience,'" my wife suggested one evening as we reviewed the final designs, each piece telling a story of overcoming and embracing. "Because that's what you've shown, what we've built together." Each item was more than just apparel; it was a declaration, a narrative sewn into seams and hems, intended to clothe the wearer in strength and beauty.

The launch was set to be spectacular. Invitations went out, the media expressed interest, and there was a buzz that filled the air—a mix of excitement and anticipation. We transformed the boutique overnight, draping it in velvets and silks, the atmosphere charged with the energy of a new beginning.

But just as the crescendo of our efforts reached its peak, a sharp discord struck. We received a legal notice one crisp morning, the paper stark against the vibrant fabrics of our workshop. A group, citing obscure and discriminatory motives, challenged our boutique's operations, claiming it violated community standards by promoting a "non-traditional" lifestyle.

The news hit like a cold splash of reality. Fear and uncertainty crept in, threading through our confidence. "What will we do?" I murmured, the words barely escaping my lips as I felt the weight of the challenge bearing down on us.

My wife, fierce as ever, tightened her grip on my hand. "We fight," she declared, her voice firm, her resolve clear. "We stand up for who we are, for our right to be ourselves. This boutique, our clothing line—it’s about more than just business. It's about our lives, our identities."

The legal battle loomed large as the launch date approached. We juggled meetings with lawyers and fittings, statements to the press and stitchings of new designs. The stress was immense, each day a test of our resilience.

But we were not alone. The community we had begun to sew together in the previous events rallied around us. Letters of support flooded in, customers and strangers spoke out in our defense, and the very people who had once viewed us with skepticism now stood by our side. "We've seen the strength in your stitches," one supporter wrote, "and we wear your clothes with pride."

As the launch day arrived, amidst the whirlwind of legal challenges and public scrutiny, we unveiled 'Resilience.' The collection was everything we hoped it would be—bold, beautiful, defiant. It was a tapestry of our journey, each piece resonating with the stories of those who dared to embrace their true selves despite the odds.

The response was overwhelming. As models walked down the runway, their outfits shimmering under the lights, the crowd wasn't just watching a fashion show; they were witnessing a movement. And when my wife and I stepped out to take our bow, the applause that erupted was not just for the clothes but for the courage they represented.

The legal challenges continued, but so did our resolve. Each threat, each obstacle, only strengthened the stitches of our commitment. We were more than just a boutique; we were a beacon of hope, a symbol of strength. And together, we were unbreakable.

The boutique was bathed in the soft morning light, filtering through the newly cleaned windows, casting patterns on the floor that mirrored our own intricate designs. Today wasn't just another day; it was the day we'd mark as the defining moment of our journey. The court ruling was set for noon, and as we prepared, there was a palpable sense of culmination in the air.

"Can you believe we're here?" my wife asked, her voice a mix of nerves and excitement as she adjusted a display of our 'Resilience' line near the front of the shop. The fabrics seemed to glow, each thread shimmering with the energy of our shared dreams and battles.

I took a deep breath, the scent of fresh textiles and possibility filling the air. "It feels like everything we've been through was leading to this moment," I replied, feeling the truth of my words resonate deep within. We had faced challenges, both personal and public, but each had crafted us stronger, more united.

As we locked the boutique and headed to the courthouse, my heart was a drum of mixed emotions. The community support had been incredible, a quilt of diverse patches all stitched together by understanding and acceptance. They walked with us, literally and in spirit, their presence a testament to the change we had nurtured together.

Inside the courtroom, the air was thick with anticipation. As the proceedings began, my hands were clasped tightly with my wife's, our fingers intertwined like the threads of our most intricate designs. The legal arguments unfolded, our lawyer presenting a passionate defense of our rights, our expression, our very identities.

Then, just as the judge was about to retire to make her decision, the doors opened. In walked my family—the very ones who had challenged and doubted me, their faces now somber yet softer than I had seen in a long time. My father, leading them, approached the bench to speak. The room fell silent, every breath held in suspense.

"Your Honor," he began, his voice steady but filled with an unfamiliar warmth, "I see now that we were wrong. We didn't understand, and we acted out of fear." He paused, looking over at me with eyes brimming with something new, perhaps regret, perhaps newfound respect. "My son has shown more strength and integrity than I ever gave him credit for. His journey hasn’t been easy, but he’s made it beautiful, and he’s made it his own. We're here to support him, fully."

Tears welled up in my eyes, the emotional weight of his words heavy yet healing. It was as if his acknowledgment stitched up the lingering tears in the fabric of our family's bond.

The judge returned, her decision clear and firm. "The complaint is dismissed," she declared, her gavel sounding a note of finality and freedom. The courtroom erupted into applause, a symphony of relief and celebration.

Back at the boutique, we threw a party that evening to celebrate the victory, the shop filled with colors, laughter, and an overwhelming sense of peace. Our 'Resilience' line sold out, each piece carrying stories of struggle and triumph.

As we stood together among our friends, family, and supporters, my wife and I reflected on the journey. "We've been through so much," she said, her smile radiant, "and look how we've transformed—not just our wardrobe, but our lives, our community."

And it was true. We were no longer just a couple running a boutique; we were advocates, pioneers, partners in every sense. Our tapestry was complete, rich with the threads of challenges overcome and dreams fulfilled. We had tailored not just garments but our very lives into masterpieces of courage, acceptance, and unyielding love.

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Oh my, the air was tingling with that special kind of anticipation, you know? The kind that makes your stomach do backflips and your heart thump like it's trying to break free. There I was, Ethan, sitting at our dining table with its soft, inviting glow that usually spelled romance. But tonight, hmm, tonight felt different—unpredictable, even.

Mariana walked in, and let me tell you, dear, the way her face lit up with mischief and mystery could make anyone's pulse quicken. She was holding this enormous gift bag that just screamed surprise. "Happy anniversary, love," she chimed as she placed it on the table with a flourish. And there, right then, I knew—Mariana, with her endless creativity and spontaneity, had planned something far beyond my usual expectation of pizza and a quiet night in.

We've always been like two pieces of a puzzle, you see. Mariana, with her vibrant, artistic flair that can light up any room, and then there’s me—Ethan, more reserved, feet always planted firmly on the ground. Our home, oh, it’s a cozy haven reflecting everything we are together—warm, filled with little tokens of our travels, and spaces that tell stories of our shared life.

So, here's the scene: imagine me, usually so sure of how every evening's going to unfold, now caught in the gentle suspense of whatever Mariana was about to unveil. She's the kind of person who makes you believe in the magic of the ordinary. And tonight, her eyes sparkling with secrets, I was about to be swept away into whatever world she had prepared for us to explore. Aha, it was going to be an anniversary to remember, I could feel it in my bones.

As Mariana reached into the bag, the anticipation in the air thickened. She pulled out a beautiful burgundy dress, the fabric flowing like wine poured into a glass, and my heart skipped a beat. "Tonight, Ethan, we're doing something special," she said, her voice dancing with excitement.

One by one, the pieces of her surprise laid bare on our table: a pair of sleek heels, a makeup kit that looked like a treasure chest of colors, and a wig that shimmered auburn under our dining room lights. My initial shock must have shown clear as day because Mariana's smile turned tender, her eyes meeting mine with a reassurance that only someone who truly knows you can offer.

"Trust me, it's going to be fun," she coaxed, her enthusiasm undeterred by my hesitation. The idea of me, Ethan, in a dress and makeup—it wasn't something I had ever imagined for myself. The weight of each item on the table felt like an invitation to step into a world far beyond my comfort zone.

You know, dear, there's something about the unfamiliar silk of a dress against your skin, the delicate weight of a wig, that can make you question all the boundaries you've drawn around yourself. Mariana's hand brushed against mine, her touch grounding, as if she was telling me without words that no matter how I dressed, I was still me—still the Ethan she loved.

Her excitement was infectious, a little spark that lit a fire of curiosity within me. Could I really do this? The dress, the makeup, the heels—they were just objects, but they felt like keys to a door I had never dared open. As I looked at Mariana, her face alight with the thrill of sharing this piece of her world, I found myself nodding slowly. "Okay, let's do this," I murmured, and her grin, oh, it could've outshone the sun.

So there we were, on the edge of a new adventure, together. It wasn't just about the clothes or the makeup. It was about trust, about exploring and accepting parts of myself I had never dared to acknowledge. Mariana's gift wasn't just in the items she pulled from that bag; it was in the opportunity to see myself through her eyes, if only for a night. There, in the soft glow of our dining room, Mariana and I sat across from each other, the air thick with something that felt a lot like the start of an adventure. She held my hands, her fingers gentle and reassuring. "Ethan, darling, I know this might seem a bit much," she began, her voice soft but filled with excitement. "But I thought, what better way to celebrate us than by stepping into each other's worlds? I love that you're always so supportive of my creative side, and I just wanted to share a bit of that creativity with you."

Her eyes sparkled with sincerity, and I could feel the warmth of her enthusiasm enveloping me, making the room seem smaller and our connection stronger. The items on the table no longer looked daunting; instead, they seemed to whisper of possibilities, of a night that could unfold into something memorable.

"Think of it as... a way to see the world through my eyes, just for tonight," Mariana continued. Her smile was infectious, and I found myself caught up in the whirlwind of her creativity. It wasn't just about the clothes or the makeup; it was about experiencing a new form of expression, about the trust and openness that had become the bedrock of our relationship.

I looked at the dress again, its fabric rich and inviting, then back at Mariana, whose anticipation hung in the air like a promise. "Okay, let’s do it," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. Her face lit up, and it was like watching the sunrise after a long, dark night—breathtaking.

"Really?" she squealed, a little laugh escaping her as she squeezed my hands.

"Really," I confirmed, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement churn inside me. "Let's see where this adventure takes us."

Her delight was palpable, and as she started laying out the plan for our evening, each detail she described added layers to my understanding of her, of us. It wasn't just a makeover; it was an invitation to explore, to laugh, and most importantly, to grow together. And just like that, I was no longer just Ethan, sitting apprehensively at a dining table; I was a partner in a dance of discovery, ready to step into a new role with the woman I loved guiding me every step of the way.

Mariana led me by the hand to the corner of our living room she had transformed into a makeshift makeover station. It was all there: a mirror that reached from floor to ceiling, bright lights that mimicked the clarity of daylight, and her makeup meticulously arrayed like a painter's palette. "Okay, here we go," she said with a twinkle in her eye that could rival the stars.

First came the dress. The fabric was softer than anything I had imagined, slipping over my head and settling onto my shoulders like a gentle embrace. It felt strange, yes, but as Mariana zipped it up, her hands steady and sure, I couldn't help but marvel at the smoothness of the material, the way it hugged my body just right. There was a quiet thrill in this novelty, a whisper of something daring that made my heart beat a bit faster.

Next, the wig. Mariana brushed it gently before placing it on my head, adjusting it with a practiced touch. The sensation of hair cascading down around my face was utterly foreign, yet there was a peculiar joy in seeing myself so transformed. As she styled the auburn strands, I caught glimpses of someone new reflecting back at me from the mirror.

Then came the makeup. "Close your eyes," Mariana instructed, and I obeyed, feeling the cool touch of her brush against my skin. Foundation smoothed over my face, concealer dabbed under my eyes, and then the gentle stroke of blush. Each application was a revelation, textures and sensations that I had never associated with myself. The tickle of the mascara brush against my lashes made me chuckle, and Mariana's soft laugh in response was a melody of delight.

"Almost there," she whispered, as she outlined my lips with a pencil before filling them in with a color that she promised would 'make my lips pop.' The final touch was a spritz of perfume, a scent floral and sweet, a mist that seemed to settle not just on my skin but into the fabric of the evening.

When Mariana finally turned me around to face the mirror fully, the transformation was complete. The person staring back at me was both a stranger and intimately familiar. "Oh my gosh," escaped my lips before I could think. There was awe in my voice, a touch of disbelief, but also an undercurrent of something like joy.

"See? What did I tell you?" Mariana beamed, her hands resting on my shoulders as we both looked at my reflection. "You look amazing."

And I did. Not just in appearance, but in spirit. The discomfort had eboded, replaced by a curiosity about myself, about the boundaries I had unknowingly imposed on my identity. This experience, dressed in clothes I'd never imagined wearing, face adorned with makeup I'd never considered applying, was cracking open a door to understanding. Understanding not just Mariana's world, but a part of my own self that I had never truly explored.

This was more than just playing dress-up; it was a journey into the depths of my own perceptions and prejudices—a journey made possible by the woman who knew me best and encouraged me to know myself even better. As we stood there, laughing and sharing this moment of revelation, I felt a shift within me—a subtle, yet profound transformation not just of appearance, but of understanding and acceptance.

Standing there, in front of the mirror, fully transformed, the reality of the evening's adventure finally settled over me like a gentle shroud. I stared at my reflection, a mix of disbelief and recognition dancing across my features. The Ethan who usually stared back at me was hidden beneath layers of fabric and color, yet there, in the depth of those familiar eyes, I still found myself.

"Mariana, I..." My voice trailed off, choked by a sudden surge of emotion. How could a simple change of attire unearth such a torrent of feelings? I was exposed, yet shielded, vulnerable yet empowered.

Mariana's hand found my shoulder, her touch a grounding force. "It's okay, dear," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm. "It's more than just looking beautiful. It's about feeling it, embracing it."

Her words washed over me, and as I met her gaze in the mirror, her eyes brimmed with an affection so pure, so earnest, that it cut through any remaining veneer of hesitation. "You are beautiful, Ethan. Inside and out. And seeing you embrace this part of yourself, even if it's just for tonight, makes me love you even more."

Her support, her unconditional acceptance, swelled within me, cracking open a reservoir of emotions. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, not from sadness, but from a profound sense of liberation. Here was my soul laid bare, and here was Mariana, loving me all the more for it.

I reached out and took her hands, holding them against my chest, over the dress, over my heart. "Thank you," I managed to say, my voice thick with emotion. "For seeing me. For helping me see myself."

She smiled, her own eyes glistening, and pulled me into a hug that felt like home. "That's what love is, isn't it? Seeing the beauty in each other, in all the forms we take."

As we stood there, embraced in the warmth of our little living room turned transformation studio, I felt a shift within me. The dress, the makeup, the wig—they were just the outer expressions of a deeper, more complex journey of self-discovery and acceptance. In that pivotal moment, I not only saw myself as Mariana saw me, but I also began to see myself as I truly was—a myriad of identities, emotions, and possibilities.

This wasn't just a physical makeover; it was an emotional awakening, a pivotal point in my life where I truly understood the depth of our love and the strength of my own identity. No matter the attire, no matter the reflection, I was still Ethan, and I was loved wholly and unconditionally. It was an acceptance that transcended appearances, reaching into the very essence of who we are. And in that beautiful, revelatory moment, I embraced it fully, with Mariana by my side.

As the emotional crescendo of our evening ebbed into a gentle, joyous aftermath, Mariana and I settled into a comfortable rhythm, reveling in the newness of it all. With my transformation complete, we moved back into the cozy ambiance of our living room, transformed now into our own private studio. Mariana, ever the creative, fetched her camera, her eyes alight with the prospect of capturing this unprecedented chapter of our lives.

"Come on, Ethan, let's make some memories," she said, her voice bubbling with excitement. I couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from a place of deep contentment. As she snapped photo after photo, I found myself easing into the role, striking playful poses and flashing smiles that felt more genuine with each click of the camera. The fabric of the dress swished around my legs, a constant, soft reminder of the evening's revelations.

Between shots, we chatted and laughed, reflecting on the evening's journey. "I never thought I'd see myself like this," I admitted, catching my reflection in the mirror again. "But I'm glad I did. It feels like I've stepped outside myself, but also deeper inside at the same time."

Mariana nodded, her expression tender. "It's beautiful, isn't it? How something as simple as changing your outfit can open up new parts of yourself you never knew existed." Her words resonated with me, echoing the internal transformations that had accompanied the external ones.

The night continued, wrapped in a warm, festive air. We shared a bottle of wine, clinking glasses in a toast to new experiences and deeper bonds. The conversation flowed from lighthearted teasing to more profound discussions about identity, expression, and the layers of connection between us. Each topic unraveled more of our thoughts and feelings, weaving them into the rich tapestry of our relationship.

As the clock edged towards midnight, signaling the end of our anniversary, Mariana turned to me with a soft smile. "So, what do you think? Should this be our new tradition?" she teased, but her eyes held a sincere curiosity.

I considered it, the remnants of initial apprehension long swept away by a tide of acceptance and love. "Maybe," I replied, my voice laced with a newfound openness. "But even if we don't do this every year, I'll always cherish tonight. It's taught me more about myself, about us, and about the beauty of stepping into another's shoes—literally and figuratively."

Mariana squeezed my hand, her presence a comforting constant in the shifting landscape of my self-perception. "That's all I wanted," she murmured. "For us to share this, to explore together. I love you, just the way you are—no matter what you wear."

And with that, we settled into the sofa, her head resting on my shoulder, the soft fabric of the dress a gentle caress against us both. We didn't need words anymore; the evening had spoken volumes. In the quiet intimacy of our shared space, we found a deeper understanding and acceptance, not just of each other, but of the complexities and beautiful variances within ourselves. It was an anniversary not just marked by time, but by a profound and loving recognition of who we could be, together and individually.

As the night began to draw to a close, the last candle flickering gently on our table, the atmosphere around us was warm with the glow of shared discovery. Mariana, with her usual perceptive grace, turned to me, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "So, Ethan, do you think we could make this a new anniversary tradition?" she asked playfully, yet with a hint of earnest curiosity in her voice.

I paused, reflecting on the events of the evening. The feelings of vulnerability, surprise, and ultimately liberation that had washed over me in waves throughout the night lingered in my thoughts. "Maybe," I said, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Or maybe we can keep finding new ways to surprise each other, to step outside our comfort zones. That’s what made tonight so special."

Mariana laughed, a sound as comforting and familiar as the home we’d built together. "I love that idea," she agreed, leaning in to rest her head against my shoulder. "Every year, a new adventure. It keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?"

"It really does," I replied, wrapping an arm around her. As we sat there, the residue of our laughter mingling with the soft music in the background, I felt a profound sense of connection—not just to Mariana, but to a part of myself I had only just begun to explore.

The camera sat on the table beside us, a silent witness to our evening. It had captured moments of joy, of transformation, of intimacy. It occurred to me then that these images were more than just photographs; they were visual testimonies of our journey together, of the barriers we had broken and the spaces between us that we had lovingly filled.

Looking at Mariana, I felt a swell of gratitude for her creativity, her empathy, her unwavering support. The evening had started as a celebration of our past, but it had blossomed into a hopeful gaze towards our future—a future where we promised to continually rediscover each other and ourselves.

The episode would close on this note of hopeful introspection. As the screen would fade to black, the last shot would linger on our intertwined figures, a visual echo of our laughter fading into the quiet night. It would leave the audience with a sense of closure, yet open-ended enough to invite them to reflect on their own perceptions of identity and partnership.

In this shared silence, filled with the resonance of our evening’s revelations, there was a promise—an unspoken vow to keep nurturing the freedom and self-discovery that tonight had brought into the light. This was not just an end to an anniversary but the beginning of a new chapter in our lives, marked by deeper understanding and boundless possibilities.

Nestled in the quiet countryside of Oregon, a small town served as the backdrop for the beginning of Francis Lynne Sherman's journey. Known as Frank by his loving mother and Fran by his Great Aunt, he is about to embark on a journey that will shape his identity forever. Joine Me On Youtube to Watch More Stories Like this - Crossdressing Stories
The sudden passing of his grandmother during Frank's childhood left a void that was partially filled by his formidable Great Aunt Frances. A woman of distinction and success in Seattle, she had married into a prominent family with her husband Herb, founder of an electronics firm crucial to the aviation industry. Upon his passing, she took over the reins and became a prominent figure in business.
Though distant from Aunt Frances, Frank's life is intertwined with her legacy. Sharing not only a variant of her name but also the expectations that come with it, he often feels the weight of living up to her accomplishments. His mother even chose a neutral name for him, suitable for both genders, subtly shaping his identity.

Aunt Frances is known for her strict yet fair nature, creating an aura of anticipation and respect around her. Her lack of grandchildren due to her daughter's dedication to a convent has led her to focus on Frank, her namesake.

As Christmas approaches, Frank's father, a vice president in a high-tech company, and his mother, who married well but not as lucratively as Aunt Frances, plan a family visit to her residence. The trip is intended to bridge the gap between years of absence and unfamiliarity. However, there is an underlying sense of intrigue and apprehension. For Frank, who has never truly known Aunt Frances, he is about to step into a world shaped by her success, her rules, and her desire to finally connect with the younger generation of their family. As they prepare for their visit, with Frank's father unable to join until later due to work commitments, there is an unspoken tension in the air. What will become of this long-awaited reunion? Only time will tell.

The onset of winter break brought with it a journey for Frank and his mother, an opportunity to visit the distant yet beloved Great Aunt Frances. As they made their way to her stately mansion perched atop Queen Anne Hill, anticipation grew in their hearts. The grand entranceway, adorned with intricate carvings and a sparkling chandelier, welcomed them into Aunt Frances' abode.

Inside, the opulence of the home was evident in every detail - from the ornate wallpaper to the plush furniture adorning each room. Despite its size, it seemed to radiate warmth and love, a testament to Aunt Frances' success both in life and in keeping a close-knit family.

As they settled into their rooms, Frank and his mother were eager to meet their cousins by marriage, Alex and Stephanie – two names that were once unfamiliar but now held a special place in their hearts. In the family room, the girls sat huddled over a board game, their laughter filling the air. With each roll of the dice and reveal of a card, Frank felt himself becoming more at ease in this new yet strangely familiar setting.
The mansion itself seemed like a world unto itself – a grand tribute to a life well-lived and well-earned. Its walls held countless memories and stories of past family gatherings, making it feel like a cherished treasure trove for those lucky enough to step foot inside. More sissy Feminization Story click Here

But as Frank joined in on the game of Clue, he realized that there was much more to be discovered here than just cozy family traditions. Through each turn and accusation, he glimpsed into the lives of his cousins – Alex and Stephanie – and their holiday routine spent under Aunt Frances' watchful eye. The well-loved game had become a bridge connecting generations - its worn pieces echoing years of laughter and camaraderie within this tight-knit family.

Aunt Frances, a figure of both respect and intrigue, stood tall and regal as she introduced a peculiar rule of her household – the necessity for all, regardless of gender, to sit while using the toilet. This rule, seemingly trivial, was a stark reflection of her unwavering desire for order and discipline in her domain. Her piercing gaze and rigid stance portrayed an aura of firmness, bordering on severity, that was not lost on Frank.
In the midst of settling in, unpacking their belongings, and acclimating to the mansion's ways, Frank's mother shared her own oversight in not briefing him about this particular rule. It was a moment of familial understanding, a subtle acknowledgement of the idiosyncrasies that bind a family together, even in the most unconventional ways.

The sprawling rooms and strict rules of the mansion were more than just features; they were essential elements of a larger narrative. A story that Frank was only beginning to unravel – one that revolved around his Great Aunt Frances, her grandiose home, and her unyielding rules. Each passing moment held a new piece to the puzzle waiting to be pieced together.

As the evening approached, the mansion seemed to transform seamlessly into a cozy haven as Frank, Alex, Stephanie, and Frank's mother gathered in front of the television for a Hallmark Christmas movie. This moment of shared entertainment, a typical feature of holiday gatherings, offered Frank a glimpse into the more relaxed side of life at Aunt Frances' home. Despite his initial reservations about the movie's genre, he found himself settling comfortably into the warm and inviting atmosphere.

As the night drew to a close, they all shuffled upstairs to their designated bedrooms. Frank's mind raced with thoughts of the strict bathroom rule, causing him to quicken his pace in an attempt to beat his cousins. But in the rush, he forgot Aunt Frances' directive and received a subtle reminder from Alex afterwards. The heavy weight of Aunt Frances' strict household rules lingered in the air, leaving Frank to ponder his place within it all.

The evening was a mix of warmth and rigidity, with Aunt Frances' firm hand guiding every moment. As Frank settled into bed, he reflected on the new dynamics he was experiencing in this unfamiliar environment.

His morning at Great Aunt Frances' mansion began with a frantic dash to the bathroom, remembering to follow the peculiar rule about sitting. After carefully getting dressed, he longed for a quiet moment to watch the sunrise while sipping on some hot chocolate. But as he entered the kitchen, he was surprised to find Aunt Frances already there, enjoying her morning coffee. Their shared appreciation for the sunrise led to a peaceful moment, bonding over the beauty of the early sky.

Their tranquil conversation soon turned to Aunt Frances' desire for more family time, specifically with Frank - her namesake. She expressed her wish for him to join her more often, just as Alex and Stephanie did during school breaks. This invitation made Frank feel a special connection with his great aunt.

But just as peace settled between them, Aunt Frances noticed that Frank had once again forgotten to sit while using the bathroom. Her reaction was stern and left him feeling puzzled about what consequences she might have in store for those who broke her rules.

As he prepared to shower, Frank couldn't help but notice a startling change in his familiar room. His clothes had been replaced with an array of women's attire - delicate skirts, flowy blouses, and even lace-trimmed panties. Perplexed and slightly embarrassed, Frank's mother explained that this was Aunt Frances' unique way of ensuring the family remembers her rules. Grudgingly, Frank found himself dressed in the provided garments, feeling a mix of discomfort and curiosity about this new experience.

But the story took an unexpected turn when Alex shared a secret with Frank, adding depth and complexity to the narrative and Frank's understanding of Aunt Frances' household. As they settled into the cozy family room, a surprising figure appeared - none other than Frank's own father, transformed in appearance with a dress, wig, and perfectly applied makeup. This startling revelation opened Frank's eyes to a long-held tradition at Aunt Frances' house, where adherence to her rules extended to all members of the family, regardless of age or gender.

Frank's father then shared his own experiences and acceptance of Aunt Frances' unconventional ways. And as Christmas celebrations unfolded, it became clear that this was not an isolated incident - other family members also embraced the tradition without batting an eye.
Over time, Frank began to embrace this unusual aspect of his annual family visits. Watching sunrises with Aunt Frances became a cherished routine, and by New Year's Day, dressing in women's clothing felt almost natural to him. And as he reluctantly changed back into his regular attire for the journey home, he couldn't help but reflect on how this extraordinary holiday visit had challenged and changed his perceptions in unexpected ways.

The drive back, with his father leading the way, was a time of quiet reflection and meaningful conversation about future visits. Frank's newfound openness towards Aunt Frances' strict rules and his fondness for certain dresses spoke volumes about the significant shift in his perspective. As they drove along the winding road, passing by quaint cottages and towering trees, Frank couldn't help but feel a sense of acceptance and anticipation for their next visit to Aunt Frances' household. The unique traditions they would partake in and the warm family dynamics that awaited them filled him with a sense of contentment. And as they reached their destination and stepped out of the car, Frank couldn't shake off the feeling of growth and understanding that had taken root within him throughout their journey.

The next visit to Aunt Frances' household was different from any that Frank had experienced before. This time, he arrived with an open heart and a willingness to fully embrace the traditions and rules that his great aunt held dear. As he stepped through the grand entrance of the mansion, he noticed a subtle change in the atmosphere – a palpable sense of excitement and anticipation.

Throughout the days that followed, Frank found himself immersed in the intricate tapestry of Aunt Frances' world. He eagerly participated in their morning rituals, savoring the tranquilityof watching the sunrise with his great aunt as they shared stories and laughter. The peculiar bathroom rule became second nature to him, an unspoken agreement between himself and Aunt Frances that he would abide by her wishes.
The routine of dressing in women's clothing during his stay also took on a whole new meaning for Frank. It was no longer something to be endured but rather embraced as an act of unity with his family. He marveled at the way this simple tradition

connected them all, transcending gender norms and societal expectations. In each delicate skirt and lace-trimmed blouse, Frank found a sense of freedom and self-expression that he had never experienced before.

As the days turned into weeks, Frank discovered that Aunt Frances' mansion was not just a house, but a sanctuary for those seeking acceptance and understanding. It was a place where individuals could shed the confines of societal norms and truly be themselves. He met cousins and distant relatives who, like him, had found solace within the walls of the grand estate. They shared stories and experiences, finding comfort in their shared journey of self-discovery.

One evening, as they gathered for their nightly ritual of watching Hallmark movies, Frank's father shared a heartfelt speech about the transformative power of Aunt Frances' rules. He spoke of how this unconventional way of life had taught him to challenge his own assumptions and prejudices, allowing him to embrace his true self without fear or judgment.
Inspired by his father's words,

Frank felt a surge of courage and determination welling up within him. He realized that Aunt Frances' mansion was not just a place of strict rules, but a haven for self-discovery and acceptance. With newfound confidence, he decided to take a leap of faith and share his own desires and dreams with his family.

As the movie played on the television screen, Frank turned to his mother, Alex, Stephanie, and Aunt Frances, gathering their attention with a gentle clearing of his throat. The room fell silent as all eyes turned toward him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
"Thank you all for embracing Aunt Frances' traditions and rules," Frank began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "But I want to propose something...something that will bring even more unity and understanding to our family."

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "I think it's time we create our own rules. Rules that go beyond societal expectations and restrictions. Rules that empower us to

embrace our true selves and live authentically. Rules that foster love, acceptance, and celebration of each other's unique identities."
His words hung in the air, a weighty silence enveloping the room. Slowly, expressions began to shift from curiosity to contemplation, as if Frank's proposal had ignited a spark of possibility within each family member.

Aunt Frances, her iron-willed demeanor softened by the flicker of curiosity in her eyes, was the first to speak. "Frank, my dear," she said, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and interest. "What kind of rules are you suggesting?"
Frank took a moment to gather his thoughts, searching for the right words to articulate his vision. "I propose rules that encourage us to express ourselves freely, without fear of judgment or expectation," he began. "Rules that honor and respect each person's individuality and journey."
Stephanie, always the empathetic one, nodded in agreement. "Yes,"

she chimed in. "Rules that foster a safe and nurturing environment, where we can all explore our true selves and support one another unconditionally."
Alex, who had always been the peacemaker of the family, smiled warmly. "I love the idea," he said. "Rules that promote open communication and understanding, so that we can truly connect with each other on a deeper level."
Frank's mother, tears welling up in her eyes, spoke up next. "I can't think of anything more beautiful," she said. "Rules that teach us to celebrate our differences and embrace the diversity within our own family."
Aunt Frances nodded slowly, her stern expression softening further. "Frank, my dear," she said with a hint of pride in her voice. "You have brought forth a vision that goes beyond what I could have ever imagined. Your proposal is not just about rules, but about creating a legacy of acceptance and love within our family."

And so, in that moment
of collective understanding and unity, the family made a pact to forge their own set of rules. They spent the following days brainstorming and discussing, each member bringing their unique perspective and experiences to the table. It was a collaborative effort, fueled by love and a shared desire for growth.

In time, they came up with a list of rules that reflected their values and aspirations. These rules celebrated individuality, encouraged open-mindedness, and embraced the diversity within their family. They vowed to uphold these rules not just during their visits to Aunt Frances' household but throughout their daily lives, allowing them to create a safe space where everyone could truly be themselves.

As the years passed, this new tradition flourished. The family grew closer, bound by their shared commitment to acceptance and understanding. Each visit to Aunt Frances' mansion became more meaningful than the last as they witnessed the profound impact their unified spirit had on each other's lives.
Frank blossomed into a confident young man, unafraid to express himself. so the story ends here and please do comment about the story below. thankyou

Imagine a brisk autumn evening, the kind where the leaves rustle underfoot with every step and the air smells of impending winter. Ethan had always loved these family gatherings at Aunt Clara’s—a quaint house wrapped in ivy, with an overstuffed living room that felt like a hug. Tonight, though, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

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“Dear, you look tense,” Aunt Clara remarked, her voice a melody of concern and mischief as she steered Ethan into the kitchen. The room was bathed in the warm glow of under-cabinet lighting, every surface immaculate. “I’ve got just the thing,” she chimed, reaching for an ornate teapot, its surface a tapestry of intricate floral designs.

Ethan settled at the counter, watching as Clara prepared the tea with an almost ceremonial reverence. “It’s a special blend, just for you,” she said, handing him a steaming cup. The aroma was intoxicating, layers of chamomile and mint mingling with something exotic, something Ethan couldn’t place.

“Hmm, what’s in it? It smells different,” Ethan inquired, his curiosity piqued as he wrapped his hands around the warm cup.

“Just some herbs, all natural,” Clara responded, her smile a closed book. “It’ll help you relax.” There was a pause, a beat in the conversation filled only by the soft clink of teaspoon against china as Clara stirred her own cup.

Ethan took a sip, the liquid smooth and slightly sweet as it slid down his throat. “Oh, that’s good,” he admitted, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.

Clara watched him over the rim of her cup, her eyes soft yet calculating. “I thought you might like it,” she murmured, her gaze lingering a moment too long, hinting at the layers of secrets Ethan had yet to unravel.

As the evening progressed, the tea worked its subtle magic. Ethan felt a loosening in his shoulders, an unspooling of the tension that had gathered like storm clouds. He laughed more freely, engaged in conversations with a lightness he hadn’t felt in months. But beneath the surface, something else was stirring—a change so faint, so meticulously engineered, that by the time Ethan would notice, it would already be deeply rooted within him.

The night wore on, filled with the clatter of dishes and the comfortable hum of family chatter. Ethan moved through the rooms, his steps lighter, unaware of the eyes that occasionally followed him, speculative and hopeful. Aunt Clara remained a warm presence at his side, her earlier enigma now cloaked in the guise of familial affection.

As Ethan finally left, the house settling back into its foundations, the echo of his laughter lingered in the air, a counterpoint to the silent, watchful anticipation that filled Clara’s gaze as she gently rinsed out the teapot, the last swirls of tea spiraling down the drain like a secret being whispered away.

And so, the stage was set, the first threads of a new tapestry woven into the fabric of Ethan’s life, under the watchful eyes of an aunt whose desires were as potent as the tea she brewed. The journey had begun, not with grand declarations, but with a subtle shift, unnoticed yet irrevocable. As the weeks unfolded, Ethan found himself caught in a rhythm of daily life that felt both familiar and unsettlingly new. The initial ease from the tea at Aunt Clara's house faded into a background hum of inexplicable changes. Subtle, yet persistent, these changes wove through his days like threads of uncertainty pulling tighter with each passing moment.

Ethan noticed it first in the mornings, the mirror reflecting back a face that seemed softer, eyes that held a hint of vulnerability that hadn't been there before. His skin, too, seemed different, smoother, with a slight flush that colored his cheeks with an unfamiliar glow. At first, he attributed it to better sleep, a new skincare routine perhaps, but the usual suspects fell short of explaining the feelings that bubbled just beneath his skin—feelings that didn't quite belong in the landscape of his previously understood self.

His days at work became a study in subtle contrasts. The clack of his keyboard sounded overly loud, and the bustling office chatter, once a comforting background noise, now grated on his nerves. His colleagues noticed too, their eyebrows knitting in concern as they asked if he was alright. "Just tired," Ethan would reply with a shrug, brushing off their concern with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

It wasn't just physical. His emotions seemed to be on a high wire, teetering between highs that were dizzying and lows that left him grasping for stability. A commercial with a sentimental jingle could bring a lump to his throat, and a minor critique from his boss had him fighting back tears in the bathroom stall, wondering why he suddenly felt so raw, so exposed.

Evenings were spent with friends who started to voice their observations, their words tinged with worry. "You've changed, man," Mike, his best friend since high school, commented one night as they watched a game, the room filled with the usual cheers and groans. Ethan turned to him, a frown marring his features, "Changed how?" But Mike just shook his head, unable to pinpoint the unease that hovered like a shadow between them.

At family dinners, his mother's gaze lingered a little too long, filled with a mother’s intuitive concern. "Are you sure you’re okay, honey?" she would ask as she passed him the potatoes, her touch lingering on his hand. Ethan, caught in the throes of transformations he couldn't articulate, just nodded, pushing around his food, his appetite as fluctuating as his moods.

And through it all, Aunt Clara was a constant yet distant figure. She called often, her voice a soothing balm that oddly contrasted with the chaos unfolding within him. "How are you feeling, dear?" she’d inquire, each word laced with an undercurrent of something Ethan couldn’t quite grasp. Guilt shadowed her encouragement and advice, a weight to her usual levity that Ethan felt more than understood.

As the weeks turned into a month, the changes became undeniable. His body seemed to be betraying him, each day presenting a new challenge, a new question he wasn’t prepared to answer. Yet, amidst the confusion and growing concern, there was also a strange, budding acknowledgment of something deep within him—something that, despite the turmoil, felt oddly like truth slowly making its way to the surface.

Unbeknownst to Ethan, Clara watched from the sidelines, her experiment unfolding with a mixture of hope and regret. She knew the journey she had initiated was one of profound transformation, but whether it would bring them closer or tear them apart was a tapestry still weaving itself into the fabric of their lives. The revelation hit Ethan like a winter storm, sudden and unforgiving. It was during another seemingly innocent visit to Aunt Clara’s house, the place where the seeds of his current turmoil had been unknowingly planted. Ethan had been rifling through the kitchen drawers, looking for a tea strainer Clara had asked for, when his hand brushed against an unmarked bottle tucked behind a stack of dish towels. Curiosity piqued, he pulled it out and unscrewed the cap, finding it filled with pills whose purpose he couldn’t guess.

That evening, the kitchen’s cozy familiarity turned cold and clinical as Ethan confronted Clara, the bottle held tightly in his hand. “What is this, Aunt Clara?” His voice, usually calm and accommodating, now trembled with a cocktail of confusion and dread.

Clara’s face drained of color, her usual composure crumbling under the weight of her nephew’s gaze. She reached out, as if to take the bottle, but stopped, her hand hanging in the air between confession and denial. “Ethan, I... I can explain,” she stammered, her voice a whisper of its former confidence.

The words that followed were harder than any Ethan could have imagined. Clara spoke of her deep, unfulfilled longing for a daughter, of the grief that lingered like a shadow over her childless life. The tea, she confessed, was spiked with herbal estrogens, an attempt to “reshape” Ethan into the child she never had. “I just wanted to feel complete,” she ended, her voice breaking, leaving the words hanging heavy between them.

Ethan stood frozen, the bottle in his grip a tangible symbol of the betrayal. His mind raced, anger and sorrow intertwining so tightly he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He thought of the changes, the emotional upheaval, the sense of betrayal that now tainted every memory of his aunt’s kindness. “How could you?” he managed, the question a raw wound.

It was then that Sophie, who had come along for what she thought would be a casual visit, stepped forward. Her presence, usually a comfort to Ethan, now felt like the only lifeline he had left. She wrapped an arm around him, her gaze steely as she faced Clara. “This isn’t just about what you wanted. It’s his life,” she said firmly, the protector in her rising to the surface.

The ride back to Ethan’s place was shrouded in silence, each mile widening the chasm between Ethan and the woman he had once trusted without hesitation. Back at his apartment, the walls seemed to close in, each object a reminder of a life that now felt as foreign as the changes coursing through his body.

Ethan sank onto his couch, the fabric of the cushions familiar under his fingers. He looked at his reflection in the darkened TV screen, searching for signs of the person he used to be, wondering who he would become. Sophie sat beside him, her presence a silent vow of support. “What are you going to do?” she finally asked, her voice soft, careful.

“I don’t know,” Ethan replied, his voice hollow. The truth was a maze, and he was lost in it, torn between his love for his aunt and the visceral shock of her deceit. As the night deepened, the answers remained just out of reach, each thought a step in a dance of confusion and clarity. The only certainty was the journey ahead—a path that would require navigating the deepest betrayals to perhaps find a way back to something like forgiveness, or forward to a new understanding of himself. As days melted into weeks, Ethan’s life unfolded like a series of vignettes, each one capturing a moment of transformation—both internal and external. He found himself at a crossroads, one where every step seemed to echo with the remnants of Clara’s betrayal and the uncertain promise of a new identity.

With Sophie’s encouragement, Ethan began attending support group meetings, a decision that unfolded the world in colors he hadn’t imagined. The first meeting was a blur of faces and stories that resonated with his own confusion and search for meaning. He listened, mostly, his own voice a stranger to him until a middle-aged man named Marc shared his journey with such candor and raw emotion that Ethan found himself speaking without thinking. “I didn’t choose this start... but maybe I can choose where it goes,” he found himself saying, his words hanging in the air, heavy with possibility.

These meetings became a sanctuary, a place where Ethan could unravel his feelings without the fear of judgment. He experimented with his appearance, each variation a step towards understanding the shifts within him. Some days, he felt like he was wearing a costume; other days, the fabric felt like a second skin, the mirror reflecting someone he was only beginning to know.

Meanwhile, Clara’s attempts to bridge the gap were met with mixed feelings. She reached out often, her messages a mixture of apologies and articles about gender identity and personal acceptance. Ethan saved every message, a digital pile of olive branches he wasn’t ready to pick up yet. But as his anger ebbed, curiosity took its place. What if Clara’s intentions, however misguided, had unlocked a door he might never have opened himself?

This question haunted Ethan as he expanded his social circle, gravitating towards individuals who embraced their complexities with pride. He met Ava, a vibrant artist who wore her gender fluidity like a badge of honor, her confidence both intimidating and inspiring. She introduced him to a broader community, one that celebrated uniqueness in ways that both challenged and comforted Ethan.

Ethan’s days were filled with such discoveries, each one a thread weaving a new tapestry of self. He took to documenting his journey, sharing his thoughts and experiences in vlogs that he posted online. The responses were a mosaic of support, curiosity, and occasionally, unkindness, but Ethan found strength in openness, in the vulnerability of his story.

One evening, under the soft lights of a local cafe where he had become a regular, Ethan sat across from Clara. They had agreed to meet, a tentative step towards reconciliation. Clara listened, her eyes wet with unshed tears, as Ethan spoke of his struggles and revelations. “I don’t know if I can forgive you yet,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor he felt inside. “But I’m learning to forgive myself for not being who I thought I was.”

Clara nodded, her hand covering her mouth as if to hold back the sorrow that threatened to spill. “I just want you to be happy, Ethan. That’s all I ever wanted,” she murmured.

The path ahead was unclear, littered with the debris of past hurts and the blossoming flowers of newfound identity. Ethan knew that acceptance was not a destination but a journey. As he walked this path, flanked by friends and watched over by family, the struggle felt less like a battle and more like a dance—one where the steps were unfamiliar, but the rhythm was undeniably his own. The air was electric with anticipation and the scent of popcorn and cotton candy as the local community fair bustled with activity. It was a day marked by laughter and light, the sky a brilliant canvas of blue. Among the myriad attractions—from games of skill to booths displaying artisan crafts—the highlight was the fashion show, a celebration of diversity and self-expression.

Ethan stood backstage, his nerves a jumble of excitement and anxiety. Today marked a pivotal moment in his journey, one that would see him stepping out onto the runway, not just as a model, but as a testament to his own unfolding story. The fabric of his outfit felt like armor, each thread woven with the threads of his new reality, protective yet empowering.

Clara was there too, her presence a quiet support that hummed with sincerity. She had come a long way from the woman who had once sought to reshape Ethan's destiny with a cup of tea. Now, she was here on his terms, her actions speaking of repentance and a deep desire to uplift the nephew she had wronged.

As the show began, music and cheers filled the air, the audience’s excitement palpable. One by one, models strutted down the runway, their outfits as varied as their backgrounds, each a vibrant expression of identity and creativity. Ethan watched from the sidelines, his heart pounding in sync with the upbeat music, until it was his turn.

With a deep breath that felt like the first true breath in months, Ethan stepped into the spotlight. The runway stretched before him like a path to a new beginning. With each step, his confidence grew, the eyes of the community on him not in judgment but in celebration. The applause was a wave of support, washing over him, reinforcing every decision that had led him to this moment.

Clara watched from just offstage, her eyes misty. Seeing Ethan so vibrant and accepted filled her with a complex cocktail of emotions—pride, relief, but most of all, hope. She clutched her hands to her chest, her earlier manipulations now replaced by genuine support for Ethan’s choices and identity.

Ethan reached the end of the runway, pausing to look out over the crowd. The faces staring back at him were a blur, but their warmth was a tangible force. In that moment, under the glow of the stage lights and the clear blue sky, he felt a shift within himself—a solidifying of his identity that went deeper than the surface changes. He was not the man he had once been, nor was he the reflection of someone else’s desires. He was simply Ethan, complex and whole.

As he walked back, the cheers followed him like a breeze, lifting him. When he stepped off the runway, Clara was there, her arms open. He hesitated for a moment, then allowed himself to embrace her, their hug a bridge mending over the chasm of past grievances.

The fair continued around them, a festive swirl of color and sound, but for Ethan, the real celebration was quieter, more profound. It was the celebration of self-acceptance, of finding empowerment in the truth of who he was. As the day faded into evening, the lights of the fair twinkling like stars, Ethan felt a peace settle over him. The journey was far from over, but for the first time, he felt equipped to navigate it, surrounded by a community and a family that was learning, just like him, to embrace the beauty of change.

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A sharp crack sounded behind Thomas as he crashed through the brush, and he threw himself to the side instinctively. He heard something whiz by his ear, and felt his stomach knot up again. Shit! Now they were shooting at him! So much for the peaceful camping trip.
Branches caught at his backpack, slowing him down and threatening to knock him backwards. Despite the handicap, he was reluctant to abandon something he'd spent so much money on. Another gunshot suddenly dropped the equipment's value to nothing, and he shrugged out of the straps without missing a step. Maybe one of the bastards would trip over it.

He was going to die out here in the woods, alone, because he chose the wrong place for a hike. God, it wasn't fair! Of all the damned mountains around here, why did he have to pick the same one as a band of international kidnappers?
With the media blitz covering Prince Richard's abduction, there was no doubt in his mind who the frail, blonde-haired boy he'd seen at the camp was. Too bad the kid hadn't been gagged when they tied him up. The future King of England was not the brightest of children. Thomas had stumbled on the scene by accident, somehow managing to escape detection by the kidnappers. However, their victim started yelling for help as soon as he saw Thomas. Idiot kid! ( If You Want to listen Best Crossdressing Feminization Audio Stories Visit My channel Page and subscribe it Thankyou)

The shouts of Thomas' pursuers were getting closer, and he heard a couple more gunshots. Adrenaline boosted his speed for a few moments, but then he started losing energy. The sudden fatigue was as bewildering as it was ill-timed. He was in excellent shape, and even a hard run like this shouldn't be exhausting him. Yet his feet were already starting to trip on roots and loose branches, his arms swinging like dead weights. Before he could stop himself, he tumbled forward in the rough brush, sprawling awkwardly on the ground.

Tears filled his eyes, and he fought to drag himself further. It was useless. His muscles no longer responded, and he wasn't even able to speak when the first of the kidnappers reached him. It was somewhat of a shock to see a boy who looked about 15 holding the gun. Was he the son of one of the kidnappers? Another young teenager pushed past and leaned over Thomas to pull something from his back.

Rising, the newcomer displayed a feather-tipped dart and smiled in satisfaction. "See? I told you I hit him." Thomas' mind raced. A dart? He must have been hit with a tranquilizer gun and not even felt it. Come to think of it, the pistols that both of the teens held were chunkier than a normal gun. He felt a rush of relief, even as darkness started to close in around him.

A third child, too fuzzy to make out now, but obviously smaller than the first two, joined the group staring down at him. "You idiots! I told you to keep an eye out for campers!" The voice was that of a child, but there was no mistaking the tone of authority. "Do I have to handle everything myself?" The newcomer leaned closer to look at Thomas' face. "Now, what are we going to do with you?" Just before he blacked out, Thomas was able to clear his vision enough to see the ringleader's face. The face of the future King of England - Prince Richard.

Thomas woke to a scent that was heavy and familiar. Horse manure, straw, sweat, and leather. He was lying on loose straw or hay, and opened his eyes to see the rough-cut wall of a stall. A stable, or maybe a barn. That much identified, he tried to get up. His entire body ached, and his head throbbed. Probably an after-effect of the drug they'd used to knock him out. A brief struggle verified that his hand and feet were securely bound. Twisting his body, he managed to roll up to a sitting position, and discovered that he was not alone.
Enough moonlight filtered in from an open window to see Prince Richard, also bound, staring at him from the opposite corner of the stall. Spitting strands of hay from his mouth, Thomas glared back at the boy. "So, your henchmen decide to turn on you? I don't know what game you little bastards are pulling, but you won't get away with it."

The boy's face twisted in obvious confusion, which changed suddenly to fear as the stall gate swung open. "Oh, I think we 'little bastards' are going to do quite well, Mr. Hassan." The voice came not from the boy across from him, but another small figure who stepped between them. "Oh, sorry. I suppose I should introduce myself." Thomas blinked at the face revealed in the moonlight. "Richard, Prince of Wales, and Future Kind of England."
Thomas' mouth fell open as he stared first at the speaker, and then at the bound child across from him. Other than the tied boy being rather dirty and disheveled, the two were absolutely identical. "But... " He looked again. There was a difference. The bound boy had the wide, frightened eyes of a child. His twin's eyes were narrowed in a very menacing, and very adult scowl. Thomas' mouth went dry, and he tried to back away. "You're.. not him. You're... a..."

"Fake?" The counterfeit Prince laughed and shook his head. "I assure you, I have the right fingerprints, the right voice, the right retinal patterns. Hell, I even wet the bed at night, though I wasn't aware of that little problem when I decided on this." He leaned against the wall at looked down at Thomas with a slight smile.
"You've become involved in a rather involved and complicated situation. Rather distressing for me, as I had taken such pains to avoid any more problems. Still, with all of the people looking for me, ah, him, I suppose it was inevitable that another innocent victim would have to be dealt with."
Swallowing hard, Thomas tried to ignore the implications of that last statement for now. "How could you possibly look just like him? And have all the other stuff? I know you can do things with surgery, but retinal patterns can't be duplicated!"

"Surgery?" The boy smirked. "Far too crude for anything like this. And you are quite wrong. Retinal patterns can be duplicated. So can eyes. And as you can see.." He struck a modeling pose. "It's possible to duplicate an entire human being."
Thomas felt a chill despite the warm weather. "But why?"
The fake Prince rolled his eyes. "Gods! Does no one have any imagination? Think about it, Mr. Hassan. What do you think I can do as the exact duplicate of our young friend there?"

Thomas frowned a moment, and then his eyes widened in horror. "You're going to replace him!"
"Very good, Mr. Hassan. Very good." The duplicate's smile broadened. "You happened to stumble on a rehearsal for the Prince's rescue. Tonight, local authorities acting on anonymous tips will find the kidnapped heir to the British crown tied up in an empty campsite. It will be assumed that the kidnappers heard them approaching and escaped into the woods. A story that the Prince himself will verify.
The boy will be taken back to Buckingham Palace for a tearful reunion with his family. Of course, there will be some noticeable changes in the boy's personality and behavior, all perfectly normal after such a traumatic experience. And when the time is right, a series of 'accidents' will take out Mummy and Daddy, leaving him - or should I say, me- as King of England."

If he wasn't looking at the impostor, Thomas would have said the plan was insane. As it was, he had little doubt that this phony Prince could do exactly what he said. However, the plan required only one Prince Richard. The impostor followed Thomas' gaze to the original heir to the throne, and nodded.
"Yes, an unfortunate necessity, I'm afraid. I can't risk having our friend discovered, and no normal confinement is really secure enough. So I'm afraid the original version will have to be, shall we say, erased?" Thomas' stomach tightened as cold eyes turned back to him. "As will you.
"Your backpack and wallet were most useful. When they and the rest of your belongings are found by the river, it will be assumed that you had a swimming accident. I'm sure your friends have told you how hazardous backpacking alone can be." The impostor motioned to someone standing outside the stall. A man in his early twenties entered, the first adult Thomas had seen connected with this hideous plan. He was dressed in what looked like a doctor's lab coat, and carried a tray holding two syringes.

Thomas screamed and thrashed about, panic taking over his actions. The two teens came rushing in, and held him while the doctor jerked down his pants and thrust the needle into his right buttocks. A terrible burning began to spread outward, and his screams became broken sobs. He heard the child cry out, and despite the knowledge of his own impending death, twisted up a hate-filled face to the impostor. "You evil bastard! He's just a little boy! Why do you have to kill him?
The response was a look of amusement that scared him worse than the spreading pain. "Kill him? Who ever mentioned killing anyone?" Thomas sank back to the ground in sudden relief, even though he knew something bad was going to happen. As long as he was alive, there was hope.
He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and wormed his way to a sitting position. "It doesn't seem possible. I mean, that you can be a perfect copy. You've got to be older than he is, a lot older. How did you do it?" The question was more than just a stall for time. Whatever they had done to accomplish this was beyond anything Thomas had ever heard of, and he was understandably curious.
The impostor motioned the others to leave, and squatted down to look directly into Thomas' eyes. "I think I would have liked you. In your current situation, most people would be begging for mercy, not expressing scientific interest."

Thomas sighed and returned the fake's steady gaze. "Begging wouldn't change anything, would it? And whatever happens, I'd really like to know more about this."
His captor grinned, and tousled Thomas' hair. "Now I know I would have liked you. Very practical fellow, aren't you? Well, such honesty deserves an answer.
"Until about a year ago, I was the lab assistant for a rather famous genetic scientist. The fellow was quite brilliant, if a bit paranoid. He'd been researching cures for AIDS and various forms of cancer, and actually perfected a process that seemed to work on both.
"He injected a diseased male monkey with serum derived by using his process on the blood of a healthy female monkey. The sick chimp was completely cured within hours! However, there was an interesting side effect. The formerly diseased male had also become female, an exact duplicate of the donor chimp!"
The impostor shook his head. "Now, the scientist was upset by this, for he lacked vision. But I saw the tremendous potential. Because of his paranoia, he had made sure that no one else in the world knew about the process, and he was under the mistaken assumption that I was loyal, if not too bright. It was a simple matter to eliminate the scientist." He sighed. "I hated to leave him back at the lab, but the University would never have let me take a chimpanzee home.

"Quite frankly, I never did understand the details of the process, save that it restructures the recipient's genetic coding, and greatly accelerates cell functions. However, a friend at the University had a much better background in genetics, and he was quite willing to join me when I outlined my plans."
He smiled. "Actually, it was the original chimpanzee that gave me the idea. If you can make one monkey identical to another, you can also change a human to match another human. Not that I didn't test the theory out first. My two teenage assistants were considerably older before they joined me, and are quite grateful for the new lives I have given them. The original boys are also here. Perhaps you can meet them later."
Standing, the fake Prince looked over at the whimpering original, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I would have preferred an older subject for myself. You can't imagine how difficult it is being so small and weak. Still, adults tend to pay less attention to the very young, a trait that will help me quite a bit. And a rerun of puberty is a small price to pay for the wealth and power I will receive." He grinned. "I get the British Kingdom, and the two of you get the animal kingdom."

Thomas shifted, trying to ease the throbbing which now pulled at his back and thighs. He tried to stay calm, but his voice came out as a coarse whisper. "So we're going to turn into monkeys?"
Another surprised look from the impostor. "Around here? No, monkeys are far too unusual. Besides, I want you both to live long, happy lives. Thirty, perhaps even forty years with good care, with all your wants and cares provided for. I'm even giving our young Prince there a head start on puberty. With the number of mares entering estrous this time of year, I imagine he'll be discovering sex within a week. And of course, he'll have you there to show him how."
Thomas blinked, and then gasped as his mind made the connection. "Horses? You're turning us into horses?"
The impostor nodded. "A matched pair of white Percheron colts, to be exact. Not quite two years old, with championship heritage and the papers to prove it. Cost me a bit to buy the original, but selling the two boys down there will more than make up for that. I'd thought about selling you as well, but I think our young friend will like to have a brother. Besides, it would be amusing to bring the two of you back to England to pull the Coronation Coach when I become King."

Burning pain had spread up Thomas' back, and he could feel it nibbling at the base of his brain. He fought back rising fear and panic, only to have anger take their place. "You sick bastard!" He spat into the smug face in front of him.
The impostor fell back, and his hand flew back to strike Thomas' face. Then the anger in the boy's eyes softened, and the movement became a pat on the head. "Extra points for defiant last moments. Just as well. Any pleading would have been wasted effort. Once the process starts, it cannot be reversed. Don't worry. The two boys have taken quite well to equine life. It seems that the mind adjusts itself to the body. In a few days, perhaps a week, you won't even remember being human."
Thomas sagged, hope smashed and despair washing over him. The impostor moved to the stall gate. "I have to go now. My assistant will take care of you. As much as I would love to watch the transformations progress, the time has come for Prince Richard to be rescued. See you in a few years, perhaps?" He laughed as he turned to leave. "Just look for the young man in the coach behind you."
II A Change of Rules

The small form pressed against Thomas' side shuddered slightly, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain even that small movement caused. Still, he wasn't about to make the boy move. Richard was in at least as much agony, and if Thomas could provide some comfort he was willing to suffer a little more for it.
Though the fire burning throughout his body made every moment stretch on for an eternity, it was less than an hour since the impostor had left. Thomas had wormed his way to the boy's side and looped his bound arms around the thin shoulders. Even the embrace of a stranger was helpful, and the child had managed a grateful smile before burrowing his face into Thomas' shirt.
The impostor had an evil sense of humor. When he had commented on having to 'erase' the two of them, he was being literal. Thomas and Richard's DNA coding was being wiped away from their genes, essentially erasing the patterns that made them who they were. When their cells received the new programming, they would restructure themselves to fit the new coding. And the human versions of Thomas and Richard would be lost forever.

Perhaps not Richard. His pattern lived on with the impostor. Maybe the boy's transformation could be reversed later. But there was no sample of Thomas' original coding. He pressed his head against the wall, feeling the sting of tears. Sure, there were times that he had wished to be different. Younger, thinner, maybe have a smaller nose, or different hair. He even remembered a few casual wonderings about life as an animal. But those had only been occasional daydreams. Faced with the reality, he wanted nothing more than to wake up tomorrow in his stocky 32 year-old, brown-haired, brown-eyed, and very human body.
The poison in his blood started burning again, and he clenched his teeth, trying not to cry out. Then he realized the futility of the effort and let a soft moan escape his lips.
"Sorry for the pain." Thomas opened his eyes to see the lab-coated young man looking down at him. "If I could give you something, I would. However, the treatment is unpredictable, and even an aspirin might kill you in this stage of the re-coding."

Pulling a knife from his pocket, the assistant knelt down next to him. Thomas almost hoped that the man was going to kill him. Instead, the blade cut through the ropes binding his hands and feet. Freed of their bonds, his limbs sprawled limply on the ground, starting new waves of pain. The action was repeated on the boy's ropes, but the man had noted Thomas's grimace, and lowered the small arms gently.
"Again, I am sorry." The man shook his head. "This new process has a greater attack factor. The others did not suffer this much."
Despite his pain, Thomas gasped out a question. "New... pro.. process?" The man nodded as he put the knife away. "My 'partner' is not quite the visionary he thinks he is. In fact, he is not really very bright. I have been manipulating him, and the others, from the beginning."
The man stood and left the stall, only to return with what appeared to be video cameras. He explained as he set them up on the tops of the stall walls. "I want to record the process. Couldn't before now, or that fool would have suspected something." He aimed the two cameras so that they covered the entire stall. "So far, all of the effects are internal, and nothing has really changed yet. The treatment works in a kind of time-delay, blanking out the original coding of your DNA first. That is the pain you are experiencing now."

Satisfied with the placement, he pressed some buttons, and Thomas saw the recording lights come on. "There. This will be of great assistance in future development. And I will be taking blood and tissue samples through the rest of your transformations."
He started for the gate, and then sighed and turned back to Thomas. "I know it is hard to speak now. And you can't move. That is why I freed your arms and legs." He looked over at Richard. "The boy isn't going to be a problem, but you will have some strength in another hour. Understand that the process cannot be stopped. If you were to escape, you would simply die in agony as a malformed monster. I am your only chance to survive."
He seemed to understand the hate-filled look Thomas gave him. "You are going to become a horse. That is not a thing I can change. Yet. However, regardless of anything Mark might have said, you may not be stuck as a beast forever."
Thomas was losing consciousness now, but he picked up the last of the man's words. As he sank into darkness, his fear was joined by a faint glimmer of hope.

Hunger. Thomas struggled to clear muddled thoughts, but he could focus only on the terrible emptiness of his belly. A damp, spongy cube was pressed into his hands, and he automatically took a bite of it. Bland and mushy, but edible. As he stuffed the remainder into his mouth, another cube was offered, then dropped into a large bowl of similar blocks. Thomas grabbed at the blocks, oblivious to anything but the ravenous hunger.
Full awareness returned only after he had stuffed himself full. The first thing to hit him was that the pain was gone. In fact, it seemed to have been replaced by a dull euphoria, like a pleasant buzz. His body tingled all over.
The man was standing across from him, holding another bowl of the odd blocks. "You should feel much better now. The pain is over." Thomas looked around the stall, and gasped when he saw Richard's naked form. The frail nine year-old had become a solid, if oddly-proportioned boy of at least 11.

"What happened to him?" Thomas started to rise, only to freeze at the sight of his own nude body. "Shit! What's happened to me?" He stared down at the smooth, muscular body of a man in his early twenties. Like the boy, the proportions were off. His chest pushed out in the center a bit, and his arms seemed a bit long and slightly twisted.
"The transformation has started." The man motioned behind Thomas, who turned to see a large mirror propped against the wall. The reflection in it was a somewhat distorted picture of Thomas as he had been about a decade ago. Except that the distortion was no trick of glass or light.
He slid his hand over peach-fuzz-covered cheeks. "I'm a kid!" The thrill of his renewed youth almost outweighed the horror of his situation. "But why does Ricky look older?"
The boy scrambled up. "We're going to be twins, remember? Bryan said that the treatment is making us both about 15, because that is the equivalent age that we'll be as horses."

"Quite right." The man nodded and smiled. "We've been talking while you slept. My name is Bryan Derksen." He extended his hand, which Thomas automatically took. "Circumstances probably paint me as one of the villains, but I assure you that I am trying to help you in every way possible."
The boy took his other hand and looked up with a faint smile. "He's really not one of them at all. He tricked them. And I guess I'm going to be better off."
Thomas was a little bewildered by the boy's attitude. "Better off? We're becoming animals. You'd rather be a horse than a boy?"
Richard shrugged. "No, I guess not. But I'm not going to die now."
Thomas was even more confused. The man chuckled, and tousled the boy's hair. "You see, I was the one who chose Richard as the so-called victim. My former partner has fallen into a rather ironic little trap I set, one that you may appreciate.

"I was the first lab assistant to Doctor Mason, the scientist who developed the process. Since my area of study was genetics, I figured out what he was trying to do early on, and tried developing some of his theories on my own. It was just curiosity, not any attempt to steal his work, but he fired me when he found out. I was really desperate to follow his work, so I needed an inside contact. When Doctor Mason started looking for my replacement, he wanted someone who wasn't so versed in genetics. Mark was perfect. He was doing poorly in classes, mostly because he wouldn't work for anything. But he did have a good background in science, and lots of ambition. All it took was a casual mention of the opening, and the status it offered.
"What neither of us counted on was Mark's ambition. He understood what the treatment could do, even if he didn't know how it worked. Before I realized what had happened, Mark was gone with the only samples of the original treatment. The fool had not only taken all the notes and computer files, he'd reduced the man who created it to a common lab animal."

The man shook his head sadly. "Such a tragic waste of a brilliant mind. I was frantic. The treatment had immense possibilities, and it seemed lost forever. And two days later, Mark came to me. I suppose it was inevitable. I'd made a point to become friends with him, and though he didn't know I had worked on the project before him, he did know I was in genetics.
"Mark had a plan. Kidnap a millionaire, and use the process to replace the victim." Derksen gestured at the boy. "I knew I wouldn't be able to stop him, but I could find a better target. Thanks to a friend working in London Hospital, I found Richard. The boy was perfect, and it was a simple matter to maneuver Mark into choosing him. After all, anyone can have money. But if he became the Prince of Wales, he would have political power, great wealth, and the unique situation of being Royalty."
Thomas stared at the boy. "And you think you're better off? That fake Prince is going to kill your parents and use us to pull his Coronation coach." To his astonishment, the boy grinned.

Derksen answered for him. "You might pull his funeral coach, but Mark will never be King. You see, I chose the boy in order to save him. Go ahead and tell him, Richard. It's not a secret here."
The boy scuffed a foot through the loose straw, and looked down. "I got some sort of sickness in my blood. Mum and Dad hushed it all up. I felt OK, mostly. But the doctors told my parents that I only had a year or two before the sickness killed me."Thomas blinked. "You mean... " His voice trailed off as the implication hit him.
The man nodded. "Mark is in for a very short reign as the Prince of Wales. I suspect he'll be dead within a year. Most certainly before he can do anything to the King and Queen. As for the two boys back there..." He indicated the stalls further down. "They were in serious trouble with the law and with some rather nasty gangs, and actually volunteered. I doubt that the men who took their forms will outlive Mark."

The irony brought a grin to Thomas' face, an expression which was repeated in the young face of his reflection. He frowned and moved closer to the mirror. In the brief time they had been talking, he had dropped even more years. The boy staring back at him was no more than 19, with a low forehead and protruding lower face. But it was the eyes that scared him most. Thomas' had always been dark, but the orbs he saw through now had deep brown irises which filled the sockets. Horse's eyes.
"It's so fast!" Thomas' voice cracked, and he felt a bit dizzy. Up to now, he'd managed to deny what was happening. But even if his reflection wasn't enough, a look down at Richard confirmed the worst. The boy was probably a thin 13 now, with much more bestial features.
Richard leaned against Thomas as he stared at the mirror, smile fading. A tear trickled down the boy's face and he started to tremble. "I'm scared. I know I would have died, but maybe I won't be me anymore when I turn into a horse. And that's the same thing as being dead, isn't it?"
Thomas put an arm around the boy's shoulders. "I think whatever it is that makes us who we are will survive. Maybe we'll remember being human. And if we do start thinking like horses, it will still be us. We'll just think we were born as horses, and that we are brothers for real."
A lump formed in his throat as Richard's tears grew into sobs, and he looked over at Derksen hoping for some sort of positive comment. All he got was a simple, silent shrug.

They stood there until the boy stopped crying. After a moment, Richard frowned and looked up at Derksen. "I'm really hungry." The man offered him one of the cubes, and after the first mouthful, Richard was hunched over the bowl in a blind eating frenzy.
Noting Thomas' surprise, the man moved closer and spoke quietly. "Both of you are becoming the same animal. However, Richard is smaller, so there is less human form to convert. He will become more bestial faster, at least until his mass equals yours. By that time, you will have become almost identical, with any differences fading as you complete the transformations."
He looked down. "As for the question of identity? I don't know. Memories are electrical patterns which could transfer to the horse's brain intact. However, the instinctual behavior which governs an animal's life is thought to be partly tied to genetics. You may remember everything, yet find yourself forced to act as a beast. Or the different physical structure may alter your comprehension to the point that you cannot relate to human experiences. The boys respond pretty much as normal animals. I have seen no sign of human intelligence at all."
Thomas looked at his reflection again, and then down at the still-eating boy. A lump had formed near the base of Richard's spine, and his thighs had taken a deeper, flatter shape. The boy's whole body seemed slightly out-of-focus, and Thomas realized with a start that a coat of fine hair had pushed out of Richard's skin in just the past few minutes.

"How long?" He turned to the man. "How long before we become animals?" The fear was returning, stronger now as the reality of the situation forced itself on him.
Derksen pursed his lips. "Maybe four days total, perhaps a little sooner. But speech will be harder for you after the next phase. The boy probably won't be able to talk at all." Thomas looked down and swallowed hard. With his face thrust into the bowl of food, Richard already looked like some deformed animal.
He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. "The important thing is to fight for your own identity. If the new process works, it should keep your genetic coding open for later reprogramming. And that may also reduce the influence of animal instincts."
Thomas stared at the boy. "What about him? What about Richard? It sounds like he has never been strong before. Will he even want to fight the instincts that make him a powerful young stallion?" He frowned, thinking of his own impending change. "For that matter, will I?"
He turned back to face the man. "Richard has something to fight for. His pattern still exists, even if it is sick. My pattern is gone. Thomas Hassan has been erased from the world. There's nothing for me to return to."

Derksen sighed, and leaned against the wall. "That's why I've been talking to you. Listen. Just because you can't be Thomas Hassan again doesn't mean you can't be human. Think about what you said to the boy. About whatever makes you who you are staying the same. If the treatment works the way I think it will, I can inject you with the coding of a human. I'll make you a child again if you want, or a teenager, or even a man much like you were. As long as you don't lose yourself completely to the stallion mentality."
Thomas was starting to feel the terrible emptiness again, and struggled not to think about the tempting bowls of food. "A child, I guess. If I have to start over, it's easier that way."
"Boy or girl?" The calm question startled Thomas, but he realized that gender was less to change than species.
"Boy!" He managed a faint grin. "If you have a catalog, pick one from the tall, strong, and well-hung department." Then his smile vanished as hunger clawed at his insides.
"This is it, isn't it?" He watched as Richard finished, and stumbled on misshapen feet to the corner. Thomas tried to resist just a little longer, but his legs folded on their own, and his hands reached for the cubes against his will. Then the hunger took over, and he was lost again.
III The First Shuffle

Thick lips pulled at Thomas' hair, and he tried to push them away. Why wouldn't his arm lift? Opening his eyes, he rolled awkwardly up and tried to look around. Only to recoil in horror as a massive snout was thrust into his face.
The bestial scream that broke from his throat was more frightening than the thing in front of him, and he realized that the snout and lips belonged to Richard. The boy worked his mouth, but the sounds which emerged were too slurred and guttural to understand. Scrambling up, Thomas forced himself to reach out for the boy, though his skin squirmed in revulsion as he felt hairy hide press against him.
It was something of a shock to realize he was embracing a four-legged animal. For Richard's arms had fully changed into the rounded forelegs of a horse. He could make out small indentations in the dark lumps that had been the boy's hands, but the hooves on his hind legs were fully formed. There was little to identify the former Prince of Wales.
White hair covered his entire body, except for the nose, mouth, and genitals. Not quite the full coat of an animal, but far more than any human might have. The coarse growth had even replaced most of the hair on his head, leaving only a narrow blonde mane.
Despite the barreled chest and forelegs, his body was still vaguely humanoid. That was not true of his head. Perhaps the changes were mostly cosmetic so far, yet Thomas could see nothing of Richard's face in the bestial snout.

He looked more like a colt with a pushed-in muzzle than anything remotely human. The wide, thick lips and teeth were fully equine, as were soft nostrils which flared impossibly wide. The animal eyes he had noted earlier were even larger and further apart, set deep under bony brows and a sunken forehead.
His examination of Richard was prolonged by a dread of looking at himself. However, he finally dropped his eyes down to his own body. A lighter covering of white hair blanketed his skin, and though they weren't yet forelegs, his arms were longer and set lower. His waist had narrowed between thighs that were both flatter and deeper, and his knees were higher and oddly shaped.
Even stranger were his feet, which had almost doubled in length. His toes fused into a numb, grayish lump at the end, already looking very hoof-like. At least he still had fingers. They were short and thick, and rather stiff when he tried to flex them. But he still had some feeling in the tips, and found he could grasp clumps of straw. That simple ability was surprisingly comforting, even if his thumb had shifted too far away from the rest of his fingers to be of much use.
Swallowing hard, Thomas turned slowly to look in the mirror. Whatever comfort he had found in functioning hands vanished as he saw his head. Almost a mirror-image of Richard's, his face was only slightly less pushed out, with the same deep-set eyes and sunken brow.
Thomas felt a chill. Their brains must already have shrunk and changed to fit inside these flat skulls. He didn't seem to be thinking differently. But would he even be aware of any changes?

Sensations were a little different. Color didn't seem to be as intense, and scents were stronger and more separated. Still, he felt awfully normal for the amount of change that had already occurred. Even the lack of toes did not bother him, at least not yet.
Richard stumbled over and nudged him playfully. The boy was obviously dealing with his own transformation well. Of course, he'd probably had more time to adjust. Thomas wondered how long he had been unconscious. Damn. He'd missed so much of the transformation. Then he almost laughed at the thought. Here he was turning into an animal, and he was worried about not seeing it all?
"Good morning." Both of them turned to see the man entering with a tray. "Just a couple of quick blood samples. And I'd like to run some tests on both of you." He drew the blood quickly and painlessly, labeling the vials before putting them in a case. This was followed by a thorough physical examination that got rather intimate. Thomas hadn't been thinking about sex up to this point, but the sensations generated by Derksen's handling were more intense and somehow different from anything he had experienced before. Richard developed a full erection, though his eyes took on an alarming blankness. He seemed OK afterwards, so it may have been simply the fact that the boy was experiencing puberty for the first time.
Thomas made several attempts to speak while the man was checking them over. Though his voice seemed more or less intact, he couldn't shape his mouth to form the proper sounds. The loss of speech bothered him tremendously, even more than knowing he would soon lose his hands and fingers.

Derksen listened intently to each effort, making guesses at the words Thomas was trying to say. Thomas got increasingly frustrated, but refused to quit until the man shook his head and put a hand over his bristled lips. "There's no point in getting yourself worked up. Your jaw and lips don't work the same way anymore. Don't worry. There are other ways to communicate."
"Richard?" The boy turned to face Derksen, who smiled and stroked his cheek. "We'll start with you. Just nod your head up and down for yes, and side-to-side for no. OK?" The man then proceeded with a series of questions about Richard's age, family, and even some math and English problems that could be answered by nodding to the correct answer. When it was done, Derksen frowned a bit. "Personal data is still intact, but there seems to be some loss of schooling." He brightened and tousled the boy's thin mane. "Of course, I suppose you don't really need all that anymore, do you?"
Thomas' questions were more complicated, and hit on subjects like the Common Market, European history, and current events. He missed more than a few, but was sure that he would not have known them before the change, either. Derksen pursed his lips. "I don't know enough of your background to tell much, but I can use these answers to track your abilities later."
For the next hour, the man talked to them. Nothing of importance, except for the news that 'Prince Richard' had been found by authorities, and was on his way back to England. Unable to respond, Thomas wondered why Derksen was keeping up the one-sided conversation. Then he realized that the man was stimulating their minds as best he could. He wouldn't be talking to horses.

Thomas found it hard not to stare at Richard. He could almost see the transformation progressing. It was somehow easier to watch the boy than to contemplate his own change. Not that he wasn't aware of what was going on. His fingers were getting numb, and a curious pressure gradually rotated his shoulders outward and down from his head.
Richard's legs were nearly complete now, and he moved with greater ease on his new hooves. His head finished up as well, leaving him looking like a normal colt with an undersized torso. As before, the hunger hit the boy first, and he started on a fresh bowl of cubes that Derksen placed in front of him.
Thomas finally forced himself to take stock of his own changes. As he expected, his hands were now dark lumps at the end of almost fully-formed equine forelegs. Rising, he stumbled around awkwardly before he was able to stand before the mirror. He had to move close to focus on the reflection, which remained slightly distorted by his new eyes.

However distorted, there was no mistaking the features in the glass. He had the same colt's head as Richard, looking only slightly less out-of-proportion because of his larger body. He worked his jaw, fascinated by the pull of different muscles and joints. A massive tongue probed thick, flat teeth, even the saliva of his mouth had a different taste.
For the first time, he realized that he wasn't afraid. It was very strange. He was more animal than man now, with time running out quickly. If anything, he should be terrified. Yet as he stared at himself, the greatest emotion he felt was curiosity. In fact, he found himself longing for the easy movement which Richard now enjoyed.
The change had slowed now, probably running out of the materials to continue. He didn't feel the hunger yet, but stumbled over to the bowls anyway. Once he started eating, the compulsion gradually built, but never reached the blind frenzy of prior binges. Still, he ate more than ever before, and then moved to collapse on the straw next to the already sleeping Richard. At least this time he did not dread what would come when he woke next.

It was hard to breathe. He could inhale, but pressure on his side and belly kept him from fully filling his lungs. An effort to stand automatically turned into a rolling motion that brought him up to all fours. Confused by a rush of powerful sensations, he shook his head and looked around. The images he got were oddly split, and though he could make out shapes clearly, detail and color were almost non-existent. It took a moment to realize that the dark mass splitting his vision was his own snout,
More staggering were the smells and sounds around him. The odors of urine, straw, and sweat were almost tangible, overlaid by an even heavier scent that somehow translated into awareness of his own self. And the former silence of the stable was filled with an incredible variety of sounds. Insects, the faint rustle of dead leaves on the roof, and the shuffling of the other male.
Other male? He felt some confusion. Sure enough, a large form moved close and pressed against his side. There was a brief flare of aggression which faded as he twisted around to sniff the other's rump and crotch. The scent was his own. It didn't make sense, but he had no trouble accepting the impossibility. Content, he lipped the other's back gently, and then dropped his head to pull up some loose straw.
A new scent came into the stall, followed by a strange figure which sparked some glimmer of memory. Two legs, not four. A human. Now it made noises. "Good morning."

Thomas shook his head, suddenly aware of who and where he was. The simple thoughts of moments before were still clear, and he felt a chill. He'd been thinking like a horse. Twisting around only verified what the thoughts had suggested. He and Richard were identical white Percherons. The transformation was complete.
Derksen squatted down and looked between Richard's hind legs and then turned to Thomas. "Ah. That makes you Mr. Hassan." Either equine faces could still convey emotion, or the man was able to guess Thomas' mental question. "A simple tattoo on the inside of the right leg. I did them while you were both sleeping. Since you are now twins, I needed some way to tell you apart."
The exam which followed did nothing to ease Thomas' fears. It accented a heightened awareness of his body that was new, yet seemed completely normal. He found himself prancing nervously, ears back as the man handled his genitals. The reaction of a colt or stallion. He forced himself to be calm, earning a pat on the shoulder as a reward. Richard was not as cooperative, snapping once or twice as Derksen checked him out.
Surprisingly, Thomas did quite well on the mental test. According to Derksen, he had lost ground in some of the general areas, but retained most of his knowledge and memories. As before, his companion did not fare as well. Other than the most basic questions, such as his name and age, Richard did not seem to even comprehend the man's words.

"I suppose it was to be expected." Derksen sighed as he prepared two syringes. "The boy simply doesn't have enough life experience to retain his human identity. In another day or two, he would probably have lost even his own name." He picked up the first hypodermic and injected something painlessly into Thomas' right rump. Then he shrugged nonchalantly as he picked up the second syringe and moved towards Richard. "Well, I won't be able to market the process for children. That's all I really needed to know."
Thomas jerked his head around at the callous observation. Derksen grinned back at him, but the expression was cruel. "Whereas, you have proven that I can safely use the process on adults. Now we'll test out some other properties of the treatment."
Thoroughly bewildered, Thomas backed away until he was pressed into the corner. What was going on? Something Derksen had said about Richard came back to him. 'He would probably have lost his own name.' Would?
His nose answered the unspoken question. The former boy's scent was changing, no longer a match for his own. And even his odd vision could make out the splotch of darkness that was spreading rapidly from where Richard had been injected. Derksen moved to the gate, nodding in approval as he watched.

Thomas had thought a transformation which took days was incredibly fast. Now he was witnessing a complete change in the space of minutes. Richard snorted, and twisted around to look back at himself. His back had already taken a very different conformation, with jutting hips and coarser, darker fur. The equine body was settling on shorter legs, becoming wider and heavier as the boy's head drew in slightly and thickened. And as the change finished up, the unused stallion's equipment vanished into his belly, while a pinkish sack appeared under his rump and sprouted teats. Richard was a cow.

With the completion of the change, Thomas' horror at such betrayal exploded, and he brayed in rage. His charge was stopped short by the sound of his cry. A bray? Twisting around, he discovered that Richard was not the only one who had been transformed again. The body which met his eyes and the reflection in the mirror both belonged to a huge, dark-furred mule.
There was a laugh from the stall gate as Derksen slid the bolt home. "Thank you for helping me test the treatment out. I had to have voluntary cooperation to test if the subject could retain memory and identity. And as you can see, the new process not only allows additional forms, it is quite rapid when you don't have to increase mass."
Thomas shook his head, having trouble understanding some of the words. Derksen grinned. "Don't fight it. You see, the new treatment does allow greater retention of original brain patterns, even though it locks the first new form as the 'true' self. If I'd selected human forms as the second change, even the boy would have recovered his memory. However, I can't have any witnesses to my involvement in this little project. So I made sure your new forms are somewhat less intelligent than the equine shapes they replaced."
A thickness was filling Thomas' brain, slowing his thoughts. Even his growing fear was not enough to overcome the heavy contentment which washed over him. Derksen nodded at the cow now munching hay. "Richard is quite happy now, or at least, as happy as a cow can be. The royal rug-rat you knew no longer exists."
He turned back to Thomas. "As for you? If you haven't lost yourself to the mule by tomorrow, we'll try something else. Perhaps another cow? Or a bull. Yes, that would be quite amusing." And with that, the man left.
Thomas shuddered, struggling to beat back the animal thoughts which were pressing in on the last traces of his identity. He felt terrible grief for Richard, but there was nothing that he could do for the boy. And if he waited much longer, there would be nothing he could do for himself. For now, he was holding his own against the rising tide of bestial existence. He had no illusions about his chances if Derksen made another injection.
The stall was solid and well-made, as was the gate. But the builders had not planned for a large mule with the intelligence to aim his hooves at the latch itself. A single blow shattered the entire mechanism and almost knocked the gate off its hinges. Thomas paused for a moment to look at the cow. Other than being startled by the noise, she showed no interest. Then he bolted out of the stable and headed into the woods. He was alive, and he could think, at least a little. There was still a chance for him, and he clung desperately to the hope that Richard might yet be saved.

IV Reshuffle
Pushing through the heavy brush, Thomas stopped for a moment to appreciate the sounds and smells around him. Hard to believe that just a few days ago he had been hiking through these very mountains on feet instead of hooves.
The whole world had been altered by animal perception. As he'd noted in the stall, hearing and smell were greatly enhanced. In truth, he wasn't sure if the improvement was due to better ears and nostrils or more refined processing of the information they reported. Perhaps a combination of both. The result was a rich texture of sound and odor which he found exhilarating. And out of the artificial environment, he found that his vision also offered some new capabilities. Night vision was drastically improved, and though images were still somewhat distorted and slightly blurred, he could detect movements and identify shapes almost 360 degrees around him.

Even more interesting were the sensations of his body. The hooves, for instance. Despite the numbness, he was aware of the texture and firmness of the ground as he walked. And he could feel his body. Not just when he thought about it, but all the time. Individual muscles quivered under his skin on command, and there was a feeling of mass and strength that was almost sexual.
Thomas realized he had dropped his head to pull up grass, but did nothing to stop the automatic motion. In the past few hours, he had discovered the secret to keeping his human identity alive. Survival lay in cooperating with the animal, not fighting it. For there were two beings in his brain now. Thomas the man, and Thomas the mule. The two had reached something of a truce shortly after he escaped the stable.
Peace came almost too late. His bestial mind was by far the more powerful of the two, drawing on primal instincts and urges. What actually saved him was giving up. Frustrated and confused by a body that did not respond like his human one had, Thomas had finally surrendered to the instincts which wanted to control his movements. And the suffocating attack on his human conscienceness had stopped almost instantly.
This dual identity was interesting, now that he was used to it. Thomas the mule had a series of memories, more a collection of sensations, that seemed to be from the life of a real mule. There were other bits which were similar, yet bore a different signature. The Percheron colt. The two beasts were merged slightly, maybe because they were so alike.

He had even submerged himself cautiously into the mule's personality. The experience was both fascinating and disturbing. As he assumed more of the animal nature, awareness of his surrounding increased and contentment filled his soul. It was not exactly happiness in the human context. He felt incredibly comfortable, connected with everything around him. There was no fear, no worry. Concepts of time began to fade, and existence focused on the moment. Even his sense of self was dimming.
Thomas had recoiled from the mule's thoughts at that point, realizing that animal contentment carried a heavy price. Such inner peace came at the expense of intelligence which not only comprehended obscure threats and fears, but allowed existence to be more than a day-to-day affair. Despite that, the thought of animal life did not quite lose its appeal.Different scents caught the interest of his animal self, and he began to move towards the source. Most were variations of the plant smell he associated with food. There was water as well, along with a more powerful collection of odors which combined in his mind to form a feeling of comfort and safety. He picked up his pace, having an easier time as the ground leveled out.
After a few minutes, the brush and trees thinned to reveal a small pasture. There was enough moonlight to reveal three large forms at the far end which turned towards him as he stepped into the open. Mules. Pretty much identical to him. Two of the animals trotted towards him purposefully, and Thomas felt a little nervousness. The animal part of his mind was braced for a show of dominance. At this point, the last thing he needed was to be injured in a fight.

Sure enough, one of the two was another male, but there was no sign of aggression. If anything, his new companions seemed a bit skittish and submissive. He was snuffled and nudged, and almost every movement he made caused them to jerk away. It was confusing for a moment as he tried to scent the other mules. The female had an underlying element of her odor that marked her as a potential mate, and he found himself storing the information away.
The male was another matter. He seemed to have no scent at first. Then Thomas remembered his experience as a Percheron. A more careful snuffling confirmed his suspicions. This mule shared the same scent which Thomas found himself equating with his own name. Twins again! No, not quite. Apparently, the treatment did not duplicate surgical alterations, for the mule he'd been twinned from was most definitely gelded.
It did make sense. Derksen would have needed sample patterns from somewhere, and this pasture was not far from the stable he used as a lab. Probably belonged to a next-door neighbor. That bothered him some, but there seemed to be little risk in staying here for a while. He was tired, and surrounded by the other mules, he felt safe for the first time in several days.
The general temptation was to doze off, but this was the first time he'd really had a chance to explore his new situation. He'd only been a Percheron for a few hours before he'd been changed again, and that time had been spent locked in a stall being poked and tested.
He hadn't even noticed the transformation from horse to mule. Of course, the two forms were very similar in function and size, if not in appearance. Now that he thought about it, there was a slight heaviness that he hadn't felt as the Percheron. Looking at his new brother, he noted some white in the muzzle, and realized that they were both mature, if not old, animals. He wasn't happy about that, but it explained some of the difference. The Percheron form had been very young, probably not even fully grown.

Curse Derksen! As a colt, Thomas could at least have enjoyed several decades of life as a valuable stud. Now he probably faced death after only a few years as a common mule. The man had hedged his bets just in case. Thomas didn't know how long cows lived, but he'd read somewhere that most cattle went to slaughter houses after only a few years.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a hard nudge from one of the females. A young one, from her scent. He automatically cataloged her as not ready to breed. So why the nudge? Teeth nipped at his flank and she leaped to the side, stopping to look back at him. She wanted to play! He'd never thought of animals playing, at least not domestic ones like horses and mules.
Curious, he took a few steps. She kicked up her hind legs and pranced around him, braying a coarse challenge. He answered without thinking, and shook his head. A second playful nip sent him charging after her, and the two of them galloped around the pasture in an equine version of tag. The gelding joined in once or twice, while the other female remained aloof from the activities.
He was lapping water from a wooden barrel when he realized the sun was high up in the sky. The young mare was close by, pulling up some grass. Both of them were heaving and sweaty after hours of romping, and he was starting to feel some pain from complaining muscles and joints. Despite the discomfort, he wouldn't have traded the experience for anything.

It was like being a child again, the childhood of people's dreams. Time had ceased to mean anything to him, and he had simply enjoyed the day. Stripped of petty human concerns and restrictions, he had found utter satisfaction in running and kicking, exalting in the sensations of his body and the company of the mare.
He had imagined animal life as dull and joyless, mindless existence without emotion. How wrong he had been. Perhaps human conscienceness was affecting his perceptions, but the mare seemed to have at least as much fun as he had. He found he could relive the romp in memories that included physical sensations as well as pictures. And everything around him had taken on a richer texture. The water, for example. He savored the minerals, bits of grass, even the saliva which mixed in with it. As a human, he would have gagged, but as a mule, the impurities were simply variations of flavor. Grass had a sweet aftertaste, while the loose straw had a slightly smoky flavor. Even the air itself brought incredible bouquets of trees, flowers, rich earth, and other animals.
The female moved closer, and he was content to stand pressed against her in the warm sunlight. His human identity was fading again, but this time he found it difficult to care. If he was to spend the rest of his life as a mule, he could find contentment here. A flicker of fear remained, but was unable to burn through the blanket of peace which covered his thoughts.

Strange noise came from the other side of the pasture, and he followed the other mules as they trotted towards the source. A large, angular creature rumbled and stank there, and it opened a mouth on its side as they came near. A truck. Thomas shook his head as different comprehensions struggled for dominance. Two men got out, one of them very familiar. It was.. he groped for the name, but all that came were impressions of danger and anger.
The two men looked over the group, and made noises at each other as the dangerous one came into the corral and approached Thomas. He laid his ears back, but remained still as Derksen - yes, that was his name - Derksen checked between his hind legs. More gibberish, yet he was sure they were speaking normally. Thomas shook his head again, unable to make out the man's words. He wanted to break and run away, but something told him to stay calm. The two men inspected him thoroughly, the scientist spending a lot of time just looking into his eyes. Then he grinned and patted Thomas' neck.
Derksen spoke as he headed back to the truck, with the other man following. Thomas strained to understand what they were saying. He had to think like a human. And the gibberish became words. "... to pack up a few more things." That was Derksen's voice. "Knew he'd come here sooner or later. I'll have the buyers pick him up tomorrow when they get the rest."

The men climbed back into the truck and drove back down the dirt road they'd come from. Thomas watched until even the dust had settled, the flicker of fear now blazing into terror. Thinking back, he realized that he must have homed in on the pasture with the original mule's instincts. Derksen hadn't worried about his victim escaping to tell the authorities. Thomas had done just what the man wanted him to do. And even knowing that, he wanted to stay a mule.
Shaken, Thomas forced himself to leave the group and found his way back to the edge of the forest. The young mare brayed and started after him, but it only took a warning kick to send her scampering back to the others. It took all his will to step out of the grassy field, and the urge to return faded only when the scents of his herd were lost behind him.
Derksen's words were the only things that kept him from letting go of his humanity forever. It would be so easy just to release the worry and the fear. But he was the only one left with a chance, however slim, to stop that evil bastard.
The sun was starting to set when he caught a new scent in the air. Walking had been automatic for hours, and he no longer remembered if he was heading to or away from something. The odor gave him a purpose, and he changed direction to follow it. As it got stronger, he perked up and increased his pace to a canter over the rough terrain.

As before, forest gave way to a pasture, smaller this time, with only one occupant. There was also a rough wooden fence which he pressed against as he drew in the lovely fragrance that stirred his loins. Munching sweet grass in the fading light of day was the object of all his desires. A female! And one in need of his services. Her scent called to him, and he felt himself emerging in response. It was more than simple lust or a desire for pleasure. The female had awakened a primal need to mate.
The barrier frustrated him, but he heard it cracking as he leaned harder. He started a rocking motion with his body, a literal jack hammer, until the railing gave way with a sharp crack. No longer blocked, he advanced on the mare.
He was vaguely aware that the animal he was trying to mate with was not quite the proper breed. She appeared to be a draft horse of some kind, more suited to the dimly-remembered Percheron form than the mule-shape he now wore. Yet the mule did not care. Her scent was close enough to a female mule's to overcome any other differences, and he pranced and snorted in frenzied courtship.
Her ladyship, however, had more discriminating taste in suitors. The mare's ears went back, and she kicked at him in warning. He ignored her protests, pressing closer and maneuvering for an opportunity. The dark shaft of his gift arched painfully, and the throbbing of his loins was a pulse which echoed through his body.
Mating was no longer a matter of choice. He was quivering with his own need. There had to be a way to get the female to accept him. As desire built to a peak, he felt the throbbing increase. The mare suddenly perked her ears up, and twisted her head draw in his scent. And then she ceased her protests and leaned forward, tail lifted up to the side in obvious invitation.

There was no opportunity to wonder at this change of heart, for Thomas the animal covered her in a single fluid motion. She twisted under his weight, but his forelegs gripped her sides firmly, and he prodded her backside frantically. Penetration brought a shrill whinny from the mare, which was joined by his own stallion's cry of triumph. The mating act was so intense that he wasn't even aware of the screaming intruder before a long stick broke across his lower rump.
"Get off her!" He twisted his head around to see a very small boy shaking the splintered end of a pine branch. The blow had hardly been noticed, but the interruption of his efforts was infuriating. He snapped at the child, who moved only enough to get out of range. "Stay away from her, you stupid horse! She's mine!"
The child jumped up to club his foreleg with the stick, and this time Thomas got flesh between his teeth when he snapped. A strong metallic taste exploded in his mouth, and he shook his head trying to get rid of it. In his frenzy, he bit his own tongue, but even that wasn't enough to break him from copulation.
The boy's shrieks were joined by others, and Thomas was dimly aware of a young woman rushing towards them. She grabbed up the child and started backing away, only to stop and stare in obvious horror at the mating horses. Her reaction puzzled him, but the pressure building in his loins drew his attention back to the mare.
He had slipped a little, and struggled to press himself back into her. Mounting was getting awkward, and he whinnied in frustration. She seemed to be getting larger with each thrust, and he felt his shaft pulling further out each time.
The woman was screaming now, her eyes locked on him. Concentration broke, and Thomas was able to twist his head around to look at himself. The white form of the Percheron colt met his eyes, but it was melting away even as he watched. Hind legs flailed in the air, and then he fell backwards to land heavily on the ground. The pressure in his loins erupted as he pulled free of the mare, shooting a milky stream into the air just before the testicles it came from ceased to exist.
Animal instincts were fading, leaving Thomas aware but confused. He was laying in a pool of thick, foul-smelling fluid which spread across the ground as he continued to shrink. A cry broke from his lips, high-pitched and familiar. And then the change stopped. Shaking and bewildered, he pushed himself up onto unsteady feet and looked down. Rounded, smooth belly. Tiny nub of a penis. Soft pink feet. The woman was staring down at him now, still holding the bleeding child. Thomas blinked at the boy's pink feet and rounded belly, and had time to giggle once before the world closed in around him and he passed out.
V New Game
Darkness and strong odors. Thomas woke with a start, afraid he was back in Derksen's stable. Straw scratched at his bare skin, and he shivered slightly in the cool night air. It took a moment to realize that his cold, itchy skin was human.
A jumble of memories finally fell into place. There was no light at all, but he was able to use his hands to confirm the impossible truth. He was a child! Younger even than Richard had been. But how? After becoming a horse and a mule, waking as a child was almost anticlimactic. Except that he knew what had changed him into the animal forms. Certainly there had been no injection to cause this.
He tried to think back. He'd escaped the stable as a mule, and traveled for hours. There had been a pasture, and a mare. Even now, the sensations of mating were intense in his mind. The female had refused him at first, only to change her mind. He must have changed back to the white colt before he mounted her. The treatment! Derksen had said that the first new pattern was retained as the true self. Perhaps the intense need to mate had triggered transformation back to the Percheron.
However, the colt had melted down to a small boy. Where had this pattern come from? He thought of the screaming woman. She'd been holding something. A child. A little boy with pink feet and a rounded belly just like his. A boy with blood on his shoulder.
Thomas shivered again, this time not from the cold. The taste of the child's blood came back to him, and a lump formed in his stomach. God, had he killed the boy? He'd lost control when the stick hit him, and nothing was clear. But he did remember a coppery taste in his mouth and the red stain on the child's shoulder.
The blood! He'd gotten blood in his mouth. Somehow, the virus must have absorbed the boy's pattern. Perhaps it had been still active from the change to Percheron, or maybe exposure to anything alive would trigger a transformation. He shuddered at that thought. How sensitive was this stuff? Would he become a head of lettuce when he ate a salad? Or a cow when he chewed on rare steak? Like Richard.
The familiar lump in his throat suddenly faded, and he felt a thrill of renewed hope. He knew how to help the boy! If it wasn't too late. Derksen didn't know how the shared minds worked. He'd assumed that Richard was lost. Perhaps the boy had simply allowed the beast immediate control, and still lived in the corners of the bovine brain.
Time was the enemy, now. Derksen would certainly find out he was missing from the pasture. He'd gotten careless when he thought Thomas had truly become a mule, but the man was too intelligent to take unnecessary chances now. All he had to do was clean up the place, pack up equipment and any notes, and... Alarmed, he forced himself to finish the thought. And dispose of any evidence. The two boys, and Richard. Thomas had no doubt that Derksen could kill all of them without shedding a tear. He only hoped that the man still planned to go through with the sale.

There was no way of telling how long he'd been unconscious. Rising, he stretched his arms out and walked forward until his fingers brushed against rough wood. The source of one of the stronger odors became obvious as he felt his way around. He was in a small tack closet, with a single door which was secured from the other side. There was also a faint musky odor of horse mixed in with the leather which he found curiously comforting. No tools, though, and this time kicking the lock only bruised his foot.
Frustrated, he began to beat on the door and yell. The shrill tones of his new voice were unnerving, and he started to tire quickly. Tears sprung up in his eyes, and he felt his nose running. Everything seemed so overwhelming. And it was so dark and scary.
A noise from the other side of the door interrupted his sniffles, and he pressed his face against the wood. "Let me out! Please! I gotta help somebody!" After a moment, he heard a scraping sound by the latch, and the door came partly open. He eagerly pushed it the rest of the way, and stepped out into the dim light of a lantern hanging on the opposite wall. The woman he'd seen earlier was there as well. "I've got to find a farm just over the hill. A friend of mine is in ..." His stream of nervous chatter was silenced by an ominous metal click.
The woman pointed a huge shotgun at his face, her face pale and frightened. Nervous eyes looked him up and down, and she swallowed once before speaking through clenched teeth. "What the hell are you? And why do you look like my son?"
Thomas fell back against the wall, eyes wide in sudden terror. Tears started to flow again, and this time he could not control them His whole body shook as he cowered down and crossed his arms over his face. "I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me!" He became aware of his own sobbing, and clenched tiny fists. Why was he acting like this? With great effort, he managed to still his quaking form and stop his crying. Wiping his nose on a bare arm, he hugged his knees and looked up at the woman.
The shot gun had lowered a bit, but snapped back into aim. She was absolutely terrified, and he had to admit that she had good reason. Fear had tightened his own throat so that he could barely force out a whisper. "Is he all right?"
She looked confused for a moment. "Are you asking about David? My son?" Thomas nodded meekly. She repeated the gesture. "He's at a neighbor's. The wound looked much worse than it was."
He dropped his head. "I'm sorry. I don't exactly remember what happened, but I didn't mean to hurt him." Tears started to flow again. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to stop this." He clutched at his knees again, and rocked slightly.
"Stop it!" The woman's voice was suddenly harsh. "Why are you rocking like that?"
He looked up in bewilderment. "I.. I don't know. I just sorta did it. What's the matter?"
The gleaming barrels of the shotgun did not waver. "That's just what David does when he is frightened or worried." Her finger curled tighter over the trigger.
Thomas placed his hands on the ground, and pressed against the wall to steady his shivering body. "Please. I'm really scared, and I need help. I know what you saw must have been awful, but I'm the one who's going through this Hell." The barrel lowered a bit, but did not stray far.
He tried to figure out an explanation. "I don't have time to tell you everything that's happened to me in the past few days. I don't even understand half of it myself. "
The woman leaned lightly against the stall gate behind her and gave him a grim smile. "I'll be the one who decides how much time you have to talk. Start from the beginning, and make sure it sounds like the truth. I haven't told anyone what happened, and right now, there isn't much keeping me from blowing your counterfeit little head off. "
Thomas swallowed hard and gathered his thoughts for a moment. Then he launched into the events of his backpacking trip. Starting with his own name and age, he described the discovery of the bogus Prince, his own capture, and the strange treatment used on him and Richard. The woman's eyes narrowed once or twice as he spoke, but the trigger finger relaxed a little and she did not interrupt.
By the time he got to the part with the mules, the shotgun was drooping a bit. Finally, he told her of waking in the tack room, and his worries about Derksen.
She shook her head slowly, and finally let the weapon drop until it was pointing at the floor. "That is the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. But I have a pool of something real nasty out in the pasture and a son who swears he saw an ugly old mule turn into a big white horse that bit him." A faint smile twisted her lips. "And if it isn't true, then I've cracked up. Because I saw a draft horse turn into my 5 year-old's twin brother."
Thomas was silent, still too scared to move. She sighed, and reached down to help him up. When he cringed away, she frowned and then looked at her shotgun. "Oh, hell. I guess you can't do much harm." Placing the gun on the floor, she turned and suddenly hefted Thomas up in her arms. "Might as well get you cleaned up and dressed. Then we'll see about what to do next."
He clung to her neck, a little embarrassed, yet also very comforted by her embrace. It was a strange experience. A beautiful young woman was holding his naked body against her chest, but there was nothing erotic about the sensations. About the only interest he had in her breasts was a slight thirst, which he immediately pushed from his mind.
As she carried him towards the small house, her hands explored his buttocks and crotch, and she sniffed at his hair. In some ways, it was much like the snuffling session with the mules. Oddly enough, her scent was familiar to his nose.
The final destination was the washroom, which held a large cast-iron tub from the last century. The antique facilities had been modernized, probably with tanks and electric pumps, but she didn't wait for the water to warm up before setting him down in it.
He yelped, but stayed still as she pulled out soap and a rag and started to wipe him down. Between the dirt, straw, and dried traces of whatever the rest of his equine body had turned into, the cloth and the water both turned gray. She was quick and thorough, and a couple of times she seemed to forget that he wasn't really her son. He was a little concerned to realize that he was having the same trouble.
He had a chance to look in her dressing mirror while she picked out some clothing. His perspective had drastically changed from the huge mule and horse shapes. Besides being less than a meter tall, he was slender to the point of looking skinny. Oddly, he didn't feel weak. In fact, he felt wonderful. It was more like everything was bigger and heavier than it should be.
As his tongue probed the corners of the small mouth, one of his upper front teeth wiggled a bit. Pushing at it, he realized that it was probably one of the boy's baby teeth about to fall out. Instead of being interesting, the discovery made him think about his situation a bit more.
What could he do now? As a small child, he could hardly force Derksen to do anything. Worse, without the concentrated food blocks, it would take far too long for him to build up the mass to become a colt or mule. What was he now? Maybe 15 kilograms?
It occurred to him that he might not be able to change into another form, at least for a while. It wasn't just the question of raw materials. How many forms would the virus store? He already had three on record. The little boy in the mirror wasn't his first choice of a new body, but there were some advantages to this extreme youth.
"All right, Thomas." The woman handed him some tiny shorts and an equally small t-shirt. "These are dirty, but David always seems to like them that way." A pair of socks, and sneakers finished the ensemble. He fumbled with the shoelaces, having trouble coordinating his fingers. She grinned and brushed his hands away, tying them with the deft movements of much practice. He flushed, not quite so keen on being a child. Was it a problem of physical coordination, or had he actually lost the skill?
She sat down on the bed and looked at him thoughtfully. "I've put this off as long as I can, but I guess I have to go ahead and accept your story." Frowning, she looked away. "I'm sorry if I went too far with the bath and all. It's just that the only way I can deal with this is to pretend you are David."
Sighing, she looked back at him. "But you are not. You are a 32 year-old man named Thomas Hassan who happens to look like my son right now." She held out her hand and gave him a wry grin. "I suppose it's time I introduced myself. Marjorie Bennett." He touched the outstretched hand and nodded as her face got serious. "What can we do to help the boy? We can't exactly go to the authorities."
Thomas snorted, imagining them trying to convince anyone about what was going on. "There isn't time, anyway. If Derksen knows I left the pasture, it may already be too late."
"He knows." Marjorie shook her head. "I did some calling around after I locked you in the tack room. Didn't tell anyone what really happened, just tried to find out if someone was missing a large animal. The farm you ran away from is about 20 miles from here. They'd already put out the word about a mean-tempered mule being lost. Offered a real good reward, too."Thomas's face went white. "Twenty miles?" He hadn't even thought about how he would get back to Derksen's place. Somehow, he'd assumed it was just an easy walk.
The woman nodded. "You traveled quite a distance today. Don't worry. I have a car."
He jerked his head up. "No! You'd get in trouble, too! It's way too scary. I..." She held up her hand to silence him.
"You're five years old. That means you can't walk twenty miles. And you sure as Hell can't save anyone by yourself." She stood, and then crouched down in front of him. "I don't think we have a lot of time, anyway. It's more than just your body, Thomas. You're starting to move and talk like David. Maybe not him specifically, but more like a normal little boy."
He started to protest, but realized with faint horror that she was right. Oddly, it had been easier to fight the animal comprehension. The changes brought about by extreme youth were harder to catch. There were no strange sensations, no dimming of thoughts to be scared of. If he concentrated, the knowledge and memories of his adult life were still there. It was just that he was having a harder time relating to those memories. Derksen had said something about different physical structures causing problems like that. Was a child's brain different from an adult's?
She watched him for a moment, and then touched his cheek gently. "I don't know how I'll manage to pull it off, but if you do forget everything, I'll take care of you here. David would love a brother to play with." Standing, she tousled his hair and grinned. "Besides, I can always fatten you up and turn you back into a Percheron!"
Thomas managed a half-hearted smile. "I guess we'll find out if that's gonna happen pretty soon. But we gotta help Ricky. Please? I have a plan..."
VI Player Challenge
Question was, did he have a -good- plan? Thomas chided himself mentally as they stood outside the door of Derksen's cabin. It was a bit late for second thoughts. Marjorie knocked again, a bit harder. He started to wonder if they were already too late. Had the man panicked and left early?
The door opened suddenly, and Derksen stared at the two of them with obvious annoyance. "Yes? What is it?"
Marjorie cleared her throat. "Are you Mr. Derksen?" When he nodded, she assumed a more severe tone of voice. "Then you own the mule that raped my prize mare today."
The man blinked, and looked at his watch. "Yes. I received a call about that. I understand he got away again. Pity. I am very sorry, but it is quite late and I am busy right now. Perhaps we can talk about this tomorrow...?"
She pushed her way past him and stormed into the room. "No, Mr. Derksen! I must know that horrible animal's background. His health records, if he has any known diseases, and see where he was being kept. I will not endanger my poor filly simply because it is an inconvenience for you. You should have taken steps to secure him better!"
Taken aback by her angry demands, Derksen nervously gestured for Thomas to come in as well, and shut the door. "Forgive me, Mrs. ....?" She glared at him. "Bennett. Marjorie Bennett. And this is my son, David."
The man's eyebrows raised slightly, but he gave each a curt nod of the head. "Forgive the clutter, but I am packing for a, ah, short trip. Thomas looked around, there were open boxes and metal cases stacked all over the room.
Marjorie flounced over to an empty chair and plopped down. "And just how would I be able to talk to you tomorrow, then? No, I think we will take care of this tonight."
He smiled suddenly, and moved to a desk across from her. "Very well, Mrs. Bennett. As I am quite sure you are aware, mules are sterile, so your mare has suffered a temporary indignity at worst. However, I will be quite happy to compensate you for any trouble or damages. Say, two thousand?"
Thomas was a little startled. He didn't know what mares cost, but that seemed an extravagant sum for his one-night stand. Marjorie, on the other hand, did not blink an eye. "That is satisfactory. However, there is still the matter of inspecting the animal's quarters and going over his health records. If everything is in order, I will drop the matter."
"You want to see my stable?" The man showed no signs of concern. Thomas was not surprised. Everything was already packed up in these boxes. "Certainly. As to the health records, you will have to speak with Franz Schlondorff over at the next farm. He has the paperwork. But I assure you that the animal was in perfect health."
She remained firm. "Nevertheless, I want to examine his stall. If there are any droppings, I will take them to be analyzed. I will not risk my mare's health for any amount of money."
Derksen sighed and gestured towards the door. If you will follow me, then. I trust you will not take too long?" She got up with a sniff of disdain, and started outside. Thomas moved to follow her, only to get a stern command from his 'mother'. "No, 'David'. You will sit there and not touch anything until we come back. Do you understand?" He gave her his best little boy smile and climbed up on the chair. The man scowled a bit, but said nothing as he followed her out and shut the door.
Perfect! Thomas waited a few moments to make sure they were clear of the cabin, and then jumped down to check out the boxes. Notebooks, papers, some textbooks. The fifth box held what he was after. Videotapes! Derksen had even been kind enough to label each with the date and time period covered. Most of the tapes were duplicated, thanks to the double camera setup he had used. He found three that would contain yesterday's events, and then tried to arrange the remaining tapes so that the hole wouldn't be noticed. Failing that, he grabbed a book from another box, and used it to prop the tapes from underneath. That did the trick. Grabbing the three he'd taken, he cracked the door open and checked the barn. They were still inside. Marjorie was going to delay as long as she could, but he still had a lot to accomplish.
He ran as quietly as he could to Marjorie's car and dumped the tapes through the open back window. Then he dashed back and shut the door. No sign of their returning yet. He went over to one of the metal cases. Two of them had stickers on them denoting the contents as fragile. He opened the first, and saw three rows of sealed test tubes, all marked with a neatly printed 'CT,' followed by the name of an animal. He pulled one out of the heavy foam insulation. "Percheron, male, =4a." Another had "Chimpanzee, female, =2c." He pocketed the vials in his jacket, and closed the case. As he started for the second, a familiar metal tray caught his eye. There was a syringe on it, still capped and full of a clear fluid. He also found a partly- emptied vial labeled 'calf, male, =1c."
Calf? With a chill, Thomas remembered Derksen's original plans for his mule form. It looked like he'd changed his mind about making him a bull, though. This needle had been meant for him. Richard would have become his mother, not his mate.
Almost too late, he heard the two adults returning from the barn. On impulse, he grabbed the hypodermic and stuck it in his pocket before running back to the chair. Derksen opened the door just as he pulled himself back up, and frowned. After a quick glance around the room, he seemed satisfied, and came the rest of the way in.
Marjorie was still maintaining the act pretty well, but Thomas saw her hands shaking. As she entered, she gave him a pointed look. "Were you a good boy, David?" He nodded silently. That let her know that the evidence they needed was secured. It was time to go. They would sneak back later to attempt rescuing Richard. Besides the delaying tactic, her inspection also had given her a chance to try locating him. "Well, I suppose that is all, then." She motioned for Thomas to join her and turned for the door.
Derksen blocked her way with a quick motion. "Aren't you forgetting the two thousand?"
The woman looked a bit flustered, but recovered her calm. "Of course. How silly of me." She followed him back to the desk, which he opened and started searching.
"I assume a check will be all right? I don't have that much cash." He looked at Thomas and gestured to a table behind him. "See if there's a pen over there, boy." He found one and displayed it. Derksen nodded and held out his hand. "Toss it over here to me, please."
He complied, though his throw wasn't very accurate. The man caught it and smiled. "Thank you very much, Thomas." Before either of them caught his words, he pulled a familiar-looking weapon from the desk and shot Marjorie twice.
She screamed and fell over backwards, pulling at the feather-tipped darts which had appeared in her chest and stomach. As Thomas tried to run to help her, he was grabbed roughly from behind and lofted into the air. The man slipped his fingers inside the Thomas' shirt and pulled it hard enough to reveal his smooth, unblemished shoulder.
Derksen threw him down roughly, stepping back to cover them both with the tranquilizer gun. "Quite clever. You might have even succeeded if your doctor wasn't so thorough, Mrs. Bennett. I told you I'd gotten a call about the rape. I neglected to mention that the reason for the call was not our young friend's indiscretion, but a rather bloody, if minor bite wound he gave your real son."
Thomas started to move towards Marjorie, only to get a warning gesture with the gun. "In your present form, the amount of tranquilizer in these darts could be hazardous." The man frowned. "I do wish you would tell me how you accomplished this new change. I assume it had something to do with the bite."
Remaining silent, Thomas looked at the woman. She was unconscious now. Derksen knelt to pull open one eyelid, never taking the gun's aim off of him. "She won't be a bother now." He looked around the room. "You took something for evidence, didn't you? No matter. I'll check your clothes and the car before I leave."
The man moved back to the door and pulled it open. "Let's go. I'm sure at least one reason you came back was to see your little friend." Thomas looked at Marjorie, feeling helpless. "Now!" Cringing, he trudged slowly outside.
"You have been quite useful in my research, you know." Derksen batted at some moths flying around the outside light, and then snatched one out of the air with his free hand. "You have proven that adults can retain their memories and identities even after multiple animal forms. And this new transformation is really quite remarkable." He held up the fist containing the moth. "I wonder how quickly the treatment would turn a boy into an insect?" Thomas shuddered as Derksen pressed his fingers down, smashing the moth to a pulp against his palm.
"Go on." Derksen pushed him roughly towards the barn, and he reluctantly went inside. The stall they had been kept in was empty, its broken gate propped against one wall. Two Percherons occupied the stalls across from that one. A soft lowing drew his attention further down. The cow there looked about right. Derksen nodded at his questioning look. "That's him. I didn't need to do anything else.
"However, in your case, I think another treatment is called for." He grabbed Thomas' arms and clamped one hand around his wrists. Putting down the gun, he searched the boy's jacket and smiled when he withdrew the syringe and one of the test tubes. "Very considerate of you to bring this. I did notice the empty tray."
He jerked Thomas around and threw him into the stall with Richard. "Unlike Mark, I do not admire people who prove themselves to be clever. In fact, it really pisses me off. So I'm going to put an end to your troublemaking." He moved to the side of the stall and picked up something long and shiny from the floor. A knife!
Thomas scrambled back against the wall, fighting terror. "We told people we were coming here! You can't kill me! If anything happens to us, they'll come looking for you!"
Derksen grinned. "Oh, I expect they'll come looking for Bryan Derksen." His features seemed to blur, and Thomas rubbed at his eyes. The man's hair was changing color, taking on a reddish cast as it grew out rapidly. "No plan is foolproof, even mine." His voice cracked, and then shifted up an octave. "There is always the chance that Mark or one of his stooges would talk, and I have been seen by too many people here."
Twin bulges pushed out Derksen's chest, and his clothes shifted as his body assumed new proportions. "However, no one here has seen Janet Foley, my lab assistant. She is back in California, establishing a very solid alibi for me. Not that she knows about any of this. It's rather perfect. When I get back, I will assume her life. She is quite intelligent, single, financially well-to-do, and as you can see, very attractive." Thomas' mouth fell open, and he stared at the stunning redhead still holding a very long and dangerous knife. "I picked her out almost as soon as I came up with this entire plan. And when you proved the new treatment worked, I used it to create my disguise. When I get back, she'll make a nice Irish Setter, don't you think?"
Hypnotized by the gender transformation, Thomas failed to notice his captor moving closer. Her hand shot out and grabbed his arm, and he screamed as she plunged something into his back. Stunned, he fell to the ground expecting death. But the object in her hand was the syringe, not the knife.
A strange pulling sensation spread out across his back, and he knew he was becoming a calf. But Derksen wasn't finished. She dropped the needle and pulled the knife out again. Stepping quickly to the cow, she grabbed one of the animal's ears and called to him. "In a few minutes, you're going to be a calf. No one cares if you kill a calf. And you know how I'll do it? Like this!" The knife flashed, and a spray of blood erupted from Richard's throat.
"No!" Thomas' scream came out as a mewling sound, and he fell to all fours as he lunged at Derksen. She barely avoided his attack, only to be knocked down by the cow as it fell heavily onto its side. Cursing, she scrambled up and grabbed at her left hand. Blood streamed from a long gash, apparently received when she fell. Thomas shook his head, sick from the smell of blood. Almost fully transformed now, he felt the instincts of a newborn calf crowding out his human identity, drawing him to the full teats of the dying cow. Not that it mattered. Derksen found the knife again, and came towards him with a crazed grin. "Time to join your mommy." The blade raised up and Thomas froze, calf's instincts locked in terror.
Derksen stopped suddenly, and rocked unsteadily on her feet. Her features were blurring again. In fact, her whole body was starting to sag and droop. Her hands dissolved rapidly into dark liquid, and the knife fell to the ground as a scream gurgled in her throat. Now fully a calf, Thomas was only partly aware of what was happening, but his terror faded.
The melting lump that had been Derksen fell backwards in the straw, liquefying into a pool which drained through to the dirt underneath. In moments, nothing was left but a large wet spot with a single moth at the center. It fluttered its wings spasmodically, trying to break free of the sticky straw. The calf snuffled at it once, and then crushed it with a single blow of a forehoof.
A weak bellow reminded Thomas of his dying friend. The stream of blood was slowing as Richard's veins emptied. Shock restored human conscienceness, as well as human grief. He burst out of the stall, lowing frantically for help, but there was no one to answer. Marjorie was going to be out for hours. The only person who could save Richard was... David!
Thomas stopped and concentrated on the boy's body, trying to remember every detail. The cow's breathing was weak and shallow. Derksen hadn't quite severed the jugular, but he'd cut deep enough to kill. Salvation lay in the half-empty syringe which Thomas could see, but not use as a calf. Frustration peaked, and he screamed again. A human scream. Not waiting for the transformation to finish, he crawled desperately to the hypodermic, and picked it up as soon as his hands were formed enough to grasp. As he plunged the needle into Richard's side, the cow gave one last shuddering sigh and went limp. Thomas cried out, and then collapsed over the still body in broken sobs.
VII Winner Take All
"Boys? We're going to be leaving soon. Make sure all of your toys and books are packed up, OK?" Tommy and David shouted a joint "OK, Mom!" and then collapsed into giggling fits again. As Marjorie had predicted, David was delighted to have a twin brother to play with, and after more than a month even Tommy was completely comfortable in his new role.
Life as a five year-old was not what he'd expected. The size differences were to be expected, if awkward to deal with. And his trouble with coordination and muscle control had pretty much gone away, at least to the point where he was on par with David. The big change was being cut off from more than 25 years of accumulated knowledge.
They'd gotten the first hint when he found he couldn't read after changing back into a child. History, math, current events, and writing skills were beyond him as well. Yet he had not lost any personal memories. And it seemed that the missing skills weren't actually gone. After just a few weeks of studying, he was already back up to a 4th-grade reading level. The best they could figure was that the links to the information in his head had been severed by differences in physical brain structure. He was going to have to rebuild those links, but the process seemed to work much faster than normal learning.
If he studied hard enough, he could come across as quite a prodigy. Still, he wasn't in any rush. It looked like he was going to be stuck as David's twin for the foreseeable future.
Of course, there were the options of the animal forms. He'd even considered becoming a calf again to take advantage of the animal's faster rate of maturity. Ironically enough, it was David who pointed out the problem of that idea. "Wouldn't you just be 5 when you got human again? Then you'd be my little brother, instead of my twin."
Explaining the sudden appearance of a twin for a boy who had grown up in the area had been difficult. Marjorie got around most of the questions by telling people that Thomas had been living with her long-estranged husband, who no longer wanted custody. At least she hadn't had to explain a triplet in the form of Richard.
Thomas sighed. Of all the situations he'd been forced to get used too, dealing with Richard was the hardest. Maybe one day it would be easier, but for now...
"Gotcha!" He was suddenly grabbed from behind and lifted into the air, arms pinned to his sides. He cried out and tried to squirm free, but his captor was too strong. Twisting around, he saw the face of the teenage assistant who'd captured him those many weeks ago.
"Put me down, Ricky!" Tommy wiggled and kicked, only to burst into laughter as the older boy's fingers began to tickle his sides. "No, stop it!" David giggled and tried to pull Ricky's arms away to free his twin, only to get captured as well. Then the three of them fell across the bed in a gentle free-for-all that lasted until Marjorie came up to investigate the noise.
"All right, cut it out you guys!" She picked up a pillow and gave them a good-natured swat. "We've got to get on the road if we're going to make it to the new house by dark. Grab whatever you don't want the movers to take, and get in the car."
Ricky and David scrambled up and started gathering the last few odds and ends. Tommy sat up and watched them for a moment, and then grinned at his new mother. "At least the new neighbors won't be wondering where me and Ricky came from!"
She nodded, and sat down on the bed next to him. "Are you sure about this? Once everything is set up, you'll pretty much have to stick with being a kid."
He shrugged. "I guess I really am a kid now, at least in all the ways that count. Me and David like the same games, and even if I read better, it's more fun to look at his books." A sad look crossed his face. "I wish I could tell my parents, though."
Marjorie put her arm around his shoulders. "We went over that. If you told them, you'd have to explain how it happened. And who knows what would happen to you and Ricky then? Maybe later, when people know about the Treatment. But for now, let things stay as they are."
He nodded, and stared at his small hands. "Do you think people will ever be ready to know about it?"
She shrugged. "I sometimes wonder if Derksen ever realized just how big a can of worms he opened? All he saw was the possibilities of shape changing and healing. He never thought through what the treatment really offers."
"Immortality." Tommy whispered the word, still not quite able to grasp the concept. There was no other way to describe what looked like the permanent ability to transform based on stored patterns. Even at the moment of death, Ricky had shifted to a healthy calf minus the mortal wound.
Derksen's notes were mostly scientific gibberish to them, but Marjorie had pieced together a decent overview of the 'Circe Treatment' with the help of a good dictionary. The name hadn't meant anything to Thomas when Marjorie first found the reference in Derksen's notes. She'd bought a children's book on Greek mythology which explained how Circe was an enchantress who turned men into beasts. Appropriate enough.
According to the scientist's theories, the treatment made a permanent record of the donor's cell configuration at the time of the sampling, including the setting of the biological clock. Unnatural physical damage, such as castration and slit throats, was not part of that configuration.
David's observation was borne out by Derksen's notes as well, but the age lock was not necessarily permanent. The scientist theorized that if the subject's DNA pattern was stable, secondary information such as age might append itself in a sort of 'add-on' file. If that was true, when Tommy and Ricky reached maturity, they might be able to transform and become human again without regressing to the original human ages. Ricky would be able to test that theory in a few years, but Tommy had more than a decade to go.
And even if they were able to safely transform then, larger forms required appropriate mass. The food cubes Derksen had given them had been formulated as perfect building blocks for the treatment. Unfortunately, although they had found the formula with his notes, Marjorie couldn't figure it out. Until that problem was solved, they'd never be able to safely become horses, or any larger creature.
Of course, there were many other drawbacks. Ricky, for instance. They'd had to find a human form for him quickly before the calf's conscienceness stripped even more of his human awareness. The only prepared samples available had been the female lab assistant, Derksen's real body, and the two boys who'd been turned to horses. The adult forms were unsuitable for a 9 year-old, so they'd picked the younger of the two teenagers.
It had been a close call. The multiple animal patterns had eroded Ricky's mind so badly that he couldn't speak or walk when the change was done. His identity and basic skills had surfaced after a day, but even after a month as a 14 year-old, he was behind David in knowledge and abilities. Despite the slow progress, he was improving, and they hoped to have him back up to his prior abilities in another month or two.
Both of Derksen's victims also suffered some minor, if annoying, side effects from the animal transformations. Neither could eat any kind of meat, and spices other than salt were hard to tolerate. Even sodas were unpleasant, so both of them stuck to plain water.
A more awkward problem was Thomas' occasional lapses into complete 5 year-old's mentality. This usually occurred in times of stress or anger, and he would literally become the child he appeared to be. They hoped that his adult persona would become more stable as he got older. Richard hadn't had any problems like that. It was too bad that Thomas couldn't become the teenager's twin, instead of being stuck as David's.
Oh, they'd tried that. But the new DNA had no effect. Apparently, the virus could only store four patterns. They were lucky that the scientist hadn't tested additional animal forms. Both of them would have been stuck as beasts.
"Come on, then." Marjorie got up and held out her hand. "Time to go." He smiled and let her help him off the bed. All of Derksen's notes, samples, and records had been carefully packed away. They had waited a few anxious days before cleaning out the rest of his things, but no one came. After all, he'd told everyone he would be going away.
So now the Circe Treatment was safe from anyone who would misuse it. Thomas would do his best to become a scientist this time around, so he could continue work on it. Until he could solve the problems of recreating the special food and adjusting biological clocks, the Percheron and mule forms were not available. And he longed to visit that world of utter peace and contentment again.
The other two boys joined them, arms and hands entwining. As the family walked out towards the car, Thomas got a warm, familiar sensation and smiled. Maybe he didn't have to visit the animal world for that after all.

Suzy loved to workout and had a firm body. Her breasts were lush and she dressed to accentuate this asset. Suzy said she lived in the Stradford, I was living in my car until the dorms opened. Suzy said The Stradford was the apartment complex to live in. Workout rooms, Jacuzzi, pool room, sauna, meeting rooms and a ballroom. The ballroom was the last piece left from the old building. The owners found it so charming they restored it. Upon going to housing, I learned that my room arrangements had gotten confused. With 45 days before the start of class, I had no place to live.

Suzy came up and said Hi. Moment later I found out that Suzy worked in housing. She tried to help but said that I had been bumped by accident. She was great. We spent the day together walking from here to there, trying to get the problem straightened out. Unfortunately for me, we couldn’t get dorm space. Then when all seemed lost Suzy said she thought she could help me out by allowing me to live in her building. But, she said I would have to appear before the committee and be approved. For the night however she said I could stay with her. So I took all of my things to Suzy’s house. Suzy gave me her key and told me she would meet me later at her place. I thanked her. (( Hey If you Wanted to Listen Some Best emotional Crossressing Stories than Joine Me here - Feminization Story)

I looked at the address and saw the Stradford in front of me. It was absolutely regal. Ivy on the walls, gates ponds and fountains. The building was four stories tall. The inside was as beautiful as the outside.

As I entered, I was greeted by a very attractive young woman in a uniform of dark skirt, just above the knee, dark hose, very high patent leather heels, and a tight blouse with a high neck. She was gorgeous and perfectly made up. She offered me a pen and I looked at her perfect blood red nails and matching lipstick. She smiled and said, “Welcome to the Stradford, may I help you?” I said, my name is Bob and I’ll be visiting with Suzy in 4b. “Ah yes she smiled”. We’ve been expecting you.” “if I can serve you in any way, please just ask”.

I pressed the elevator button and the door opened. I was greeted by another similarly clad woman who asked me to select a floor. I told her four. She too was exquisite and I marveled at how she balanced herself on those very thin, tall spike heels. “Here’s your floor, if I can serve you in any way please ask”. I floated out of the elevator and in moments stood in front of 4b.

I was thinking how attractive that girl was when I opened the door to Suzy’s apartment. The apartment was stark, yet feminine. She had taste that was obvious. The pictures on the wall depicted feminine women in various states of undress. Clearly modern art, her paintings were in some ways very erotic. I walked her apartment and looked in the kitchen and then the bathroom.

Her guestroom was obviously decorated for female guest. She had a four poster bed, closets across the wall, a big padded sit and makeup mirror with lights. The guestroom had its own bathroom and that bathroom attached to the master bedroom. How strange I thought as I walked into her bedroom. Suzy was so hot . I sat on her bed and dreamed of having her. I reached for her pillow and ran my hands underneath. I felt something soft and silky. I pulled my hand out and found I had a pair of Suzy’s panties tangled in my fingers. They were white, with lace and a flower at the top in the middle. I brought the delicate garment to my face and started sniffing. With my free hand I started stroking myself. After a few moments I was ready to relaxed so I stopped.

Just then I heard a key in the door. I ran for the living room. When I sat down, I realized that I had left her panties in the middle of her bed. “Hi Bob”, said Suzy. “How long have you been here?” I told her just a few minutes.

She said, “I’m dog tired, so I’ve ordered some food for us”. She said, “I’m going to get more comfortable”. With that she left and entered her bedroom. She did not close the door. I craned my neck and tried to sneak a peek. I saw her from her mirror. Off came her Blouse. Her breasts were encased by a silk low cut bra that showed off the tops of her ripe melons. She shucked off her skirt and I saw she was wearing thigh high stocking of nude and beige panties cut low. Her mound was clearly accentuated through her filmy panties. She put on some mules and a bathrobe and entered her bathroom. Moments later she emerged.

As she entered the door bell rang. Suzy said, “Bobbie dear be a lamb and get the door”. I arose and opened the door. Another beautiful women in the Stradford uniform entered and placed the food on the table. She entered the kitchen and picked out dishes and silverware. For the next ten minutes I watched this vixen set the table. She had grace and style. She turned on her 4″ heels perfectly. The badge on her breast said Mary. When she was done she stood and asked if we were ready to dine. She pulled out the seat for Suzy and placed a napkin in her lap. When finished she did the same for me. She served us out meal. Suzy started telling me about the Stradford. She talked about the amenities and all of the other points of the property.

After about 20 minutes of conversation, and while Mary was pouring me a second glass of wine Suzy looked directly into my eyes. “Did you touch my panties?”. I immediately said “no”. She continued ” Bobbie dear, honesty is everything.” I could see her breath coming and going. Her bathrobe had opened enough for me to see that gentle swell and the lace of her beige bra. She was a goddess. ” I can’t have you as a guest if you lie to me”.

Suzy then said, “Mary, stand still by me”. As ordered Mary did so. “I’ll ask you one more time, did you touch my panties this afternoon”. “I knew she meant business. I was embarrassed by having Suzy asking me the question and knowing that Mary was listening for the answer as well. Finally, I decided that honesty was the best policy. “yes” I said. A knowing look came across Suzy’s face. Mary simply had a smile on her face. “Did you soil my panties?” I stammered that I had not. She said, “But you did handle my panties”.

Ashamed I said yes again. Suzy ate quietly. I tried to apologize but she would not speak of it. She seemed angry and spilled some wine on her bathrobe. Mary immediately blotted the wine. Suzy bade her stop and she did. I tried to make conversation with Mary but she stood at attention next to Suzy. I was afraid, why did I play with those panties? After dinner was finished, Suzy told me to sit in the living room. I did as I was told. Suzy told Mary to clean up and leave. She sat down in he living room and told me what I did was wrong. She said I violated her trust. I asked her how I could make it up to her and she said you can do the laundry for me. I said great. I wanted her to be happy. I asked her where the washing machine was and she smiled. By this time, Mary had finished and presented herself. “do you need anything else”. “No dear” said Suzy, “Your service was excellent and so was your deportment, rest assured it will be noted”. Mary smiled and said, “If I may serve you in any way, please ask”. With that she was gone. I remarked to Suzy that the help was strange. She smiled and said laundry time. I followed her to the bathroom. We entered to through her room. She said the laundry is in my hamper please get in. I opened the hamper and looked inside. It was all lingerie. Panties, Bras, slips, teddy’s, hose and other delicate items. “Bobbie dear, seeing as you like to handle my panties, you might as well clean them. Be gentle with them they are delicate. I filled the sink with water and Suzy showed me how much of the fine washable fluid to add. “I’ll only show you this once, and then I expect you to get it right on your own the next time”. I was puzzled because I would be moving into my own Stradford apartment just as soon as Suzy got permission from the committee. One by one I took the panties out of the hamper.

“Suzy said, “Don’t they feel divine wet” She helped me by showing me how to immerse the garments and to make sure they wear clean. Once cleaned, she showed me how to hang them up. “Be very careful with my undergarments dear. I will not tolerate a run or a nick. Carelessness will e punished!” With that she removed her robe. “Wash this too” I want you to get the stain out before it sets. I was staring at her when she broke my trance. “Do you like my body?” She rubbed her hands on her breasts, tweaking her nipples through her bra. “Do you like my breasts, or my bra, or both?” I stammered, your breasts…your bra…”. She slid her fingers over her tight stomach. She touched the top of her panties. She slipped a finger in the waistband and traced the waistband back and fourth over her stomach. “Do you like me , or my panties, or both? I gulped, “both”. Finish your chores Bobbie dear and join me in the bedroom, we have to prepare for the committee. I handled the delicates and hung them. All around me were her panties, bra, garters, stocking and slips. Her bathroom looked like a lingerie store. I was in heaven. My jeans were bulging when I left the bathroom.

She was seated on the stool in front of her makeup mirror. “Stand behind me please” she commanded. “Brush my hair and lets talk”. I was given a brush and began running it through her hair. Suzy’s hair was jet black and thick. Her eyes were grey blue. She looked at me as she took off her make up. I was looking at her breast peeking through her delicate brassiere. “You do that quite well, are you enjoying yourself?” Well? I admitted that I like it. She then turned around and said “unzip your pants, right now”. I was shocked, but could not deny her request. I unzipped my pants and revealed my boxer shorts. She giggled, “Take those silly things off as well”. I put my hands in front of my penis to hide it. She slapped my hands away. I was erect. “Why Bobbie you are so excited”. With that she slapped my member and my erection immediately left. I doubled over and she took hold of my now limp member. She seemed to be weighing it. “Well this isn’t too offensive”.

I was confused. I wanted her to suck it. She was extraordinary. Her legs were slightly spread and her face was eye level. The panty material was stretched tight across down side. I could tell she was damp and could smell her sex. I was erecting again when she released me. “Go to the top drawer and select a panty for me to wear to bed. I like to wear a panty to….oh that’s right you know that already”. Things were moving too fast. I opened the draw. My eyes were greeted with the vision of panties. All colors and styles were accounted. “Sweetie, Sweetie” I realized Suzy was talking to me. “Hurry up I’m tired”. I selected French cut blue panties of silk. “How sexy”, Suzy cried. “Help me out of my panties” I did as I was told and got to touch her body as I slid the garment off of her. “Now my bra” I unclasp her bra and reached around releasing the cups from her breasts. I was sweating and excited. I knelt as she stepped into the panties I had selected for her. I was proud to have served her. She took my face in her hand and said, ” You’ve done well and I’m proud of you. Tomorrow, we will meet with the committee, they have strange ways but I’m sure you will do well. At 9:00 Yvette will bring breakfast then we are going to the pool. She kissed me on the forehead. Her hand brushed my erection and her breasts brushed my shirt. She handed me her panties. “I know you will know what to do with these.” “You made me so wet tonight”. “Remember to clean them after you finish” I was trying to talk when she pushed me into the bathroom and closed the door. “Night, Night sweetie”. I got undressed and got into bed. I tried to ignore her delicate panties but could not. I smelled them and they were her. I rubbed and felt her dampness. I realized again that I was stroking myself. I put the panties over my erection and spent into the garment. What I didn’t see was the camera above my bed that was taping and broadcasting my private experience! In the next room, Suzy turned off the television and went to sleep with a smile on her face. Oh the secrets of The Stradford. The alarm went off and I opened my eyes to see another Stradford employee in front of me. Her badge said her name was Yvette. She too was perfect. Her outfit was immaculate and her lips and nails were blood red. Her heels were the highest I’ve seen. I was already excited. What was I doing here. I’m just an entering freshman, what is going on. She bade me get up. I went into the bathroom. I got into the shower. When I got out I went into the bedroom. All of my luggage was gone. I screamed and Suzy walked into the room. She was in a bikini. Her skin was olive and the suit was white. Her bottom was a full cut and the top barley covered her nipples! “Sweetie, don’t fret Yvette is going to clean all of your clothes now hurry”. “Oh Bobbie, remember what you promised”. She had hooked her beige panties that she had given me the night before around her little finger. She had a smile on her face. “Clean them and get ready.” I soaked her panties in the sink. I was embarrassed. Then I realized I had nothing to wear. Suzy, anticipating my needs came in and threw me a suit. Put this on. I snapped out the suit and realized it was a bikini bottom with a floral print.

“We don’t have tome to discuss this, we meet at 12 with the committee and you don’t look presentable. Honestly I don’t know why I help you. Why don’t you go back to student housing. I found myself practically begging to put the suit on. She held it out for me. I waited for her to leave the room. She did not. Instead she watched be slip the garment up. She smoothed the lines brushes my penis several times. She gave me some sandals and said lets go. I walked out of the apartment with her holding my hand and reassuring me. We got onto the elevator. Another Stradford Woman was operating the elevator she looked at me and turned around. “See Bobbie dear you look so sweet.” The door opened and we left the elevator. We walked down a hall and out a side door.. The pool was alive with people, and I was humiliated. In her heel and in general, Suzy was taller than me. She held my hand as we negotiated the many chairs. I found it odd that I saw no men. She said hello to everyone and failed to introduce me to anyone. I did see one strange thing: A young woman in a one piece black bathing suit was sitting in a chair with a strap around her mouth. I asked Suzy what that was about. “She smiled and said that I would learn.” Finally we sat down. Two Stradford Girls came over. They were perfect. However, instead of the long skirts, they wore shorter skirts (thigh high) and tank tops. The outfits were pastels. Suzy introduced Mabel and Cassie. Mable was holding her tray in both hands. She asked for drink orders. As she leaving, Suzy put her hand under Mabels skirt. She stroked her yellow pantied bottom. I could see Suzy’s nipple grow under her bikini top. Just as quick as the petting began it stopped. I gave Suzy her privacy. I was embarrassed lying in front Cassie in a bikini bottom. Suzy said, apply lotion all over Bobbie his skin is so delicate I don’t want him to burn. Cassie turned and bent over. She did not bend her knees. She exposed her pantied bottom. The difference was that she wore black panties and that she had hand marks on her bottom. She had just been hit me by love. I was excited and scared. I was so confused. Cassie turned around and squirted some liquid from a bottle with no name on it. She rubbed the fluid all over my legs massaging me. She work up my legs until she was at my rear end. She continued to liberally apply the fluid and let her hand wonder under the bikini bottom. I was so excited I knew I could not turn over. She applied the potion to my back and arms. I was in a trance. “Turn over”, demanded Suzy. I did not comply. I was too erect. “I won’t ask again, I thought we discussed this earlier”. I acquiesced and rolled over Suzy was smiling and Cassie continued. She applied the fluid from face to my neck, armpits, arms chest and my lower torso. Cassie then traced my bikini line and let her hand slide into the bottom. I leaned back and let her. That hand was all over me. Right when I was about to relax, she took her hand away and stood behind Suzy. “Nicely done Cassie, I’ll make note of the job you did today, you may go. “If I can serve you in any other way please ask, said Cassie. She turned on her extremely high heel and left. We sat in the sun for two hours. Suzy woke me and took me upstairs. “we have to hurry, committee meets in an hour” I jumped into the shower and realized that all of my body hair was coming off. I called to Suzy, “what was in that lotion?” “She said I don’t know”. She rubbed my naked behind and said, I like you hairless. You have such soft skin”. I went back to my room. My clothes were still not back. I ran into Suzy’s room. “I have nothing to wear”. She was adjusting a red bra that barely covered her nipples and was also wearing full cut red panties. She was so slim so beautiful. I stopped to admire her. She put on a dress and brushed her hair. She turned and said, “I’ll lend you some of my things.” She went to the wall and pressed a button.

Moments later still another Stradford Girl was introduced to me. Her name was Colette. She was quite tall about 5 11 with the heels. Her lips were full and she wore the same long skirt and full blouse I saw yesterday.

Colette, as you see Bobbie here is not yet dressed. Take him to the mirror and dust him while I select some clothing. Dust him, what does that mean I thought, “Stop covering yourself Bobbie dear Colette is expert at what she does, enjoy one of the pleasures of Stradford.

She walked me to the mirror and started applying dusting powder to my body. She left no spot undusted. The application was exquisite and I was erect. Colette did not meet my eyes she just applied the powder.

“This will never do” said Suzy. I have some things for you to wear, but you will never fit into them in your state.

I looked at some of the garments in her arms. I cant wear your panties and those shorts with that blouse to meet the committee. “you can and you will”. “Colette, you know what to do”.

Colette stepped back and slid here hands up her skirt. Seconds later her white panties were in a puddle at her feet. She picked them up, kneeled down in front of me and started to love me with her panties. I saw Suzy’s reflection in my mirror smiling. In just two minutes I was ejaculating into her panties. She was milking me expertly. I heard screaming and realized it was me. Colette wiped my now flaccid penis with her panties. She then took the panties from Suzy and help them out for me to step into them. I was glad when the panties were on. They were peach cotton panties. I put on the shorts and then the blouse. The outfit was feminine. Just then, Suzy said, we’re late lets go. Suzy sent Colette out. “Tell them we’re ready and tell your Mistress you did well. Show her the sodden panties as well. “If I can serve you in any other way, please let me know”. She then turned and left the apartment. But… “But nothing”, said Suzy. Clearly she was miffed. But But. “But what?” her anger was rising. “I have no shoes to wear”. “Well we must see that you are properly shod”. With that Suzy went to the bedroom and came back with some sandals.

Clearly they were feminine, however thoughts of rebellion had been ejaculated out of me several moments ago. “You look absolutely radiant Bobbie”. I saw her look me up and down. My shorts were tight and the blouse offered little in the way of comfort with all of its lace and ruffle and yet had no sleeves. We walked to the door and all I heard was the clicking of the sandals. Suzy in heels seemed to tower over me. She was in a sun dress that saw lingerie peeking out all over. I thought that it was short, way above the knee. But she was beautiful. Out the door we walked and she held my hand, I felt safe.

Walking down the hall I heard crying and a girls voice counting. I asked Suzy and she said we’re late and that we had to go. I had trouble keeping up with her and yet she was not running.

As we got closer to the elevator we heard the girl count “9” “10”. The door to the apartment was open and I immediately recognized the uniform of a Stradford Girl. She was bent over at the waist, her long skirt was draped over her and her white pantied bottom was exposed and quite red. Suzy ignored the scene. She tapped her heel on the floor waiting for the elevator. I looked in the apartment and saw a beautiful woman with Auburn hair. She was quite short and yet had a beautiful figure. She was in a floral two piece bathing suit. As I continued to peek, the Stradford Girl dropped her skirt and turned to face her tormentor. The elevator bell rang and I only got to see the make-up smeared girls face as she dropped to her knees to kiss the hand of the woman who had just beaten her bottom!

Suzy pulled me onto the elevator. The Stradford Girl assigned to the elevator welcomed us. She was as pretty as the others. They clearly had grace and discipline, this was obvious to even me.

Susan took the opportunity to open her purse. She said, “your lips look chapped”, “Ill apply some ointment”. I said thank you and liked the attention. She rubbed the container which I could not see and applied the ointment to my lips. “Make a kiss” she laughed, “make a kiss”.

“how sweet, it feels better doesn’t it?”

Another bell rang and the Stradford Girl said, “if I may ever serve you again please do not hesitate to ask”.

We were on a floor I did not recognize. Suzy pulled me into a room off the elevator. We were alone. “Don’t embarrass me”. I’m out on a limb for you”.

She was bending at the waist, chastising me like I was a small child. “Stradford is a very special place, you must have respect for our ways”. ” Otherwise you can leave this instant and find housing on your own”. I doubt you will find any housing and if you did, it would not be affordable”. “and, judging from the attention you’ve received in the past 24 hours, Stradford seems like a place you’d like to be”. She grabbed my chin, and reminded me again no to embarrass her.

Watch Now - Crossdressing Story

Girlfriend Put Me on Estrofem & Now I’m Her Maid - Crossdressing Stories #mtf #queerlgbt #Crossdreamers

"I thought she loved me for who I was... but maybe she loved who I could become."

This isn’t a fantasy — it’s a personal, emotional story about transformation, identity, and the power of subtle control. When a 28-year-old man begins noticing quiet changes in his body, he suspects something deeper is happening. What he doesn’t know… is that his girlfriend has already started rewriting who he is.

From unmarked pills to hidden estrogen (Estrofem), from soft lingerie “just to try” to full submission in a maid’s dress — this story reveals how trust, love, and manipulation can blur together. It’s about what happens when one partner stops asking permission… and starts taking control.

Follow a slow-burn journey of internal conflict, emotional unraveling, and eventual surrender. It’s not just about crossdressing — it’s about losing yourself and realizing… maybe that was the plan all along.

If you’ve ever questioned who you are — or felt a part of you waiting to emerge — this story might feel painfully real. Stay to the end. Some changes can’t be undone.

Subscribe for more deeply personal transformation stories told in soft voiceover style.
Leave a comment if this one hit close to home.

Watch now - Maid Caught Me

"She Found My Hormones... and Just Smiled" | A Crossdressing Story About Secrets, Identity, and Soft Acceptance

When you’ve spent years hiding the most fragile parts of yourself — your clothes, your truth, your name — it only takes one quiet moment to change everything.

In this emotional, realistic crossdressing story, a 28-year-old man hides a drawer full of lace panties, a pink robe… and estrogen pills he’s never dared to take. But when a cleaning maid finds his secret, she doesn’t judge — she folds his camisole like it belongs.

What begins as panic turns into something softer. Something real.
This is more than a MTF transformation — it’s about identity, acceptance, and how sometimes… strangers understand us better than family ever could.

If you’ve ever hidden who you are, feared being discovered, or hoped someone might just see you and not look away — this story is for you.

Sit back. Let the story unfold slowly. Missy didn’t choose this moment…
But she chose herself.

Let us know in the comments if this story felt personal to you.
And if you've ever felt the same? You’re not alone.

Watch this Sissy Hypnosis Video – For the best experience, wear headphones and close your eyes

Watch Now -

Hypnotic Feminization Encounter with the Hotel Manager – Sissy Hypnosis

Description:

He only wanted a quiet weekend.
No judgment. No risks. Just a private hotel room… and his suitcase full of secrets.

But the hotel manager wasn’t just polite—she was watching.
And when she offered him a “relaxation session” to calm his nerves,
he didn’t realize she meant something deeper… something feminizing.

This slow, seductive story explores the line between suggestion and surrender—between a nervous guest and the commanding woman who sees right through him. Was it truly hypnosis, or just the truth he'd buried finally rising to the surface?

If you love elegant domination, feminine reprogramming, and the soft unraveling of a shy sissy’s identity… you’re in for a deeply hypnotic ride.

Check-in starts now. She’s waiting in Room 9.

All characters in this story are fictional and over 22 years old. This story does not depict or represent any real people or events.

As James-Trout, let me recount to you my tale, one that unfolds in the shadows of my seemingly perfect life. I am a successful programmer, renowned for my skills that have elevated numerous companies to the pinnacle of their industries. My life is intricately entwined with that of Susan, my wife, a towering figure in the realm of industrial security, her expertise and position unmatched.

Our lives, though seemingly ordinary, took an unexpected turn one Friday evening. Susan's inquiry about my Saturday plans, a routine as mundane as any, led to a revelation that would alter the very fabric of our existence. You see, I harbored a secret, a part of myself unseen by the world, indulged only in solitude. My Saturdays, though outwardly mundane, were a canvas for this other self, one adorned in garments society deemed not for me. For More Crossdressing Stories Click here.

Susan, with her mastery of surveillance, unveiled this hidden aspect of my life. She had installed a new security device, a marvel of technology, capturing my most private moments. As we sat in our living room, she presented me with a visual chronicle of my secret self, a revelation that left me exposed and vulnerable. The images on the screen, a vivid portrayal of my concealed identity, were a stark confrontation with a truth I had never dared to share.

In the wake of this revelation, Susan's words resonated with an ominous undertone. She proposed a transformation of our lives, a shift in dynamics that left me with a choice. I could either embrace this exposed self in the light of our shared life or face the daunting prospect of my secret being unveiled to the world.

Thus began a chapter in our lives, a narrative of discovery, confrontation, and the intricate dance of secrets and revelations. This was no longer just about my hidden identity; it was a journey into the depths of our relationship, a test of our understanding and acceptance. As I, James-Trout, sat on the edge of my bed, a storm of emotions churned within me. The stark reality of my situation was like a heavy weight, pressing down with the force of a thousand fears. I was at a crossroads, each path leading to an uncertain future. The choices were clear, yet each was fraught with its own set of consequences.

With a heavy heart, I chose to acquiesce to Susan's demands, donning the attire she had commanded. As I stepped into the living room, clad in the very garments that had unveiled my secret, I attempted to bridge the chasm that had opened between us. "Susan, we can talk about this," I said, my voice barely more than a whisper, laden with a mix of fear and hope.

However, Susan's response was unyielding, her words cutting through the air like a knife. She saw me not as the man she had married, but as someone else entirely, a 'sissy' in her words. The conversation spiraled, her tone leaving no room for the apologies I so desperately wanted to offer.

In a turn of events that I could never have foreseen, Susan took control of the situation, her plan unfolding with a precision that left me reeling. She led me to Halley's Salon, where I was to undergo a transformation under the watchful eyes of Myra, the stylist, and Jennifer, the nail technician. The experience was surreal, as I sat there, undergoing changes that were both physical and symbolic, each snip of the scissors and stroke of the nail brush marking a departure from the man I had known myself to be.

Through this journey, I grappled with a multitude of emotions, from fear and confusion to a reluctant acceptance of the unfolding reality. It was a pivotal moment, one that would redefine not just my identity but the very essence of my relationship with Susan. The story of James-Trout, once a straightforward tale, had morphed into a narrative of discovery, transformation, and the complex dance of personal and shared truths. There I was, James-Trout, sitting in the salon, a canvas for transformation. Jennifer's expertise in manicure was evident as she adorned my nails with bright red polish and delicate miniature flowers, reflecting light with their sheen. I couldn't help but admire her work, despite the surreal nature of the situation.

As Myra turned me towards the mirror, my reflection was almost unrecognizable. My hair, now a mass of curls, framed my face with an undeniable femininity. The question about its permanence was met with Myra's explanation of a series of styles planned by Susan, ensuring a long-term transformation.

The piercing of my ears was an experience of both physical and symbolic significance. The sound of the small bells from the lower earrings was a constant, delicate reminder of this new identity being crafted for me.

Myra's skill in makeup application was meticulous. She guided me through each step - from eyeshadow to lipstick, teaching me the art of creating this new face. The addition of glitter in my hair added a final, shimmering touch to this transformation.

Back at home, Susan's next revelation was a pair of red patent strappy sandals with high heels, completing this drastic alteration of my appearance. The tightness of the girdle and the unfamiliarity of the heels added to the physical reminder of the dramatic shift in my life's narrative. This was not just a change in appearance but a journey into a realm of identity and relationship dynamics that I had never anticipated. I found myself trapped in a web of Susan's design, each step a plunge deeper into her orchestrated world. The padlocks on my heels, a physical and symbolic manifestation of my lack of control, were just the beginning. Susan's command to accompany her to dinner, despite my reluctance, was a clear assertion of her dominance.

At Baker's Steakhouse, tucked away in a dimly lit corner, Susan laid out the new rules of our altered reality. She declared that my attire would be exclusively women's clothing, and my role in our household would be significantly altered. I was to undertake all domestic responsibilities, a stark shift from our previous life. Susan's words were unyielding as she imposed these new norms upon me.

She stripped me of my name, James, deeming it too masculine, and instead christened me Corene Ursula Nevers-Trout. This renaming was another step in erasing my former identity. Susan's hurt and sense of betrayal were evident as she expressed her feelings of embarrassment and her intent to make me understand the weight of that emotion.

The dinner at the steakhouse, under Susan's stern gaze, became a theater of my transformation and submission. It was clear that this journey was not just about the clothes I wore or the tasks I performed; it was a profound reshaping of our relationship and my very sense of self. As Corene, I found myself enveloped in a reality far removed from anything I could have imagined. The evening at Baker's Steakhouse, orchestrated by Susan, was a stark showcase of my new existence. Her requests to the waitress, pointed and deliberate, were designed to highlight my transformed appearance, drawing smirks and stares that pierced through my very being.

Returning home, I was greeted by an array of feminine clothing and accessories - a tangible symbol of my new life under Susan's directive. Each piece, from the delicate undergarments to the lacy nightgown, was a reminder of the control Susan now wielded over me.

The following morning, as I confronted the reflection of Corene in the mirror, the weight of my situation settled heavily upon me. Susan's words at breakfast, laying out her expectations and dismissing my attempts at discussion, solidified the new dynamic of our relationship. Her declaration that she would be the sole bearer of pants in our family was a metaphorical and literal stripping away of my previous identity.

In this bewildering and challenging new world, I found myself navigating a maze of emotions and searching for a path to understanding and reconciliation. As Corene, the depth of my transformation under Susan's will was brought into sharp focus during our shopping excursion. The visit to Sandi's Uniforms marked a significant chapter in my evolving story. There, amidst an array of maid uniforms, my identity continued to morph under Susan's unyielding direction.

The experience of being measured and fitted into various uniforms was surreal. With each fabric's texture against my skin, whether satin or cotton, and each color, from standard black to the unique pale lavender, I felt an acute awareness of my altered reality. The sensation of the petticoats, making the skirts of the uniforms stand out rigidly, was a tangible reminder of the role Susan envisioned for me.

The saleslady's casual remarks about other husbands in similar situations did little to ease the complex emotions swirling within me. Susan's laughter, while I stood awkwardly in the blue uniform, resonated with a mixture of disbelief and acceptance. This was no longer just about wearing women's clothing; it was a complete redefinition of my place in our world.

In the car, Susan's statement about finally having a maid, and her insistence on me acknowledging this newfound role, underscored the drastic shift in our dynamic. Her directive to have my purse monogrammed with my full new name, Corene Ursula Nevers-Trout, was not just a command; it was a symbolic act, cementing my identity in this new narrative she was crafting.

This moment wasn't just about the physical change of clothes or the act of shopping. It was a profound shift in our relationship and my sense of self, a journey that continued to challenge and redefine me in ways I never thought possible. In this segment of the story, Corene's journey takes a darker turn into humiliation and loss of identity. The monogramming of her purse with derogatory initials in a public store is a significant blow to her dignity. This act, followed by Susan's forceful insistence that Corene verbally acknowledge her new, demeaning identity, further strips away any remnants of her former self.

Back at their home, Corene's transformation into a full-time maid progresses. Susan assigns her various household chores, from laundry to floor scrubbing, emphasizing the totality of her control. The unexpected arrival of Corene's sister Lana and her husband Sam introduces an external perspective to the situation. Lana's mockery and Sam's confusion and traditional stance on gender roles add layers of complexity to Corene's experience.

The plot thickens as Lana reveals her own manipulation of Sam through hypnotism, introducing a parallel storyline of control and transformation. This revelation suggests a broader theme of power dynamics and the redefinition of gender roles within these two relationships.

As the story progresses, it becomes clear that the journey of Corene (formerly James) is not just a personal transformation but a narrative that explores themes of dominance, identity, and the reimagining of traditional marital roles. The characters find themselves navigating a world where power and control take on new forms, challenging societal norms and personal boundaries. As Corene, I witnessed an unsettling transformation of Sam under Lana's influence. Lana, using her hypnotic control, convinced Sam to don a maid's uniform, complete with pink accessories and makeup. Sam, initially resistant and derisive, succumbed to Lana's commands in a trance-like state.

This episode in our story added a new layer of complexity. It was not just about the physical transformation but also about the psychological manipulation that Lana exerted over Sam. The scene in the bedroom, where Sam was dressed and made up, was surreal. His compliance under hypnosis contrasted starkly with his earlier assertions of masculinity.

The dynamics in the living room, with Sam now dressed similarly to me, created a strange sense of camaraderie in our shared predicament. The revelation of Sam's transformation to himself was a moment of shock and denial, further illustrating the intricate power plays at work in our intertwined lives. Sam, still under Lana's influence and dressed in a maid's uniform, is forced to confront his new reality. He reluctantly assists Corene in the kitchen, an experience that is as bewildering for him as it is humiliating. During the meal, the women discuss various topics, ignoring the discomfort of their husbands.

After dinner, Sam's resistance to his situation continues, but he is quickly reminded of his lack of control by Lana. She insists on his compliance and outlines the new rules for his behavior at home, emphasizing his submission and the continuation of his maid-like duties.

The story explores the themes of control, power dynamics, and the reversal of traditional roles in a dramatic and unconventional manner. Both Sam and Corene find themselves in situations that challenge their preconceived notions of identity and masculinity, as they navigate their new roles under the command of their wives. the dynamics between the characters intensify. Susan and Lana's control over Sam and Corene becomes more pronounced. Lana, asserting her authority over Sam, assigns him a derogatory nickname and insists on his submission, furthering the role reversal and dominance theme in the narrative.

Corene, now accustomed to his role in the household, follows Susan's instructions dutifully. The evening culminates with Susan taking a more dominant role in their intimate life, further blurring traditional gender roles.

The following days see Corene adapting to his new lifestyle, with public outings and routine activities under Susan's directive. The story touches on themes of power, control, and the redefinition of identity within the constraints of these unconventional relationships. In this part of my story, the narrative takes a significant turn with a visit to Dr. Steven Parks. I was accompanied by Susan, who introduced me to the doctor as Corene. The examination revealed unexpected health concerns, with the discovery of lumps in my breast and testicle. The situation was handled quickly, and surgery was scheduled for the following morning.

The rapid progression of events left me feeling sidelined in decisions about my own body. I was checked into the hospital in the evening, and after being administered medication, I fell into a drowsy state, with Susan reassuring me before she left.

Waking up post-surgery in the hospital, with Susan by my side, was disorienting. Her presence and inquiry about my well-being were comforting, yet the reality of what had transpired and its implications on my life was a lot to process. After the surgery, I, Corene, awoke in the hospital room, feeling disoriented but relieved to find Susan by my side. She looked concerned yet hopeful as she asked how I was feeling. Dr. Parks soon entered the room, explaining that the surgery was successful and the lumps removed were benign. It was a moment of profound relief and a chance for reflection on the recent upheavals in my life.

In the days following, Susan's demeanor softened. She seemed more attentive and caring, realizing perhaps the depth of the journey we had undertaken together. This experience brought a new perspective to our relationship, prompting a reevaluation of our roles and dynamics. It was an opportunity for growth and understanding, moving away from power struggles to mutual respect and care.

As I recovered, Susan and I took long walks, discussing our future with openness and honesty. We made plans to rekindle the love and partnership that had been the foundation of our marriage. This chapter of our lives, while challenging, became a turning point towards a more balanced and fulfilling relationship. the bond between Susan and me, Corene, deepened in a way neither of us anticipated. As I recuperated from the surgery, we found ourselves rediscovering the nuances of our relationship that had been lost in the chaos of recent events.

Our conversations grew more intimate and meaningful, filled with laughter and shared memories. We began to plan small outings - picnics in the park, quiet dinners at cozy restaurants, and even weekend getaways to places we had always talked about visiting. These moments were not just about romance; they were about reconnection and understanding each other anew.

One evening, Susan arranged a surprise dinner at home. She transformed our living room into a candlelit oasis, complete with soft music and a beautifully set table. It was a throwback to our early days of dating, reminding us of the simple joys of being in each other's company. The night was filled with gentle touches, deep gazes, and conversations that drifted into the early hours of the morning.

This newfound closeness brought a sense of balance to our lives. We began to approach our relationship as a partnership, where power and control gave way to mutual respect and support. The challenges we faced became stepping stones to a stronger, more loving bond that celebrated both our individualities and our togetherness.

As the story unfolded, our journey became a testament to the power of love, understanding, and the willingness to grow together through life's unpredictable twists and turns. As the story of Susan and Corene continued, they began to explore new aspects of their relationship. They took part in activities that fostered a deeper connection, such as dance classes and cooking together, activities that required teamwork and trust. These shared experiences brought a playful and romantic energy back into their lives.

One day, Susan planned a special event: a renewal of their vows. It was a beautiful, intimate ceremony in a picturesque garden, symbolizing a fresh start and a renewed commitment to each other. As they recited their vows, there was a sense of profound love and understanding, a recognition of all they had been through and an optimistic look towards their future together.

Their journey became a beautiful narrative of rediscovery, healing, and unconditional love, a reminder that even in the most challenging times, relationships can evolve and flourish in new, unexpected ways. As the story of Susan and Corene reaches its conclusion, they find themselves in a place of deep mutual understanding and respect. The challenges they faced became the catalyst for a renewed and stronger bond. They continued to explore life together with a renewed sense of purpose and love, cherishing each day as a gift.

Their story ends not with grand gestures, but with quiet moments of togetherness, simple joys, and the comfortable silence that comes with true companionship. It's a testament to the power of love, resilience, and the beauty of evolving together through life's journey. Their story, a tapestry of challenges and triumphs, serves as a reminder that even in the most complex relationships, there is always a potential for growth, understanding, and a deeper connection.

As the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, I stood in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the dresser. Today was the day. I, Jamie, was about to start a journey that felt more like a rebirth, all with Mia, my sister, standing firmly by my side. She had this way of making scary things feel like adventures. "Ready?" Mia asked, her voice a mix of excitement and concern as she handed me the small vial and syringe. ( For More Hormone Crossdressing Story Watch here )

"More than ever," I replied, trying to steady my shaking hands. Mia walked me through the process, her tone gentle yet instructional, as if she was explaining how to bake a cake, not inject estrogen. The cold metal felt stark against my warm skin, and as I pressed the needle in, a slight sting pulsed through me—but it was overshadowed by a surge of relief. This was it; I was finally aligning my outside with how I felt inside.

After the injection, we moved to my wardrobe. Mia pulled out a soft, flowing skirt and a crisp, white blouse. "Try these," she urged. Dressing up had always been our secret, our world where judgments ceased to exist. The fabric against my skin was a whisper of silk, smooth and comforting. I twirled, watching the skirt flare out, catching my reflection in the mirror. "OMG, look at you!" Mia squealed. We burst into giggles, the sound filling the room like music.

But our bubble was fragile, and reality intruded harshly. Later that day, as we were tidying up, the front door slammed, sending a jolt through the house. It was our father, Richard, his face red, eyes burning with an intensity that made my stomach churn. In his hand was the crumpled receipt for the estrogen—my estrogen—that he had found in Mia’s car.

"What is this?" he thundered, waving the receipt as if it was a flag in battle. Mia stepped in front of me, her posture rigid. "Dad, I can explain," she started, but he cut her off.

"You’re corrupting Jamie!" His words were like slashes, tearing through the air. I felt a panic rise, my heart racing. Mia tried to calm him, her words a soothing stream, but they broke against his anger like waves on rocks.

The argument spiraled, voices raised, and in a moment that seemed both swift and eternal, Richard made his decision. "Get out," he hissed at Mia. My protector, my confidante—thrown out because of me. As she packed a few belongings, her eyes met mine in the mirror. There was no blame there, just sadness and resolve. "It's going to be okay," she mouthed silently.

And then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving a silence that was thick and heavy. I was alone, the sound of my breathing too loud in the empty room. I looked at myself in the mirror again, the earlier joy replaced by a swelling tide of fear and determination. This was just the beginning, I knew. A beginning filled with hidden battles and whispered victories. How far could I go when every step seemed like a leap? And at what cost?

As night fell, the house felt larger, emptier. I lay in my bed, the ceiling a blank canvas for my thoughts. The journey ahead loomed large, fraught with shadows and light. But this path was mine to take, and I would walk it, one precarious, brave step at a time. The night was chilly, and outside, the city whispered secrets to those awake to hear them. Mia, in her car, wrapped in an old blanket that still smelled like home, listened to the hum of traffic and thought of me. Her phone buzzed—a text from me, checking if she was warm enough, if she needed anything.

"How are you holding up?" I typed, my fingers hovering over the screen, hesitating before sending another message. "Can we meet tomorrow morning? Coffee on me."

Mia’s reply came quick, a simple "Yes," that carried with it an undertone of fatigue I could almost feel through the screen. We met at a quiet café, one that wouldn’t raise eyebrows or questions. Seeing her walk in, shoulders hunched against the cold, sparked a pang of guilt in my chest that was hard to swallow.

As we sat with our coffees, steam curling up like tiny ghosts, Mia initiated the conversation we’d been dancing around. "Jamie, this isn’t sustainable," she said, her voice low. "The HRT... it’s expensive without insurance, and I know you’re worried about me, but we need to think about safety too."

I nodded, stirring my coffee aimlessly. "I know, Mia. I just... I feel so selfish. You’re out there because of me." My voice cracked, betraying the turmoil inside.

Mia reached across the table, her hand covering mine. "Hey, this was my choice too. We’re in this together, okay? But we need to be smart. We can look for support groups, maybe find a clinic that can guide us better."

The conversation shifted to logistics, to practicalities that were less painful than the emotional currents underneath. Mia outlined a plan to seek more sustainable options for my therapy, to ensure that I could continue safely. Her resolve was comforting, yet the weight of her sacrifice—of living in her car, of facing our father’s wrath—was a constant shadow that followed me.

After our meeting, I walked her back to her car, a small, beat-up thing that seemed far too frail to protect anyone from anything. Before she got in, she hugged me, tight and long. "Whatever happens, I’m proud of you. Proud of us," she whispered.

Watching her drive away, back to her makeshift home, stirred a resolve in me. I couldn’t let this be her life, not for long. The cost was too high, the price of protection too steep. As I walked back, the city around me felt different, as if it was challenging me to step up, to fight harder not just for myself, but for Mia too.

The decision loomed over me, growing larger with each step. Coming out to our father, facing him with the truth he was so unprepared to accept, seemed like a towering peak. But Mia had climbed her mountains for me; now, maybe it was my turn to face mine. The rumors started quietly, a whisper here, a sideways glance there. It was nothing overt at first, just enough to prick at my nerves every time I stepped out. I was at the local market, picking out vegetables, when I heard it—a hushed, "Isn't that Richard's kid?"—and I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. Panic tightened around my chest like a vice. I hurried my purchases and left, head down, heart racing.

Back home, the safety of my room couldn’t shield me from the anxiety. The world felt smaller, more dangerous. I reached out to my support group, desperate for a lifeline. We met at a cozy cafe tucked away on a quiet street—a safe haven for conversation and camaraderie. As we gathered around the worn wooden table, cups of coffee cradling in our hands, the air filled with stories of fear and triumph, each one a thread in the rich tapestry of our shared experiences.

Jordan, who was further along in their transition, shared their journey of coming out, the losses and gains so vividly intertwined. "There’s always a risk," Jordan said, their eyes reflecting a hard-earned wisdom. "But there’s also a freedom in living your truth, no matter how others take it." Their words, meant to comfort, only tightened the knot in my stomach. Could I ever find the courage to face my father, the community, the world, with my whole self?

Ella, always the pragmatist, talked about strategies for safety, for dealing with backlash. "We have to look out for each other," she insisted, her voice firm. "Build your tribe, keep your plans close, and always have an exit strategy." Her advice was a lifeline thrown across the tumultuous waters of my thoughts.

The conversation shifted as Chris, a recent addition to our circle, spoke up. "I used to think I could just blend in, avoid the hard conversations. But every time I dodged that truth, it was like I was betraying a part of myself." Chris’s confession struck a chord, echoing my own fears of visibility and vulnerability.

As the evening wore on, the cafe grew quieter, and our group lingered, reluctant to leave the bubble of mutual understanding and acceptance. I soaked in their stories, each one a lesson in courage and caution, and felt a burgeoning resolve within me.

Leaving the cafe, the night air felt crisp, almost expectant, as if it too was waiting to see what I would do next. The walk home was a time of reflection, of internal debate. The fear of being outed loomed large, yet so did the desire to stand in my truth, as daunting as that seemed.

The decision was mine to make, and mine alone. As I approached my house, the light in the living room was on, a soft beacon in the dark. Somewhere beyond that light was my father, the man whose approval I still sought, whose love I feared losing. But also beyond that light was my future, one that demanded to be lived on my terms.

I stood at the crossroads, courage and fear mingling in the cool night breeze, knowing that whatever choice I made, it would change everything. One evening, while I was alone in the house, drafting my coming-out speech in the solitude of my room, the phone rang. The voice on the other end was unexpected—Aunt Clara, my father's lifelong friend, who had always been like a second mother to me. Her voice was warm, infused with a calm that felt like a balm to my fraying nerves.

"Jamie, I just wanted you to know, whatever you're going through, you're not alone," she said, her words wrapping around me like a gentle embrace. "I've seen you grow, and I know change isn't easy. But I'm here, okay?"

Her acceptance was a gift, unexpected and precious. It bolstered my resolve, injecting a newfound strength into my veins. The speech, once just words on a page, began to pulse with life, each sentence imbued with the power of my convictions and the support of at least one ally. Emboldened, I decided it was time to practice out loud, to hear the echo of my truth in the air of my own home.

Standing before the mirror in the quiet of my room, I began to speak. My voice trembled at first, then grew steadier with each word. "Dad, I need to tell you about who I really am..." The words flowed, a mix of fear, hope, and determination. Unbeknownst to me, the soft murmur of my voice carried through the slightly ajar door, down the hallway, to where my father stood, frozen, listening.

Richard had come home early, a rare occurrence, usually signaling a night he wanted to spend quietly with a book. Instead, he found himself eavesdropping on the most pivotal conversation of his and his child's life, though only one side was being spoken. His initial shock gave way to a storm of emotions—confusion, anger, hurt—all swirling together, colliding like waves against a rocky shore.

I turned from the mirror to grab my notes for another pass at the speech, only to see my father standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. The sight of him struck me silent, the words dying on my lips. The room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick. I tried to gauge his mood, to predict what would come next, but in that moment, Richard was an enigma.

He stepped into the room, his movements hesitant. The confrontation that followed was not the controlled reveal I had planned. It was messy, charged with high emotions. Tears were shed—mine from fear and pleading, his from anger and confusion. Each word I spoke seemed to land like a blow, leaving us both raw and exposed.

"Dad, I’m still me," I tried to reassure him through my tears. "I’m just trying to be honest about who that really is."

Richard's face, usually so familiar and open, closed off as he struggled to process the revelation. The conversation became a turbulent river, rushing too fast, cutting new paths through the landscape of our relationship, reshaping everything in its wake.

As the night wore on, no resolution came. The final words hung between us, heavy and suspended, not yet ready to settle. I watched as my father turned and left the room, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall a stark reminder of the distance now between us. Left alone in the dim light of my room, I faced the mirror again, the reflection gazing back at me a blend of defiance and vulnerability. The echoes of truth lingered, a haunting melody that promised more chapters yet to unfold in this journey of becoming. The days following the confrontation felt like walking on ice—thin, fragile, treacherous. I moved through them with caution, each step measured, each breath held a little too long. Richard was silent, a statue in the same house, moving past me like a ghost, his eyes often lost, deep in a sea of his own thoughts.

In the meantime, Mia and I found solace in action. We poured our energy into the practical aspects of my transition, focusing on the bureaucratic maze that awaited. Forms and documents became our battleground. Mia helped me gather what I needed to change my name and gender officially—a process cluttered with obstacles that seemed designed to test one's resolve.

We spent hours at government offices, explaining my situation over and over to clerks with varying degrees of empathy. Some were kind, their eyes soft with understanding, while others hid behind the cold neutrality of procedure. Each visit was a reminder of the world's readiness, or lack thereof, to accept me. But every filled-out form, every submitted application, felt like a victory, a step towards the person I was becoming.

At home, Richard's silence persisted until one evening, he spoke. His voice was tentative, a stark contrast to the thunderous tones of our last encounter. He asked me to sit with him in the living room, the space between us filled with a tense peace as we settled onto the couch.

"Jamie, I've been thinking," he started, his words slow, careful. "I don't understand all of this... not really. But I see you, working hard to be who you are, fighting for it. I can't pretend I’m ready to fully understand, but I’m trying to get there." His voice cracked slightly, a small admission of his struggles.

The room was quiet for a moment, the air thick with words unsaid. I looked at him, really looked, and saw the effort it took him to bridge the gap between us, fragile as it was.

"Dad, that’s all I ask," I replied, my voice steady despite the emotion welling up inside. "Just that you try. It means more than you know."

We sat together in a silence that was less tense than before, each lost in our own thoughts. The bridges we were trying to build were still unsteady, the future uncertain. But for the first time, there seemed to be a mutual desire to mend what had been frayed.

In the days that followed, Mia moved back home. The atmosphere was still charged, a family adjusting to its new shape, but it felt like progress. We were three people, unmoored by change, yet slowly, painstakingly, pulling the threads of our relationships tighter.

As I continued to navigate the complexities of my transition, from legal changes to the deeper, personal transformations, I often reflected on the journey. The path was neither clear nor easy, marked by triumphs and setbacks alike. But with each step forward, each document changed, and each conversation navigated, the future seemed a little less daunting.

The story of us—of me, Mia, and Richard—remained open-ended, a narrative still writing itself day by day. It mirrored the lives of so many others, standing at the crossroads of fear and hope, facing the world as their truest selves, braving the vast unknown for a chance to simply be. The bridges we built were fragile, yes, but they were ours to make stronger, one honest moment at a time.

Ethan always prided himself on his routine, a mix of early morning jogs and a quick breakfast before diving into job applications. It was another mundane Wednesday—or so he thought—as he shuffled into the kitchen, half-asleep, his thoughts clouded by the pressure of finding a job. Emily, his sister, had already left for work, her side of the kitchen counter cluttered with her usual chaos of bags and bottles.

"Hmm, she could at least put these away," Ethan muttered, grabbing what he assumed was his bottle of multivitamins. He popped a pill, chasing it down with the last gulp of his lukewarm coffee, completely unaware of the mix-up. For More Crossdressing Stories Watch This - Feminization Story

Weeks slipped by. Ethan's focus remained glued to his laptop screen, his world shrinking to job listings and rejection emails. But changes were brewing, subtle at first. He noticed his jeans fitting differently, snug around the hips, and his reflection began to stranger back with softer features. "Is it just the stress?" he wondered, running his hands across his increasingly smooth cheeks.

Then came the emotional shifts. Movies that he would normally watch without a second thought now left him reaching for tissues, a reaction that both puzzled and embarrassed him. "What's going on with me?" he'd ask himself, staring at his reflection as if it might offer answers. Ethan's once-clear boundary between strength and sensitivity seemed to blur, leaving him riding a constant wave of emotional highs and lows.

One night, as he cleaned up the kitchen, his curiosity peaked. He stumbled upon the bottle again, now almost empty, and paused. Reading the label more carefully, his stomach sank. "Hormone replacement therapy," it read, prescribed to Emily. The realization hit him like a wave—those weren't multivitamins he'd been taking.

Panic clawed at his chest as he pieced together the puzzle of his recent changes. He felt a mix of fear and disbelief, his mind racing through the weeks of unnoticed transformation. What would Emily say? How would he explain this accidental journey he'd embarked on?

Ethan's heart pounded as he considered his next steps, the bottle heavy in his hand. The dawn was breaking outside, casting a soft glow that filled the kitchen. With a deep breath, he prepared to face this unexpected twist in his story, not knowing how far the changes had gone or how much further they would go. The thrill of the unknown mingled with his anxiety, setting the stage for a journey he never intended to take. Ethan's mornings began to change. No longer did he rush to clear the breakfast table or dive straight into the dismal world of job applications. Instead, he lingered in front of the mirror, his fingers tracing the softer jawline, his eyes studying the subtle lift at the corners. Each day brought a new revelation, a subtle shift that both intrigued and unnerved him.

One such morning, with the house quiet and the day stretching empty before him, Ethan's gaze landed on Emily’s makeup bag, left carelessly on the bathroom counter. A daring thought struck him. “Just a little experiment,” he whispered to himself, his heart racing with a mix of forbidden thrill and genuine curiosity. He started with the basics—a bit of foundation, a swipe of mascara. Each application was clumsy, the results far from the polished looks Emily effortlessly created, but with each attempt, Ethan felt a strange sense of excitement.

The tactile sensations were new and startlingly pleasant. The foundation felt cool against his skin, smoothing over his pores with a satisfying swipe. The brushes, with their soft bristles, tickled pleasantly as he dusted powder across his cheeks. He fumbled with the eyeliner, the pointed tip daunting as he tried to mimic the winged lines he'd seen Emily flaunt. The first attempts were laughable, smudges of black framing his eyes like abstract art, but he couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, bubbly sound that felt oddly freeing.

Clothes were next. Ethan approached Emily’s wardrobe with a mix of reverence and mischief. The fabrics were unlike anything in his own closet—silks and soft cottons that whispered promises of elegance and comfort. He selected a blouse, the fabric a soft blush pink that seemed to glow against the morning light. Slipping it over his head, the silk caressed his skin, cool and smooth, sending a shiver of delight down his spine.

And then the perfume. He hesitated, the bottle delicate and ornate in his unsure hands. But curiosity won out, and he spritzed a small amount onto his neck. The scent enveloped him, floral and sweet, a stark contrast to the spicy, woodsy cologne he was accustomed to. Ethan closed his eyes, letting the fragrance transport him to a world where every detail was soft and beautiful, where he could be anyone, anything.

In these moments of exploration, Ethan discovered not just the joy of transformation but also a deeper connection to his emotions. Each article of clothing, each brush stroke brought him closer to an understanding of himself that he had never anticipated. It wasn't just about the clothes or the makeup; it was about the freedom to explore, to feel, and to embrace a part of himself he had never known existed. With each day, the initial shock of his accidental journey faded, replaced by a blossoming curiosity about where this path might lead. As days turned into weeks, Ethan’s curiosity evolved into a deeper exploration, but not without its hurdles. One afternoon, he found himself staring down rows of foundations at the local beauty store, each shade a promise of a perfect match yet none quite right. His brow furrowed in concentration, mixing shades on the back of his hand, seeking a blend that wouldn’t look ashen or overly bright on his skin. The task was daunting, the options overwhelming, and more than once he caught the curious glances of other shoppers. Each look felt like a spotlight, harsh and questioning, but he pushed through, determined to find his shade.

Then came the challenge of high heels. Back home, Ethan teetered around in a pair Emily had reluctantly lent him, each step an exercise in balance and bravery. The pinch of the narrow shoes and the unfamiliar tilt of his posture made his feet ache, sending jolts of pain up his legs. He stumbled, catching himself on the wall, laughing at the absurdity and the challenge. "How do women do this?" he muttered under his breath, half-admiring, half-cursing the invention of stilettos.

The emotional turmoil, too, was a constant companion. Some days, Ethan felt invincible, strutting across his room in heels and a dress, feeling like he could take on the world. Other days, doubt crept in, heavy and suffocating, making him question his journey, his identity, and the reactions he might face outside the safety of his home.

Despite the challenges, Ethan’s desire to step out into the world as his new self grew stronger. It was a sunny Saturday when he decided it was time. Dressed in a simple yet elegant floral dress that fluttered softly around his knees, makeup as perfect as he could manage, he took a deep breath and stepped outside.

The world did not stop; it did not even pause. People passed by, some with barely a glance, others with a smile, and a few with a frown. Ethan’s heart raced with every step, each smile bolstering his confidence, each frown a stab of fear. At a nearby café, he ordered a coffee, his voice slightly trembling. The barista smiled, making small talk, and Ethan found himself relaxing, engaging in the moment.

But not all interactions were kind. A group of teenagers at the park whispered and laughed, their eyes mocking. A knot formed in Ethan’s throat, his initial bravery waning under their gaze. It hurt more than he expected, their laughter slicing through the bubble of confidence he had built around himself.

Yet, as he continued his walk, the supportive smiles returned. An elderly woman complimented his dress, her words warm and genuine. "You look lovely, dear," she said, and Ethan felt a swell of pride. It was these moments, these small victories of acceptance, that fueled his courage, teaching him that for every harsh stare, there was a kind word waiting around the corner. He returned home that day exhausted but exhilarated, a complex tapestry of emotions weaving through his heart, ready to face whatever came next in his unexpected journey. The light was fading when Ethan returned home, each step echoing his mix of relief and exhaustion. He found Emily in the kitchen, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity as she looked up from her laptop. "Ethan, we need to talk," she started, her voice soft yet serious.

Ethan knew this conversation was inevitable. He took a seat across from her, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his dress. Emily paused, her eyes searching his face before continuing. "I saw the bottle is almost empty. Ethan, this... this was a big mistake. We need to think about what this means for you, medically and legally."

Ethan listened, nodding slowly. "I know, Em. I never meant for any of this to happen. But," he paused, gathering his thoughts, "but it's not all bad. I've learned so much about myself these past weeks. Things I never would've considered, feelings I didn't know I had." His voice was steady, more confident than he felt.

Emily reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "I see that, Ethan. Or, should I say, Ella?" She smiled, a playful glint in her eye. "I support you, no matter what. But we need to make sure you're safe."

Their conversation delved deeper into the night, discussing options, researching endocrinologists, and planning the next steps. It was during these hours of vulnerable exchange that Ethan—now slowly embracing the name Ella—felt their sibling bond strengthen. Emily's support became his anchor, her acceptance a beacon in his transformative storm.

The following week brought another unexpected twist. While navigating his new reality, an old college friend, Jordan, reached out. "Hey, I saw you at the park the other day. Was that you? You looked... different," the message read. Ethan's heart skipped a beat. Jordan had always been someone he admired, perhaps even more than he had admitted to himself.

With a mix of nerves and excitement, Ethan replied, inviting Jordan for coffee. Sitting across from Jordan a few days later, Ella felt the weight of her new identity pressing in. She watched his reactions carefully, the way his eyes seemed to search hers for familiarity, for understanding.

Jordan's initial surprise gave way to curiosity and, unexpectedly, admiration. "I never would've guessed, Ethan... Ella. But it's cool, really. It’s brave, and I... I like who you are." His words, simple yet sincere, filled Ella with a warmth she hadn't anticipated.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on memories of college, updates on mutual friends, and slowly weaving into Ella’s recent experiences. Jordan listened intently, his responses thoughtful, making Ella feel seen in ways she hadn’t dared to hope.

As they parted ways, Jordan's parting words, "Let's do this again, soon?" felt like a promise, a new chapter waiting to be written. Ella walked home, her heart a tumultuous sea of hope and fear, pondering the possibility of a love that might transcend appearances, that might embrace her true self, in all its unexpected complexity. As the seasons shifted, so did Ella. Each day she found pieces of herself that felt more genuine, more aligned with the mirror's reflection. The name Ella wasn’t just a label but a recognition of her true identity. With Emily’s support, she had not only navigated the complexities of her transformation but had also embraced them, turning unexpected changes into stepping stones toward self-acceptance.

The decision to introduce Ella to the world wasn't made lightly. It was a gradual realization that the only way forward was to be utterly and unapologetically herself. Planning a small gathering at their home, Ella and Emily prepared to share this new reality with their closest family and friends. Invitations were sent, each one carefully crafted to hint at the importance of this meeting.

The day of the gathering was a whirlwind of emotions. Ella's hands trembled as she adjusted her outfit, a soft blue dress that complimented her eyes, chosen for this very occasion. As guests arrived, the house filled with chatter and laughter, a soothing balm to her nerves. Ella mingled, her smile a bit too practiced, too ready, as she anticipated the moment of revelation.

Finally, with everyone gathered in the living room, glasses filled and the murmuring quieted, Ella took a deep breath. The room felt impossibly large as she stepped forward. Emily stood by her side, a silent pillar of strength. “Thank you all for coming today,” Ella began, her voice clear despite the storm of nerves. “There’s something important I need to share with all of you.”

The words that followed flowed from a place of deep vulnerability. Ella spoke of the accidental beginnings, the confusion and fear, the journey of discovery, and finally, the acceptance of her identity as Ella. She talked about the challenges, the support from Emily, and her hopes for the future.

The room was silent, the tension palpable as Ella finished her speech. She looked around, her heart pounding, searching the faces of her family and friends for signs of their reactions. There were tears, yes, but also smiles, nods of understanding, and slowly, an applause began, growing in warmth and support.

Her parents, initially stunned, were the first to stand, crossing the room to envelop Ella in a heartfelt embrace. “We love you, no matter what,” her mother whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her father, a man of few words, simply squeezed her hand, his eyes expressing what words could not.

One by one, friends and other family members shared their support, their acceptance echoing through the room. Some conversations were harder than others, questions asked, explanations given, but the overwhelming sentiment was one of love and acceptance.

As the evening wound down, Ella felt a weight lift off her shoulders, a chapter closing with hopeful finality and another beginning with boundless possibilities. The acceptance of her loved ones was a powerful affirmation, a crucial step in her journey. She realized that while the road ahead might still hold challenges, she was no longer walking it alone. Ella was ready to live her truth, surrounded by those who loved her not in spite of her identity, but because of it. The evening of revelations faded into a series of quieter, more reflective days for Ella. She found comfort in the overwhelming support of her family and friends, though she couldn't ignore the few strained smiles and hushed conversations that suggested not everyone was fully on board. These moments stung, but they did not define her journey—they were merely part of the complex tapestry of her new life.

Ella started to focus on what lay ahead. The acceptance she received was a strong foundation, but she knew the path forward would be paved with its own challenges and decisions. She thought about her career, how she might reintegrate into a professional environment that knew her as Ethan. She researched and reached out to networks that supported transgender and non-binary individuals in the workplace, preparing herself for the practicalities of job hunting as her true self.

Dating, too, was a prospect that filled her with both excitement and nerves. Her interaction with Jordan had opened a door she had thought closed for good, but she was cautious. She wanted to explore these new dynamics carefully, understanding that her transformation might complicate relationships in ways she hadn't yet experienced.

There was also the matter of her ongoing physical transformation. Ella considered the possibility of continuing hormone therapy, this time under medical supervision, to align her body more closely with her identity. The decision wasn't easy; it came with potential risks and side effects, and deep down, part of her feared the permanence of such a choice. Yet, every morning as she faced herself in the mirror, she felt more aligned with the person staring back at her than ever before.

As the season changed, bringing crisp air and golden leaves, Ella's story, too, seemed to turn a new leaf. She started documenting her journey, sharing her experiences on social media to connect with others walking similar paths. The responses were overwhelmingly positive, her story resonating with many who felt isolated in their struggles.

The series set the stage for more episodes, each one designed to follow Ella through the various facets of her life. Viewers would see her navigate the complexities of new relationships, face the challenges of reentering the workforce, and make decisions about her medical journey. Each episode promised to delve deeper into the emotional and social dynamics of her transformation, offering viewers a window into the realities of such a profound personal evolution.

Through it all, Ella remained hopeful and determined. She had faced the unknown with courage, and though the future held uncertainties, she was ready to meet them head-on, supported by the love of those who mattered most. Her story was one of continual growth, of pain and joy in equal measure, and of an unyielding quest for authenticity in a world that often shied away from the unfamiliar. As the credits rolled on each episode, viewers were left not just with the end of a chapter, but with the anticipation of the next, eager to see where Ella's journey would take her next.