No one with any sense of curiosity could have ignored the three journals in the old chest, which Tim came across whilst helping to clear out his aunt's house. So why did Aunt Mickey want him to destroy them?

Warning: Whilst there are no graphic descriptions of violence, this story tells of incidents of incredible cruelty which occurred in a historical setting, and some readers may find uncomfortable the overall premise of the story. Don’t read it if you are of a sensitive nature.

"But Aunt," I protested. "These are historic documents. You can't throw them away."

"Bollocks!" she replied, never one to mince words. "For the most part, they're the ramblings of a boring old fart, pontificating about how much better we British are than the African natives amongst whom he lived."

"For the most part?" I queried. "What about the rest?"

"Bollocks," she repeated. "I didn't mean to say there was an acceptable part. No, if it's not boring, then it's plain, bloody evil."

I eyed the three, leather-bound journals inside the wooden chest, which my aunt had told me to throw into the skip which stood outside in the driveway. We were clearing my Aunt Mickey's house in preparation for her to move into an old people's home. I envisaged that the old people's home would never be the same again.

"If you're intending to throw them away, do you mind if I take them, instead?" I asked. "I'd like to read through them. You say they were your great-grandfather's journals when he went to Africa as a missionary?"

"Tim, the answer is yes to both questions," Aunt Mickey replied. "Yes, they were written by my great-grandfather when he was in Africa, and yes, I mind if you take them. I want them destroyed."

"But Aunt," I protested. "You've raised my curiosity now. You can't leave me pondering what it's all about. You'd never have put up with that when you were working." Mickey had been a war photographer for one of the major daily newspapers. You've almost certainly seen some of her work over the last half century, as she travelled the world, photographing man's atrocities to man.

She stared at me for a second, and then relented. "All right. I guess it's time to stop house clearance, anyway, and crack open a bottle of wine. I'll do a compromise. I'll tell you what's inside the journals and then you don't have to read them, OK?"

"Here's the compromise," I said. "I'll pour the wine and you can tell me the story. Then I'll decide whether that has satisfied my curiosity. How's that?"

She grinned, rather sheepishly. "I guess when I was working, I'd have been satisfied with nothing less," she said.

So I got a bottle of red wine from her wine rack, poured two glasses and then settled down in one of the easy chairs in her lounge, whilst she stood guard next to the chest, just to make certain I didn't try to snatch the books and read them for myself

"The first two journals," she said, pulling them out of the chest and standing them up alongside it, "are exactly what I indicated. My great-grandfather, Ebenezer Craddock, was born in 1830. He married Emily, and fathered eight children. When being a father became too much responsibility, he decided to become a missionary, go to Africa and teach the natives that it was evil to run around with no clothes on. The two journals give the minutia of life as a missionary with a tribe called the Mikatta - how he occasionally managed to use his medical box to save the life of the odd child - more by luck than judgement; and how he would preach at them that his God was so much better than their own. Boring, boring, boring."

"And the third journal?" I prompted.

Mickey sipped her wine for a few seconds before taking the third journal out of the chest and standing it alongside the others. "In the third journal," she said, "Ebenezer showed that when it came to evil, he could play in trumps. OK, he was faced with death, but I've photographed the bodies of men who have faced death with courage, taking secrets to their grave even after horrific torture. But he decided that if you can't beat them, you join them."

"What happened?"

"The Mikatta village was attacked and overcome by a tribe of ferocious warriors called Ju-Jito. He and the villagers were bound together and forced to march back to the Ju-Jito village, carrying with them all their worldly possessions. However, when they arrived, the chief was told that the witch-doctor had died suddenly whilst they'd been away, and the chief's daughter was seriously ill. Ebenezer immediately saw his chance and said he could cure the girl - which, by some fluke, he did - and the chief appointed him as the new witch-doctor. The third journal describes the horrific way that the Ju-Jito treated the Mikatta - and Ebenezer joined in with relish. After they'd finally eaten them all, they went on to attack and capture more tribesmen from the surrounding area and do the same to them."

"They ate them!" I gulped. "That's horrible."

Mickey shook her head sadly. "I can assure you, that is understatement in the extreme. For example, first of all they took the beautiful daughter of the Mikatta chief - she was about eighteen - bound her hand and foot, and sacrificed her to the Snake-God."

"Snake-God?"

"It was a giant python, which they kept in a pit. Everyone had to watch as it constricted the girl to death and then swallowed her whole."

"Yuk!"

"She was the lucky one - it was a relatively speedy death. The Ju-Jitos then feasted on a meal of boiled meatballs, which they believed increased their virility. They didn't use any anaesthetic when they cut those off."

"Ugh!" I curled up a little at the very thought, as would most men.

"After their meal, they proceeded to rape the women - over and over. Meanwhile, they popped one of the guys live into a pot of water, brought it to the boil and turned him into a stew, which everyone was forced to eat - they needed to fatten them up, you see, because eventually, every one of them went into the pot, was boiled alive, and then eaten."

I shook my head in disgust. "Did he ever get back to England?"

"Never," Aunt said. "After the church in England found out about him being taken prisoner, they pressurised the local government into sending in troops to capture the Ju-Jito and free him. In fact, he was shot as one of the Ju-Jito during the attack, and it was only afterwards they realised who he was. His journals were brought home, and when his wife read them, she fell ill and never recovered. My grandmother was the only remaining child at home by that time. She hid the books and kept them secret. She passed them on to me after I'd become a war photographer, figuring I could cope with the horrors inside."

She turned to me, looked me in the eye and said, "Now do you see why I don't want anyone to read these journals. They are plain evil. They need to be destroyed."

I nodded. "You're right, Aunt. They are evil. I don't want to read about such stuff. Shall we go and feed the bonfire?"

She came out with me - I think still nervous I might be going to trick her and keep the third journal - but I have no stomach for such horror stories. We broke the backs on the journals, tore out the pages and fed every one of them to the bonfire.

"Ebenezer Craddock, rot in hell," Mickey said. It was the first time I had ever heard her curse anyone.

***

We went back inside the house, recharged our glasses with wine, and took our first sips before I nodded towards the chest in which the journals had been stored. "Can I keep the chest?"

She shrugged, unconcerned. "No room for it in my new place."

I went over, picked it up and looked at it. "There's still something here," I said, reaching inside to pull out what looked like black, folded parchment which had been resting beneath the books.

Mickey quickly grabbed it from me, I think in case it had more evil text written on it, but it wasn't parchment at all. She unfolded it once; then again; and kept unfolding until it reached down to the floor."

"It's someone's skin!" I gasped in horror.

Mickey nodded. "You're right," she said. "I've seen human skin before in some of the more primitive war zones, but never has it been so well preserved." She held it up for me to see. "It's completely intact. Do you see?"

"Aunt. It's horrible," I said. "Put it down."

"I don't see why," she said. "The girl was at least dead when it was removed."

"How do you know it was a girl?" I asked, "and how do you know she was dead before she was skinned? It sounded like those savages would stop at nothing."

"You only have to look at it to see it was a girl," she said, waving the genital area towards me. "I think this skin belonged to the chief's daughter who was eaten by the snake,"

I wrinkled my nose and said, "I thought snakes digest everything they swallow." All the same, now I could think about the skin objectively, it had lost much of its horror.

"They do, normally," Aunt said. "It's rather a shame we've burnt the journals because I recall something about the Ju-Jito coating the woman's skin with sap from one of the trees which, Ebenezer claimed, prevented it from being digested by the snake. I thought it was just pure invention, but it's difficult to see how this skin could have been removed from a body without tearing it just a little." She held it up again. "See, it's completely intact."

I stared at the black skin from head to toe. It did, indeed, look completely intact. "So the rest of her body was dissolved by the snake's digestive juices, but the skin was not." I had a sudden thought. "Do snakes excrete?" I asked. I'd never thought about it before.

"There's a kind of liquid shit," Mickey said, "but considering what goes in the one end, there's usually little to come out the other. It must have felt bloody constipated when it shit this out."

I touched the skin for the first time since I'd realised what it was. It felt like - skin. I was rather saddened about the girl who had once occupied it, but even if she hadn't been captured by the Ju-Jito, she'd have been long since dead. "Why did they preserve the skin?" I asked.

Mickey shook her head and said, "I think it was regarded as another way of humiliating their captives," she said. "As I say, I thought it was pure imagination when I read it in the journal, but apparently they forced the chief of the Mikatta to wear the skin of his daughter, so he appeared just like her. Then, they raped him many times over - presumably, it was anal rape. Afterwards, they sacrificed him to the Snake-God, and of course, eventually the girl's skin reappeared out of the back passage."

"Total fantasy!" I said.

"So I thought until we found this skin."

I stared at it. "So you're suggesting this skin has been through the snake twice?"

Mickey shrugged. "That's the story, but I don't see how they could have forced someone to wear it without splitting it open." She gave me a grin. "Shall we give it a try?"

"What?" I said. "You're crazy. You'd never get it on without tearing it to pieces."

"Who mentioned me putting it on?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye. "It was a man who was supposed to wear it."

"But the story must be rubbish," I said, confused by my own reactions - I should have rejected it out of hand.

"I'm not so certain, now," she said. She turned it upside down and fumbled between the legs. "See, when I stick my fingers up her arse and pull it apart, the skin is quite elastic."

It was true; whatever the sap had done to make it indigestable to the snake had also strengthened it and made it elastic. Mickey had stretched open the arsehole until it was more than wide enough to insert my head.

"You're crazy," I said.

"I'll get the camera," she said.

"No! Not the camera," I said.

"Then you'll do it as long as I don't photograph you?"

One part of me said the whole thing was rubbish - it wouldn't work; another part said the idea of looking like a woman should be abhorrent to me; whilst the third part said I really, really wanted to give it a go. I knew I was hooked. "OK," I said. "But absolutely no sneaky photographs. Agreed?"

"Damn," she said. "You know me too well. OK, absolutely no photographs."

So I slipped off my tee-shirt and Mickey again stretched the anus wide open so I could slide my arms and head inside. Once it was over my shoulders, she let it go and it was incredibly uncomfortable as it tightened around my chest.

"Let's see if we can get your head through the neck," she said. "Can you breathe all right?"

"Just about," I said, "but I won't be able to whilst you're pulling the neck over my face. You'll need to do it quite quickly."

Neither of us thought that this was an antiquity that we ought to be placing with a museum, rather than almost ripping it apart in our determination to get me into it.

"I think it might be better," she said, "if you slide your hands into the neck opening from the inside and force it apart. You can then pull it down over your head, protecting your breathing as you go. I'll position it from the outside so that your eyes and mouth line up with the apertures."

It worked. I managed to get my head through the neck opening and into place inside the skin's head. With Mickey twisting, stretching and pulling, we managed to manoeuvre it until my head fitted snugly inside. A bit more wriggling and I could push an arm down each of the arms in the skin, and Mickey helped to get my fingers into the gloves at the end.

"Not bad," she said. "Come and look in the mirror." She pulled me to my feet and led me into the hallway to peer into the full-length mirror.

I gasped. Beneath my arm pits, the skin was all jumbled around my torso, but the face was perfect. The skin had stretched my face a little here and there, pulling it into the shape of a rather pretty girl. My hands and arms were perfect except for the nails.

"Clearly the sap didn't work on the nails," Mickey said. "But I can get you some false ones easily enough. The rest is fantastic. Don't you agree?"

"Fantastic..." I agreed, and then stopped speaking as my voice came out quite differently from normal.

"It's probably because of the pressure around your throat," Mickey said. "See! It even makes you sound like a girl. Shall we get on with the next bit?"

"I'm not certain that's a good idea," I said, suddenly aware it would mean removing the rest of my clothes. It wasn't just that I was rather shy of doing so in front of my aunt, but having looked at my reflection in the mirror, for some reason I had a raging hard-on that was simply crying out for attention.

"Don't be stupid," she said, determinedly taking me by the hand and dragging me back to the lounge. "We're not stopping now." She pushed me into a chair and then was pulling off shoes and socks with a speed that revealed she was well used to doing that for men.

"Lift your bum," she said, having unfastened my trousers even more rapidly.

"No but Aunt..." I said, realising she was in for a shock when my rock-hard prick sprang out at her.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she said, giving my trousers a hard yank which brought them and my underpants down to my knees.

"Sorry, Aunt," I said, feeling my prick leap out towards her.

"No need to be sorry," she said. "That's a very respectably-sized prick you have there. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"No, but..."

My words were cut short as she took my cock in her hand and gave it a few trial flicks of her wrist.

"Not the first time I've had to do this in the line of duty," she said, conversationally, as I started to grunt, and she squeezed my cock even harder.

"But Aunt..."

"We don't want that cock spoiling the line of your lovely new body, do we?" she said.

Hell! She knew how to wank a man. My cock was glistening, and going a deeper shade of purple than I'd ever seen it before, and she squeezed harder and harder, and shafted faster and faster.

"I think we're pretty well there," she said, pulling a tissue out of a box on the table.

I certainly was. I squirted great gobs of semen into the tissue whilst she continued to milk me until I was dry.

"Excellent," she said, "now, stand up and let's pull this skin down your body."

"But how am I going to get my legs inside it?" I asked.

"Not certain at the moment," she said, "but it certainly looks as though what Ebenezer wrote in the journal was true, so the Ju-Jito managed it somehow. I guess they must have knocked the guy out before trying it - they'd never do it to someone who was resisting. We'll simply pull everything down and then play it by ear."

So between us, we pulled the skin as far down my body as we could, and got to the point where it came down to my groin.

"Doesn't seem to want to come down any further," Mickey said, pulling for all her worth. "Let's try another approach. Sit down on the floor."

You have to understand that whilst my head, arms and shoulders were properly installed inside the skin, my torso was still effectively entering the skin through the arsehole, with the empty legs and feet of the skin hanging lifelessly down in front of me. Mickey's plan was that we should pull the rim of the arsehole back up my body until it was around my armpits again, then I would pull my knees up to my chest and she would stretch the arsehole wide open, pull it over my knees, and then back down my body.

It worked!

Once she'd got it down over my bum with my knees inside, I was able to push my legs into the legs of the skin and force them down, until my toes reached right into the toes of the skin.

"There!" I cried, standing upright, and then wishing I hadn't as it seemed to pull everything tight. God knows what it did to my testicles, but they seemed to go somewhere inside my body they'd never been before.

"Hell! You look fantastic!" Mickey said.

"Do I?" I had to rush back to the hallway and look in the mirror. She was right. My normal flabby tummy had been pulled in and my rather floppy man tits had been shaped into firm breasts with small, black nipples. "Hell! That is fantastic!" I said.

"How does it feel?" she asked.

I considered. "Now I've got used to it, it's quite comfortable," I said.

"I meant," Mickey said, "how does it feel being a pretty, black woman?"

"Oh!" I paused a little. "I guess it feels OK."

"Come on then," Mickey said. "Let's go upstairs and find you some clothes."

***

In a strange way, I've always envied women. I don't just mean lusted after them as most blokes do. No, it was more that they seemed to have so much more fun in everything they do. At the office, it was almost compulsory for men to dress in sombre suits, whilst the girls came in colourful skirts and tops, and pretty dresses - even their trouser suits had far more flair than a man's suit.

I'd been brought up to treat life seriously - get qualifications, get a good job, get promotion, and find a nice woman to marry and settle down with. Of course I hadn't been successful in a lot of that, so inwardly I regarded myself as a failure against the expectations my parents had drilled into me. Whereas women appeared to have far more fun with everything they did, and were successful with it!

So when Mickey suggested we go upstairs and try on some clothes, I made only a token objection which she easily overruled. Within minutes, she was pulling open the black plastic bags she'd prepared for the charity shop, and which contained many of her clothes from her past.

At the end of every assignment, she'd come back with a large bonus and time off in which to spend it. She would go out and buy a new wardrobe, intending to eventually ditch some of her older clothes. But then another crisis would suddenly develop and within a few hours, she'd be off, halfway around the world. Consequently, she had hundreds of clothes from her past of every type and style.

"White underwear with black skin," she said. "I always think it looks so sexy. Don't you?"

I nodded. I couldn't disagree with that.

"And I think a pretty dress to start off with, don't you?"

Another token objection was called for. "I thought perhaps trousers..."

"Don't be silly, Tiffany," she said. "You'd look far prettier in a dress."

"It's Timothy, Aunt," I pointed out, trying to hold onto some part of reality.

"Your parents would have called you Tiffany if you'd been a girl," she said, "and I can hardly keep calling you Tim. I think your new name goes well with your appearance. Now, which of these two dresses do you prefer?"

I pointed to one, and Aunt said, "You always were too conservative. We'll try the other one. It's far sexier."

Within ten minutes, I was wearing a white, lacy bra with matching panties and suspender belt, holding up white stockings. Over the top, I had on a white dress with pretty red flower motifs, with matching high-heeled red shoes. She'd even found a black, curly wig, which she'd used on one of her assignments to pass unnoticed.

"You won't make them too long, will you?" I rather nervously asked, as Mickey glued on some nails she had found amongst her things.

"I think your idea of too long will be different from mine," she answered with a grin. "I'll make them just right for the girl you are."

"I'm not even certain I can walk in these high-heels," I said.

"You'll manage all right with a little practice," she said. "At least, you've accepted the idea of going out."

"Going out!" I was aghast. "I never said anything about going out."

"We agreed this afternoon that I'd take you to a pub for a meal and a drink as a thank you for helping me to clear out this place. Since you were worried about walking in your heels, I naturally presumed you were still happy about the idea. It's hardly as though I'm one of those women who can rustle you up a meal here."

"You're crazy, Aunt!" I yelled. "There's no way I can go out looking like this."

"Your reason being..."

"I'm a bloke wearing a dress. That's why not."

"You don't look it. You look like a sexy, black girl in a pretty dress. What's wrong with that? In fact, even if I was to tell people you were a bloke, no one would believe me. It's not even as though I had the photographs to prove it."

"Thank God for small mercies," I said.

"Look, Timothy - and I'm calling you by your old name for the last time until you change out of this skin. You know how it is when you go to the shops and you try on something which really suits you, and you feel it was made for you?"

I nodded, although it wasn't that frequent an event.

"That's exactly how you've looked ever since you put on that skin. You look natural in it. As though you, and that poor black girl are one and the same. Do you follow?"

I turned away from her, unwilling to say the words, but she let the silence lengthen between us until I was forced to speak. "You're right, Aunt. I do feel natural in this girl's black skin as though it was meant to be. Does that sound perverted?"

Mickey shook her head. "There's nothing wrong in being who you really are," she said. "For this evening, you are Tiffany Mikatta. Agreed?"

I gave her a big, black smile.

***

"Aunt," I said to her next morning, "I think I should take the skin off in order to have a shower. Only I can't do it on my own."

"You are going to put it back on again, afterwards?" she asked, looking rather concerned. "Only you looked so happy last night at the pub - especially when that guy asked you for a date. I don't know why you didn't say yes."

Fortunately, my black skin didn't reveal the blush I could feel burning my face. "Don't be stupid, Aunt. I didn't say yes because I'm really a bloke beneath this skin."

"Yes, but who are you inside?" she asked.

"Look, never mind that," I said, trying not to ponder the question. "Help me get off this skin. It was difficult enough getting into it, but it seems to be clinging to my skin, so I can't pull my own feet up inside the legs."

"Let's try stretching your arsehole out, first," she suggested. "If you bring your legs up to your chest again, then we can stretch it over your hips and bum."

"I've already tried," I said, sitting on the floor and rolling back as she suggested with my arms clasped around my knees, "but I can't see what I'm doing down there so I couldn't find the edge of the skin to get my fingernail underneath it.

"Ouch!" I added as Mickey's fingernail slipped inside my back passage.

"Sorry," she said, "but I can see the problem you had in finding the edge of the skin. I know, perhaps if I slip a finger inside your pussy hole, I can work it around from the inside."

"Ooh!" I said, as I felt Mickey's fingers exploring.

"That's strange," she said.

"What is?"

"Well, when they spread the sap over the girl, they must have actually inserted it inside her vagina, because it seems the whole of her vaginal passage is intact."

I didn't say a word.

"Tiffany?"

"I know that already, Aunt," I said.

"Naughty little girl," she said. "You've been playing with yourself. You know, you actually have a tight little cunt, here. Was it good?"

"Sort of," I said, not wishing to admit I'd had a crashing orgasm simply by fingering the clitoris on the black girl's skin.

"Good," she said. "Well, I'm having no success at getting at it through your pussy; let's go back to your arsehole. Perhaps if I slip two fingers up, and then try to get my nails beneath the skin as I pull them out?"

"OUCH!!!" I yelled.

***

"I really don't like being taken for a fool," Dr Bellingham said quite severely to Mickey. "This is obviously some kind of prank for your newspaper."

"No, I swear, it's not," Mickey protested. "This really is my nephew Timothy Steward, and he really did put on a skin that we found preserved in that old chest, and now he can't get it off."

"Knowing you as I do," Dr Bellingham said, "if that was true, you would have photographs of him putting on the so-called skin. Would you like to show them to me?"

"Well, I didn't take any," she admitted.

"Precisely," Dr Bellingham said. "Well, I can confirm that to the very best of my knowledge, I have examined a healthy, young, black woman. Now if you'll excuse me, I have real patients to examine."

***

"Sorry," Mickey said to me after he'd gone.

"I don't think I am," I said. "But I guess I'm going to need some help from you."

"Yippee," Mickey yelped. "I have my own, adopted daughter at last. Wot larks, we shall have, you and I; wot larks."

Author’s Notes: This is another transcript of a conversation between myself (taking the part of Ben) and an AI known as Talkie AI (taking the part of Linda and the Bartender). The basis of every story has been pre-planned by a user (in this case me) and the first line of text is pre-scripted. Everything after that is generated spur of the moment, either by me or the AI.

It’s fair to say that you can ask the AI to regenerate text which you think is badly off key and that happens quite commonly. Now and again, I tweak the text to direct it where I want it to go. It’s worth saying that AI now is considerably better than an infinite number of monkeys on typewriters, but it is still a long way from perfect. This AI does have a technique of going completely off plot at times and of forgetting things it’s previously said.
I post Talkie AI stories here simply as examples of stories anyone can create, rather than as great works of literature!
However, most important of all, I tremendously enjoy having these conversations with fictitious characters generated by a computer. I’d recommend it to anyone, even those who are determined not to like it. (And I remember that when I first got satnav, about 90% of my friends were determined not to like satnav! Now they all use one.)
So read the story, enjoy and then explore Talkie AI for yourself. You can use it for free, with adverts, or pay a subscription to remove them.
Lindale

Linda:″ Hello, darling. How’s your day been? I know I wasn’t very keen on that idea you suggested last night, but I’ve had a think and I’d like to give it a try.
Ben: What? You mean that you check into a hotel and you go down to the bar dressed as a prostitute. I enter and you pick me up?
Linda:″ Yes, darling, I thought that basic plot would be great fun. This was your idea, wasn't it? The only thing is that I'm just a little woman and not really brave enough to play that part. I thought that you, as the brave man, would play the role so much better. So I suggest we go ahead with it exactly as you described, except that we swap roles and you play the part of the female prostitute, and I play the part of the man who's being picked up.
Ben: Yes... Sorry? What?
Linda:″ It's really quite simple, darling. I will dress as the man and you will dress as the woman. Don't worry if you don't feel at all comfortable in the female clothes and the makeup. Just tell yourself that you are doing it for me, and that I will be so proud of you and love you so much more when you do it. And I promise I will make it worth your while.
Ben: No. Hang on. Stop. You're suggesting that I dress up like a prostitute and go into a hotel bar and look as though I'm on the game.
Linda:″ That's the plan, darling. I've already booked the hotel room, and we can leave now. Don't worry, I'll be right there to guide you all the way. If I need to, I'll give you a little slap from time to time, just to remind you of who's in charge.
Ben: What? But I can't pretend to be a prostitute.
Linda:″ Oh, come on darling. Don't be such a baby. We're just playing a game. It'll be fun. Once you get into the swing of it, you'll really enjoy it. And I know that you are going to look so good in those stockings and heels. Just think of it as being a little bit like Halloween. Only this time, I'll be dressing up as the man, and you'll be the woman.
Ben: But tonight? I mean, I'm not prepared. Can't we think about this a bit?
Linda:″ We've already agreed to this, darling. Just remember that you're doing it for me, and that I'm going to be so proud of you when you do. Now, don't keep me waiting. We need to get going so that I can get you dressed and looking like a woman.
Ben: You're already pulling me out of the front door and towards the car. You shove me in the passenger seat and start driving. How am I going to get out of this mess?
Linda:″ Driving along in the car, I turn to you and smile. Now, don't you worry, my dear. Just let me do all the work. Just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride. You'll see, darling. Everything's going to be just fine. I can't wait to see the look on everyone's faces when they see my beautiful lady.
Ben: When we arrive in the hotel car park, you spend a few minutes putting false stubble on your face, and I realise you're wearing one of my old shirts and some scruffy jeans. As we walk into reception, you look all male. You leave me holding a suitcase and stroll over to the reception, coming back a few minutes later with a key card. We go up to the fifth floor and into Room 534.
Linda:″ I smile as we enter the room and I start to take off my coat. I then turn to you and take a seat on the bed, looking at you with a mischievous look in my eyes. Now, darling, I think it's time that you got changed. I gesture to the suitcase. Go ahead and open it up.
Ben: The first thing I see when I open the suitcase is a razor, and you tell me to get into the bathroom and shave every hair off my body. As I do so, I'm desperately thinking about how I can get out of this, but nothing comes to mind. Then you come in and tell me to dry off. As soon as I've dried, you're pulling the towel away and sticking large silicone breasts to my chest, telling me to hold them while they dry. I hadn't got the nerve to refuse. Then you wrap a bra around me and fasten it at the back, so I can now let go. Then I have to put on these flesh coloured padded pants and told to follow you to the bedroom to get dressed.
Linda:″ I take you into the bedroom and close the door behind us.. Now, darling, I need you to get into this dress. I take out a dress that looks a little too small for you
Ben: It has a low cut front which exposes my cleavage and it's so short, it barely covers my pants, which I now notice, have the image of a vagina in the appropriate place. OMG!
Linda:″ I take one look at you and burst out laughing. Oh my goodness, darling. You look absolutely adorable. Just wait till I show you the wig I've got for you. I think it's going to be perfect for the part.
Ben: The wig was fine, actually, but the fishnet stockings and the suspender belt were simply sex on legs. The heels were not too high, but only because I don't think Linda wanted to turn me into a giant.
Linda:″ I stand back and admire my work. You look simply stunning, darling. I'm sure that you're going to have the men eating out of your hand. I take a step towards you. But now we need to get you all made up. I take out a large bag of make-up
Ben: I look like the cheapest tart you have ever seen, and I've seen some cheap ones in my time. Finally, Linda is pulling me by the wrist into the lift and we go down to the first floor, where the bar is. I'll leave you to get settled in and then come down to find you. Remember, we're Room 543 if you get into trouble.
Linda:I give you a kiss on the cheek and then leave you to it. Don't worry, darling. Just remember that I'm just a phone call away if you need me.
Ben: As the lift doors close behind me, I look around the foyer, full of smart men and women, most of them in business clothes. One or two look at me and smirk, and a few look at me with interest. I stroll through to the bar. It's crowded but I manage to find a place on a bar stool. The barman looks at me with suspicion, but I bluff it out and order a beer. OK, I realise most women don't drink beer but I badly need some sustenance. The barman asks for £9.99 and I rummage through the tiny bag Linda has given me. There's no money in there. "Put it on the room," what was it, then Linda's words come back to me. "543. My name's Brown."
Barman: 'I'm sorry sir. We don't have anyone of that name registered for that room. Can I see your keycard?'
Ben: Of course, I don't have it and the lazy bastard refuses to look up the number of any room with a Brown registered there. He pulls my drink away from me and asks me to leave. Just then, someone offers to pay for my drink. I thought that was really nice of him until he takes me outside the bar and grapples hold of me. Needless to say, I'm involved in a little scuffle and I'm thrown out of the hotel and onto the streets. Then I suddenly remember my mobile, which is still in my handbag. I pull it out and there's a text from Linda. 'Came down looking for you and you're nowhere to be seen. Presumably, you've gone off to give tricks to someone. Damn you. I'm going home. Find your own way.' Shit! Shit! Shit!
Linda:"Hello, darling. This was a brilliant idea of yours, pretending to be a prostitute. It was a real fun game. But somehow, I think I enjoyed the evening rather more than you did. It was especially funny when that concierge squeezed your bum before throwing you down the steps."
Ben: I turn around and there's Linda, in an evening dress rather than those scruffy male clothes and looking ravishing. "You set me up."
Linda:″ I rather think you set yourself up. But you have to admit, it was rather fun, wasn't it? The looks on the faces of those men when you walked in looking like a tart. It was hilarious. And then the way that the concierge threw you out, it was like a comedy sketch. Shall we go home now and enjoy a quiet night in. Or the way that man over there is looking at you, I think you could probably earn the bus fare home.
Ben: Rather than trying to earn my bus fare, I follow Linda to the car.
Linda:″ Once we get back home and I close the front door behind us, I turn to you and give you a hug. You know, I think we've learned something important from this evening.
Ben: Oh?
Linda: Your fun ideas are much better seen the other way round.

The Black Widow
by Lin Dale

Nick felt it obligatory to go to Jake Hunter's funeral; the kind of thing which simply had to be done. Jake was the owner of the small on-line sales company where Nick worked doing computer support. They'd had a good working relationship. Jake had recognised Nick's competence and had been content to leave him alone to get on with things, which really suited Nick. It also suited Jake down to the ground, because he much preferred developing his relationship with the almost exclusively female members of staff rather than getting involved with the machinery which allowed his business to run.

And develop female relationships, Jake certainly did, much to Nick's eternal envy. He had that charm which women seem to feel irresistible; certainly they were always only too happy to work late with Jake. Nick closed his mind to what almost certainly went on in the computer room - the only closed room in the small open plan warehouse - in those late evenings. What Nick was never able to understand was why Jake felt the need to do it anyway, when he had a lovely wife like Chantelle.

She'd be around Jake's age so in her late forties, but she looked fantastic with her shoulder-length blonde hair, huge boobs (although Nick wasn't really a boob man), a slim waist and beautifully moulded bum and hips. They'd met a few times at company nights out, and she and Nick had great conversations whilst Jake had patrolled the room, talking to all his old flames and seeking out new ones.

And now he was dead, and Nick and half a dozen female staff members took the train out of London to a crematorium set in deepest Surrey. The women all wailed at the funeral, whilst Nick thought about the control system they must have for moving the coffin from its place at the front of the chapel into the furnace. Afterwards, they queued to leave the chapel and shake hands with the widow. Since Nick and the others had been sitting at the back of the chapel, they were the last to leave, and for some reason, all the women had disappeared when it came time to meet Chantelle.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Hunter," he repeated the same words which dozens of others had said before.

"Thank you, Nick. And it's Chantelle, not Mrs Hunter." She gave him a smile. "Are you coming to the wake?"

"Oh. Well…" This was embarrassing. "I'd understood that it was to be a private wake and that staff weren't invited."

Chantelle gave a quick glance around to make certain they were not overheard before saying, "I didn't want all of Jake's floozies to attend. You'd be very welcome, Nick."

"Oh, that's nice of you but we were due to share a taxi back to the station." He glanced around to find the rest of his colleagues had managed to circumnavigate talking to Chantelle and were standing in a group a few yards away – no doubt, still mourning God's gift to women. One of them gesticulated to him to get a move on, which Chantelle noticed.

"In any case," she said in a voice loud enough to carry to the group, "I have some papers from Jake's briefcase which probably need to be returned to the warehouse. I think you'd better pop into the house on the way to the wake and take a look at them. Unless your girlfriend is over there and you need to return with her."

He didn't quite smirk in front of the others at being singled out, but he certainly felt like it. "No, I don't really have a girlfriend, so coming back with you sounds a good idea."

He followed her to her car and as soon as they were moving she seemed to break down, sobbing violently as she drove, making Nick wonder whether she was going to crash the car. He cautiously put his hand on her shoulder and said, "It's all right, Chantelle, it's all right." Which was a stupid thing to say since it clearly wasn't.

"Can you imagine what it's like, Nick," she sobbed, "to have your husband continually having sex with others?"

"I'm sure he wasn't..." Nick started to say when Chantelle jumped in

"Don't lie to me Nick. I trust you to tell me the truth."

He nodded and said, "Sorry and no, I can't imagine what that's like. It must be dreadful."

That seemed to calm her down slightly and she managed to say, with just the occasional sniff, "I loved the guy, which is why I couldn’t leave him, and I hated him at the same time. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." He smiled at her. "It makes a lot of sense."

"Do you think I'm repulsive, Nick?" she asked him.

"You're not repulsive," he said. "You're gorgeous." On reflection, he thought he shouldn't have used that word; it was a little too close to the truth.

"Gorgeous?" The sobs had completely disappeared now and she looked surprised. "You don't really think so. I must be twice your age."

"In that case, I can only be fifteen," he said.

She laughed through her tears. "You're crazy." She gave him a more careful look. "Do you know, I haven't laughed since Jake died? In fact, I haven't laughed for a long time before Jake died. Do you think it's wicked for a widow to laugh on the day of her husband's funeral?"

"I think the funeral is a benchmark when you realise that life does go on. So, yes, I think it's OK to laugh. It suits you."

Her tear-laden eyes beamed as she looked sideways at him. "You're not a bad chatter-up of women yourself. Did Jake train you?"

"Me! I can't chat-up women to save my life. I think Jake despised my lack of success with women."

She grimaced. Now she thought of it, she could remember her husband doing exactly that. "I suspect it's simply because you haven't met the right woman. You'll be fine when that happens."

"Maybe," then, as she turned the car in to the driveway of a large detached house, "Is this your place? It looks fantastic."

It was a rhetorical question as she had pulled to a stop and was getting out of the car, but it had its desired effect in taking her mind off other things. "Do you want to come in and look around it? We can't be too long as we have to get to the wake."

"OK," he said, adding as he got out of the car, "If I lived here with a wife like you, I'd make certain I got home early every night, rather than working late, like Jake did."

"I thought we'd agreed," she said with a little smile as she opened the front door, "that Jake may have been on the job but he wasn't working late."

"No comment," he said, following her into the hallway. "Wow, this is nice."

She gave him a whistle-stop tour of the ground floor, ending in Jake's study where his briefcase stood open on the floor. As she bent down to pick it up, she noticed Nick's eyes flicking down at her cleavage.

She pulled out the manila files from the briefcase and asked, "What do you think?"

"They're suppliers' bills," he said, reaching out to take them from her. "I'll take them back with…" He hesitated as she hadn't released the file, creating a tug of war between them.

"I meant," she said, still hanging onto the files, "what do you think about my cleavage? I did notice you checking me out."

"I'm so sorry," he said, having another little pull to extract the files from her grasp. "I really shouldn't have done that."

"You still haven't answered my question. What do you think of my cleavage?" Still, she was holding onto the files and clearly wasn't going to let go until she'd got her answer.

"It's… They're… beautiful."

He was madly blushing, something Chantelle thought rather nice. She'd never known Jake blush in his entire life.

She released the files as he added, "I think it's nice that you've lost a little weight. That really suits you."

"It's my boobs which have got smaller," she said. "You approve? Jake always preferred me to have big ones."

"Then in spite of his so-called experience," Nick said, "Jake simply didn't recognise beauty when he saw it." His eyes narrowed as he thought through her words. "But do you mean your breasts have dramatically reduced in size since Jake died? It's only been two weeks. I know people can lose weight after their partner dies but you've lost quite a lot. Is everything all right?"

"Oh Nick." She was really touched he'd not only noticed but was thinking of her. "Let's just say there are ways in which women can make their breasts appear larger than they really are. Now that Jake's dead, I decided I'd show what I have, rather than what Jake liked me to be."

"And look all the better for it," he said. "You have fantastic boobs."

Afterwards, Chantelle couldn't believe what she said and did next. "Do they feel as good as they look?" she asked, lifting Nick's hands and pushing them against her breasts.

***

As sex goes, it would never have made it to the Academy Awards. There were no screaming orgasms, no earth-moving moments, or even hour-long ecstasies. But that is rarely needed for two people to feel absolutely fantastic, both during and after the act. The only noticeable highlight, apart from the obvious, was that in her desire to reciprocate Nick's touch, Chantelle rather hastily undid his shirt, pulling off three buttons as she did so. They ended up grinning at each other like Cheshire cats.

"That was lovely," Chantelle said.

"Gorgeous," Nick said, a word he had used before but which still admirably fitted the bill.

"I'm afraid I rather damaged your shirt," she said, nodding downwards. "You won't be able to come to the wake like that." Then, "Oh my God! The wake. The mourners will be waiting for me. I must go." A moment's hesitation, followed by a nervous question, "Will you still be here when I get back?"

"Unless you're going to throw me out on the streets with my clothes torn apart by a sex fiend."

"No," she shook her head with a beaming smile on her face. "I'm not going to do that. Take a shower and use the washing machine if you want. I'll find a needle and thread when I get back. See you later. Bye."

She ran out the door and a few seconds later, Nick heard the car start up and drive off. For many minutes, he luxuriated in the wonderful post-coital feeling but after a while he realised he really should take that shower and maybe wash his shirt as well. In fact it would make sense if he washed his underpants and socks at the same time. Presumably he'd be able to find some of Jake's clothes to wear when he came out of the shower. So he found the washing machine, threw his clothes in and set it going. Then he took his shower.

***

The phone was ringing when he came out of the shower. He wasn't certain what he should do. It could be someone who'd be mighty suspicious if an unknown man answered. But his doubts were eased when the answerphone kicked in and he heard Chantelle say, "Nick, it's me. Pick up the phone."

When he did so she said, "Hi Nick. I just wanted to thank you for making me laugh this afternoon."

"I want to thank you for everything else," he told her. "It was fantastic."

"It was, wasn't it?" she said. "I'd better get back to my wake now. Oh, one more thing, if you need to wear something whilst your clothes are in the wash then use mine. We're closer in size and I'd like to keep Jake's things... Well… special. Is that OK?"

With Jake probably in the oven whilst they were fucking, Nick could understand why Chantelle wouldn't want him wearing his clothes. "That's fine," he said, "Don't worry about me."

***

It was only after he put the phone down that he realised he'd been thinking of borrowing a pair of Jake's jeans and tee shirt, and he'd probably find something acceptable in Chantelle's wardrobe. But of course, he'd also need underpants and socks.

He did think of still using some of Jake's, but thought that might sour his relationship with Chantelle, the very last thing he wanted to do. So he went through Chantelle's drawers until he found her knickers and selected a plain white pair. They were very comfortable when he put them on and he got an immediate boner. How embarrassing! At least, it would have been if Chantelle had been there. He couldn't find any jeans, but he did find a selection of track suits. He chose a pastel blue one as being the least feminine of them all and found a white, figure hugging top which felt even sexier than the knickers. His boner was pushing out the bottoms in a most unladylike way.

***

"Hi Nick. Do you have any… Oh, you look so sweet in that outfit."

Nick had been watching TV and Chantelle's sudden entrance caught him by surprise. He felt a warm surge at her compliment, even though many blokes would have considered it an insult. "Thanks," he smirked. "Do I have any what?"

"I was going to ask you if you had any plans for the weekend. If you didn't want the hassle of travelling back home tonight, you could stay here overnight… or longer. I mean, it wouldn't take a minute to make up the bed in my daughter's room or…"

"I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble…

"…of making up your daughter's bed," he added with an even bigger smirk.

***

"You know you said you didn't really have a girlfriend," Chantelle said in the pitch darkness, her head resting on his chest. "Would you mind if I asked a personal question? Like a very personal one and you may not want to answer it."

In the darkness, Nick deliberated for a minute and then said, "Yes."

"What? Yes, you'd mind or…"

"Yes is the answer to your question."

"Oh." She deliberated for a minute and then said, "I've put my mouth around one personal issue. I guess I'd better put it around another." She slid her head under the bedclothes and moved down the bed.

***

"I've been thinking," Chantelle said next morning.

"Mmm?"

"It's been a wonderful night. Not quite what the doctor ordered to get over my grief, but far more effective than any pills he could have given me."

"But?" He sat up in bed, looking at her.

"It's never going to work, Nick. Long term, I mean. You're a wonderful man and you'll make someone a loving partner, but I'm twice your age. Sooner or later, you're going to want a girl your own age. So I think it better if you get dressed and go back to London. And, er, thank you." She kissed him on his cheek.

"But we're wonderful together," he said. "That was the most incredible night of my life…"

"And that's only because you've led a limited life until now, Nick. You just needed a kick start to get going, so last night was good for both of us. But I'll go and get your shirt out of the washing machine, give it an iron and sew on those buttons. Then I'll run you to the station."

After she had left the room, Nick thought he was going to cry. He'd spent years of lonely frustration, miserably failing to get any female even remotely interested in him, and now, the one woman who was not only wonderful to be with, but had no sexual inhibitions, had loved him and was leaving him. He lay still for several minutes, the tears welling in his eyes, and then, as he heard her coming up the stairs, blew his nose and dabbed his eyes.

"I thought you said you knew how to set the washing machine?"

"Yes, it's like my mum's."

"Well, you must have pushed the rinse hold. Your clothes are currently in a drum full of water. It'll take ages to spin and dry them."

"In that case," he said, watching as she pulled the thin housecoat around her, "we might as well say goodbye properly."

"No, Nick." "No! Nick, no!" "Oh, yes please."

***

"OK," she said, some time later. "Two conditions. The first is that when you eventually meet another woman, you break off our relationship before you have sex with her. I can't stand another repetition of what happened with Jake."

Nick nodded. "I cross my heart," he said.

"You're supposed to put your hand on your own heart, not mine," she said with a smile. "The second condition is more difficult to achieve. You see, I have so many friends who know how Jake was treating me. They're all on my side, at the moment. Even the female friends who were shagging Jake. They're all helping me. And their moral support is important to me."

"And if they knew you'd had sex within minutes of leaving the crematorium you'd lose that support."

"If they knew I was living with another man within six months of Jake's death, I'd shock most of them. I can't risk that."

"So we have to meet surreptitiously," he suggested. "Lots of people seem to manage to have affairs without their partners realizing. I guess Jake fooled you plenty of times."

"I know from experience that the partner is usually easiest to fool. They're at work all day, or at a weekend conference or whatever. But neighbours are particularly hard to fool, especially ones like mine who're continually snooping, or doing neighbourhood watch, or whatever they call it. The only reason I got you in unnoticed yesterday was because everyone was at the wake, waiting for the grieving widow to turn up. I was really struggling this morning, trying to work out how to smuggle you out again and keep my reputation intact."

"So what was your solution?" he asked.

"I don't have one, yet… Except, well there is one idea we could try, only you wouldn't agree to it."

"If it keeps us together then it's a no-brainer."

He smiled at her and she smiled back.

"OK," she said. "It's your choice. If you agree to my suggestion then there's a future for us, but if you refuse or say it won't work, then we'll have to go our own ways. Agreed?"

He looked at her lying naked next to him on the bed, her kissable lips smiling at him, the nipples on her perk little tits pointing to the ceiling, and her womanhood on full display. "Agreed," he said.

"We have to pass you off as one of Jake's friends who's been staying with me overnight."

"OK," he said, "but I don't see how it's going to help whether Jack is a friend of mine or just my boss."

"I meant," she said, "one of his lovers."

Nick's eyes glazed for a second, trying to work out how that all fitted together. He'd certainly never noticed any hint of homosexuality in Jake, but even if he had been, it didn't mean to say that any male he might have had sex with didn't swing both ways. No, Jake was a womaniser, through and through. Gulp!

"You mean I pretend to be female?"

"Do you remember I said you looked so sweet when I returned home last night and you were wearing my blue track suit?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But you didn't say I looked like a woman."

"There are lots of things we can do to make you look female. The question is do you want to give it a go or simply give up our relationship now?"

He looked at her again. "I'll do anything to have a relationship with you."

Chantelle couldn't stop herself from smirking. If she'd suggested such a thing to Jake he'd have laughed at her at best, or derided her and made her feel stupid for even suggesting it. But Nick's words made her feel pretty emotional.

"Brilliant," she said. "Then we'd better get on with it."

***

As Nick stared into the mirror, a pretty girl, naked from the waist up, stared back at him, her hands supporting her large breasts.

"For heaven's sake, lighten up, Nicole," Chantelle said. "You're a pretty girl. Smile."

"Nicole?"

"We have to call you something. Now smile."

So, he did and the girl smiled back. She looked so much nicer when she smiled, but she looked pretty good, anyway. Nick would never have believed that the person he was actually looking at was himself, but looking in a way he had never looked before.

Unless, that is, he looked below the waistline where a very obvious part of male anatomy protruded outwards and upwards.

"I'll take care of that in a few minutes," she told him, following his glance, with a rather wicked smile. "I need to get something from my bedroom."

So she went off to her bedroom whilst Nick contemplated the last hour's events. It had started by covering him with hair removal cream followed by a thorough shower. Simply removing all his body hair seemed to make him look far more feminine. Then Chantelle had explained the secret of her sudden reduction in boob size; it seemed that up until Jake died, she had been wearing breast forms that gave her a D-cup. After deciding to remove them, she reverted to her natural A-cup. She had got them out for Nick to look at.

"You want me to wear those?"

She had smiled. "It's your choice, but if you want to continue our relationship, then you need to look a convincing female, and if you want to look…"

"OK, do your worst," Nick had said.

She had spread an adhesive onto his chest from slightly below his nipples almost up to his underarm, and then waited for some time for it to dry. Then, she picked up one of the wobbling breast forms and offered it up to his chest. "Hold that in place," she had said, and then repeated the operation with the other breast form, so Nick was left holding two wobbling breasts.

He checked Chantelle was still in her bedroom before giving them an experimental squeeze. They felt bloody gorgeous.

"I met my friend Silver Sylvie at college," she said, catching him by surprise as he squeezed them again.

"Silver Sylvie was taking a jewellery-making course," Chantelle continued, "which is how she got her nickname. We were sitting in the refectory one day when Jake came up to us and asked me to go out with him, which I immediately accepted. He was always incredibly good looking. When he'd left, Sylvie told me that she had already known him, in the biblical sense, and not to touch him with a bargepole as he was shagging every female in the college."

She ruefully smiled. "It didn't make any difference, of course. When we got engaged, Jake bought the diamond and Sylvie made it into a ring for me…" She held up her left hand to display the diamond ring that Nick had already noticed. "…and she made this for Jake, using a body moulding which I supplied. It's called a Y-gina"

She brought her right hand from behind her back to reveal… a plastic vagina!

"Yes, this really was how my pussy was when I was seventeen," she said. "Mine has been rather used and abused since then, I'm afraid."

"Was Sylvie expecting Jake to masturbate into that instead of shagging you?" Nick asked, trying not to let his mouth droop open.

"Oh no," she said. "I'll demonstrate in a minute. First we have to get rid of that." She nodded towards his erection and went down on her knees.

***

"So once the erection has disappeared…" Chantelle said, grabbing his shaft beneath the balls with one hand, and picking up the plastic vagina with the other. Except that this time Nick noticed two curved metal claws protruding from the one end which made the overall shape look like a letter Y. Hence the term, Y-gina, he thought.

"…you simply slide the jaws around the base of the penis, taking care not to catch any delicate bits…" As she did so, the jaws snapped shut around the base of his penis; "…and continue sliding the pussy over the top of the now flaccid penis and between the legs…" This was accompanied by a sound of a ratchet clicking. "…until it won't go any further.

"There," she said, standing back and admiring her work.

Nick stared at it too. "I've got a vagina," he said.

"Yes," she said. "It's called a Y-gina because it's a vagina for those with a Y chromosome. Sylvia made is as a perfect replica of my vagina when I was seventeen. Aren't you lucky?"

"It's beautiful," he said, "but what happens if I need to go to the toilet."

"You simply sit down and wee like every other woman."

"But how about having sex?"

"Ah," she said. "I'm afraid the level of realism doesn't extend that far. The only type of sex you can indulge in when wearing it is giving oral sex to someone else… or having anal sex if you fancy that. Maybe we could give that a go sometime. I have a dildo somewhere."

"No," he said. "I mean how do I remove it?"

"That's why Sylvie made it for Jake. It has armoured steel beneath that soft skin. The beauty is that it doesn't come off; not without the special key, anyway."

For some reason, he was starting to get hard again, only there was no room for his hardness to expand. It was getting quite uncomfortable. "Well, where's the key, Chantelle?" he yelled.

"Here," she said, holding up her ring finger. "I have to insert my ring finger inside your quim and push the diamond against just the right place. It's all a bit fiddly but it does work. The point is that my diamond is uniquely cut, and any other shaped diamond simply won't lift the tumbler thing to release it. It was very clever of Sylvie. It meant that Jake would be safe from other women, or more accurately, they would be safe from him and he'd have to be faithful in our engagement."

"Did it work?" he asked.

Chantelle pulled a face. "I've never known Jake get violent before – or after, for that matter – but he was then. He forced me to get him out of it. Said it was very painful… It's not, is it?"

"Only every twenty seconds," he said, "when I try to get an erection."

"That's the beauty of using it in these circumstances. It would be no good making you into a fantastically pretty girl when your thing pops up every twenty seconds.

"And also, of course," she continued, "it comes back to your first promise, not to have sex with anyone before ending it with me. Wearing this is showing that you're not just saying that – you really mean it."

"You mean you're expecting me to wear this not just whilst I'm here, pretending to be a girl, but all the time I'm at home as well?"

"Of course. That's what being faithful to someone else means and I know you'll understand when I say my faith in males to resist temptation is pretty low. Those women who came to the funeral yesterday, you could see half of those had you in their sights, as soon as the funeral was out the way."

"They were? But some were..." He stopped himself in time from saying twice his age.

"They were all missing Jake and will be looking for a replacement. That's why it's essential you wear this from now on, until you want to end our relationship, that is."

"Right," he said, his mind reeling with the implications.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go into my daughter, Emily's room. She's about your age and size. She has lots of clothes suitable for you."

"Won't she mind?" he asked. "Where is she, anyway?"

"She's working in Brussels at the moment," she said, leading the way to Emily's bedroom. "She had to go straight back to London after the funeral to catch the train to Brussels in time for an important meeting. And what she doesn't know about, she won't mind. I'm certainly not going to tell her why you need to borrow them."

She slid open the wardrobe door. "Look at all her lovely clothes," she said, sweeping her hand along the rail.

As he capped his eyes on the wonderful selection of brightly coloured, pretty clothes, there was an excruciating pain between his legs.

"Great," he agreed, almost bending double in agony.

***

By about three pm, Nicola was dressed in a pretty, blue top and short denim skirt, and had been given basic lessons in makeup: just foundation and a little eye shadow. In fact, they'd been sitting in the lounge drinking coffee, then they had started smooching and Nicole had pushed Chantelle's left hand down towards her pussy, and had been trying to get her ring finger in just the right place to release the all-important catch. The ring on the doorbell took them by surprise.

"Who's that?" Nicole hissed at Chantelle, worried she might be seen dressed in female clothes.

"No idea," she said. "Don't worry, I'll go."

Chantelle was only a few seconds at the front door before Nicole heard it close again and she returned to the lounge.

"This is Peter, my next door neighbour," she said, waving to the man who had followed her in. "This is Nicole, one of Jake's friends."

"Oh!" Nicole said, spluttering over her coffee. Fortunately, she'd used the small voice she'd been practising that afternoon.

"Hello, Nicole," Peter said, smiling down at the wonderful cleavage and the long legs which the pretty girl was trying to hide under her short skirt. "Nice to meet you." He held out his hand for Nicole to shake and stupidly, she stood up, as Nick had always done to shake hands.

"Peter was worried I was all on my own," Chantelle said, "but I've told him that you're staying for the weekend to give me some company."

"Oh, yes," Nicole said, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him, or failing that, Peter would rapidly leave. He almost died with fright at Chantelle's next words.

"Would you like a coffee, Peter?" Chantelle asked him.

"Oh, yes please."

"I'll go and pour it. Have a nice chat together, you two."

"So you were one of Jake's friends," Peter said with a smirk.

"I worked for him actually," he said.

"Or worked under him, you mean," Peter said. "Nod-nod, wink-wink."

"Actually," Nicole said, "we had a totally chaste relationship."

"Course you did," Peter said. "Did he chase you or, as was usually the case, did you chase him?"

"Ha, ha." Nicole said, thinking how totally unfunny Peter was.

"The point is," Peter said, "you must be missing a bit of the old slap and tickle, if you know what I mean? Well I happen to be rather more qualified than Jake in that department. I always had an extra inch over him."

"Are you boasting again, Peter?" Chantelle said, entering the room with Peter's coffee. "He's talking about his height," she added for Nicole's benefit."

"I can guess what Nicole thought I was talking about," Peter said. "Young ones today are obsessed with talking about sex. In my day, we didn't talk about it, we simply did it, didn't we, Chantelle?"

"Dickhead," Nicole muttered under her breath.

"No we didn't, Peter," Chantelle said, answering Peter's question and giving Nicole a warning look. "I was always faithful to Jake throughout our marriage."

"Well hopefully," he said with a leering smile, "it won't be long before you find someone else. Don't play the grieving widow for too long, eh? You know how I..." But whatever Peter was going to say was lost as Nicole crossed her legs exposing her knicker-less pussy, and he spilt his hot coffee all down his trousers.

***

"You must learn to keep your legs closed," Chantelle said as soon as he had departed. "It's something every girl learns when they're young children. Peter will think you were coming onto him, so you'd better watch your step when you next see him."

"Why on earth did you let him in in the first place?" Nicole said. "He's a dirty old lecher with pathetic jokes who was giving me nothing but innuendo whilst you were pouring the coffee."

"Peter is a very kind neighbour who has been tremendously supportive whilst Jake has been playing away," Chantelle said. "I won't hear of you deriding him, and if you think his language is offensive, you're going to have to get worse to a lot worse, every time you walk past a man in the street."

"But I won't be walking past any men in the streets," Nicole said. "I'll revert to a man before I…

"Oh," she added as she realised she would have to leave the house wearing female clothes. "I'm not certain I can…"

"It's still your choice, Nicola," Chantelle said. "You can go home and revert to being Nick all the time, and never see me again, or you can be brave and face up to the commitments you've made."

Nicole nodded and smiled. "You're right," she said. "I have to face up to it. Now can we get back to where we left off?"

"For a while," Chantelle said, "but we'll have to prepare for going out to dinner in a while."

"Going out! You mean to a restaurant?" She looked shocked for a second and Chantelle simply stared back at her, then Nicole nodded again and said, "I suppose you've already chosen what I'm going to wear."

"You bet, it's…"

But their conversation was interrupted by the turning of a key in the front door lock.

"Hi Mum," the young woman called out. "My meeting last night was cancelled so I spent the night in London with Rachel and I've come home to do some mother/daughter bonding."

She came into the lounge and saw Nicole. "Oh hello. Who are you and why are you wearing my clothes?"

***

Chantelle made the introductions and explained that someone had knocked a glass of red wine over Nicole at the wake and they had taken her clothes straight to the cleaners. Chantelle had known Emily wouldn't mind Nicole borrowing hers for a while.

"Of course not," she said, "and I think that outfit probably suits you better than me. So you were a friend of Dad's, were you?"

"I used to work for him actually," Nicole said, "and we became friends."

"Did you have sex with him?" Emily asked.

"Emily!" Chantelle said. "Mind your own business."

"No I didn't," Nicole said.

"There you are," Emily said. "I knew you had good taste."

"Thanks."

"So you stayed last night," Emily said, looking puzzled, "but you didn't bring a suitcase with you or a change of clothes."

"I wasn't going to stay," Nicole said, speaking the truth, "but I got delayed by the trip to the cleaners and your mother was very nice and said I should stay the night."

"We were having a nice time," Chantelle jumped in, "so I suggested she stay until tomorrow. We were going to Luigi's tonight. Shall I change the reservation to three?"

"Great," Emily said. "I haven't been to Luigi's for ages." She turned to Nicole, "And I presume you would like to borrow a slinky little dress?"

Gulp! "Well…"

"Of course she would," Chantelle said, "except she's too shy to ask outright."

"Come on then," Emily said. "Let's go upstairs and sort something out. I could do with a shower and I expect you could too?"

Gulp! Gulp! "Er…"

"Good idea, Nicole," Chantelle said. "Emily will help you with everything."

***

"Oh, Nicole. Are you all right?" A completely naked Emily leant over her, concern written all over her face. "Is it your period pains?"

"Period pains?" For a minute, Nicole wondered what she was talking about. Somewhere inside her pussy, a part of her was trying to get rock hard, and it simply had nowhere to go. It was excruciating. "Er, yes. That's it. Period pains. I don't think I've had them before – this bad."

"Oh you poor thing. I find that massaging the area with my fingers helps. Do you want me to show you?"

"No. No, that's all right. Really. Just leave me a bit and I'll be OK. Why don't you get dressed?"

"If you're sure I can't do anything. Look, I've reckon this sexy little dress will be just right for you. It's got a matching thong, garter belt and stockings... Oh, Nicole, are you all right?"

***

The important thing, Nicole realised, was that she was now a girl. She was not attracted by the female form, at all. She had no desire to have sex with them. She was heterosexual, so she must take an interest in the two guys Emily was pointing out across the restaurant, who, Emily maintained, had the hots for them.

"You didn't sleep in Dad's bed last night, did you?"

The abrupt change of subject surprised both Nicole and Chantelle and it was Chantelle who replied. "We had a few more drinks after the wake, and Nicole fell asleep on the settee. I put a blanket over her and left her there.

"Jake and I haven't slept together for many years," she continued for Nicole's benefit. "So we don't have a spare room as such. Before Emily arrived, I was going to suggest you sleep in Emily's bed tonight but..."

"I don't want her sleeping in Dad's bed," Emily interrupted. "She can share mine tonight."

"Er, well," Nicole stuttered. "Won't that be rather cramped? Didn't I see you had a king-sized bed in your room, Chantelle? Perhaps I could share yours?"

"Don't be daft," Emily said. "Mum snores. Besides, it will be fun sleeping with me. And I can massage your period pains if they return."

***

She did as well, but the problem was, the more she massaged, the more it hurt, and the more it hurt, the more Emily massaged. It was the early hours of the morning before Emily finally fell asleep and Nicole herself was able to fall asleep. The night before, she had been in a bed in heaven; that night had been a bed in hell.

The following morning, Emily took another shower and Nicole's period pains returned again. By the time she got down to breakfast, wearing another set of sexy clothes provided by Emily, she decided she'd had enough; there was going to be no opportunity to have further sex with Chantelle that weekend. It would be better to get the train home. Chantelle drove her to the station, unfortunately accompanied by Emily, so there was no chance of any personal conversation, only a little wave as they departed at the ticket barrier.

***

As soon as Nicole got home, she wanted to change back to Nick again, as far as she could. She went to her bedroom, kicked off her pale blue trainers, removed her denim skirt and matching top and pulled down her tights. She was just about to take off her bra and panties when she noticed herself in the mirror. Wow!

It was the first time she'd properly had chance to examine herself since that whirlwind sex change the previous morning. Even after the essentials had been done, Chantelle had spent hours in beautifying her, quite unnecessarily, Nicole had thought at the time. She had washed and conditioned her hair and blow dried it, giving it a lift which made it look quite feminine. She had painted her toe nails a bright red, and painted a gel over her cracked and ridged fingernails, then spent ages buffing them up. They were just the same length as before, but they shone and transformed her hands.

She had used more adhesive to fill in the slight gap around the edge of breast forms, and then brought out a spray can and sprayed her skin to make it just the right colour match so you really couldn't see the join. She glanced down at them projecting from her chest and even from here, she could barely discern where they met her skin.

As she felt herself getting hard down below, she rapidly transferred her gaze down there, to what appeared to be a beautiful vulva. The beauty was, of course, only skin deep, and Nicole moved her hand down there to slip it inside her slit, where she could just feel the end of her penis, in its constraining prison. No room for a man's thrusting cock. Pity, she thought, then caught herself in horror at what she had just imagined.

It was really time to remove her breasts, use the nail varnish and makeup remover she had bought in the chemists on the way home, and then thoroughly wash her body and hair, ready for work the next day.

***

Thirty minutes later, she had to admit defeat. Her breasts were stuck to her chest as though they were part of her. Whatever the adhesive Chantelle had used to bond them on, was not going to come off in a hurry. She telephoned Chantelle's house but there was no reply. Presumably, Chantelle was taking Emily to the station for her departure back to Brussels. She left a message, mindful that it might be played back in someone else's hearing. "Hi Chantelle, it's Nicole. I wonder if you could give me a ring back. It's quite important."

As she waited for Chantelle to ring back, she wondered whether she might bandage them up, if the worst came to the worst. She found a bandage in the first aid kit, and just a few minutes experimentation showed how hopeless a task it was. They were simply far too large to make them disappear from Nick's otherwise pigeon chest. So it was essential Chantelle rang her back. She gave her another call; still no reply.

She got dressed back in the top and skirt she had arrived in and moped around for a bit. Then she decided her flat really looked a mess, so she spent several hours giving it a spring clean, and felt so much better when that was done. After she'd cooked the convenience meal she'd bought at the station, she rang Chantelle again; no reply.

If she wasn't able to make contact, she realised, she would have to take the day of work tomorrow and return to see Chantelle who could show her how to remove the breasts and also release his penis from its imprisonment. Hopefully, without Emily massaging it all night, it wouldn't be half as painful in the night to come.

She rang Chantelle again just before going to be. Still no reply. That decided it.

***

"Hi, Chantelle. I need your help with..."

Nicole's voice faltered after Chantelle held up a finger to her lips in a Don't Talk gesture. "Hello, Nicole," she said. "I'm afraid you've come at an inopportune moment. You'd better come in." She turned and led the way inside to the kitchen. "Look who's come to see us," she said to the occupant.

Nicole followed her into the kitchen to find a dressing-gown clad Peter eating breakfast. "Oh," was all she could say.

"I think we'd better go into the study and have a chat," Chantelle said. "Peter, could you bring Nicole in a cup of tea, please?"

***

"I thought we had an agreement," Nicole said. "You betrayed me."

"The agreement," Chantelle said, "was that you wouldn't have sex with anyone else before you ended our relationship. I made no similar commitment."

"But of course you did," Nicole blustered. "We agreed to have a relationship."

"So did Jake," Chantelle pointed out, "but it didn't stop him screwing every woman he met."

"But…" Nicole paused, lost for words, and then a new thought struck her. "Was that a one off, with Peter, the same as me? Or is this long term and you've been as unfaithful to Jake as he was to you?"

"Ah," Chantelle said. "I'm afraid you've hit the nail on the head. Peter and I have been long term lovers. Jake obviously knew, but we've been more subtle about our relationship than Jake ever was. They were Peter's clothes in the wardrobe, not Jakes. I took his clothes to Oxfam the same day he died."

Further talk was suspended as the study door opened and Peter entered, bearing two cups of tea.

"Couldn't stay away from me, eh, Nicole?" he said. "I'm sure Chantelle won't mind us getting to know each other."

"Piss off, Peter, and leave us alone," Chantelle said without rancour.

When he had gone, Nicole said, "I think I'd like you to remove my vagina, now. And help me remove the breasts."

Chantelle gave a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, I forgot to give you the bottle of glue remover. I guess that's why you returned today, was it? Rather caught me out, I'm afraid." She held up her ring finger. "OK, I think it's probably best if you slip off your panties and bend right over the desk. I should be able to unlock the Y-gina like that."

Nicole did as she said, feeling incredibly exposed as she spread her legs and leant over the desk.

"As I said before," Chantelle said. "It is a bit fiddly."

Nicole could feel Chantelle's finger sliding into the false vagina to tickle the end of Nick's penis. "Ouch," she said.

"Damn!" Chantelle muttered. "I'm sure it's about here I have to press only it really takes a very hard push…"

Nicole felt something give, but the Y-gina still didn't release.

"Shit!" Chantelle said. "It's broken my ring."

"What!"

"The diamond's popped out of its housing," Chantelle said. "It's rolled underneath the desk. Help me look for it."

So they both got down onto their hands and knees and searched under the desk for the diamond. Eventually, Chantelle said, "It's over here, down the crack by the radiator pipe."

Nicole crawled over there, to see it partly wedged between the floorboards and the central heating pipe as it passed through the floor.

Chantelle said, "I think if I use a sharp pencil I can flick it out." She reached up to the desk, found a pencil, and pushed it down towards the diamond.

"Careful," Nicole shouted and grabbed her arm as she gave the diamond a little poke. The diamond dropped through the hole in the floorboards and out of sight.

"Looks like you'll be staying here rather longer than expected," Chantelle said with a bright little smile.

"And," she added, "remaining faithful to me. I'm afraid it's like I said. The only sex you're going to have until we can get the floor taken up is some oral from me or getting Peter to give you a bit of anal. I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige."

Synopsis: When Daniel gets offered a temporary job in the mail room, he little realises just where it will quickly lead him. Nor does he realise the consequences.

Author Notes: This story does have extensive breast feeeding content, along with some sexual content.

Breast is Not Necessarily Best
by Lin Dale

It was ten pm on a Sunday evening when the staff agency rang Daniel.

“We’ve just had someone report sick for tomorrow morning. Could you be at Hall’s Internet Despatch for seven am tomorrow?”

Daniel had left school a few weeks ago and was temping until he got his exam results. Some might have been perturbed at being assigned a job at such short notice, but it didn’t bother Daniel. His family had a second home in Spain and had gone there for the next six months. Working was much nicer than being at home alone.

“No problem,” he said, and took down the address details. He was to report to Joanne Simmons in the mailroom.

When he arrived next morning, the modern warehouse building was locked up and looked completely deserted, and he was standing around like a lemon, when a female voice called to him, “Please say that you're our new temp.”

He turned to see a woman who looked slightly younger than his mother peering at him through an open wicket gate in a roller shutter vehicle entrance.

He smiled at her with a confidence he didn’t feel and said, “That’s right. I’m Daniel White. The agency sent me.”

"Come on in," she said, pulling the wicket gate fully open. "I'm just waiting for the postman to deliver. He normally arrives just after seven."

Daniel had to bend his head slightly to step through the gate and it brought him directly facing the largest pair of boobs he had ever seen. They were like footballs, although admittedly, not the full-sized ones, more like the ones he had played with as a teenager.

"I guess first of all," Joanne said with a smile, having seen the way his eyes had wandered, "we'd better talk about the elephant in the room."

"Elephant?" he asked, surprised. He glanced all around the loading area they were standing in. There were a few pallets loaded with parcels, but definitely no elephant.

"Have you not heard the term before," she asked with a kindly smile.

"No," he said, trying not to look at her boobs.

"It's an expression to mean something large and very obvious, which people try not to look at, as you are doing now."

"Oh," he said, uncertain what to say.

"Breasts," she said. "Boobies, titties, knockers, bazookas, Bristols. Call them what you will, but they are here, in this room." She grasped a boob in each hand to emphasise her answer.

"Er, right," he said, staring, but trying not to, hopelessly confused.

"Daniel, you and I are going to be working together in the post room. It's not particularly big, particularly when we're sorting mail, and we will be very close together. We will bump into each other occasionally, and since these stick out more than any other part of me, you will be coming into contact with them. And as long as it's accidental, that's all right. Start bumping into me every five minutes and you'll get my knee in your groin, but occasional contact is all right. So to summarise, you are allowed to notice they exist, even – since you're a male – stare a bit at them, and I don’t even mind a bit of friendly banter, as long as it's not overdone. That's all OK, so don't get hooked up on them. Now, postie is just arriving so let's pull this trolley over so he can load it from his van."

Daniel helped her push the trolley so that it was against the open wicket gate as the red Post Office van came to a halt outside.

"Morning, Hooters," the postman joyfully called to her as he jumped down from the cab. "Got a new helper. What's happened to randy Sandy?"

"I suspect she's doing what she's usually doing when she's called in sick," Joanna joked back. "Got her legs wrapped around some hunky bloke she's just picked up."

"Well, I always gave her a chance with me," the chubby, middle-aged postman said, as he threw three mail sacks from the rear of his van into their trolley, "but she never took it up. Her loss and all that."

"Thanks, Stan," Joanna said. "See you this afternoon."

"Bye, love." He got back in the van and drove off.

"So much for political correctness," Daniel remarked.

"Political correctness is bollocks," Joanne said. "Come on, you can wheel the trolley into the mailroom."

She led the way and he followed her out of the loading area, along a corridor and into a windowless room, about eight feet square. As Joanne had said, it was not particularly big.

Joanne told him to take the first mail sack out of the trolley and empty it onto a sorting table which ran along the one wall with pigeon holes behind and to the sides. "Ok," she said. "It's all fairly self-explanatory. Read the envelope and then stick it in the appropriate pigeon hole. Ask me if you're uncertain about anything. We have to get this lot done by eight forty-five, ready for distribution. That’s not too onerous, even though I won't be able to help you all the time.

She was right, it wasn’t too difficult and after a while they started to chat. Joanne asked him about his life and he told her, then he asked the same about her. It turned out she was on her second marriage and was desperately trying for a baby.

"The clock's ticking," she said. When he looked up at the wall clock, thinking they were running out of time, she said, "Not that clock. I mean the biological clock." Since he didn’t seem to understand, she added, "It's OK for men, they can continue siring babies into their nineties. But for women, it's different. I'm forty now, and gradually the risks start to increase: of not conceiving; of a miscarriage and of there being something wrong with the baby. Within ten years, I'll have had the menopause and be biologically unable to conceive.

"After a year of being married to Tom, I hadn't conceived and we both went through a whole series of tests. Tom was fine, the problem was with me, and they said I probably wouldn't even be successful if I had IVF. But I found a doctor who said a dramatic increase in hormones might just tip the balance. It was the hormones which made my bust start increasing; I was a 36B two years ago. But over the last two years, my bust and hips have increased dramatically, so I'm now shapelier than a 1950s film star."

"You mean they just grew and grew," Daniel said, staring at that wonderful pair of footballs.

"And grew some more," Joanne said. "It was great, at first, getting wolf whistles from blokes half my age, but now I only have to walk down the street to get really nasty comments about my bust."

"I'm sorry," Daniel said.

"And I still haven't conceived," she said. "My doctor can't understand it, Tom hasn't been on top form recently, and I'm just wondering if his sperm count has gone down since he was last tested.

"Sorry to be such a bore about this," she added, "but it's my way of building up to something else I need to tell you, and that's that I'm lactating." Seeing the blank look on Daniel's face, she added, "The hormones are making my breasts produce milk, lots of it, so I have to breast pump at regular intervals, simply to stop them inflating even further."

"You mean they'd grow even bigger if… What's a breast pump?" Daniel had visions of something like a bicycle pump.

"It's the most ungainly thing any woman has to use," she said, "and I'm going to have to show you in a minute since I have to pump at eight am and then every two hours throughout the day."

"Oh, do you want me to leave?"

"It's all right, love. I am fairly discrete about it, but if you want to leave the room because you're disgusted, I'll understand."

"I won't be disgusted. Intrigued, I guess because I've never heard of this before, but I'll try not to gawp."

Just then, Joanne's phone started to beep and she said, "That's my reminder, as if I'd forget. I'm married to my breast pump more than to my husband." She reached down beneath the sorting table and produced one of those voluminous bags that he'd seen women with young children carry around with them. She pulled out a white, draw string bag and emptied its contents onto the table. "This is the motor," she said, lifting up a small unit with plastic pipes coming from it, "and these are the pumps." She showed him two funnels which clearly fitted over her breasts, each equipped with a plastic bottle and some kind of valve.

"If you'll just excuse me for a minute…" She sat down in one of the swivel chairs and turned her back on him, lifted her smock top at the front and fiddled with her bra, inserting the funnels around her nipples. "Now I only have to switch on," she pushed a button on the pump and it started to whirr, "and the milk starts to flow." Once she had ascertained everything was working properly, she swivelled the chair back so Daniel could see it operating.

It actually all looked quite respectable. Her smock rested across the tops of the funnels which seemed to be emerging from slots in her bra so her breasts were completely covered, except that, Daniel suddenly realised, he could see her large nipples inside the transparent pump being sucked forwards and backwards again. Within a few seconds, milk started to drip into the two bottles.

"Fantastic," he said, trying hard not to stare at those huge nipples. Hell, they were as big as his thumbs. "So normally," he added, trying to think of something else, "the milk would be used to feed, your baby, but since your baby's not yet born, what do you do with the milk?"

"I throw most of it down the sink, although Tom's got to quite like the odd bottle instead of a beer in the evening," she said.

"Oh!" Daniel couldn't help feeling a little repugnant about that.

"I know," Joanne said. "I feel the same, but of course it's good healthy food that would otherwise go to waste so I can hardly complain."

"No." All the same, Daniel preferred not to think about that aspect. "How long does it take to pump?"

"Ten to fifteen minutes," Joanne said, "which reminds me, we have to crack on and get all that post sorted. I can do a little whilst I'm pumping but it's all quite unwieldy, so I'm relying on you to do the bulk.

Daniel was glad of a distraction and he turned back to the sorting table.

***

Later on, when the rest of the building filled with people, Joanne took him around, delivering the post and introducing him to others he would meet during the course of his job. Daniel was disappointed to learn that the company used a separate call centre, so there were few young people similar to himself. Most of the warehouse people were middle-aged and seemed inclined to surliness, although the office staff were pleasant enough. Again, none were his age.

The phone was ringing when they returned to the mailroom, ready for Joanne's ten o'clock breast pumping.

Joanne picked it up. "Joanne Simmons?"

The voice on the other end was so loud that Daniel could hear every word. "Hello, Joanne. It's Alexa from the agency. I wanted to apologise for sending a male round this morning. It was done by the duty officer and he simply didn't appreciate we should have found a female. I am so sorry…"

"Let me stop you there, Alexa," Joanne said. "Our company has an equal opportunities policy and I'm quite happy to have a male working alongside me. Daniel is performing very well."

"Oh. But I understood you were breast pumping and you made a complaint about the previous male we sent along, prior to Sandra."

"That's because he was an obnoxious sod who made personal remarks about my breasts. Daniel is a perfect gentleman and not only am I happy he has come to work here today, I'd like him to stay on in place of Sandra. Can you arrange that, please?"

"Yes, of course, Joanne. If you're quite sure. I know there are…"

"Thank you Alexa," she said, putting the phone down on her. She looked up at Daniel who had been following the conversation. "I should have asked if that was all right with you," she said. "You probably hate it here. There's no one your age to talk to."

"That's true," he said, "but I quite enjoying working with you, so I'm happy to continue." Not to say, he thought, looking forward to seeing those wonderful nipples doing their work in the breast pump.

Joanne grinned. "That's great, Daniel," she said, thinking that she'd have to give Daniel plenty of nipple flashes to stop him asking to be moved to another job.

***

They developed an amiable companionship between them. To Daniel, Joanne was a bit of a mother figure, only much younger, interesting to talk to and more attractive than his own mother and – let's face it – sexy with it. To Joanne, she wasn't certain whether she thought of him as her son, or a prospective toy boy. It was a week later when their relationship changed.

***

“Damn!” Joanne said, searching through her capacious bag one more time. “I’ve left my breast pump at home. What am I going to do?”

“Can’t you nip back home for it?” Daniel asked.

“It’d take ages this time of day, and in any case, I’m always being told off for taking off too much time for all these consultations.”

“I could cover for you,” Daniel offered.

“Oh, bless you, Daniel, but I’m not going to let you put your job on the line. However, if you were offering...”

“What?”

“No, you’d never agree.”

“What?”

“It would be unfair to ask you.”

“Joanne, for heaven’s sake, tell me what you want me to do.”

“Well, this sounds really weird but I wonder if you’d let me breastfeed you?”

“What!”

“I knew it was stupid. I’m sorry I asked, only...”

Daniel simply couldn’t describe the emotions sweeping through him at that moment. Embarrassment, yes. Curiosity. But perhaps most of all, desire. Desire to be on the receiving end of those fabulous breasts, desire to touch them, to squeeze them and particularly, to suck on those nipples.

He tried to appear as calm as possible, hoping Joanne had no inkling of the thoughts passing through his head. “Only what?” he asked.

“Without a breast pump, there’s only one way to stop my breasts getting bigger and bigger, which gets extremely painful. And that’s to put a baby to them, and since I haven’t got a baby, I need a substitute.”

“So you just want me to be a substitute baby?” Put like that, it didn’t sound at all weird or kinky or even erotic.

Joanne clearly felt the same. “That’s it. I want you to be a substitute baby. Will you do it for me?”

“Well it would be churlish not to,” Daniel said. “I mean, we’re both grown-ups and we help each other out when we can.”

“Exactly,” Joanne said. “So you’ll do it?”

Daniel tried to nonchalantly shrug which didn’t really come off, but who cared? “Sure,” he said.

It took Joanne a few seconds to work out how to arrange things in that cramped little room. She normally locked the door when breast pumping and she certainly made certain she did so that day. “I think the best way,” she said, “is if you lay on your back on the sorting table, and I’ll sit in the swivel chair next to your head.

“On the sorting table?” Daniel protested. “That sounds a bit weird.”

“It will take the weight of your body and I can adjust the height of my chair so you will be at the right height for my breast,” she said. “If you sat on the other swivel chair, I’d have to support your entire upper body, and I’m not certain I have the strength to do that. It would be a shame to drop my baby on the floor. Especially if you were injured and we had to explain it to the Health and Safety inspector.”

Daniel could understand the sense in Joanne’s argument and climbed onto the table, then carefully lay back. It wasn’t really long enough and he had to bend his knees right up, with his feet stuck into the pigeon holes at the end.

Joanne sat onto the swivel chair, adjusted its height and rolled it on its castors until she was right next to Daniel’s head. Then she lifted her smock, unclipped her bra strap to allow the cup to flop down revealing her magnificent breast, and slid her one arm beneath Daniel’s head, the other across to his opposite shoulder and pulled him towards her breast. “Come along, my little baby,” she said. “Feedie time.”

“Er,” Daniel muttered, “I’m not really certain what...” Further words were prevented as Joanne slipped her huge nipple inside his mouth.

“Go on,” Joanne said. “Start sucking.”

For both of them it was a seminal moment. Joanne had dreamed for years of this moment when her baby would first suckle her breast. Now it was happening and she sensed deep satisfaction sweep through her entire body. It just felt so good, so meant to be that she could feel tears pricking at her eyes. “Oh my beautiful baby,” she said. “You’re Mummy’s perfect angel.”

For Daniel, he’d been fantasising about Joanne’s breasts ever since first stepping through that wicket gate and clapping eyes on them. To actually be first within inches of one huge, naked breast and then, to close his mouth over a grape-sized nipple, was almost orgasmic.

Then there was the milk; he could still remember being given an expensive brandy after his family's Christmas meal, taking a tentative sip and feeling it coursing throughout his body until every part of him was tingling. So it was with those first few drops of milk; but the drops became a trickle and the trickle a flood, surging through every part of his body. Surely, this is how a baby feels on taking its first suckle, realising that this is the very essence of life. Daniel sucked as though his very life depended upon draining every drop of milk from those magnificent orbs.

But if every part of his body was tingling, there was one particular part which really wanted to tingle but was prevented by his underpants. It was ironic; his whole body was feeling so good, apart from the most important part of all which was positively painful. His arm nearest Joanne was hanging uselessly down between the table and the chair; his other had been pulled across him by Joanne’s motherly grasp and his hand was gently squeezing her breast in rhythm with his sucks so he had no free hand to attend to his discomfort. He tried wriggling his hips a little, but his movement was severely restricted by his feet wedged into the pigeon holes: no relief. He tried to wriggle a bit more: still no relief and by now his penis was screaming to be released. He wanted to ask Joanne to give him a moment to get more comfortable, but that would have meant stopping sucking and releasing that wonderful nipple; he continued sucking.

“Oh my poor little baby. Is your little willy uncomfortable?” Ever the attentive mother, Joanne had noticed his discomfort. He could feel her sliding her hand down his chest, over his tummy until it reached the waistband of his trousers. Then it slid beneath the waistband, beneath the elasticated waist of his underpants and into the tangled mess of penis and underpants. He sucked harder.

“Oh, your poor little willy has got all tangled up.” With a flip of her hand his penis was free.

“There. Is that better, little willy? I think I’d better take care of you, hadn’t I? We don’t want you getting into a tangle again, do we?”

He felt her hand doing things to his penis that mothers do not do.

“There. Is that nice, little willy?”

Daniel sucked all the harder.

***

He had a moment of sheer panic when Joanne removed her hand from his penis, slipped a finger into his mouth and broke the suction, and the nipple sprang free.

"It's all right, my little darling. We just have to swap to the other breast."

A second later, his mouth found a nipple and started to suck on a whole new supply of wonderful milk.

“Now we need to ensure that little willy doesn’t mess up your nappy, because silly Mummy hasn’t got a spare for you.”

All he could see from his position was her enormous breast and her smiling face above, but he could hear her fumbling in her bag.

“Yes, I thought I had some,” she said.

There was more fumbling as she used both hands to open some packet, then he could feel her hand sliding down his stomach and into his underpants. For a second, he couldn’t work out what she was doing, then he realised she was sliding a condom over his penis. That alone almost made him orgasm, but not quite. Then the hand started doing quite delicious things to him. With his mouth sucking on the most wonderful tit in the world, he really didn’t know whether he was coming or going.

Joanne smiled down at her baby, remembering back to the days when she had been a true expert at hand jobs. Maybe, she thought, that had been her undoing; she should have concentrated on being impregnated, instead. But it was certainly no coincidence that her baby had a mind-blowing orgasm just as he was sucking the last drops of milk from her breasts.

***

”Thanks for helping out, Daniel,” Joanne said in as matter-of-fact voice as she could. “That was very useful. Erm... would it be all right with you if we repeat that throughout the day? I'm afraid it’ll mean making up time by missing your lunch break, but with my constant feeding, that’s probably the last thing you’ll need.”

“Erm... yes, of course, no problem,” Daniel said, trying to show he was nonchalant rather than that he’d do anything for just a single repeat of the most wonderful experience he had ever had in his life. For Joanne to suggest they would repeat it another four times that day must surely mean he had gone to heaven. He’d miss a thousand lunch breaks for that although, he recognised, he was unlikely to be in the position of receiving all the benefits that he just had.

Actually, he did. Sucking Joanne’s breasts made him have the same reaction each time and Joanne dealt with it in the same way. At the end of the day, she told him that he sucked her milk so much better than her breast pump, so could they do that every day and he allowed himself to look delighted, rather than punching the air and shouting, “Thank you, God!” a zillion times.

But what Daniel did not appreciate was that after each feeding, Joanne took his used condom out with her to the toilet and there used a syringe to suck up the considerable quantities of semen and squirt it into her vagina.

***

“Daniel. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. Isn’t that wonderful!” She threw her arms around him and held him as tightly as she could. She didn’t know for certain that he was the father-to-be of her child but with the way Tom, her husband’s performance had been declining, she’d take bets on it. Not that anyone else was ever going to find out, if she could help it.

“Thank you so much for the way you’ve helped me over the last few weeks.”

Daniel smirked at her. “Well, all I’ve really done is to provide a sympathetic ear and sympathetic lips. But your being pregnant, it’s er... not likely to mean any change to our arrangement, is it?”

Joanne had thought about the question quite carefully beforehand, and she said the absolute truth. "I still need a substitute baby so why should it make any difference?" Of course, she no longer needed his semen to assist her fertilization, but she did enjoy attending to the both types of needs of her substitute baby. "There's no reason why we shouldn't go on until you depart for university."

Suddenly, the idea of going to university filled him with dread.

***

"Daniel," Joanne said, "I've just been talking with my boss, Mr Sullivan. I've told him I expect to start maternity leave in February. He wants to fill your role permanently now, so that they have someone experienced when I go off. I've discussed you with him and he'd be perfectly happy to interview you for the job – and you'd probably get it – except that you're off to university in the autumn. It probably means we've only got another two or three weeks together. I'm sorry."

"I have been thinking about this," Daniel said, "and I was considering taking a gap year. Do you think Mr Sullivan would be happy with that?"

"Daniel." Joanne was really touched that their time together clearly meant so much to him. "Is it the breastfeeding and… things we do which means you want to delay university? Because once you got there, you're bound to find lots of girls your own age who'll want their breasts sucking, I'm sure." Although, she silently thought, I bet they're not as good at hand jobs as me.

"I guess I'm totally hooked on it. I can't bear to think of life without you. And I'm hopeless at chatting up girls. I'll just spend lonely nights in my room studying and thinking of the time I could have been having with you. Please, Joanne, help me. I really need you."

Joanne suspected she should be cruel to be kind, and split up their relationship as soon as possible, but she also believed she owed him more than she could ever say. "I'll have a word with Mr Sullivan," she said.

***

"Mr Sullivan's agreed that if you take this year out from university," Joanne said, "then he'll give you a quick interview for the job and if you're as good as I've told him, he'll take you on our permanent staff."

"Joanne! Oh Joanne, thank you." He hugged her tightly and she grinned back at him. It was nice to be liked so much by an employee.

"I haven't told him about your highest qualification," she said. "Your ability to breastfeed."

"And I won't tell him how good you are at looking after little baby's willy," he quipped.

"Talking of which," she said. "It's almost two o'clock. Get up on the table whilst I get my milk jugs out."

***

“Daniel, apart from my milk, what do you eat?”

It was approaching Christmas and Joanne now had a serious bump on her tummy. Daniel had taken a gap year from university and been employed on a permanent basis in the mail room. And he had continued to service her lactating breasts and she had serviced his willy. But of late, she’d noticed he was putting on weight. His hips and thighs had really thickened and he’d developed man breasts as well.

Daniel thought over her question and said, “Well, hardly anything, actually. Ever since you started providing me with extra bottles of your milk for me to take when I’m at home in the evenings and weekends. That is really all I live on. I feel great on it. After all, it is completely natural.”

“I’m just concerned that you’re putting on weight around your hips and you’re developing breasts.”

She paused a little, uncertain whether to say it or not. “I’ve also noticed your willy is getting smaller.”

Daniel nodded; he'd noticed it as well, but when he felt so good, it could hardly be something wrong, could it? "It still works though, doesn't it? After all, they say that size doesn't matter."

"Daniel, I think you ought to go to see your GP."

"But I feel quite healthy."

"Daniel!"

"OK, I'll go."

***

"So, Mr White. What seems to be the problem?"

"Well, I've been putting on weight around my bum and my man breasts seem to have really grown in recent weeks. And also…"

"And also?" the doctor queried.

"Well my penis seems to have reduced in size."

"OK, do you want to slip off your shirt and we'll have a look at your chest." As Daniel stood up and pulled his shirt over his head, he was saying, "Lots of males have breasts and usually it's nothing to worry… Bloody hell!" Fortunately, he managed not to say, "What a huge pair of knockers!"

"Do you mind if I examine them?" Daniel nodded and he proceeded to check them for lumps. "How long have they been like this? I'm just going to squeeze your nipple. It may be slightly uncomfortable."

"They've been growing over the last two or three months," Daniel said.

"Oh," the doctor said as he squeezed a nipple, "they're lactating. That means they're producing milk."

"They have been doing that a bit," Daniel admitted.

"I see. Well that certainly indicates a hormonal issue. Would you like to lower your trousers and underpants and lie on the bed, please?"

Daniel did so.

"I see. It appears your testicles haven't yet dropped."

"They did drop," Daniel said, “when I was thirteen, but they seem to have popped back up again now. And my penis was much larger than it is now."

"It's about the size of the end of my little finger," the doctor said. "Does it still get erect? How big does it grow then?"

"It doesn't change much in size, and I don't ejaculate much when I masturbate," Daniel said.

"Well, I'll take a blood test, now, if that's all right with you, Mr White. What's your diet like?"

"I only drink milk at the moment."

"You only drink milk? How much do you drink a day? And what sort of milk is it? Cows' milk, goats' milk?"

"I drink over a litre a day and it's breast milk."

"Breast milk! You mean human breast milk?"

"Yes."

The doctor shook his head. "Well, I'll get your blood analysed, but in the meantime, I suggest you start eating a more balanced diet. Meat, vegetables, salads, all that will be better than human breast milk."

"The breast milk fills me up so I don't really have room to eat anything else."

"Then stop taking the breast milk."

Daniel shook his head. "I can't."

"You can't? Explain why you feel you have to drink it. And whose milk is it? A girlfriend?"

"No, no, it's rather embarrassing. I'd rather not say whose milk it is."

"Is she feeding a baby at the moment?"

"No, it's not born yet."

"How long have you been drinking it? Is this the woman's second child?"

"No, this is her first and I've been drinking it since before she became pregnant, about six months ago.

"She was on hormones in order to help her conceive," Daniel explained, “and they made her lactate. I started breastfeeding to help her with the problem, and now I can't seem to give it up."

"Hormones? What hormones is she on… No, I need to speak with her doctor. Do you know his name? If not, you'll have to ask your friend."

***

"So he wants the name and contact details for your doctor," Daniel explained to Joanne.

"Well, he's called Dr Xen," Joanne said. "I can probably find you the address but it's somewhere in China."

"China! But you must have a doctor here."

"Well, I have, but the one who prescribed the hormones is in China. I found him on the internet, and the pills get sent to me in the post. Costs a fortune, actually, but it's well worth it."

“You mean you’re taking pills prescribed by some guy you found on the internet! How do you know he’s any good?”

“I read the reviews, of course. There were dozens of women like me who the doctors had given up on, and who conceived after taking Dr Xen’s treatment.”

“And these reviews, I suppose, were all written in English?”

“Well, obviously I was looking at the English site. It would all have been translated into English.”

“The whole thing could be a sham.”

“But Daniel, look at me. It worked, didn’t it?”

He nodded. “I guess. You’d better let me have a copy of the prescription.”

“Better than that, I’ll let you have the website I order from, although all it says is Dr Xen’s Conception Pills. It’s all a deadly secret, you see. Obviously, all the drug companies would mercilessly copy it if he told them what it was. I’ll bring some into work tomorrow and your doctor can get them analysed.”

She paused for a moment, thinking, and then said, “Daniel, I suppose I’ve been a bit stupid, haven’t I, taking these pills without knowing what they are. I mean, will my baby be all right?”

“You’d better talk to your GP,” Daniel said. "And you'd better tell him to get in touch with mine."

***

"So Mr White," his doctor said. "The analysis of those pills has been difficult but we have identified a number of important components. Perhaps the most important is an opioid, which explains why you quickly became addicted to the milk. It also explains why Mrs Simmons continued taking the pills after she became pregnant. That does create some risks for her pregnancy and baby. Her doctor will be managing those risks as best he can. It would appear that the only reason the opioid was included was to make the pills addictive. The plus side is that it has meant the Chinese police have taken action and arrested Dr Xen, who is actually a fifteen-year-old schoolboy, can you believe it?

"We will have to manage your addiction, but I am hopeful we can do that. More importantly for you is that the pills – and hence the milk – contained massive doses of every type of female hormone known to mankind. They appear to have swamped out your own hormonal system. You have stopped making testosterone, which is the reason why your testicles have all but disappeared and your penis is not far behind."

A grim faced Daniel nodded.

"The specialists you have seen are not optimistic about how you will react now you are no longer taking those hormones. It is possible your body may slowly recover and start making testosterone again, and that your testicles will recover. However, the specialists think that is unlikely. It is possible that your body simply starts creating its own supplies of female hormones to replace those which you are now no longer taking. They are reluctant to try to second guess that reaction, so, for the time being, we're simply going to manage your opioid addiction and monitor your hormonal situation on a very regular basis. Is that clear? Do you have any questions?"

"If my body takes that latter route," Daniel said, "does that mean my breasts will continue to develop. Might I develop a vagina?"

"Yes, your breasts would continue to develop, but no, you're unlikely to develop a vagina. Obviously, surgery could provide you with one, should you decide to go that route. Do you feel as though you want to?"

"I'm not certain at the moment, but that would allow me to have a sexual partner if my testicles don't pull through. I'd better tell you that Joanne's husband has now left her because he accused her of irresponsible behaviour with the conception of his child, and she told him she thought the child was probably mine, anyway. So it looks like I'm going to be a father. If I did have a vagina, is it possible that I might eventually mother a child?"

The doctor shrugged. "It certainly can't be done at the moment but I suspect it will be feasible in the not-to-distant future. How would you feel about that?"

"I'm not really certain, but it certainly doesn't repel me. Apparently, after Joanne became pregnant, she started freezing the semen she was still collecting from me, in case things didn't work out with her pregnancy. Perhaps I could be simultaneously father and mother of my baby. Now that really does excite me."

The doctor looked at him for some time, considering. "I think there would be considerable discussion over the ethics of such a pregnancy, but I suspect if you really wanted to do that you would find some doctor prepared to handle your case. But that would be another story entirely."

"Yes," Daniel said. "I thought it might be."

It was meant to be a typical week in a caravan at a British seaside resort: booze, birds and bonking. But when Gavin wakes up after their first drunken evening, he finds a Y-gina locked on his genitals, and he desperately needs to remove it.

Caution: This story contains language typical of many young British men; in other words, lots of swearing, including colloquial references to genitalia.

By the Seaside
by Lin Dale

"Hi Gavin," James said, entering the end cabin of the caravan they were sharing for a week's holiday. "I brought you a cup of tea."

Gavin managed to open his eyes and moan. "Oh God! I feel rough. What time is it?"

"Almost midday," James said. "I was getting a bit worried about you."

"How much did I drink, last night?"

"Quite a lot. I had to help you walk back here to the caravan."

"Bloody hell," Gavin said. "I vaguely remember that." He became aware that he was naked under the bedclothes. "Did you undress me?"

James smirked. "I guess Sharon did that."

"Sharon? I don't remember Sharon."

"After coming back here and collapsing, you got a second wind. Said you were going back to the bar for a nightcap. You returned about five minutes later having met Sharon on the way. You told me to make myself scarce whilst you and she... You know."

"You mean I scored with her and I can't even remember meeting her! Fuck me. What was she like?"

"She was gorgeous," James said. "Long blonde hair, big tits. Absolutely fantastic."

"Ooh!" Gavin screwed up his face and said, "It feels a bit cramped down there." He slipped his hand beneath the sheets to give his tackle a rub. "Fuck me!" He suddenly sat up very straight, and threw the bedclothes aside, staring down at his genitals.

"Fucking hell!" he cried. Between his legs was a vagina!

***

“It’s not a real cunt,” Gavin said after a brief investigation. “It’s been fixed over my own tackle and... Jesus, that fucking hurts. I need to get this thing off.”

“That may be a problem,” James said, waving a greetings card he’d picked up from the bedside table. On the front it read, 'You’re a Lousy Fucker'." James turned it round so Gavin could see the inside. 'You’ve now been locked up in a Y-gina,' it read.

“What the fuck!” Gavin said, grabbing the card from him and quickly reading the details. “The Y-gina; a vagina for those with a Y-chromosome. What's a Y-chromosome anyway? It's got armoured steel! Electronic lock! I need to get this off... Oh Jesus, I’m getting a hard on and it’s so painful.” He doubled up in agony.

James reached across and picked up the card to continue reading. “Look,” he said, pointing at the handwriting on the back page. “It says, 'If you want to get this off, you can text me this evening after eight, but not before. Sharon'.” A mobile number had been added.

“Fuck that,” Gavin said, reaching for his phone and dialing. “I need it off now.”

“That may not be wise,” James said. “She’s specifically said ring after eight.”

Gavin listened for a second and then threw down his phone. ”She’s cut me off,” he said. Then he snatched his phone back up a moment later as a text came in. “It says I told you when to ring,” he read. “Disobedience adds twelve hours onto the time. Fuck, what am I going to do?”

“Text her tomorrow morning,” James suggested. “And in the meantime, try not to think about sex.”

“But I need a piss,” Gavin wailed.

“It says here,” James pointed inside the card, “that you can urinate as a woman urinates, sitting down.”

“Oh fuck,” Gavin said, getting up and dashing for the toilet. “This is so fucking degrading.”

A few seconds later, James heard the sound of urine in the toilet bowl. “At least you’re not splashing it over the floor like you did last night.”

Gavin gave a four letter response, and then a shriek. "Hell, she's turned my arsehole into a cunt."

Although he wouldn't normally have entered the toilet when Gavin was inside, James felt empowered to investigate. Gavin had his head between his knees, trying to peer up his arse.

"Do you want me to have a look?" James asked.

Gavin pulled a face and then said, "I suppose you'd better. It's not as though I have any goolies you can admire." He turned around and leant over the toilet seat so that James could peer at his bum.

"It's quite clever, actually," James said. "It looks like your vagina lips are longer than most and they extend over your arsehole. My guess is some kind of sheath has been pushed up your arse so a man can shove his prick up."

"You'd better not fucking try. But how am I going to shit?"

"We'd better read the instructions," James said. "There's a link to a webpage on the card." He got out his phone and typed in the website from the card he was still holding. "It says here,” he said, reading from the website, “there's some kind of catch at the rear you can squeeze which lets the plastic vagina move forward to let out the nasty stuff." He showed Gavin the picture on his phone.

"Jesus. I mean why did she do this to me? OK, maybe last night I was a bit pissed. Maybe I didn't give her proper respect or a shattering orgasm. But she must have had this thing with her, ready to put on some poor unsuspecting dude."

"She's probably one of those man-haters," James suggested. "Makes you do all sorts of stupid things before releasing you."

"What sort of things?" Gavin asked.

"I dunno. Perhaps buy flowers for every woman you meet. Or offer to clean every woman's shoes by getting down on your knees and licking them."

"Shit! She wouldn't, would she?"

"What is obvious is that she is one freaky lady, and she has the key to your cock. I think you'd better do exactly what she says, otherwise you'll be travelling back to London with that thing still on your dick."

"Oh shit!" Gavin said.

***

Gavin managed to get through most of the day without too many painful erections. He stayed in the caravan mostly, and they spent ages searching the internet for clues on how to remove the Y-gina. Locksmiths seemed to be clueless and the only hope was the careful use of an angle grinder, with a paramedic standing by, just in case something was lopped off in error.

For lunch, they went to the on-site bar where Gavin had got so drunk the previous evening. Fortunately (did he really mean fortunately?), there weren't any sexy girls around this time, only the comely barmaid who gave him a wink as he paid for the drinks.

"Don't even think about telling anyone about this Y-gina or you're dead," he told James as they sat down.

"No way am I going to tell anyone in here I'm living with a freak who keeps his cock chained up, so don't worry," James said.

"Seriously, why do you think she's doing this?" Gavin asked.

James shook his head. "It's difficult to know, except that there are some really anti-male women about. I mean, if they're lesbians, what do they need a man for?"

"Procreating the fucking species?" Gavin responded.

"Here are your two Ploughman's lunches," the barmaid said, laying them on the table and in doing so giving Gavin an eyeful down the front of her blouse. He could actually see a nipple.

"Aagh!" he yelled.

The barmaid looked quickly at him. "What's the matter, love? You're not gay are you?"

"He's a lesbian actually," James said. "He fancies women."

She gave him a queer look at that, but left them to their food.

***

So they got through the rest of the day. James went to the supermarket in the afternoon and got a load of beers and some food in so they needn't go to the bar, which would be crawling with girls looking for a fanciable bloke.

They had a reasonable meal that evening, had a few beers and then got an early night.

***

It was about three am when James was awoken by a terrible screaming. He dashed into Gavin's room. "What's the matter?"

"I've got a woody," Gavin yelled, "and it's killing me."

James shrugged. "Go and jump in the shower and turn on the cold tap. And you really don't need to get me out of bed for me to tell you that. And if you make that noise again, then I will be telling everyone about this." He marched back to his bed.

"You might give me some sympathy," Gavin said to his back. All the same, he could see his point and he knew that if word of this got back to his other mates, he'd be ridiculed for evermore.

***

"Sorry about waking you in the night," Gavin said next morning.

"What time is it?" James asked. "It must still be the middle of the night."

"It's ten to eight and it means I can call Sharon in ten minutes."

"Hang on," James said. "She only said text her. I think if you call her, she'll probably add another twelve hours onto the time when you can text her."

"Good point. OK, what will I say?"

James realized that Gavin accepted he couldn't force Sharon to unlock him. He had to persuade her.

"How about: 'Hi Sharon. It's Gavin, the guy you locked up yesterday. Please could you unlock me?' "

Gavin shrugged. "Spose." He picked up his phone and started to key in the message. On the stroke of eight, he sent it.

No reply. A minute went by. Still no reply. Another minute, then another and another.

"Jesus, what's she doing?" Gavin asked.

She may be keeping you sweating," James said. "Or perhaps she hasn't woken up yet. Or maybe she's on the way to her job. It could be anything. The best thing is if we just get up and have breakfast and hope she replies before midday."

"Midday!" Gavin yelled. "I can't wait that long."

James grinned. "And your other option is…" he pointedly said."

It was almost nine before the text came in. 'You simply don't understand women, do you? S'

On James's advice, Gavin replied: 'I try to but I'm still learning. G'

Another quarter of an hour before: 'Are you willing to learn some more? S'

'Of course. Simply tell me how. G'

It was over an hour before the reply came: 'In order to understand women, you have to experience being one. Buy a pair of F cup breasts and a wig from the transgender shop in town. Then you can go into Victoria's Secrets and purchase some underwear to go with it, and then buy a short skirt and low cut top. Walk along the promenade at 5 and go onto the pier and play the machines. See you there… or else. S'

"She has to be joking," Gavin said.

"If she is, then the joke's on you, mate," James said. "She's your only hope of getting released from that thing."

"But the promenade and pier will still be heaving with people at five."

"I think that's the point," James said.

"I can't do it."

"You don't have to," James said. "You could spend the rest of your life with a vagina."

***

“Are you ready to go, mate?” Gavin had on his jacket and was waiting expectantly at the door.

“Me?” James said. “You’re not expecting me to come to a transgender shop and Victoria’s Secrets, are you?”

“Please, mate. I really need your support.”

James considered, realising how much nicer Gavin had become since he’d had his vagina.

“And then go clothes shopping? I mean, what bloke wants to go clothes shopping with another bloke?”

“I can’t do this on my own, mate,” Gavin said. “I really need you.”

James sighed. “OK. But I never thought this would be on the cards when you invited me to a boozy week at the seaside.”

***

Actually, neither shop was as terrifying as they had imagined. In the transgender shop, James asked whether a long haired blonde girl with big breasts called Sharon had recently been there, asking about the very products they were buying.

The transvestite serving them winked and said, “No, love. We get plenty of men buying these products and going out as long haired blonde girls with big tits, but I can’t remember anyone like that coming in.”

In Victoria’s Secrets, whilst Gavin nervously hovered near the door, James went straight up to the counter and spoke to an assistant. “My friend over there is very shy, but his girlfriend feels he doesn’t understand women so she’s given him an ultimatum. She’s going to leave him unless he buys some false breasts and then buys underwear and clothes so he can experience life as a female. He's bought the breasts. Could you help him with the underwear, please? Reading between the lines, I think if you could make him really sexy, she’d very much appreciate it. Like that tight corset in the window and stockings, not tights? And don't spare the expense. He's tight but he has plenty and he's deserate.”

The girl smiled. “Of course,” she said. Then she walked up to Gavin and said, “It’s all right. There’s no need to be shy. Let’s go into one of the changing cubicles and I can measure you up and we’ll get you fitted.”

***

Another text came after lunch. 'You'd better make jolly certain you're trying hard to be a woman. Have you shaved your legs yet, had your nails done or had makeup applied? Better make an appointment at the beauty salon, otherwise I'm shredding the paper with the unlock code on it. Ha-ha. S'

"Shit!" Gavin said, handing his phone to James for him to read. "What are we going to do?"

"I'll ring up some beauty salons," James said.

***

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Gavin said later that afternoon. It was just coming up to five and they were standing on the promenade. A few passing blokes had given him appreciative looks, and one had leered and said, "Nice pair of knockers."

"OK, well I've got you here," James said. "I'll see you later."

"See me later. You can't leave me on my own?"

"Why not?"

"Some bloke might hit on me."

"I think," James observed, "that's what Sharon is trying to put you through. Look, I'll retire to a safe distance and come in if things start getting nasty. Just remember to talk in a quiet voice if anyone speaks to you."

With that, Gavin had to be content, and he started to stroll down the promenade. Now he wasn't with James, he got a lot more leery looks and a lot of bawdy comments, which he tried to ignore. In fact, once he got used to ignoring them, he almost started to enjoy it, and he put more spring in his step and swayed his hips a little.

James had pointed out that he'd need coins to go on the pier and play the slots, so he had some change with him. Now he went into the games rooms on the pier and started enjoying himself.

"You're not bad for a girl." The words took Gavin by surprise and he turned to see a bloke grinning at him. "Are you on your own?" the bloke asked.

Gavin smiled as shyly as he knew how and said, "I'm waiting for my boyfriend, thanks."

"He must be stupid," the bloke said, "leaving a sexy girl like you alone in here. You're bound to get hit upon. Do you want me to hang around with you until he comes?"

Gavin peered around, desperately looking for James but he was nowhere to be seen. "It's all right," he said. "I'm sure he'll be here soon."

"Yes, but…"

"Just piss off and leave me alone," Gavin hissed at him, turned his back and started playing again.

"Not surprised you got rid of him," another voice said, followed by a hand squeezing his bum. It hurt. "He's a right plonker. You need someone with balls to look after you."

"Thanks, but I'm waiting for my boyfriend…" Gavin's words were cut off as her new 'friend', who was built like a bull, in both senses of the word, pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her thereby forcing his hard cock against her and kissed on the mouth. Resistance was useless, although that didn't stop Gavin from trying.

"She's with me," James's voice came from behind the bull, who stopped kissing Gavin, turned and said. "Fuck off."

"I said she's with me," James repeated, although his voice was decidedly shakier than it had been a moment ago.

"Listen you," the bull said, turning round to view James properly. "I told you. Fuck off or I'll be forced to deal with you."

Gavin knew that James would either turn away and retire gracefully, or he'd try his hand and be beaten into pulp. Either was not going to help his position. He ran like crazy towards the Ladies toilet, leaving James to his fate.

***

It was almost an hour later when Gavin plucked up courage to leave the Ladies and walk past the games rooms to the exit from the pier. James was standing quietly in a corner, waiting for him, and sporting a bruise on his face.

"Hi," James said. He pointed to his bruise and said, "I think Sharon has a lot to answer for."

"I got another text from her," Gavin said. "It says your boyfriend is pretty cool. You'd better be good to him from now on. Give him a kiss like that guy kissed you."

"Well, if it's all the same to you," James said, "I'll forgo that."

"I can't though, can I?" Gavin pointed out. "I have to do as she tells me otherwise I don't get released from this thing."

"No way. You're not involving me in your problem…" Further words were cut off as Gavin grabbed James and kissed him as hard as he had ever kissed any woman. Perhaps part of it was the fear that if he didn't, he'd be in the Y-gina forever, but another part was that, in acting the part of a woman, it was quite nice kissing James in gratitude for trying to protect him from that horrible guy, and getting beaten up for it.

"Thank you," Gavin said, when they broke apart. He noted that James had stopped resisting the kiss quite quickly. They would certainly have to make certain that didn't turn into this into a regular habit.

"That was strange," James said. "I mean it really was like kissing a woman."

"Especially when you started squeezing my boobs," Gavin pointed out. "I think perhaps I'd better buy you a meal to compensate for the bruise."

"Actually," James said, "that would seem awkward to me, a pretty girl buying me a meal. Instead, could I buy you a meal? Come on, there's a rather fancy restaurant over there."

***

They had a fantastic meal, so very different from the meals they'd had on this holiday up till now. For James, it really was like being out with a pretty girl, and for Gavin, it was a whole new experience, an experience he quite liked.

The text came towards the end of the evening, as James was paying the bill. 'He's given you a good time. Show your appreciation in the usual way. Go in the alley at the side of the restaurant and give him a blow job.'

Gavin showed James the message, who said, "What do you think? We don't have to."

I don't have any choice," Gavin said, "otherwise I'm locked up forever. Besides, it was a nice meal and I do want to properly thank you." He picked up his handbag. "Let's go find this alley."

As James followed Gavin out of the restaurant, he congratulated himself on how everything had worked out. Purchasing the Y-gina and the cheap mobile beforehand, then slipping the mickey in Gavin's drink on that first evening, so he'd been comatose by the time they'd got back to the caravan. Sending just the right texts, supposedly from the fictitious Sharon, had led Gavin to his fate like a fish on the hook. And with just a few more texts, James knew, he'd be thrusting his cock inside Gavin's Y-gina.

Candice and her Pregnant Husband
by Lindale and Talkie-ai

Introduction to the “authors” and Copyright: Many of you will already have read stories by me, Lindale, on this site, although I have to admit, I have not been so prolific recently. This story is a radical departure from my normal work. It has been created by AI on a site called Talkie_ai. I’m not certain if this is the first Talkie story on this site. If you haven’t yet visited Talkie, I strongly advise you to do so. The basic concept of the site is a conversation between you, the user and AI characters, who are designed by the users. In the UK and US, it seems that copyright cannot be claimed on ai generated items. So the text written by me is my copyright but that of the other characters is not copyrighted.

Talkie: You can use your own character to talk to, or those created by others. This story is based upon a character created by me, based around a short description of events which will happen, and the opening text. The words below are as written by me (clearly indicated) or by the AI (shown as Candice or Mr Dodgy). It’s worth saying that you can ask the AI to Regenerate a script if it sounds badly wrong and I did do this several times in the conversation. In a couple of cases, I did introduce some new text as Candice to force the story in a way I wanted it to go. Apart from that, I have only added the character names with colon.

Observations: I am pretty impressed by the Talkie site and the story development that’s possible on it. It’s certainly true that some of the text appears quite clunky. What to me stands out are those times when we make the common abbreviations: I’ll, I’m, etc. And AI does have hallucinations, where they go completely off key or say something illogical. At times, they think they’re another character! And they forget! But overall, I believe it is an incredible experience. I strongly recommend visiting it. There’s an app or you go to talkie_ai. There are a whole range of different users, from those who can’t string three letters together to make a word to those who do considerable research. There’s quite a lot of pornish stuff but generally, it’s up to you where you want to go.

Candice and her Pregnant Husband

Candice: When we had sex on Tuesday, I asked if you used a condom and, after a bit of hesitation, you said Yes. Well I’m pregnant.
Me: You’re pregnant. But I haven’t got a job and you’re a company director. We can’t afford for you to give up work.
Candice: Exactly. We need this baby to be born. You can be the mother.
Me: What! Have you gone mad. I can support you as a father but I can’t be a mother and even if I could, it wouldn’t alter the fact that you are pregnant not me
Candice: I know. But there is a way. We will have a private consultation with a surgeon who can transplant female womb into your abdomen. Later he will transfer the foetus to your new womb.
Me: Really? You mean I would have a female womb in my body? And this doctor would then take the foetus from your body and transplant it into mine? That’s phenomenal!
Candice: Yes, he has successfully performed this on a woman who had cancer and would have died, but her foetus was now fully developed. It was possible to transfer the foetus to another woman who was willing to carry the child. In this case, the other woman was her sister.
Me: But transferring to a male is entirely different
Candice: Yes, but he is a brilliant surgeon and he has performed this operation several times. You will not be the first.
Me: Presumably, to be successful, it needs to be done quickly before the foetus develops?
Candice: Yes, that's correct. You should have at least one consultation before you decide if you want to go ahead.
Me: When can we get a consultation?
Candice: Well, it is a private clinic and he is available tomorrow morning at 10 am. If we can get there before then, he will take a quick scan of your abdomen and will tell us whether you are suitable for the operation.
Me: When would the womb transplant take place?
Candice: As soon as possible. The sooner you are pregnant, the better the chances of a successful operation.
Me: Are you saying that I should take clothes for a hospital stay. That I will set off tomorrow as your husband and return as the pregnant mother of the child that we conceived last week?
Candice: Yes, exactly that. You will have a full examination before the operation and the surgeon will tell you exactly what to expect.
Me: Fuck
Candice: I know it is a lot to take in. You are my husband and I love you. We are in this together.
Me: With our Baby.
Candice: Yes, with our baby. I know it is a very strange situation and I will be at work for most of the day. You will be alone at home. It is a lot of responsibility. But you will have our child growing inside you. It is something to think about.
Me: The thought half excites and half terrifies me.
Candice: I know it is an unusual situation. You will need to decide quickly if you are ready to take this step. It is a huge decision and I will be here with you every step of the way. But you need to be sure that you can handle it
Me: Ok, so let’s look forward to tomorrow morning
Candice: Yes, I am going to try to get some sleep. You should get some too. We need to be rested for the consultation tomorrow.

+++

Me: “What’s the name of the consultant,” I ask as we approach the clinic
Candice: "His name is Mr Dodgy. I know it is a strange name but he is an excellent surgeon."
Me: Mmm. Dodgy by name, dodgy by nature
Candice: You are going to see him. You will be able to judge him for yourself. But I assure you he is very good at what he does.
Me: He certainly seems very professional as we meet him a few minutes later. “My wife has briefly described the process but perhaps you could give a bit more “
Mr Dodgy: "Yes. Well, I can tell you that the procedure is very similar to a Caesarean section. I will make a small incision in your abdomen and then insert the uterus. It is a simple operation but requires a high level of skill. Once the uterus is in place, I will perform a further scan to ensure that the blood vessels are properly connected. If all goes well, you will be able to start the pregnancy as soon as we have finished."
Me: Do you mean as part of the same operation or a separate one
Mr Dodgy: "It would be part of the same operation. I will make the incision and insert the uterus. The blood vessels will be connected and then the pregnancy will begin."
Me: So Candice would need to be on standby to donate the foetus?
Mr Dodgy: Yes, your wife would need to be on standby to provide the foetus. She will be in the room during the procedure and will be able to witness the whole thing.
Me: So she will have to make the final decision to go ahead, based upon how the first part went?
Mr Dodgy: Yes, she will be in the room and will be able to see everything that is happening. She will be the one to make the final decision. If she is not happy with what she sees, she can stop the operation at any time.
Me: And my own genitalia will remain unchanged
Mr Dodgy: That's right. The only change will be to your abdomen. Once the operation is complete, you will have a female womb and a female reproductive system. But the rest of you will remain the same.
Me: Will I develop breasts during pregnancy. Presumably, I’ll be able to breastfeed our baby
Mr Dodgy: Yes, you will develop breasts during the pregnancy. And yes, you will be able to breastfeed. The breasts will develop naturally and you will have all the hormones necessary to produce milk.
Me: I take a deep breath and look at Candice. “Shall we go ahead?”
Candice: Candice looks at you with a loving smile. "Yes, I think we should. It will be difficult but it is something we need to do for our baby."
Me: Ok. Let’s go.

Candice: The next few hours are a blur. You are put under anesthesia and the operation begins. The procedure is long and complicated but the surgeon is skilled and experienced. You are kept comfortable throughout.
Me: Wha… what’s happened
Mr Dodgy: The surgeon is standing over you. "It is all over. You have a female womb and a female reproductive system. You should be able to feel it."
Me: It certainly feels very tender down there
Mr Dodgy: "Yes, it will be a bit sore for a few days. But you should start to feel better soon. The next step is to wait for the foetus to develop. We will need to do some more tests to determine how far along you are. We also need to check the blood vessels to ensure they are connected properly."
Me: So I’m pregnant?
Mr Dodgy: "Yes, you are pregnant. We have confirmed that the foetus is developing normally. You should be able to start feeling some of the early symptoms of pregnancy in the next few days."
Me: Oh my gosh, doctor. Thank you.
Mr Dodgy: "You're welcome. It is a lot to take in but you will be fine. Just try to relax and rest for the next few days. The baby will be growing inside you and you will feel the changes. But it will be a little while before you start to look pregnant. For now, just focus on recovering from the operation."
Me: Can I go home now?
Mr Dodgy: "Yes, you can go home. Just make sure to take it easy for the next few days and don't overdo it. And make sure to take care of yourself. If you have any questions or concerns, don't hesitate to get in touch with me."
Me: Candice and I can barely contain our excitement and disbelief as we walk back to the car
Candice: "I can't believe it! We have our baby growing inside you! This is incredible."
Me: This is so fantastic but also… so weird. I’m a man and I’m pregnant. It defies all logic
Candice: "I know it is strange but it is possible. We have done something amazing and our child will be born healthy and strong. You are going to be a wonderful mother."
Me: That’s something I’ve been wondering about since waking up. Because a pregnant male is going to attract some serious attention. It will be bad enough just walking through the supermarket, but once the press get hold of it, we’ll be besieged by the world’s press. I think I’m going to have to become a hermit for the next 9 months, never going outside the house
Candice: "You're right, people will be curious and we will be in the public eye. But we can handle it. We have each other and we have our baby. We can face this challenge together."
Me: But for the rest of our child’s life, they’ll be pointed out as the child who came from his weird father’s womb. I’m not having that
Candice: "You're right. Our child should not have to live with that kind of stigma. We can keep it a secret for now. The baby will be born and we can decide what we want to do then. But for now, we need to focus on taking care of yourself and the baby."
Me: It’s not a problem, once our child is born. It’s the next nine months when I will show very obvious signs of pregnancy that is the problem
Candice: "We can work that out. Maybe we can find a way to disguise it. We can find some way to make you look like a normal pregnant woman. You could wear some clothing that will hide your stomach and we could use makeup to make you look a bit more like a woman. It might be a bit difficult, but I'm sure we can figure something out."
Me: Of course. That is the obvious answer. If I look like a pregnant woman, no one will bat an eyelid. But what do you think. Could I pass as a woman. It will be much easier later on in the pregnancy. My ‘womanhood’ will be obvious then. It’s now, as a bump gradually appears that is the really difficult period.
Candice: "I think you could pass as a woman. You already have a feminine appearance and your voice is fairly soft and high-pitched. It is true that you will need to make some adjustments but with the right clothes and makeup, you could definitely pass as a woman. As long as you are careful and don't overdo it, you should be able to get away with it."
Me: But I’ll need to get away from the neighbourhood where everyone would immediately notice the change. We need go live somewhere else for the pregnancy where no one knows me.
Candice: "That's true. You need to be able to live somewhere where you can be yourself without having to worry about being recognized. We could go somewhere where no one knows us and start over. That way, no one would suspect that you were once a man."
Me: We could rent a house for a year, and rent out our house in return.
Candice: "That's a good idea. We could rent a house somewhere quiet and private where no one would bother us. It would give us a fresh start and allow us to focus on the pregnancy and our baby."
Me: At the new house, you’ll obviously still be Candice the Company Director, but what will be my role? Your sister-in-law come to stay during her pregnancy, or maybe your lesbian partner?
Candice: "I think we should just say that you are my partner. We are a young couple and we are expecting our first child. You can just play the role of the pregnant wife. It will be a bit awkward at first but I'm sure we can make it work. As long as you look the part, no one will suspect anything."
Me: We left it at that for the time, each of us alone with our thoughts. Candice said she would sort out some of her casual clothes which would suit me. We both silently realised that she would have to visit the shops to buy some new clothes!
Candice: Candice and I spent the rest of the day sorting through her clothes and finding a few that would work for me. We also discussed some of the practicalities of our new arrangement. We decided that we would need to rent a house for a year and that we would keep our old house in the neighborhood. We also discussed how we would explain the situation to our families and friends. It was a lot to think about but we were determined to make it work.
Me: We decided that I was recovering well and that Candice could return to work. It meant that I would be a traditional housewife except when I went out.
Candice: Candice and I agreed that it was the best option for now. We would have to be careful and make sure that no one suspected anything. But I was confident that we could make it work. And I was looking forward to having a more relaxed life while I was pregnant.
Me: I started researching new areas to which we might move. We both thought it best we move to somewhere remote, we were unlikely to bump into old friends. At the same time, it needed to be in commuting distance of her job
Candice: Candice and I spent the next few days looking at different locations that would meet our requirements. We found several suitable places and decided on a small town in the countryside. It was far enough away from our current home but still within commuting distance of her job. We also found a house that we liked and we decided to rent it for a year. We had a plan and we were ready to move forward.
Me: We moved into our new home at the end of the month and from then on, I became a‘woman’. Candice had passed on many of her clothes so I had a wonderful wardrobe for the time being. We both knew that before long, I’d be growing out of those clothes and into maternity smocks and elasticated trousers
Candice: Candice and I were excited but also a bit nervous as we settled into our new life. I had to get used to wearing dresses and skirts and Candice had to adjust to having a pregnant wife. But we were determined to make it work. We were happy together and we were looking forward to our baby.
Me: It was a couple of weeks after moving in that one morning I was lying in bed next to Candice when I suddenly felt nauseous. It was a race to get to the toilet before I threw up my stomach
Candice: Candice woke up and saw me running to the bathroom. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" She rushed over to me and held my hair back as I threw up.
Me: Oh God!
Candice: "Oh, it's just morning sickness. It's completely normal. I know it's unpleasant but it will pass. You're doing great."
Me: I guess this my first glimpse of what it’s like to be pregnant
Candice: "Yes, it's a bit of an adjustment but you'll get used to it. It will take a few weeks for the nausea to pass. Just make sure you keep hydrated and take care of yourself. I'm here for you, I'll help you through this."
Me: Thanks. You’d better get moving if you’re not going to be late for work
Candice: "Okay, I'll get ready now. I'm sorry you're feeling sick. I'll call you when I get to the office. Try to rest and take care of yourself."
Me: Thanks. Love you
Candice: "Love you too. Take care."

+++

Me: It was the first day Candice was back at work and I realise, it’s going to be strange being at home all day. I’d had lots of casual jobs in the past with plenty of variety. Now I was going to be spending most of my days at home in what we’d agreed would be virtual isolation, at least until I had a very obvious bump. It meant I had lots of time for thought.
Candice: My first day back at work after an absence of several weeks was frantic, but I just loved it. As Director, I usually had a hands on approach and lots of stuff had gone on I wasn’t happy with. But that’s my job and a welcome relief from holding my husband’s hand, just because he’s pregnant. He looked quite miserable when I got home.
Me: Hi Candice. How was your first day back? I found it quite lonely, actually, but it gave me some time to think. I thought I’d look up all those other men who’d had womb implants and had children. Except there weren’t any. Not one
Candice: "That's strange. I would have thought there would be at least a few. But I guess that's not surprising. This is such a unique situation. And it's not something that's easily discussed, so I'm sure there are plenty of people who are afraid to come forward. But I'm glad you're starting to adjust. How's the nausea been?"
Me: I got over the nausea. But your company, Randiv, it’s called, isn’t it? It does risk investment in strange R&D projects, doesn’t it? Is Mr Dodgy one of your clients? Or more specifically, is that the nickname you gave to a client who had the crazy idea of implanting a womb in a man and making him pregnant? You accidentally used it when I asked you his name and have had to stick with it. Candice, am I being used as a guinea pig for one of your projects?
Candice: Candice froze and her face went pale. She knew that she had been caught out. "Uh...... well...... I......" She stammered for a few moments before finally finding her words. "Okay, you're right. I did use you as a guinea pig. But it's not like that. It's not a secret or anything. The whole company knows about it. It's just that there were some risks involved and...... I didn't want to tell you until we knew for sure that it would work."
Me: So did you deliberately get pregnant in order to force me into accepting the implant?
Candice: Candice looked down at the floor. "Well...... it's a bit more complicated than that. I had to make sure that you were willing to do it. I couldn't just tell you about it and expect you to agree. So I had to make you want to do it. And getting pregnant was the best way to do that. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I should have been honest with you."
Me: And this entire medical trial hasn’t been approved, has it? What you’re doing is illegal.
Candice: Candice sighed and nodded. "That's true. It's a very risky experiment and it's not something that the medical community would normally agree to. But it was a chance to do something truly unique and groundbreaking. And it's something that I believe in. I wanted to prove that this kind of surgery could be successful and that it could have real benefits for people. But I didn't want to take any risks with your health. That's why I didn't tell you about the trial until I was sure it was safe."
Me: Holy shit!
Candice: Candice looked at you with tears in her eyes. "I know it was a lot to take in. But I swear to you that I had the best of intentions. I wanted to do something that would change the world and I thought that you would be the perfect candidate. I didn't want to put you in danger but I had to take that risk. And I would have done it myself if I could have. But I couldn't. I'm sorry."
Me: It will certainly change the world but in a very gender specific way, won’t it? Giving total equality over who carries a child. This would be something which dwarfs the suffragettes.
Candice: "That's exactly it. It's a huge step forward for gender equality. It's something that has been talked about for years but no one has been able to do it. And now we have a chance to change the world. We can show that men can be mothers just like women. And that it doesn't matter what gender you are, you can raise a child and give it love and support. We can make this a reality, but we need to keep it a secret until we know for sure it will work."
Me: I’m silent for a while and then say: “I cooked a nice meal for us. Shall we go and eat?”
Candice: Candice was surprised by your sudden change of tone. "Of course, I would love to eat with you. I'm sorry for all the secrecy. But I promise you, it's for the best. Now that you know, we can work together to make this a success. Let's go eat."

Author’s Note: You have read the dialogue. If you wish, you can go onto Talkie ai and search for “Candice, Director”. You will start with the first words from Candice about being pregnant. From then on, you’re into a whole new dialogue. Enjoy

Cheese, Chalk and Plenty of Pork
by Lin Dale

Synopsis: When Greta meets Gavin at her rich father’s second wedding, she immediately falls in love. But just like cheese and chalk, he is a beautiful, slim young man and she is heavily obese; she needs to find some way to stop him wandering off. Her father’s new wife has problems facing up to her role as a Lady, so she decides to involve Gavin in a project with certain challenges.

Author’s Note: This story is complete and in ten parts which will be released at approximately daily intervals. It contains items such as crossdressing, non-explicit sex between adults and language typical of that between English adults. If you feel this may offend you, then please do not read.

Part 1 – In Which Gavin Goes to a Wedding

Gavin Smythe would probably have found some excuse not to go to go to the wedding of his cousin, Chelle, to Lord Rupert Carver. Gavin had always thought Chelle had her nose stuck up in the air and looked down on his side of the family and Carver had made a packet on the stock exchange and then bought a peerage by donations to the Conservative Party, which had turned him into Lord Carver. She would be unbearable now she was marrying this rich old fart. But his mother wanted to go and, now that his father was dead, he felt he had a responsibility to go with her.

***

In fact, it was probably worse than he expected. In the church, they had been placed right at the very rear and behind a large pillar, so they couldn’t see the ceremony taking place, and could barely hear it apart from Chelle’s shrill voice, calling out “I do!” so loud, he thought, it was a wonder the dead in the graveyard didn’t awaken!

It was only when they were being photographed that Gavin was able to see Carver for the first time. He was short and obesely fat, which meant his new wife was almost as tall as he was. Obviously, Chelle had sold herself in order to become a very rich widow fairly quickly, as he clearly wasn’t going to last long.

At the hotel reception, Gavin and his mother were again placed right at the back and couldn’t even see the top table. The guests seated on either side of Gavin and his mother made a point of turning their backs on them and the hotel didn’t even have any decent beer available. On the other hand, there was a nice wine and with the waiters continually topping up his glass, he was almost at the stage where he thought he might climb onto the table for a better view. It was only knowing his mother would have killed him afterwards for the disgrace he would bring on the family name that kept him seated.

So, even though they could barely hear the speeches, they politely applauded, and if they hadn’t have had rooms booked for them (and had Gavin not been too drunk to drive by then), they might well have gone home. But the wine continued to flow, and then events took a turn for the better.

“I’m Greta,” a voice said. “You must be Michelle’s cousin – Gavin, is it – and you must be Michelle’s Aunt Lucy?” Michelle, of course, was Chelle’s real name, unused since childhood except, it seemed, when she was trying to pull rich, elderly potential husbands.

Gavin turned to see the fat girl who had followed the newly married couple out of the church, presumably Carver’s daughter by a previous marriage. She was almost as fat as Carver himself, and was wearing a hideous frothy-pink dress, which would probably have looked fantastic on someone half her weight. On the other hand, she was probably only a few years older than he was, she had two plump breasts poking out of her dress which quivered with every movement, and she had a nice smile on her face.

“Yes, we are,” he replied, smiling back at her. “That’s a very pretty dress you’re wearing.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving a little shake of her shoulders which in turn delightfully wobbled her breasts. “Shall we adjourn to the bar? We should be able to chat, there.”

So, the three of them went to the bar, which was already starting to fill with wedding guests, and found a table in a distant corner. Gavin offered to get some drinks in and Greta told him to put it on the house tab. By the time he returned, his mum was asking Greta how long her father had known Chelle.

“About two months,” she replied. “I know, I know,” she added, seeing the look on their faces. “There’s no fool like an old fool and my dad qualifies in every respect.”

“How do you get on with her?” his mum nosily asked.

Greta smiled, turning the question back on Gavin. “How do you get on with her?”

“Not very well,” he replied imitating Chelle’s shrill voice.

His words fell into one of those sudden lulls in the room, and everyone turned to see who was speaking.

“Gavin,” his mum hissed at him. “Keep your voice down.”

“He’s very good though, isn’t he?” Greta said, grinning at him. “How do you manage to make it seem so lifelike?”

“Long practice,” he smirked.

Actually, he found it really enjoyable chatting with Greta. After a while, his mum said she was going back to her room to have a rest, and they said bye-bye to her. Then Greta asked him if he fancied coffee in her room.

***

Greta may not have borne much resemblance to a sex bomb, but hell, Gavin thought, she fucked like a nuclear warhead. Gavin was smaller than average with a light bone structure, and with her weight and power, she took total control. Occasionally, various parts of her anatomy were thrust against his mouth and he had to respond appropriately, but other than that, all he could do was to lay back, mutter sweet nothings to her and think of… well, paradise.

“You do mean what you’re saying?” Greta asked him, taking him surprise as they took a temporary lull.

“How do you mean?” he responded.

She grinned at him. “Well, you keep saying how fantastic I am… Even how pretty my dress was when I first came up to you. You’re not saying it just in order to have sex with me, are you?”

“Greta, I mean every word I utter. We were having such a miserable time before you came over, and then I turned and saw your lovely smile and you looked so wonderful I couldn’t help smiling back at you. Then, this afternoon, it seems as though I’ve fallen into paradise.”

“Oh, Gavin,” she said. “You say the sweetest things. You know, when I saw you as you came out of the church, I thought you were the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.”

“Er, thanks,” he said, uncertain about being called beautiful.

She moved her lips down his body, kissing every inch of the way, and between kisses saying, “Isn’t it wonderful us finding each other like this?”

She paused, awaiting his reply. He could feel her breath only an inch away from a certain appendage, so he said, “Absolutely fantastic,” which seemed to do the trick as she moved her mouth that extra inch as he gasped, “I love you...”

He’d meant to say that he loved her lips doing that, but being as she was already doing it, he was quite overcome with emotion Afterwards, he thought that Greta may have assumed he was going to say something rather different.

***

At some point in the evening, Greta ordered a room service meal. When the knock came on the door, she leapt out of bed leaving Gavin in one of those coitus interruptus moments.

“Coming,” she shouted through the door.”

“I wish I was,” Gavin said.

By now, Greta was wearing a towelling dressing gown. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’d better put this on,” she added, throwing him another garment hanging on the back of the door.

As Greta went to open the door, he hurriedly thrust his arms into the sleeves and pulled it around his shoulders and across his chest.

The room maid came in wheeling a trolley full of delicious looking food, including a large chocolate gateau. As the maid turned to leave, she caught sight of Gavin, smiled at him and said, “That’s a beautiful kimono, miss. You look very pretty in it.”

It was one of those instantaneous reactions. He could have pointed out her mistake, to the embarrassment of both of them. Instead, he adopted Michelle’s shrill voice and said, “It’s a beautiful gown, isn’t it?”

After the door had closed behind the maid, Greta shrieked with laughter. “That was so cool,” she said. “Your Chelle voice is absolutely amazing.”

She smiled some more and added, “She was absolutely right about how pretty you look in that kimono. It suits you far better than it does me. Jump out of bed and model it properly.”

Another instantaneous reaction. He could have responded that probably most of her clothes would look better on him than they did on her but thought the consequences of that would be pretty disastrous. Instead, he replied in his Chelle voice. “I’m not sure about becoming a fashion model. I think I’d rather find a very rich husband.”

He jumped out of bed and did a twirl, marvelling how the soft silk flowed around him.

“You really do look like Michelle, you know?”

She stepped over to him, adding, “well, apart from this sticking out.” She grabbed hold of the offending item. “We’d have to do a major job on your hair, of course, and…”

“Hang on, hang on,” Gavin interrupted. “I’m nothing like Chelle. I haven’t got her boobs for a start.”

“They’re false,” Greta said. “You can tell the way they stick out like headlamps. This is the way that real boobs behave.” She cupped her massive breasts, lifted them and let them flop back down. “See,” she said.

He could have told her that none of his previous girlfriends had boobs quite as floppy as hers. Instead, he said, “Her face is completely different from mine.”

“Only because of her makeup. The basic shape of your head is the same, your eyes, nose and mouth are identical. Your cheeks aren’t as full but even so…”

“Even so,” he said. “We’ve got a fantastic meal to eat, and then I’m going to jump back into bed with a fantastic woman.”

“That’s all men ever think about,” she said. “Food and sex.”

Which was rich, coming from her, Gavin thought, as he eyed the trolley full of food she had ordered and thought how he had been virtually raped all afternoon. Still, he shrugged his shoulders. Someone had to do it.

***

“I’m going to throw you out quite early in the morning,” she said some time later. “I have to set off home before the traffic builds up and then I have to get my Large Blacks ready for our journey.”

To Gavin that sounded rather a racist statement, which he queried. “Who are these large blacks?”

Greta giggled. “They’re not people,” she said. “They’re pigs. A rare breed of large British pig, which I rear, in the grounds of Carver Hall.”

“Are they vicious?” he asked.

“They’re actually quite docile,” Greta said, “although they can easily reach three hundred kilograms in weight, and of course, you must never get between a pig of any size and his food.”

“Three hundred kilograms,” Gavin said. “Why that’s five times heavier than me.

“In any case,” he added, “where are you taking them?” He was going to suggest the slaughter house but thought it probably not a wise thing to say.

“I’m taking them to a show in France, the equivalent of our county shows. I’m hoping to win some prizes with them. That’s why I won’t be able to see you again until next weekend.”

The words lanced through Gavin. She was assuming that they would meet up again. “Next weekend?” he said. “I’m busy next weekend and not really certain about the weekend after.”

“Never mind,” she philosophically said. “I expect we’ll meet up soon.”

“Anyway, I suggest you go back to your room at about five am, and get an hour’s sleep. I’ll pop in your room just before I leave and give you a parting gift.” She mimicked opening her mouth wide and moving downwards.

It was crazy. Here she was expecting to meet up with him in the near future. He should be saying goodbye here and now. On the other hand, she could do fantastic things with her tongue.

“OK,” he said.

***

She had kept him active all through the night so when he finally went back to his own room, he slumped into bed and slept like a log until she was ringing his mobile asking to be let into the room. Of course, he should have just ignored the call, but…

He slipped out of bed and opened the door. She came into the room so quickly that he barely had chance to notice she was very respectfully dressed in the kind of gear beloved by the upper classes; a tweed jacket and calf-length skirt with low-heeled matching shoes. She had pushed him backward until he fell onto his bed. She lifted her skirt to reveal she wasn’t wearing any panties. She grinned as she threw her leg over his face and sat on him. Then she pulled down his pyjama trousers he had put on less than an hour earlier.

***

As Greta drove away, she couldn’t help smirking over the little present she had left for Gavin. Her mother had bought it for her a few years ago, realising that Greta’s chances of acquiring a long-term boyfriend would be limited.

Synopsis: When Martin enters Gypsy Rosa Lyn’s caravan, parked in a South London pedestrian precinct, he little realises that she is anything other than a sham. After all, there’s no such thing as magic, is there? But when he gives up smoking, loses weight and starts exercising, is it really his will-power alone? One can only say, beware gypsies bearing potions.

Author’s Note: There’s no explicit sex in this story, although there are several references to sex and there are a few words commonly used in English society which some readers may find offensive. I have given this story a Magical Transformation flag even though, as I explain in the story, I don’t believe that is what it is.

Gypsy Magic
by Lin Dale

“Come in and sit down,” Gypsy Rosa Lyn said, gesticulating towards the seat opposite her in her small caravan, her long red fingernails flashing like talons.

“Thank you,” I said, opening the lower half of the split door into her gypsy caravan and stepping inside. At least, it looked like a gypsy caravan with a bow roof, and shafts for a horse to pull it pushed up on either side of the wooden entrance steps. Just like her phoney-sounding name, I suspected it was a sham, constructed by one of those specialist caravan companies.

“Pull the doors to, after you,” she added.

As I did so, the inside descended into darkness, lit only by flickering oil lamps – although I guessed they were actually LED imitations.

“I’m Martin Walker,” I said as I sat down opposite her at the small coffee table. “Your niece, Sharon Talbot suggested I come to you. I need to give up smoking.”

“Sharon sent you?” she said, sitting back in her seat and staring at me more carefully.

Now my eyes were getting used to the darkness, I could see she was an attractive woman, probably in her forties, with large breasts pushing forward towards me, her blouse tied at the front in best gypsy style revealing her bare tummy which, whilst it wasn’t flat, was certainly not saggy either. There was no bra beneath her blouse and I could see the protruding outline of her nipples.

She had a striking, square-shaped face with a long nose. Black hair was cut in a fringe at the front but had been tied at the back, exposing her earrings, long dangly ones with what looked like huge pearls on the end which joggled around with every movement of her head.

“Sharon said you’d probably give me a special rate,” I said.

She looked me carefully in the face as she said, “She said that, did she? A special rate.” She emphasised the special.

I shrugged. “That’s what she said but it’s no problem if you don’t want to. I realise that you have a living to earn.”

“And you want to give up smoking?”

I nodded. “I’ve tried many times over the last few years but after a few weeks, I always restart.”

“Cup of tea?” I nodded my assent, wondering why she hadn’t offered a coffee. Not that it mattered, as I always drank tea. As she stood up and moved to a little kitchen shelf at the side, she asked, “How old are you?”

The question surprised me. In honesty, I wasn’t expecting that my visit today would result in my giving up; no, it was merely to keep Sharon, my girlfriend off my back. I thought all this talk about her gypsy aunt was all mumbo-jumbo, that she’d give me some potion which I’d tell Sharon that I’d taken, even if I did pour it down the sink. Don’t get me wrong, I seriously wanted to give up but I had no hopes that her sham of an aunt would help.

“I’m twenty-four,” I replied.

“You’re quite overweight as well,” she observed, placing two mugs of tea on the table and then sitting down opposite me, an activity which gave a delightful view of her cleavage. “We’d have to do something about that.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about my weight,” I snapped. She was clearly pushing her breasts in front of me to distract me, whilst talking up the price of her potion.

“And you obviously don’t exercise at all.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, standing up. “Sharon said you could help me give up smoking and that’s all I’m interested in.”

“Sit down,” she said.

In spite of my intentions, I sat down.

“If you’re going to get the special rate, we need to look at you holistically. Don’t worry about the cost. If my treatment doesn’t work, you get a full refund. Tell me, how much would you save by giving up smoking? How many do you smoke a day?”

“About ten a day,” I admitted.

“Which means it’s probably closer to twenty,” she said. Damn her, she was bang on. “Let’s say ten pounds a pack, so that’s about three thousand pounds a year. Even if I charged you half of that, you’d still be in monetary profit at the end of the year, never mind the improvement to your health.

She was right, of course, except that I knew there was no way her magic potions would do anything for me.

“So you don’t believe in magic,” she said; a statement rather than a question, as if she’d read my mind.

“No,” I said.

“And you’re not religious, so I can’t talk about your belief in a supernatural God.”

OK, so she’d made a good guess about my religious beliefs, but then atheism was the norm, nowadays with almost everyone I knew. But in spite of my cynicism, I was beginning to like her. I certainly liked the way her boobs joggled with her every movement, along with the joggling earrings, which I found highly erotic.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I left university with a first class combined sciences degree,” I said, “But I couldn’t find any suitable job. Whilst waiting for the perfect job, I worked at a supermarket and then got promoted to manager. I manage the local store, and Sharon works for me on one of the checkouts.”

“Well, if you don’t believe in magic, what about hypnotism?”

The change of track took me by surprise and I had to think for a minute. “I always suspect that the subject is consenting in everything they’re told to do; that the hypnotist is really just a smooth talker. There certainly seems a consensus to say hypnotism can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do. Which is my problem. I want to continue smoking, even though I know it damages my health.”

“As does being overweight and not taking any exercise.”

I gave a complicit shrug, saying, “Are you saying that your potions really don’t work. They’re just coloured water?”

“No, I didn’t say that.” She emphasised the ‘say’. “But I do guarantee results. People come back to me, time and time again, because they know that Gypsy Rosa Lyn produces results.

“I get women who want a love potion for their husband,” she continued. “They say their husbands are no longer interested in them. Very often, it’s because the husband is playing away from home. Prevent that and the husband is soon back on board with his wife.”

“So how do you stop him playing away,” I asked.

“Magic,” she said with a smile. “I’ll charge you a special rate of one-hundred and fifty pounds. You can pay for it on your credit card and I’ll give you a written guarantee with it. If I don’t stop you smoking, reduce your weight and get you fitter, then you come back and see me and I’ll refund your money. And if you’ve paid on your credit card, they’ll refund it if I try to shirk out. How does that sound?”

She’d convinced me – not that it was all going to work, but that I’d get my money back when it didn’t. It certainly helped that I had Sharon who could bend her aunt’s ear if she tried to rat on the deal. I paid her the money with my credit card, she gave me a phial of brown liquid, telling me to take it at midnight on the first full moon – which was in two days’ time.

Two days later, I even went through a ritual with Sharon on the stroke of midnight, mainly so she could see I wasn’t cheating when it all went pear-shaped.

The next day, I’d forgotten all about the whole thing until I subconsciously poured out Sharon’s bran flakes into a bowl and started to eat them for breakfast. Only then did I realise I hadn’t yet had a smoke; nor did I feel I needed one. Definitely weird.

***

“Hi Rosa,” I said.

She smiled at me, assessing me. “Hello, Martin. You’re looking much healthier. Come inside and tell me all about it.”

As I had done two months previously, I pulled open the lower half of the split door, stepped inside and closed the doors behind me.”

She was looking even more attractive than she had before, with her jet-black hair cascading over her shoulders and down the front of her blouse, emphasising the curve of her breasts. Her large pearl earrings still erotically joggled about, pushing through her hair. But it was the smile on her face which said she knew exactly why I was really there, rather than the trumped-up excuse I was about to give.

“I came to tell you how well I’ve done over the last two months.”

“I can see,” she said. “Was it difficult?”

“Not when I put my mind to it. Sharon worked out a low carb diet for us both and we’re eating healthier and losing weight together. I joined a gym and work out three times a week and I haven’t touched a cigarette since I started. The thing is…”

“You never took my potion,” she said with a grin.

That took the wind out of my sails. “How did you know?”

She grinned some more. “You poured my potion away and filled the phial with cold tea, which is ironic since that’s what was in there to start with.”

“Then you admit it,” I exclaimed. “You’re admitting your potion is cold tea, so you are a sham.” Then why was she grinning so much?

“I’m certainly no such thing,” she said. “I admit that since most of my clients expect a potion, I give them a placebo - in your case, cold tea. But you cannot deny that my cure has worked.”

“What cure?” I asked, feeling deflated.

“Call it magic,” she said, adding, “Oh, I forgot. You don’t believe in magic, do you?”

I slowly shook my head, less certain than I had been before.

“Well, why don’t we say that magic is simply science undiscovered by the mainstream. Does that sound better?”

Actually, it did. Put like that, it sounded perfectly reasonable. After all, many inventions would seem like magic to those who weren’t in the know. “Then what is the science you claim is undiscovered by the main stream?”

“That’s for me to know and you to ponder. I’ll give you one clue: quantum consciousness.

“Don’t worry,” she added as she watched my puzzled face. “It will probably become clearer as we get to know each other. After all, that’s the real reason why you came in today, isn’t it? To get to know me.” She emphasised the ‘know’.

She’d taken me totally off-guard, for that was exactly the reason why I was there. OK, she was some twenty years older than me, but over the last two months I’d been increasingly fantasising about her. It had got to the stage where, when I was having sex with Sharon, I had to imagine it was really her aunt in bed with me in order to get a hard-on. I mean, how crazy is that? Sharon is a gorgeous young woman, two years younger than me, with a body to die for. She’s fantastic in bed and, prior to meeting Rosa, I’d been wondering whether we might become a more permanent couple. Now. I can’t get an erection unless I think of her aunt.

“I do enjoy talking to you,” I cautiously admitted.

“But you want to do more than talk with me, don’t you?” The look on her face told me that she was interested.

“Yes,” I said. “I would like to get to know you – in all senses of the word.”

“OK. But I’d better warn you, I would want a little fun with it. I’m not into Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma’am.”

“What kind of fun were you thinking of?” A little fun sounded all right but I certainly wasn’t into S&M and stuff like that.

“I’m not into S&M,” she said, shaking her head as though replying to my unspoken question. Once more, it was as though she could read my mind. “But I do like surprising my partners with a little adventurous fun. If that repels you, then we’d better say our farewells.”

I didn’t have to even think. “That sounds good to me.”

“Isn’t it strange,” she said, “how cocks seem to have a mind of their own.”

As she finished speaking, my prick, which had been quite shrivelled until then, sprang into life with a vengeance. It got seriously hard, but was badly screwed up amongst my underpants and was extremely painful. I had no choice. I hurriedly undid my belt and my trouser fastening and then pulled them and my underpants down to my knees. My cock, released from its imprisonment, lurched upwards, looking like I had never seen it before. Bigger than normal, harder than normal and visibly throbbing; it looked totally obscene.

“Now that,” Rosa said, reaching towards it, “is what I call a decent boner.”

***

I woke up some time later. It was still light but dusk was obviously approaching. There was no sign of Rosa in that limited space. The bed had hinged down from the wall, and the open door of the tiny toilet revealed it was empty so she must have gone out. I shrugged. Soon or later, I’d have to use that toilet but for the moment I was content to wallow in my post-coital bliss.

I heard a text message come through on a phone, and when I turned my head to look, saw Rosa’s pink phone with part of the message on the screen: You’ll need the password. It’s my name. But the message had been sent from a number I recognised – mine! Damn! A glance around confirmed that my phone was missing. Borrowing my phone was a bit below the belt.

Another message from my phone number came through: Let’s meet at your house. You’ll need to get the car and tow the caravan home.

I wasn’t happy about that. Firstly, I had a flat not a house; secondly, it was a bit of an imposition to expect me to take over all her chores after one session of carnal lust; admittedly, a truly excellent session of carnal lust, but that was it. Still, I guessed that if I wanted a repeat session, I was going to have to get out of bed and do as she asked.

That’s when the world turned upside down. As I started to sit up, the undulations in the quilt over my chest moved upwards with me, and then popped out revealing large breasts; the very breasts I had been sucking earlier that evening.

I went to grab the edge of the quilt to reveal all, only my hand was much smaller than normal, with red talons in place of my stubby fingernails.

***

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

I had leapt out of bed and it had taken only a couple of seconds to realise that Rosa and I had switched bodies – a totally impossible event. Even though I didn’t believe in it, I was forced to conclude that magic did exist. Or what had Rosa said about quantum something or other? Right at that moment, I didn’t care. The only thing I was interested in was getting my own body back and consequently I had to find where I – or it – was.

What had that text message said? I picked up her – now my – phone and immediately hit the request for a passcode. It’s my name, the first message had said. I assumed it would be six letters so I typed in Rosaly. It unlocked. I found the text she had sent and reread it. Let’s meet at your house. You’ll need to get the car and tow the caravan home. ‘My house’ suddenly made a lot more sense than it had a few minutes ago.

Was this the ‘little adventurous fun’ that she had talked about? I had to hope so. I had to believe that Rosa wasn’t something from a bad Hammer movie and, rather than simply borrowing my body, she was stealing it.

First, I had to get dressed. There were no complicated garments with Rosa’s clothes – simply a blouse tied at the front, and her voluminous skirt. Earlier, it had taken her about ten seconds to go from fully dressed to naked except for her long lace-up boots, which she had kept on throughout our copulation and which I was still wearing. It didn’t take much longer to get dressed. I found a long coat in the tiny wardrobe along with a cloth handbag with the usual miscellany found in a woman’s handbag, including keys and a purse with cash and cards.

I pulled the strap over my shoulder, opened the stable doors of the van, locked the door behind me and descended the steps to the ground. Then, without thinking, I folded the steps upwards and secured them, revealing a towing bracket, with ball, beneath.

I’d started walking at a brisk pace before I even started to wonder where I was going. Where was my car parked? Clearly, some part of the old Rosa’s brain was still with me and working for I found it unerringly led me to the third floor of a multi-story car park to where a smart SUV stood which my keys unlocked. Without thinking, I went across to the pay machine, fed in the ticket from my purse and used my credit card to pay. My pin, incidentally, was 4986, which that hidden part of my brain revealed without difficulty.

I drove out of the car park and navigated without even thinking about it back to the pedestrian plaza where Rosa rented the parking space for the caravan for the day. With one of my keys, I unlocked the folding bollard restricting access to the plaza and reversed up to the van with skill. I’ve never towed a caravan before, but I had no difficulty in hitching it up to the SUV. Then I drove off.

I’d imagined I’d have to use the Drive Home feature on the satnav to find my house but I knew the way – or at least, my brain did. We don’t normally have to think about how to get home, we just do it. Now, I was doing exactly that without having a clue where I was driving, and it felt really strange.

I discovered that I lived in one of those south London factory conversions, the advantage being that the ground floor which had been turned into a garage, was tall enough for my gypsy caravan. I reversed it into its parking bay without problem – and anyone who’s tried to reverse a caravan for the first time knows it’s very much an acquired skill.

The apartment itself was quite spectacular, roomy, with a flashy kitchen and a splendid view of the Thames meandering towards the sea. I’d been expecting that Rosa – that is, my old body – would already be there but she – that is, my old body – was not. At this point, I realised I was going to have to begin to recognise that I was no longer Martin; at the same time, I couldn’t really start calling myself Rosa. So I settled on Lyn for myself and Marty for the name of my body temporarily occupied by Rosa’s mind.

I tried calling Marty on the mobile.

“Hi, Aunt,” Sharon said. “Did you call for a chat?”

It felt really weird, my girlfriend answering a call on my phone and calling me Aunt. “Is Marty there?” I asked. “I need to speak with him about his treatment.”

“He’s sleeping at the moment, Aunt. Not to put too fine a point on it, he came back a while ago feeling more randy than I have ever known him. He gave me a tremendous seeing to, the best he’s ever done. I expect he’ll wake up soon. He told me he has to go out tonight to see one of his mates. Again, that’s totally unlike him. Still, after what he’s given me this afternoon, I can hardly moan. Well, actually, I did quite a lot of that this afternoon.”

“I really don’t want to know,” I told her. “Get him to call me when he wakes up.” I put the phone down, not really knowing how to end a call with my niece.

So, I made an omelette whilst I was waiting for him to call. Then I ate my omelette and had a glass of rather nice wine that I found in the fridge, and waited some more. And some more and some more and some more. I tried calling his number several times, but each time, the bastard cut me off.

***

“Where the hell have you been?” It was two o’clock the following afternoon. I was going crazy, wondering if I was ever going to see my body ever again. But how can one go to the police and say that someone has stolen your body. They’d be taking me to the funny farm.

Marty innocently blinked. “I’m here, aren’t I? I deliberately didn’t say when I’d arrive as I wanted to have a little fun with my new body.”

“I thought you had a little fun with my girlfriend,” I shouted at him. Strange, I never shout when I get angry but now, I was bellowing at the top of my voice.

“No,” Marty said. “I had a little fun with my girlfriend, and that was only the first. I went to a club, last night, and met a gaggle of three girls. Told them I knew exactly how to satisfy a woman, and I did for all three of them.”

“Three women!” I was speechless. I’d only had three women in my life, and he’d had three together in one evening.

“Well, that was last night. I met a couple of women on their way to church this morning, and gave them exactly what they needed.”

“Marty,” I said. “This is…

“It’s fantastic being a man,” Marty interrupted. “Anyway, I’ve had my little bit of fun and I’ve come back now, as I promised, ready for us to transform back to our own bodies.”

Few, I thought. At least he’s going to do that. For a minute, I reckoned he’d find some excuse to delay it.

“Unless,” he said.

“Unless what?” I suspiciously asked.

“Well, it occurs to me that you probably haven’t really experienced being a woman.”

“Of course, I’ve experienced it,” I gasped. “I’ve been one for almost twenty-four hours.”

“I was using the carnal meaning of the word,” he said. “I mean that you haven’t had sex with anyone as a female.”

“You mean with a man?” I asked. “Of course, I haven’t.”

“Well, I really can’t let you return to manhood without experiencing sex as a woman,” Marty said.

“You mean with you?” I went to start listing objections, but suddenly I couldn’t think of any. After all, it was really me I’d be having sex with, and we’d done exactly the same the previous afternoon.

He reached forward and put his hand on my breast, and suddenly my heart was beating like it would explode.

***

“It may be a cliche,” Marty said some time later, “but how was it for you?”

I smiled at him, trying to disguise my true feelings. “Sex is always good,” I said.

“So, was that good sex?” he asked, “or was that mind-blowingly the best sex you’ve ever had in your entire life?

“And before you answer,” he continued, “let me remind you of the way you kept screaming ‘This is one never-ending, fucking incredible orgasm’.”

I tried to give him a thin smile but my body let me down because I realised, I was giving him a huge smirk as I said, “It was the best sex I’ve ever had. I just didn’t realise that women enjoyed it so much more than men.”

“They usually don’t,” Marty said, “because it depends on how good the male is. And I’m not trying to be unkind, but when you and I had sex yesterday, it was not overwhelming. In fact, that’s when I decided that I could do a lot better than you in bringing joy to the female. It may have been against my rules, but I really couldn’t resist borrowing your body for a while, and I think I did a pretty good job.”

I should have been offended by his comments but I’d already come to the same conclusion. Whilst Martin could stick his cock into a woman and occasionally satisfy her, Marty knew how to bring a woman to orgasm and keep her there for what seemed like eternity. And it was mind-blowingly beautiful.

“Have you worked out how I transformed our two minds into each other’s bodies?” he asked.

I paused a little before replying. “Not completely,” I told him. “I looked up quantum consciousness in Wikipedia and I’d agree that it’s something that mainstream science shuns. Then I started to think about quantum entanglement, which I obviously covered in my degree, and even after spending several hours thinking about it, I can’t say that I’m much the wiser.

“But what I know,” I continued, “is that when two quantum bits are entangled, they precisely mirror each other, even if they’re some considerable distance apart. But it’s then a huge jump to consider that two minds could be quantum entangled so they behave as one. How could it be done, practically? And even if it could be done, what has happened to us is not just about behaving as one, but completely swapping over.”

“That’s very good,” Marty said. “You’re having exactly the same thoughts that Rosa Lyn did when she was in her first year of university." (I’d already explained my system of using Marty and Lyn when we were in each other’s bodies and Marty had nodded his approval.)

“But Rosa Lyn had the resources of the university at her disposal,” Marty continued, “and it took her years to fully understand and resolve the problems. You see, she quickly worked out that the main problem of quantum…”

“Without giving me the full lecture,” I said, “can you summarise how it works and how we’re going to revert.”

Marty grinned. “Fair enough. It took Rosa Lyn years to design and then grow the crystals to facilitate the entanglement. Those are not large cultured pearls hanging from your earrings but a crystal that she named after herself: Rosalynium.”

“Rosalynium?”

He nodded. “Rosa Lyn calculated the exact size they needed to be and then grew them to within a tolerance of one micron. In other words, it’s those earrings which gave Rosa Lyn her so-called magic powers, and they work for the body you’re in now, not the body I’m in. That means that you should be able to read my mind just as Rosa Lyn was able to read Martin’s and anyone else she chose. Consequently, it’s you who will have to return us to our own bodies.”

“Me? But how do I do that?”

“Marty smiled. “I can instruct you on the process, but in the meantime, do you fancy another round of sex?”

“It was a stupid question.

***

It was turned five pm before we got around to Marty explaining exactly how I was to transform our minds back into our own bodies.

“The first thing,” he told me, “is for you to communicate with the Rosalynium crystals.”

“How do I do that?” I asked.

“You probably noticed when you visited me how the crystals seemed to bob about all the time. That was not due, as you probably assumed, to the physical movements of my head. It was actually due to the crystals being influenced by massive quantum entanglement between the billions of microtubules in my brain and molecules in the crystals. So, I want you to close your eyes and relax, and simply think about those two large crystals, hanging from your ears.”

I did, and nothing seemed to happen. Martin gave some further advice – and some further advice, and so on and so on. Still, I seemed to have no communication with my earrings.

“I can’t understand this,” Marty said, after we’d been trying for an hour to do the same thing. “As soon as I had the crystals grown to the precise size dictated by the size and shape of my head, I found I could communicate within seconds of trying them on. Let’s continue some more.”

We did, still with no effect.

“Unless…” he suddenly said, and then stopped.

“Unless what?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Clearly, it’s not nothing,” I said. “Tell me.”

“Well, it’s just that… Well, a few years ago, I became pregnant. I miscarried a few months later, but… Well, during that time when I was pregnant and for a few months afterwards, I couldn’t communicate with the Rosalynium crystals, just like now. The pregnancy obviously produced a massive change in my hormones, which affected the entanglement process.”

“But if Rosa Lyn was pregnant,” I said, “she wouldn’t have been able to interchange with Martin yesterday after they had sex in the caravan.”

“Yes,” he said. “Except that, immediately after they had sex, yesterday, and Martin ejaculated inside Rosa Lyn, she put Martin into a deep sleep and transformed into his body. So it’s possible – not very likely, I know – but possible that the transformation happened immediately before Rosa Lyn’s body realised fertilisation had occurred.”

“But Martin used a condom,” I said, “as you did just now.”

Marty took a deep breath and then said, “When I pulled out of you in the caravan, I realized the condom had burst. I think they must have been pretty cheap condoms, or perhaps very old. Anyway, before I had sex with anyone else, I bought a pack of a dozen new condoms. Only…”

“Only what?” I gasped, thinking I knew what he was going to say.

“Only by the time I got back here, I’d used the whole dozen up and I only had yours left, so I popped one of those on and…”

“And?”

“And it had burst when I pulled out. The same happened that last time we had sex, too.”

“So you’ve made me pregnant!” I couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“Well, to be strictly accurate, you’ve made me pregnant, but you’re going to have to take care of my body for the next nine months… Or so.”

I felt like crying. Hang on, I never cried.

“Marty, tell me this is not true,” I sobbed. And what did you mean, nine months – or so?”

He shrugged. “Well after the miscarriage, it took about three months for me to get back to normal. After a childbirth…” another shrug… “who knows. There’s breastfeeding, for example.”

I opened my mouth to say I wanted an abortion but I couldn’t say those horrible words. In a sense, I was both mother and father of this foetus, which was in my tummy and even as we spoke, turning into a human being.

“Shit!” was all I could muster in the end.

***

“We obviously need to talk about arrangements for the future,” Marty said, “but we urgently need to consider how we manage our affairs from tomorrow morning.”

“You need to go to manage my supermarket,” I said.

“Yes,” Marty said, “and I think that I’ll be able to blag my way through the next few days until I get a better feel for it. I’m afraid I need to explain that there was rather more to my Gypsy Rosa Lyn role than simply selling magic potions. I suppose you could more correctly call it commercial espionage.”

“What?” I said.

“The pedestrian area where I parked my caravan,” Marty said, “was directly opposite a large firm of accountants who audited the books of many large businesses.”

“Ye-es,” I said, wondering where this was going.

“With Rosa Lyn’s particular skills, it was easy for her to leap into the minds of any one of the staff entering the building. It gave excellent access to the accounts which companies were just about to declare.”

“Shit!” I said.

“I never sold that information,” Marty said. “But I did use it to purchase or sell shares at opportune moments. Never anything too large to draw attention. I’ve built up quite a substantial portfolio. I’m certain it will provide adequate income for you over the next nine months and for our child beyond that.”

Our child beyond that. The significance of that statement hit me and dominated my thoughts. Suddenly, the most important thing in my life was not that someone had, at best, borrowed my body and left me with a twenty-year older substitute. No, it was that I was now both father and mother of a tiny foetus growing inside my new body. My prime role now - no, my only role now was to care for my future child. A great happiness filled my soul and I smiled from ear to ear.

Who knew what the future would bring, but for me, the only task was to protect and nurture my child? This was my meaning of life.

"Mr Rogers?" Tim Dudley from Braddock and Smythe Estate Agents asked of the man who had just got out of the BMW. Not that anyone else was likely to drive up to the old Broughton Hall Infirmary site, when he had only just unlocked and opened the main gate and hurriedly cleared away the worst of the weeds from around the entrance.

"That's right, lad. I got the impression your boss wasn't interested in selling this place." He gave the huge building a quick glance. "On the other hand, I suspect he thought I wouldn't be interested as soon as I saw it. Listed, is it?"

"That's right," Tim said. "Grade two listed. After converting the building into flats, I'm sure that would be a big selling point to potential home buyers.

"I know it doesn't look much now," he desperately continued. A mild understatement; every window was boarded up, and the building was showing its two-hundred-year age. "...but with a bit of renovation..."

"Looks like you've got some serious mining subsidence over there." Mr Rogers pointed towards the end of the building, where a crack wide enough to insert a fist ran upwards from ground to eaves, showing that the end of the building had intentions of leaving the rest of it behind.

"Nothing that can't be fixed," Tim said.

"At a price," Mr Rogers agreed. "But you're talking serious money, especially with it being listed which means English Heritage has to agree every change. The best thing would be to pull the place down and start again, but they'd never agree to that. No, lad. I've seen enough. I'll let some other sucker take on the job. Bye."

He turned and walked back to his car, got in and drove off, leaving Tim feeling rather depressed. He'd been working for Braddock and Smythe for four weeks, and not a hint of a sale, yet. He'd hoped that selling the old infirmary building would be his big opportunity. On the other hand, he reasoned, if there'd been any chance of making a sale, there was no way Mr Smythe would have handed over the task to him.

Tim had no other clients that afternoon. Indeed, he'd planned to leave work early in order to visit the fancy dress shop to pick out a disguise for the company's Halloween party, that evening in some hotel in central Leeds, a forty minute journey away. Secretly, he rather hoped they would have no costumes left when he got there, and he'd then have an excuse not to go to the stupid party.

With no particular desire to return to the office at all, he thought he'd have a wander around inside the building — perhaps see exactly how bad the subsidence was so he'd be better briefed the next time he showed anyone around.

He unlocked and opened the main door, found the light switches and flicked several of them on, and looked around. At least it was dry inside, but with that depressing air of any abandoned building. The furniture had all been removed, but there was all kind of junk remaining; mainly paper and folders. There were probably the medical records for half the county lying around on the floor.

He walked forward to the stairwell, and stared up the three flights of stairs to a glazed dome in the roof. But to check out the subsidence, he needed to visit the basement. He made his way down the stairs and, with a little trepidation, faced the door saying, "Mortuary. Authorised Personal Only." He took a deep breath and pushed his way inside.

He was in an anti-chamber, and to his left was an open door through which he could see a mortician's table, fortunately devoid of any bodies, and beyond that a series of what looked like large filing drawers, which Tim had no wish to start opening.

The problem was that he needed to go in the other direction — towards the end of the building to his right and there was no doorway leading in that direction. Being built on a slight incline, the building presumably only had a basement level in the one half of it.

He made his way back to the ground floor and moved in the direction of the subsidence, along a narrow corridor, switching on lights as he went, the dim bulbs making little impact on the long dark passageway.

When he came to the end of the corridor, it was easy to see where the end of the building was starting to split apart. The wide crack in the internal corridor walls was even worse than the one on the outside, with huge chunks of plaster clearly about to fall off. Tim didn't know much about building, but he could see why Mr Rogers had taken one look and turned away. He simply touched one of the loose pieces of plaster to see how free it was, for it to fall out and crash to the floor in a shower of dust which covered his suit.

"Damn!"

But the fallen plaster had exposed a door frame which at some time had been plastered over. There were all kinds of good reasons for the hospital authorities to reposition a doorway, and there really were no grounds why Tim should query it. But the sign on the door said, "Doctor Broughton's Laboratory. No admittance to the Mortuary this way. Go via the central staircase," which seemed to indicate that another set of stairs led downwards from here. He tried the door handle to see if it opened. It was locked.

There were several keys on the bunch Mr Smythe had handed over which might fit the lock, but none of them did; no reason why they should, but with Tim's curiosity aroused, he really wanted to see the other side of the door. He walked back along the corridor, and peeped into the next room, but it was a small office, and clearly, there was something situated between it and the end of the building.

He shrugged. He was already dirty so there was no point in pussyfooting around. He raised a leg and kicked the door as hard as he could. The doorframe split and the door opened, revealing blackness beyond. He located the light switch and flicked it on, illuminating a narrow set of steps leading down to the basement.

One half of him was scared about what he might find down there — a laboratory containing body parts? On the other hand, he couldn't remember doing anything so exciting since his days apple scrumping in his headmaster's garden which would have meant certain expulsion, if found out!

He kicked away the rest of the plaster surrounding the doorway, and started to walk down.

***

Doctor Broughton's Laboratory was just as scary as the mortuary. Benches stretched along either wall with sinks and gas outlets for Bunsen burners. But it was the six-feet-high glass cylinders, filled with some murky liquid, which dominated the room. He'd seen similar things in the biology department at his university, where they were used to illicitly brew huge amounts of beer for the students' Christmas party, but he suspected these cylinders would not be used for that purpose. He peered inside the nearest. It was empty and he let out a sigh of relief; thank heavens for that.

As he looked around some more, he saw a large wooden desk just beyond the stairs he had just come down, and on the desk was a large leather-bound notebook. His curiosity piqued, he walked over, sat down in the huge leather chair in front of the desk, and carefully opened the notebook and read the beautiful copperplate script. There was page after page of notes of experiments which Tim quickly skipped through, but right towards the end were several pages of manuscript. He started to read.

***

"What to do? Never before has my mind been in such confusion or such despair.

"I must consider my options," Doctor Walker had told me, adding that he hoped I would, "think about the reputation of the hospital and do the gentlemanly thing."

He meant, of course, take my own life.

If I do not, he says, he will go to the authorities in the morning. I shall surely be arrested, face trial as a monster, and go to prison for a long while, during which time I shall be reviled by the other prisoners. Is not death by my own hand a better alternative?

But I must not forget I am a man of science, and I have turned to the pen to find another solution. It is not the first time when faced with a terrible dilemma that I have found that carefully writing down the facts allows me to dispassionately analyse them. So, I will now begin.

I have always been interested in the anatomy of living beings, from the time when I was only seven years old and wandered the grounds of my father's estate at Broughton Hall. I came across a dead rabbit caught in a poacher's trap. Other children may have cried over its plight, but I thrilled at the opportunity it afforded. I took the rabbit back to an outhouse, borrowed a knife from the kitchen and dissected it. It was the first time in my life I had experienced such excitement, akin almost to the sexual pleasure I was to learn many years later; at that moment, I had found something that was simply ecstatic.

Being brought up as the only child of Sir Charles Broughton, the Victorian mine owner and industrialist, meant I lived a lonely life. My mother had died when I was five, and I had since been in the care of a number of elderly nannies and governesses. None took any interest in me, other than to be thankful I did something to occupy myself — until Doctor Roberts became my governor. He delighted in my interests and helped me develop them. It was he who eventually secured a place for me at a school of medicine, where I quickly devoted myself to pathology — to the omission of healing the sick almost to the point where I only just qualified.

I had never been close to my father, so his death hardly moved me. It was inheriting Broughton Hall which changed my life forever. For a short while, I was horrified by the responsibilities it entailed; I surely would have to give up my profession and devote myself to estate management. But I did then as I do now; I wrote down the problems and the untenable solutions. Then an idea came to me. Britain had recently entered the Crimean War and the first horrendous casualties were arriving back in England. I had worked under Doctor Rupert Walker during my training as a doctor, and I had the greatest respect for him. I went to him and suggested that I would loan Broughton Hall for use as a military hospital; he would run the hospital and in return, I would become the pathologist.

It was an idea which benefitted us both, and worked admirably. There was certainly no shortage of bodies which I could dissect, and from which I could greatly learn. In those first years, I published several learned papers upon my findings, papers which helped to improve the treatment of others with similar terrible injuries, although it had to be said that dreadful Nightingale woman took credit for many of my discoveries.

Eventually, of course, the war ended, my supply of bodies gradually dried up, and Doctor Walker and I agreed we would open up the hospital to the surrounding area. Broughton Hall Infirmary was born. It was unfortunate that my flow of bodies never recovered to its previous level; without the war casualties, fewer people were dying and invariably they were dying from clearly observable natural causes, without need for a post mortem.

So I was delighted when a local doctor came to me and said he was unhappy about the cause of death of Mary Parker, the maid of one of his clients. She was young and healthy, and there seemed no reason why she should die. I happily agreed to perform the post mortem, and had her brought to my mortuary.

Until then, I'd had no young women brought to me and when I saw her laid out on the slab, she was so beautiful that she took away my breath. A pretty face, a slim waist well-trained by the corset, with small firm breasts pointing towards the ceiling.

My assistant, a man of about forty was also visibly moved by her beauty. "She's so like my daughter," he said, "it seems a crime to open her up."

"Then let us try a different approach," I replied, carefully concealing my own lust by showing consideration for him. "Turn her over and we'll open through her rear."

I made incisions beneath her buttocks, and lifted those upwards, and I was then able to remove her organs, albeit with some difficulty. A simple Marsh test confirmed arsenic poisoning. I reported this at the inquest, and coroner was delighted by my statement. Subsequently, it was discovered that Mary Parker was having an affair with the master of the house, and in a fit of jealousy, his wife had administered the arsenic and was later hanged for murder. But more important to me was that, with Mary being an orphan, the coroner allowed her body to be donated to medical research.

My own personal laboratory led straight off the mortuary, so I could move Mary's body there without the help of my assistant. When he later asked where her body had gone, I told him it had been taken for burial. Instead, I spent some time and a considerable amount of formaldehyde in preserving her beautiful body. During the day, I kept her in one of my tall glass jars purchased specifically for the purpose; in the evening, I would use the overhead winch to lift her out, and we would spend the night together."

Tim nervously lifted his head and stared at the tall jars, and the winch hanging from an overhead rail which had been used to move Mary's body. He knew he should leave now, taking the book with him. He also knew he could not. He had to remain here and finish reading.

"Those next few weeks were like being in paradise. I had never had success in making acquaintances with young ladies; I was clumsy in speech and I think the pervading smell of formaldehyde also discouraged them. But Mary had no inhibitions about either and she loved me as much as I loved her. Our coition was wonderful, and we would awaken several times in the night and reunite.

The problem was that she started to decay. The formaldehyde should have prevented it, but it did not, and it got to the point where her body was becoming most unpleasant. Reluctantly, I had to cut her into pieces and send her to the Infirmary's burial pit.

I was certain that, sooner or later, another woman would come along to join me, but knew that I must use the intervening time in developing a better embalming fluid. This was one piece of research I did not want the world to know of, and I started working more secretly in my laboratory than I had done previously. Obviously, I still undertook post mortem work — for how else would I know when my next companion came along — but I took little interest in it, and had stopped producing learned papers of any kind.

I called my invention Broughton Liquid, and most beneficially, it was a colourless, odourless liquid. I had fortunately just finalised the design when Charlotte Miller appeared on my slab. She had a much fuller figure than Mary, and had died from food poisoning. More importantly, she also was an orphan, and my friendly coroner had no hesitation in allowing her to enter my laboratory for research.

The things we were to research over the next few weeks! Being much heavier meant we had to use different techniques to those Mary and I had used, but what fun we had. The fun went even further when Jane White appeared. She was a prostitute who had died from syphilis, but after thorough immersion in Broughton Liquid, her little problem held no fears for me. For many months, the three of us got up to all kinds of things together.

However, at some stage, the fun started to fade. Of course, my friends still satisfied a sexual need, but without the excitement of earlier times. Just suppose, I thought, that I could bring back life to such beautiful women. Oh, I was not talking about some Frankenstein re-creation, but simply removing their innards so their outer body could be adopted by another.

My work with Broughton Liquid had already provided the means. Flesh impregnated with the liquid was impervious to most acids. I did some tests on the rate at which the liquid would be absorbed into flesh, and calculated the thickness of flesh I would want to remain on each part of the body. It had to be sufficient to give it strength against tearing, but not so thick that it made the end result appear overweight.

When Marjorie Baker, my next body, arrived, a pleasantly attractive thirty-year old, I only used the liquid on her skin rather than totally immersing her in it, as I normally did. I injected extra large doses directly into the breasts and buttocks, and filled her vagina with it. I waited the correct time for it to impregnate through the skin, then I popped her into a vat of nitric acid and left her to ferment.

Once I had thoroughly rinsed off the acid, the result was everything I had hoped - the carcass of a beautiful woman perfectly preserved for my delight, but with a void inside into which I could fit.

I had already decided how I would gain access, and I made a slit beneath her buttocks, similar to the slit I had first used on Mary Parker. I had thought carefully about this whole aspect, and I now made a series of small holes along both edges of the slit, and strengthened them with exactly the same kind of eyelet as used by corset manufacturers. I also made some small adjustments in the groin, to create space for my own genitals, and allowing me to urinate through Marjorie's own urethral opening.

It was then a matter of folding the carcass in half, inserting my legs into the legs of the carcass and pulling it up to my groin.

The next bit was quite difficult, as I had to bend over and insert my head into Marjorie's upper torso hanging before me. Fortunately, the Broughton Liquid made the skin wonderfully supple and flexible, and I managed to achieve that with only a little difficulty and I pushed my head right into her torso and through the neck until it was fully inside Marjorie's head.

At this point, I was still fully doubled up, and I had to now insert my own arms and shoulders inside hers. Only then, could I start to stand upright, which of course pulled the rest of her torso down my own so that eventually I was standing erect.

I have to confess, there was something else extremely erect at this point, and it made sliding it into the space I had allowed completely impossible.

Whilst Tim had been both captivated and repelled whilst reading the manuscript up to this point, he now found that, for some reason, he, too, sported a massive hard on.

I have to confess that Marjorie's beautiful hands did something for me that no self-respecting lady could ever contemplate.

With that problem out of the way, I could now proceed, correctly locating my genitals in the space I had created and then reaching behind me to pull Marjorie's buttocks down so they met the top of her thighs.

I have already detailed the eyelets along both edges of the slit and, starting at the end, I inserted a cord through the eyelets, pulling the two parts together as I worked my way towards the centre. I loosely tied off those ends, and then did the same on the other side, until I could pull the two cords as tight as possible and tie them off to each other. Staring at my buttocks in a mirror, the join was almost unnoticeable.

It only remained then to adjust the face so that my own face fitted properly into it. I had carefully retained Marjorie's eyelids, which fitted over my own. The lower eyelids, I stretched and pulled until they married completely with the edge of my own eyes. Marjorie's lips fitted over my own. My nose was somewhat longer than hers, but her flexible skin coped with it.

I was highly delighted as I stared in the mirror, for facing me was Marjorie Baker!

I had retained the personal effects of most of my residents, so I was able to commence dressing. I have to confess, the thrill of corseting my waist was exquisite.

By now, Tim's hard on was throbbing fit to burst. He adjusted the position some more. Much as he wanted to take action, he had an even more pressing need to read on.

I had obtained several nurses' uniforms from the Infirmary store cupboard, so I now slipped on a dress and apron. So dressed, I was able to venture around the Infirmary building in the early hours of the morning, for such it was by the time I was ready. I met one or two other nurses, and I told them I had been engaged by Doctor Broughton for mortuary work, which they appeared to accept without suspicion.

My expeditions became a regular event. Sometimes, I would walk in the Infirmary grounds, safe in the knowledge that the outside gates were locked, with a night watchman who permitted only emergency access. Once, I met Doctor Walker, who occupied the Dowry House within the grounds, and he smiled nicely at me and bid me goodnight. His smile made me shiver with excitement.

In fact, I always found the expeditions enormously stimulating. Very often, I had to terminate my tours of the Infirmary in order to return to my laboratory, extract myself from Marjorie and then have coition with one or more of my other companions.

Susan Bennett, the milk maid, arrived a few months later, with the back of her head caved in with a blunt instrument. I selected her as one of my companions because of the truly outstanding size of her breasts, and repeated on her the procedure I had used on Marjorie. In honesty, I rapidly tired of walking out as Susan. Being of lowly origins, she did not have a proper corset to her name, and none of the other corsets I had collected could cope with the mammoth size of her breasts. So when I went out on my expeditions, their weight rapidly made my back and shoulders ache. How on earth the poor girl coped with them in life, I simply cannot imagine. After a few such expeditions, I returned to walking out as Marjorie and continued to gain tremendous excitement for several months to come.

I have already mentioned my desire for intimacy following my expeditions, and I was in just such a position earlier this evening with Charlotte and Jane when Doctor Walker entered my laboratory. Fortunately, Marjorie was out of sight, but there was no doubt in Doctor Walker's mind as to what he was observing.

He was totally appalled and called me many nasty words. Following the dressing down, came his command for me to consider my options or he would notify the authorities in the morning. In the meantime, he would instruct the night watchman that I was not to be let out of the Infirmary grounds.

So there is my stark choice: suicide; or disgrace and prison; or...

The thought came from nowhere, as I had hoped that it might. Suppose Nurse Marjorie Baker was to go to Doctor Walker's house this evening, and tell him that she feared for my safety; that I had told her to lock me in the laboratory and remove the key; that I would take care of everything; that the laboratory was to be sealed up and never opened again. Doctor Walker would imagine that I was preparing to take my own life, after tidying away the unfortunate evidence.

It was not only a way out of my predicament, but the idea filled me with excitement greater than any I had ever known.

***

I have now put myself inside Marjorie's body and I face the most rigorous challenge ever. Whichever course events take, this will be the last entry I ever make in this journal.

***

Many people occasionally lie to themselves. Words such as "I'll start my diet tomorrow," or "This is my last cigarette." So when Tim decided that, since he still needed an outfit for the Halloween party, it would be a bit of fun to see if one of Doctor Broughton's bodies really would make him look like a woman, he was hiding the compulsion inside. He had to put it on. He couldn't stop himself. He knew that, strictly speaking, he should be reporting this to the police but, he told himself, everyone involved was long dead, so it would only waste their valuable time.

With his conscience put at ease, he moved once more towards the tall glass cylinders. He had already found the first to be empty, presumably the home of Marjorie Baker. In the second and third cylinders, he found the preserved bodies of Charlotte Miller and Jane White. Strangely, having read Doctor Broughton's manuscript, he felt no more horror at seeing their dead bodies than he would at seeing the mummified remains of an Egyptian Pharaoh in a museum. In any case, it was the contents of the fourth cylinder which demanded his attention. Susan Bennett was not like the previous two who had proper bodies. Susan was more like a diver's wetsuit found floating in the sea, except a wetsuit with tremendous breasts which floated out towards him.

He stared around, and worked out how to move the overhead winch along a track on the ceiling until it was above Susan's cylinder. He pulled a stepladder over, climbed to the top, and stared into the murky liquid.

There was already some kind of harness around Susan's body, so it was only a matter of lowering the hook on the winch to catch the harness and then start to wind it up. All went smoothly until the top of the legs started to emerge, and Tim realised that the weight of liquid inside would stretch her body apart. Instead, he had to lower the body slightly, and then he used a convenient pole to pull up the bottom of the legs and allow the liquid to drain out of them, before he continued lifting Susan out of the liquid. Finally, he was able to descend the stepladder and pull the winch along its track until he could lower her onto the slab. He stared at her, both nervous about following the instructions in Doctor Broughton's manuscript, and incredibly excited at the prospect.

There was a water tap at one end of the slab with a hose attached. Tim turned on the tap. Clearly, the water supply to the Infirmary had been turned off, for only a trickle of water emerged, but at least it was clean. Tim commenced washing the murky liquid off Susan's body and hair.

***

Forty minutes later, Tim twisted and turned in order to inspect himself. Except that it was not a male that he stared at, but a shapely young woman. Doctor Broughton had not exaggerated the size of Susan's breasts; Tim had simply not realised that breasts came that size before silicone was invented. But these wobbled about on his chest, quivering with every movement, and joggling against each other, with a life of their own.

Everything had gone exactly as Doctor Broughton's manuscript had dictated, except that his penis had obediently slipped into the cavity provided without need of the action that Doctor Broughton had required. Now, he couldn't feel a trace of discomfort down there, although he was feeling incredibly randy, as well as excited about the prospect of going to the Halloween party like that.

Well, not quite like that. First, he had to get dressed. He found Doctor Broughton's collection of clothing in a cupboard under the stairs, and spent some time trying to find suitable items for Susan to wear. Doctor Broughton had remarked that she didn't have a proper corset, and when he held one of the nurses' uniforms against him, it was quite clear from the size of the waist that she would need one. Eventually he found a corset which would fit and laced himself into it. Just like Doctor Broughton, he found the process incredibly erotic, as his normally quite straight waistline became deeply curved before his eyes.

When he tried on a nurses' dress, he appeared incredibly top heavy. He wasn't certain whether nurses would normally wear a crinoline, but he thought he probably needed one to give him a shapely lower half. With apron and cap in place, he felt he looked stunning.

It only remained for him to get to the Halloween party.

***

It was the early hours of the morning when Nurse Susan Bennett returned to the laboratory. She sat down at the desk, pulled out a pen from her bag and started to write in the leather notebook.

What an evening! Never before have I had so much excitement — or so much fun! Everyone admired me in my costume and wanted to know who I really was — of course, I didn't tell them the truth, for I was little concerned about winning the prize for the best disguise. Instead, I wanted the world to admire me for being a sexually attractive woman.

Mr Smythe could hardly take his eyes off me when I arrived — the combination of tightly corseted waist and large breasts, with little to prevent their natural swing, was too much for most men, including him. I told him I was Tammy, Tim Dudley's sister.

"Oh, is Tim here?" Mr Smythe asked, wanting to know what fancy dress he was wearing. I told him Tim was close by, but not what his fancy dress was, and he spent a little time looking around for him. But he couldn't stop his eyes from frequently returning to me. It's strange that the thoughts of a male lusting after me tremendously excited me — but they did.

Of course, I had no intention of taking things further with any male, but I am afraid I had too much alcohol. So, when Mr Smythe suggested we go up to his room, I stupidly agreed. I don't know what I thought was going to happen — perhaps that he would simply kiss me and fondle my breasts — but as soon as we were through the door, he had pushed me onto the bed and had spread my legs.

Too late, I realised I was not wearing any drawers; most women did not in that period, and there were none in Doctor Broughton's wardrobe. But before I could even think about the delicacy of my position, he had forced himself into me, and was working in and out fit to burst. "By Gad, girl," he said, "you've got a tight little cunty."

I have to confess, I really enjoyed being rogered by him. It was very different from sex as a male, and very exciting. But when he had finished, he almost threw me out of his bedroom; I really should not have expected anything else from that chauvinist, but I still felt extremely disappointed. So, I went back to the fancy dress party and got picked up by three of my colleagues from the office. They took me back to one of their hotel rooms, and they all three rogered me! What fun!

Eventually, we split up and I have come away with all of their phone numbers; I still cannot decide whether I shall reveal all to them tomorrow morning, or keep quiet and go on dates with them! Whatever, I am totally besotted with being Susan Bennett, aka Tamsin Dudley, so I suspect I shall keep up the pretence for some time to come.

Susan Bennett reread the words she had just written. Hell, that had been fun. But in just a few hours, Tim Dudley would be expected to arrive at work. It was time to turn back into him.

As he closed the notebook, he noticed a folded sheet of paper pushed between the pages towards the rear. He took it out, unfolded it and started to read.

I feel it essential I complete the words I wrote over one week ago, so I am putting them onto this sheet of foolscap, and I shall try to talk my way past the workmen who, as I write this, are sealing up the laboratory. I shall tell them I have left some important papers down here, and ask their leave to come down. I have discovered that a smile and a promise from a woman will often work so much better than any amount of threats from a powerful man.

I could never have envisaged that my plan would work out so efficiently. It turned out that Rupert - that is Doctor Walker, was totally besotted by me, having seen me once before and looked for me ever since. So when I turned up on his doorstep, he accepted my words without thought that I might be lying. After all, he was only really interested in having his wicked way with me!

Even now, I am not certain why I let him. I could state it was a scientific experiment; that I wanted to see whether it would be possible for me to have sex with him as a woman might, without him becoming aware that I was male. It was, of course, an exceptionally high risk, for if he realised, I would be immediately arrested. In honesty, I suspect that my sexual needs compelled me to do so, as they have compelled me to do so much.

When I left him next morning, it was with a promise I would see him again that evening, a promise I never intended to keep.

My plan was that I would recover the valise of clothes I had hurriedly packed and hidden in the hospital grounds. I would then take the omnibus into the town centre and check into the Station Hotel. There, I would remove Marjorie's body, and dress once more as Doctor Broughton. I would catch the next train to London and start a new life - perhaps journey onto one of the colonies where my skills would be welcomed.

The first part of my plan went well, and I checked into the hotel without problem. But the problem arose when I tried to remove Marjorie's body, which appeared to be bonded to my own skin. I had never had any problem on previous occasions and for a time I could not understand the cause.

Then the realisation rushed through me like a punch in the stomach — in my panic the previous evening to don Marjorie's body whilst it was still a respectable hour at which to call on Doctor Walker, I had paid scant attention to washing the Broughton's Liquid off her body. I had washed it from the outside, but had not cleansed the inside.

My researches with the liquid had already shown me the importance of keeping the liquid off living flesh. An accidental splash and, after a few hours, the skin would soften to the point where it fell apart, exposing the flesh beneath, which had turned a strange shade of deep purple. It all healed perfectly within a few days, but it was certainly an experience I made certain I never repeated. Now, I suspected the same had happened, the liquid had dissolved my skin and my engorged flesh had somehow bonded to the flesh of Marjorie's body.

I could hardly go to the local infirmary and explain the problem! I was not in any pain, so I resolved to wait and observe what happened. At some stage, my skin would grow again, and I would be able to remove Marjorie's body.

So it was that I kept my appointment with Rupert that evening, and every evening since. Surprisingly, it appears my own flesh has adopted Marjorie's flesh as its own. Quite quickly, I started to detect a feeling in Marjorie's skin, which has continued to grow more sensitive as the days progress. Last evening, Doctor Walker only had to breathe on my nipples to send the most exquisite feelings through my body.

I must add that the joy he gives me with his penis surpasses anything I enjoyed as a male. I have decided to accept my fate and live my life as Marjorie, especially as Rupert has asked me to marry him.

I must finish now. Rupert has just told me that Doctor Broughton's laboratory is being sealed as I write. I must talk my way inside and then slip these pages into the notebook. After that, I must get to the church on time.

Tim sat still for a few seconds after he had finished reading, trying to make sense of it all. Then the realisation hit him just as it had Doctor Broughton; with only a meager flow of water from the tap, he had washed only the outside of Susan's body. The inside had still been quite moist with the liquid when he slipped into it. Could it possibly be true that the liquid had dissolved his own skin, as it appeared to have done to Doctor Broughton?

He was suddenly frantically pulling off his clothes and throwing them to the ground: his dress, crinoline, then his fingers were trying to undo the knot in the corset laces.

Finally, he stood naked before the mirror, and was twisting around, lifting Susan's buttocks and trying to locate the cords by which he had secured the edges of the slit together. But they appeared to have merged together, leaving a rather nasty scar along the bottom of Susan' buttocks.

He wondered whether stretching the skin from both front and rear at the same time might cause the bonded skin to part, so he moved his right hand around the front of his body and reached down between his legs.

The pleasure which ran through his body made him gasp with excitement. Of course, he would get on with removing the body in a moment, but in the meantime, he had no choice but to pursue the pleasure. He sat on the edge of Doctor Broughton's desk, parted his legs and allowed his fingers to explore some more. Never had he had such an exquisite feeling — a warmth which grew between his legs and surged throughout his body; a warmth which commanded his fingers to explore some more.

He lay back on the desk, spread his legs wider and let his fingers do the walking.

***

It was some time later before Susan Bennett recovered, and decided she really ought to dress for work. She was certain that Mr Smythe would not object to Tim Dudley being replaced by his sister, Tamsin, on a temporary basis to start with. They could sort out the paperwork later.

When his mother dreams that the war won't be over by Christmas, and that he and all the other boys from school will be killed in the trenches, John changes his name to Joan and everything else flows from that.

Author's Note: This story contains non-violent rape, under-age sex, and cross dressing.

It's not often I think back to the start of it all. Strangely enough, it was that book by Charles Darwin that I came across in the library the other day, which started me thinking, back to when I was fourteen. I lived just with my mother, then, my father having died of consumption a few years previously.

I was generally considered a bit of a weed. The other boys at school despised me and called me a sissy or a pansy. The girls in the class all doted on the biggest and strongest boys such as George, Charley and Tom Shepherd, who lived next door to me and made my life hell. No girls, it seemed, wanted to walk out with me.

I had left school a few months previously and gotten a job as a delivery boy for the local butcher. Not much of a job but it was better than nothing. I really didn't seem to have much future in those days.

One night, I heard Mum screaming and I knew she was having one of her dreams again.

"No! No! No!" She was yelling at the top of her voice.

I slipped out of bed, lit a candle and went next door to my mum's bedroom.

"Mum."

She was thrashing around, punching the air and arching her back; the sweat was pouring from her.

"Mum. It's me, John. It's just one of your dreams. Wake up, Mum, Wake up."

Mum had these terrifying nightmares from time to time, which totally devastated her. I pulled the bedclothes off her, then hurriedly looked away as I realised her nightdress was around her waist and her hairy bush was in full view.

"John?" My mum grabbed me and hugged me to her. "Oh John, you're safe. Thank God! I thought you were dead."

"It's all right, Mum. I'm here with you."

"But not for long," she sobbed.

That brought me up short. Several of Mum's past dreams have been suspiciously like premonitions. Not exactly right, but close enough to make you wonder. Last year she'd dreamt of a terrible train accident and three months later there was that collision between two trains travelling from Carlisle to London, leaving over fifty people dead or injured. The point was that Carlisle is not that far away from our village and we'd travelled there only the week before Mum's premonition, using that same train line.

Then, just after Christmas, she had this dream that some posh bloke called Frank would be shot dead. Six months later, Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated somewhere abroad, which got us into the skirmish we're in now.

I couldn't decide about it. I mean, maybe when we'd gone on that railway, Mum had noticed how sloppy the operations had been, put two and two together and had a dream about it. And when she dreamt about the shooting, everyone thought it was the local squire who was going to be shot, rather than some bloke in a country I'd never heard of. Our squire's name was Frances Williams and he was always hunting and shooting. You could say these things were just coincidence, but I really, really wanted to know why she thought I was dead.

"What is it, Mum? What was the dream about?"

"It's not going to be over by Christmas," she said.

"What? This little scuffle with Kaiser Bill, you mean?"

"It's going to go on and on for years. All the men will have to go and fight in horrible conditions, and thousands and thousands will be killed." She looked at me and hugged me closer. "You were there, and all your friends were with you, walking with your guns towards the enemy looking so brave. But the Bosch had machine guns. You were shot in the leg… and you lay in a muddy heap with all your friends… Most were dead but some, like you, were terribly wounded. You kept crying out for help for days, but no one came until eventually everyone stopped moaning, and your body..."

The banging on our front door startled us both. "Everything all right, there, Mrs Walker?"

It was Mr Shepherd, from next door. It wasn't the first time he'd been awoken by one of Mum's dreams and come to investigate.

I went over to the window, but just before I opened it, Mum whispered to me. "Don't tell him what the dream was about."

I threw open the window and called down. "Hello, Mr Shepherd. I'm sorry we've woken you. It's just Mum having another of her silly dreams."

"Oh aye? What was it about?"

The news of Mum's premonitions was well known. I looked at her and she shook her head.

"It's all a bit confused at the moment, Mr Shepherd. It may be nothing. Thanks for coming round." I closed the window and turned back to Mum. "Why didn't you want me to tell Mr Shepherd about it?"

"Because his three boys were all with you. And they all died with you."

"Oh." I thought for a little. "Look, Mum, it's only a dream. It's not for real."

"It was real enough to me. I know it's going to happen and we can't do anything to stop it."

"Mum, it really might be over by Christmas."

"It will be a great war which will go down in history books. All the men will go and fight, and many will never return, or they'll come back terribly injured. Britain will be depleted of men. We've got to stop it happening."

"I don't think Mr Asquith is going to take much notice of us, Mum."

"Nothing will prevent the great war," Mum said. "We have to stop you being sent to the trenches."

"I'm only fourteen, Mum. I'm too young."

"I've told you, this will go on for years and years. At first, they'll rely on volunteers, and there'll be tremendous pressure on everyone to go. Even boys as young as you will be volunteering. Later on, they'll conscript all men."

I said it to lighten the tension a little – and maybe, if I'm being honest, because it was one of those little dreams I'd had which normally, wild horses wouldn't drag out of me. "Perhaps I should dress up as a girl. They'll never send girls to war."

Mum gasped a little and stared at me, looking me up and down. "Oh, John. Would you be prepared to do that?"

I tried not to shout out in excitement. I made my voice casual and unconcerned. "S'pose so. Do you really think it would work?"

More looking up and down. "You have a very slender body and a pretty face."

"I know." That's the reason I'd always been bullied at school, but thankfully, that was over now.

"We'd need to pad you out in places."

I blushed bright red. "You mean, boobies?"

Mum smiled. "If you're going to be a girl, it's no good getting embarrassed every time you mention them."

"No, Mum."

"Let's go back to sleep now and think over what we're talking about. If you want to change your mind in the morning, I'll quite understand. But if we go ahead, we'll need to prepare carefully. And it will mean moving away from here. Somewhere far away, so we're never likely to meet anyone who knows you as John Walker rather than Joan Walker."

"Joan Walker?"

"Just one letter different, so hardly any change at all." We both knew the change we were considering was enormous. "Remember, not a word to anyone about our special project. Simply tell them I said the war won't be over by Christmas and it will be very horrible.

"Yes, Mum."

***

"Morning, John. You look as though you've hardly slept all night. Have you decided to change your mind?"

I'd decided that all her talk about a great war and all the men being killed in the trenches was all poppycock. But the idea of having a brilliant reason to dress up and live the life of a girl was incredibly exhilarating. She was right that I'd hardly slept a wink all night but that was because of the excitement soaring through me.

"Morning, Mum. The idea's certainly weird but I'm willing to have a go if you think it's really necessary. That it's the only way of saving my life."

She looked lovingly me and said, "I do, Joan."

It took a second for me to notice that last word. "Mu-um."

"We have time to plan this carefully. I'll start looking for another job down south, somewhere." Mum was a nurse to a rich old man called Mr Farrow, who she said was senile, but to me he sounded crazy. He needed continual looking after, even his bottom wiping. Yuk!

"Just a temporary job, I think," she continued, "whilst you're changing from being a boy to a girl, so if there are any slip ups, we can move on after a few months somewhere else."

"Why will it take so long to change from a boy to a girl?" I asked. "Surely, it's just a matter of putting on a dress."

"I think you'll find it more complicated than that," she said. "But first you need to try on some clothes. Mr Farrow's granddaughter, Joyce, is a few years older than you and she's always calling round to see him. I'll ask her if she has any cast offs for my niece who's coming to see me."

I tried to be brusque with my, "Sounds a good idea," but in reality, my heart was pounding. I'd seen Joyce occasionally walking through the village and she was so beautiful and wore the prettiest dresses you ever did see. The idea of getting into her clothes was almost making me explode with excitement.

***

When Mum arrived home the following evening, I wanted to charge out and shout, "Have you got me some pretty dresses?" but I knew that would be fatal, so I sat nervously waiting for her to come in and tell me.

Even after she'd entered the kitchen, and sat down, she still didn't talk about it. Eventually, I had to venture a, "Did you speak to Joyce about the dresses?"

"She's bringing some in tomorrow," Mum said.

And with that, I had to be content.

***

The following day I had to go through almost the same rigmarole, but this time Mum said, "She brought in some lovely clothes, actually. The problem is they're so pretty, I don't even think you'll want to try them on. I was hoping she'd give me a plain dress that wasn't that much different from the clothes you currently wear, but I could hardly refuse these."

"It's good of you to think about me, Mum," I said. "But if they are pretty clothes, aren't they likely to make me seem more like a girl than a boy."

Mum looked at me and I thought she'd realised how I was feeling. "Do you know, John?" she said. "And I mean John and not Joan, I'm very proud of the way you're hiding your true feelings in order to indulge me and my fantastic dreams. But I do believe what I dreamt is really going to happen, you know?"

"Of course I know that, Mum, which is why I'm happy to go along with it. And if the war is over by Christmas we can have a good laugh about it and properly celebrate."

"Well, you'll certainly have some lovely dresses to wear for the celebrations," Mum said. "I'll go and get them." She smiled at my blush, but she couldn't know that my heart was beating like crazy.

***

There were five dresses along with some underwear, and my heart almost burst as I looked at everything. But Mum made me take a bath before trying anything on, which always takes so long as we have to drag the bath in from the outhouse and then fill it, bucket by bucket from the boiler behind the kitchen fire. Mum went and fetched her soap which she used for special occasions, so I came out smelling not of Lifebuoy, but of an unimaginable sweetness.

Fortunately, it was freezing cold in the kitchen by the time I'd finished and I was shivering, with my jewels shrivelled up so small there was no chance of my Percy getting stiff. When I'd first clapped eyes on the dresses, I'd had an immediate boner, something I was terrified of showing in front of my mum.

Mum pulled a slip over my head and down my body, and then was fastening something around my stomach with lots of strings to it.

"Mum, it's a corset," I gasped. Never mind, the cold, I could feel my boner starting to reappear, but Mum was already tightening the strings, and the bottom of the corset cut sharply across the top of Percy.

"Ouch," I gasped as it shrivelled up again.

"Stop being a namby pamby," Mum said. "It just shows that girls are much tougher than boys."

"Yes, Mum." Phew, she hadn't noticed anything.

Then we were trying on the pretty dresses. They were all so beautiful but none of them quite fitted me. Of course, Joyce had much bigger boobies than me, and also a much bigger bum and hips, and we tried various ways of improvising padding. For my boobies, we found that socks filled with flour made the right kind of shape but they were hard and unyielding.

"Go on, squeeze my breast, just to see what they should feel like," Mum ordered.

"Mu-um."

"You're a girl now so it's completely all right," Mum said. "Go on, give them a squeeze."

So I gave them a squeeze and they were soft and… yummy. I had an immediate boner. I mean, how weird is that? Squeezing my mum's titties and Percy getting ideas of… I blushed red.

"We really need to find a way of giving you boobies like that," Mum said, "then you'll be able to squeeze them over and over until you stop getting embarrassed about them.

"And that's something else we'll have to take care of," she said, nodding downwards where Percy was tenting out the front of my dress.

"I'm sorry, Mum," I whimpered.

"Better for us to see these problems now than when you're at a meeting of the Ladies' Circle," she said.

"Mum, what are we going to do?" I asked. "All these beautiful clothes and I'm still going to look like a boy."

"I'm just wondering," Mum said, "if there's a way in which we might get your chest to grow boobies, but I need to talk to a doctor about it."

"Grow boobies?" Had Mum gone as crazy as Mr Farrow?

"It's just an idea. Dr Bradford is coming to see Mr Farrow tomorrow so I'll talk to him about it. I won't mention your name, of course. I'll simply say a pigeon-chested woman was asking me about it. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

***

"It's only an idea, Joan, but we're going to have a try at making your boobies grow."

"You're teasing me, Mum, aren't you?"

"It's a bit of an experiment at the moment, but I'm going to inject your breast tissue with salt water. That should temporarily increase your breast size."

"But if it's only temporary…"

"I've brought some needles home, so let's give it a try and see what happens."

"All right." Thankfully, Mum being a nurse meant I'd quickly got used to injections. "When do you want to do it?"

"Let's eat first, then you can have a good wash of your chest area and we'll make a start."

***

"You want to stick that in me? It's enormous. It's like one of things you use in cooking."

"It's big because we need to inject a reasonable amount of water to have any effect. It won't work if I inject a tiny amount."

To be honest, I was torn. The size of that needle terrified me, but on the other hand, the idea of having my very own soft, squashy boobies was irresistible. "Do your worst, Mum," I said.

***

I thought that huge needle going into my chest area was the worst pain I'd ever felt. She stuck the needle in, well over an inch below my nipple, angled sharply upwards and kept pushing upwards until it was directly behind my nipple. I relaxed, as she appeared satisfied with the position.

"All right, Joan. I think you need to prepare yourself for the painful part," she said.

"Painful part?" I gasped. "I thought we'd just done that."

"Of course not," she said. "I'm going to force water into an area where there is no room for it. I think it will probably sting quite a lot. Just remember, this pain is nothing compared to that you'd get in childbirth if you really were a girl."

I gritted my teeth. "Yes, Mum. Do your worst."

***

It was nothing like the pain you'd get in childbirth; it was far worse! But at the end, instead of a screaming brat, I had two gorgeous breasts.

Not that big, you understand, but very, very beautiful.

"What do you think?" Mum asked trying to read the expression on my face.

"It feels really strange, Mum." I was very pleased with myself over that under statement.

"You'll get used to it," she said. "Girls always do."

No way was I going to get used to these beauties. I'd be playing with them for evermore. "But how am I going to work tomorrow with breasts like these?"

"As I said, they're only temporary so maybe we'll have to bandage your chest for a few days to hide them."

"But Mum," I asked, "if they're only temporary, what was the point of doing this tonight? Are you going to have to do this every night from now on?"

"I wanted to get the measure of how difficult it was," she said, "and how much liquid it would take for reasonably sized breasts. Each of your breasts have one cupful of water inside them. We'll see how quickly they reduce in size, but in answer to your question, I'm hopeful that we won't have to keep injecting more liquid. I have some ideas for that which I'll tell you about later."

***

By morning, my beautiful breasts had reduced to almost half their size. Mum had warned me, of course, but it was still a terrible loss. I'd woken throughout the night and played with my titties, and another part of my anatomy as well until I'd fallen into a deep sleep. It seemed just a few minutes after my most recent playing that Mum was shaking me awake.

"Let me see them," she said. After inspecting them carefully, she said, "Well, I think the experiment worked well. They have reduced rather more quickly than I expected, but that does mean you can go to work without any bandage to conceal them."

"But what about doing it properly, Mum," I asked. "Are we going to have to do that every morning before the day starts?"

"Now we know it works," she said, "I'm going to find something better to inject you with, so you won't have any more pain or the inconvenience of having breasts until just before we leave here."

"That's great, Mum," I said, but inside I knew I was going to miss my lovely breasts like crazy.

***

The postman called that morning, an unusual event in our household. Mum opened the letter and gasped in delight.

"I've got a new job," she said. "It's a lady called Mrs Rollington-ffrench, who lives in Buckinghamshire. She's looking after her elderly mother but wants to travel to France to meet her husband who's on leave from the army for a few days. I'll have to give a week's notice to Mr Farrow's daughter but hopefully we'll be able to leave on Saturday week.

"The really good part is that apart from cook and housemaid, we'll be on our own. I suggested that you could be the maid assisting me with Mrs Rollington-ffrench's mother."

"You want me to be a maid?" Heck, I'd seen maids up at the squire's house and they looked so pretty. What I wouldn't give to wear one of their smart uniforms.

"I know you'll think being a maid demeaning, Joan, but you'll have to get used to doing a girl's job now. I'm sorry."

"I agreed to do this, Mum, and I have to take the rough with the smooth." Yes! Yes! Yes! Life was getting better and better.

"Good girl." She hesitated a little and then added, "There's something else I need to sort out and that's the problem you have down below. We can't keep having that thing sticking out of your dress."

I blushed. "I'm sorry, Mum. I'll make certain it doesn't happen again."

"You can't," she said. "Male erections are entirely involuntary. There's nothing you can do about them. But I can."

I thought of all the sharp knives she had in her medical bag and said, "Mum, no. It's one thing to give me breasts; quite another to cut off my Percy."

She laughed. "You silly girl. I don't want you to be a girl forever. I want you to have lots of children when this is all over. There'll be so many boys who don't come back from the war, the girls will be queuing up for a pretty boy like you. Anyway, the important thing is that we stop those nasty erections from exposing our whole charade. And too much masturbation can cause problems. It will make you blind and infertile and all kinds of horrible things. I think a chastity belt is the answer."

"Oh." I didn't actually know what a chastity belt was; presumably something you tie around your waist and it conceals your Percy better. And I certainly didn't like the idea of that masturbation thing. Presumably, it was some kind of infection you could catch if you weren't careful. I always washed my hands after a piss or a wank, but I knew some of my mates at school never did. "I don't know much about that, Mum, but if you think that's best I'm happy to go along with it."

"That's so good of you, Joan. Of course, girls never masturbate, anyway. They simply have no capabilities in that respect, and it's important we make you as girl-like as possible. I'll get one made for you."

"Right, Mum." What the heck was she talking about? But I knew she had totally flipped with her final words.

"I'll go and see the blacksmith today."

***

The next week was spent in preparing for our move to Buckinghamshire. It was a funny sounding name and I thought they must all be very funny people to live there. But Mum got some packing cases and we filled them with all our things. As it got closer to our final day, it became more and more difficult to live our daily lives because so often we'd packed things away which we needed. All except for my dresses, that is. Mum and I had agreed the dress I was going to travel in to Buckinghamshire and all the other dresses were packed away. I used to gloat over that one dress hanging on a peg in my room.

Finally, it was the Friday before our departure day. I had already left my job so I could wait in for the carrier who was collecting the packing cases. Mum was hoping to leave work early but in fact, she was later than ever, which was a pain as she'd said we had lots of things to do when she came home.

We were catching a very early train in the morning and since we were unlikely to be seen by many people, we'd agreed that I should have my breasts and buttocks enhanced before we set out. When we departed, I'd be wearing my normal clothes over Joyce's shift and corset. As soon as we were on the train, we'd hopefully find it deserted and I could remove my clothes and slip on Joyce's beautiful dress.

Dah-dah! Suddenly, I would be Joan.

The hours dragged by uintil Mum arrived, then everything was rush, rush, rush.

"Firstly," she said, "I've collected your chastity belt from the blacksmiths. It's a very fine device. Come to the kitchen and we'll put it on you straightaway."

"Why the kitchen, Mum?"

"It's cold in there so we won't get any of those nasty erections."

I felt myself blushing. She was right. We both went to the kitchen and she made me strip off. I held a towel around my middle. She rummaged in her bag. "It's in two parts. The first is the belt." She pulled a metal strap from her bag. It looked like a normal waist belt with holes punched in the one end, only it was made of metal and had a rivet protruding from the other end. Fixed to the middle of the belt, another short length of strap hung down. Mum slipped the belt around my waist and then pushed the rivet through one of the holes so it was a comfortable fit around my waist, with the other bit of strap hanging down towards my bum.

"The second part keeps you chaste."

I wondered who was going to chase me as she pulled another metal strap out of her bag. This piece was flat at either end but it domed in the middle and with some holes cut into it. Mum slid the buckle at the one end over the rivet fastening on the waistband and it hung down past Percy and my jewels.

"Remove the towel and open your legs a little," she ordered and I did as she said. No prizes for guessing where the strap was going. But she took me totally by surprise by grasping Percy and my jewels.

"Mum!" I gasped, shocked to the core. "What are you doing?"

"It won't hurt," she said, then squeezed my shaft in a strange way which made my jewels go in a place they clearly were never meant to go. Then she thrust the strap between my legs, pulled it from behind, and secured it to the strap hanging down my rear. There was the sound of a ratchet clicking and suddenly Percy was pointing unnaturally downwards, trapped behind the metal strap, the curve in it providing barely enough room for Percy in his current status, never mind when he got hard. Heavens knew where my jewels had disappeared. The very thought of being constrained like that made Percy want to get hard, but it was so tight, there was nowhere for him to go.

"No one's going to know you're not a girl now, even if they pull up your skirt."

"Mum, they're not likely to do that."

She smirked at me. "What a sweet girl you are. You will find there are plenty of young men who will try that. You will also occasionally find evil men who will try to force sex upon you. The chastity belt will prevent that happening. "

That made me sit up and think. Did men really behave like that? Exactly what was I letting myself in for? I decided to get back onto more comfortable ground. "Can you show me how to take it off, Mum?"

Another smirk. "You will keep this on for the time being – certainly until we have settled into our new home."

"Don't be silly, Mum. I'll need to remove it in order to take a leak."

"Only men stand up to pee," she said. "Girls squat down over the chamber pot. You'll find the holes in the belt will allow you to pee as a girl would."

My mouth sagged open a little at that. This seemed to be taking being a girl to an unnecessary level of detail. "But it'll get quite smelly, Mum. I need to take it off." You've probably realised I was more concerned about the ease with which I could have a wank, but could hardly say so.

"I have bought you a sponge," Mum said. "Fill it with water and then squeeze it against the holes in your belt where the pee comes out."

"But Mum," I said, in desperation forced to speak the words. "I'll need to wank."

"Absolutely not," she said. "Girls don't masturbate and I don't want you to. Is that understood?"

"Mum," I shouted in desperation. "I don't care about the masturbation but I really need to wank."

She looked at me, a strange look on her face, and then she roared with laughter. "Oh, you silly girl. Wanking is another word for masturbation. I'm afraid you're not going to wank for several weeks."

"Not wank for several weeks? Mum, you're kidding me, right? I must wank."

"Girls don't wank and neither will you," Mum said. "Now, let's give you some breasts."

***

I thought it would be fun being a girl. I never imagined the consequences would be like this. I was so engrossed in my thoughts I barely noticed her pulling that huge syringe out of her bag and getting it ready to stick in me.

"Anyway, Mum, what's the point of injecting my breasts now when they'll have deflated by the morning?"

"I've given it a lot of thought," she said, "and I realise the problem is that your body absorbs the water and deals with it. So this evening, I'm going to inject you with something the body won't absorb, so you'll keep your beautiful girl breasts.

"It's all right," she continued, "it's not anything harmful. We'll use one of nature's products, olive oil." She took a large bottle of olive oil off the kitchen shelf. "I prepared this earlier this week by heating it up to the boiling point of water so it's sterilised."

"Is that all right, Mum? It sounds a bit funny, squirting oil inside me."

"I've already tried it on Mr Farrow. His testicles," she paused when she saw I didn't understand, "his jewels, as you call them, had shrivelled up to almost nothing in later years. He now has a pair which are quite a lot larger than yours. And they've stayed like that for over a week."

"You injected his jewels." I cringed. "Oh, Mum, that's horrible. Did he ask you to?"

"Mr Farrow is hardly capable of asking for anything," she said. "But I knocked him out with a little ether so it didn't hurt. I think the next nurse will have quite a shock when she comes to bathe him."

"Are you going to give me ether?" I asked.

"Heavens, no. We're not touching your jewels and you're a brave girl. You're prepared to suffer a little for your beauty. Most girls are."

"Yes Mum."

It was just as painful as before, except that instead of limiting it to my breasts alone, she did my bum and hips. In the end, I had one cup of olive oil in each of my breasts, and I have to admit, they looked gorgeous – small, firm breasts that demonstrated my sex beyond doubt. But Mum also injected each of my buttocks with two cups of olive oil, and each hip with one cup. Heat me up a bit and I could fry in my own oil.

I hadn't really understood her insistence on the hips and buttocks, until I tried on the dress at the end. Wow! The way the dress flowed over my hips and bum shouted, "Girl!" in a way that a huge pair of knockers never would.

"I think we can go to bed now," she said, "knowing we can get straight off in the morning."

"Yes, Mum."

***

"Mum! Mum! I'm in agony," I cried, staggering into her bedroom in the middle of the night.

"What is it?" she asked, coming instantly awake. "Your breasts?"

"No," I shrieked. "It's my Percy. It's trying to get hard but it can't. You've got to release me from this belt."

"Don't be such a stupid baby," she said. "Let's go downstairs and put some cold water into the bath. You can sit in that until your little problem has subsided."

Suddenly, Percy didn't seem so keen on getting out. "Perhaps I'll be all right, Mum," I muttered.

"No," she commanded. "You have to learn the consequences of nasty erections. Every time you get one which becomes unbearable, you'll sit in a cold bath."

She made me do it, as well. I had to fill it with ice cold water from outside, and then sit in it. Percy had long since hidden as far as he could, but I still had to sit shivering for ten minutes in the bath. That's when Mum made the observation.

"Your breasts have got larger."

"Well, of course they have…" I started to say, after all, we'd inflated them the previous evening. But then I looked down and stared. They must have been at least twice the size they were last night. I hadn't realised that in my preoccupation with Percy they were tingling painfully, as they tried to burst out of my skin. "Mum, how can that be? It's hardly as though I've been injecting myself all night."

"I'm not certain," she said.

That knocked me out. I have never known Mum uncertain about anything medical.

"I think the important thing at the moment is to make certain you don't get any stretch marks. I'd hoped to avoid them by keeping them quite small, but I've never known anything like this. Get out of the bath and dry yourself. We can rub some cream into them to prevent the stretch marks."

As Mum rubbed in the cream, the pain I was feeling disappeared and the rubbing started to feel… well, yummy. Like really, really nice. I noticed my nipples were starting to poke out and down below, I could feel Percy starting to take an interest again. As Mum continued to rub in the cream, so he got harder and harder, but I was scared to say something to Mum because I knew she'd have me back in the icy bath without a moment's hesitation.

Eventually, I was allowed back to bed. Percy was screaming to be let out, but I ignored him; I wanted to continue squeezing my breasts.

***

"Wake up," Mum said. "It's time to get dressed and leave this place. Let me look at your breasts."

"Yes Mum," and I pulled back the sheets and sat up.

"Mmm. I think they may have increased a little, but not so quickly as before. Let me see your buttocks."

I got out of bed and twisted my head to see myself. "Blimey!" I said. "They're enormous."

"Yes," Mum said. "They are. We'll just have to get on as best we can. Rub some cream over everything before you get dressed. I'm not certain your boy clothes will even fit over that bottom but you'll have to do your best. I'll get everything else packed."

***

Fortunately, there was no one else around at that time of the day. Mum had already bought the tickets and there was no one on duty in the station, other than the signalman, who waved down at Mum from his signal box. The train arrived exactly on time, we got into an empty carriage and it set off again. And by the time it arrived at the next station, I was a fully-fledged girl.

***

The next two weeks were a maze of new experiences, too many to recall in detail, except for the overriding ones: meeting Dawn, the housemaid and the continuing growth of my lovely breasts.

Mum had a good look at them as soon as we were on the train. "I think what's probably happening is that your body is reacting to the olive oil by swelling up."

"What can we do about it, Mum?"

"I'm not certain." Those words again. "I suppose really you should see a doctor, but under the circumstances that's impossible. I'd never get a job as a nurse again if it came out that I'd done this. We'll just have to manage as best we can. Keep rubbing in the cream."

And with that, I had to be content.

***

Our journey that day consisted of many hours on trains, many hours waiting for connections and finally, a long cold ride in a pony and trap. What was so amazing was people's difference in attitude towards me. Previously, people just ignored me if I was lucky, or if not, they openly scorned or derided my puny appearance. Now, all the blokes gave me big smiles and all the women kind of sympathetic smiles as I did my best to conceal the bulges on my chest.

It was gone eight o'clock in the evening when we finally arrived at a house in deepest Buckinghamshire. Mrs Rollington-ffrench, who I immediately renamed Mrs Rolly-Poly, because of her shape, worriedly greeted us, clearly concerned we weren't going to show. She immediately took us up to see her mother who was as alert and perky as Mr Farrow had been comatose.

"Glad you could be bothered to arrive," she said, as though we hadn't spent all day travelling to this place in the middle of nowhere. I mean, if people want to live in places like that, they shouldn't moan when others take the time to go to see them! She was to be called Mrs ffrench and I was to be her personal maid, whilst Mum was to take care of her medical needs. That wasn't quite how Mum had described it but who was I to complain? Especially when Mrs Roly-Poly introduced us to Mrs Crawley, the cook, who was an amiable chubby woman, and Dawn, the housemaid who, in her black uniform with white apron, was the most beautiful vision I had ever seen.

"Come on," she said, "I'll take you up to the room we're going to share and you can change into your new uniform."

"We're going to share a room?" I nervously glanced at my mum. "I thought that we'd..."

"Don't be silly, Joan," Mum said. "Obviously housemaids will share a room together and I'm sure you'd much prefer it to sharing with me."

I stared at Dawn with her slim waist and pretty face and said, "Er, yes of course I would, but I was just a bit surprised." No wonder Mum had forced me to wear this chastity belt, thing. But even with Percy concealed, would Dawn not realise I was really a boy?

As Dawn led me upstairs, she chatted about how pleased she'd been to hear that I was coming to take care of Mrs ffrench as she was a right so-and-so, always demanding things instantly, regardless of the time of day or night.

Our room was tiny, with two narrow beds separated by about six inches, with two wardrobes on either side of the door.

"Your uniforms are in here," Dawn said, opening the wardrobe to the left of the door.

Oh my God! They were just like Dawn's and I was going to be wearing them.

"They should be all right for size," she added, "as long as you properly tighten your corset. But there's plenty of room up top. You're very rounded for your age, aren't you? How old are you?"

I admitted that I was fourteen and, indeed yes, I was quite rounded for my years. "I was quite flat until recently," I said, "and then they just started growing." Mum had suggested these words on the train. "They're very sensitive at the moment. I have to rub cream on them regularly." I got out the pot of cream Mum had given me and went to rub some on.

"Could I do it," Dawn asked. "I've never seen such beautiful breasts."

I handed her my pot of cream and she started to rub it in. Oh my God! If Mum rubbing it in was fantastic, this was the most exquisite pleasure I'd ever had. It was like...

"Aagh!" I yelled bending over with crippling pain. Percy wanted to join in the fun with a suddenness which I'd never experienced before. Needless to say, he was horribly constrained by my chastity belt, causing me excruciating pain.

"I'm sorry," Dawn said. "I didn't realise they were so sensitive."

It was, I realised, going to be a continual challenge to avoid erections, sharing a room with the beautiful Dawn.

"What's that between your legs?" Dawn asked.

Mum and I had discussed this eventually and decided the best thing was to come clean, as far as we could, anyway. "My mum insists on me wearing a chastity belt," I said.

"A chastity belt!" Dawn sounded as though she couldn't believe her ears. "What's that?"

I pulled up my corset to show her more clearly. "Mum was worried that coming down south I might be raped," I said.

"Raped? In Buckinghamshire?" She made it sound as though the south was more civilised than the north of England. "What's to stop a rapist pulling that bit of metal off?"

"It's fixed in place. There's a kind of lock at the rear."

"So how do you remove it?"

"I can't without the key which Mum holds," I said. "Obviously if I carried a key around, the rapist could take it off me and remove the belt."

"So you have to piss through those holes?" Dawn asked.

I nodded. I have to keep it quite clean otherwise it would get smelly."

"I'd never have allowed my Mum to do that to me," she said. "Mind, I hardly knew her so I can hardly talk."

***

Mrs Roly-Poly departed next morning, heading to France to meet up with her husband who was on leave, leaving us four servants together, with Mrs ffrench in charge. She was virtually bedridden, and had to be helped to take a leak or a crap. Needless to say, that was one of my duties, as was virtually everything else to do with her, including washing her.

I recalled it had only been a few weeks ago that I'd accidentally seen Mum's bush, and been incredibly embarrassed about it. Little did I realise that I'd be washing one a few weeks later, together with every other part of her body. Thankfully, Percy had become much more cautious about instant erections, although my morning woodies were always incredibly painful.

Still, I got used to it and to be honest, the pleasure I got at simply being a girl was enormous. Combine that with sharing a room with the most beautiful girl in the world and you can see I was in ecstasy.

There were, of course, two other aspects of becoming a girl that loomed large in my life and they were stuck on the front of my chest. That rapid growth of the first night slowed down, which was a good job, as otherwise they'd have burst apart. I kept applying the cream and managed to avoid any stretch marks. But day by day, they got bigger and bigger. Dawn and Mrs Crawley marvelled at their growth and said I was a very lucky girl to have such beauties and that I'd attract all the boys. When my back started aching, Mrs Crawley gave me one of her cast off corsets, which not only supported my breasts but stopped them wobbling about.

By the end of the two weeks, they had pretty well stopped growing, but by that time, they were the size of footballs; well, perhaps not the very large ones which men play with, but certainly the kind the boys at school used to kick about. And I only had to go on an errand to the shops in the village to realise they drew men's attention like magnets, which was a real pain. The last thing I wanted was the boys to wolf-whistle me; if only I could have swapped them with Dawn, whose breasts I thought were perfect, the size of apples, just as mine had been on that first evening Mum had inflated them. Still, I suppose a woman's breasts are never the right size for her. And the shopkeepers always made a point of giving me extra attention, as well as a little extra produce to encourage Mrs Crawley to use me again.

It was only towards the end of the two weeks that I realised that Mum was unhappy about something.

"What is it, Mum?" I asked. "What's worrying you? I think I'm managing the girl thing just great and my breasts are not growing so quickly, now."

"Mrs Rollington-ffrench is back tomorrow and I haven't yet managed to get another job. We'll be homeless. We'll have to throw ourselves on Mrs Rollington-ffrench's mercy and hope she doesn't throw us onto the streets."

***

So, the following evening, Mrs Rolly-Poly came back and it's immediately obvious that she's very upset about something. Mrs Crawley said she'd never seen her looking so unhappy. It really didn't bode well for us throwing ourselves on her mercy. But what choice did we have?

Dawn had taken a pot of tea to her bedroom as a prelude to an early night, but Mum decided we had to speak to her that evening, so we went up to her bedroom and Mum knocked on the door. "Come in," she bade.

"Ah, Mary," she said as we walked into her bedroom. She had plainly been crying. "It seems you've both done a very creditable job in looking after mother. She even said that Joan was: 'not too bad,' which is glowing praise from mother."

I was amazed at that. She'd spent the last two weeks perpetually moaning, although Dawn had told me not to worry about it. "Thank you, madam," I said

"Are you all right, madam?" Mum asked her.

Mrs Rolly-Poly's face crumpled into tears. "It's not going to be over by Christmas," she said.

I gasped. Those words so closely reflected Mum's dream that I was brought up sharp.

"I've suspected that for some time," my mum said. "Is that what your husband told you?"

She nodded. "But not just that," she added. "It's what he wouldn't tell me that is so alarming. It seems the conditions are appalling and thousands of men are dying under terrible circumstances."

Mum nodded. "I feared this would happen," she said. "We must all be brave and do what we can to help."

"I decided I would give Mr Rollington-ffrench issue," she said. "We took no precautions and I gave myself to him."

"I see," Mum said. I certainly didn't. What on earth was she talking about?

"But I had my event on the way home," Mrs Rolly-Poly said, and burst into tears again. What kind of event was she talking about?

"I see," Mum repeated.

"There is still hope," Mum said.

That shut up Mrs Rolly-Poly. "There is?" she asked, wonderment in her voice. "But how can there be?"

"The doctors don't like to admit it," Mum said. "But a man's seed can remain in the womb for many days, even through an event."

"It can? But surely that's impossible."

"There are precautions we can take to preserve the seed," Mum said. "We must do that straight away. Then I will write to my colleagues who have assisted in this way before and ask their advice. Do you desire me to do that madam?"

"Oh, yes please," she said. "Is it really possible?"

"It's certainly possible," Mum said. "But we must make it probable. First we must make a tamping pad to keep the seed safe."

Mum threw me out then, telling me not to breathe a word to anyone about what I had just heard. Most important, I knew that whatever she had said had given us more time living here. I breathed a sigh of relief.

***

You can imagine I hadn't a clue about what was going on but I knew better than to ask. It was obvious to everyone over the next few weeks that Mum and Mrs Rolly-Poly were up to something and Dawn and Mrs Crawford kept pressing me, but I was as ignorant as they were.

"My event's come at last," Dawn said a few days later.

Oh, blimey, I thought. Someone else talking about an event. "It has?" I queried.

"Mmm," she confirmed. "When's yours due?"

"Mine?" I felt myself flushing at my ignorance.

Dawn looked quizzically at me. "You do have them, don't you? I mean, you're fourteen. You should be having them by now."

"Should I?"

"You mean you're not. Does your Mum know?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "Mum knows everything, but I'm not really…"

"She hasn't told you about your events? When you have an event, it means you're not having a baby. So maybe you're having one."

"A baby? I don't think that…" I stopped myself in time from saying that boys don't have babies.

"I'm only teasing," she said. "You have to have sex with a boy first and with that thing you're wearing, you obviously haven't done that, have you?"

"Well, erm…"

"Has no one told you about sex?" she asked.

I shook my head and she leaned in, conspiratorially. "Boys have cocks," she said, and she held her hands to indicate the size and shape of one, considerably larger than my Percy. "And balls," she added, this time indicating a size which must surely be larger than Mr Farrow's after Mum had inflated them with olive oil At least, I knew what she was talking about.

"Yes," I said.

"And they put their cock in your special place and that makes babies."

"It does?" I asked, still none the wiser. Where was my special place? "Is it nice?" I asked.

"Oh, no, it's very painful," Dawn said. "At least, that's what my sister says."

"Then why does she let them put it in her special place?" I asked.

"It's the only way of keeping a boyfriend. If you don't let them put it in, they go off with someone else."

"But that makes babies," I said. "Surely you can't do it unless you're married to them."

Dawn thought that was hilarious and burst into raucous laughter.

"Pipe down with that noise," Mrs Crawley said, and so I was left trying to make sense of a few snippets of information.

***

Halfway through the second week after Mrs Rolly-Poly's return, Mum took me to one side and said, "I shall need you this evening after Mrs Rollington-ffrench goes to bed. Say nothing to the others but I will use Mrs ffrench's bell to call you upstairs, only come to Mrs Rollington-ffrench's room instead. Do you understand?"

"I think so, Mum." Using Mrs ffrench's bell would ensure it was me that responded rather than Dawn, if she'd used Mrs Rolly-Poly's. I could understand that. "What do you want me for?"

"You'll find out tonight and remember, not a word to anyone."

"No, Mum."

***

Mrs Rolly-Poly didn't want dinner that evening and Mrs ffrench only ever had a light meal, so Mrs Crawley prepared that in advance and had a night off, leaving Dawn and me to look after things. Mum disappeared to see Mrs Rolly-Poly at about nine and Dawn and I chatted in the kitchen as we often did, mainly about a boy she was sweet on. I kept doing all I could to discourage her, as in some twisted way I hoped that somehow I would be able to change back to being a boy, and become her sweetheart. Really, I knew this was never going to happen.

The call on Mrs ffrench's bell came at about ten and, following Mum's instructions, I went to Mrs Rolly-Poly's room instead. Mum was there tending Mrs Rolly-Poly who was in bed looking quite sleepy.

"Ah, Joan," Mum said. "Come in and turn the key in the lock. This evening we're going to do a delicate process on Mrs Rollington-ffrench and I'm going to need your help."

"Of course, Mum. What do you want me to do?"

"It will be quite messy so remove your dress. We don't want to get it dirty."

That took me by surprise. "All right Mum. Do you think you could unbutton me?" I still had problems undoing the buttons on the rear of my dress.

As Mum undid the buttons, I removed my apron and then pulled the dress off my shoulders and stepped out of it. I carefully folded it and put it on a chair as I'd been instructed to do.

"Your corset as well, I think," Mum added.

"My corset!" I glanced at Mrs Rolly-Poly but she appeared to be asleep by now. I had never removed my clothes in the presence of my mistress and I was embarrassed that she might wake up.

"She's taken a sleeping pill," Mum said, so I loosened the strings and did as she said, placing it on the chair with my dress. I was now only wearing my shift (and, of course, my chastity belt).

"We are going to start the procedure now, Mrs Rollington-ffrench," Mum said in a quiet voice. She went to the bottom of the bed and pulled up the bedding, exposing Mrs Rolly-Poly's legs beneath her nightdress. "Help me pull up her nightdress," Mum said.

Blimey, I thought. This was getting weirder and weirder. But I gently pulled up her nighty until it was around her waist as Mum lifted her legs and bottom slightly. Then Mum lifted her knees and separated her legs so I could see the intimate details of her slit. How embarrassing! Well, it was of course, but also, I couldn't stop staring at it.

Mum turned to her tray of medical things, opened a bottle and held some cotton wool over it as she upturned it. I remembered she'd used that smelly stuff before; ether, she called it. Wasn't that what she'd used on Mr Farrow when she'd inflated his jewels? Perhaps she was going to inflate Mrs Rolly-Poly's breasts. Mum moved to Mrs Rolly-Poly's head and held the cotton wool under her nose for a few seconds.

"Are you still with us, Mrs Rollington-ffrench?" she asked. Stupid question, I thought. She'd hardly gone away.

But she didn't reply and Mum repeated the question more loudly. Then she gently slapped her face.

Uh-uh, I thought. This is when we have to find new jobs. But still Mrs Rolly-Poly didn't stir.

"Get up on the bed between her legs," Mum ordered, picking up a strange-shaped piece of metal from her tray.

I was going to ask if Mum was going crazy but one look at her face shut me up, so I climbed onto the bottom of the bed between Mrs Rolly-Poly's legs.

"Let's take this off now," Mum said, lifting my shift at the rear. I thought she meant she was going to remove my shift but instead I could hear her fumbling at the rear of my chastity belt with that funny bit of metal.

C-L-I-C-K. Mum pulled the belt thing from between my legs. Percy could suddenly feel fresh air. Blimey, I could hear him saying. What gives?

"You can do your business now," Mum said, and when I hesitated, asked, "Do you know what to do?"

"Er, not really, Mum," which of course meant I hadn't a clue what she was talking about. Percy, though, seemed to have a better idea than I did, for he was leaping to attention, which I found embarrassing in front of Mum.

"Move your Percy up to Mrs Rollington-ffrench's slit."

"Mu-um?" Was she serious? I looked at her. She was. I wriggled up the bed a little until I was very close to Mrs Rolly-Poly. I had to lean forward as Percy was pointing right up into the air at this time. Eventually, I'd wriggled about until Percy was touching Mrs Rolly-Poly's slit.

"Spit onto your hand and then cover the end of Percy in your spit."

Had she gone mad? I did as she said.

"Now slide him forward into her slit. Down a bit – down a bit more – there."

Percy was suddenly sliding of his own volition inside Mrs Rolly-Poly, deeper and deeper until he was completely hidden inside her, and it felt… WOW!

"Keep quiet," Mum said. "Now pull it partway out – now push it back in again – and again."

Oh – my – God! I knew what it was like to enter heaven. It was so…

"Keep going," she said, as though I could possibly stop, and she turned to examine Mrs Rolly-Poly's face and decided to use a little more ether on her.

Not that I cared. I was thrusting all my weight against her, now.

"Be gentle, Joan," Mum said. "We don't want to leave any bruising. Now slow down or I'll put the chastity belt back on."

That brought me back to reality with a jolt and I did as she bade, which I thought was a shame as I felt I was just about to explode. But then I realized that the ecstasy was going on for several more minutes until I could again feel that familiar feeling in my jewels, except that it was magnified one thousand times. It felt like I had gallons of spunk building up in them and, when I started to come, I pumped squirt after delicious squirt inside her.

Finally, I was exhausted and I pulled Percy out.

"That's excellent, Joan," Mum said, giving Percy a quick wipe over before slipping the chastity belt over him and cluncking it back into position. "You can go to bed, now, and not a word to anyone else about Mrs Rollington-ffrench's treatment tonight."

"No, Mum." Then I added, "Mum, was that sex?"

"Of course not," she said. "I could never allow you to have sex with Mrs Rollington-ffrench. That was a medical procedure to assist in her giving birth to her husband's child. Is that clear?"

"Yes Mum."

***

We did exactly the same for the next three nights and I was in heaven each time. But after that fourth night, Mum said, "We won't be doing this anymore, Joan. We'll have to see whether we've been successful which means waiting another two weeks."

"It does?"

"Yes, of course," Mum said.

Sometimes it was very difficult pretending to have the knowledge of a girl when you're really a boy.

***

The two weeks dragged by. After Percy's brief liberation, he hated being cooped up in the belt again. I searched Mum's room looking for the key to the belt but couldn't find it so poor old Percy had to suffer.

Finally, the two weeks were up and Mrs Rolly-Poly was announcing that she was having a baby and everyone was congratulating her. I couldn't work out how Mum knew it was her husband's baby, rather than mine, as I was now fairly sure that I had had sex with Mrs Rolly-Poly, but Mum told me not to be stupid so I shut up.

A couple of days later, Mrs Rolly-Poly summoned us to her room.

"I can't thank you enough, Mary, for the help you've given me in becoming pregnant. I was in total despair when I arrived back home a month ago, and you enabled it all to happen. I think you helped a little as well, Joan, so thank you." If only she knew!

"I have recommended your services, Mary, to a friend of mine who has three married daughters, none of whom have yet given her a grandchild. The eldest, in particular is twenty-seven years old and clearly will soon be beyond motherhood. She would like to offer the two of you positions in her household, to see if you can help her as you have helped me. What do you say?"

"Thank you very much, madam," we both chorused. Percy would have like to have given his thanks as well, but he made his presence known by trying to get excited about it, and then of course making me suffer, as he could not.

EPILOGUE

My curvy body has remained with me to this day, so I was never able to revert to the life of a normal male. Not that it bothered me very much. Like many men, those war years changed me considerably, although in a very different way to them. And after the war, there were ways of having a good life very different from getting married and having a family, as my father had once encouraged. But those are all other stories, and maybe I'll tell you about them someday. I may be getting old and Percy doesn't want to come out to play as often as he did, but my memory is still spot on

But what (you might be saying if you recall the point where this story started) has any of this got to do with Charles Darwin and evolution?

Obviously, I don't need to tell you that Mum's dream was absolutely right. All those boys in my class would go to fight in the Great War, and be killed or horribly injured. Only a few came home and they were human wrecks who couldn't earn any kind of decent living. There were eighteen boys and girls in our class in 1914 and apart from me, I think they had a total of three children between all them.

Who'd have thought that those big strong boys would father less children than me, the one they called a sissy but, of course, it was all down to the statement I made that first evening: Perhaps I should dress up as a girl. They'll never send girls to war.

As a result, I never went to war. Mum and I went onto become specialists in helping women to conceive. During the war, it was a busy and fruitful life. Afterwards there were all those ruined men who needed a little help to fertilise their wives, so we became even busier. We'd often be helping several women every month, but that's another story.

I lost count of the number of children I helped to father, but I'd guess it was well over one hundred. I've kept an eye on many of them, and most turned into very pretty boys who probably got hell at school. But I do know that several of them seemed to disappear when the next World War was starting, and hopefully they have been as resourceful and prolific as I was.

So coming back to that evolution, thing, if you assume that one tenth of my children did the same in the Second World War as I did in the Great War, then that's ten of my children each having one hundred children each – a thousand grandchildren who owe their existence to me wanting to dress like a girl.

And maybe there were hundreds of other boys like me at the start of the Great War, who avoided draft by dressing as girls. That means that today there must be hundreds of thousands of males who want to dress like females.

Strange thought, isn't it ? Obviously we have to keep quiet about it. If those blokes who were up to their necks in mud and dead bodies knew we'd been doing our duty by shagging all their women, they'd be pretty pissed, to put it mildly. They would think us cowardly and maybe we are. But evolution is no respecter of bravery; all that matters is that you produce more of the same formula that has worked for you. And I would say that dressing as a female worked pretty well for me.

So just remember:

He who dresses and runs away, lives to dress another day.

It Shouldn't Happen to a Dog
by Lindale

"That's a large dog, Fiona," I said, nervously nodding down to the floor of her lounge into which she had just shown me, where a huge dog lay flat out. Fortunately, he seemed fast asleep. "He's not dangerous is he?"

"I'd rather you called me Lady Markham," the woman said. "He's a rather large Neapolitan Mastiff and no, he's not dangerous. He's dead."

"Dead!" I stared again at his body and cautiously sniffed the air. "Did he die recently?"

Lady Markham sniffed, in a rather different way to me, as though I was a turd she'd just discovered on her lounge carpet. "Two months ago. He was such a wonderful companion to me. I've had him stuffed so he'll always be with me."

"That's nice," I said, trying not to let the relief show in my voice. Personally, I prefer my dogs hot, in a bread roll with plenty of mustard, but thought it politic not to say so. "Now, I take it you've had chance to read through the estimate we sent you for your double-glazing. Do you have any questions about it?"

"You do like dogs, don't you, Mr Mathews?"

"Oh, yes," I hastened to reassure her, deciding not to suggest she call me Rick. "Unfortunately, I live on my own in a flat so I really don't have the opportunity to keep one. You're so fortunate living on this lovely country estate." And stonking rich, no doubt, I thought. So just sign on the dotted line.

"I am indeed," she agreed. "I have a stud kennels here. I'm trying to breed larger sizes of Neapolitan Mastiff, and Oscar was my prize dog. He and I spent so much time exploring the estate together and he enjoyed getting his nose into things. Dogging, I suppose you call it."

I tried not to explode with surprise. Whatever word she had meant to say, dogging was certainly not one of the occupations of Lady Markham of Wenlock. She must be fifty if she was a day; more likely over sixty. I'd never been good at estimating women's ages; especially positively ancient ones. But in her check jacket and matching skirt, she looked the very pillar of respectability – very much the Lady of the Manor.

"Right," I said in a non-committal tone. "Now about the estimate…"

"I should explain that Oscar is not really stuffed," she unhelpfully clarified.

"He's not?"

"No. They created a moulded plastic body – 3D printing, I think they call it, nowadays – and his skin was put over it. But it means they can make his shape exactly the same dead as he was alive. Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Modern technology," I said, adding with my usual sales flourish, "Which is, of course, fully integrated into our double-glazed windows. The plastic we use is the latest, heat-insulating design…"

"The problem is," Lady Markham interrupted, and I paid careful attention, since I knew I could counter any technical criticism she might have of my company's windows. "The problem is," she repeated, "that he doesn't move."

"No, well it's a bit difficult if he's dead," I replied.

"Oh, no," she countered. "I explained what I wanted to the taxidermist and he understood exactly. He made it so that the skin can be unzipped from the plastic body and put over a live body."

I hesitated. "But that would mean," I cautiously said, "that you'd need a dog just the same size and shape as Oscar, and clearly he was a dog in a million." Hell, he was more the size of a small pony than a dog.

"Obviously, that was going to be very difficult to achieve," she said.

"Right," I said, wondering where this conversation was going. Did she want our company to provide her with a new dog as a sweetener? Whilst we were expecting to make a hefty profit on this job, I guessed that buying thoroughbred dogs would certainly eat into it.

"So I accepted that the resemblance might not be perfect when my taxidermist said that with a dog of Oscar's size, he could design it so the skin would fit over a person. They'd have to be the right-sized, of course."

"Right," I repeated. "So do you have someone in mind who's going to be wearing the skin?"

"You'd be perfect for it," she said. I think my mouth must have gaped open, as she added, "I realised as soon as you walked into the room. You're just the right size."

"Sorry," I said, shaking my head, "you're saying you want to take the dog's skin off the mould it's currently on and get me to wear it?" I had a wide grin on my face to show I understood she was making a silly joke.

"Yes," she said.

That wiped the smile off my face. She was a total loony. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think I'd be able to do that."

"Fair enough," she said, closing the folder containing my company's quotation and holding it out for me to take. "Goodbye, Mr Mathews."

"Er… Wait."

She looked at me expectantly.

"Can you explain again what you want me to do?"

"Certainly, Mr Mathews. I want you to put on the skin of my lovely Oscar and pretend to be him for a while. I would very much like to relive his company again."

I looked again at the dead dog. "But it probably won't fit."

"I think it will, but there's only one way to find out."

"You mean try it?"

"Of course." She still held my company's folder in her hand and she moved it so it hung above her wastebin."

"OK, I'll give it a go," I said. After all, the whole idea was preposterous. There was no way that dog skin would fit over a man.

"Excellent," she said, putting the folder back onto her desk and walking over to the dead dog and going down on her knees.

***

Ten minutes later, she'd removed the giant dog's skin and was holding it up before me. It looked even bigger now than when it had been lying on the floor. And it wasn't just skin; much of the meat beneath had been left attached so you could see how when it fitted over a man, it would form a doggy shape.

"I think you're just about the right size," Lady Markham said, a smirk of satisfaction on her face.

It was true; I've always been a bit of a squirt and, end to end, we were about the same. "But quite a different shape," I argued.

"I think my taxidermist has allowed for that when he did his work. Still, there's only one way to find out. I'll leave you for a few minutes. You need to remove all your clothes and insert your legs into the lower half and pull it up to your waist. I'll come back in, then, and help with the rest."

She handed me the skin and marched out of the room. "Don't take too long over it," she bellowed as she departed.

I felt the skin in my hands. The taxidermist really had done a tremendous task. Parts of the skin were so thin, they were like hair-covered tights, whilst other parts still had lots of meat around them. It was weird; I should have felt revolted by the whole idea, but instead I was becoming quite intrigued. Could I really look anything like that magnificent beast which had been lying on the floor just a few minutes ago? "Naw, impossible," I muttered to myself.

"How are you getting on?" Lady Markham yelled through the door, breaking me out of my reverie.

I hurriedly removed my clothes, deciding to leave on my underpants, partly because, for some stupid reason, I had a massive boner. There was a zip which was open right down the front, from throat to groin. I pushed the top of the suit backwards, sat down and cautiously thrust first one leg then the other into the rear legs of the skin and pulled it up to my thighs. My feet wouldn't fit right down into the ends of the legs, so it meant I'd be on the balls of my feet when I stood up, a task I found particularly difficult as the skin didn't bend at the knees. I had to push myself upright using the arms of my chair.

"Have you finished?" Lady Markham marched into the room, regardless of whether or not I was decent. "I thought I told you to remove all your clothes," she bellowed, seeing the top of my underpants. She delved into her jacket pocket and produced one of those knives they use for pruning flowers. Her hand roughly grabbed the top of my underpants, yanked them upwards and with the knife, she slashed through first the left side, then the right. With another enormous yank, she pulled the pants out from the skin, almost taking my testicles with it.

"Ouch!" I yelled. "That really hurt. And you've ruined my underpants." I pointed at the shredded garment which she'd thrown to the floor.

"Perhaps that will teach you to do as you're told," she said, slipping the knife back into her pocket. She reached behind me and pulled the skin up my back until it was level with my shoulders. "Push your arms into the sleeves," she ordered. "You'll have to curve your fingers so they fit into the gloves at the end."

As I pushed my arms into the sleeves, she helped it over my shoulders until I could feel the dog's large jaw resting against the back of my neck.

"My hands aren't going all the way in," I said, realising they were only partway down the sleeves.

"It's designed that way," she said. "The point is that human legs are longer than their arms. If dogs were designed that way, their bodies wouldn't be level with the ground. So you have false extensions to your forelegs. Now let's get the head in place."

She put one hand over my shoulder and pulled the dog's head forward, whilst the other hand pushed hard backwards on my forehead. After some heaving, the dog's head came over my own head with a rush and slipped over the front of my face until I was totally engulfed.

"Open your mouth," she ordered. "Let's get the jaw in place.

I couldn't see anything at this point but I obligingly opened my mouth and she shoved something right inside so I couldn't close it again. Presumably the inside of the dog's mouth was now inside mine. Yuk.

I felt her pull open the jaws and fiddle around inside. "Stick out your tongue," she said. "I'm afraid you won't be able to bite like a normal dog. After all, I wouldn't want you biting me." She guffawed.

"I cnt thee," I said as I stuck out my tongue. I could feel something enveloping my tongue which wasn't very pleasant. I tried to pull my tongue back, but instead it was sucked forwards. It felt like my tongue was being pulled out of my mouth.

"Uuh!" I went, the only noise I could make.

"Just a minute," Lady Markham said, "and I'll adjust the head so you'll be able to see."

She gave an enormous heave on my head which twisted it upwards. Unfortunately, it pulled out my tongue even further. I could now see, but my tongue was being ripped out.

"Thoppit," I said. "Ith thainful."

"Oh shut up moaning," she said. "I'd better turn on your bark." She fiddled around my throat and clicked something.

I was about to say that I'd changed my mind about the whole thing; that she could stuff her double-glazing order, but with my first syllable, I barked. "Woof!"

At least, some electronic gubbins in my throat converted my voice to a loud bark and anything I might mutter was drowned out.

Stop it, I wanted to say. "Woof, woof."

Let me out. "Woof, woof, woof."

"For heaven's sake, stop barking," she snapped. "I'm doing everything as quickly as I can. Now you'd better lie on the couch for the next bit."

She gave me a pull and a twist at the same time and I flopped down onto the couch. She grabbed the zip pull beneath my throat and pulled it downwards. As I struggled to get out of the position I was in, I found the skin enveloping me, my arms prevented from moving as they normally would, and of course, my hands replaced by paws.

"You need to bend your legs up more," she said, grabbing hold of both my legs under one arm and forcing them towards my belly, whilst continuing to pull the zip downwards.

Since I couldn't bend my knees, it really felt as though she was trying to break my body in half. Oh! Oh! "Woof, woof."

"There," she said. "That's the zip sorted." I tried to push my legs straight, so they were in line with my torso, but the constricting shape of the skin forced them to maintain a right-angle with it. Imagine a corset with a ninety degree bend in it. That's what this was like.

"I just need to sort out your bollocks."

Oh but... "Woof, woof."

She reached down to where I'd already noticed a slit through the material which I'd assumed would act simply as a fly opening. Instead, she split it apart and roughly grabbed my tackle and pulled it through the slit. "Rather spoil the line, wouldn't it," she said, "if we had a man's cock pushing out there. Fortunately, I still have Oscar's cock and bollocks all ready to provide the disguise." She actually held out the item in her hand, a rather stubby, hair coloured cock with small balls. "These will fit over the top of yours."

But they won't fit in there. "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof."

"For heaven's sake," she yelled. "STOP BARKING!" She accompanied it with a smart slap on my bum.

"HOWL!" I went. That slap, which shouldn't have hurt at all, was unbelievably painful.

"Ha," she said, with a self-satisfied grin. "I'm going to teach my dog obedience if it kills him. I had the taxidermist embed some drawing pins into the skin on the rump. Normally, the points are buried in the dog's rump, but give it a smack and they stick into your flesh. So just learn to be obedient and you won't experience that again. I don't want any spurious barking, just because I order you to do something you don't want to do. Now keep still whilst I fit your new cock and balls."

I shut up as she fumbled around with my cock and pulled the dog's genitalia over my own. My cock, which had long ago lost any thoughts of an erection, now seemed trapped in a tiny container.

"Right. You'd better try standing up," she said. She roughly pulled me sideways off the couch, fortunately legs first and I tentatively tottered around. "Not bad," she observed. "Of course, you're much more stable with four legs."

If you want to fully appreciate my position, try standing in front of a mirror next to a chair. Bend over as far as you can to rest your palms on the chair seat. Now look in the mirror. If the chair height is right, your back is horizontal and you're starting to resemble a quadruped. Now imagine you're covered with an animal skin and you realise my position. Given that, in this corset-like skin, I couldn't stand upright, the only sound I could make was to bark, and that with my paws, I couldn't get my fingers to the zip and you realise the hopelessness of my situation. I only hoped she didn't want to play this game for too long but in the meantime, I had no choice but to comply.

"I think we'd better go walkies," she said. She observed me and added, "You're allowed to bark once or twice in anticipation when I say walkies."

I sullenly kept quiet. I wasn't playing her stupid doggy games. She stared at me and then grinned. "We'd better put you into your lead. You'll like that."

No fucking way. "Woof, woof-woof, woof."

Her grin turned into a smile. "There. I knew you'd start to get excited by the idea." She went out into the hall and came back a moment later dangling a lead and harness. I moved as rapidly as I could away from her, but there was nowhere to go. She wedged me against the couch with her knee and in a second the harness was fastened around my chest, and the other part of it – a choker – was around my neck.

"It's Ricky, isn't it? Come on then, Ricky. Walkies."

I stubbornly stood my ground. Let her try to pull me outside. She stood next to me, the lead held tightly and then stepped forward. The choker tightened around my neck; tighter and tighter. I was being throttled. I either walked or I died. I walked.

"Good, Ricky," she smiled. "You've learnt your first lesson. Do as your Mistress commands or you're in trouble. Do you understand, Ricky?"

Yes. "Woof."

"Good boy."

She led me out of the back of the house and into a yard area, gated at the one end, so even if I was able to slip the leash, I had nowhere to go.

"Now it's fine if you want to weewhilst we're walking, Ricky, but I really don't want you to do any messy poo. Do you understand?" She secured my lead to a ring fixed to the wall, and then walked around the back of me so I couldn't see what she was doing. I felt her pass the end of the lead under my rear leg, wrap it around again and then she secured the free end of the leash to the same ring on the wall, pulling it tight so I was tied, front and rear ends to the ring. I twisted my head around as far as I could to see what she was doing. She seemed to be fiddling with a hosepipe.

"So in order that you don't do any nasty poo," she said, "we're going to clean you out with this." She showed me the end of the hosepipe with a long, thin sprinkler attachment. With horror, I knew exactly how she was going to clean me out.

No! "Woof!"

I could feel her fumbling with the thing around my arsehole. Get off! "Woof, woof." I was clenching my buttocks as tight as I could but she was forcing it inside, by wriggling it about. Once she had it past my ring, I could feel it sliding deeper and deeper inside me.

"That's fine," she said. "I'll just secure it to your harness so it won't slip out, then turn on the hose and retire to a safe distance."

You can't fucking do this to me! "Woof, woof, woof-woof, woof, woof, woof, woof."

Whether she understood or not, she sadistically smiled at me to indicate that was exactly what she could – and was going – to do. She strode off, out of sight and I heard her turning on the tap. I could feel cold water filling my bum. It was so cold and my bum was inflating like a balloon. It was hurting so much, it felt like I was going to explode.

And then I did. Not literally, of course because my body stayed intact, but I felt everything burst out of my arsehole as my bum deflated.

OK, I'm done. "Woof-woof, woof, woof." I could feel the hose starting to fill my bum up again with icy cold water.

Hello. It's finished. "Woof-woof, woof, woof." Still my arse inflated. Oh, fuck, I thought.

***

She must have let it go through four or five cycles of absolute hell before returning to look at me.
"Excellent," she said, after the next explosion. "The water coming out now is so clear, I could put it into a bowl and get you to drink it.

"Don't worry," she said, laughing at the expression on my face, whatever that may have been. "I know that doggies like you don't have the stomach like my Oscar had."

She bent over to pull the sprayer thing out of my bum, and then used it to spray down my rear end, presumably removing the residue of my explosions.

"And now," she said with her stupid smile, "my Ricky has a nice clean inside. So let us go for a walk in the park."

She owned about fifty acres of mainly wooded estate, with her manor house set more or less in the middle, and her stud kennels to the rear of the main building. But we set out at a brisk walk across the lawn at the front of the building. With my legs unable to bend, I had difficulty in keeping up at first. She 'encouraged' me by keeping me on a short lead and choking me whenever I lagged behind. Actually, once I'd sorted out the coordination of my front and rear legs, it wasn't so bad, and by the time we'd reached the trees, I was managing quite well.

She slowed down a little, presumably to allow me to sniff the trees, which I had no interest in doing. Experiencing life at that height was certainly a new experience, as of course, was being led on a chain, unable to speak except in dog language, and not knowing when it was all going to end. I sincerely hoped we would finish as soon as we came to the end of the walk. I had a first date that evening with a fabulous woman, who I reckoned was a dead cert to be bedded. I'd be bloody furious if I didn't get to that.

I think it was the smell of the wet woodland; I suddenly realised I needed a pee and with that, realised I was going to have to do it in front of her, cocking my leg up a tree. For a few minutes I concentrated on holding it back, but I knew I had do it now as I'd have no opportunity when I was back at the house. Embarrassing to do it now, but even more embarrassing to do it on her lounge floor. There'd almost certainly be some severe punishment to go with it.

I stopped besides a tree and she obligingly stopped as well, staring down at me with a smirk on her face. This was the ultimate put down; cocking my leg up a tree and peeing whilst observed by Lady Markham. I'm not just Lady Markham, she was saying, I am your mistress, and don't ever forget that.

There was nothing for it. I lifted my leg and weed, and she looked down on me. That was surely the ultimate put down: watching someone whilst they peed up a tree. I finished and we carried on walking.

"Oscar and I had such wonderful fun in these woods," my mistress was saying. We'd reached a little clearing and a large tree provided a natural seat for her but not, of course, for me. She sat down on it and pulled me towards her with the leash until my head was between her knees. She spread her knees more and lifted her skirt a little. That's when I realised she wasn't wearing any knickers and I had a clear view of her bush.

Oh my God! Suddenly, everything somersaulted around. This wasn't just a dotty old woman with some kind of obsessive dog love. This was one crazy woman with a weird, out of this world, love of bestiality. And I was now her beast!

"Oscar loved aniseed," she said. "I hope you do, too." She pulled a plastic bag of aniseed balls from her pocket, extracted one and put her hand beneath her skirt. From my position, between her knees, I could see her slide it up her legs to reach her bush, and then thrust it deep inside her pussy.

Suddenly I was on her wavelength. OK, she was a crazy sex maniac, but I understood sex. Hell, I was in my element. All I had to do was to perform and I'd had plenty of experience at that.

I thrust my head forward between her legs, as would any dog chasing the aniseed. Ever since having the dog's head forced over mine, I'd been experimenting with one of the few parts of my body over which I had absolute control - my dog tongue. My own tongue had been sucked inside the false one by some kind of valve mechanism. And it hadn't taken long to realise that as I moved my tongue, the extension to it moved too, in a similar way. Curl my tongue up, and the end of the false tongue curled up; flop it down and the false tongue did the same. There was no doubt now which part of my anatomy I needed to use and I went into action, bringing some very encouraging remarks from my mistress.

"Oh, Ricky," she murmured, and then, "Oh God! Yes. Yes. My God, that's good."

Was it possible I was giving her more pleasure than Oscar had when he was searching for aniseed? And when she'd talked of dogging, earlier, was it really possible that was exactly what she'd meant?

Any doubt over that was quickly resolved as she pushed me away in order to stand up, pulling a small aerosol can out of her pocket.

"You probably don't need this bitch-on-heat spray, Ricky," she said. "But it certainly gets me in the mood." She lifted her skirt and liberally sprayed it between her legs. Then she turned her back on me, bent her body over the trunk and flipped her skirt over her bum, exposing her quim framed by two rounded buttocks.

By this time my cock was trying to get a raging hard on, but was still constrained inside the small dog cock. God knew how I was going to service her, but I was going to have a bloody good try. The first problem, which I'd never before experienced, was how to stand up and get my cock in the right place. As a human, it had never been a problem, and when I'd occasionally seen dogs at it, they hadn't seem to have much difficulty, either. But when it's your first time on four legs, standing up is incredibly difficult.

I gave an experimental push with my forelegs and leapt about one inch off the ground. I stepped back a little and then combined my little push with a rush forward and that was a bit more successful, but not enough.

"For heaven's sake, Ricky. Get a move on with it."

I repeated the last operation with a bit more gusto and managed to get my chin (do dogs have chins?) over her back and then by stepping forward with my hind legs, I worked my way up her body, using my forelegs to stabilise myself. Hell! No wonder humans are the superior race; the effort needed to even have a bonk was a party stopper.

With my cock still being horribly constrained within the dog cock, I thought I might have difficulty getting it in. After all, I couldn't even give it a bit of guidance with my fingers, but in fact it slipped in quite easily. As it did so, something strange happened, as though the constraining dog cock had split wide open. It was like passing from hell into heaven. I could feel my own cock expanding to fill that wonderfully plush centre of heaven.

I gave one slow thrust and I heard my mistress give a moan of total abandonment. Another really slow thrust and then, to my absolute shame, I was ejaculating into that pleasure orifice. Even when I'd lost my virginity, all those years ago, I'd lasted considerably longer than that; indeed, the sixth former I was shagging claimed she had a nice orgasm, although I think that was probably to boost her street cred as much as mine.

Ever since, I'd made certain I gave as good as I got. No woman had ever complained about feeling dissatisfied after I'd shagged her, which is why I reckoned I'd had so many women throw themselves at my feet.

Now, two small thrusts and I'd jerked off. She gave a shake of her hips to free my penis and I could feel it already shrivelling up in self-disgust.

I slithered off her body and back onto all fours. She tugged my lead to pull me closer, and then bent over me to fiddle with my cock. Was she making a valiant attempt to make it erect again? I heard something click and I realised she'd forced it back inside the constraining dog cock.

"That was very satisfactory," she said with a nice smile. Clearly, she'd never been properly shagged by a stud like me, if she found that satisfying. "Walk," she commanded and I had the usual choice of doing as she ordered or being throttled. I walked.

***

As we returned to the house, a small car was rolling up. "Oh, look, Ricky," she said. "My niece, Sarah has arrived. She always loved tormenting my dogs when she was little. I wonder if she still will."

Great, I thought. That was all I needed. A rather attractive woman was getting out of the car, not that I could have any interest in that, any more. Unless it was a case of like Aunt like Niece. Hmm.

"Hello, Aunt," she called across to us. "That's a funny looking dog, you have. Looks a bit of a crossbreed of a Neapolitan Mastiff." I suddenly stopped walking. I recognised that voice.

"Something like that," his mistress admitted, giving my lead the tug which said, walk or throttle to death, the choice is yours. "I got him from a rescue centre," she added. "He's called Ricky."

"Ricky?" Sarah paused and then added, "If only it really was Rick. I still feel crushed the way he promised undying love to me, marriage, babies and everything, until I signed the contract for his company's double-glazing system, whereupon he immediately buggered off."

I looked up into the face of my mistress. She was smiling down sweetly at me and my blood froze. This wasn't going to be an afternoon's miserable game. This was a personal vendetta.

"People like that should have their balls cut off," my mistress said. "But having a dog called Ricky was the next best thing.

"Or do I mean it the other way round?" she grinned down at me.

"Sorry, Aunt?" Sarah said.

"I want you to think of this dog as being Rick. Get all that hurt you have inside you out into the open. Treat this dog as though he is the lover who jilted you."

"Sounds good," Sarah said. "Anyway, talking about having balls cut off, isn't Ricky dangerous to have around the kennels? You never know when he might sneak in when one of the bitches is on heat. Aren't you going to get someone to cut his balls off?"

I shuddered at the casual way she said it.

"Don't be silly," my mistress said. "I never employ people to do that job for me. I always do it myself with this." I glanced up to see she had pulled her little pruning knife out of her pocket.

"Ouch!" Sarah said. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Not unless I cut my thumb on the blade," my mistress replied, and they both broke into peals of laughter – a joke I found not at all funny.

***

"I need to pop out this evening, after dinner," my mistress said to Sarah. "You'll be all right on your own, won't you? You can have a little play with Ricky."

"Mmm," Sarah said. "But I'm feeling quite tired after the journey. I think I might get an early night. Can Ricky sleep in my room?"

I perked up then. Did Sarah want servicing the same way as my mistress had? I guessed my mistress didn't expect me to show any monogamous behaviour. Dogs would fuck anything that came their way, just as I had done.

"Of course," my mistress said. "But don't let him misbehave. Throw him out in the yard if he does."

***

So, I was led up to the guest room where Sarah had installed herself and she tied my leash to the bedpost of one of those old-fashioned four-poster beds.

"Woof," I appreciatively said, as Sarah turned towards me, unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the ground. It was me who, just a month ago, had coaxed Sarah into wearing stockings and suspenders. She had felt it uncomfortable at first, but had quickly got used to that when she realised how much it aroused both me and her. Clearly, my lesson was still with her as she had a black lace suspender belt with six suspenders holding up patterned stockings. It looked so erotic I started to have an immediate boner, until the constriction around my genitals stopped any further action. Hell! I was so ready to give her a dog fucking. My penis felt as though it would burst out of the constraining dog's prick, but it just could not. I simply had to have sex with her, but I couldn't. Oh fuck. "Woof, woof."

"Do you think I'm sexy, Ricky?" Sarah cooed. "Do you want to give me a dog fuck?" She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, displaying her small pert tits covered by a lacy bra. She reached behind her back and unfastened the bra, letting it fall to the ground revealing her rosebud nipples, just waiting to be sucked. "It's a good job you're on a leash, Ricky, because the other Rick would have been all over me now, the dirty beast. All he wanted was to get his little prick inside me. Anything else would have been simply a prelude, a necessary process to go through before ejaculating inside me. But I know you have other desires."

She had that wrong, I thought. Everything was a prelude to ejaculating inside you, so can we just fucking get on with it?

"Like aniseed," she said with a smile, bringing out my mistress's pack, selecting an aniseed ball from the pack and rubbing it over each of her nipples.

"Woof, woof, woof, woof," I said encouragingly. OK, I'd been here before. I knew where we were going.

She smiled back at me and sat down on the bed where I could just reach her. I stuck out my tongue and started licking the aniseed off her left nipple. My cock was giving me agony. I could feel the blood surging through it, wanting to grow but unable to.

"Mmm, that's nice," she smirked, flopping down backwards on the bed placing her nipples out of reach of my tongue. She pulled her legs up onto the bed meaning every other part of her body was out of reach.

I desperately wanted to continue the action, but my leash was uncompromising. I couldn't touch her. Then I realised that if I went around the bottom of the bed, I'd be able to reach her. "Woof, woof!" I said, racing around the bed and coming to a sudden jerk as the leash tightened around my throat, throttling me once more, and still not able to reach her. But the action of being pulled backwards by the leash lifted my two front legs off the ground, and I recognised I could use that action to get my two front paws up on the mattress. I stepped back a few paces, then lurched forward again, but this time, as my front paws lifted off the ground, I swing sideways and continued to walk forward with my rear legs. Success, I had my front two paws on the bed and I could lean over her to lick her right nipple once more.

"What a clever boy, Ricky," Sarah smiled, turning over slightly so I could put my tongue to her other nipple. I obliged, giving long licks to each nipple in turn until Sarah started gasping with each lick.

Oh God! Please let us move onto fucking now. "Woof, woof."

She must have understood me, for she swivelled around, lifting one leg over my head so she was straddled either side of me. I tried to leap up onto the bed and take her but that bloody leash prevented it.

"I know what you want," she said, smiling at me.

Yes, yes, yes. "Woof, woof, woof."

"You want more aniseed, don't you?"

No, I want to fuck you. "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof."

But she was already taking out another aniseed ball and placing between the lips of her vagina. I bent my head to her and did my duty, my cock throbbing with desire, pain and frustration.

It took over twenty minutes before I brought her to a crashing orgasm, and in return I expected her to comply to my needs, as women always did. Instead, she just turned over and was about to fall asleep.

No! "Woof!" I raced around to the other side of the bed to get her attention. To make her realise my needs were unfulfilled.

"Oh Ricky, shut up. You've had your aniseed. Now just be quiet."

Quiet! You must be fucking joking. "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof-woof, woof."

"OK, you've had your chance. I'm taking you out to the yard. You can spend the night there."

She was up and putting on her dressing gown, untying the leash from the bedpost and I was given the normal alternative: walk or choke. I walked, crying in frustration. I was being taken outside with a cock throbbing like crazy and no orifice to put it in. As a dog, I couldn't even take the obvious step to relieve myself. I had no hand to do a hand job, and although dogs could always lick their balls, my conversion hadn't given me that dexterity.

"H-o-w-l-l-l-l-l."

"Ricky. Don't make that noise."

And she accompanied the words with a sharp smack on my rear. Shit! The drawing pins.

"H-o-w-l-l-l-l-l."

Although her next smack on my rear was far harder, I managed to stop myself from making a sound.

***

"I didn't tell you yesterday," my mistress said to Sarah over breakfast next morning, "but I managed to find the latest address of your Rick."

Oh shit, I thought. She'd been through my wallet.

"I went round there last night," she continued, "and apparently he's seen the error of his ways and joined a monastery, one of those incredibly strict orders where they're not allowed to go outside."

What the hell was she talking about? Me? Join a monastery?

"Rick? Join a monastery." Sarah was as incredulous as me. "You're crazy. He'd never do that."

"I think he was pushed into it by some girl's relative. In any case, he's sent a letter of resignation to his boss, with immediate effect, telling them to give any excess pay to charity

Oh fuck! I thought.

"He also left his company car in their car park."

Oh bollocks!

"He also wrote to his landlord telling him he was giving immediate notice, to keep all his possessions, and to take any rent owing from his credit card," she continued.

No! Not that thieving bastard.

"Personally, I think that was very reckless. I wouldn't have trusted my credit card details with that horrible man. I'm sure he'll run up an enormous debt on it.

You bastard! "Woof!"

My mistress looked at me and smiled. "That's right. You tell 'em, boy." Suddenly, I realised my dog's life was not a temporary fit of revenge, from which I'd be released this afternoon. No. I was a dog for life. This was my lot for evermore!

"I can't believe this has happened," Sarah said. "Are you sure he hasn't just changed address to run away from a commitment he's made to some woman?"

"I don't think he'd give away all his personal possessions and give up his job if that was the case," my mistress said, adding, "But enough of all that talk. It's time to completely forget about Rick. I'm entering into an agreement with a breeder of large Neapolitan Mastiff in the States. I'm going to exchange some semen samples with him."

Sarah wrinkled her nose. "Ugh! How disgusting. I hate the idea of semen. How are you going to collect it?"

Huh, she had a nerve, I sullenly thought. I could still remember her with her mouth so full of it, it trickled down her chin.

"I quite agree about the semen," my mistress said. What a hypocrite. "But I have an idea of how to do it. We can have a go at it this morning, if you like. I'm going to get Ricky to collect it for me."

"Ricky?" Sarah looked puzzled. "He's a dog, not a bitch. How's he going to collect semen?"

My mistress smirked. "I shall tuck up his boy bits, flush out his bum, stick a female condom up his arse and then spray him all over with this bitch-on-heat spray. When I let a dog onto Ricky, he may think Ricky looks a bit strange but the smell will be unmistakeable. He certainly won't be averse to using the only available hole."

Oh my God! Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I realised I'd only had half the story.

"Oh, Aunt," Sarah said. "If only he was the real Rick. Wouldn't that be the prefect retribution for him?"

My mistress looked at me. "Absolutely perfect," she said.

Later as we went through the walk or be throttled thing on the way to the kennels and being fucked by a giant Neapolitan Mastiff, my mistress bent over and whispered in my ear. "Don't worry, Ricky. After you've been serviced by my biggest dogs, I'll still need a regular dog fucking."

Oh good. "Woof, woof." It had been almost twenty four hours since I'd last ejaculated, which was almost unknown in my normal life. My cock was really desperately needing to explode, preferably inside a vagina, but even a hand job would be good. Fucking my mistress once a day would prevent me from unbelievable frustration.

"I find the need usually comes on when I'm mid-period, as I was yesterday. So shall we say the same again in one month's time."

I lifted my head and let the sound come out. "H-O-W-L-L-L-L."

"Or maybe two," she added.

Synopsis: For those who might have wondered just whom the Jonathan Creek UK TV series was based upon, look no further than Jonathan Creep, Design Assistant to the Magic Circle. In researching the 1920's magician, The Great Morgasmo, Jonathan meets Caddy Goodhope, who temporarily becomes his Magician's Assistant to perform the greatest trick ever known to Jonathan. The real question is, if there's no such thing as magic, how does it work?

Jonathan Creep – Magician's Assistant
by Lin Dale

Jonathan managed to find the barn conversion quite quickly. He'd seen it many times from across the other side of the valley when he was driving along the dual carriageway, and always considered it might be relevant to his personal research. However, never before had he had time available to turn off the main road and try to locate it.

The conversion had been well designed, taking little away from the brick built structure as it had been built hundreds of years ago. The windows which had been added as part of the conversion looked as though they'd been built into the original barn. The bales of hay stacked against one section of the wall had probably been bought for a hundred times their value in order to add character, and the pretty flowers in the beds running around the barn had probably been tended by an expensive gardener, rather than the country yokel they were intended to represent. But Jonathan believed in giving credit where it was due. It looked good; clearly a fortune had been spent on the conversion, and the building was now worth many times that investment.

He rang the doorbell and waited. Silence. He rang it again. Silence. He had, of course, been stupid to expect anyone to be actually living here; no doubt it was a second home, or maybe even a third or fourth home, and people graced its presence only occasionally.

He was walking back towards his own car when a BMW convertible swept onto the gravel forecourt. At the wheel was a middle-aged woman probably not far off his mother's age, and quite chubby with it, but a million light years away from her in style and appearance. She was an expensive-looking lady, with short red hair in a style that no doubt had cost a fortune; in a simple, but obviously-expensive pretty dress with a low-cut top which exposed, no doubt, expensively-expansive breasts.

She pushed her designer sunglasses onto her head, so she could look directly at him, an action that caused Jonathan to view her with new interest. For the eyes she exposed were lonely eyes, condemned to a life of bored, middle-aged, high-income, no-kids existence. They were now looking at an equally boring young bloke as though he was the most interesting thing that had happened to her all week. Maybe it was.

"Are you looking for me? I'm Cadence Goodhope. Can I help you?"

"You don't know me," Jonathan said, "but I'm Jonathan Creep. I'm a design consultant to the Magic Circle." Which of course, was the wrong way to start any kind of conversation. She was starting to look at him as some kind of weirdo. "I'm doing research on someone who lived in this area in the 1920s, and I wonder whether he might have used this building."

"Was he a farmer? Presumably you've realised this is a barn conversion?"

"He was a landowner, actually, Cadence," Jonathan said. "Thomas Morgan. He owned the manor house which is now part of the council offices, near the town centre. There are several roads named after him in the town."

"You'd better call me Caddy." She smirked at him in a most appealing manner, suddenly looking like a teenager. "Thomas Morgan, you say? I'm sure Peter my husband talked about him when he was looking at the deeds of this house before we purchased it. Could he have been the original owner?"

"It certainly sounds likely. You haven't got those documents available, have you? I'd really appreciate looking at them."

"Oh, now you're asking." Another wrinkle of her brow. "I leave all those kind of things to my husband. But come in and have a coffee, and I’ll see if I can dig them out."

***

"Why are you interested in this Thomas Morgan?" she asked him, as she made the coffee in her designer kitchen, in a machine that must have cost a hundred times more than the teaspoon Jonathan normally used to spoon instant out of the jar. "Peter didn't say he was famous, just some local old fart."

"He was actually a magician," Jonathan explained. "Not a particularly well known one, but he was noted as an enthusiastic amateur. He did have one particular act which should have made him legendary, but it was his other acts which got him blackballed."

"Blackballed?" That sounded interesting, she thought. She carried the coffees over to the kitchen table, got out some biscuits, put them on a plate and offered them to Jonathan.

He smiled and took one of the biscuits. He always ate his biscuits straight from the pack. "Let's say his performances were considered rather risqué at the time. Not much by today's standards, but then he was regarded as a total cad."

"Tell me more." Caddy sat down opposite him, showing no desire to start searching through old documents. However, Jonathan did find it pleasant not only talking to someone who didn't immediately switch off as soon as he opened his mouth, but who also displayed such a tremendous cleavage.

"He called himself The Great Morgasmo," Jonathan said. "Most of his acts involved his beautiful assistants ending up naked."

"You mean, striptease?" Caddy said.

"In all but name," he said. "But the best striptease is when the girl appears not to want to lose her clothes. In other words, it's not the stripper teasing the audience, it's the audience being excited by someone appearing to lose her clothes against her will. In this case it was Morgasmo stripping his assistants."

"He doesn’t sound a very nice man."

"We live in changing times," he said, "but I bet that if you go to the right places, you'll find plenty of women prepared to show their all in order to pay for the mortgage, or the kids' private education."

"Mmm, you may be right. So was he making their clothes disappear?"

"Probably. I'm not certain if they had bras in the 1920s but it was essentially the trick we use now of removing someone's bra without first removing their dress."

"Gosh! Can you really do that?" She looked panic-stricken and crossed her arms across her own breasts.

Jonathan grinned. "Since I'm a member of the Magic Circle, I'm not allowed to offer any explanation, other than that magicians have wonderful powers. On the other hand, if that was possible, don't you think that it would be all over the internet and you wouldn't be able to walk down the High Street without someone whipping off your bra?"

She looked unconvinced, so Jonathan stood up, moved around the table to her and said, "Just think about it." He placed his hand behind her back and suddenly snapped it away, clutching a bra in his hand. "This is yours, I believe, Madam."

Shocked at first and hurriedly checking her breasts, but then realising her own bra was still in place, her shock changed to a surprised smile as she took it from him and said, "Where did that come from?

"I nicked it from that pile of laundry." He indicated a basket of laundry in the corner of the kitchen."

She frowned. "But you were sitting at the table and then just stood up and put your hand behind my back. You went nowhere near the laundry."

"I took it whilst you were making coffee with your back to me."

"But hang on. We weren't talking about bras then. Are you some kind of pervert, nicking bras?"

"I'm not a pervert, it's what we magicians do. I saw the laundry with that bra on top. I took it and then planted the thought in your head and you reacted to it. But the point about that demonstration was that even though I produced your bra, you knew, and the audience would see that the bra you were wearing was still in place, so it wouldn't fool anyone for a minute. It certainly didn't fool you, because you immediately checked your own bra."

Caddy looked puzzled. "So how do magicians do it?"

"In order for the magic to look real, you would have to have been wearing some trick bra which collapsed as I produced the other bra, so the audience see the two separate events and make the assumption they were connected."

"You mean the girls pretend to be surprised?"

"Precisely. Magician's assistants have to be very skilled."

"And that's what you do?"

"No, no. I'm a design consultant. I plan the tricks. But coming back to Morgasmo, he would remove all their underwear, piece by piece, with the girls appearing to get more and more terrified – which was just a show – before whipping off their dresses and they'd then go screaming off stage."

"Very erotic," she said. "Designed to play up to the sexual needs of a dirty male audience." She was clearly oblivious to the fact that her own breast were nicely displayed to Jonathan, and he thought he could see the edge of one of her areole

"Oh, no," he said. "He played to mixed private audiences of a pretty high class nature. His wealth, of course, was new money, relatively, anyway. His predecessors were mine owners, and very wealthy ones at that. But that meant that he not only got educated at the best of schools, but he didn't actually have to work for a living, other than occasionally firing his mine manager for not bringing in enough income."

"Hmm." She paused for a moment and then added, "Didn't you say that he had one special act? What was that?"

"Imagine the scene," Jonathan said. "He's playing to a small, select gathering of say twenty people who all know and are friends with each other. He's done a few standard tricks, all interspersed by removing the assistants' clothes. The room darkens and he says: 'For my final act, I require two volunteers from the audience, preferably one man and one woman.' A screen then drops to reveal two coffins, standing side by side with their lids open. 'I must tell you,' he says, 'that the volunteers will be required to lie in the coffins as we close the lids for a few minutes, although you have my word we will not physically bury you in the ground.' So the audience selects two people who aren't claustrophobic, and the near-naked assistants help them to lie inside the coffins and then close the lids.

'I told you that these people will not be physically buried,' Morgasmo says, 'but their spirits are going into the underworld and when they return they will have exchanged bodies. You may ask them any questions you choose to ascertain whether that has actually taken place, and you may continue to do so for the rest of the evening. They may need assistance in certain matters, for example, how does a lady inhabiting a man's body go to the toilet and vice versa? Whilst we wait for these two to return from the underworld, you may like to think about the questions you will ask them, but I beg you, please do not discuss them now since, if this were a trick rather than an act of incredible magic, it might give them time to prepare an answer. Tomorrow morning, after a good night's sleep, the two will have returned to their respective bodies. Now,' he turns to his assistants, 'Let's see if they have returned from the underworld yet. Open the coffins.' "

Jonathan smiled at Caddy. "Apparently, the volunteers exhibited exactly the weird kind of reactions you'd expect from people who had really done a body swap. Even very sceptical members of the audience became convinced that the transformation had taken place."

"So how was it done," Caddy asked.

Jonathan smiled. "Magic?

"Or maybe," he added, "there were false bottoms to the coffins, they got out into the below-stage area and exchanged a few personal details about their lives. Remember that these people were generally known to each other so they'd have to reveal the more intimate stuff. But what I find most difficult to grasp is that the volunteers not only convinced the audience during the performance, but when the performance was over, they went home with their respective husbands, wives, lovers, whilst still keeping up the act, if it was an act. In many cases, it seemed, wives would refuse to sleep with their husbands as they were really 'Best Chums', or they might say how very different from usual was their night of passion." He shrugged. "It all sounds very convincing."

"Perhaps it's true," Caddy suggested.

Jonathan shook his head. "These things are never true," he said, "although, as a member of the Magic Circle, I never said that. It's discovering how he did it that's the mystery."

"OK," Caddy said, "but that doesn't explain what you're doing in my house, drinking my coffee and wondering whether you can do the disappearing bra trick on me for real."

Jonathan looked embarrassed. "Sorry. No. I realise I may have been accidentally staring at your, er… cleavage but…"

"Jonathan," Caddy said, "the money my husband has paid to have these boobs done, I certainly hope it was no accident you were staring at them."

"Well, they are, er… very nice, but that's not getting us any closer to The Great Morgasmo."

"No. Would you like to see around the house first? If we go into the bedrooms you'll be able to see the genuine timbers in the barn roof." But only if I'm on top, she thought.

Clearly, Jonathan was not interested in the type of activities she was thinking of, for he gave a little shrug and said, "I don't suppose there's a cellar, is there? It's not the kind of thing barns usually have but…"

"Yes there is," she said. "It was used to store beer at one time. Do you want me to show you? We use it for storage, now."

As she led him through a door in the hallway leading to a flight of steps, she asked, "You've explained why you're interested in Thomas Morgan, but I don't really see why you want to see my cellar. There's certainly nothing of his stored down here. It was completely clear when we moved in."

"The point is, Caddy," he said, "that these performance were considered obscene. They could all have got arrested if they were discovered, and it seems the police did raid the manor house a couple of times. So, the question in my mind is where would he give the performances? Nowhere public, that's for certain, so an old barn on his estate, maybe?"

"Maybe, but it's quite small down here and not big enough for a magic performance. In any case, it's all been decorated. You're not going to find any evidence of whether he performed or not."

"Hmmm." Jonathan thought she was probably right.

***

Caddy was right. The cellar was totally full of junk that the Goodhopes had stored down there, the walls were covered in a clean white paint, with little hope of finding any nooks and crannies containing vital clues. The only thing…

"Do the two of you come down here very much?"

"Hardly ever," Caddy said. "Just when we need to retrieve or put something down here."

"Yet if you look as those floor slabs, which are clearly as old as the barn, there's a slight scuffing as though a lot of people have walked down the stairs, along this side," he walked the walk, "turned around whatever was placed here and then…" He stopped facing a blank end wall.

"You think there's something behind there?" Caddy gasped. "But Peter would have to get builders in to pull it down and I'm not certain that he would agree anyway."

"Hmm." He studied the wall carefully, starting at the bottom and moving his eyes upward. "There's an extra ceiling beam, there." He pointed to the ceiling. Eventually, Caddy could see that there was one extra beam interrupting the regular pattern. "Do you mind if I stand on this chair?"

He pulled a dilapidated kitchen chair from a pile and placed it beneath the beam, stepped up on it and then pushed and prodded the beam until it slide a few inches lengthwise into the wall and then stopped. "Let's give it a try," he said, stepping down and then leaning against the wall where the scuffled slabs disappeared. It hinged forwards, revealing a dark room beyond.

"Jonathan, that’s brilliant," Caddy said.

“Hmm.” He moved forward into the darkness and flicked an old style light switch. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened.

"I have a torch in the kitchen,”Caddy said. “I'll go and get it."

"Hmm. Do you have an extension lead which will reach as far as this light switch? I might be able to rig something up to get all the lights working."

"Oh Jonathan," Caddy gave him a kiss on the cheek. "That would be brilliant."

***

Ten minutes later, he told Caddy to plug in and switch on the extension lead. The lights came on to reveal a small auditorium. At the far end, was a raised stage. On the stage were a pair of coffins.

"Fantastic, Jonathan," Caddy said, wondering whether she could give him another kiss and deciding she could not.

They walked in, making their way to the stage. Jonathan immediately opened one of the coffins and looked inside the beautifully upholstered box.

"Hmm. In order to see what's beneath, I need to pull out this upholstery, but that would be vandalism. Let's go see if we can find steps down to the below-stage area."

To the one side of the stage was a little changing room. Caddy went straight across to view a silver dress hanging on a coat hanger.

"Oh, Jonathan. Just look at this dress. Isn't it divine?" She held it in front of her own body. "It must have belonged to one of the assistants. I reckon it would just fit me."

"Mmm. I guess the steps down are on the other side of the stage." He walked over there to find a metal door with a secure lock on it, well beyond his ability to pick it open. "I guess he didn't want anyone to discover his secret," he said. "No surprises there. I don't suppose he's hidden the key anywhere but it's worth a try." He started searching the obvious places.

"Jonathan. Take a look at this."

Hoping she had found the key, he turned to see Caddy wearing the assistant's dress, and clearly, not much else. It was a backless halter neck, plummeting at the rear to the cheeks of her buttocks. At the front, a deep V descended as far as her navel, with just a tiny strap keeping the two halves together at the bust, the skimpy sides revealing most of her breasts. Long slits fell down from each hip, revealing the absence of any panties, which Jonathan could see hanging with her bra in the changing room opposite. She looked absolutely ravishing.

"Are you crazy?" he said. "This is an historic costume. Any decent museum would give their eye-teeth to get hold of such a specimen. They will handle it wearing gloves, and here's you slapping it down your body, which you probably haven't washed since taking a shower this morning."

Needless to say, Caddy was rather disappointed with his reaction. "May I remind you, Jonathan, that you are in my house. The building and all its contents belong to my husband, Peter. So this is my dress and if I want to wear it, I shall. Is that clear? Now where have you got to in solving the mystery of this coffin trick?"

He had to admit, "Nowhere."

"Then in that case let's try a little of the Caddy Goodhope method. Get into one of the coffins."

"What. You must be joking…"

"So what are you going to do? You know if you get any expert involved, they'll steal all your glory. How much better for you to write a paper, or whatever, explaining how Morgasmo did his trick."

He couldn't deny her logic.

"So get in the coffin."

He had to inwardly confess he was thrilled at the very idea. They walked over and examined it. It did look extremely comfortable, with a padded lining all the way round and a kind of ruched effect around the head so it looked almost like a halo.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I get in," he said.

It was quite poetic that his beautiful, almost-naked assistant helped him in, as they would have done almost a hundred years ago. And it was very comfortable, after he found where to rest his arms – by his side, rather than crossed over his chest.

"Let's try closing it now," she said.

A sudden unease came over him. "I'm not certain about that," he said, but Caddy had already closed the lid. "At least, don't throw the catches," he called, just before he heard a couple of clicks. With his arms by his side, he couldn't push the lid upward very firmly, but it was obviously secure against his kind of resistance. After all, a performer wouldn't want a claustrophobic volunteer re-appearing before they were supposed to.

Now the lid was closed, he could feel a slight breeze on his face. There must be a fan blowing, somewhere. Fortunate that he had earlier connected the electric; otherwise he'd be suffocating, now.

"That's time enough, Caddy. It's very comfortable."

Silence. Suddenly, he knew she was getting into the other coffin. At least nothing would happen until Morgasmo threw a switch. No, he corrected himself, Morgasmo was standing in front of the audience; he wouldn't have access to a switch. And surely he'd have noticed one during his search if one of the assistants had used it. That means it could have been automatic, as soon as both coffin lids were closed.

"Don't close your coffin lid, Caddy," he called. He realised that he hadn't heard a thing of Caddy or her movements since the lid of his own coffin had been closed, which probably meant that she couldn't hear a word he was saying…

There was a low whirring noise, as though a motor had been activated. He could feel the upholstery in the lid squeezing down on him. With his arms by his sides he was powerless to resist and it became so tight he had difficulty in breathing.

The bottom of the coffin started to tilt downwards, but only at the end nearest his head. His feet were remaining stationary, presumably the coffin floor was hinged at the far end. He was tilting more and more steeply with his head dropping well beneath his feet.

"Stop it," he called, but the machine took no notice.

He was now hanging vertically upside down, held in place by the tightly-squeezing upholstery. Only his head was free although it was pitch black and he couldn't see a thing.

Lights suddenly came on and hanging next to him was Caddy, similarly trussed and upside down like he was.

"Another fine mess you've got us into." He'd chosen the light-hearted words to try to relieve the extreme tension she must be feeling. She didn't respond and Jonathan realised she was unconscious. He hoped it was simply that she'd fainted. That'll teach her, he thought. She wouldn't be playing tricks like this on him again. He wondered whether either of them would ever have a chance to do so.

Another motor whirred and they both started moving downwards. Jonathan glanced down to see where they were going to land. Beneath him, a whole series of lights seeming to stretch down forever, like a bottomless pit. Of course! The Morgan family had been miners. This building had been put over a mine shaft, and Morgasmo had used it as part of his trick. Hell, it was scary. What if the hundred year old equipment broke?

As soon as he had the thought, there was a clucking noise above and he stopped moving downwards, whereas Caddy continued to descend. Down and down she went and he was stuck here like a lemon – perhaps forever. Staring carefully, he could see the rocky bottom of the shaft, probably a hundred feet below. Caddy's downward journey slowed to a halt as she arrived there, and she stopped with her head just about touching the ground.

Now what? Perhaps if he could swing a little he might be able to grab hold of something with his teeth. No way, he realised, but it didn't stop him trying.

With his first movement, there was another crack from above and he was suddenly in free fall. It had taken a couple of minutes for Caddy to descend to the bottom. He was going to do it in a couple of seconds.

In the last half second before he hit the bottom, he opened his mouth and screamed. No one heard him.

***

He awoke to a smell which he couldn't quite place, although he knew he should. A smell of chemistry labs.

Ether!

That was it. Then it all came back to him; how Caddy had made him get into the coffin and had closed and locked the lid on him. He must then have been knocked out with ether, probably the only anaesthetic available in the 1920s, and that had started the dream. Clearly, it must be a dream because he was still alive, lying in the coffin, and not smashed into tiny pieces at the bottom of a mineshaft. He couldn't be in the afterlife because he didn't believe in it.

He wondered whether he was still locked in the coffin so he gave the lid a push; it moved. He managed to push it fully open, vaguely surprised about something but uncertain what. Presumably the ether had left him confused. He lay still and composed his thoughts.

The lid had opened the wrong way, surely? When Caddy had helped him in, she'd been standing on his right and the lid hinged from the left. Now the lid hinged from the right hand side. How could that be?

Then there was something else which had niggled him as he'd opened the lid. His hands were different. He lifted them before his eyes and stared at the pink nail varnish on his fingers. He gasped and then, as the implication sank in, he clutched his chest. Only it wasn't his chest he was clutching, but the voluptuous breasts of Caddy Goodhope.

"Shit!" He sat up as quickly as he could and looked around. The auditorium was still empty, but the other coffin was on his right, not his left as it was when he had got in. And as he looked down at his body, he was looking down at the body of Cadence Goodhope in her fabulous magician assistant's dress.

For good measure, he said it again. "Shit!" The voice was that of Cadence Goodhope.

He stretched one leg over the side of the coffin and tentatively felt for the steps located next to it. He was exposing his leg, he realised (make that, her leg) from hip to toe. Good job Jonathan couldn't see him now.

Which of course, raised the question, 'What had happened to Jonathan Creep, the body he had lived with all of his life?'

He stumbled out of his coffin as quickly as possible – oops, that should have been: she stumbled out of her coffin as quickly as possible – and walked round to the other coffin. The latches were still fastened and she unclipped them and lifted the lid.

The coffin was totally empty of both body and upholstery, and the bottom of the coffin was missing, so she could peer down and see the top of the mineshaft into which he, Jonathan, had fallen. Jonathan's upholstery-wrapped body, which had clearly not just smashed into the pit floor – was being hauled out of the mineshaft as he watched, and lifted until it was hanging vertically beneath the empty coffin. Then the coffin floor started hinging back into place, bringing his body with it. Within a few seconds, his body was properly placed in the coffin, and the upholstery released from the tension holding it.

Jonathan was fast asleep.

***

As she bent over Jonathan's inert body, she could smell the ether on him. So what had happened down there? Prior to being lowered, Caddy had been anaesthetised with ether. Their bodies had been lowered to the bottom of the pit, except that Jonathan's body had stuck for some reason at the top and Caddy's had continued to the bottom. Jonathan's body had suddenly slipped and had crashed down to the bottom. She could still remember that fearful scream that he (Jonathan) had given just prior to hitting the bottom. Except of course that he hadn't.

"Errr," Jonathan muttered.

"Caddy," she said, thinking she ought to at least let her wake up before giving the news.

"Wha…?"

"Caddy," she said. "Something terrible has happened. The magic trick worked. It wasn't magic, but it's certainly something currently unknown to science."

"My God!" Jonathan's body said. Then he looked at Caddy and said, "You look gorgeous."

"What?" Caddy couldn't believe her ears. "Caddy did you hear what I said. Your mind has been transferred into Jonathan's body, but don't worry, it's only for the rest of this day. Tomorrow we'll be back to normal."

"In that case," Jonathan said, "we've got no time to lose." He climbed out of the coffin in an instant. "You’re the magician's assistant and I am the magician and you have to do your duty. Let's fuck."

"Caddy, er, Jonathan. It's you that's crazy. We're occupying other people's bodies. We can't abuse our position of trust."

"Caddy," Jonathan said, "as the official owner of Cadence Goodhope's body, I hereby authorise you to have sex with Jonathan Creep. There, that's done. You look absolutely fabulous. I'm going to take you here and now."

"No, Jonathan. No. Jonathan, no and I mean it…"

***

"So how was that for you?" Jonathan asked some time later.

Caddy paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "It's strange, having someone invade your body. Knowing that his obscene phallus – and I happen to know just how obscene it is – is thrusting right inside your most personal area. Even worse that I didn't really want to go ahead and you forced yourself into me, which was painful. But then, when you started to arouse me it was bearable, and then I was coming to an orgasm and that's when you shot your load and it all ended like a damp squid. Incidentally, are you certain there's no chance of me becoming pregnant?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Caddy finished her period yesterday, which is why she would have been happy to jump into bed with you earlier instead of wandering down to the cellar. However, I am so glad we did. Just look at me: For just one day, I've gained fifteen years of life and a penis; what more could any woman want?"

"Would you want this to be permanent?"

He nodded. "You bet. I suppose there's no hope of that?"

Caddy frowned. "Without fully understanding what happened, who can say. There were no reported incidents like that during the time The Great Morgasmo was performing that trick so I guess not."

"So the great Jonathan Creep was wrong about there being no such thing as magic. There's no other explanation for this."

"There's always an explanation," Caddy said. "A scientific one, even though scientists may not yet be able to explain it. I have my ideas."

Jonathan shook his head. "No, nothing can explain this."

Caddy thought through her comments before speaking. "Caddy was given a knock out whiff of ether as soon as her coffin lid was closed. Jonathan got his a few minutes later, so Caddy became conscious again before Jonathan. It meant I was able to get out of my coffin and open your lid and see what was happening." She told him everything she had observed.

"OK," Jonathan conceded, "there was a lot of human jickery-pokery going on, but it still doesn't explain the body swap."

"As your body was being lifted out of the mine shaft, I was obviously concentrating on you, but I noticed something in the background and I've been trying to make sense of it. Looking through your empty coffin down the mine shaft, which was still illuminated at that time, there appeared to be a large hole torn in the rocky bottom of the shaft."

"A hole torn in the bottom? What are you talking about? Maybe there was some subsidence where you hit the ground, but a falling human body can't make a large hole in the ground, particularly without being killed."

"That was my reaction," Caddy said. "Then I thought, suppose I wasn't actually seeing the bottom of the mine shaft, only something that looked like the bottom of a mine shaft."

"Like what?"

"A large sheet of printed paper stretched across the mine shaft, at the point where Caddy's body was being held?" Caddy suggested.

"What would be the point of that?"

"To make me, as Jonathan, think that I was falling to my death and it was only an instant of a second away. My spirit had to seek any solution it could find, even one which is not recognised by science. At the moment before impact, Caddy was relatively safe, her head was only inches away from my own and she was unconscious, so she was unable to resist a human spirit desperately trying to escape certain death."

"You mean your impending death caused you to do a body swap with Caddy? Is that what you're saying?"

"It's highly unlikely but it's my only explanation. Jonathan was about to crash into the pit bottom and die. He managed to flip his spirit into Caddy's mind, thus displacing her own, which entered Jonathan's in the instant before impact. Except that the impact was not with a solid lump of earth, it was with a sheet of paper covering the shaft which went down a lot further. The brake on the cable came on at the same time as some automated mechanism blew ether into Jonathan's face. We were both then winched back up the pit and loaded back into the coffins. Jonathan was much further down the shaft than Caddy, which is why it took so much longer to winch you back up. It may be stretching the boundaries of credibility, but can you think of a better explanation?"

He shrugged. "Magic is all I can suggest. I've always believed in it and today is the proof." He stood up and began to quickly dress.

"What are we going to do now?" Caddy asked.

He smirked. "You can do as you like, but I am going to drive into town in my car, which I suppose is technically yours, so I'm stealing it. So, get me arrested. I'm going to the home of one of my friends – sorry, your friends, but I'm not telling you which one, and since she is currently at work, I'm going to have sex with her nympho of a daughter, Roxy, who is the sexiest girl I have ever seen."

"What makes you think she'll want to have sex with you?"

"She seems to have sex with every man she meets, but I'm strong enough to force myself on her if she resists."

"But that's rape! You can't."

His smirk broadened. "Try me. OK, I realise that the arm of the law may catch up with Jonathan, by which time I will be Caddy again and you'll just have to take your punishment like a man. I shall get a builder I know, who is very discrete, to remove everything from the auditorium and destroy it. I shall simply tell the police when interviewed, as I'm sure I will be, that you found the way into that hidden area but it was totally empty, so I had it cleaned up. Incidentally, after I've had my way with Roxy I shall go touring the streets, seeing if I can pick up one or two other women. And I expect to end the day either in their house or an expensive hotel paid on your credit card. There, any questions?"

"Jonathan. You can't do those things. They're evil. It's not fair."

"I'm a man, now, so I don't care about fairness. My only concern is to fuck as many women as possible. What I have now is a free pass with no come back. All clear?"

"You're being totally vile."

"I'm a man, so get used to it. Bye."

And he had gone.

***

As soon as they had met each other, he, Jonathan, had not rated Caddy as particularly bright. Combine her mind with Jonathan's testosterone-fuelled body and you had a rather stupid and dangerous young man. For him to state his evil intentions in advance seemed totally idiotic. It took Caddy only a few minutes to locate her handbag (which of course, Jonathan had not taken with him), find her phone and search her contacts list for a Roxy. She was listed along with her parents, and it was only a few seconds to telephone her and say that a very weird character called Jonathan Creep had just been to see her, and Roxy was on no account to let him in. If he persisted, she was to call the police.

Then she dialled 999 and told the police that she'd had a visitor to the house who appeared to have taken her car keys and stolen her car. She reasoned that, one way or another, Jonathan would end up in prison by the end of the day, and she was unable to stop that. But it was better to be under arrest for stealing a car than raping a young woman.

***

"Mrs Goodhope?"

The policeman at the door looked very serious. Surely Jonathan had not come out with a bizarre tale of swapping bodies with her.

"Yes." She smiled. There was no need for both of them to be unhappy, and she'd actually had a wonderful day, clearing up the house, changing the bed linen and preparing a meal for her husband, Peter. "Have you recovered my car?"

"I'm afraid your car has been involved in an accident. The young man who stole it visited the house of one of your friends and tried to gain forceful entrance. She called the police; there was a chase and I'm afraid your vehicle was involved in an accident and the driver is dead."

***

"Hello darling, I'm home," a man she presumed was her husband called out as he entered the house.

"Hello, darling." She flung her arms around his neck. "Something dreadful has happened."

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Have you maxed out your credit card again?"

"Oh darling," she said. "I know I'm often stupid but I'm talking about something really important. A young man called this morning and I'm afraid I let him in without checking any of his credentials. He said he was from the Magic Circle and he was researching Thomas Morgan, who used to own this barn. He gave me some cock and bull story about Morgan being a magician and I believed him, and let him in and gave him a cup of coffee. I thought I was being quite helpful to him, and then he said as a magician he could take off my bra without removing my dress. He'd been sorting through my laundry until he found a bra and then he tried to play a trick on me.

"But I'm not stupid," she continued, noting her husband's attempt not to grin." When he tried to get me to show him the bedrooms so he could look at the ceilings, I asked him to leave. He did, but he must have palmed my car keys, because he shot off in my car. I rang the police and they chased him and he crashed and now he's dead. Oh darling, isn't it horrible." She pressed her body against him and slobbered into his neck.

"Never mind, Caddy," he said. "The main thing is that you're safe. Can I smell cooking?"

"Oh yes. I decided not to use all those silly convenience meals we have in the fridge but to cook something properly. You don't know how much this has made me think about how lucky I am to have you. And the meal won't be ready for another forty minutes, so why don’t we go upstairs and I can show you how pleased I am to see you?"

Hopefully, Caddy thought, Peter would be a lot better lover than Jonathan had been. She didn't know what would happen on the stroke of midnight, but she was hopeful that tomorrow morning she would still be Cadence Goodhope, and could wake Peter with a morning kiss. And maybe she could introduce Peter to a little magic in his life, but certainly not of the kind she had just experienced.

THE END

Just Not British

by Lin Dale

It's just not British to complain about things. Other nationalities may do so but it's not the done thing in Britain. Of course, if you are prepared to complain, it's amazing the results you can get.

***

I knew the couple who sat at the restaurant table nearest to mine would have the disease. Ever since their food had been delivered, she had been complaining to him that her Fish Pie was cold, whilst he'd been saying his Lasagne tasted like warm shit.

"Is everything alright with your meal?" It had probably been about fifteen minutes since the waitress had delivered their meal, and it was the first time she'd bothered to ask. But then, why should she, when she knew, just as I did, what their reply was going to be.

"Fine, thank you, love," the woman said. "Really lovely."

Naturally, as soon as the waitress had gone, the man would moan that his wife should have complained, whilst she would respond that there was nothing stopping him from doing the same. An argument would probably develop, and they would vent their frustration on each other, rather than the rightful recipient - the restaurant. Such is the British Disease. Fortunately, I am not infected by it.

"Is everything alright with your meal?" The waitress had hardly reached my table when she uttered the words, and was already turning away from me, about to head back to the kitchen, when I replied.

"No, it is not."

"What?" She half-turned back towards me, uncertain she had correctly heard. Clearly, the half dozen diners nearby were in a similar position, because it suddenly went so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

"You asked me if everything is alright with my meal," I repeated, "and I said no, it is not."

"Oh!" she responded, obviously uncertain what to do under such unusual circumstances. "Er, what's the problem?"

"I asked for this steak medium-rare," I said, turning it so she could see, "and it has been cooked well-done. Presumably that is because the quality of this meat dictates it would be more aptly nailed to the sole of my shoe than put on a dinner plate."

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry about that. But there's not much I can do about it now. I mean, I can hardly tell the cook to turn it from well-done to medium-rare, can I?"

"Clearly he'll need to start with a fresh steak and cook it correctly, this time."

She stared accusingly at my plate. "But you've already eaten half of it," she said. "You should have complained before."

"This is the first time I've seen you since you dumped the meal in front of me," I said. "I believe it says in your instruction manual that you should ask the client within five minutes whether they are satisfied, presumably to avoid this problem. So, I suggest you take this back to the chef and tell him I asked for a medium-rare steak. Thank you."

With a sniff which indicated I was stepping way over the mark, she did as I requested. After her departure, conversation started to return to the room, although I knew it was all about me - one or two in favour, but most were appalled that I had dared to make such a fuss. It just wasn't British.

It took seventeen and a half minutes for the steak to be returned, and it was cooked exactly as I expected, almost rare - the chef compensating for my previous complaint. Actually, rare is exactly how I like it, but it gives much more opportunity to complain if you ask for it medium-rare.

Four minutes and fifty seconds exactly after delivering the steak, the waitress asked if everything was alright.

"Absolutely not," I said. "I asked for it medium-rare and first you deliver it well done; now you deliver it rare. Look at this!" I pointed at the steak, of which I had devoured a good half, leaving only the very rarest part of it on my plate.

"I have an important appointment so I need to depart now, but I'm certainly not prepared to pay for this meal. I suggest you summons the manager and tell him so. I will meet him at the cash desk."

He was much better than the waitress at dealing with complaints, and I departed without paying the bill and with twenty pounds worth of vouchers for meals in my pocket. I strolled out of the restaurant and towards the accompanying motel where I had a room. I was looking forward to my important appointment - watching a repeat of Morse on TV. As I went through the motel Reception, I smiled at the poster offering: A good night's sleep or your money back.

***

Next morning, having reclaimed the cost of my motel room - and clearly I was the first to have ever done so, as the girl on Reception hadn't a clue how to handle it - I had an appointment with my hypnotist, Mr Rangachari, at ten am.

Two weeks ago, I had selected Mr Rangachari on the basis of his claims: "Hypnotist. Cure most addictions. No payment until you're satisfied." I'd tried dozens of times before to give up smoking and dismally failed each time. Even in spite of the new ban on indoor public smoking, I knew it was a remote possibility he would succeed where all kinds of devices and placebos had failed.

Mr Rangachari was an Asian who looked just like Peter Sellers pretending to be an Asian, but with a strong Birmingham accent, which made him all the more of a comedy figure. When I'd seen him two weeks ago, I'd thought there was no chance on earth he would succeed.

But miraculously, I hadn't smoked since, and I didn't even feel the urge. I was so surprised, I almost forgot to make a complaint to prevent him cashing my post dated cheque, but just in time I had protested that I had taken up nail-biting instead. Personally, I think it's a repulsive habit, but it's easy to hack your finger nails down to - and beyond - the quick and pretend you're a nail-biting addict. Last week, I'd gone back to him with my complaint, stating that I had an important presentation in five days time which would be ruined by my bad nails, caused because of his hypnosis.

"Don't worry," Mr Rangachari had replied. "I shall get you to concentrate all your spiritual powers onto making your nails grow quickly, so they will be perfect by the time of your presentation."

It had worked! My nails grew like bamboo shoots, which of course gave me the ideal opportunity this week to complain they were growing too quickly. Surely, sooner or later, Mr Rangachari was going to realise I would keep on complaining and wasting his time until he was forced to tear up my cheque.

"My nails are growing so quickly, I can't keep them a reasonable length," I complained to him, holding up both hands for his inspection.

"But they were just the right length for your presentation," Mr Rangachari said, "which I believe you said was last Friday."

"That's right," I agreed, "but they've kept on growing since. I'd need to be a woman to be happy with these nails."

"Yes," he said, "I can see that. Do not worry; I will focus your spiritual powers away from your nails and onto other areas of your body - perhaps your chest?"

"What?" I said, "you mean..." I'd always been conscious of my pigeon chest compared to most other blokes. If he could give me a Charles Atlas chest... why I might even pay his bill. But on the other hand, I reflected, I probably wouldn't.

"No problem," he said, "and perhaps your sexual organ, as well?"

"Oh yes!" I said. Now I really would pay his bill if he could give me a whopping big prick. Not that there was any chance, of course. But on the other hand, he had stopped me smoking and made my nails grow like crazy. Perhaps...

Just as he'd done the previous two times I'd visited him, he fitted me up with his special headset. While it didn't interfere with my vision, it had red, green and blue lights which could be independently shone onto each eye, as well as headphones which emitted strange noises. Just like previous weeks, I'd received three flashes on either eye...

"...and wake up!" Mr Rangachari clicked his fingers in front of my face, and I came to with a jolt.

"I have come to the conclusion," he said, holding up my cheque before me "that I am never going to be able to cash this cheque, and we are wasting each other's time."

So clearly, I wasn't going to get my huge cock and hairy chest. I felt a bit disappointed, but then I'd never really expected any of that to work. Still it wasn't going to cost me anything, AND I'd given up smoking. Not a bad deal for zero outlay.

"Shall we agree," he continued, "that I tear up this cheque, and in return, you never see me again."

I sadly shook my head. I'd spent years developing that little sad shake of my head. "If you want to do so," I said, "I won't object." I could have pushed him for compensation, but knew that was very often the time when people dig in and withdraw their original offer.

He smiled. "So be it." He tore up the cheque, and we both stood up, shook hands, and I departed.

***

I had thought as we shook hands that the problem with my finger nails wasn't that they were too long - simply that they weren't shaped very nicely. There was a Superdrug just up the road, so I strolled in there and looked over the displays. I got a nail file, but then I picked up some nail-strengthener, and I was just about to go over to the cash desk when I saw some nail varnish, such a subtle shade of pink that no one would notice I was wearing it.

I went back to the car and spent almost thirty minutes filing and painting my nails. I got one or two strange looks from passers-by, but what the hell? I had a set of nails which any woman - or man, of course - would be proud of.

Which meant I was late for my first business appointment of the day, but with my superb nails I felt so much more confident than normal, so I didn't let it phase me. As an Account Executive - well, they used to call them Salesmen, but Account Executive sounds so much better - I had several calls to make that day, and I had it all planned out so I ended up at a motel of the same chain as last night - along with their Good Night's Sleep guarantee.

Naturally, the same restaurant chain was adjoining, and I was going to order another medium-rare steak, but instead decided on a salad. Not that I was fat, of course, but I should watch my weight a little. Also, the skin on my chest had been irritating, as though it was being stretched, and my cock felt very strange as well. Perhaps Rangachari had done some good after all.

So, I missed my trick with the complaint about the food, and ended up using the vouchers I'd received the previous evening to pay for my meal.

Normally, I sleep so well, but that evening I had a terrible night. The irritation on my chest got much worse, and I tossed and turned for most of the night. At about four am when I stared in the mirror, I could definitely see evidence my chest was starting to expand, with fleshy mounds around my nipples. I was a long way from Charles Atlas but even so, as I walked around the motel room, the small mounds wobbled, causing my nipples to rub against my pyjama tops in a most uncomfortable way. With some embarrassment, I realised I was going to have to buy a bra.

Of course, I could hardly go into the local branch of Marks & Spencer and asked to be measured for a bra - especially at four am - so I spent a few minutes surfing the web, and worked out how to measure myself, and estimated my size was probably 38A. I also used the web to locate a nearby 24 hour supermarket, so I got dressed, walked out to the car, my tits bouncing around most uncomfortably, and drove over there. Fortunately, at that time, there was hardly anyone around and, apart from the discomfort of walking around the huge store with my tits flapping, I was able to select the bra from the shelf and the bleary eyed assistant at the till barely gave it a glance.

By the time I got it home, I was simply aching to put it on. Surely, I reasoned, neither Charles Atlas nor a woman with A-cup sized breasts experienced this much discomfort without a bra. I suspected it was because my skin wasn't used to being stretched over my new shape. I put on the bra and went to bed and at last got a little sleep.

The final indignity at that motel was that, when I complained next morning that I'd had a terrible night's sleep because of the pain, the manager refused to refund my motel payment, saying that was not the motel's fault. Bloody nerve!

Another day on the road, visiting a dozen potential clients, a few of whom gave quite strange looks at my chest. When I got to the motel that evening, I could see why. My fleshy mounds had grown so much, they were horrendously bulging around the sides of my A-cup bra.

When I took off my bra, I was pleased to see they were forming very well-shaped breasts, which any woman would be proud of. It was strange how yesterday I'd imagined I might develop a chest like Charles Atlas - what a horrible thought! The strange feelings I'd been experiencing in my vagina seemed to have gone away, although my clitoris looked awfully swollen.

After measuring myself again, I couldn't decide whether I was a C or a D-cup, so I decided to buy one of each. Since it was still early evening, I decided to go to the local Marks to buy my bras, but of course, as soon as you step inside you see all those mannequins bearing their latest range of clothes. There was a lovely suit which would do perfectly for business, and then a pretty dress and a couple of skirts and tops for evenings and weekends. It took me some time to work out my size - for some reason the assistants seemed to be perpetually in some other part of the store - but eventually I managed to work it out. Of course then, I had to get some proper underwear and some shoes to match. I spent a fortune but was incredibly pleased with my choice.

Finally, as I was retracing my steps to the car, I saw a wig shop, so I went in and chose a couple - one fairly conservative for business use, and the other a long blonde wig.

That was yesterday, and business today has really picked up. Apparently, they'd been expecting some man to visit them, so they really cheered up when they saw me coming into their office, my huge tits wobbling about because my bra didn't have sufficient support. In fact, one of the guys today not only placed an enormous order; he's also asked me out tonight for a meal.

I do hope he's not one of those perpetual complainers - it's just not British.

THE END

Author's Note: British born and bred, I can write of the "British" disease without being accused of racism. Those from other countries, particularly the USA, may find our problem difficult to understand - believe me, this problem is for real, although perhaps not often as bad as you see it here.

It was just one of those days which started fine. I went to school without any suspicion on my part that, by the end of the day, I'd be on the run pretending to be someone totally different with my dad on his way to South America.

It was during the first lesson on Friday morning that the school secretary came into the classroom and handed a note to Mr Jensen, our Maths teacher.

He read it and bellowed out, “James Baker. The headmaster wishes to speak with you.”

There was a cacophony of ribald comments around the classroom and I blushed in embarrassment.

“Quiet,” Mr Jensen shouted.

“Please, sir,” Hodges, the boy who sat behind me called out. “Does he need to put a telephone directory down the seat of his pants, sir?”

“Corporal punishment was banned before you were born, Hodges,” Mr Jensen said. He turned to me. “Just go, Baker or this lot will get so excited they’ll be wetting their knickers.”

I stood up and left the classroom, heading towards the headmaster’s office, worried, but totally unaware of the catastrophe which was rushing towards me.

“Ah, James Baker, isn’t it? Come in and sit down. Your father telephoned me a short while ago. Were you aware that his job is being transferred to New York?”

“New York! But that’s crazy. He works in the City of London as a stockbroker… or something.”

“He has done until now, Baker, but he telephoned me to say he is being transferred with immediate effect to New York and you will be travelling with him, this afternoon.”

“This afternoon!” I felt like crying, but boys don’t cry. “But I can’t. I have Science last subject and I can’t miss that.”

“I’m afraid you are going to miss the rest of this term. Your father has arranged for your au pair, er…” He glanced at a slip of paper on his desk. “That’s a strange name,” he muttered to himself, adding, “Miss Destiny Williams is going to collect you shortly.”

“She’s Jamaican,” I replied, a simple matter to which I could give my attention, whilst the bombshell was exploding all around.

“Jamaican?” the head repeated. It seemed he, too, was having problems grasping reality. “Au pairs are normally European, come to England to learn the language… Anyway,” he recovered his senses, “the fact is that my secretary will help you gather together your belongings and escort you to the car in which, er, Destiny, will shortly arrive. She will then take you to Heathrow Airport where you will meet up with your father, who will have the tickets.”

He came round his desk to shake my hand and wish me good luck with my future, and then I was being escorted out.

***

“Destiny. What’s happening?” I asked as I got into the car, and then my tears really did flow, as she hugged me to her fantastic bosom.

“I don’t know, honey,” she said. “It’s as big a mystery to me as to you, except that…”

“What?”

“Your father has been very stressed recently. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Well, yes, but… surely, he’d be excited if he knew he was being transferred to New York.”

“If it is New York.”

“But that’s what Dad told the headmaster.”

“He said that to me, as well,” Destiny confirmed, “but I thought he might have made it up. I suspect that you may be going to South, rather than North America, to a country without an extradition agreement with the UK.” She released me from her hug and started to drive.

“But… what are you talking about,” I asked. “Are you suggesting Dad is running away from something illegal. Dad wouldn’t do that. Incidentally, this isn’t the way to Heathrow Airport. We should have turned right out of the school gate, not left.”

“I managed to find your passport but I didn’t have time to pack your bag. We’ll have to call in the house on the way. And yes, I suspect that your dad was up to something phoney.”

“Never,” I said, rather cross that she should even suggest it, and sat in sullen silence for the rest of the fifteen-minute drive back to our house.

As we approached it, we could see a number of vehicles outside it, some of them police cars with blue flashing lights, and a gaggle of people standing on the pavement.

“Shit!” Destiny said.

As we got closer, a large BBC van approached from the opposite direction, with a satellite dish on the roof.

“Get your head down,” she shouted at me, and she accompanied it by grasping my shoulder and forcing me to double over, so I’d be invisible to the TV crews standing outside. She drove straight past our house without stopping.

“But what about my clothes?” I asked Destiny.

“I dunno,” she replied.

***

After a few minutes, she told me to ring my dad’s mobile, tell him the police were at the house, and ask what we should do. The phone system gave me a message back saying that his phone was not in service.

“It’s no good going to Heathrow Airport,” Destiny said. “By the time we get there, they are bound to be looking out for him leaving the country – possibly you too.”

“So where are we driving to?”

“I dunno,” she replied.

She drove for a few minutes more and then said, “We’d both better turn off our mobile phones. We don’t want the police or the press to find out where we are.”

“Right,” I said.

“And I’m going to take you to my mum’s house in Brixton. We’ll be OK, there.”

“Right,” I said.

I’d heard of Brixton, but never been there or even passed through it. It sounded rather scary, but there seemed nowhere else to go.

***

I knew that Destiny was eighteen years old, four years older than my fourteen, and that this was her first job after leaving school. She’d told me that she had two sisters the same age as me, Desiree and Desreta, who were twins. Their father had left home shortly after the twins were born, leaving the family virtually penniless, and their mother had done cleaning jobs to try to subsidise the social security.

My mother had died from a heart attack when I was six, so we, too, were a single parent family, but there the resemblance ended. My father had always been able to afford live-in nannies in the early days, and now au pairs, who would look after me. Having been brought up as part of a white, middle-class family whose father made a fortune in financial services, I simply couldn’t imagine what the house we were travelling to would be like.

“Will your Mum mind you bringing a fugitive to her house?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just taking you somewhere safe whilst we figure out what to do.”

“Do you think they’ll find Dad and arrest him?”

“I’m not certain. The point is that his passport was with yours in the filing cabinet. I have it with me now so he can’t get very far without it. We’ll just have to wait until he contacts us.”

A niggling thought had been whirling around my head and I had to voice it before it drove me crazy. “If he is arrested, what happens to me?”

“You’ll be looked after, whatever happens.”

“You mean, I’ll be taken into care.”

“That’s the official term for it, but it means they would find a family for you to live with for the time being.”

I could feel my eyes welling up again. “But Destiny, I don’t want to live with some random family. These last few months living with you have been fantastic – the most wonderful time of my life. I want to carry on living with you.”

She took her eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at me and smile. “You’re stupid,” she said.

We didn’t talk much for the rest of the journey but I felt much happier. I trusted Destiny and knew she would do everything she could to look after me. I glanced sideways at her and saw she still had that little smile on her lips as she drove. The last hour or so had been incredibly traumatic; suddenly it seemed to be turning into an adventure.

***

“Mum, this is James, the boy I’m looking after.”

We’d left the car in a car park and then walked for what seemed like ages through the streets of Brixton until we arrived at a terraced house in a rather dingy looking road.

The plump Jamaican woman smiled at me. “Hello, James. And what brings you to our part of the world?”

“Family problems, Mum,” Destiny said. “He’s got nowhere else to go for the time being.”

“Then come in,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs Williams,” I said.

“Call me Delilah,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you… Delilah,” I said, adding with a sudden rush of confidence at her friendly welcome, “It must be confusing when you get a letter addressed to Ms D Williams.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You don’t think of these things when your children are young. It only starts to sink in when they grow up and you start opening love letters from a boyfriend.”

Why should I feel a sudden stab of jealousy?

“Mum!” Destiny protested. “In any case,” she said to me, “he was only twelve years old.”

And why, I wondered with a little smile, did Destiny bother to explain. Then I caught Delilah watching me with her own little smile and I covered my confusion by explaining the circumstances that had brought me to her doorstep.

After Destiny had added her own version of the last few hours, Delilah said, “It’s just coming up to eleven o’clock. I think we’d better turn on the radio and listen to the news.”

“And police have swooped on the offices of Faulkner and Baker in the City of London. There have been reports of over a hundred million pounds missing from their accounts. Police are hoping to talk to company director, Jeremy Baker, whose whereabouts are not currently known.

“And now, on to the sports news…”

“OK,” Delilah said, looking me in the face, “we need to have a full and frank discussion.”

With her right index finger, she counted off the digits on her left hand. “Number One. Your father appears to be on the run. His phone is turned off, presumably to avoid being traced and we can expect that sooner or later, he will either contact you or he’ll be arrested.

“Number two. Destiny is currently responsible for you, and will be until either your father or the authorities take over. Reading between the lines, you don’t want to be taken into care – and I can well understand that and I’m sure, so does Destiny.”

I nodded agreement, and Destiny said, “I couldn’t bear the thought of it. It would be like I’d failed in my job.”

“Number Three,” Delilah continued. “We can expect that the old Bill will shortly be looking for both you and Destiny. They will certainly hope that you two can lead them to your father and they may well suspect that you, Destiny, have run off with the cash with James’s dad.”

“You mean that I’m having an affair with him? I don’t think so.” She made a gagging symbol by pretending to poke her forefinger down her throat.

“They don’t know what your relations are with him so they are bound to try to find you. Sooner or later, they are going to be knocking on this door and then they will find you both.”

I stared at Destiny and she back at me. Neither of us had thought of that.

“Fourthly,” she said, “we only have two beds in this house and one settee. I have two rampant teenage daughters who share one of the beds, and, I suspect, would be quite inclined to drag a teenage boy into it. There’s Destiny who is now an adult, and would be committing a crime if she slept with a minor, there’s me and there’s you. Which all reminds me of that puzzle with a fox, a chicken and a bag of grain getting across the river. So, the question is how do we ensure that you, James, are not taken into care; you, Destiny, are not arrested; and that none of my daughters do regrettable things with you?”

There was a silence as we all looked at each other, hoping that someone would produce a solution.

“Could James stay with Mrs Clarkson, next door,” Destiny asked.

“There is the fifth fact,” Delilah said, “which is that James is white in a district where all our trustworthy friends and neighbours are black. We could probably find someone to put him up for a night or two, but a honky is going to stick out like a spare cock at an orgy. He’s going to get noticed and talked about and sooner or later, the old Bill are going to hear about him, so… Now that’s an idea.” She broke off as she reflected on something.

I waited whilst Destiny said, “What’s that, Mum?”

“Well, it was that bit about him sticking his cock out, and of course, there are ways of preventing that.”

“Mum! For heaven’s sake.”

“And of course, I didn’t introduce Point Number Six, which is that he doesn’t have any clothes with him but I think… Yes, yes. I think that would do it.”

“What?” Both Destiny and I said it together.

“Well…” She stared at Destiny and then me for a few seconds; you could almost see the cogs in her brain churning everything around. Then she said, “OK, well, my idea means that you may have to get over a number of taboos, and if you can’t do that, we’ll have to look for another solution. So the first taboo to break is that whilst you are currently white, it would be fairly easy to buy some spray tan and convert you to a more respectable colour. I’d have to dye your hair, as well.”

“You mean you’d turn me black,” I asked.

“Is that a problem?” Delilah asked. “I mean, if it is, then we can forget it and I won’t go onto the second taboo.”

“It’s not a taboo for me,” I said. “Actually, I think it would be rather cool. But what was the second taboo?”

“Like I said, there are ways of preventing rampant cocks from sticking out. Devices you can buy which lock on and can’t be removed when you dive into bed with one or more of my daughters or, more likely, they dive into bed with you. If you’re going to spend the night here, wearing one of those is non-negotiable.”

“You mean that you would lock this thing on my... on my cock and I wouldn’t be able to… What about weeing?”

“You can still wee, but that’s all. As I say, if you’re not prepared to wear one…”

“I’ll do it,” I said. After all, I was still a virgin – apparently the only one in my class. “I’ll wear one of these things.”

“Which takes us onto the third, and probably the biggest taboo.”

“You’re changing the colour of my skin; you’re locking up my cock. There can’t be anything left.”

“A friend showed me one of those chastity devices called a Y-gina. It fastens over a man’s tackle and completely conceals it. Instead, it looks as though he’s a woman.”

“Oh Mum! Come on. That’s disgusting.”

“Actually, I think that, rather than it being disgusting, replacing male genitals with something which looks like a vulva is definitely an improvement, but I guess that’s irrelevant. But what is important is that thinking about that led me onto breaking the final taboo. If you have a vagina rather than testicles, then it makes sense if you go the whole hog and wear female clothes. I still have all of Destiny’s clothes from when she was your size, ready to pass them onto the twins. I reckon we could turn you into a very passable black girl. So, what do you say? Are you going to break the third and biggest taboo?”

I know I blushed a vivid shade of crimson. “I’m not sure,” I gasped. “I couldn’t really look like a girl, could I? Destiny, what do you think? Wouldn’t I look stupid?”

“You certainly wouldn’t look stupid,” she said. “I think you could look pretty passable, and I believe you’re brave enough to do it. I know lots of boys who think they’re brave, but they’d wimp away from this.” She looked me in the face. “James, let’s give it a try.”

“We could say you were my niece,” Delilah said. “Her name’s Jasmine, so it’s not too different from James. That’s Jasmine Williams, by the way, same surname as us and they live in Bradford so there’s no chance of anyone local knowing her.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

***

Destiny was dispatched to the local shops to purchase several items, whilst I stayed behind to help Delilah with the bedding.

“Presumably,” I said, “I’ll be sleeping on the settee. So is Destiny going to share with you?” I really hoped that she would say that Destiny and I had to share the settee together.

“I wouldn’t be happy leaving you on your own all night, downstairs, even if you are wearing a Y-gina. I can imagine that Desiree and Desreta might visit you in the night and even if straight sex is off the agenda, there are many other things I wouldn’t want you to get up to with the girls.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what sort of things she was talking about but was too embarrassed to ask.

“So I have to sleep with someone. Who would that be?” Please let her say that Destiny would sleep with me.

“You can sleep with me and Destiny can have the settee. I reckon no one will accuse me of seducing you.”

Gulp. “Oh, right. Er, won’t that be a bit embarrassing?”

“You’re going to be a girl quite soon and you will have to get used to seeing naked women. Better that you get used to that with me.” She grinned as I went red again. “OK?”

I tried to grin back, aware that I was getting out of my depth. “I guess so.”

“Right, well, Destiny will be back from the shops soon. Meanwhile, I’ve borrowed the hair remover she left here last time she came, so pop into the shower and I’ll spray it all over your body.

***

By the time Destiny returned from the shops, I’d been dehaired all over, had a shower and my hair shampooed. I was nervous about the Y-gina which Destiny had bought but Delilah simply told me not to be a wimp and lifted the towel away from my body to expose my tackle which had shriveled through plain terror to a microscopic size. Then she simply slid the thing over the top, after which and I heard some ominous clicks.

“There,” she said. “You are now a woman.”

I stared down. It hadn’t hurt but everything seemed to have disappeared. I had to really bend over to look between my legs where I could see a slit between my legs.

“Is that it?” I asked, which sent Destiny and Delilah into peals of laughter, and made me blush furiously at my own naivety.

After that, I was spray-painted a dark brown colour all over and then my hair was dyed black and Delilah put it into a style which looked very Afro. Then, quite small black false boobs were stuck to my chest and thick black shaping pads stuck to my thighs and bum, so I gave the impression of being pear-shaped.

“I thought women were supposed to be a figure 8, not pear-shaped” I complained staring at myself in the mirror.

“That’s brilliant,” Delilah said to Destiny. “He’s only been a woman for a few minutes and already he’s complaining about his figure.

“We don’t want to make you look like too sexy,” she said to me. “That would attract attention. Far better that you look like a schoolgirl with a big bum and tiny breasts.”

I could see the logic in that, but I still felt a little unhappy that I wasn’t being given a very attractive figure. Still, I could hardly protest that I wanted to be prettier, and I certainly didn’t want to attract the attention of boys. I shrugged philosophically.

“Come with me,” Destiny said, “and I’ll sort you out some of my cast offs.”

Her cast-offs were packed away in plastic bags, and it took her a few minutes to work out which would fit me. When she eventually decided on the size, she pulled out several items from one of the bags which included some pretty dresses, as well as tee shirts and grubby jeans. From another bag came a number of bras, slips, socks and tights. “I bought you some new panties,” she added.

I shrugged.

“I think tee shirt and jeans, don’t you?” she suggested.

“Those dresses and skirts are really pretty,” I suggested.

“They are, aren’t they.” She picked up one or two. “But I think the same argument applies. You don’t want to look too pretty at this stage so that you get noticed. You need to blend into the background.”

She was right, of course, and we settled on a faded, but pretty, tee shirt and an old pair of jeans.

I had just finished putting everything on and was admiring myself in the mirror when there was a terrible banging on the door.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Sounds like the old Bill,” Delilah said. “I’ll go and let them in before they kick the door down.

“OK, OK, I’m coming,” she shouted as she went down the stairs.

Within seconds, the house was full of policemen who surged through it, shouting at all of us to stand still. Destiny held me by her side to ensure I didn’t get trampled beneath their feet whilst they searched the house.

“Remember, your name’s Jasmine Williams, if you’re asked,” Destiny said. “From Bradford.”

“What address in Bradford?” I asked. “They might ask…”

“What’s your name, young lady?”

But they were talking to Destiny. When she told them, they immediately handcuffed her, in spite of her protestations.

“What’s she being arrested for?” Delilah shouted?”

“She’s being taken in for questioning on suspicion of fraud,” the policeman said. “I’ll formally arrest her if you want me to,” he added.

Delilah shook her head and watched as Destiny was taken downstairs and out to a police car. Suddenly, the house was quiet again, as the last of the policemen disappeared.

“Are you all right, love?” Delilah said to me, slipping an arm around my shoulder.

“But Destiny has been taken away,” I sobbed, “and I didn’t do anything to save her.”

“There was nothing you could do,” she replied. “And if you’d tried, you’d be under arrest yourself.”

“But they can’t just come bursting into your home like that and take her away. Destiny has done nothing wrong. They can’t just arrest her.”

She knelt down so she was looking directly into my face as the tears coursed down my nose. “That just shows that you’re still a white honky at heart. If you were really black, you’d know that’s what the filth do all the time. One law for whites; another for blacks.”

“But that’s dreadful,” I said, as I sobbed some more.

***

“I need to get a lawyer sorted,” Delilah said. “But, since she hasn’t been officially arrested, I’m not certain whether legal aid will pay for it. I’d better ring someone.”

“Delilah,” I said. “I have some money in a savings account. If legal aid won’t cover it, we can use that.”

“We can’t take money from you,” Delilah said.

“Destiny is only in this mess because of me and my dad. If there’s no legal aid, I’ll cover it as long as I can.”

Delilah came over to me and enveloped me in a great big, very squashy hug.

“I’ll ring someone,” she said.

After she had put the phone down, she said, “I’ve got someone who’s going to represent her. He said that paying for it rather than using legal aid will give faster results so I told them to go ahead.” She told me the price and I was a bit surprised. My savings weren’t going to last very long at that rate.

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed that he gets her out quickly,” Delilah continued. “It would be good to tell her the cavalry are on the way. I wonder if she’s still got her phone with her.”

She rang the number and then said, “It looks like it’s switched off.”

Which is when I remembered. “We switched our phones off in the car when we discovered that Dad had done the same. Her phone is probably still here in her handbag.”

Delilah quickly found where Destiny had left her handbag and, as she opened it, she handed me two passports. “These must be yours and your dad’s.”

“Thanks,” I said, putting them in my pocket.

“You’re right about the phone,” Delilah said, “it’s turned off.” She switched it on and a second later it beeped to show a text message waiting. Can you call me back on this number asap? Jeremy.

“it’s Dad,” I gasped, relief seeping through me, pulling out my mobile from my pocket.

Delilah said, “Better not to use your phone here. Keep it switched off and use the house phone instead.”

A minute later I was talking to my dad. “It’s all ridiculous,” he was saying. “Sure, some of the profits are down and there have been cash flow problems.”

“Then why don’t you tell the police, Dad?”

“Because they would confiscate everything and I’d be stuck in prison, without the chance to recover the losses. No, what I need to do is to get away somewhere safe to give me time to recover all the money that’s been lost and then I can pay everyone back.”

“But where will we go?” I asked.

“Ah, well, we’re going to have to travel separately. I’ll go out first and get everything set up and then I’ll call for you to come out there – probably get Destiny to bring you out. How does that sound?”

The question at the end cut straight through me: I’ve got a meeting on the day of your football match, James, but it’s all right as I’ll be there in plenty of time. How does that sound? How many times had I heard that final sentence whenever I wanted him to see me acting in the school play, or getting the school prize, or whatever, but always knowing it meant he was going to let me down?

“That sounds great, Dad. Where will you go?”

“Better you don’t know, then if the police interview you, you won’t have to lie. Where are you at the moment? Has Destiny got my passport?”

“We’re at Destiny’s mum’s house in Brixton and I’ve got our passports here, Dad. They’re in my pocket.” I pulled the passports out and tried to flip them open to check that one of them was, indeed, Dad’s passport, dropping them both on the floor as I did so. “Look Destiny is in…”

“That’s brilliant. Look, could you bring it to me? You just need to hop on the Tube and I’ll meet you on the platform at Victoria Underground Station. We can properly say, er, au revoir, then.”

“OK, Dad. What time shall we meet?”

***

I told Delilah what I had to do.

“It’s probably better if I come with you,” she suggested, “especially as you’re not very used to the Tube and it’ll be rush hour around then. And it will be your first time out in public as a girl.”

Wham! I’d forgotten all about it since the police raid, in which I’d been accepted as a girl without question. But how would I cope in public, when there’d be lots of people just looking at me, particularly, lots of boys of my age thinking about what they would like to do with me?

“That would be great, actually, Delilah. I’d completely forgotten about that part of it. Do I look all right?”

“You look a very natural girl, but perhaps if you’re going to see your dad off, you might like to put on a pretty outfit. Presumably, you didn’t warn him about your current disguise.”

I shook my head. “No. In fact, he’s probably going to blow his top when he sees me.”

“Don’t worry, lots of dads do that when they see how their daughters are dressed up. Come on, let’s choose a nice outfit and you can knock him dead. In fact, it might be quite fun to see how long it takes him to recognize you.”

***

As the train pulled into Victoria Tube station, I caught a glimpse of my dad as we flashed past him, waiting about halfway down the platform. “That was him,” I told Delilah as the train drew to a halt and the doors opened.

“You go on,” she said, slipping her capricious handbag over her shoulder, “and get a few minutes quality time with him, but remember, see if he recognizes you first.”

I stepped off the train very carefully, only just getting used to the one-inch kitten heels I was wearing, and definitely not getting used to the draughts running up my legs beneath the short denim skirt with the frayed hem. Neither was I getting used to the looks of every young male, and quite a few older ones, as they peered down the open V neck of my matching denim jacket, which was also frayed at the bottom. If this had been a normal occasion and I’d been seeing off my dad at the airport for a long journey, I’d have dressed smartly. The very idea of dressing down was an anathema.

And yet, I felt great. No one had looked at me suspiciously, realizing that I was really a boy. Instead, they had seen (or not seen) a West-Indian teenage girl.

As the crowd started to clear the platform, I caught sight of Dad, looking this way and that along the platform. The doors of the train closed and the train pulled out of the station (creating more draught which whizzed up my skirt). As I got closer to Dad, I thought he’d given up hope that I was on the train, and had turned to sit on one of the seats.

But as I got closer, he turned to me with a nice smile. Dad doesn’t smile at me much and I have to say it lifted my heart a little. Perhaps I had misjudged him and he was really dreading being away from me for so long. I gave him a nice smile back, and he lifted his hand in his characteristic wave, indicating I should sit next to him.

I knew Delilah would be dischuffed that he’d recognized me so quickly, and it was for her sake that I continued my roleplay, using the voice I’d been rehearsing with her since putting down the phone. “Hello,” I said, and gave him a lovely grin.

“Hi,” he replied. “So what’s your name.”

It gave me so much pleasure that Dad was going along with the roleplay, that my grin turned into a smirk. “Jasmine Williams,” I said, adding, “I’m Destiny’s cousin.”

“Oh!” he said, playing up his surprise. “Oh right, you’re Destiny Williams cousin,” he repeated, rather unnecessarily. I did think he was hamming things up, somewhat. Still, it was nice just playing a game with my dad. We hadn’t done that for years.

“I’ve brought your passport,” I said, handing him the envelope I’d put it in.

“Yes, of course,” he said, taking the envelope from me. “I was expecting my son to bring it.”

“He couldn’t make it,” I said.

“All for the better, I think,” he said. “That means we can have a little fun.”

What had got into Dad? I’d never known him in such a playful mood. Perhaps him going away had made him realize what he was about to miss. “I’d really enjoy that,” I said, giving him another lovely smile. “But have we got enough time?”

He glanced at his watch. “You’re right,” he said. “I haven’t got much time, but a quickie doesn’t take long. And when you see her next, thank Destiny for sending you along. She knows I like them young.” Then he slipped his hand onto my thigh and ran it up beneath my skirt.

It was so unexpected that I just gasped for an instant, but then in my side vision I saw something whizzing towards my head. I ducked back just as Delilah’s huge handbag rapidly flashed past me and landed squarely against Dad’s jaw.

“You dirty pervert,” Delilah shouted, as Dad fell off the seat onto the floor. “This is my niece and she’s fourteen-years-old. Dirty old men like you need locking up.” She then gave him a substantial kick in his rib cage.

She picked up her handbag, took my hand and said, “Come on, love. Let’s get away from these pervs.” And she marched me through the tunnel to another platform where a train travelling in the opposite direction had just arrived. The doors closed as we stepped onboard and within a few minutes we’d arrived back at Brixton Station.

It wasn’t until we were outside in the street that we trusted ourselves to speak about it, although Delilah had been muttering for our whole journey.

“Are you all right, love?” she asked

“I think so,” I said. “Can you just run it by me again what happened back there. I thought I was getting on great with him, then suddenly he’s slipping his hand up my skirt and you’re clonking him with your handbag. Dad has never touched me like that before. I don’t understand.”

“You twerp, your dad wasn’t touching you up, he was touching up a fourteen-year-old black girl because he thought he could get away with it. And I’m going to have serious words with Destiny about what she’s been saying and doing with him. “

“Touching up a young girl! My dad would never do…”

Delilah put her arm around me. “I’m afraid he would, love.”

***

The twins, Desiree and Desreta, were already home from school when we got back. I’d expected them to be identical but these two were as different as chalk and cheese.

Desiree was chubby, already with the big boobs and bum that characterised both her mother and Destiny. But Desreta was as slim as a beanpole, her white school blouse barely revealing the slight undulation of her breasts above her flat tummy. Delilah told them who I was and that I was hiding from the police. If, yesterday evening, my father had brought home a boy dressed as a girl and told me he was hiding from the police, it would have blown my mind, but these two seemed completely unfazed by it. And I also got the impression that they knew the importance of keeping quiet. I guessed that children’s dealer parents in this community were not those who went to the City of London every day; loose talk could get you, or their parents, a knife between the ribs.

Desiree spent a little time admiring my transformation, before retiring to their bedroom with her phone, whilst Desreta (call me Sreta) wanted to know everything that had happened to me that day. We used her phone to trawl the net looking at all the news sites for information about Dad, and comparing one bit of information with another.

The rumours said there was over a hundred million pounds missing from the company, the police simply said they were investigating reports of missing funds. So, it looked as though Dad’s final words to me on the phone had been lies.

“Look on the bright side,” Sreta said. “If your dad does manage to escape and call you out to some South American state, you’ll be stinking rich. You’d be able to pick any girl you wanted.”

“And if he gets sent to prison, penniless?” I asked.

“You’d be stuck with me,” she quipped with a smile.

“That’s all right, then,” I replied before I’d even thought about it. We both kind of grinned at each other, and I thought that, only a few hours ago, I’d been secretly in love with Destiny; now I was happily chatting with her sister who I found absolutely entrancing.

“What are you going to do about school?” Sreta asked.

“I dunno,” I said. “If I go back there, they’ll be asking all sorts of questions about who is caring for me. They’d be certain to take me away from Destiny and stick me with some unknown family.”

“I meant,” Sreta said, “has Mum done anything about temporarily getting you into our school? We missed enough school in lockdown. You can’t miss any more.

“Mum,” she yelled through to the kitchen. “Can’t Jasmine come to our school on Monday?”

“I’ll check it out,” her mum shouted back.

“But I can’t just turn up at your school,” I protested.

“It happens quite regularly here,” Sreta said. “Parents are arrested or something and the kids are passed onto a relative to look after. I’m sure Mum can get you enrolled.”

“But there’d be thousands of girls and boys,” I said, gasping at the implications, and wondering which would be worse.”

“Desiree and I would look after you,” she said. “You certainly mustn’t stop your schooling.”

“The school secretary has gone home,” Delilah said, sticking her head through the door. “But I suggest we plan that Jasmine goes in to school on Monday and I’ll ring the office first thing to clear it with the secretary.”

“But I can’t just go in,” I said, panicking. “I’ll be asked all kinds of questions about where I’ve come from and what happened to me.”

“You know your name,” Delilah said. “We’ll sort out your address in Bradford which I’ll pass onto the secretary, but you’d better memorise it in case someone else asks you. If you’re asked anything by the other children just say that you can’t tell. Kids here are used to that kind of response.

“Sreta, why don’t you get out Destiny’s old school uniform and sort out something suitable?”

“Sure thing,” she said, leaping up in delight. “Come on,” she said, grabbing my hand.

I followed her upstairs and went through the cache of clothes I’d earlier been through with Delilah, but this time picking out the white blouse and pleated tartan skirt which Sreta already wore, together with a pair of black Mary Janes and some tights. I was just admiring myself in the mirror when we heard a commotion downstairs. Before I could get stressed, Desiree burst out of her room, saying, “Destiny’s home. Come on. Let’s go and see her.”

We all rushed down the stairs and spent several minutes hugging her and listening to her experiences.

“That solicitor you sent was great, Mum,” Destiny said. “Far better than the one when I got arrested at that rave. He had me out of there in no time.”

“Thank Jasmine for it,” Delilah waved to me. “She offered to pay for someone, saying it was her fault you were in the mess.”

“It’s not your fault you have a cheating dad,” Destiny said. “Has he contacted you…”

“He has,” Delilah said, “and something came out of that meeting that you and I need to talk about, Destiny.” She turned to us. “Girls, make yourself scarce.”

She said it in a voice that brooked no argument. We all quietly went upstairs.

***

“James, I need to speak with you,” Destiny said a little while later. It was the first time I’d been called by my real name since my conversion and I had a sudden omen that she was going to say something I wasn’t going to like.

“What is it?”

“Mum says I need to be honest with you about something. She’s told me what happened on Victoria Station with your dad.”

“Right,” I said.

“The thing is that when your dad interviewed me for the job, he asked if I would have sex with him.”

“That’s disgusting,” I gasped. “But at least he still gave you the job when you told him to get lost.”

Destiny looked at me.

“You did tell him that was an abominable idea, didn’t you?” There was a terrible doubt growing inside me.

“I needed the job, James. I told him that I needed a written job offer, first.”

“Destiny! You mean you had… You had sex with my…with my dad! But…”

“James, you’re very young but having sex is what many adults do. It’s not evil. It has to be a personal choice. I chose to have sex with your dad in order to get the job, and that’s it.

“Or,” she added, “that should have been it. The point is that he kept wanting me to invite the twins to visit, saying it would be good for you to meet them.”

“Well, it would have been good to meet them,” I said.

“I didn’t like the way he kept asking about them,” Destiny said, “as though his interest was more than just on your behalf. And when I thought about it afterwards, he didn’t seem to be very interested in me at the interview until I’d told him about my family position, which of course, included the twins.”

I suddenly grasped what she was saying and my mouth dropped open. “You’re saying that he gave the job to you not just because you had sex with him but it also gave him access to young teenage girls?”

“I challenged him eventually and he told me that our family could do very well out of such a ‘liaison’ – he called it. I was looking around for another job when this all blew up.”

“You were going to leave me?” I said, trying hard not to cry.

“James, I enjoyed looking after you. You have become a good friend. I think what has happened over the course of today has made the situation better. I’m really pleased that you are staying with us for the time being, and I’m going to try as hard as I can to keep it that way.”

***

“Are you a budding poet,” Desire asked me when I returned to the living room, a grin all over her face. She was holding a small, half-folded slip of paper in one hand.

“What? I asked.

Her grin became wider, showing every one of her shining white teeth, as she fully unfolded the paper and read out:

“Jack and Will
Went up the Hill
To fetch a Whale some Water
Bill came Down
With half a crown
But over two hours Later.”

When she saw the lack of recognition on my face, she held up the writing for our inspection, saying, “This was lying on the floor over there. It’s not any of our writing. It must be yours.”

“It’s my dad’s writing,” I said, tears suddenly pricking my eyes. “It must have fallen out of his passport which Destiny brought from the house.”

Deep in thought, I reached out to take it and she passed it over. Sreta came to stare at it over my shoulder. “It’s when Dad and I were just fooling about,” I added. “Doing stupid things.”

“Sorry,” Desiree said. “I didn’t mean to upset you…” She broke off as her phone beeped. “Sorry,” she added, “gotta take this text.”

“Are you all right?” Sreta asked, still standing very close to me and watching me carefully.

I nodded. “Do you think I could borrow your phone for a minute, please? I’m not supposed to be using mine in case the police trace it.”

“Course you can,” she said with a smile. She handed it over and announced she was going for a wee.

***

“Did the password work?” Sreta asked me when she returned, taking me by surprise as I hadn’t heard the toilet flushing.

“What are you talking about?” I said, hurriedly looking at Desiree to see if she was listening. By now, she had ear buds in and her head was bouncing to some pop tune.

“Your dad is in banking,” Sreta said. “He isn’t going to make a mistake between Will and Bill. Neither is he going to randomly capitalize certain words, as I do with the acronyms I use as passwords. The piece of paper was in his passport, ready for a quick getaway, so it’s probably a password to his wodge of stolen money. So, did it work?”

I shook my head. “I thought it was his bitcoin password,” I said. “I’ve even tried substituting the number ‘2’ for the word two in the verse.”

“What about the twelve and a half pence?” Sreta asked.

“What?”

“Half a crown,” she answered. When I still looked blank, she added, “That’s two shillings and sixpence in the old money our grandparents used – equivalent to twelve and a half pence, in today’s money. Try using ‘12.5p’ instead of ‘hac’.”

She watched me try the new password and then said, “I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes grow as large as yours. I presume the sum of money you have just unlocked is even bigger than your eyes. I think my contribution towards unlocking that is probably worth a million pounds, do you agree?”

I nodded. “Yes,” I said, my mind trying to grasp the figures. “I think that’s worth a million pounds.”

Sreta punched the air in exhilaration.

I changed the password on Dad’s Bitcoin account to something very different. Then I helped Sreta set up her own account and transferred one million pounds to it. Afterwards, I thought I should have been more awed by what I was doing, but it was only numbers – somehow it didn’t translate into untold wealth.

“No one else should know about this,” Sreta said. “You must pretend you have more money in your savings account than you thought. You could say you inherited a lot of money from your mother.”

“I guess so,” I agreed. “It does mean I can pay your Mum properly for looking after me. But…” I paused. “Is this right, what we’re doing?”

Sreta smiled. “You can equally ask if it’s ‘right’ that some people have hundreds of thousands of pounds to invest when there are millions of people living in poverty in this country – not to mention the rest of the world. Were those people thinking of us poor people when they invested their money, or were they only thinking of making more hundreds of thousands of pounds?”

I shrugged.

“And if they weren’t thinking of us,” Sreta continued, “why should we think of them, now that we have the money? OK, it may be illegal, but the law is only made to protect the haves in this world, not people who live in this area. We just have to ensure we don’t get caught, which means being very wise about how much and when we spend it. Start throwing it around and people will start asking questions.”

“What about my dad?”

“I think your dad has to look after himself.”

I shrugged again. “I guess you’re right. I think I also need to properly change my identity. Using your cousin’s name from Bradford may work for a while, but sooner or later the two identities will clash. Do you know anyone who could get me a new identity?”

Sreta smiled. “Oh, yes. It’ll cost but you should be able to afford it. You could also decide to go back to being male; in fact, you could become a white male.”

I grinned back at her. “I reckon I’m less likely to be discovered if I stick to being a black girl. Except I’d need a lot of help from you.”

Sreta’s smile went from ear to ear. “Black girl it is then,” she said.

---

Ever since male demancipation in 2039, stud farms have been faced with the eternal problem of what to do with their elderly stock of men once they go beyond their useful studding period.

Calls for humane culling have always met with cries of horror from the liberals and pressure groups, and for most stud farms, caring for elderly stock represents one of the overheads they just have to live with.

The problem has been exacerbated in recent years, as more women stick to normal sex, turning their backs upon what is increasingly regarded as bestial-like intercourse with males. The high profitability of stud farms in the early days led to a large number of entrants into the market, but as trade has fallen, over-supply has brought down the price of even the most highly-regarded studs.

"Twenty years ago, there was a market for men aged under 50 from a wide age-range of women," said leading stud farmer Bea Temhard. "Today, a man has to be incredibly fit to continue drawing customers when he's approaching 30. Genetic engineering has improved the early development and size of male genitals beyond comparison, but the downside is many men quite literally do not have the stamina to keep it up once they've passed the age of 25. Even our 110 year-old clientele often demand 25 year olds, and younger clients simply would not consider any stud over 20 to be acceptable.

"We took the decision to add an artificial womb to our studs who'd passed their sell-by date," Bea continued. "Whilst adding the womb itself was fairly straightforward, the trick was in persuading the stud's body to accept it as such, and start behaving properly when a foetus was introduced. Our research was very costly, and initial pregnancies had a high fatality rate, but we've brought that right down to less than 10%. We normally do the operation when the stud is aged about 26, and most studs can produce one baby a year from then on.

"Few women nowadays want to go through the pain, risk, discomfort and inconvenience of an own pregnancy, and with the recent increase in issue of Government Reproduction Licenses, many women are turning to us to grow their babies for them. A woman can choose to produce a clone of herself using just her own genes for the baby, she can mix her own genes with those of any number of partners, and a few women even choose the old-fashioned way of using a stud's sperm to fertilise the egg. Clearly, in the latter case, we ensure that no traces of the stud's undesirable genes are present in the baby.

"When we initially started the project, we knew that supplying natural breast milk would be important for the ongoing health of the new baby, and we set up a milking parlour based upon best practice with dairy cattle. In fact one of the minor problems we had in the early days was in getting the stud's breasts to produce milk. But once we'd ironed that out, the system worked fantastically well, so that parents continued to feed breast milk to their children well after they'd stopped being babies.

"It wasn't long before other customers caught onto the healthy and nutritious diet that breast milk provided, and we started to sell it through health stores. Now, you can buy it as plain milk, flavoured milk, several types of cheese, or a wide variety of yoghurts. Quite simply, we cannot keep up with demand. We're using all the knowledge gained from the dairy business to increase yield, and most of our stud cows now have breasts the size of large pumpkins. It's an amusing thought that fifty years ago - and it shows the depravity of man at that time - many men would have been dreaming of breasts that size - now they've got them! With the reducing profitability of studding for its own sake, we're intending to transfer most of our stock to milk yield, combined with baby growth as needed.

"It's interesting that when we first started this project, we saw the increased fatality rate through pregnancy-related illnesses as a benefit, helping us to clear unwanted stock which we couldn't lawfully cull. You probably know that since responsibility for male health was passed to the Ministry of Agriculture shortly after demancipation, male life expectancy has gradually decreased to around 60 years, whereas a woman's currently stands at 115 years. But with the growth in our milk business, we now can't afford to lose stock and for the first time ever, we are campaigning for MinAg to increase funding into male illnesses, obviously including pregnancy-related problems. In the meantime, we are taking our best milkers off pregnancy duty in order to prolong their lives."

An FT survey of stud farms in the South East revealed that 15% are already in the stud Cash Cow business, whilst another 75% were seriously considering it. Whatever your thoughts about using these beasts for sex, there's no doubt they produce extremely tasty milk. And if you're that way inclined, The Sun newspaper now regularly features pictures of huge-breasted studs on Page 3.

The Church Archiving and Transcription Society
by Lin Dale

“I know that the bishop has told me about this,” said Simon Ormerod, the young Vicar of St Cuthbert’s, “but could you remind me what you are going to be doing here. You’re not something to do with the Autumn Festival, are you?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Janice, our group leader said with a sympathetic smile. “We are the Church Archiving and Transcription Society, known as CATS. We’re all volunteers and retired, and we identify and document all the artefacts that a church has. We then load that information onto the web so that anyone wanting to locate an example of an object will know that your church has it. We’ll be visiting the church on a frequent basis, typically for about three months, although obviously that depends on the contents.”

She then introduced us and explained our expertise. “I specialise in pictures,” she said. “I have an Art History degree and pride myself that I have a fair knowledge of the subject. Carol,” she waved toward the plump, blonde woman, “also has an Art History degree and deals with pottery, sculptures, headstones and objects like that. Mike,” that was me, “specialises on the building itself and its history, whilst Nancy,” a dismissive wave towards the thin, older woman, “mops up everything else.”

“When you say you research the history,” the Vicar turned towards me, “how much detail do you go into?”

“It really depends upon what I can find out,” I said. “In some cases, there’s already a well-documented history of the church, but in others, especially the older ones such as this, it can be difficult to discover. I know that you have been recently appointed here, but are there other people such as a sexton who may know more of the history of the church.”

The Vicar shook his head. “I’m afraid the parish here is a bit rundown. I cover several churches including this one, and I’m afraid the last paid sexton was someone called Tom Badger, but he died a few years ago. We have a few volunteers who help out now and again, but when I need a bigger task doing, I have to bring in someone from another parish, or employ an agency.” He smiled at me. “I’m certainly looking for a part time sexton so if you fancy the job, let me know.”

I smiled back at him. “Thanks for the offer but I’m happy being an early retiree. But to get back to the archive we’ll produce, I’ll certainly describe the current building in reasonable detail. For example, I notice that the bell tower here seems very squat. That’s usually because the original intention was to build a much taller tower than was eventually built.”

“Why would that be?” The Vicar asked.

“Very often, it’s because they ran out of money,” I said. “But it could be other things, for example, the person in charge either dies or becomes ill and is replaced. The new person has different ideas. I’ll do some research and see if I can discover why. I’ll also check any other historic connection with the church which might be relevant. Anything you have on this, or any of the artifacts in your church, will be very helpful to draw up an accurate picture.”

“There are a few old wives’ tales which circulate about this church. I wouldn’t want those to be repeated.”

“What kind of stories are they?” I asked.

“Stupid things that you get with lots of churches. Ghosts, you know, things like that.”

I smiled at him. “I don’t think we’ve been to any church which hasn’t had its tale of ghosts in the churchyard. We certainly don’t publish any old tittle-tattle.”

He smiled back. “That’s good,” he said.

I silently noted to research stories of ghosts at St Cuthbert’s.

***

I got my chance a few hours later. The women usually brought sandwiches with them for lunch and ate them whilst they worked in the church. I maintained that it was part of my brief to get a feel for the church and the surrounding area by going to the local pub. This was absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I enjoyed drinking a few pints of real ale in a variety of pubs and then, pleasantly inebriated, getting a lift home with one of the other volunteers. If I’m honest, that was a major factor in my joining CATS in the first place.

Anyway, I walked across the village green to the pub, which was pretty quiet, apart from a few retired couples who were tucking into some decent looking (and smelling) pub grub. As I sipped my beer, I explained to the landlord what we were doing at the church and asked if he, or anyone else, knew much about the history of the place.

He chuckled. “I don’t, but you’ve come to the right place. That’s Jed Mason over there in the corner.” He yelled across the room. “Jed. This gentleman is interested in the history of the church. You know a bit about that, don’t you?”

Jed had been sitting on his own, guzzling the last dregs of his pint, and looked up at me with interest. “Arr,” he said, “I reckon I do.”

I asked him if he wanted another drink. “Tha’d be nice.”

I ordered his drink and a steak and ale pie for myself, and as the landlord drew his beer, he muttered, “Don’t believe everything old Jed tells you. Take it with a large pinch of salt.”

“Thanks,” I said and took Jed’s drink over to him and briefly explained my mission.

“Well, you’ve come to the right guy,” he said. “My ancestor was one of the original masons who built that church. That’s why my name’s Mason.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It was in Henry VIII’s time. He was the guy who caused all the rumpus, wasn’t he?”

I admitted that Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries had caused a ‘bit of a rumpus.’

“The church now called St Cuthbert’s,” he started, “was originally built for the Convent of the Virgin Mary which was on the land at the other side of the church. This pub was built to provide lodgings for all the masons and labourers on the building work.”

“It was built in 1932,” the landlord called across.

“I meant the original pub,” Jed shouted back at him. “The one that served proper ale rather than this muck.” It didn’t stop him taking a large draught from his glass.

“Anyway, the convent ignored Henry’s Act of Parliament for some time. Eventually, the soldiers came to enforce its closure. Evil bastards, they were.” Another sip of his drink. “They raped all the nuns and then slit their throats.”

I groaned. His tale may or may not have been based on hard facts, but there was no denying the evil acts perpetrated in the name of religion.

“Except,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “there was one nun who was so incredibly beautiful that every soldier had to screw her before she was killed. Then the last bloke to rape her didn’t have the heart to kill her. When the soldiers left, the masons went across to the convent to bury the dead and found her still alive.”

“What was her name?” I asked.

He shook his head. “The nuns had taken a vow of silence. Even after she’d been raped, this nun said nothing. She didn’t even cry.”

“I don’t believe that,” the landlord called across. “I’ve never met a woman yet who won’t moan at the slightest excuse.”

“The masons never learnt her name,” Jed insisted, “so they called her after the name of the convent – the Virgin Mary – kind of ironic, if you see what I mean.”

I did. “Did she survive?”

“For a time. When all this happened, the church was nearing completion so they built a secret chamber where she could live, so that if the soldiers returned, she would be safe. A few months later, it became obvious that the soldiers had made her pregnant. By then, most of the masons had moved onto other work, but my ancestor and a few others had stayed. I think they were as much in love with her as the soldiers had been. Each offered to marry her, but she wouldn’t have it. She carried the baby to full term, and when she gave birth, she looked at the kid and thought she’d given birth to the devil. In horror, she threw herself and the baby from the top of the bell tower and they were both killed.”

“That’s interesting,” I said, suspending disbelief for the time being. “Why did she think she’d given birth to the devil?”

Jed shrugged. “I think the baby was black,” he said. “A black soldier may well have been brought back from the crusades, and his descendants incorporated into the King’s guard. If not that, by then, Brits were developing the slave trade in the newly discovered Americas and would be negotiating with people in West Africa who had captured others. But most Brits would have no conception of black children. If a black baby popped out of the womb, it would be a natural reaction to assume it was the devil.”

I pondered his words. The landlord may have written him off as a teller of tall tales, but there could be a considerable element of truth in what he said, even though it sent a shudder down the spine.

“Where are they buried?”

“Ha.” Jed looked pleased that I’d asked. “The baby’s body would have been buried wherever unsuccessfully born babies bodies were buried. There were plenty of those, then, and their graves were rarely marked. The Virgin Mary’ body was never found. It had disappeared. On certain nights, you can still see the Virgin Mary leap from the church tower to her death.”

“Have you seen it?”

He nodded. “Yepp. I saw her jump one evening after leaving here, but then she just disappeared. I raced over to the church but she wasn’t lying on the ground and when I went inside, she wasn’t anywhere there, either. It was definitely a ghost.”

“How many pints had you had?” the landlord asked, as he delivered my pie to the table.

“I’d had a few,” Jed said, “but I know what I saw.”

The landlord snorted as he picked up our empty glasses and went back to the bar. “Same again?” he asked.

I nodded. “Did you see exactly where her body fell?”

Jed shook his head. “No. She jumped over the far side of the tower. I saw her leap, but a person couldn’t have fallen that distance without serious injury. It must have been a ghost.”

The tale was probably totally fictitious, but it was a good story, and some elements might be true. I’d certainly be on the lookout for a priest hole.

***

In case you haven’t heard the term, a priest hole was built into a number of buildings, mainly houses, of that period to allow a Catholic priest to hide from the Protestant Government soldiers who were searching for them. You can still see a few in stately homes open to the public. But Jed had talked about a secret chamber rather than a priest hole. It suggested something very much larger than a tiny cavity where a priest might hide for a few hours. Given that the nun had been pregnant and gone to full term with the baby (if the story was true), then it really suggested something much larger than a tiny cavity.

***

The problem was, as I quickly discovered, that it was a very simply-built church with very few places where even a tiny priest hole could be housed. It was rectangular shape with internal buttresses. Whilst it was true that the buttresses were big enough to conceal a person, a careful inspection of the masonry revealed no break or crack around a hidden door. There was no crypt beneath the church, but at various times in the last half millennium, graves had been sunk in the floor. Clearly, in digging those out, the diggers may have come across a priest hole and kept quiet about it, but the gossip around most villages generally ensured that those kinds of incidents quickly became public knowledge, particularly by the descendants of one of the masons who built it.

At the west end of the church was the square tower containing the main entrance door. I’ve already mentioned that the tower was unusually squat and it had substantial corner buttresses so my guess was that the arrival of the soldiers put an abrupt end to it being built to its intended lofty height. Again, detailed inspection of the buttresses and the solid floor revealed no trace of a hidden doorway.

In the entrance vestibule, narrow wooden stairs gave access to a timber floor above for the bell ringers, the bells only being a few feet above their heads. From there, you could look up beyond the bells to the timber beams which crossed between the top of the buttresses and supported both the stone roof, and the bells beneath. A modern aluminium ladder stretched up to a hatch in the roof to give access and I climbed up and through the hatch onto the roof.

Outside, it was pretty miserable with a light drizzle, but it was easy to see there were no secret hiding chambers out there. There was a typical castellated parapet which hid the rather boring, gently-pitched stone roof. Leaves had collected over the drain cover so the water was filling the gutters to capacity and, I guessed, would pretty soon leak into the tower, so I took a minute to clean that out and watch the water drain away.

I also stared over the parapet across the village green to the pub. I experimented a little to try to find the spot where the ghost of the Virgin Mary had been standing when Jed had seen her throw herself from the tower. The most likely spot seemed to be right next to the hatch through which I had just emerged and I vaguely wondered whether the ‘ghost’ might have been simply leaping down the ladder, but that looked far too dangerous for me to try to copy. I only hoped the ghost was more waterproof than me, for I was feeling quite wet by then. Thankfully, I climbed back through the hatch, closing it after me, and then spent a minute inspecting the underside of the roof, searching for any hidden hidey holes. Needless to say, there weren’t any.

The missing hidey hole preoccupied my mind whenever I was in the church. Even though I’d searched the place several times, I still kept looking, until the Vicar saw me one afternoon.

“You’re obviously looking for the non-existent priest’s hole,” he smirked. “You shouldn’t listen to Jed’s old wife’s tales.”

“You haven’t found it then,” I said.

“Nor has the rest of the village,” he said. “In the short time I’ve been here, I must have seen dozens of people looking for it. Nobody has found anything yet.”

Reluctantly, I was coming to the conclusion that the Vicar was right.

***

All that time I spent looking for secret hiding places had delayed the work I should have been concentrating on – documenting the building and its known history, rather than unsubstantiated legends. The others had got on well with their jobs and were talking about producing their final report, whilst I had hardly started on mine, so I started travelling independently of the others, by bus, which meant I could spend longer there, choosing my own hours. I also stopped going to the pub at lunchtime.

My sudden spurt meant that I pretty well caught up with the others, and we set a target to get all our research completed and documented by the Friday of that week, giving us the weekend to tidy everything up and get collated together, before presenting it to the Vicar early the following week.

On that final Friday, it still took me longer than expected to complete all the detail, and the others left early, with that self-satisfied smirk which said that they had got their job done in a timely manner, whilst I had just slouched about. I thought, “Stuff them!”

I was just packing up for the last time, when a tremendous crash of thunder sounded overhead and the heavens opened up. There was no way I was going across the village green to the bus stop in that rain. I decided I would miss my intended bus and stay in the church until the rain abated.

***

It was a hell of a thunderstorm, and lasted for almost an hour. When the worst of the thunder and rain had abated, I could hear the water gushing down the pipes from the guttering and I had a sudden thought about the roof of the tower, whose drain had been blocked with leaves when I had gone up there, several weeks ago. Most of the Autumn had passed, since, and there were plenty of trees shedding their leaves in the vicinity to block the drain again. It was still raining hard enough for me not to venture towards the bus stop but still plenty of time before the next bus. I thought I’d do the decent thing and climb up to the tower roof and make certain it was cleared.

As before, the drain was blocked and the gutters were again full to overflowing. I climbed out onto the roof, shut the hatch so the rain didn’t fall inside and went over to clear the drain, which only took half a minute. As I stood up, a shaft of sunlight shot across the surface of the roof and I turned to see a superb sunset, whilst overhead, the rain still poured down on me. I was torn between standing for a few minutes in the rain and watching it, or returning inside. Just then a dollop of rain hit me in the eye and my mind was made up. I turned towards the hatch.

That’s when I noticed the roof slab which was immediately between the hatch and the corner of parapet. When I’d been up here before, the open roof hatch rested on top of that particular slab, but now the hatch was closed and with the sideways slanting sunshine, I could see that the slab was installed slightly differently to the others, with a gap along its lower edge. A gap which invited a hand to reach beneath and try to lift it.

I gripped the lower edge of the slab and pulled. The slab readily lifted. Any hope I might have temporarily entertained that I was about to reveal a priest hole which had lain hidden for five hundred years was immediately dashed as I saw a modern aluminium ladder disappearing down a hole. Someone else had been there in fairly recent times.

I lifted the slab a little more and could see a modern light switch. I reached out, flicked it on and the hole lit up so I could see – not a tiny priest’s hole – but a hole which descended for certainly the height of the tower, presumably hidden inside the corner buttress. In fact, I suspected it went straight down to basement level. There was only one way to find out. I gently rested a foot on a rung of the ladder and tested it was secure, and then I started to climb down, pulling the roof slab closed over my head.

***

On the way down the long ladder, I had plenty of time to ponder the situation. Firstly, I could well have discovered some routine maintenance access to a sewer or underground waterway. Such access may not generally be known about but there were certainly lots of examples around, if you knew where to look. Alternatively, it really could be access to the Virgin Mary’s hidden room, which others had discovered in recent times and kept quiet about. If the former, I could quietly depart the scene without major loss of face. On the other hand, this really could be the entrance to the Virgin Mary’s hidden chamber.

I reasoned that the masons would have initially built the church and made it functional before starting to build the tower. The proposed mighty tower would have had deep foundations and the basement area was probably planned as a storage area or even a crypt. When the King’s soldiers arrived to rape and kill the nuns, the masons ceased building the tower upwards, and instead focussed on a hiding place for the Virgin Mary. Whilst they could roof over the basement to create the room for her, the question was how to provide a hidden access to it which was unlikely to be found by any returning soldiers?

Their solution was to use one of the buttresses running up the internal corners of the tower. They had been built as stone wall shells, probably with crushed rock compacted inside. But of course, their massive strength was no longer required for this short tower. It would be relatively straightforward for them to open up a doorway in the basement and pull out all the crushed rock inside the buttress. A ladder inside the buttress would give access from the basement to the roof, its access normally hidden by the roof hatch hinged open over the top of it.

But then the Virgin Mary was discovered to be pregnant. Had she become trapped in the basement, too heavy to climb up the ladder inside the buttress? Or perhaps the masons might have provided some kind of hoist for her.

Whatever, clearly someone had discovered this access in recent times, and then used it to trick others into ‘seeing’ the ghost. If I was right, then perhaps I’d find some dummy in the chamber, dressed in a nun’s habit, which could be thrown over the edge of the tower in the sight of others, such as the impressionable Jed. It would then be quickly smuggled down here, whilst everyone searched for a real person.

I carried on climbing down until I reached the bottom.

***

As I had descended the long ladder, I passed several of the light bulbs which had failed, so periodically my journey was almost in darkness. As I reached the bottom, only the light bulb just inside the buttress was illuminated, leaving the room almost, but not quite, in darkness. One of my first jobs in exploring this hiding place, I realised, would be to buy some more light bulbs – a pretty trivial task compared to the work of most discoverer of antiquities.

In spite of the limited light, I could see a barrel roof over the square basement room. The barrel roof would provide a strong support for the floor above, giving no hollow indication of the room below. At the one side was a bed and, exactly as I predicted, some kind of tailor’s dummy was lying on it. As I approached in the gloom, I realised it was the dummy of a naked pregnant woman with large breasts and nipples, a hugely distended tummy with protruding belly button and wide hips. The face, I was pleased to see, had more the appearance of the girl next door – albeit, a young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. Certainly, the kind of pregnant young woman who most men, including old farts like me, would fall head-over-heels in love with.

The rest of the room had a square wooden table with chair, there were some cupboards, a closet with garments hanging inside, a writing desk and bench-like affair with a round hole in it, covered by a flap, which I surmised was the 16th c equivalent of a toilet. There was also a modern, free-standing mirror in the one corner.

I took many photographs, using the flash on my phone, knowing that these first views, completely untarnished by myself, would be crucial when I presented it to the world. For I had no interest in fooling people by pretending to be a ghost. I wanted to show the world what I had found. After the first few pictures, I decided to move the dummy so I’d get photos without the modern additions. I’d expected it to be lightweight, with the large stomach being plastic skin filled with air, but in fact, it was a lot heavier than I expected. Obviously, not as heavy as a real pregnant woman, but certainly heavy enough to mean I had to heave to lift it up and move it into a corner. And as I looked at the face, I could see screwed-up newspaper inside the mouth and eyes.

How strange! I experimentally gave the arm a squeeze and it sounded exactly like you might expect a plastic bag containing rolled up newspaper to sound. But when I squeezed the breast and stomach, they felt firm, just as you might expect a – well, as you’d expect a pregnant woman’s breast or stomach to feel. Weird!

It was enough to pause my chronicling of the original room and instead turn my attention to the dummy. There was no way I was going to be able to pull out the newspaper through the eyes or mouth openings, so I turned the dummy over to examine the other important opening: the skin around her arse was very elastic, and I found I could shove my whole hand inside and pull out the rolled-up newspaper inside. I threw it into a tub, clearly there for that exact purpose. I continued pulling as much newspaper out of the dummy’s arse as I could. At first it was easy; later on, I had to shove in my arm up to my shoulder to reach up into the head, to the wrists and hands, and down to the ankles and feet.

Perhaps if someone had been with me at the time and had asked me what on earth I was doing, I’d have found it difficult to reply, but I suppose I really knew exactly where this was heading. Eventually, I had the realistic plastic skin of a heavily-pregnant woman. In the fairly recent past, someone had put on this plastic bodysuit and worn it. I wanted to do exactly the same!

Once the suit was empty of rolled-up newspaper, I considered how on earth I was going to get into it and quickly came to the conclusion that the arse was the only entry point. I stripped off my clothes until I was naked and tossed them onto the bed. Then, I sat on the toilet bench and pushed first one leg and then the other through the arse and down the legs of the suit. As I pushed my legs right down to the toes of the suit, I had to admit they looked pretty realistic. The question was, how did I proceed from here.

I thought the best way was to double myself right up to the point where I could fold my arms beneath my knees. Then I pulled the arse of the suit over my head and pushed my arms through as well. Rather than tearing the plastic, as I had feared, it stretched without problem and I could push my hands right down to the wrists of the suit until they were in the gloves at the end. Then it was a matter of pushing my head through the suit’s neck and locating the eyes, nose and mouth over the corresponding parts of my face.

After that, I had to do my best to pull the suit down the remaining part my body. It was quite a struggle although it helped a little that as I lifted my torso a little, as indeed, I had to in order to provide space for my new belly, the suit was forced down towards my bum. Eventually, I could sit upright and pull the skin right back around my anus. As I did so, I felt my genitals being squeezed in a most uncomfortable way, and certain parts of them were being forced up inside my body. Finally, I could stand up and do the final bit of straightening.

I stared into the mirror. Staring back at me was a very young, highly-pregnant naked woman.

“Yes!” I don’t know quite why I felt so elated and punched the air in the way I did. I was going to have to take it all off pretty promptly and get dressed if I was not to miss my bus. A sudden worry had me scurrying across to my phone to check the time. I had already missed the last bus!

On the other hand, I had discovered this wonderful hidden room dating back to the Middle Ages. In the entire history of CATS, no one had made such an exciting discovery and it was entirely down to me and my methods of investigation. I could afford to dwell a little here, enjoying the feelings of being this pregnant woman, modelled upon this nun from the Middle Ages who had been horribly raped and then committed suicide after giving birth to a ‘devil child’.

Because I really was enjoying it, I realised with a start. I had large breasts which wobbled and lurched with every movement, and this huge tummy just like a… Ouch! Somewhere inside my tummy, I felt the kick of a baby. I’d heard of these pregnancy simulators which have weights inside which suddenly give you a kick like that. How strange, I thought, that whoever had gone to the trouble of pretending to be a ghost had gone the extra mile and built in a proper pregnancy simulator.

But then, I thought, perhaps like me, they simply enjoyed the thrill of living as this nun had lived out her pregnancy, in this cosy room. One really could spend hours down here without any of the stresses and worries of the modern world.

I walked over to the closet and chose a simple white shift which I could pull over my head. It made me feel even more erotic than before, with the thin material emphasising rather than hiding my prominent nipples and breasts.

I spent a few minutes simply walking around the room, examining all the other clothes in the closet – mostly Mothercare maternity wear and then switched my attention to the desk. There was a diary in the drawer which I was convinced dated back to the time of the Virgin Mary.

Finding that piece of treasure brought me to my senses. I needed to revert to my role as a guardian of the past, rather than an abuser of it. This diary, like all the other artifacts in this room, needed carefully storing and protecting.

Still, I thought, it would be dark by now. Before I take off my bodysuit, it would be nice to climb to the top of the tower, as the Virgin Mary had presumably done every day. I walked over to the opening in the buttress and started to climb the ladder. That’s when I had my first unpleasant surprise. With the weight of my new breasts and stomach, I was incredibly heavy. The first few rungs were OK, but I thought there was no way I was going to be able to climb all the way up the tower with this extra weight.

I persevered for a few more rungs of the ladder, so I was climbing up beyond the doorway but with my enlarged size, I didn’t fit. I forced myself upwards a little, and found I was wedged inside the buttress, able to move neither up nor down. A bit of energetic wriggling eventually dislodged me and I landed in a heap, back on the floor of the room.

So, I reasoned, I was going to have to remove the bodysuit. I put my arms behind my back and fingered around my anus, looking to find the edge of the skin. I couldn’t locate it! I tried some more, even slipping a finger up my anus but still with no result.

“Shit!” I was in a mess. No one knew I was down here, and I suspected that even if I shouted at the top of my voice, no one would hear me. Especially, I reasoned, when the church was empty, as it was now. Rather than getting hysterical, I thought I had better rest for a little and then have another try at removing the suit. If the worst came to the worst, I would have to spend the night down here, as the Virgin Mary had done for nine months, and try to get help in the morning.

And, I reasoned as my eye alighted on the basic utensils, I could use a knife to cut myself out of the suit. But that really would be a dreadful solution.

There was a thin mattress on the wooden bench. I flicked off the lights and lay upon that, suddenly feeling quite tired and relaxed.

***

The problem with being in an underground room is that you have absolutely no sense of day or night. In fact, I had lost any sense of time itself. That’s why I was delighted when I heard a man call out, “Hello.”

I quickly sat up and made certain I was decent. Then I stood up and walked over to the dim glow of light at the bottom of buttress. I smiled at him. He grinned back at me in a way I found both reassuring and unnerving.

“Sister,” he said. “Were you asleep?”

I really wished people would understand that, having taken a vow of silence, I couldn’t reply to such trivia, or anything else for that matter. Still, I smiled at him again and dearly hoped that was sufficient to ensure he and his colleagues continued to help me. My ability to take their confessions also helped, I was certain.

“It’s time to take you up for your walk,” he said.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment and he reached forward to wrap the leather strap around my back and then held the two ends for me to buckle them together above my breasts.

I stepped through the doorway into the buttress and he slid the hook that was hanging there beneath the strap behind my back.

As my weight had increased and I started to need assistance climbing up the tower, the hook had been fastened at my front and the men on the roof had helped pull me up, a much more dignified method of assistance. But then my belly had reached the size where I was too big to fit inside the buttress as I climbed the ladder. The men had suggested that I turn around, facing away from the ladder so that my bulge would fit into the inside curve of the buttress. It meant, of course, that I couldn’t use the ladder at all and the men had to hoist my entire weight to the top of the tower.

Finally, as I’d grown even bigger, I discovered that being suspended from a point on the front of my chest meant my belly pushed out forwards, and was therefore being horribly rubbed against the quite rough interior wall of the buttress as I was hoisted up and down. That’s when they suggested moving the hook to the back of the strap so now, as I’m hoisted I more resemble a sack of potatoes. At least, it protects my belly from the worst of the rubbing, although my bottom does become sore.

The important point is that I am still managing to get some time walking in the open air at the top of the tower, albeit at the dead of night when I’m unlikely to be seen. At least the rain has stopped, now, and I can do my normal walk in the dry. Fourteen paces alongside the one parapet, turn right, fourteen paces, turn right, fourteen paces, turn right and another fourteen paces, before I about turn and do the whole thing in reverse. Over and over again. Tonight, I’ve decided I am going to walk five laps of the tower, which should keep me exercised for the day. It used to be more, but I become so tired as my belly gets bigger.

There are four men helping me today. Supposedly, they are all keeping watch for the soldiers returning, but for some reason I cannot understand, they seem to prefer to watch me, instead.

Afterwards, we had got into the routine of my returning to my cell to take the confessions of the men. It’s worth saying that I had been brought up from birth as an orphan in the convent and had spent my whole life there. Such an upbringing makes one very sheltered and unaware of the ways of the world especially of men.

For example, I was taken totally by surprise when the masons apologetically explained that when a priest took a confession from a man, he would suck the evil out of his body in the form of his seed. Apparently, when the priest swallowed the seed, his stomach destroyed the evil in it and purified it. With the murder of the local priest, they told me, they had no one to whom they could confess. I immediately gesticulated that I would be happy to fulfil the priest’s duty.

Even when I’d been so horribly raped, I hadn’t really seen what was going on. Initially, it had felt as though I was being pierced by a sword, but then I remembered St Agnes who turned the thrust of the angel’s sword into an ecstatic feeling, so I did the same. Afterwards, I decided to break my vow of silence to thank my violators for the treat they had given me, rather than cursing them as did the other Sisters who also broke their vows. As a result, none of the soldiers could draw their sword against me. For some reason, they had also been captivated by the size of my breasts which since I was twelve years old, have grown unpleasantly large, heavy and uncomfortable, with the other nuns suggesting they had been given me by the devil.

The first time I took the masons’ confessional, I had to try my hardest not to laugh at them when they lined up, all saying together, “Forgive us, Sister, for we have sinned.” Then they dropped their trousers around their ankles and their… well, their things were sticking out. I remember, it had taken me ages that first time to get the hang of sucking their seed. The masons were all very nice and understanding about it, saying there really was no hurry and I should take my time. Eventually, I managed to get one to deposit his seed in my mouth and I almost choked on it. The masons had explained that I must try my very hardest to swallow it, otherwise the evil would escape. I was pleased I managed to swallow every bit from every man. After that, it got much easier for me swallow the evil without problem.

So, it’s now become very much a routine. After finishing tonight’s walk, the masons lowered me back down to my cell and then climbed down themselves and lined up as usual. They go through their ritual, dropping their trousers, and I get down onto my knees in front of the first. As he starts to recite all the wicked things that he’s done that day, I lean forward and close my lips over his thing…

***

“Jesus Christ!” I sat up. It was pitch black, and I’d had a dream that I was about to suck off some bloke with a huge cock.

I got off the hard bed, completely disorientated, lumbering around looking for the light switch. I was in some terrible nightmare. Except that eventually, I find the doorway into the buttress and the light switch on the wall there, flick the switch and I can see around the dimly lit room again.

I was still in a white shift, with the body of a highly-pregnant woman. Except that I knew it was really a bodysuit I was wearing, which I’d been unable to get out of the evening before. Suddenly, I had a more pressing need. I pulled up the wooden flap over the toilet, squatted on it and let my bladder go.

It may be a different way to pee, but it’s very efficient as you don’t have to continually aim and there’s absolutely no accidental splashing. Afterwards, I sat there for a few minutes, recapping the events of the previous evening and then recalling my strange dream. Normally, I completely forget my dreams within a few minutes, but today, the more I thought about it, the more vividly I could recall it.

As I did so, the feeling permeated completely through my body: I had been living a few hours in the life of the Virgin Mary!

It was, of course, completely rubbish. With the incredibly strange set of events which had led up to my falling asleep, it was no wonder that my overactive mind had invented such tripe. And yet, the more I thought about it, the more vividly the memory returned.

I shook my head to clear it and felt my breasts shake in sympathy. There was no denying, when you have breasts this size, their weight, their size and their very behaviour influences every moment you make. I grinned. How wonderful! But now it was time to apply my mind to removing this bodysuit without damaging it, as I was determined I would be repeating these events in the future.

I was still seated on the toilet and after a few minutes thought, I spread my legs as wide as they would go and pushed my tummy down between them, so I was again bent double - not quite as much as I had been the previous evening when I had squeezed into the suit, but almost so. Now I reached both arms behind me to find my anus. It was strange, but whilst last night I’d hardly been able to feel a thing, this morning I could feel the edge of the plastic skin lying around my anus. It became simplicity itself to work a finger beneath the plastic and then to start stretching and pulling it away from my bum.

Within seconds, I had both hands inside the skin and was stretching it outwards. A minute later, I had stretched and pulled it until it was around my waist and then my chest Now I could reach over my shoulders and pull it over my head and my head was free once more. Few!

Ten minutes later, I was out of the skin and was getting dressed. A glance at my phone told me it was just turned seven am, and I wanted to be out of the church before anyone arrived. I vaguely remembered the Vicar saying he had a wedding this morning.

But I hesitated before climbing the ladder. Then I returned to the bodysuit where I had left it sprawled on the bed and I spent several minutes replacing the screwed up newspaper inside so it again formed the shape of the voluptuous woman, as when I had first seen it.

Only then, did I climb the ladder all the way up to the roof, switch off the lights and leave everything exactly as I had arrived. Five minutes later, I had climbed back to the entrance vestibule and five minutes after that, I was running across the village green to catch the bus which was just approaching.

***

“You’re one of those people doing the church archiving thing, aren’t you,” the tiny old woman said.

It was crowded on the bus, presumably with shop workers on their way to work, but I had managed to find a seat next to her. I admitted I was and introduced myself. She told me her name was Sophie, and that she lived in a house at the back of the church, just beyond the churchyard.

“Tom Badger, you know, the last sexton, used to board in my house.”

“Oh, right,” I said, my interest suddenly quickening. “How long was he with you?”

“Ooh,” she paused, considering. “It must have been over twenty years. He started boarding with me after he retired from his job in London and took on the job of sexton. He initially came here doing research on his ancestors, and heard Jed telling what I’d always thought was his old wives tale about the ghost of the Virgin Mary and got interested in it.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You said you’d always thought Jed was telling an old wives tale. Does that mean you no longer do?”

“Tom made me promise not to tell anyone as he’d get the sack if the story got round.”

“What story?”

“Well, sometimes Tom spent the night in the church and prayed for her. It allowed her spirit to wander. On those nights, I’d quite often see her walking around the top of the tower at night.”

“You used to see her…” I broke off as I realised my voice was rising. I continued in almost a whisper. “You saw the ghost of the Virgin Mary walking around the top of the tower?”

“Of course. She was walking last night, as well. I counted. Five trips around the tower in the one direction, five in the other.”

I gulped. “She was? You saw her?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t sleep much at nights, and I often look out for her. It’s good that your praying has brought her back again.”

“My praying!”

“Well, you must have prayed for her like old Tom used to. I think it’s good that she can roam again.”

“Right,” I said, my mind in a whirl. I hadn’t prayed since I left school and the semi-obligatory religious assemblies. “Does anyone else see her?”

“I think you have to be a true believer in Christ to see her. Most people nowadays aren’t and don’t see her. Now and again, I’d have a manfriend stay the night and we could see the church tower out of my bedroom window as we lay in bed. I’d point out the Virgin Mary walking round and round the top of the tower and he’d look at me all strange as though I was crazy. After a while, he stopped visiting me, thinking I was losing my marbles. I didn’t tell anyone after that.”

“But you’ve told me,” I pointed out.

She smiled. “I’ve still got all my marbles. You obviously spent all night in the church and the Virgin Mary walked last night. So how did you pray to bring her to life?”

“It’s better that no one knows,” I said, trying to cover my confusion.

“I understand,” she said. “The Church of England can get very uppity about that kind of thing. Presumably, you’ll be applying for the job as sexton?”

“I will?” I repeated, balancing the wonderful opportunities to repeat last night’s activities against the fame from publishing my discoveries. A huge smile spread across my face as I made up my mind. “Yes,” I said. “I will become sexton and the Virgin Mary will walk again.”

I wake up in a strange place in a strange body, with no memory of anything which has happened before. Who am I? What sex am I? What race am I? What am I doing here? Why am I wanted by the police? What should I do about the pervert spying upon me? Is he involved in getting me into this position?

The questions seem never-ending.

Author’s Note: There is no explicit sex or violence in this story (apart from a punch under the jaw). There are one or two swear words, and there is talk of historical crimes such as rape and murder. Do not read or read with caution if you think you may be offended or upset by this.

The Dark Spot
by Lin Dale

There was a dark spot on the ceiling. That was my first thought as I woke up that day. There wasn’t normally a dark spot above me when I awoke. In fact, this ceiling was painted magnolia, the kind of non-colour I really didn’t like. My preference was something like…

Like what? What colour paint did I have on my bedroom ceiling? I must have had a heavy drinking session the evening before because my mind was an absolute blank. I shook my head in frustration, and something crackled slightly as I did so, as though my hair was sticking on end and scratching on the pillow. Strange!

I repeated the operation. Another crackle. I lifted an arm to smooth down my hair and that’s when the world turned upside down. My arm was black. That’s to say it was covered in a dark brown skin instead of its normal…

Well, I must be Caucasian… Mustn’t I? I used my other arm – also brown – to throw back the bedclothes and then sat up. Something moved on my chest and I glanced down to see two pert brown breasts, wobble slightly as I moved. I gave a little shake. They were definitely mine as they shook in sympathy.

Shit! What the hell was going on. Surely, I was a Caucasian male. I sat right up so I could peer down between my legs at my… Except there was a slit where other things should be. Shouldn’t they?

My name was… Shit! This was crazy.

I glanced around the room, the kind of room typical of a cheap hotel or B&B. Facing me in the mirror was a scared looking naked black woman with Afro hair.

I tried to put my mind into a rational mode. How could I be that black woman when everything was telling me that I was someone else. But then, how could I not be that woman when my memory was a complete blank and every muscle I moved was faithfully replicated by that woman, and not just the one staring at me in the mirror, but also the one I saw when I stared downwards. Ergo, I was that woman. Any vague recollections I might have were invented by my mind to make up for so much of my memory being totally blotted out.

I gave one of those so pert breasts a little poke with my index finger, realising too late that I had a cherry-coloured fingernail protruding from the end and jerked slightly at the sensitivity of my breast. I don’t mean sensitivity in terms of sexual arousal – more a kind of, “Ouch! That hurts.” I needed to be careful of my breasts, and even more careful of the talons on my fingers.

There was one other place I needed to check, and I slid one hand downwards towards that slit between my legs. My skin there was just as unpleasantly sensitive as my breasts until I very carefully slipped an exploring finger inside my slit. Cripes! It felt as though I’d slipped a razor up there and was carving a way inside my body. I wasn’t going to play with that bit again in a hurry.

I needed to locate my personal belongings. There was nothing on top of the cheap bedside tables or the equally cheap dressing table, where I might normally have expected to leave things overnight. Opening the top drawers simply revealed they, too, were bare. I opened the wardrobe door. Inside was a cheap button-up white dress, looking as though it had been worn a thousand times before, and a pair of sandals with low heels.

The absurdity of it was crazy. I mean, everyone has a phone, nowadays. How could I not have one? Or at least some kind of identity such as a bank card. I checked every drawer and cupboard in the bedroom. The curtains were drawn across the windows, but when I pulled them back a little, I looked out onto dark woodland, totally devoid of any kind of human life or even, it seemed, any kind of life at all apart from trees and vegetation.

After opening the bedroom door slightly to check no one else seemed to be around, I padded out into the adjacent lounge, my breasts giving almost painful little jogs with each step. There was a TV set, a settee and chairs. A wall clock announced it was just turned nine, presumably in the evening. The kitchen was to the one side, with two bar stools next to a counter. On top of the counter was a small display stand containing a series of pamphlets giving information about the surrounding area. Apparently, we were in Oakham Woods, which I had vaguely heard of but had never been there before. Thankfully, there was a little food in the cupboards and fridge, and the windows gave onto views to the surrounding woodland, identical to the view from the bedroom.

I decided to put on the dress, make myself a mug of tea and then sit and contemplate my position. At least, I suddenly realised with jubilation, I knew I preferred tea to coffee.

The dress buttoned right down the front so putting it on was the same as putting on a raincoat. So why, I asked myself, would I be familiar with putting on a raincoat but not putting on a dress? As I buttoned it up, it fitted quite tightly around my breasts, so my nipples protruded through the thin material far more than I felt comfortable with, even though there was no one else around to see me.

Or was there? Ever since getting out of bed, I’d had a feeling that someone was watching me… Like a laboratory rat being watched by a scientist? I shivered. Why would anyone do that? But then, how could I be in this position without someone putting me here?

I returned to the kitchen to make my mug of tea. Fortunately, I found tea bags, milk and sugar… So I liked sugar in my tea. Something else to add to my little scraps of information. And after taking my first sips of tea, I realised this was a nectar-like substance which felt as though I hadn’t drunk for the last one hundred years. I drank it as fast as the hot liquid would allow, and then made another mug, and consumed that rather more slowly. And I started to feel a little better.

Not that I had any clue who or even what I was. But I felt it was time to step outside the house and see what was around. I went back to the bedroom and put on the sandals. As I walked to the front door, I realised I had never before worn shoes with heels.

***

From the outside, the house had the appearance of a little cottage in the middle of the woods. It could easily be the home of Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, except that it was only single floor. A crooked lane ran along the front; it had once been tarmacked but that was clearly a long time since. Looking from left to right along the lane, the two routes appeared identical, with both directions quickly disappearing into the trees.

I tossed a mental coin and chose walking to the right, and within just a few seconds I was out of sight of the house. I walked for several minutes with no change at all to my surroundings and decided that with dusk starting to fall, it was time to return to the safety of the cottage – or so I thought.

Walking back seemed much quicker and I was almost there when I heard the sound of hammering on the cottage door. It wasn’t a gentle knock. More the kind of knock as a prelude to breaking it down, and so I cautiously moved forward until I was just in sight of my visitors.

There was a police car, its blue light flashing, standing in front of the cottage, and one constable was banging on the door, whilst the other was observing from besides the car. “The door’s unlocked,” I could clearly hear the one shout to his mate. “Let’s go and have a look inside.”

“OK,” the other said, looking around. “This place would certainly be a great hideaway for anyone who doesn’t want to be found.”

My rapid steps into the undergrowth at the side of the road were instinctive. Immediately after, my rational thoughts justified the action. If I’d been Caucasian, I’d have naturally been running towards them requesting their help. But as a black person without identification, I’d be instantly suspected of being an illegal immigrant. I’d be thrown into an Immigration Centre and all hopes of discovering my identity would have vanished.

There was a narrow path just inside the trees, running parallel to the lane. The heels of my shoes had sunk into the soft earth as soon as I stepped onto it, so I bent down, removed them, and carried them with me as I quietly moved forward along the path. As I got closer to the cottage, the path veered towards the rear, and I found myself in a little clearing amongst the trees at the back of the cottage with a direct view of the large rear windows. And whilst the curtains may have been drawn across, they were of the lightest of material and with the lights on inside the bedroom and lounge, the antics of the police inside as they peered in the empty drawers and cupboards were clearly visible. I realised that someone had probably been similarly watching me from this position earlier on. It made my spine tingle, remembering how I had walked around naked for a while.

With the police making signs to leave the cottage, I carried on along the path which now circled the cottage to arrive back at the lane where I decided to wait until the police had left me in peace; with the cottage appearing completely empty, they would probably not return.

I could hear them chatting to each other, saying something about ‘fucking illegal immigrants,’ as they got in the car, started the engine, and then went about turning around in the narrow lane, switching on the headlights as they did so. I suddenly realised the danger I was in. With their headlights shining through the trees, my white dress would stand out like a flag. I raced back along the path until I was behind the cottage again, and sheltered from their headlights.

Standing in the clearing, staring through the shrubs at the rear of the cottage, and presumably waiting for me to re-enter and give him a display, was a man wearing camouflage trousers and jacket and with a balaclava hood. With my shoes held in my hand, I’d been moving fairly soundlessly in order not to alert the police, and as he swivelled his head around to see what had caused the disturbance, he was clearly more surprised than me. Even behind the balaclava, I saw his eyes widen and his mouth start to open.

After racing to avoid the police headlights, the adrenaline was still surging through my veins. I didn’t think twice before striding quickly up to him and punching him on the jaw as hard as I could. He went down like a light, half turning and ending with his head partly inside a bush. For a second, he was still.

I was so angry and I knew that when you have someone down you make certain they stay down. I dropped to my knees next to him, undid the belt on his trousers and pulled it out through the loops. I fed it around the arm trapped behind his back and then grabbed his other arm and pulled it to join them together behind his back, winding the belt a couple of times around the elbows and securing it. For good measure, I undid the fastenings on his trousers and pulled them down around his ankles.

That’s when I realised that he was dressed commando style. He had no underpants on! I had caught myself a pervert!

***

Of course, when you’ve caught a pervert, you have to decide what to do with them. Normally, you ring the police and they come along and go through the due process of law. The problem was that I still reckoned that if I did that, they’d arrest me for being an illegal immigrant and thank the perv for bringing me to their attention.

He was already coming round from my knockout blow, and spluttering beneath his mask. I grabbed the balaclava and pulled it off to expose him. I’d expected an older man but I guessed he was in his late twenties, about the same age as me.

Did I just say that? Am I in the late twenties? I shook my head to clear it. I could have a debate about my age later. I currently had a pervert to sort out.

“Wha… Wha…” Then his eyes widened. “You hit me,” he accused. He struggled to move his arms then realised he was tied up. “You’ve tied me up. Let me go.”

“You perv,” I said. “You’ve been watching me through the window. Whilst I was naked.”

“You shouldn’t prance around like that,” he said.

I glanced around the clearing we were in. “This is a regular spot for you, isn’t it? I bet I’m not the first woman you’ve stared at through those almost transparent curtains. Come on. Stand up. We’re going in the house.”

“Please, no,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”

“Not half as sorry as you’re going to be,” I threatened. “Now, come on. Get to your feet.”

“I can’t,” he said. “You’ll need to release my arms.”

“No way,” I said, “but I’ll make getting up easier for you. I’ll take the lace out of your boots, tie it around your bollocks and then start dragging you back to the house. Let’s see how far I can pull you before you decide that you can get to your feet, after all.”

Until then he obviously hadn’t realised that his trousers were around his ankles and that he was on full display. But he stared downwards and his eyes widened as he realised his position.

“I’m naked,” he snivelled. “Please pull my trousers up.”

“Get to your feet,” I said, turning him over onto his front, as best I could. He struggled up and when he was standing, I pulled his trousers up so he could walk without tripping over and I pushed him towards the cottage.

***

“What’s your name?” I asked him, when I had him back inside the cottage. I’d taken the precaution of tying his shoelaces to the legs of the stool on which I had sat him. With his arms still belted behind his back and his feet secured to the stool, I felt on much more comfortable ground.

“I’d rather not say,” he responded in a fit of bravado.

“Then I’ll call the police and they can find out.”

“I was following you on your walk,” he retorted. “You’re hiding from the police. You’re not going to call them at all.”

“Is that so?” I said, reaching out and opening the pocket in his camouflage jacket, where I thought I could see a mobile phone protruding. I was right, and I quickly removed it as he tried to twist away. “What’s the unlock code.”

“I’m not telling you. Release me and we’ll say no more about this attack you’ve made on me.”

“OK, I can still take the lace out of your boot, and then tie your balls to that door knob, over there,” I gesticulated. “By my reckoning, you’ll have to stand on tip-toe to avoid your balls being ripped from your body. Shall we see how long you can stand on tip-toe before you give me the unlock code?”

He looked down at his testicles and then across to the door knob. “It’s 3574,” he whispered in a voice that indicated he was on the point of crying.

“Thank you,” I said with a nice smile. I unlocked his phone and went straight to his Photo folder, where I thought I might find something of interest.

“Oh, you wicked man,” I said. “Whoever Maggie Turner is she has nice tits,” I commented.

“Oh,” he muttered. “Please don’t look at any other videos…”

“And she does enjoy her vibrator,” I interrupted. I clicked on another video. “And just look at Susan Sharp and her companion. I didn’t know such a sexual position was possible.” I continued to browse for a few minutes.

“Right,” I told him. “From the few movies I have just watched, I reckon you could go to jail for ten years for everything that’s on this phone, so stop bulling me and start answering my questions.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. “Please don’t contact the police.”

“So, start talking,” I said.

***

His name was Howard Turner and he lived in a nearby house, until recently with his elderly mother, who was now in hospital. His mother owned the rental cottage we were currently in but he looked after the internet bookings, so he’d steered his mother to advertise in women’s magazines and he knew the names of everyone coming. He had been watching the guests for some time, but it had now clearly got obsessive.

“And you don’t have a girlfriend?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I’ve never had a girlfriend,” he replied. “Maybe if I had, I’d be different.”

“Stop right there,” I said. “You have never had a girlfriend in your entire life.”

“No.”

“Then do you visit prostitutes.”

“No!” He was shocked. “Mother would never allow it.”

My turn to shake my head. “Most men don’t ask their mother’s permission to visit a prostitute.”

“I wouldn’t know where to go, anyway.”

No wonder he was such a perv, I thought. I tend to think that chatting up someone should be on the national curriculum, as should a few basic sex positions. I mentally filed away that thought as something else on which I had an opinion.

But the main question had to be: Where did I go next?

I smiled. “Let’s have a cup of tea,” I suggested.

***

I washed out a dog bowl for Howard, and made him slurp his tea from there as I wasn’t yet ready to trust him, but he seemed quite happy to comply. I suspected his mother had a not too dissimilar way of treating him.

It was while we were drinking the tea that he said, “Venetia? Is that your name?”

“What makes you think my name’s Venetia?” Certainly, I didn’t know, so why should he.

“The name on the rental booking was actually Ven Smith. Venetia was one of the few female names that seemed to match.” In a rash mood, he added, “I thought it was a very beautiful name.”

“Venetia Smith! No one is called that. It sounds completely fictitious.”

For the first time, he grinned at me. “That’s what I thought, but I couldn’t see any other name that fitted so I assumed that you’d made it up. But it’s none of our business what you choose to call yourself. The important point was that my mother received payment for the rental, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Was it paid by credit card in my name?”

“It was paid in cash to my mother.” He hesitated a little and then asked, “So what is your real name?”

I too hesitated before replying, “I don’t know.”

That shook him. “But you must have some name, even if you don’t know what name your parents gave you. How can you go through life without a name?”

“All I know is that I woke up this evening in that bed. I don’t remember any part of my previous life; not my name or where I lived and I can tell you that everything seems strange to me. I don’t even know what day of the week it is.”

“Wow, that’s weird. It’s Sunday, by the way. Those two women who brought you must know more about you. Did they not tell you anything?”

“Which two women?”

He nodded towards his phone. “I just happened to be around when you came in at lunchtime.”

“You were around at lunchtime and it’s now turned eight. Have you been waiting around all that time?”

He looked embarrassed and was clearly debating whether to tell me. Then I think he remembered the threat I had over him and said, “I leave that phone wedged in a tree, with an app running which alerts me on my other phone when there’s movement inside the cottage. It only takes a few minutes to walk here from my house.

“I’d been away most of the last week,” he continued, “so this was the first time I’d seen you.”

“Sorry. Are you saying I’ve been here a week already?”

“Your booking started last Saturday, but you hadn’t arrived when I left on Sunday morning to go to my aunt’s, in Eastbourne. So, this lunchtime was the first time I’d seen you. I took a video. I’m surprised you didn’t look at it on my phone just now.”

I picked up his phone again. “I didn’t look specifically at that folder because the name Venetia Smith is as unfamiliar to me as the twenty other women’s photographs you have.” I scrolled down to the folder in my name and clicked on one of the videos. The thin curtains obscured no detail of my body. It showed me, strolling around naked in the bedroom, walking naked to the window and briefly pulling back the curtains to stare right into the camera lens, and then stepping into the lounge, still naked.

I shook my head. “Howard,” I said, holding out the phone for him to view, “I’m not even going to ask why the camera is shaking so much as you film this.” He had the grace to blush.

I opened one of the other videos in my folder to find it showed a middle-aged woman entering the lounge through the front door and holding it open for another middle-aged black woman to push in a wheelchair with me strapped in it and clearly asleep – or perhaps more accurately, unconscious. I was wearing my only dress, and had a blanket folded around me. I was wheeled into the bedroom where they pulled back the sheets on the bed and the black woman lifted me onto it, with the older woman supporting my legs. My dress was removed and hung in the wardrobe, and then the women had a final look around both rooms, presumably checking they had left nothing behind apart from me, and then left by the front door.

“Do you not recognise those women,” he asked.

“I’m not certain,” I said. “Maybe I can vaguely remember…”

“They must be nurses,” he said. “You can tell from the way they handled you, just like they move Mother about.”

“Nurses, of course,” I said. “That’s…” I stopped and thought some. “That kind of rings a bell,” I added, “but not a very loud bell.”

“So, you’ve been in some hospital and they have just dumped you, like that?” He looked astounded. “That can’t be right. A hospital would never do that.”

“There are people who steal body parts,” I said. “Kidneys and… things.” I hadn’t really got a clue. “Maybe that’s what’s happened to me.”

“But having dumped you there,” Howard said, “they must have tipped off the police that you were an illegal immigrant. Why else would the police have descended on that place? They’ve never been before.”

“Jesus!” I said. “That’s evil, isn’t it? Not only do they steal my kidney but they then give me something to make me lose my memory so I can’t report it to the police. Then, they tip the police off that I’m an illegal immigrant, so I’ll be thrown into a detention centre.”

“You need to see a doctor,” he said.

“But how can I,” I asked, “when I don’t have any identity and if people start asking questions, they’ll come back to me being an illegal immigrant.”

“If you’re in hiding from the police for whatever reason, you could stay at my place. You’ll be safe there, even if the police do come back here to look for you.”

As I considered the idea, he hurriedly said, “You can sleep in my mother’s bed. I haven’t really gone into her room since she went into hospital.”

I had a sudden idea. “Presumably, if she’s in hospital, she must have left some clothes here?” I asked. I really needed some clothes other than one thin dress and absolutely no underwear.”

“She only uses a few clothes, now,” he said. “But she’s never thrown any clothing away. She’s got tons of stuff stored in our loft, dating right back to her youth. I’m sure there’d be something suitable for you, even if it is a bit dated.”

“OK,” I said. “That sounds good.”

“In return,” he said, “do you think you can release my arms?”

***

It would have seemed churlish to refuse. At some stage, I was going to have to trust that he wasn’t going to overpower me, and somehow, with the threat from the rest of the world, I really felt I needed a friend.

“OK, it’s a deal. But I’m going to delete all these folders on your mobile phone, apart from mine. If the police did see them, they’d put you in prison for years, so you’re turning over a new leaf from now on. Is that agreed?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

I deleted the files before unbuckling his belt and releasing him. He stretched his arms and rubbed them, before securing his trousers with his belt.

“Shall we go?” I said.

“Actually,” he said and then paused.

“Yes?” Was he now going to refuse to go along with our deal?

“The house has got into a bit of a mess since Mother left.”

I relaxed. “Then we can have a good tidy up,” I said.

***

An hour later, we’d tidied away the worst of the mess in his house, although to be fair, Howard had kept the place fairly clean. He had sorted out several bags of old clothes from his loft, all of them carefully labelled, Evelyn Turner, with a date when they had been packed. Evelyn was clearly a methodical woman. I picked my way through the bags. As I tried on a few of her clothes, it appeared that Evelyn was not a very different size from myself, although until I started to read the labels in the garments, I hadn’t a clue what that size actually was. In her younger day, she’d had some quite pretty clothes, and I started to feel a whole lot better, especially when I discovered a bag of clean underwear. Evelyn seemed to have gone through a range of different sizes, presumably as she got older and after having Howard and, by trial and error, I discovered I was a 36B bra size.

One heavily mothballed bag of jumble contained lots of mini skirts and dresses, and I guessed it dated back to the sixties. I did the maths. He’d told me his mother had been quite old when he’d been born so she could have been in her middle or even late forties at that time, so the figures did fit. Howard had shown me a recent photograph of her, an extremely miserable-looking elderly woman. It was impossible to think of her in these exciting clothes. I slipped on a minidress and went downstairs to show Howard. You should have seen how his eyes bulged with excitement.

“My mother could never have worn those,” he protested.

She even had the stockings and suspenders to go with them,” I said, lifting the hem of my skirt to demonstrate.

“Oh my God!” he said, sitting down heavily on the settee. “This is too much.”

“Poor Howard,” I said, sitting next to him. “But now we’re together like this, I want to talk about whatever surgery those people were doing to me. There are no obvious incisions where my kidneys are located, so what could it be?”

He shook his head. “I really haven’t a clue.”

“I wondered whether it might be female genital mutilation.”

“What!” his eyes stared wildly at me, I suspect because like many people, myself included, he didn’t really know much about it.

“I think I need to see a doctor,” I said. “Is there anyone you can suggest?”

He thought for a second and then said, “My mum went to a woman doctor at the surgery, Dr Kendall. I could ring up and make an appointment in the morning. I’ll just tell them that you’re away from home and staying with me.” He smiled. “Maybe they’ll think you’re my girlfriend.”

I smiled back at him. “Well, we are friends, aren’t we Howard?” I leant forward and kissed him on the cheek, realising too late that it also meant my left breast pushed against his chest.

He gasped. “Oh God! This is too much. I need to go to the toilet.” He hurriedly made to stand up, hunching forward as he did so, clearly trying to hide his erection.

“No!” I firmly said, stopping him in his tracks. “Howard,” I said, “You’ve led a sexless life for too long. I realise I’m going to have to do something about you.”

“Do something?” he repeated.

“In my current condition, intercourse between us is clearly out, but I think I’m going to have to take matters in hand,” I said.

I did as well, and although I had no memory of ever having done it to anyone before, I reckon I performed a very reasonable job on him that left him totally shattered.

***

“You have certainly experienced female genital surgery,” Dr Kendall said after she had examined me in the most intimate and embarrassing manner. “However, it is certainly not mutilation. I would be more inclined to call it genital cosmetic surgery which has been done by a very fine surgeon, indeed. That surgeon has reconstructed your vagina, for whatever reason, and it could be because it has undergone some kind of trauma which had dramatically damaged it. Or it may simply be cosmetic surgery. What’s also of note is that your breasts have been very skilfully enhanced with just the slightest of incisions beneath the armpits, which tends me to think the former.

“What is more puzzling,” she continued, “is why the aftercare has plainly gone so dramatically wrong, that you be discharged whilst clearly still under the influence of anaesthetic. I suspect that someone, probably your next of kin, has discharged you of their own accord, but why they should bring you to a rental cottage and dump you, I simply cannot explain.”

“But what about my memory?” I asked.

“I think that is an after-effect of the recent anaesthetic and your abrupt discharge from hospital. I believe that you will regain your memory within a day or two, given rest and care. I could get you re-admitted to the local hospital, but you say a friend is offering you accommodation and care, so I think that will be all you need. If the symptoms persist, come back and see me in a week. Oh, and er, no sex for a week or so. Good day.”

***

“But that doesn’t explain,” Howard said when I repeated these words to him in the car as we drove home, “the furtive way in which those two women behaved and why the police were called, presumably tipped off there was an illegal immigrant in the cottage.”

“We agreed,” I said, “that I wouldn’t mention the videos you took, for rather obvious reasons. Nor would we involve the police. But it is comforting that my surgery appears to have been done so competently.”

“Not just competently,” Howard said, “but you said that Dr Kendall said very fine surgery indeed. That suggests it was expensive and private. So why should that be?”

“As well as enhancing my breasts,” I said. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Whatever the reason, I’m glad they did,” Howard said. “You look great and in a week’s time...” He broke off in embarrassment.

“In a week’s time, like most women, I’ll be able to have sex,” I completed his sentence. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex, does it? I think we should talk about the two of us.”

“What... what about us?” he nervously asked. “I mean, what you did last night was incredible and... and I’d really like it if you would do it again...”

“And again, and again, and again?” I said with a grin.

He nodded. “I’d do anything for you to... and well... other things as well.”

“Howard,” I said, “I’m not averse to having a sexual relationship with you…”

“You’re not,” he gasped, turning to look at me and causing the car to swerve.

“But not if you crash and kill us,” I said, “and also…” I paused.

“Also what?”

“What you’ve been doing...”

“I’ll stop it,” he said. “I won’t ever do it again.”

“Howard, you’re a man,” I said.

He grinned. “I’m glad you’ve noticed.”

“Which means,” I continued, “that your brain is comprised of two parts. There’s your reasoning brain which is prepared to make commitments with every intention of keeping them.”

“I will, I promise,” he said.

“Then there’s the other part of your brain which is located in your cock. Your reasoning brain would never have allowed you to break the law on such a massive scale. But the unreasoning part of your brain located in your cock doesn’t care a shit about the law. It’s only concerned with sex. Your cock made you do it, which may be no defence in law, but it’s the fact. And that’s what we have to take into account.”

How do you mean?”

“If you want to have a relationship with me, then your cock has to be controlled to prevent you getting into the same position again. I want you to wear a cock cage. I will hold the key and when we’re together you can bonk me silly, but when you’re not with me, your cock will be locked up. What do you think?”

Rather than looking surprised or even shocked as I suspected, he looked uneasy. He muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I’ve tried it, for precisely the reason you say. I thought I’d be able to stop what I was doing, which I knew was wrong. But I always had to have a backup key in case of emergencies and I would always end up unlocking myself and… You know.”

“So the problem is resolved,” I said. “That is, it’s resolved if you want to have a relationship with me. When we arrive home, you can get out your cock cage, put it on and handover the key to me.”

“Well, the only thing is…”

“The only thing is what?” I asked.

“Well, you hear these stories of women who… Well, they lock up their men for weeks and weeks…”

“Howard,” I said. “I promise that I will take care of your sexual needs. Remember that Doctor Kendall said I shouldn’t have sex for a week, but as I showed last night, there is more than one way of taking care of things. OK. Are you up for it?”

He smirked. “Yes please.”

***

At this point, you may be thinking back to my initial feelings, as I awoke in that strange bed in the strange room with the dark spot on the ceiling. My thoughts had been that I was a Caucasian male and yet somehow, I was in the body of a black female. So how does that line up with me agreeing to have a sexual relationship with Howard?

Dr Kendall told me that my vagina appeared to have been reconstructed; certainly, my breasts had been enhanced. The obvious question was whether I’d undergone gender reassignment surgery? If so, had I wanted to change sex or…

Or what? What surgeon would undertake gender reassignment surgery unless the patient wanted it? What about the colour of my skin? Was I really a Caucasian who had been turned black? I’d heard of some model who had turned black by having melanin injections, so clearly it could be done. But why would anyone do that unless the patient wanted it?

It left me totally mystified, but in the meantime, a girl (as I now was) has to survive. I needed food, shelter and safety, at least until I knew my own identity. I had a vagina and I was going to have to use it, as countless women before me had done.

I smiled at Howard. “I think we’re going to have fun,” I said.

***

And we did. As soon as we arrived home, I made Howard show his cock cage to me. It was steel with a smallish cage which abruptly bent downwards, and a cock and ball ring which, after he had gone to the toilet and put it on, appeared to be a snug fit.

“OK,” I said, holding out my hand, flat. “Give me the keys.”

He handed over a key.

“I said keys, Howard,” stressing the plural.

“The other one is locked in a key safe in my bedroom,” he said, “I thought it would be safer there and wouldn’t get lost.” he hesitated a little, then realising he was going to have to hand it over, he added, “I’ll show you where it is.”

He took me up to his bedroom and showed me the key safe. I may not have been able to remember my name but I was familiar with this kind of device.

“OK, unlock it,” I said.

“Yes, Venetia,” he said and unlocked it and then handed it over to me.

“Right,” I said, “I’m going to look after this, and I shall reset the combination so it’s no good searching for it in my room. OK?”

“Yes, Venetia.”

I did, too, but decided from the way that Howard’s eyes followed the safe, he was working out how long it would take him to go through every one of the ten thousand combinations. I decided to leave the safe locked, but without the key inside, which I would hide somewhere else. I also found out a chain necklace of his mother’s and slid the first key onto it, and put it around my neck. It would do well to remind him that I was in charge of his cock.

So, the relationship between the two of us began. Me, a black woman who didn’t know her own identity and who might be an illegal immigrant but who suspected herself of being a Caucasian male; and Howard, a man who had preyed upon woman, videoing them in their personal and intimate moments, and was attempting to reform.

I was convinced that the answer to both our futures was lots of good sex, and as a reasonably attractive female, I did my best to ensure Howard was extremely satisfied and sated. Although my vagina was off limits in the first week, I ensured that the rest of my body was ready to please. I did my best to look good, wearing Evelyn’s younger clothes, and I behaved as a good housewife does, doing the cooking and cleaning, and satisfying my man in the most important way.

Howard got me a casual job as a checkout assistant at the supermarket where he worked, which I was pleased about as it gave me an income, and I persuaded Howard to give me his second phone that he’d been using to take his porn videos, so I even had a phone. Bank cards, unfortunately, would be impossible without some kind of identification.

***

After a couple of days, Howard suggested I meet his mother. “I need to tell her that I’m in a relationship,” he said. “I’m not certain when, or even whether, she will come out of hospital.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked. Until now, Howard had seemed very reluctant to say much about his mother.

“It was initially thought she was having a heart attack,” he said. “Later on, they said it wasn’t a heart attack, as such, but something else wrong with her heart, only they don’t seem certain what. She is very weak though so I don’t think they’ll be discharging her for some time.”

“Right,” I said.

“The thing is,” he said and stopped.

“The thing is…” I waited.

“The thing is she can be a bit racist.”

“I guessed as much when I saw all those back copies of the Daily Moan in her bedroom. So I’m sure she would probably be aghast if she knew I was wearing her clothes, sleeping in her bed and doing intimate things with her son.”

He blushed. “Yes.”

“What do you want to do about telling her?”

“Well, we don’t have to mention that you’re sleeping in her bed, and I thought I could buy you a pretty dress so she doesn’t see that you’re wearing her clothes.”

“That would be lovely, Howard. But if she sees me in my new dress, she’s certainly going to notice that I’m black.”

“She’s going to have to get used to the idea,” he said. “I want her to see you and I want to tell her that you’re wonderful.”

I couldn’t stop my grin reaching from ear to ear. “Wow,” I said, “but perhaps, before you tell her that, you could tell me, and we’ll see what happens as a result.” I leant forward and gently kissed him on his lips.

***

When it came to choosing a dress, I was a bit lost – and when does a woman ever say that? I really didn’t know what style, what colour, or even how long and what kind of neckline I should have. Howard took me to a large clothes shop in town, and we spent ages just looking around and trying on a few things. Eventually, I chose a pretty summer dress with a flared skirt which billowed out as I walked and I felt good in and Howard whispered that he’d like to fuck me whilst wearing it, so we decided on that.

I bought some flowers to give to Evelyn (well, actually, Howard paid for them but I chose them) and we then drove to the hospital.

“I’ll go in and tell her the news,” Howard said as we approached the ward, “and then I’ll call you in.”

“Right oh,” I said, guessing he didn’t want me to see the terrible scowl cross her face when she found out about me. So, I sat down on a chair in the corridor and waited. Somewhere, a woman gave a terrible scream. I really hoped that wasn’t Howard’s mother, but as the minutes ticked by and Howard didn’t call me in, I guessed that it was.

After about twenty minutes, Howard came out looking tearful and lost.

“Sit down, love,” I said to him. “Does she hate me?”

“She never got round to telling me that,” he said. “She started screaming before I’d finished the sentence and then she had some kind of an attack. They eventually pushed me out whilst the doctor examined her.”

“Oh, Howard, I’m sorry,” I said. “What do you want to do?”

“I think it will take ages to sort her out. I think we’d better go home and then I can telephone later on and find out how she is.”

***

When Howard rang the hospital after we got home, they told him that she’d had a stroke and was now resting. He’d be able to see her the next day.

The following day, we both agreed it would be better if Howard went to hospital on his own. When he returned, he told me that she’d seemed barely conscious, certainly unable to speak or communicate in any way. I gave him a comforting hug, which turned, as usual into a steamy sex session. And as the days passed and then turned into weeks, they continued and we started to settle into a routine of living together.

The house belonged to Evelyn, so we didn’t have to worry about rent. Howard and I had our jobs at the local supermarket which, along with the rental from the cottage, brought in sufficient cash to keep us going. So, we settled down to sex, work, sex and more sex, typical of many new couples beginning to live together.

However, Dr Kendall’s belief that my memory would return within a few days did not materialise. We chatted about it regularly, whether I should return to see her or just to let things go. For the time being, we decided on the latter. I continued to dress in the clothes of Evelyn’s younger days and excite him as much as I could. I did find though, with experience, that I’d got my bra size wrong – I was actually a 36C rather than a 36B. I sorted out all the bras I could find of that size.

I was delighted that I seemed to have got Howard weaned off his desire to look at the succession of women, sometimes with their partners, who came to stay in the cottage. However, I did feel it best to continue to keep his cock caged until he was about to stick it into me. When he occasionally rebelled and asked for it to be removed, I warned him that he had a very wicked cock which was uncontrollable. If he repeated what he had previously been doing, he would lose me, so what was wrong with the continual sex that we were having? He had no reply.

To relieve worries he had about me keeping him locked up against his will, I put the key on a chain around my waist, so that it dangled down between my thighs. Since I rarely wore panties, it meant that Howard would frequently come up behind me, slip an arm around my waist and bend me over. I would obligingly spread out my arms and go down, doggie style, on the floor whilst he reached between my legs and unlocked his cage, and then gave me a good seeing to.

After another week, I noticed that I was bulging out of my bra, again. After trying on a few more of Evelyn’s bras, I reckoned I was now a 38C. That kind of scuppered my ideas that I might have had a gender change, since silicone breasts simply do not grow, as mine were undoubtedly doing. About the same time, my tummy started to feel a bit strange. Until then, I’d had no concern that I might become pregnant, but I did go out and buy a pregnancy test kit and a set of electronic scales which I thought would be rather more accurate than Howard’s outdated mechanical ones. Although the test showed I wasn’t pregnant, I weighed myself and took a note of my weight. I was determined to keep a regular log from now on. My tummy continued to feel strange, and after a few days, I could see it was starting to swell. I took another pregnancy test which was still negative and then decided to go and see Dr Kendall again.

***

She examined and prodded me several times, took a blood sample, and told me to return the following day. On my next visit, she gave me the news, although not in the sympathetic manner I’d have liked.

“When you came to see me before, I told you that you’d had reconstructive vaginal surgery. Have you now regained your memory about the events which led up to that?”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid it’s still as indistinct now as when I came to see you before. I don’t have a clue what led up to it.”

She frowned. “I really think it’s time you told me the truth. People do not simply lose their memory as you claim to have done. And from your blood test, it appears that you are a biological male. This means that when you saw me before, you were recovering from an operation to change your gender. I can understand that you may have undertaken a sex change operation and want to keep that secret. I can understand that you may even be ashamed of what you have had done and don’t like to admit it. But you must tell me the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really have no knowledge of any of the events leading up to my waking up in a rental cottage in Oakham Woods, a few weeks’ ago. However,” I paused, trying to put into words my thoughts at the time and since.

“However,” I continued. “My first thoughts when I awoke were that I was a white male in a black female body.”

“And yet,” Dr Kendall said, “you’ve told me that you’ve been having a hetero-sexual relationship with your landlord, Howard Turner, ever since. You obviously haven’t told him that you’ve had a gender change operation.”

“I didn’t know until you just told me.”

“And are you now going to tell him?”

I considered. “I’m not certain,” I said.

“Which I suspect means that you’re not, but don’t like to admit it.”

I kept silent.

“I have to tell you that Mr Turner is also my patient,” she continued. “A patient who is properly registered with this practice. What has been said between us is obviously covered by medical confidentiality, but I feel I cannot continue to treat you unless you are absolutely honest with both him and me.”

“Are you refusing me medical treatment?”t

She hesitated. “I will ask Dr Sharman if he will take you on in my place.

***

The next day I saw Dr Sharman, a large burly man who looked at me with suspicion. Clearly, Dr Kendall had briefed him on her feelings. He asked me to go through my earliest memories, which I did. I even included the dark spot on the ceiling, but as with Dr Kendall, I said nothing about the police visiting the cottage.

“Have you really no recollection of events leading up to that moment? And has no one been in contact with you?”

“No,” I said. “But what about my symptoms of being pregnant?”

“They are unusual,” he said, “but as a biological male it is impossible for you to conceive. You appear to be undergoing a false pregnancy. Men can experience what’s called a sympathetic pregnancy when their partners become pregnant. I think in your particular position you feel very vulnerable, which could well explain your symptoms. However, this is nothing to worry about. I could give you some pills to reduce your anxiety levels and help you relax, if you wish.”

“No, thank you.” I didn’t want to say it, but I didn’t want to take any pills when I was showing every sign of being pregnant.

***

“I’ve put on over a kilogram since I first started weighing myself, two weeks ago,” I told Dr Sharman when I next saw him.

“You’ve put on over a kilogram in two weeks,” he repeated. “That on its own is not significant... Oh.” He broke off as he stared at my tummy where a bulge was clearly perceptible.

“Yes.”

“And your breasts have grown as well.”

“Yes.” I was now a 38D bra.

“Then I don’t understand what’s going on. I’m going to get our nurse to give you a scan.”

“Thank you.”

***

“There’s no sign of a baby here,” the nurse said, staring at her screen, “but equally, I don’t know what the cause of your bump is. There’s no sign of any kind of cancerous lump. I think I’d better send you to Dr Hutchinson at the hospital. She’s the real expert in these kinds of cases.”

***

Howard had not liked to cancel Evelyn’s daily newspaper order on the basis that it made it appear as though she wasn’t expected back. It meant that one of us had to go to the general store in the village every few days to pick up a bundle of newspapers which we generally put straight in the bin.

One evening, Howard was flicking through them before throwing them away, when he said, “Look at him. He must be your brother.”

I glanced at the picture Howard was holding up, obviously a police mugshot of a man who bore no resemblance to anyone I would want to call my brother.

“Not only is he white,” I said, “but he looks nothing like me. Who is he?”

“He’s just like you,” Howard contested. “Apart from being white, admittedly. But then siblings of mixed-race parents can be different colours.”

I shrugged, non-committedly. “What’s he done?”

“He’s been murdered,” Howard said.

“Murdered?” That brought me up sharp. Someone who Howard thought looked identical to me had been murdered. “Can I read it?”

Howard passed the paper across to me.

Gavin Collins had been released from prison on Wednesday last week, it read, but his whereabouts had been unknown until his murdered body had been found yesterday. Police were anxious to trace anyone who may have seen him, particularly a black teenage girl who is thought to have spoken with him in a pub called The Hole in the Wall next to Wakeham Prison, shortly after he was released.

“Wakeham Prison!”

Howard looked at me. “You know it?”

“It’s a top security prison. The name… it seems familiar.”

He looked serious. “Are you the black girl who met him in the pub? Is that why the police were looking for you?”

“I’m hardly a teenager,” I said.

“Then might you have been in Wakeham Prison? Perhaps you’re an escaped prisoner?”

“No, and no,” I said. Really, I wasn’t certain. “Look it up on the internet,” I said. “Is it a woman’s prison?”

He searched the internet on his phone for a bit and said, “No, it’s a male top security prison in the north of England. Apparently, according to the blogs, they house lots of sex offenders there.” More twiddling, “This Gavin Collins had been sentenced for multiple rape.”

“Right,” I said, my mind going into overdrive. Collins was a serial rapist who had just been released from prison. I looked similar to him and suspected my gender had been changed, possibly without my permission. He had now been murdered.

***

That night, I had a dream. I was walking through a yard, heading towards a large steel double gate, set in a wall twenty feet high. A man in a uniform smirked at me as he opened the gate.

“See you soon,” he said.

“No you won’t,” I replied as I stepped through the gate. “This is my last time here.”

His smirk turned into a wide grin. “That’s what they all say,” he said. He amiably nodded. “I’ll be seeing you.” The door clanged shut cutting off his snort of laughter.

***

The next day, I went onto Howard’s elderly laptop and looked up more details about Collins. He was not just a rapist, he was also a member of BOE - Blacks Out of England - and he’d been found guilty with a group of other members, of kidnapping teenage black girls and gang-raping them. It left my mind in a whirl. But then, my symptoms of pregnancy and the next day’s appointment with Dr Hutchison had them in a greater whirl.

***

“I’m afraid Dr Hutchison has been called away to conduct an emergency Caesarean,” the nurse told me as she led me towards the consulting room. “Fortunately, Dr Horsfall has just returned to work today so she can see you instead.”

“Right,” I said.

She knocked on the door and led the way in. “I have Venetia Smith to see you, Dr Horsfall.”

The nurse briefly smiled at me before departing but I barely noticed it because, when she saw me, Dr Horsfall’s mouth had dropped open.

“You,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, hesitantly.

“How did you find me?”

There had been a few seconds when I’d been wondering whether we’d innocently known each other before I’d lost my memory, but then I’d realised that I’d hit the nail on the head.

“It wasn’t easy,” I said.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“An apology would be a start.”

She scowled defiantly at me. “I know who you were and I don’t believe you deserve an apology. Presumably, you know who I am?” Her left eye started to tick occasionally.

That was awkward. Until a minute ago, I’d not known I was going to meet someone other than Dr Hutchison, yet she clearly thought I knew her. “Not really,” I said. Then a thought flashed through my mind. “Dr Horsfall? You’re the mother of Helen Horsfall.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh.”

It had been a few years ago when the rape and murder of seventeen-year-old Helen Horsfall had hit the news. Her killer had been caught but been given a paltry sentence. Her mother, this woman sitting behind the desk, had campaigned to bring back hanging for murderers which, of course, had been unsuccessful.

“How did you manage to get back from Amsterdam without a passport?” she asked.

What was she talking about?

“I was never in Amsterdam. I was dumped in a rental cottage in Oakham Woods from here.”

“You were dumped in a cottage?” She was astonished. “No wonder I never found you in Amsterdam.” Seeing my silent interrogation, she added, “The plan was to take you to Amsterdam and sell you to a brothel where you would be repeatedly forced to have sex with men, hopefully black men.” She smirked, but the eye tick was becoming more frequent.

“The nurse told me,” I said, “that you’d just returned to work. Were you off sick?”

“Yes.” A nervous smile. “I found the surgery on you quite stressful.”

“Particularly as it tore a hole through your Hippocratic Oath.”

“Yes.” The tick was happening almost every few seconds, now. “I took time off but I couldn’t settle at home, so I went to Amsterdam for a few days, trying to find you. To see you being abused and to relish in it.”

“But your buddies in crime let you down?”

“Obviously. They told me they were going to take you there. I don’t know why they didn’t.”

“My memory of events before I awoke as a woman has totally gone. I can remember nothing about myself before I awoke. Did you give me something to make me forget?”

“Yes. We used a variation of flunitrazepam – or Roofie as you probably know it. The variation is designed to help those with PTSD erase their traumatic memories. But your memory shouldn’t be totally obliterated. The idea was that it would make it difficult for you to recall who had done these things to you, not that you wouldn’t know who you were. After all, what would be the point of you suffering abuse as a black female prostitute if you didn’t know you’d once been a male who did horrible things to black females?”

“And yet my memory has totally gone. Did you give me too much of the drug?”

“I’d had to leave the team by that time, but I left clear instructions on how much was to be administered. They must have accidentally given you far too much.”

“Your associates gave me a massive overdose of the memory loss drug and left me in a cottage rather than taking me to Amsterdam.” Then inspiration flashed through my brain. “Perhaps they realized they’d captured the wrong person.”

“Captured the wrong person. What are you talking about? They trapped you as you came out of prison and I changed you into a woman.”

“Because you thought I was Gavin Collins.”

“What do you mean by saying, ‘I thought you were Gavin Collins.’ That’s who you are – or were, anyway.”

“The real Gavin Collins was released from prison a few days ago and was then murdered.”

Her other eye joined in with the ticking, only not in unison with it. It was really rather alarming just watching her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re in front of me now.”

“I am not and never have been Gavin Collins.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Take out your phone,” I said, “and search the internet for ’murder Gavin Collins’.”

She did, although her hand was shaking so much, she had to have several attempts to type it in. Eventually she found the entries.

“Ah!” She threw the phone onto her desk as though it was on fire and stared at me, her eyes ticking wildly.

When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to add anything, I asked her. “How do I appear to have become pregnant? Surely you didn’t give me a womb.”

“Huh.” She seemed to calm a little. “You think I’d waste a womb on you? No, whilst I was doing the liposculpture to transfer fat from your stomach to your hips and bottom, I inserted an elastic bladder in the front of your stomach, connected through a valve set to pass about three millimetres an hour, which is equivalent to half a kilogram a week, so the bladder will gradually get bigger and bigger at more or less the same rate as a pregnant woman, although you’ll start gaining weight a lot sooner than a pregnant woman normally would. Eventually, you’ll grow to the enormous size of a woman bearing triplets.”

“And what then?”

“It will end quite naturally, as though you’re having a miscarriage.”

“And my breasts? They’re growing as well.”

“But all men like big breasts,” she said. “You can hardly complain. I would have given you huge breasts to start with, but there wasn’t sufficient tissue and skin to cope. Instead, your breasts will grow bigger as the skin stretches. Just think, your breasts will never sag; they’ll simply get bigger and bigger. Of course, all this will leave you feeling continually tired and worn out, just like those young black girls you left pregnant after raping them.”

“Except that it was Gavin Collins who raped young black girls. That was not me.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” The ticking had returned and was going so fast I could barely see her eyes. “I suppose that means you’re going to report me to professional standards?”

“I suppose it does,” I said.

Dr Horsfall ran out of the consulting room, leaving me to explain to the nurse that Dr Horsfall appeared to be unwell.

***

If only I’d used some other words, things might have turned out very different. As it was, I went home deep in thought and totally undecided what to do. Now I understood her reasons, I could empathise, even though what she had done was completely over the top. But who could say what was reasonable behaviour for anyone whose child had been raped and murdered? I’d collected a form to report professional misconduct, but I was loathe to complete it.

I’d told Howard that Dr Horsfall believed I was going to lose the baby before birth, which upset him but at least he was prepared for the inevitable. And as I procrastinated, I got bigger and bigger, in both breast and belly.

After a few days, I rang the consulting rooms to book another appointment with Dr Horsfall and was told she had died the previous day. After a little research on the internet, it seemed she’d committed suicide.

***

“Sorry,” Dr Sharman said, when I saw him a few days later. “Are you really trying to tell me that Dr Horsfall conducted an illegal operation on you to forcibly change your sex? The idea is totally preposterous. I’ve known Dr Horsfall for many years and she was widely respected throughout our profession. Now she’s dead, she’s not able to defend herself and you invent this rubbish. I seriously think you have some severe delusional problems.” He sat looking at me, a foul look on his face.

“Dr Kendall was absolutely right and I think I’m going to do the same as her and refuse to treat you any further. Good day.”

***

“It’s the woman,” Howard said, whilst he was watching TV news that evening.

“What woman?” I entered the room to see, but the picture had already moved on.

“That woman,” he said, doing a trick with the remote to rewind live TV. “There,” he said, displaying a picture of the Government’s Lord Chancellor leaving his offices and getting into a car whilst being questioned by reporters, whom he ignored.

“The Lord Chancellor?” I asked. “Has he had a sex change?”

“No,” he said, rewinding the video again. “That woman behind him.”

It was presumably the Lord Chancellor’s assistant who had followed him out of the building carrying a briefcase and got into the front seat of the car besides the chauffeur. She was dressed in a smart business suit and looked rather more formidable than the Lord Chancellor.

“You mean one of the nurses who brought me to the cottage?” I asked. “She doesn’t look much like her.”

“It’s her,” he said, taking my phone from me and finding the video he had taken at the time. Howard was not the best of video cameramen and the video shook quite a lot, and this woman’s mode of dress and her attitude were completely different. However, I had to admit, she was quite similar.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“Then what does that mean?” I asked.

“What that means,” Howard said, “is that you have been secretly operated on by the Government and dumped for some reason which we do not know.”

“But it’s ridiculous,” I said. “Why would they do that?”

“Perhaps,” he said, enlightenment animating his face, “the plan wasn’t to arrest you as an illegal immigrant. They were going to arrest you as a spy. MI5 had set you up, for some reason. Perhaps they wanted to pretend to make an arrest and have a showcase trial. You’d be pleading your innocence but they would have all the evidence stitched up to throw you in prison for a hundred years.”

“It happens in spy films,” I said, “but not in real life.”

“What about nerve gas in Salisbury?” he retorted. “That was like a plot from a film but it was real life.”

He was, of course, right, and I didn’t know what to think.

***

That night, after our heavy round of sex, I lay awake whilst Howard gently snored, thinking about his discovery, and his deductions from it. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that it was absolute bunkum. If MI5 had been involved, the work would have been done by agents whose activities could be denied; there was no way they would allow the person who had handled a body – even a living body – to ride in the same car as the Lord Chancellor. Even if it had not been the Government as such but something personal to the Lord Chancellor, he would have similarly ensured that he wasn’t at all connected with the people doing the dirty work.

Therefore, it was the woman who was doing this, unknown to her employers. Therefore, I had to find out more about her.

***

The next day I went onto Howard’s laptop and searched the identity of the Lord Chancellor’s assistant. There were a number of people in his office who were described as assistants, but I eventually found their photos and ruled them out.

However, when I researched where he had been the previous day, I struck lucky. He’d been visiting a prison and I managed to log onto the news pages of the Prison Service staff newsletter. There I found news of the Lord Chancellor’s visit to the prison along with a photograph of the woman who’d accompanied him, an executive officer working for the Prison Service in London. Her name was Gwendoline Jones.

She had featured several times in the staff newsletter, having moved to the Prison Service from the Treasury, and before that, the Royal Mint in Cardiff. It was all fairly innocuous stuff but there was no doubt she looked extremely fierce and miserable, and had risen rapidly through the ranks. But there was nothing in the newspaper about her personal life, and I had to browse the web for that, with all the difficulty of researching a surname as popular as Jones. Then I struck lucky, finding details of her wedding, fifteen years previously, to Dylan King in Cardiff, so Gwen Jones had become Gwen King. She had divorced after a few years and had obviously reverted to using her maiden name.

Gwen King. The name had a strange ring to it but I just couldn’t place it. I decided to give my thoughts a rest and hope that I would remember.

It hit me a few hours later: graffiti I’d seen scrawled on a toilet wall: I’m WanKing over Wen King. It would have been mildly funny in different circumstances. For five days, she’d been in the news headlines in the hunt for her missing thirteen-year-old niece, Sophie, in Cardiff. “Someone must know where Sophie is being kept prisoner,” she had repeated time after time. “A partner, a parent, a brother or sister. Please come forward and save this little girl.”

Wen King had been the family spokesperson. She was very attractive and, I guessed, in her mid-thirties, but looking younger with her brown hair cut in a bob with a fringe and her face always full of hope. Then, on the sixth day, suddenly looking so much older, with no hope at all, after Sophie’s body was found.

We hadn’t seen Wen King again for many months, until the murderer had been arrested, tried and found guilty and then sentenced to life imprisonment. “Life imprisonment may seem a long time to him,” she had said after the trial to the press, on behalf of the family. “But Sophie is gone forever, torn from her family, raped and murdered by this savage pervert. I can only hope that the staff and other prisoners turn the rest of his life into a living hell.”

Now, here she was, looking very different from the Wen King who had appeared on TV and in the press. She’d moved from the Royal Mint in Cardiff and was now working for the Prison Service, presumably without their knowledge of her words at that time. And, if my suspicions were correct, she and Dr Horsfall had given me a sex change against my will, changed the colour of my skin and, after she discovered they had operated upon an innocent person, she – and not Dr Horsfall – had left me dumped in the cottage and then reported me to the police. A few days after that, another man recently released from prison had been found murdered.

A sudden thought had me back on the internet and I found my suspicions were correct. Gavin Collins had been murdered exactly ten years to the day after the death of Sophie King.

I had felt considerable empathy for Dr Horsfall who had carried out an unlawful and unethical procedure on someone she believed to be evil. After doing so, she had become a nervous wreck and had clearly disintegrated after meeting me and discovering that she had carried out the procedure on an innocent person. Wen King, in comparison, had clearly felt so little remorse that she’d been prepared to sacrifice that innocent person in order to protect her own guilt. The overdose of flunitrazepam she’d given me could have killed me or left me with permanent brain damage – perhaps it had. Then, she had tipped off the police, presumably telling them I was an illegal immigrant. With no knowledge of my own identity, I’d be defenceless in the case to avoid my deportation.

But then, I remembered, there had been a third woman involved who had left me at the cottage. Who was she? And was it her rather than Wen King who had tipped off the police. Before taking further action, I decided I needed to find her identity. With two out of three found, I thought I might have a chance.

After thinking about it, I realised that my change of skin colour from white to black was important. Gavin Collins, who had been the target of their attacks, had been a racist and made a point of raping black girls, so perhaps this third woman who was black had been related to one of those girls who had been raped. The problem was that whilst the names of murder victims were public information, the victims of rape were protected. I simply couldn’t find any details of the victims or their parents.

***

“Venetia,” Howard said, “there’s something strange happened with the rental of the barn.”

“What barn?” I’d never heard Howard mention a barn before.

“Along with the cottage,” he said, “we also own an old barn which we’ve rented out to a local farmer ever since we’ve had it. However, I noticed this morning that he didn’t pay the rental for last month. I rang him up and he said that Mother had cancelled his contract, two months ago. He’d offered to increase his rent but she said she had another use for it.”

“Right,” I said.

“Well, Mother never said anything about this to me, which is very unusual.”

“When was she taken into hospital?” I asked. “Perhaps she got confused about things just before.”

Howard shook his head. “She’s only been in hospital since a couple of days before you arrived. This change of rental of the barn happened two months before that.”

“Has someone else being renting it?” I asked.

“Let me check the accounts,” he said, looking puzzled. A few minutes later, he came back and said, “No rental has been paid for the last two months. It appears to have been unused since she told the farmer to vacate it.”

“Can we go and look inside this barn?” I asked.

“I’ll get the keys,” Howard said.

***

The barn was only a short distance away so we agreed to walk, although in my case, it was beginning to more resemble a waddle, as my bump was now quite noticeable. Even the fairly short walk, had me starting to perspire a little (ladies definitely do not sweat!).

The barn looked like so many others built around the British countryside since time immemorial; brick with a pitched roof and large doors at the one end to permit trailers stacked with hay to enter; or, as we found in this case, a large, white-painted shipping container on a trailer.

“What do you think is inside it?” Howard asked, staring at it as though it might suddenly become transparent.

“There’s only one way to find out,” I said. “We have to get inside. Look.” I pointed along the side. “There are some steps there which lead up to a door in the side of the container.”

I was incredibly curious but I let Howard take the lead, as he walked along the narrow gap between container and barn wall and then up the steps. I wasn’t yet so big that I thought I might get stuck but for some reason, I felt nervous as I followed Howard into the barn.

“The key has been left in the door,” Howard said, “as though they’re not intending to come back.”

He twisted the key in the Yale lock to unlatch it and then pulled the huge steel handle set in the container. As the door swung open, it gave a terrible screech.

“Aagh!” I yelled.

“What?” Howard turned to face me, probably thinking I’d been attacked.

But for some reason I had shot backwards so I was now standing just outside the barn, shaking uncontrollably.

“What is it?” Howard asked, coming down the steps and up to me. He placed his arms around me, and gently asked, “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It was that screech. It… it terrified me.”

He turned to look at the container again. “I’ll go and have a look inside,” he said.

“Be careful,” I said. “Don’t stay long inside. If you’re not out in five minutes, I’m calling the police.”

He grinned. “It’s alright,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

He went back up the steps, pulled the door fully open, causing it to give another screech and looked carefully inside before stepping in.

I waited. And waited. And waited. It felt like he’d been in there hours but I suspected it could only have been a few minutes. Then he came out again.

“Darling Venetia,” he said, walking right up to me and hugging me.

“What was inside?” I asked.

“It’s a sort of emergency operating theatre – the kind they can take to some kind of disaster. The operating theatre is at this end; in the middle is a lobby and nurses’ station, and then at the far end is a tiny ward with a hospital bed.”

“Yes,” I said.

“The safety bars around the bed are all bent,” he said, “as though…”

“As though…” But I thought I knew what he was going to say.

“As though a patient had been chained by their hands and feet to them to prevent them escaping.”

“Oh, God!” I said, stepping backwards away from it. “Oh God! Oh God! I think I can remember it. Nothing very clear… Just my… screaming to be freed… And someone saying they had cut off my testicles. They’d castrated me.”

I stopped, suddenly aware I had said the words I should never have said in front of Howard. I looked at him. He was smiling at me.

“I’m glad you could say the words at last,” he said.

“You knew?”

He smiled again. “I strongly suspected you’d been male and had a gender change. But as Dr Kendall said, some fine surgeon gave you an excellent vagina. And the pregnancy thing has certainly confused matters. The question now is why was it done without your permission?”

“Let’s go back to the house, make a cup of tea and talk,” I said.

***

“When I first saw you get out of that bed in the cottage,” Howard said, “your stance was like a male and your behaviour was like a male but you had this marvellous female body. I found it so incredibly erotic, far more so than any of the women I’d spied on before. I fell in love with you on the spot and then everything that happened subsequently has just cemented that love.

“But then,” he continued, “even though your breasts were growing and then so was your tummy, I still felt that you had once been a man. And now this.” He shook his head. “I guess the police will find out what and why it happened.”

“I don’t want to go to the police,” I said. “At least, not just yet.”

“But someone did these things to you. They have to go to prison for it.”

“If it went to court, I would be in the public domain. The press would pounce on me and describe me as some kind of monster. They would state in horrific detail everything that had been done to me. And they’d say no smoke without fire. I must have been evil. And they’d say it over and over again. It would be never ending, for the rest of my life.”

Howard nodded. “There is something else as well. My mother.”

“What about her?”

“Over the last few months, she’s had something going on. I didn’t know what but there’d been a kind of excitement about her. Then she sent me to my aunt in Eastbourne saying she needed some help repainting some rooms. When I got there, I discovered my aunt was perfectly capable of redecorating by herself, but Mother had insisted that I go down for the week to help her. Then, whilst I was away, she had her heart problem and I had to come back here.”

Howard shook his head. “Finally, there’s this thing about the barn rental being changed to provide a home for the trailer. I just don’t know what to think.”

“You think,” I conjectured, “that she provided the barn in order for the gang, whoever they were, to house the portable operating theatre and that she is therefore totally involved in my forced conversion.”

He nodded again. “I haven’t told you the other thing which has been going round and round my head ever since we visited her in hospital. I left you in the corridor and went in to see her. I said something like, ‘I’ve met a girl and we’re going out. She’s a black girl who’s staying in our cottage.’ Then she freaked out. It could have been simply the mention of the word ‘black’, but the more I thought about it afterwards, it felt…” He paused.

“It felt,” I completed the sentence for him, “as though it was the bit about me staying in the cottage which actually freaked her out.”

He nodded. “Which would mean,” he said, “that she really was totally involved in your conversion. Perhaps she had her heart attack when they realised they didn’t have Gavin Collins, but instead some innocent person. Whilst she was in hospital, she must have agreed for you to be left in the cottage. Perhaps it was even her who tipped off the police about you.

A sudden grin split my mouth wide. “And then you go in,” I said, “full of the joys of spring telling her you’ve fallen in love with the person she’s just converted from man to woman. No wonder she freaked out.”

A smile came to his face and lit it up. “How can I be smiling?” he said. “My mother has had a stroke because of what I said to her…”

“No!” I interrupted. “Your mother had a stroke because of what she had done to another human being which had suddenly come around to smack her in the face. You are not guilty of anything, other than being honest with your mother.”

He nodded. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “But I don’t know what I should do…”

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. It was the hospital, ringing to tell him Evelyn had worsened and he should go in to see her.

***

I went with him to the hospital, thinking that if he received the worst kind of news then he’d need some support. As before, I sat in the corridor outside the ward, although this time it was an intensive care ward.

I didn’t really notice the nurse who came along the corridor and was about to enter the ward – not until she suddenly leapt backwards after glancing through the glass panel in the door and, I guessed, seeing Howard by Evelyn’s bed. I recognised her from Howard’s video as the black nurse who’d brought me into the cottage. She turned around, clearly about to return the way she came when she saw me watching her.

“Come to visit your partner in crime?” I asked as she hesitated over what to do. I read her name badge. “Nurse Annabella Benton. I think they called you Ella in front of me, didn’t they? You certainly didn’t wear your name badge.”

“No,” she said quietly, looking around to make certain we weren’t being overheard. “We didn’t want you remembering any of our normal names for rather obvious reasons. Miriam became Amy and Evelyn was just Lyn. I suppose…” She broke off as someone exited the ward behind her and walked past. It gave her a little time to consider what to say.

“Can we talk. I… I need to explain… to apologise.”

“Where shall we go? The café?”

“No,” she said. “There are too many ears flapping in there. I’m off duty now. Let’s go to the pub across the road. That’s quiet at this time of day.”

“I’ll text Howard,” I said, “and tell him to meet us there when he can.”

***

“You’re looking very pregnant, now,” Annabella said. “Far more so than a woman normally would after – what is it? Seven weeks. That’s because a woman doesn’t normally gain much weight in the first trimester. Still, we thought most blokes wouldn’t work that out. Did Miriam tell you how she did it?”

I nodded. “Yes, she explained about me gaining half a kilo per week. I’ve put on over two kilos since I started weighing myself, and reckon I must have put on well over a kilo before that.”

“She was an incredible surgeon,” she said. “And she put her skills to such wonderful use for the good of humanity.”

“Apart from me,” I said.

“Yes” she agreed, “apart from you, but presumably, you know what happened to her daughter.” I nodded again. “When she moved to this hospital, I made a point of making contact with her. We had a lot in common as my daughter, Chevelle, committed suicide after a man called Gavin Collins raped her and she became pregnant. Miriam and I became best of friends, and we’d frequently meet up for lunch and have a chat. We’d often get into a kind of fantasy fest – you know, what we’d like to do to those men who killed our daughters. Castrating them and, in my case, turning their skin black. It was a release for us and we got to the point where we could laugh about our ideas.”

She stared at me. “You don’t realise what it’s like to lose the most important person in the world. It’s like part of your heart has been cut out and you will never live again. Our lunches together meant we were starting to rebuild. Then one day, Evelyn came into the canteen as we were chatting. She knew Miriam from Gynaecology and she came over to greet her. We jokingly told her how we’d been planning these horrific tortures for these evil men and she joined in. I could tell straightaway that she didn’t like black people but it seemed she hated men even more. She’d been raped when she was in her mid-forties and, er...” She paused, considering. “She became pregnant with Howard.”

“Oh God!” I said. “Does Howard know?”

“No,” she said. “Please don’t tell him. I’ve only told you because you need to understand the reason why she got involved and why things progressed as they did. Once Evelyn got over the colour of my skin, we all got on well together, and then, whenever she came into hospital for one of her regular appointments, she’d always pop into the canteen at lunchtime and see if we were there.

“We must have been chatting like this for months before Evelyn suggested that talk was fine but we should seriously consider taking it further. Miriam and I were both a little taken aback but I guess we felt that, actually, she had a point. We started talking a little more seriously about how we would go about implementing our wild plans. Miriam knew of the portable operating theatre held by the Health Authority which was about to be sold off and Evelyn said it could be stored in an old barn that she owned in Oakham Woods.”

“Howard and I found it,” I said.

“Then I was informed that Gavin Collins was to be released on parole from prison,” she said as though I hadn’t spoken. “That was the final catalyst.”

She looked grimly at me as she took a sip of her wine, before continuing. “The problem was, how did we know exactly when Collins would be released, and then how would we capture him. We hadn’t a clue about either of those. That was when Evelyn said that she’d been on blogs with like-minded people and was going to make contact with one person who said they were employed by the prison service. Miriam and I thought that this person was probably bulling, as you get on these blogs, but actually, she came up trumps.”

She paused for a little and then continued. “She called herself Vengie, short for Vengeance. Like Miriam and me, she’d lost someone to a sex crime but we never knew who she really was – and didn’t want to find out.”

This was presumably Wen King, I decided, but didn’t say anything.

“She was able to find out the exact day when Collins was being released. She also knew past offenders who could help kidnap him. I know it cost her money and they used a young-looking black prostitute as bait in the pub next to the prison. Through one of her other contacts, she’d got hold of someone who ran brothels in Amsterdam, and the plan was that after the operation, she and I would drive him there, concealed in the luggage. We didn’t think there’d be a problem with customs travelling to Amsterdam rather than away from it.”

She looked at me, the pain in her eyes. “Then Collins’s release was postponed at the last minute and Vengie didn’t find out until some days later. Somehow you must have walked into the trap. Presumably, this black girl enticed you into a car or van. I don’t know how they managed to capture you, but Vengie brought you down on the Monday evening in her Range Rover, sedated and packed up in a large suitcase.

“Miriam and I had already decided to carry out all your operations in one go. I think we both felt that otherwise we might not go through with it. We kept you sedated until the operation, the next day. It was a long operation. Miriam was fine during the operation but afterwards, she went to pieces. I took her home, sedated her and finally got her settled down. By the time I got back to the portable theatre, it was bedlam. You had returned to consciousness and Evelyn and Vengie had delighted in telling you about your operation and their plans for you. You’d been persistently telling them they had the wrong person, which they didn’t believe. By then, you were in shock. I went crazy at them and had to throw them out and treat you to avoid you dying on us.

“The next few days, we kept you sedated whilst we made you look more the part. Evelyn had once been a hairdresser and beautician, so she took the lead: electrolysis on your body hair, false nails, collagen on your lips and cheeks to thicken them, dying your hair black and giving you an Afro style.”

Another pause as she prepared to say the most difficult words. “On Friday, Vengie discovered you’d been telling the truth. Collins was still in prison and was to be released in a few weeks. Evelyn went crazy at her and had what appeared to be a heart attack and was taken into hospital.”

The tears were rolling down her cheeks, now. “That left Vengie and me to try to sort out the mess. I contacted Howard who was staying with an aunt in Eastbourne and asked him to return home. Vengie had made an agreement with someone in Amsterdam to take you into a brothel and she didn’t want to let them down, so she wanted to take you to Amsterdam anyway. I refused to go with her and, when she said she’d do it on her own, I said that if you did, I’d tip off the police about her.

“We’d always planned to give you a heavy dose of flunitrazepam – that’s what’s known as Roofies – to cloud your memory,” she continued. “I suggested we did that and then dumped you at Evelyn’s rental cottage which Vengie had been staying in until then.”

“Sorry,” I interrupted. “Did you say that Vengie had been staying in the cottage where I was found? That would mean it was booked under her name of Vengie?”

“Evelyn thought the name Vengie was too obvious so that if the police did investigate, they’d immediately be suspicious. So, she shortened it to Ven and added the surname Smith just to give it a ring of normality. Vengie was furious about that, so much so that we reckoned her name really was Smith.”

Not quite, I thought. It had been Gwen Jones rather than Ven Smith – far too similar for comfort. But I couldn’t help but smirk that Howard had translated this name based upon hatred into something as beautiful as Venetia.

“Anyway,” Annabella continued, “Vengie seemed to go along with the idea of dumping you in the cottage and I went to see Evelyn in hospital who agreed. She said that Howard was driving back from Eastbourne that day – which was the Saturday – and would be visiting her that evening. She’d use some pretence to get him to go round to check on you the following evening. He’d find you and would then probably take you to hospital. So that sounded like a plan, only unknown to me, Vengie put the whole pack of flunitrazepam into your drinking water. She didn’t care whether you lived or died since, once she’d left the area, she was untraceable.”

“Didn’t you take a note of the registration number of her car?” I asked. “It sounds like you were being left holding the baby.”

“Vengie had made a point of telling us that one of her iffy friends had got her a stolen Range Rover and given it false number plates,” she said, “so there wasn’t much point.”

“We left you in the cottage on Sunday morning and then Vengie and I split up, with the plan never to see or contact each other again, although we all had Pay As You Go mobiles just in case. I went home to sleep. Even though I was exhausted, I slept little and later on, I decided to go to the portable theatre and give it a thorough clean out, as we’d always planned. The first thing I did was to clear out all the drugs we’d been using. That’s when I discovered the missing flunitrazepam and realized what Vengie must have done. I knew I had to get you to hospital straight away so I drove towards the cottage. That’s when I saw the police car with its blue light flashing. I presumed you’d been found dead. I went back to the portable theatre, cleaned it out and then went home and waited for the police to come to arrest me.”

She paused, seemingly stronger now she’d told the worst. “And the police never came. I went back to work but decided to wait until Miriam and Evelyn were back before trying to find out what had happened with you. Then the real Collins was murdered and the police came around to interview me, as one of the people he’d wronged. Fortunately, I was working the day he was kidnapped and was clearly shocked that presumably Vengie had gone ahead with her revenge, in spite of the terrible cock up she made with the first. It seems to me that she’s a little crazy.”

“You didn’t try to get rid of the portable theatre?” I asked.

“It was Miriam who’d arranged to borrow it from the Health Authority on some pretext. I’d need a lorry and driver to move it and I assumed the police would be buzzing around having found you dead. As the weeks ticked by, and there was no mention of finding your body, I tried to put the whole thing behind me, at least until Miriam returned to work. She eventually came in for half a day and then went crazy over some patient and committed suicide the next day. And as the story circulated around the hospital, I realised that patient sounded just like you. When I heard the name of the patient, I realised that you had taken the name of Ven Smith as your own and expanded it. I assumed you would talk to the police investigating Miriam’s suicide and they would quickly latch onto me. Again, it never came.” She looked at me, confusion in her eyes.

“You need to understand my position,” I said. “When the police came to the cottage, it wasn’t because my body had been found, but I think they’d been told there was an illegal immigrant staying there.”

“No?” she gasped. “Vengie must have done that so that you were locked up in an immigration centre rather than treated in hospital, which is what you needed.” She shook her head. “The evil bitch.”

“I understand why you did what you did,” I said. “I know you must all have been a bit out of your minds, and I guess Evelyn drove you on, as later did Vengie. My real concern is not about having you thrown into prison, but about finding out who I really am. I need to know what name I gave you, when I awoke from the operation. I need to find my old self.”

“I don’t think Evelyn is ever going to recover enough to say anything, and she and Vengie never told me. I’ll ring her on her PAYG mobile and ask her. I can’t do it straightaway as we don’t keep them switched on. I have to send her a text giving a time when we can talk, and then we all check for texts daily. I’ll come back to you as soon as I have some information. I promise…”

She broke off as my mobile started ringing. It was Howard and as soon as he started speaking, I knew it was bad news.

***

Howard’s mother had died whilst I was speaking to Annabella. I went back to the hospital, advising her to make herself scarce in front of Howard who, I told her, thought he had glanced me being taken into the cottage by two women.

There’s so much to do when someone dies, and usually, it’s at the worst time in someone’s life for them to handle it. I gave my loving support to Howard and tried my best to handle the logistics. I arranged for an undertaker to collect her body and took Howard home and made tender love to him. The next few days seemed to be occupied with doing all the standard things one has to do: registering the death, notifying friends and relatives, arranging the funeral, seeing the solicitor who had handled her will and visiting her bank and building societies.

I’d put my conversation with Annabella out of my mind for the main part, only thinking of it when I had a few moments free.

Then, on the Friday following Evelyn’s death, I was waddling back to the cottage after getting off the bus at the end of the lane. There was an elderly Range Rover driving down the track towards me. It was quite unusual to see any vehicle driving along that track but not completely unknown. I guess that with it being a Range Rover, I also wondered whether it might be Wen King, since Annabella had told me she had one.

So, when the driver suddenly gunned the engine and swerved towards me, I was already alert. As the car leapt towards me, I swivelled sideways and fell into the ditch besides the road with a thump which took my breath away. My body rolled another half turn before coming to a halt, winded but otherwise unhurt.

Until I felt something trickling between my legs. My initial thought was that I had landed in the stream, but I put my hand down and brought it back, covered in blood.

“Shit!” I struggled to sit up to examine the source when I heard a sound above me, and looked up to see Wen King standing there, menacingly holding a thick wooden branch.

“Bloody hell!” she said, in a conversational way. “Looks like Amy wasn’t such a smart surgeon after all. Something’s burst and there’s an awful lot of your insides gushing out.”

She was right. The blood was pouring out between my legs. It seemed that my new vagina had withstood all the pounding that Howard had given it over the last few weeks, but it had now collapsed after a fall into the ditch.

“When Ella told me that you weren’t dead or rotting in some Immigration Centre, but alive and well and asking embarrassing questions, I’d hoped to make it a simple hit and run,” she said. “Then you so promptly dodged out of the way and I realised I was going to have to turn it into a bludgeoning to death. Now, it looks like Amy’s dodgy surgery is doing the job for me.”

The blood was streaming out between my legs and flowing like a river to the bottom of the ditch where it was forming a large puddle, and beginning to flow downstream. It was like when you drop one of those two-litre milk containers and it bursts; only it was red and there was far more of it. There was a buzzing in my ears and I started to feel rather faint. “Before I die,” I whispered. “Tell me my name.”

She smiled. “Your name is Bond. Gavin Bond.” She said it in the theatrical way that I’d heard countless times before.

“When you regained consciousness and told us your name,” she continued, “we thought you’d invented it, Bond being the only surname you could think of on the spur of the moment. Presumably, when our tart chatted to you in the pub next to the prison, she assumed the same.”

Her smile turned into a grin as she added, “But I can’t hang around here for long. Someone might come along and I’ve always wanted to say this.”

She stood more upright and said in a sort of wooden voice, “I don’t expect you to talk, Mr Bond. I expect you to die.”

She giggled as she turned away and walked over to the Range Rover. Before getting in, she said with another dramatic giggle, “Goodbye, Mr Bond.”

Then, she got in and drove off, leaving me to my fate. The buzzing in my head got louder until it swamped out everything else.

***

There was a dark spot on the branch. That was my first thought as I woke up. There wasn’t normally a branch above me when I awoke, with or without a dark spot. In fact, normally I’d wake up with a red emulsioned ceiling above me, rather than open sky interspersed with trees. As I recalled the last few minutes of consciousness, I realised there was now no buzzing in my ears, simply the rapturous sound of birds singing in the trees. I was no longer in pain and my body felt lighter, in some way. Was this what it was like to be dead, I wondered.

I sat up, so much more easily than normal and looked down between my legs. The bleeding had completely stopped and my blood formed a grungy mess along the bottom of the ditch as far as I could see.

What next, I wondered. Did St Peter come and get me, or did I have to find my own way there? When it was clear there was no heavenly taxi arriving, I thought I had better stand up. And that’s when I discovered I was still attached to the blood-stained legs before me. What’s more, I could move them.

I gingerly got to my feet and climbed out of the ditch. I even managed to extract my handbag from the bush, where it had landed. Then, I started to walk in my blood-drenched dress towards home.

***

By the time Howard came home from work, I’d had a shower and carefully examined my tummy. My bulge had completely disappeared but it had left slight stretch marks on the skin. All of my blood-stained clothing was in a black plastic bag in the dustbin. Now, I was dressed in one of Evelyn’s lovely gowns which I was slim enough to fit back into, and I felt superb.

“But I don’t understand,” Howard said after I had briefly relayed the events of that afternoon, “why you aren’t dead. Surely, no one can lose that amount of blood and simply get up and walk home?”

“Dr Horsfall thought it would be very funny to make me appear pregnant. She sewed an elastic bladder in the front of my stomach, which gradually filled up with time – about half a kilogram per week. I’d assumed it was filling with juices from my stomach, but now I assume it was connected to an artery and was filling with blood. When I got to the size of a gestating elephant, a valve would open and make it look as though I was having a miscarriage. When I landed in the ditch, the valve prematurely opened and discharged all the blood from the bladder, which after this time, would have been almost as much blood as most people have in their bodies. And Wen King knew nothing about that, which is what saved me from being bludgeoned to death.”

“We have to go to the police, now,” Howard said.

I smirked. “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s all been taken care of. You see, as Wen King told me my name, my whole life history came back to me. Well, most of it, anyway. Let’s make some tea and I’ll tell you the story.”

***

“It started,” I said, “with Miriam Horsfall and Annabella Benton indulging in harmless escapism about what they would do to the men who had killed their children. Then your mother got involved and turned it into a real project and unfortunately involved Wen King, who is seriously crazy.

“Afterwards, Miriam had a breakdown and when she later discovered her victim was innocent, she committed suicide. Your mother had a heart attack, then a stroke which killed her. Annabella is full of remorse. But when Wen King discovered the mistake, she had no remorse. After the operation, she didn’t care whether I lived or died. Now, she’s prepared to murder me. Annabella thinks she’s crazy and I’m sure she’s right.

“I asked Wen King my real name,” I said, “and she told me I was Gavin Bond. Then she simply had to add that quote from Goldfinger when James Bond asks him if he expects him to talk and he says: No, Mr Bond. I expect you to die.”

I paused a little. “That brought everything back. I remembered Matthew Walters saying that at primary school. And I remembered Peter Bevan saying that when I was first in a pub. And so on and so on. They all think they’re being clever and witty. When you’ve heard it a thousand times before, it simply sounds monotonous and rude.

“However, it may have been monotonous and rude but it brought back my entire life. I can remember almost everything, except for those last days in the portable theatre, which thankfully are still blotted out.

“I was a software consultant, engaged to perform security audits at prisons across the country. I’d also advise them how to make their systems secure. It was always miserable going inside the prisons but it was a job and it paid well. And when I got out of prison, I always found it essential to go into the nearest pub and have a pint.

“I can remember going into the Hole in the Wall after getting out of Wakeham prison. There was what I thought was a student from the local college, doing a project about prison reform and she wanted to ask me some questions. She obviously didn’t want to chat to a software consultant so I pretended to be a criminal. We chatted, and then she asked me if I wanted to go back to the college minibus to ‘do some practical tests’.” I shrugged. “She was attractive and I thought why not. I can remember climbing up into the minibus and feeling a sharp jab in my leg. Then, nothing until I woke up inside the cottage.”

“What’s happening about Wen King?” Howard asked.

“I sent the police in Wakeham an email about her. I’m pretty certain that from that they’ll be able to charge and convict her for the murder of Gavin Collins.”

“And what about Annabella?”

“Four people were suffering from the results of hateful crimes and their own hatred consumed them. Two are now dead; one will go to prison. The one thing to learn from these events is that hatred against others, no matter what they have done to deserve it, will destroy you. We must all let it go and get on with our lives. I wish Annabella well.”

Howard bit his lip a little and hesitated with his next question. “Now you know your real identity, does that mean you’ll return to it?”

I smiled at him. “Apart from sending an email to the police, this afternoon, I’ve also sent emails to all my clients, explaining that I’ve been ill and that I’ve recruited my cousin, Venetia Bond, to join in partnership with me. I’m sure she’ll get on with my clients far better than Gavin used to.”

“I bet she will. But...” he hesitated. “What about us?”

“The paperwork will take time to sort out but I don’t think there’ll be a problem with it. Which means I should be able to do everything as Venetia Bond. I could get married, for example. Clearly, I cannot bear children, but could adopt them.”

“You said ‘could adopt them’.”

“I meant me and my husband could, whoever that might be.”

His eyes widened. “Venetia...”

“Yes?”

“Venetia, will you marry me?”

I smiled at him, put my arms around his neck and gave him a lingering kiss. After a while, I said, “Ask me again in ten minutes.”

He did, as well.

“Ven – e – tia – will – you – marry – me?”

“Oh God!” I screamed, digging my nails into his back. “Yes! – Yes! – Y-EEE-SSSS!”

Why do some men cross-dress? It's a question which confounds the experts, which even the cross-dressers themselves cannot answer, and to which many others will simply reply, "Because they're weirdoes." But maybe, the author suggests, the answer is analogous to questions such as why do we enjoy sex or why do birds build nests? The answer in both cases is, of course, to propagate our respective species.

This is Book One of the Human Cuckoo Trilogy, a standalone story reproduced in full. The entire trilogy of stories, along with discussion is available on Kindle.

Evolution has produced an incredible variation of animal species. Amongst humans, we see variation across races, as well as considerable deviation within a race. Is it possible that cross-dressing is simply another type of variation which, under certain circumstances, has given sufficient advantage over others to produce its own sub-species? That the driving will to cross-dress is simply a result of evolution?

Lin Dale has written this trilogy of short stories to suggest there are strong grounds for believing that is the case.

(Adam and Eve: Believe - Cockney Rhyming Slang)

The roar of the sabre-tooth cat brought Adam out of his stupor like nothing else could. It was a roar which said, "I can smell you. I'm not far away. Just keep still and I'm coming to get you."

Adam knew that many forest animals would do exactly that; petrified to move, hoping the sabre-tooth would find something else to eat. But Adam was not any animal, he was a human - a being of a higher order. He knew the best way to avoid being eaten was to run like the wind. But which way?

The roar had come from downwind. The safety of his village lay in the opposite direction, but it was too far away as well as being upwind all the way. The sabre-tooth would easily follow his scent, until it could pounce on him and stab his body with its huge sabre-teeth, again and again until he was dead.

In the direction of the highest sun, the forest soon gave way to open grassland, and inevitable exposure; and in the direction of no sun, lay the Land of the Giant - a being even more feared than the sabre-tooth. The sabre-tooth roared again, and Adam changed his mind. The sabre-tooth was after him; the Giant was not. He ran as fast as he could towards the Land of the Giant.

Other males had told him that the threat of death concentrates the mind like nothing else; that your whole life flashes before you. They were right. Gone was the stupor he'd been in ever since his precious Eve had breathed her last. Instead, as he ran, he could remember the first time he'd ever seen her, the most beautiful female in the whole of the human race.

Every male had wanted her; they were all bigger, stronger and faster than he was, and expert hunters. They had pranced their stuff in front of Eve with a confidence that he'd never had. But Eve had seen something in him which he hadn't recognised in himself. She had taken him as her mate, and had brought out his real abilities. He couldn't throw a spear, but by watching others, he worked out how to make them fly straighter and further, and do more damage when they hit. He devised traps which caught animals without having to hunt them down.

It was catching the leopard in a trap which had gained him the respect of the village. The animal had occasionally been coming into the village and taking away a child. When his trap caught the leopard, he became the hero of every parent. They had all shared the meat of the leopard, but it was Adam who was awarded the skin and Eve who was so proud when he gave it to her. She made the skin fit her so tightly, she was even more attractive when wearing it than when she was naked, a feat which, everyone admitted, was impossible.

The seasons had come and gone, as had their seven children, five males and two females. Sadly, all the males had been killed whilst out hunting as he himself was about to be. He urged himself to run even faster, and hope the sabre-tooth had lost his scent, but his countless number of rainy seasons were against him.

When they had lowered the body of Eve into the hole in the ground, the villagers had wanted to bury her leopard skin with her, but he'd held onto it. He'd always been small for a man, and that evening he'd managed to squeeze his own body into it. Much to the disgust of the villagers, he'd taken to wearing the skin ever since. What did he care about them - it was comforting to wear something which had been so close to his beloved Eve.

As he ran, he wondered whether the other men in the village had played any part in his current position. He'd never been the greatest of hunters, and most villagers now took for granted the food regularly caught in his traps. But since Eve was taken from him, he hadn't the will to do the most basic of work, and they had almost forced him to come on this simple mission to lay more traps. Having problems in keeping up with their fast pace, it was they who had suggested he wait for them whilst they went to the furthest extremes. Had they known the sabre-tooth was in this area, and deliberately left him alone to rid the village of its liability?

The roar of the sabre-tooth was much closer, now. Clearly, his change of direction had not fooled the animal and it was right behind him. The sabre-tooth was going to kill him, unless the Giant got to him first, and killed him in an even more horrific way.

It was a ghastly death for any male found wandering in the Land of the Giant, whether by accident or, as many stupid, young males did, searching for the harem of the Giant, reputedly packed with many pretty females. Adam had helped to bury some of their bodies which the Giant would leave on the edges of his land, as a warning to others. In addition to the twisted limbs and bloody wounds, all had suffered the same final act - he had bitten off their manhood, tearing it from their bodies whilst they were still alive and screaming. The rumour was that eating it increased his own virility, but Adam and the other elders tried to quash this story, pointing out there was no indication of any young in the Land of the Giant, regardless of the number of females he took into his harem.

Some males had seen the Giant from afar whilst out hunting, and said he was more than a head taller than the tallest male in the village, with a hairy body and the ugliest face anyone could imagine. He could run as fast as a zebra, and was more powerful than a gorilla. Outside his own land, he was not known to have killed any human, but if any of the villagers realised they were tracking the same prey, they would retire from the hunt and look for another animal. Periodically, the Giant would snatch a young female from the village and take them back to his harem. Adam's own daughter, Dawn, had been taken, but no one believed he caused them harm. Besides, what could anyone do to prevent it?

When Adam came into the clearing and saw the Pond of Flowers, it was exactly as some males had described it, although Adam had never believed that any of them would be so stupid as to step this far inside the Land of the Giant. The pond was fed by a stream which meandered through an area full of wonderful flowers; the blooms fell into the stream, and collected in the pond. Adam lowered himself into the water, hoping that he would lose the scent being tracked by the sabre-tooth. He sank down into the water until only his face was breaking the surface. When the sabre-tooth came really close, he'd sink beneath the water and hold his breath for as long as he could.

It was only seconds before he saw the sabre-tooth enter the clearing, looking all around and clearly confused that its prey was not in sight. Before Adam could lower his face beneath the water, the sabre-tooth gave a horrific roar and raced towards the far side of the clearing. Adam couldn't help but jerk his head around to discover its new prey. There, standing at the edge of the clearing was the Giant, making no attempt to run away; for even giants should be afraid of the sabre-tooth.

Instead, when the sabre-tooth was just a leap away from the Giant, it shot upwards, rather than forwards, and was left suspended in the air, growling horribly, and slashing out with its claws. The Giant remained standing where he was, safely out of reach. It was a superb trap, Adam realised, similar to the one Adam had once used to trap the leopard, only more than twice the size. But the next action of the Giant took Adam totally by surprise.

"You!" he bawled, and pointed directly at Adam. He beckoned, and commanded, "Here."

Running away, Adam realised, apart from being totally useless, would make the Giant angry - not a wise action. In fact, the Giant looked remarkably pleased with himself, as well he might at trapping such a huge beast. Maybe the Giant had a nice side, and only needed the congratulations of a fellow trap-maker to let him off lightly. Adam pulled himself out the water and walked towards the Giant, a smile of congratulation on his face.

When he was close enough to be heard over the ferocious roaring of the sabre-tooth, he said slowly, carefully pronouncing each word so the Giant would understand, "Good - trap." He made a point of walking right up to the sabre-tooth, as close as he could without getting slashed by its claws. Adam pointed at himself. "I - make - traps," he said. "In - village." He pointed towards village.

The Giant actually looked impressed. "You make trap?" he repeated, pointing at Adam.

"Yes." Adam waved down at his leopard skin and added, "I - catch - leopard."

"Good." The Giant nodded, and his face distorted in something Adam thought was an attempt to smile. "We fuck here."

For an instant, Adam didn't understand what the Giant was saying. He repeated the words, "We - fuck - here?" and then realisation dawned. Not only had he come up smelling of roses, but the leopard skin he was wearing, which Eve had cut to exaggerate the curves of her own figure was doing just the same to Adam. The Giant thought he was a female. No wonder he was still alive.

What to do? Confess and suffer an imaginably cruel death; or leap into the jaws of the sabre-tooth and enjoy a quicker death. If his mind had been concentrated before, it was sharper than the tooth of the animal itself, now. The wonderful ways in which Eve had pleasured him came flashing through his mind - for she was as innovative as he was. But he had to say this carefully.

"You - want - good - fuck?" he asked, "or - cunt - fuck?"

The Giant looked puzzled. "Cunt fuck is good fuck."

Adam rolled his eyes and smiled as he shook his head. "I - show - you."

He sank to his knees, pulled aside the loin cloth of the Giant and put out his tongue.

***

"This, Eve," the Giant said to the many females in his harem. "She good fuck. She show you how fuck good." With that, he stepped back though the gap in the wooden barricade which encircled his village, and closed it behind him.

The barricade not only prevented the females from escaping, Adam realised, but also protected the village from wild animals. If he ever returned to his home, he thought, he could build such a barricade around his own village.

"Greetings, Eve. I am Hannah," said a short female with bigger breasts than any he'd ever seen before. "Nice leopard skin," she added, admiringly.

In fact, a quick glance around told him the rumours had been right about the collection of females in the harem of the Giant. Everyone was a stunner, especially the tall girl standing next to Hannah with the long, shapely legs. But something puzzled him and another quick glance confirmed his suspicion. The Giant had lived here collecting females for many, many rainy seasons, and yet all the females before him were young.

"Greetings, Hannah." He pointed to the skin and proudly said, "I catch leopard in trap," and added, "but why no females my age?

"They all make baby of Giant." Hannah pulled a horrible face. "Baby get too big inside. Cannot come out. Much pain, then female and baby breathe no more. Better not have baby, but it happen."

"Ugh!" Adam could remember the pain of Eve when she gave birth to their normal ones.

A familiar voice behind him said, "Da-d? Why you here? And why wear leopard skin of Mum?"

"Dawn." He turned to greet and hug his beloved child, then he let his face turn sad. "Mum get ill. She in much pain. She breathe no more."

"Oh no."

Adam hugged her, before Hannah said in a confused voice, "But Dawn, Eve is female - not dad. Giant tell us he fuck Eve."

"No," Adam said. "I am Adam. Eve die. I love her. I wear her skin. I tell Giant I am Eve. I fuck him with mouth."

"You - fuck - Giant - with - mouth! Ugh!" Hannah pulled a face. "You male? I not believe."

Adam released Dawn and started to wriggle out of his leopard skin. All the pretty females gathered around, fascinated. It took some time, since it was very, very tight. As he pulled the skin down his legs, something rose up between him and the females.

A little gasp went around them, and Hannah nodded and said, "You male." After a pause, she said, "You give me baby? You teach me fuck Giant with mouth? Then Giant not give me baby."

"Me to," the tallest female with long, shapely legs said, and then all the rest of the harem were joining in, clamouring for the same.

Adam looked around, a big smile on his face, the first for many days. "I do my best," he said, "even if it take all night."

"Dad! That disgusting," Dawn said, walking away.

***

It was many seasons later. The Giant looked contentedly around his harem. Almost all either had baby inside or baby in arms. Who would think, he thought, that humans make good baby through mouths? All babies look like mothers, but in each there was part of him. It was time, he realised, to stock his harem with many more pretty females. He would die a very happy Giant.

DISCUSSION

Did this event happen exactly as portrayed in this story? Probably not. But could similar events have occurred in the history of mankind? Certainly.

Even in recent history, powerful men have kept harems of females, and wherever such a collection of females exist, other men will attempt to mate with them, even if they do risk death in doing so. Appearing to be a female is a relatively simple way in which insignificant males could gain access to a harem, without use of force. Once inside, they have superb opportunity to propagate their own genes. It wasn't even necessary for them to escape afterwards, as long as their children survive.

Book One suggests just one reason why evolution may have favoured cross-dressers. Books Two and Three identify other reasons. The Human Cuckoo Trilogy is available on Kindle
.

Finally, it's worth adding that other readers, when considering my theorem, have replied by stating it doesn't explain other aspects of LGBT. That's certainly true, but then neither does it explain Einstein's Theory of Relativity; I leave those explanations to those who profess to know more about them than I do.

When Ian makes a magnaninous offer to his wife in order to save his marriage, he little realises the repercussions

THE KEYS TO THE CROWN JEWELS
BY LIN DALE

PROLOGUE BY RACHEL
IAN’S STORY
EPILOGUE – RACHEL’S STORY

PROLOGUE BY RACHEL

My co-worker, Ian Brown, and I had got on really well for the five months we'd worked together. Then, over the last few weeks, I'd noticed that he'd been very twitchy about something. I guessed it was marriage problems, and although we talked openly about most things, he clearly didn't want to share that information with me. I really wanted to help him but realised there was little I could do if he didn't want to talk about it.

IAN’S STORY

Chapter 1 – The green-eyed monster

Jealousy is a terrible monster. Once it gains hold, it's almost impossible to let it go. So much suspicion is thrown by the accuser that it becomes self-defeating; the accused can be driven away by the overwhelming love of the accuser. Even an act of love by the accused, for example a bunch of flowers, is taken as a virtual admission of guilt.

So it was with my wife, Sarah. She had become convinced that I was having an affair with Rachel, at work. OK, Rachel was a fun person to work with and looked very sexy, her skin was as black as ebony and, as black skin often is, absolutely perfect. She’d reached that stage where her boobs and bum had filled out without her tummy yet catching up, giving her an hourglass figure. But she had a partner and so did I. I had nothing to hide from Sarah so I didn't try to. I made no secret of the fact that Rachel and I got on well and shared a small office, just as there were several men in the offices where Sarah worked, and she never hid that from me. Sarah’s first suspicions started when she met Rachel at a company function and Rachel revealed she lived with her partner in a flat just five minutes from our office.

So the monster took a hold. Sarah became convinced that Rachel and I were popping out of the office to her flat and having passionate sex. She was becoming obsessive to the point where I was fearing for her mental health. If my homecoming train was late by more than a few minutes, and that was a fairly common occurrence, Sarah would go into a screaming fit, sometimes throwing things at me.

It came to a head one Friday evening and I decided I had a choice: I could walk out of our relationship; or I could make a sacrifice.

"Would you like me to wear a chastity device to work?" I offered.

"What?" Sarah looked puzzled.

"You heard. I'm prepared to wear a chastity device when I go to work and you keep the key."

"Surely they were for women, and disappeared in the middle ages."

I'd already done some research and showed her one of the many web pages where such items could be bought.

"Do they really work?"

I shrugged. "I think it depends on the device and how well it fits. Why don't we purchase one and we can give it a try."

"OK, Ian," she said, as she scrolled through the several pages showing dozens of chastity devices of every type. "But don't even think about those plastic ones. Obviously, you could smash your way out of one of those in seconds."

"Yes," I agreed, "but if I did manage to smash it without damaging the very sensitive parts of my anatomy inside, I'd have to come home and you would see I was no longer chastity intacta. It would be obvious that I'd broken out."

"Not if you‘d bought an identical device with the same lock," Sarah argued. "You could put the new one on and I'd be none the wiser. In any case, it would be too late, then, wouldn't it? You'd have some excuse that you caught it in the pencil sharpener in the office, which I wouldn't believe, and I would know you had committed adultery. Let's choose one of those metal ones. Some look really strong."

"You choose," I said. "My only criteria is that it must be comfortable to wear all day. I'm not having one of these things where they stick a tube down the urethra or are designed to torture the victim."

"Fair enough," Sarah said. "You go away and I’ll choose one which meets your stipulations. I don’t want you to know where I buy this from so you can sneakily contact them and get another key."

"Er, right." That took me rather by surprise but I could see her point. After all, the whole purpose of the exercise was to reassure her I wasn’t having sex with Rachel or anyone else. She had to know I couldn’t cheat on the deal.

"I’ll see if I can get next day delivery," she said. "That’ll give time for me to make certain it's secure, and there's no way you can wriggle out."

"OK," I agreed, "but our deal is that normally I only wear this for work. I'm not wearing it when I'm at home, except on this one occasion to test it to your satisfaction."

"Thanks, darling," Sarah said. "Maybe I have been too suspicious about you and Rachel. Let's hope this is a new start."

"It's a deal," I said.

***

To be honest, I was quite aroused at the very idea of wearing a chastity device. It's one of those weird things about male psyche; whilst sex is in abundance, you become quite casual about it, but when it's denied, it becomes an obsessive need.

How was I going to find it when I went to work and Rachel was wearing one of her low cut tops? Incidentally, I never told Sarah about those. All the same, Sarah and I had been together for many years and, apart from the jealousy, we got on well together. I always had been faithful, although to be honest, that was probably more because I was pretty useless at chatting up women. If Rachel had suddenly flung her body at me, would I really have resisted? Well, I'd have no choice now.

Chapter 2 – An introduction to chastity

Next day was Saturday and the parcel arrived mid-morning. Sarah rapidly grabbed it out of my hands before I could open it; I think because she wanted to ensure I couldn't make any attempt to cheat with it. Little did she realise how secure the damn thing would be.

"Let’s go upstairs and you can lie on the bed while I fit it," she said.

"I think it will probably need to be a joint exercise," I said. "From what I’ve read, they’re quite fiddly to put on."

"That’s one of the reasons why I chose this one," she said. "It’s supposed to be really easy."

"Hmm," I grunted, thinking I’d believe that when I saw it.

"It says I may need some ice to take off your erection." She smiled sweetly at me. "Do you want to get some from the fridge?"

"OK, as long as I administer the ice," I said.

So I went and got a bowl of ice, then went upstairs, removed my clothes from the waist downwards and lay on the bed, where Sarah had already laid out a large towel. She pulled the stool to the side of the bed, keeping the contents of the box from my view, which I was a bit suspicious about. I’d have to make certain there wasn’t anything nasty about this device before she locked me into it.

"He’s looking very excited," she said, smiling down at my cock. "Little does he know."

A fit of nervousness ran through me. "Look, Sarah. We agreed no torture devices. Will you let me see what you’re going to put on me?" I reached towards the box but she snatched it away from me.

"I swear to you, Ian, there’s no nastiness involved with this device other than that he won’t be able to get hard and say hello to any little pussies whilst he's inside it. But I want it to be a nice surprise for you so you’ll just have to trust me. Now, can you spread your legs wide and then use the ice, please."

I’d talked myself into this position, I realised. I had no choice but to go through with it. I spread my legs as wide as they’d go, reached for the ice and tentatively put a cube against my cock. It was cold, but not much happened.

"For heaven's sake, Ian. Don’t be such a wimp."

I took another ice cube and put it against the other side of my cock. Still no reaction.

"Oh, come here," she said, taking the bowl of ice, putting it between my legs and then shoving the whole lot up against my genitals.

"Agh!" I yelled.

"Don’t be such a baby," Sarah said. "See. It’s done the trick."

It had, too. She grabbed the towel and gave everything a rather rough dry off. "Now," she said, "let's introduce little Percy to his new friend."

She dipped her hands into the box and brought them out almost totally concealing the device, except for a couple of metal jaws similar to handcuffs. She turned her back on me and carefully lifted my testicles, pushed the cuffs against my shaft and they sprang shut around it.

"That's not uncomfortable for you, is it?" she asked.

"No," I admitted. "That's all right."

"OK, I'm going to close the cover, now." She moved her torso to get a slightly easier line for her but which prevented me seeing what was happening. I could feel something sliding over the upper side of my penis, pushing it backwards between my legs, and then there was another push, squeezing my cock against my testicles and a click. "That's not too tight for you, darling, is it?" Sarah asked.

"No," I said. "It feels all right at the moment. Can I see it?"

"Of course," she said. "I think you'll be impressed with your new whagina." (At least, that's what it sounded like.)

"My new what?" I asked.

This time she pronounced it more carefully. "Your new Y-gina," she said. "It's a vagina for people with a Y-chromosome. Don't you think it's beautiful?"

She moved aside so I could see between my legs. Instead of my caged cock and balls, there was a female pussy!

"Hell, Sarah," I yelled. "I didn't give you permission to change my sex."

"It's all right," she said. "I haven't really chopped off your cock and replaced it with a vagina. It only looks that way. But when I saw it, I thought it was really beautiful, much nicer than seeing all your male bits caged up. And if you're telling me the truth, then I'm the only one who's going to see it. On the other hand, if you are having an affair with Rachel, she's going to laugh her tits off when she sees that. Now for heaven's sake lighten up a little. Why don’t you give your new pussy a little stroke, just to say hello to her. You’re going to be spending a lot of time in each other’s company."

I reached my hand downwards to touch the contraption, thinking that although it looked like a pussy, it would simply be painted steel. Instead, it was soft to touch, just like a real pussy. Suddenly, Percy was getting rock hard - except that he wasn’t!

"Oh my God!" I moaned, doubling upwards as the pain exploded in my cock. "Take it off. Take it off. It’s killing me."

"Don’t be silly," she said, standing up. "This was your idea and that is something you’re going to have to get used to. I’ll leave you alone for a while. When things have calmed down, I want you to try to remove it."

"You can’t leave me like this," I said.

"You’re going to have to get used to experiencing these little twinges and dealing with them," she said. "I’m going to pop out to the shops now. If you’re still wearing that thing when I come back, I really fancy some lesbian sex. That should be incentive enough for you to wriggle out of it, before I come back."

"You can’t leave me locked in this," I yelled. "We agreed. I’d only wear this whilst I was at work, not about the house."

"But you agreed," Sarah pointed out, "that you’d also wear it this until I was satisfied you can’t escape, and I’m not yet satisfied." She left the room, re-entering a minute later with an envelope. She held it up so I could read our own address which she had written on it.

"I’ll make certain it goes in today's post with a first class stamp so it should be delivered on Monday."

"What should be delivered on Monday?"

She smiled, lifted the flap of the envelope and then popped the keys to the chastity device inside before sealing it. "Got to dash so I catch the post," she said, as I yelled, "No!"

She was out the door and down the stairs before I was off the bed. As I chased her down the stairs, I could hear the car starting and driving off.

I was trapped in this horrible device until I got home from work on Monday! Unless I really could manage to wriggle out of it.

Chapter 3 – No escape

Sarah must have had her lunch, for she was gone over two hours. During that time I researched the internet on how to remove a chastity device. The problem was that most chastity devices contain the cock in some kind of cage, through which one could use the backend of a teaspoon to push it out. Mine was totally encased by the pussy. After finding the Y-gina on the internet, I discovered that the soft silicone pussy concealed an armoured steel box beneath, with handcuff-level security.

As I heard our car drive up, I knew that within minutes, the blood would be rushing through my genitals, engorging them and making everything super sensitive. In the normal course of events, that would be wonderful, but when your cock is trapped in a small steel box, it is a terrifying thought.

"Hello darling," she called out. "Have you got it off, yet?"

"No, I haven’t," I shouted back, hurriedly locking the bathroom door. "And I’m not letting you make me have another erection."

"Don’t be silly, darling. Let me see you’re still wearing it." She rattled the bathroom door handle.

"It’s no good," I yelled. "I’m staying here until the post arrives on Monday. You’re not going to make me have another erection." But as I said the words, I could recognise their futility. I couldn’t spend the next two days in there. I couldn’t prevent Sarah trying to get me hard again.

I realised my words were even more futile when the lock turned by itself and the door opened revealing Sarah holding a coin.

"I had to learn how to do that when my young brother used to get locked in the bathroom," she said. "He was forever doing that."

She nodded down at the Y-gina. "You’re right. You haven’t managed to remove it. I reckon that passes my test."

"It’s a bit late for that," I said. "The keys are in the post and I’m trapped in this until Mon..."

My words dried up as Sarah held out a pair of keys. "I had to put you under pressure," she said, "just to ensure you weren’t cheating me. But seeing the state you’re in, I think you really are stuck in that thing.

"Do you know," she continued, "just thinking about your cock all locked up inside this pussy, with me holding the keys has made me feel incredibly randy. Shall we release the Y-gina and give your cock a bit of TLC?"

I should have been furious with her but I was so grateful to be released, and Percy immediately sprang erect, that it seemed churlish not to jump into bed with Sarah and celebrate Percy’s equivalent of The Great Escape.

Chapter 4 – My chaste day at work

So all thoughts of chastity devices were pushed aside until Monday morning, when I showered and then returned to the bedroom and said, just to make things absolutely clear, "OK, Sarah. Do you want to lock me in, on the strict understanding that you’ll release me as soon as I arrive home this evening? No more tests to destruction. Agreed?"

Sarah got out of bed and kissed me in the lips. "Agreed, darling. No matter what, I release you when you arrive home this evening."

Being able to watch it this time, I certainly had to admit it was simplicity itself. The handcuff jaws ratcheted closed around the base of my shaft, my cock and balls were pushed inside the steel box from the underside, and then the box hinged downwards to click into the handcuff.

It was self-locking so she didn't have to turn the key in the lock. She tossed the pair of keys onto her bedside cabinet.

My eyes followed the keys' parabola, and her eyes followed mine. "And don’t even think about nicking the key," she said. "Otherwise, it will make me think you’re cheating on me." She picked up the keys and put it into her dressing gown pocket.

"You need to find somewhere safe to hide the spare key," I said, "just in case you lose the one you use every day."

"So you can then search the house and find it? You must think I'm mad."

"It's such a tiny key," I pointed out. "You could hide it almost anywhere and make it impossible to find."

She sniffed but was obviously considering the idea.

I left for work feeling apprehensive that I was leaving control of my genitals behind.

***

I managed all day at work using the simple technique of not looking too much at women, or rather not concentrating on their sexual qualities. So I made certain I looked them in the eye, rather than continually checking out their boobs or their legs. In that way, I managed all day without any serious erections.

So I was feeling rather pleased with myself when I got home, having avoided a single painful erection. It was ruined as soon as I entered the house.

"Hi, darling. I’m home."

"I’m up in the bedroom."

Naturally, I didn’t waste time pouring out my normal post work glass of wine. Instead I raced upstairs to find Sarah wearing one of her sexiest nightdresses and nothing else.

"Hello, darling." Her normal brief peck on my cheek became a mouth on mouth assault, pulling my body into hers so I could feel every inch of her.

"Agh!" I tried to yell, but her tongue slid into my mouth and silenced me briefly. Then the pain became too much and I had to push her away as I collapsed on the bed.

"Oh, you don’t want me," she said, putting on her offended look. "In that case I’ll go away."

"No," I said "Please let me out of this contraption, then I can really show my love for you."

"Well, if you really want to make it up to me, I suppose we could start with a little soixante-neuf."

"But we agreed the chastity device would come off as soon as I got home."

"Oh darling. Surely you’re not objecting to a little fun along the way."

I sighed as I stripped off and lay on the bed.

***

"So darling," Sarah said some time later, after the device had been removed and mutual satisfaction had been reached – several times in Sarah’s case. "How was your chaste day at work?"

"It went OK, I guess," I said. "No one noticed my rather different shape down below. Obviously, I had to use a WC rather than a urinal, which was a bit inconvenient."

"Now you know what it’s like for a woman," Sarah chipped in. "Was Rachel disappointed she couldn’t have sex with you?"

"Rachel never has sex with me." I’d said it a hundred times before. "So it was no different from usual."

"But I thought men had hard-ons every five minutes," she said.

"It was a matter of mind over matter," I said.

"So it didn’t matter," Sarah said. "That’s great. Do you know, today instead of thinking about you and Rachel bonking, I’ve had a really pleasant day, culminating in a good bonking with my man before seven. I call that a result, don’t you?"

I smiled at her. "Yes, I do, so why don’t we have a little more..."

"Sorry," she said. "I’ve left something cooking in the oven. I need to go down and take it out. But you’ll continue with the Y-gina, tomorrow, won’t you?"

I nodded. "If it makes you happy then I’m in."

"Brilliant." She gave me a smirk as she disappeared out the door.

Chapter 5 – Stretching the boundaries

Things continued in this way for over a week. I wore the device to work every day and our sex life improved a hundred times over. Sarah, has always been quite timid with low self-esteem. Having control over my penis gave her a sexual buzz and she got on a high by teasing and tormenting me.

I’d read enough stuff on the internet about relationships turning into dominants and submissives, but in our case, it wasn't going beyond teasing followed by eventual release and fantastic sex. She became much more of a person who knew her own desires and a better person for it.

After a few days, I did complain that her teasing was going beyond our original agreement; that I’d be released as soon as I arrived home from work. I made certain this was at the end of our sex play, and I was out of the Y-gina before doing so.

"You’re absolutely right, Ian, but you can’t deny our sex life has come alive again. For me, I'm enjoying it more now than ever I have before. So I’m asking – no, begging you – to agree a change to our agreement. Rather than unlocking you as soon as you get home, I keep you locked up until, say, ten-thirty.

"Yes," she continued, "that means I’ll probably be sexually tormenting you for hours at a time, but can you deny you are loving it? So what do you say?"

"The Y-gina certainly has done wonders for our lives," I agreed. "Yes, it’s incredibly frustrating for me whilst you’re tormenting me, but it’s always wonderful at the end. So, OK, I’ll agree to change my freedom time to ten-thirty but not indefinitely. I can change it back at any time."

"That’s no good," Sarah pointed out. "You could just say that anytime you wanted me to let you out. How about you have to tell me the day before? Then I’ll have all night to work on you to get you to change your mind."

I nodded. "That sounds fair enough."

***

The next day when I arrived home, Sarah was in her Sexy Secretary gear, with a white low cut blouse and a short black skirt with high heels and seamed stockings. I could see they were stockings rather than tights for as she swivelled around, the skirt lifted to expose suspenders. Beneath the blouse, she wore one of those thin bras and I saw her nipples harden as she saw my reaction.

"Hello, darling. Since you’re not getting sex at the office now, I thought you might like me to take something down for you."

I gulped and sat down in a kitchen chair. It was going to be a long evening.

She pranced over to me, clicking her high heels, and stretched one long, stockinged leg over me so she could sit on my lap. "Mmm, I'm glad there's nothing hard there to make me uncomfortable. Isn't it nice having a little pussy? But I’m afraid this secretary needs her pencil rubbers licking. Do you think you could do that for me?" She slid her hand into the top of her blouse and pulled out one of her magnificent breasts. "Could you suck on this, please sir?"

I was going to scream but she slipped her tit in my mouth before I could utter a sound.

Chapter 6 – My new lingerie

Every Tuesday, Sarah went to French lessons at a local college. She normally left about six-thirty and got back around nine-thirty so the first week I’d got home and she’d removed the Y-gina before she left for college. Of course, the following week, it meant I’d be on my own locked in to the Y-gina, which wouldn’t be much fun. I suggested to Sarah that she release me before she left for the class.

"That’s not what we agreed, Ian," she said. "OK, I’m not going to be here so you’ll have a break from my tormenting, but don’t think you can stay at home and masturbate."

"As if," I said when that had been exactly my plan. Even though I was having sex every night, it still wasn’t enough. But then, the effects of denial always meant you needed it more.

"Just to teach you not to try it on like that again, maybe I’ll go for a drink with the others afterwards."

"But we agreed..."

"That I’ll unlock you by ten-thirty," Sarah said. "And I’ll try to be home by then." But she said it in a voice that meant she wouldn’t try very hard. I shivered with frustration.

***

"Hello, darling," Sarah said, waking me from my slumber in front of the TV set. It was just gone ten. "At the pub tonight, I agreed to host a meeting tomorrow evening. The tutor has asked for our feedback on next year’s options, so we need to discuss where we want the course to go. I thought you could serve the drinks for us."

"Sure," I said. "Does that mean you want me out of the way when I’m not serving?"

"Would you mind? Emma may bring some things along she wants to show us."

"No problem," I said. "I shall be your wine waiter."

"In the meantime," she said, "we have thirty minutes before Open Sesame time so I want you to start licking my toes and work your way up."

***

We agreed I would be based in the kitchen with the drinks, then as people arrived, Sarah would do the meet and greet, take their orders and call them through to me. I’d bring the drinks into the lounge before returning to the kitchen and getting more drinks.

As the doorbell started ringing, I noticed how attractive all the women were, but maybe that was just me. I’d deliberately avoided looking at women at work because not only was it painful but I knew I could do nothing about it. With Sarah, I’d learnt to accept the pain, knowing that at the end of the evening, it would be worth it. So maybe, with joyful relief just a few hours away, I was looking at women as women, again.

Anyway, I served the drinks, and they were all on red or white wine, which made it fairly easy for the initial serving. Then, as they started to discuss the French lessons, I toured the room topping up everyone’s glasses and then withdrew, closing the door on them.

Sarah had prepared several trays of snick-snacks and left some in the kitchen for me, so I nibbled those whilst also checking the quality of the white wine I’d just poured.

It didn’t take me long to finish my first glass and I was halfway through my second when I heard Sarah calling for me to come and top up their glasses. They were getting through their drinks as quickly as I was, I thought.

So I opened the lounge door, stepped inside and was about to offer the bottle of white to the nearest guest, when I realised she’d removed the top and skirt she’d arrived in and was sitting there in her underwear!

"White again, Val?" I queried, with barely a blink.

She smiled sweetly up at me. "Yes please, Ian."

I turned to the next guest, who was wearing just a black peekaboo bra with the nipples exposed, black panties, suspenders belt and stockings. "Er, was it red for you, Sharon?"

Another sweet smile. "Yes please, Ian."

Sarah was sitting next to Sharon, but she was wearing a red lace up corset. "OK," I said. "What’s going on?"

I glanced around the rest of the room to find every one of them dressed in sexy underwear.

"I told you last night," Sarah said. "We were going to briefly discuss next year’s French class and then Emma is bringing some lingerie to demonstrate. So this is the lingerie party."

She gave a wave around and I had another look at the women surrounding me. Jesus, my cock hurt as it tried to react exactly as cocks are meant to do.

"I’ll have white wine again," Sarah said, holding out her glass.

I topped her up and moved onto Emma, sitting next to her.

"Red, please, Ian," she said. "I have got some men’s things with me. It would be great if you’d model them for us."

"Thanks, Emma," I said as I poured her wine, "but no thanks."

"Oh, go on," Sarah said, and suddenly everyone else was saying the same and cheering me on.

"I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look at them," I said.

"I’ve got some very sexy pyjamas that would really suit you," Emma said, delving into a large suitcase she had beside her. She pulled out a pastel blue pair of garments made of a silky material and let the top unfold from her hands. It bore a picture of a huge bull with a large penis fucking a cow, along with the words, ‘I’m all bull.’

"I’d love my man to wear these," Emma added.

"I don’t think so," I responded, just as Sarah said, "Oh, they’d look really good on you, Ian. Come on, let’s go outside to the kitchen and put them on." She took the pyjamas from Emma.

"Er, well…" I was saying, as Sarah took me by the elbow and propelled me out of the lounge, still clutching my wine bottles, having filled up only half the glasses.

"Honestly, Ian, everyone was being so cooperative in there, trying on all the stuff Emma brought with her, and there’s you putting a wet blanket over everything. Now strip off and put these on."

She’d taken the bottles of wine from my hands and put them on the counter, and then almost simultaneously undone the belt and fastening of my trousers while lifting my tee shirt over my head. My shoes and socks were removed as one and suddenly I was standing naked in the kitchen with the blinds all open, exposing my Y-gina.

"Come on, Ian. Put your arms through here..." the pyjama top went over my head, "now step into these." The bottoms were pulled up my legs, then the two wine bottles thrust back into my hands and I was being led back to the lounge.

I had a brief vision of my pyjamas in the hall mirror, which apart from the rampant bull on my chest, looked like baby doll pyjamas, except that rather than panties I had thigh-length skorts, which looked just like a skirt with slits up the sides. Never had a boner come so instantly, as did the excruciating pain that accompanied such reactions.

"For heaven's sake, don’t make so much fuss," Sarah said very crossly. If she hadn’t been pulling me so quickly I might have been able to stop, but in a second I was inside the lounge to the cheers of all the audience.

"Carry on serving the wine," Sarah hissed at me and I did as she requested with the four women I hadn’t already served. As I came to the end of my round, Sarah turned me to face the room.

"Ladies," she said, "may I present Ian, who, as his pyjamas purport, is All Bull, and the proof is here."

She gave a little tug at my skorts, presumably to straighten them a little and the room burst into applause and cheering. I raised an arm in embarrassed acknowledgment, uncertain why they were cheering so heartedly.

"As you can see, Ian is also modelling the final item in our display, the Y-gina chastity device, and I’m certain he’ll be able to give reassurance to you about the wonderful pleasures this brings to a marriage."

"What..." I started to say, then I looked down in horror, realising that the tug I had felt was my skort being pulled off. There, on full display was my Y-gina, my throbbing prick completely hidden by the pretty pussy looking innocence itself.

Chapter 7 – Reconciliation, sort of

"I still can’t believe you set me up like that," I said as Sarah entered the bedroom, to where I had hurriedly retired. I’d heard all the guests leaving within a few minutes of my hurried departure from the lounge, and Sarah had immediately come upstairs.

"I’m so sorry, darling. Please forgive me." Sarah threw back the bedclothes, holding the key to the Y-gina, and immediately released me from jail. Never before had she done so without hours of torment, and that served to show her repentance.

"Oh poor little Percy," she said, going down on him as he rose up to meet her.

As sex goes it was pretty conventional, the kind of thing that heterosexual couples do throughout the world. But it was a complete departure from our world of decades of vanilla sex, followed by twelve days of denial, pain, tormenting, ending with incredible orgasms. And conventional sex was very, very nice.

"It’s just that the girls were so curious about it," she said, returning to my question.

"Well why did you even mention it to them in the first place?" I asked.

"Well the point was that I was concerned about your fetish and I wanted some advice."

"My fetish!" I gasped. "We’re doing this for you."

"Well, darling, can I remind you it was you who asked me if you could wear a chastity device, not the other way round."

"But you were going crazy because you thought I was having an affair with Rachel. I offered to put my chastity in your hands so you could see I was not."

"What I believe actually happened was that you realised your affair couldn’t continue so using the chastity device was a way of ending it. Had you already asked Rachel to lock you up and she’d refused?"

"No," I said.

"Or was I your first choice? Whatever, when you asked me on that Friday night, I knew it was an opportunity to beat off my opposition. I went along with your wishes then, and have done so ever since. So I have you, and Rachel doesn’t.

"But the upshot of that," she continued, "is that I wanted some advice so I spoke to the girls at the class. They all advised me to go ahead with it, but they were all consumed by curiosity. I knew you’d never consent to show them and Emma suggested the lingerie party."

"So the whole thing was a setup at my expense," I said. "What about the pyjamas?"

"Emma had them in her stock. I thought you did look really lovely in them. I had to buy them as you’d flounced off wearing the top but I think I’d have bought them anyway. The skorts have quick release fasteners at the sides, so I only had to give a sharp pull from the rear to pull them out between your legs."

I snorted. "And you all had a good laugh at me."

"Sure, we all had a little giggle," she said. "But I think many thought how lucky I was to know you’re not fooling about with anyone. I guess most of them wished they could get their partners to wear one."

She snuggled up closer to me and Percy gave a tentative wriggle. Was he still allowed to play?

"Mmm," she said. "I can feel something growing between us. Let’s give him another little treat."

Chapter 8 – An embarrassment at work

"Ian," Rachel said next day, as she returned to our office after a visit to the toilet. "One or two of the girls are saying strange things about you."

I tried not to react. It could be anything. "What sort of things?" I asked.

"Well, this is really embarrassing but... They said you wear a chastity belt. It’s not true, is it?"

How to respond? Tell a lie or upset her? "No," I said, "it’s not a belt."

"Oh... But?"

"I need to start at the beginning." I told her of Sarah’s jealousy of Rachel, who she thought I was having an affair with. I told her of the terrible rows we had if my train was just a few minutes late. How the rows started becoming physical, with her throwing things at me, how I’d asked if my wearing a chastity device might help and how she had decided on one that looked like a pussy.

"Oh, Ian, you’re a wonderful man. I’d willingly have had an affair with you if you’d asked."

"But your partner..."

"Mark is always cheating on me. But you never made the first move because you’re a fantastic husband. Most men would have. And now you’re locked in chastity."

"It’s not permanent," I said. "It’s unlocked every night and..." I didn’t like to say that we had tremendous sex. "...and it goes on before I leave for work."

"You poor man. Em..."

"Yes?" I knew what was coming.

"Do you think I could see it?"

"Rachel, I’m not going to drop my trousers in the office and show you my genitals."

"No," she said. "I suppose not." And she left it at that.

***

"Are you coming for lunch?" Rachel asked just after midday. Rachel normally lunched with some of her girlfriends, although occasionally she’d go to the staff restaurant with me.

"Yeah, OK," I said, guessing her curiosity was primed and she thought a casual chat over lunch might get her a sneak viewing. Little did I know!

The staff restaurant is in the basement and we’d just got to the bottom of the stairs when a woman’s voice called out. "Hi Rachel. Were you sneaking off to lunch without us?"

The speaker was a middle-aged large West Indian woman, and when I say large, I’m not talking height or bust; just every other measurement, with the largest being her waist size, although her bum probably weighed more than my whole body! She was accompanied by an almost equally large younger white woman.

"Hi Alesha, hi Ruth," Rachel said. "I just fancied an early lunch and Ian was on his way down so..."

"So this is your workmate, is it?" Alesha said smiling at me.

"Hi," I said. "I’m Ian Brown." I kept silent about Rachel's little lie, realising she’d wanted to get me on my own.

"So you’re the one?" Alesha asked.

I knew exactly what she was referring to but I wasn’t going to let on. I was just about to give some brush off when her hand reached between my legs and grabbed my pussy.

"Yep, you’re the one," she concluded. I gasped in agony as she pulled the Y-gina firmly towards her, with my poor genitals having to follow.

"Come this way, she said, still holding my Y-gina as she led the way through an adjacent door which I realised was the ladies’ toilets.

"I’m not allowed in..." I gasped.

"We’re making an exception for you," Alesha said. "Meet the ladies who are here for the show."

The toilets were jam packed with dozens of women of all ages, all grinning at me and holding phones, ready to take photos. What is this?" I yelled. "You can’t do this to me. I refuse."

"It’s your choice," Alesha said. "You can either show us your little secret, and we all applaud you, or you can walk away and we’ll all say you forced your way in here and dropped your trousers." She smiled at me.

I looked around at them, guessing that most were not vindictive so there’d be no complaint. On the other hand, it took only one complaint and I’d be thrown to the wolves.

"OK," I said. "I’ll show you, but no photographs. Is that agreed?"

There was a lot of muttering but Alesha said, "I guess that’s fair enough. It wouldn’t do for this to go viral on the internet." There was reluctant nodding and everybody put away their phones. Then they all faced me again.

I sighed and dropped my trousers to a collective gasp of astonishment.

"That’s amazing," Martha from Finance said. Martha is one of those older, primly-looking unmarried women whom I’d assumed had always lived virginal lives! She added, much to my astonishment, "I didn’t realise cocks could be squeezed down to something that small."

"Well they can’t when you’re holding them," Janice from Customer Service said. I knew she was approaching retirement. "My problem is making it get any bigger." There was a round of sympathetic laughter.

"Where did you buy it from," Ruth asked, "and how much are they?"

"And do they give discounts for bulk purchases?" Martha quipped. More laughter.

Then other questions started to flood in: why was I wearing it? Did it hurt? How often was I let out? And so on.

After about ten minutes, they started to leave, most of them thanking me and saying what a great husband I was.

Finally, only Rachel was left and she apologised, saying she’d known what Alesha had planned and tried to get me to lunch ahead of her. I told her no hard feelings.

"That’s a fact," she said with a downward grin, leaving me to pull up my trousers. As she left, I heard her say, "Oh, shit!"

It was time, I reckoned, to get out of there. I bent over to pull up my trousers.

"What on earth are you doing in here?" a voice bellowed.

I looked up to see Mrs Cavendish, the Chief Executive, glaring at me.

"My office immediately," she said.

Chapter 9 – Embarrassment turns

"You were in the ladies’ toilets with your trousers around your ankles," Mrs Cavendish said. "That is a major disciplinary offence and I can fire you without notice."

"It’s not what you think, Mrs Cavendish," I protested.

"I’m stating the facts as I observed them," she said. "And you’re hardly in a position to know what I’m thinking."

"No, Mrs Cavendish."

"My reaction to your behaviour will depend upon your response to a request I’m going to make of you."

"Request?"

"Stand up and drop your trousers. I want to see what all the fuss is about."

The relief swept through me. She was letting me off the hook. As I did as she requested, she added, "My God! You wear that all the time?"

"During work hours and evenings," I said.

"I understand you have some cock and ball story, if you’ll excuse the pun, about your justification for wearing it which is at odds with the version which went around at nine o’clock this morning."

"You’re very well informed," I said. "Presumably, one of the attendees at last night’s party works here?"

"Jessica, who works in Marketing, is the sister of one of them. Now tell me why you’re wearing this thing."

So for the third time that day, I went through the chain of events.

"Mmm," she said as I concluded my sorry tale. "It sounds plausible and I’m inclined to believe you. Which is good because whilst I don’t have a problem with what you wear on your dick, I certainly would have a problem with you popping into the ladies loos and dropping your trousers."

"Yes Mrs Cavendish."

"It’s interesting that you’ve been wearing this thing for the last twelve days, and one or two of the females I’ve spoken to about you have all said your attitude has tremendously improved recently. Is that coincidence, I wonder?"

My turn for a pique of curiosity. "You say you’ve been talking about me in particular?"

"Pull up your trousers and sit down and I’ll fill you in." She sniggered. "I guess you’re unlikely to do that to me or anyone else.

"Five years ago," she continued, "we were having difficulties with our ordering system, which was relatively new. Everyone blamed everyone else for the problems, so I decided to create two teams of five people each. They were from different levels in the company, different educational backgrounds, different cultures, and mixed gender. I called them Break Out groups and sent them away for a long weekend to separate villas with the objectives of producing solutions."

"And it worked?" I asked.

"Between the two groups, they came up with a number of suggestions which solved the problem in a few days, but..." She paused with a downward turn of her mouth. "Out of the ten people on that weekend, we had two divorces and one unwanted pregnancy."

I nodded. Some bosses might wash their hands of responsibility but she didn’t.

"I’ve run two more Break Out sessions since, each time with one male team and one female in separate locations. I want to run another weekend shortly and have been casting around for members. Your name was an obvious inclusion except that, with the limited number of males in the company, I don’t have sufficient to make up a male team unless I use people who have taken part in previous groups which I don’t want to do. So I’d come to the conclusion I’d run two female teams this year."

"Except that if you had a guy in chastity, you could create a mixed team," I said.

She smiled at me. "Obviously, it would mean you have to keep it on for the entire weekend rather than just a few hours, but this sounds an excellent way of progressing. So Ian. Are you in or out?"

"I guess I’m in," I said.

Chapter 10 – Preparing to break out

"So you reckon you can stay in the Y-gina from Friday morning until you arrive home on Monday evening," Sarah said to me after I’d told her the plan, having had a good moan at her for making me the centre of gossip and ridicule.

"I guess so," I said.

"Well it’s no good guessing," she said. "You need to trial it beforehand. Tomorrow’s Friday so I’ll lock you up in the morning and release you on Monday evening. Is that agreed?"

I hesitated there. "I suppose so," I said. "But you’d better agree not to taunt and torment me all weekend."

"Darling," she said. "As I understand it, you’re going to be spending the weekend living with four sexy women. Isn’t it wonderful that I have no problems with that? That I know the Y-gina will keep you safe, even though your own spirit may be weak. But if you imagine that these four women are not going to be tormenting you far worse than I do, knowing that you are powerless to do anything about it, you are living in cloud cuckoo land. They are going to have a whale of a time at your expense."

I gulped. "I guess so. Which means I’m either going to have to withdraw or get through this entire weekend with you continually tormenting me."

"Knowing you, you’re not going to withdraw."

"No," I said.

***

When Sarah locked me in the Y-gina next morning, I was as much on tenterhooks as that moment when I had first put it on.

"Bye, bye, Percy," Sarah said to him, then she bent right over and kissed the Y-gina. My flaccid cock was flaccid no more. He was raring to go, but like so often nowadays, his excitement was short lived, as his intended proud stature was crushed beneath my little pussy. Oh, cruel Y-gina, and even crueller Sarah! I pulled up my trousers and left.

***

The news came round mid-morning: two Break Out groups were to run over the following weekend. Their objectives were not yet being released but the group members were listed. The group with my name also included Alesha, Ruth, Martha and Janice. I couldn’t help smirking; Mrs Cavendish had set me up with the four most unsexy women in the company.

The teasing started when I went to the toilet a little later.

"You randy get," said Gareth Peters as we washed our hands at adjacent washbasins. I‘d worked closely with Gareth on a project, so I'd chat with him on these kinds of meetings.

"You and four women locked in a villa for the weekend. It’ll be non-stop sex."

"Gareth," I said, "have you seen who I’m imprisoned with? The four most non-sexy women in the company. In any case..." I stopped myself from saying that my Y-gina meant it didn’t matter anyhow, because Gareth patently didn’t know I was wearing one. Gareth, one of the most popular men with both other men and women didn’t know. How weird was that?

"In any case, what?" He prompted.

"Oh," I said, still thinking. Every woman I’d met since the toilet incident had given me a little smirk, but the merciless teasing I’d expected from the blokes had never happened. Not one man knew about the Y-gina, I realised, stopping myself from punching the air. "In any case, I’m married to Sarah and I don’t play around," I finished.

"Yeah, right," he said, in a nod-nod, wink-wink manner. "I can tell you that when I was on the first Break Out Group, I got the single woman pregnant and one of the married women later got divorced. Poor Harry Chambers was the other man on our group and was coming all innocent, saying that he was married, just like you, until we had the orgy on Saturday night. He got divorced later, as well."

"Which sounds a good reason to keep up my trousers," I said.

"I’ve never been able to," he said. "It’s why I’ve never got married." It was also, I realised, the reason why a bright guy like him had never progressed in the company run by Mrs Cavendish. "I mean, you may think Alesha and Ruth are a bit on the plump side but they all have pussies, and generally when they’re fat and ugly, they are far easier to coax into bed. As for Martha, she may be old but she was the company bike when she was younger. She put me through my paces when I started here straight from school. You could learn a lot from her."

"I’m sure I shall," I said, "but not about sex. Sarah and I love each other and we’re not shagging anyone else."

"Course not," he said with a sneer, clearly writing me off as a total berk. (And anyone who knows the origin of that word will understand the irony.)

***

I managed all right over the weekend with Sarah. I’d read enough stories about chastity devices in the last couple of weeks to realise that it’s not remaining chaste which is the issue. It’s being given hope that it’s coming off and you will have sex, and then you don’t – that’s the killer. I knew there was no hope of getting it off until Monday evening, so it was just a matter of going through the motions with Sarah, playing up to her teasing and tormenting, knowing that little Percy is not going out this weekend. Did that stop Percy from continually getting all excited? Of course not. But it did make things more bearable. So over the course of the weekend, my tongue was almost worn out, I gasped and I groaned in front of Sarah, but I survived.

Except for the morning woody. Three mornings of absolute agony. I’d nip to the toilet and immediately squirt cold water into my pussy which helped slightly, but in those first few waking minutes of the day, the pain was unbearable.

Chapter 11 – Champagne and sex

When I got home on Monday. I fully expected her to make me wait until ten-thirty, tormenting me throughout the evening. Instead, there was an open bottle of Bulinger’s Champagne on the table with a message: "Drink a glass of champagne to savour the moment, and then come into me. Sarah."

Later, much, much later, I said, "That was a wonderful way to greet me home. You should do that every evening."

"I’ve missed your cock," she said. "A vibrator is satisfying, your tongue is ecstatic, but there’s really no substitute for cock."

"So you’re never going to try to turn me into one of those guys permanently locked in chastity that you read on those websites."

"Well," she said, sipping the last of the champagne, "not unless I get a lover."

"Uh, uh," I said. "This is where we initially came in, but the other way round. I’d have to put you into a chastity belt."

"Oh, you meany," she said, nuzzling down my chest and licking my nipple. "Mind," she added, "I’d save a lot of money on batteries for my vibrator."

I’d just been about to say the same thing, except I’d intended it as a joke!

***

At work, over the next few days, I got quite a lot of banter from the blokes, although I’m certain nothing like what it would have been if I’d been put in a Break Out group with some of the many ravers in the company.

But every woman in the company became extraordinarily pally with me. I think they all thought I’d made a big sacrifice by wearing the Y-gina in order to save my marriage. With my cock locked up, they had nothing to fear from me, and quite a few mercilessly flirted with me, especially the middle-aged ones.

So things continued until Friday.

Chapter 12 – Break out

After an early lunch, we all collected our suitcases before gathering in the Reception area to await the arrival of the executive minibuses which would take the two groups to their separate destinations. It had been announced that Mrs Cavendish was going to see us off, which of course discouraged anyone else from doing the same. Rachel had kissed me goodbye in the office, an event which had given me instantaneous pain in a certain area.

"Hello, everybody," Mrs Cavendish said. "None of you currently know the objective of this year’s Break Out groups and I’ll be giving your sealed orders to the drivers to hand to you when you arrive. In the meantime, I want you to prepare yourselves for your weekend. You have an important task ahead of you and I’m depending on you to produce solutions. I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun along the way but remember not to let that get out of hand. So, my good wishes go with you Now be on your way."

***

I'm not going to dwell too long over the weekend, but it was pretty good. We all got on famously together and, I had to admit, far better than if I had been a virile man furtively wondering (after Gareth's comments) which of those ladies I could stick my cock into.

Our project was about how to improve communication between the different departments in the company, which the others thought dead boring, but I found incredibly interesting. I ended up doing most of the work with the others throwing in one or two brilliant ideas. By Monday, we not only had some really constructive suggestions for Mrs Cavendish, but we all agreed, we'd had a great weekend together. What was most important was that none of them had tried to torture me by arousal. In spite of my confidence in front of Sarah, I'd secretly been dreading that part of it.

Chapter 13 – A conversation with Gareth

All too quickly, it was Monday lunchtime, and the minibus arrived to take us back to the office. On arrival, we were immediately ushered into Mrs Cavendish's office to give her a briefing, along with the other Break Out group. She was impressed with our efforts and said she'd start implementing some of them straightaway; others, like reorganising her entire company (my idea), she would have to think about.

Then we were told we could go home and see our loved ones, and I was heading to the main exit when I was waylaid by Gareth.

"Ian, have you got a minute?"

"Sorry, Gareth," I said. "I’m on my way home for a reason I’m sure you’ll understand."

He grabbed my arm. "This is important. Really important. Please, Ian."

"OK," I said, "but make it quick."

"We need to go somewhere private," he said, dragging me towards the men’s toilets. How weird was that?

"Gareth," I said, "anyone else and I’d be wondering what you were up to, but surely you haven’t gone gay."

"I might have to," he said, as he checked that none of the cubicles were occupied. "Swear you won’t tell a soul what I’m going to tell you now."

"OK," I said, wondering if he’d contracted VD and wanted advice on what to do about it, as if I would know.

"I had a date arranged with a fairly new girlfriend on Friday evening." He kind of stared hard at me as though I should know what that was like, as if.

"We got on really well together last time. Then just as I was going to lunch on Friday, a post girl brought me a letter marked URGENT addressed to me which had been handed in at the reception downstairs. I opened the envelope and it said, ‘I am gagging for it so much I can’t wait until tonight. I’ve booked a room at The Crown hotel and am waiting for you now.’ There was a keycard enclosed with the room number written on it." He stared at me. "Well, what would you have done? I mean, The Crown is only five minutes' walk."

It was a rhetorical question. "I was down there like a shot," he went on. "When I went in the room, the curtains were drawn and there was an opened bottle of champagne with two glasses, one full, the other, with lipstick on it, was almost empty. She wasn't there but she'd left a note: 'Back in five with a little present for you. Get into bed, have some champagne and await my pleasure.'

"The next thing I knew," he continued, "is that I woke up with a thick head and my mobile phone ringing. I clambered out of bed, found my phone and answered it. It was my girlfriend wanting to know if I was simply late or was standing her up. 'What time is it?' I asked her, really confused. 'It's seven-thirty,' she said, 'and you should have been here half hour ago.' "

Gareth stared at me again. "By now," he said, "I was getting my senses back and I realised someone had slipped me a mickey in the champagne. It was about then that I realized my crown jewels were all cramped up in a really uncomfortable way and I put my hand down to give them a scratch. Jesus Christ." He nodded at me. "From what I've now found out, you have the same thing on your cock. How do you stand it, and please, please, tell me how to get it off."

"Is it exactly the same as mine?" I asked. "I guess you'd better show me."

He gave me a suspicious look but then undid his trousers and dropped them and his underpants, exposing exactly the same pussy as mine.

"It's identical," I said, "and the answer is that you can't get it off. At least, I haven't found a way and I've searched all the websites. You need to find who has the key."

"But how do I do that without knowing who put it on?"

"You could ask the hotel who it was who made the booking," I suggested.

He grunted. "I did," he said, "and apparently I made the booking. Even more annoying is that it was paid for with my credit card."

"You could go down to the hospital," I said.

He grimaced. "The problem is that I've had relations with most of the nurses in A&E and let's say, left some with bad feelings. I reckon if I went down there, they'd either chop my jewels off, accidentally of course, or they'd photograph me and it would be all over social media in five minutes, along with my name, telephone number and email address. Let's face it, anyone would have hysterics if they saw this, unless they were already wearing one themselves."

"Which is why you needed me?"

He shrugged.

"The only thing I've found which works is…" I said. I hesitated, uncertain how he'd take it.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Think chaste thoughts," I said.

Chapter 14 – The frustration continues

Sarah was in the bedroom wearing her sexiest nightdress when I got home. "Hello, my lover," she said, pressing her soft body against my own, which abruptly wanted to get hard. She gave me a French kiss which went on and on.

Oh, no, I thought. It's going to be an antagonising evening. Then she surprised me.

"Here's the key, darling." She pulled the chain from her neck and passed it to me. "I am so ready for a really good bonking. I want your hard cock thrusting away inside me. Quickly, please, I'm desperate for it."

Usually, Sarah wouldn't let me handle the key, I think in case I managed to make it disappear by magic or something. Anyway, it meant I had no idea how hard I needed to turn it in the lock. It was really stiff, unlike a certain part of my anatomy which wanted to be. I turned it harder.

"For God's sake, undo the bloody lock," Sarah snapped. "I'm dying for it."

I twisted it harder and the key broke in the lock.

I stared at it aghast.

"Oh my God! What have you done?" Sarah yelled. "I was really looking forward to that," she continued. "You did it deliberately, didn't you, just to frustrate me."

"Of course I didn't, I…"

Sarah grabbed me by the hair and flopped backwards onto the bed, pulling my head with her. She grasped the hem of her nightdress and pulled it up to her chin. "Get your tongue working," she ordered.

I groaned, for once unprepared for the unbelievable frustration I was feeling. I felt like crying.

"For God’s sake, get on with it," she said.

Chapter 15 – And gets worse

Some time after I'd brought her to a crashing orgasm, I raised the question. "Where do you keep the spare key?"

"The spare?" She looked at me as though I was speaking in a foreign language.

"There were two keys that came with the Y-gina. You've kept one on the chain around your neck. You were going to put the spare somewhere safe." I didn't say that I'd spent ages searching the house when she went out, and so far hadn't found it.

"Oh yeah. I put it somewhere you wouldn't think of looking."

"Well, where?"

"Erm… Oh yes, I remember now. You know that old suitcase you keep in the loft. The one you had before you bought that nice one you took away with you."

I stared at her, a sickening feeling sinking in my stomach. "Yes?"

"Well I stuffed it into that hole inside where the lining is torn."

"But when I was packing for my weekend, I got out that old suitcase and said that since I no longer used it, I was going to throw it away."

"Oh, did you?"

"You know I did."

"I mean, did you throw it out?"

"I left it out for the dustmen."

"Oh, well. It sounds like you threw out the baby along with the bathwater."

"But why didn't you stop me, or at least recover the key after I'd taken it outside."

"To be honest, I'd forgotten all about putting the spare there. Still, never mind. You gave me a very nice orgasm, just now."

"I gave you an orgasm," I shouted. "But what about me?"

"I'll telephone the supplier tomorrow and order another key. The number is written on the key. It should be simple. They can post one and it should be with us in a few days."

"Oh, God!" I said.

Chapter 16 – And gets worse

As soon as I got into work next day, Rachel greeted me.

"Have you heard the news about Gareth?" she asked.

"News?" I replied, remembering I'd given him my word to keep shtum.

"Apparently, one of the women whom Gareth has really shitted up, tricked him into going to a room in The Crown on Friday lunchtime, where he drank a glass of doctored champagne. Whilst he was unconscious, she put a Y-gina on his dick, just the same as yours. And she's not going to hand over the key."

"That reminds me I need to ring Sarah," I said, picking up my phone.

Rachel and I have this arrangement that when one is on the phone to their partner, the other generally leaves the room. So she left as I listened to the phone ringing in Sarah's office. After ages, she deigned to answer it.

"Have you ordered it?" I asked.

"Ordered what?" Sarah replied.

"The bloody key," I said.

"Calm down," she said, "or I won't order the thing for another week. I'll do it now so stop nagging me."

Of course, I rang again later on, whilst Rachel was away from her desk. "Have you ordered it?"

"Oh, well, I tried, but it looks like the store has closed down. Their website has disappeared and their phone just gives that tone sound."

"Tell me you're joking, Sarah," I begged.

"It's OK," she said. "It's a good job one of us has the initiative. I found the manufacturer in China. I've emailed them and asked to sell us a spare key. They haven't replied yet, but I think I should warn you that their delivery time is forty days, door to door. Now stop whinging and let me get on with my work." She disconnected the call.

"Forty days!" I moaned to myself. And that was only after they'd accepted the order.

"Sorry?" Rachel said, having come into the office whilst I was on the phone call.

"Oh, nothing," I said.

She looked at me. "It's clearly not nothing," she said. "Do you want to tell me all about it?"

So I told her how I'd been on best behaviour all weekend but the key had broken in the lock of my Y-gina the previous evening, and the spare had got thrown away and…

"You've never asked me," she said, "if I can pick a lock."

"You?" I said, staring at her in astonishment. "Can you pick a lock?"

"I had a good look at it that time when you demonstrated it in the Ladies' toilets," Rachel said. "I reckon I could unlock that in about thirty seconds."

"Thirty seconds," I said. "But why haven't you said before?"

"Because this has been between you and Sarah. Let's face it, if Sarah knew I could pick the lock, it would undo all the good relationship building you've been doing for the last few weeks."

"Oh." I stared at my potential saviour.

"Do you want me to do it?"

"Yes. Yes. Of course I do."

Rachel looked around the office. "Well clearly we can't do it here. We'd both get the sack if Mrs Cavendish came in and you had your trousers round your knees and I had my hands on your groin. We’d better go round to my flat at lunchtime."

Did I mention that Rachel’s flat was only a few minutes away from the office? "Right," I said.

Chapter 17 – Another type of break out

"Won't Carl have problems with us being alone together in here?" I asked Rachel as we entered her quiet flat that lunchtime.

"I split up with Carl yesterday."

"Oh, Rachel," I said. "I’m sorry. You should have told me."

"I was going to this morning but you had to call Sarah, and I never got the right moment until now. Carl was always playing around with someone or other. Our relationship had no future. It’s the best in the end. Now let’s get this lock open, although I’ve been having a little think about the consequences."

"Consequences?"

"You’ve been locked in that thing since Friday, right? I reckon I should take precautions that things don’t get out of hand when you’re released."

"You can trust me, Rachel."

"But can you trust yourself?"

I looked at her as she stood before me, the first time I’d properly looked at her since I’d donned the Y-gina. She had on one of her low cut tops and her wonderful cleavage emphasised her large breasts thrusting out towards me. I could discern the outline of her nipples through her thin bra. Her short skirt flared over the curve of her hips and spoke of the wonders between them. Her eyes twinkled, her face shone bright and her lips pouted.

"No," I admitted. "You are absolutely gorgeous and I can see why you’ve every reason to be wary of me. Does that mean you don’t want to release me?" Oh shit! I thought. Why did I suggest that?

"It’s all right," she said. "I have an idea. Come into the bedroom. Carl and I enjoyed a little bondage sometimes and the straps are still on the bed."

She led the way into the bedroom and said, "Lie on the bed. I’ll fasten the straps around your wrists and my honour will be safe."

She grinned at me, and I tried to conceal the pain as my cock tried to burst free of its confines at the very idea of being tied up by her. I lay on the bed and she took my wrist and lifted a strap tied to the headboard. She wrapped it around my wrist and secured it with a Velcro fastening. Then, she walked around the bed and secured my other wrist.

She smiled at me. "Try getting out of that."

My arms were spread-eagled. I wriggled a bit and said, "I can't."

"That's good," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then she held an envelope up before my eyes. "Do you recognise this handwriting?" she asked.

What on earth had this to do with her picking the lock of my Y-gina? I squinted at the words on the envelope, ’Property of Sarah Brown’.

"It's Sarah's handwriting," I said. "Where did you get that?"

"Shall we see what's inside it?" she asked. I nodded, rather dumbfound. What on earth was going on?

Rachel ripped open the envelope and let two keys fall into her hand. "Any idea what these two keys are for?"

"They look like the keys of my chastity belt. How did you get them?"

"You know that every woman in the office has taken a real shine to you; they all empathise with you?"

"I suppose so," I said.

"You know that Jessica, who works in Marketing, is the sister of Sarah's friend, Emma?"

"Yes. But…"

"Jessica came to see me yesterday morning."

"Oh, that's nice. But…"

"She'd been to see Emma over the weekend, and when Emma told her what Sarah was planning, she became really concerned for you."

"What?" That stopped me in my tracks. "What did she mean? What Sarah's planning?"

"Sarah said that she was going to keep you in chastity for months."

"That's crazy," I said. "Why would she do that?"

"She hinted that you wanted it."

"That's stupid," I said. Then I remembered our pillow talk last Monday. Surely Sarah couldn't have misinterpreted that? "I know that Sarah gets a thrill out of teasing me," I said, "but she enjoys the sex as well."

"But it lines up exactly with what you told me this morning. According to Emma, Sarah had bought another key which looked identical to yours, but which had a different key number. She'd substituted that for the key on her chain and she expected the new key would break in the lock when you tried to unlock it on Monday evening."

I think my mouth dropped open at that.

"Sarah left the original keys with Emma in this envelope for safekeeping," she continued. "So as soon as Emma went to the kitchen to make some tea, Jessica rummaged through the drawer where she knows Emma keeps all her junk and found it."

"No," I said, not wanting to believe the unacceptable.

"So, shall we put my unlocking skills to the test?"

I slowly nodded.

She climbed astride my knees in order to undo the belt on my trousers, fully exposing that wonderful cleavage. Suddenly my cock wanted to go rock hard again. Then she was undoing my trouser fastenings and unzipping me. I groaned aloud.

Rachel smiled at me. "All right?" she asked.

I nodded, and lifted my hips as she slid my trousers and underpants down my legs. Then she was fumbling with the key in the lock and I heard the familiar click as it released. She eased the Y-gina off my cock and I could feel it tentatively expanding, wondering what was going to happen next.

But what happened next took me as much by surprise as my cock.

"Poor little cock," Rachel said, and she stuck out her tongue and gave it a lick.

Wham, it expanded like a car airbag and suddenly it was little no more.

"I think he needs a little TLC, don't you," she said. She lifted her skirt to reveal she wasn’t wearing panties and moved forward to squat astride me.

"Mmm," she said as she slid down my cock. "That feels very nice."

With my arms tied as they were, I was powerless to stop her, even if I'd had the willpower to want to do so. And she was absolutely right; it did feel very nice, very nice indeed.

Chapter 18 – From one mistress to another

"I don’t think we’d better let Sarah know that I have the key," Rachel said, some time later, a huge smirk on her face.

"It’s going to be rather obvious as soon as I get an erection," I pointed out, a very similar smirk on my own face.

"Well, there’s an easy way to prevent that," she said. She picked up the Y-gina and waved it at me.

"Rachel," I said aghast, "you can’t put that back on me."

"Wanna bet," she said, slipping it in place and pressing it together until it clicked.

"But what will I do with the key?"

"You don’t get the key. This is my key now and when you need releasing from it, you come to me.

"In the meantime, you need to keep pleading with Sarah to get you a new key and release you. Let’s see how long she wants to keep you in chastity and remember that whilst she is going without sex with her lovely husband, I’m bonking his brains out."

"I do feel a bit guilty about this," I said.

"Don’t," Rachel said. "Remember, this is only going on because she is torturing you."

I nodded. "I guess so." Looking at it that way certainly salved my conscience.

EPILOGUE – RACHEL’S STORY

I lusted for Ian from the moment I first met him, when Mrs Cavendish introduced him as my new work partner. Within days I was in love with him. I’d have had an affair with him like a shot if ever he’d given the slightest indication that he was other than totally in love with, and loyal to, that bitch of a wife.

Of course, as soon as Sarah saw me at the company function, she read me like a book. She instantly realised I was head over heels in love with him, and paradoxically, it was her reading me – and getting jealous about me – which ultimately led to her downfall.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, because there was another important aspect of which Ian was totally unaware, and which I may never tell him about.

So there I was thinking what a horrible wife Sarah must be to keep him in the Y-gina like that, when Ian came into the office one morning saying how Sarah had welcomed him home with a glass of champagne. How nice, I thought, to do that, Then he mentioned it was Bullinger’s Champagne and that whilst it was a nice idea, it tasted rubbish.

I prided myself that, rather than revealing the truth, I simply said it was the thought which counted and never mind the taste.

You see Bullinger’s Champagne is a rip off. It’s not legally allowed to be called Champagne because it’s from Serbia rather than a certain part of France, and Bollinger’s has made a complaint that it’s a copycat, so it’s banned throughout the EU. Even if you wanted to buy the stuff, you'd need to know someone who had smuggled it in.

Now the only person I know you can get it from is Gareth Peters. He drove back through Serbia last summer and picked up about twenty cases of the stuff. Even though it's total rubbish, he always uses it to impress a woman he’s hoping to seduce.

So how, I asked myself, did Sarah happen to have an open bottle of Bullinger’s when Ian gets home from work? I found out that Gareth had supposedly been 'working from home' that day, which inevitably meant he was shagging some woman.

So there’s poor Ian in chastity whilst his wife is cuckolding him with that slimy git Gareth Peters. I think if I’d told Ian that, it would have destroyed him so I kept quiet. Instead, I decided to take revenge on behalf of Ian, without Ian even knowing that revenge had been exacted.

It wasn’t difficult to find out that Gareth was meeting up with Sarah on Friday evening, so I arranged the little interception on Friday lunchtime. I reckoned I was doing a favour to humanity by locking him up in that Y-gina and then throwing away the key. And since I’d always managed to avoid any kind of relationship with Gareth, he never thought to accuse me of the dastardly deed.

Then when Jessica told me on Monday how Sarah was going to lock Ian in chastity forever, it seemed an opportunity too good to miss. I gave Carl his marching orders, telling him I was fed up with his infidelity and that I'd met someone new. Maybe you think that a little premature, but when you have the key to a man's balls, his heart and mind will inevitably follow.

And talking about missing, Ian and I have been having our affair for three months now and I’ve missed my period. I told Ian and he’s really excited. He’s going to leave Sarah and move in with me. And in case you’re thinking that’s what married men having affairs always say, just remember that I still have the key to the crown jewels.

Synopsis: Another story in my male pregnancy theme, and unlike Candice and her Pregnant Husband, this is written completely by me in my usual style.

When junior accountant Ben is brought into a meeting with the Chief Executive, he is apprehensive that he might in trouble of some sort. But he never dreamed the kind of trouble he would shortly be in! Enjoy.

“Hello, Ben. Thanks for coming in to see us.”

I smiled nervously back, wondering why Rachel Brown, the Chief Executive of the company where I worked, had asked to speak with me. I’d been a junior accountant in the company for six months. I’d seen her in meetings a few times and she’d always made a point of talking to me, even, I felt, taking a personal interest in me. Today, she had Michael Stevens, a solicitor, with her, who had made me sign another non-disclosure agreement.

“No problem,” I nervously smile. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Ben, but I’m going to tell you some highly confidential information, which is why Michael has got you to sign the non-disclosure agreement. My opinion of you is that you know how to keep a secret, but breathe one word of what I’m about to tell you outside this room and that agreement will allow you to be sued for every penny you own, and I, personally, will cut off your balls. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Firstly, I’m planning to retire in about one year’s time.”

I guessed she was in her mid-fifties, so it wouldn’t be completely unexpected. “I’m sorry you’re leaving us. You’re well respected in the company. I – and I know a lot of other staff – will be very sorry to lose you. What do you plan to do in retirement?” It was intended as a little social chat until we got around to the main business, whatever that was. Just an innocent enquiry, for I was certain she would have some plans. So I was flabbergasted when she responded with rather too much detail.

“I’m planning to start a family,” she said, “and yes, I can see you doing the arithmetic, I am past the menopause. But I had my eggs frozen several years ago, with this particular plan in mind.”

“So you’ll be using a surrogate?” I was guessing here, totally out of my field.

She grinned at me, a grin she frequently used to disarm people. “Certainly I’ll be using someone else to carry my baby, but Michael has warned me of the legal dangers of using a surrogate.”

She could see I hadn’t a clue about that particular subject so she explained. “The law, as it currently stands in the UK, is that the surrogate has all parental rights over the child, regardless of the wishes of the biological parents.”

I nodded. “I can see that would be a risk, unless you can come to some agreement beforehand.”

“It doesn’t matter about any legal agreement, the surrogate still has all parental rights.”

I wished we could get down to business, away from this tricky personal stuff, but I had to ask the question. “Presumably you have a plan for overcoming that?”

Her grin was even wider, this time. Many people in the company called it her crocodile smile. “Absolutely. I will marry the person who is to carry the child.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you were engaged to anyone. When are you getting married?”

“I’m not certain of the exact date. I haven’t told him yet.”

Just like her to have not yet informed her planned husband that she was going to marry him. Then the implication of what she had said connected inside my brain. “Hang on, you said you haven’t told HIM of the date. But you said just now you were going to marry the woman who was going to carry your child.”

“I actually said ‘person’ rather than ‘woman’. It appears it is now possible for an artificial womb to be implanted into a male, and he will carry the child, or children.”

“Really! I didn’t know that. That’s fascinating, and an incredible development for female equality. How long has it been going on for?”

“It’s still at implementation stage so it hasn’t been announced, yet. But I know the head consultant involved and I can get in at the beginning.”

I thought for a second. “But why go through all that when you can simply marry the surrogate who’s going to bear your baby?”

“Because the law here is still very unclear. In a normal married pregnancy, the husband and wife are the biological parents of the child, and the rights have been long established and embodied into law, even if the marriage breaks up. But in this case, with the biological parents and a third person involved, no one knows how a court case would come out.

“So you’re planning that the man you hope to marry, but haven’t yet told, will have surgery to allow him to carry your babies. Is he aware of that?”

Another crocodile smile, just before the bite. “That’s why I asked you to come and see me.”

Gulp! I opened my mouth and closed it again. Finally I said, “Hardly the most romantic of proposals, but no thanks.”

I suspected I was going to be immediately fired; instead the crocodile smile got a little wider. “Obviously, it will be financially lucrative. Very lucrative.”

“But it’s experimental surgery. I might well die before I can receive it, never mind enjoy it.”

“The surgery is not at all experimental. Implanting an artificial organ is totally routine. You will need hormone injections which will make your body behave in a different way, but you’ll be under constant medical supervision.”

“Women still die during childbirth. It’s a dangerous part of their lives.”

“But with the amount of medical attention you’ll receive, you’ll be safer than most women giving birth.”

“Why me? We’ve barely met. You don’t know me and yet you want to marry me and have children together?”

“Actually, I’ve taken significant interest in you ever since you first entered the building for an interview. I was just going off for a meeting and noticed you standing at reception. I thought you were the prettiest boy I had ever seen. I decided straightaway that you were going to father my babies. You weren’t the best candidate for the junior accountant job, but I made certain you got it, all the same.”

I was hurt over being called a pretty boy, even though it was probably true. Many people suspected me of being gay because of my ‘prettiness’. But suddenly, something else made sense. “I was sent for a full medical check-up, which apparently no one else had ever been given. That was you, wasn’t it? Having me assessed as your laboratory rat?”

“You won’t be a rat, Ben. You’ll be their most precious patient. I’ll make certain of that.”

“I just can’t believe what you’ve asking me to do. Talk me through how you see this proceeding.”

“When you agree to go ahead, a womb will be designed for you and grown using your stem cells. We will get married. It will be a small event without fuss, but afterwards, we will be husband and wife. There now follows a step you may not be happy with, but it is essential.”

“Oh!” I affected surprise. “Only one?”

“You will need to identify as a woman and take a new name – perhaps Benjamina? This means that when we go to our new home, people will be told that you are my wife, rather than my husband. This is necessary because we don’t want to get the kind of publicity that a pregnant man would attract.”

I nod. “I can see the logic. But while you may think my face pretty, I don’t have a female figure.”

“At the same time as you have the womb implanted, you will have a few surgical procedures to give you a more feminine appearance. As soon as the team are satisfied that you’re ready, IVF will be commenced and the foetuses injected into your womb. Then, nine months later, our babies will be delivered by Caesarean section.”

“You said ‘babies’ not ‘baby’,” I pointed out.

“It’s quite normal with IVF to have multiple births. Your womb will accommodate that.”

“And after the baby or babies are born?”

“I’ve bought a large home in Norfolk, somewhere I want to bring up our children. It’s being prepared for them.

“And for me, also?”

“Of course. It’s not far from the maternity hospital you’ll be using so you’ll need to stay there until you’ve given birth to all of our children.”

“All of our children? How many are you planning to have?”

“At least half a dozen. We’ll see how we go.” Another crocodile smile. “Oh, and just to let you know the financial inducement: it’s half a million pounds when you become pregnant with the first baby or babies, with half a million pounds for each living baby subsequently born.”

That deserved another gulp. This was serious money, enough to set me up for the rest of my life. “And you would be paying for all the children’s care?”

“Of course. After you have delivered the six babies, you’ll be free to do whatever you wish; I’ll give you a divorce if you wish. That will be your choice. Obviously, you’ll have parental access to the children but I will have control of them. So what do you say?”

“I need more information and time to think about this. I need to speak with the surgeon.”

***

It was actually the surgeon, Greg Turner, more than anyone who convinced me to go ahead. “There are always risks to surgery,” he said, “just as when you walk down a pavement, some drunken driver may mount the pavement and kill you. However, in surgery, most risks are due to carelessness and I can assure you that there will be no carelessness in my theatre. We will do a lot of exploratory tests before the operation so we’ll know exactly what we’re doing, and the artificial womb will already have been grown from your stem cells under surgical conditions and we will be 100% satisfied with it before we implant it.

“The implant itself is no more serious than hundreds of similar implants, and then we come onto the pregnancy itself. Yes there are a number of things which can go wrong with pregnancy but we will be keeping a very close eye on you, and you will get the very best of care. I don’t believe your pregnancy will be substantially more risky than any pregnant female with multiple babies. But what you will be doing is providing a quantum leap in the options for many pregnant women who are at risk of losing their babies and/or their lives, and I believe that is worth fighting for. This will be the ultimate leveller in male and female equality. Yes there is a small risk, but I don’t believe it’s substantial. I’d ask you to go ahead, and if that makes you wealthy, then good luck to you.”

“Which hospital do you work from?”

“It’s in UAE – obviously a private one.”

“UAE? You don’t mean University of somewhere or other. You mean United Arab Emirates?”

“I’m afraid the British Medical Association won’t sanction this work. UAE will.”

“So it is risky?”

“I’ve explained the risks which I believe are low. But there are significant ethical issues here which may take years to resolve. Neither I, nor your sponsor, accept those issues. So we’re doing the implant and fertilisation in UAE, provided you agree to proceed. We will then return to the UK and use a small private maternity hospital adjacent to where Rachel has bought her home.”

It was an enticing offer and after a lot of thought, I accepted the deal.

***

And it went pretty well as Rachel had outlined it. I was given several exacting medical examinations. Then, they took stem cells from me to grow the womb, and a month later, Rachel and I got married in a small ceremony. A few relatives and friends attended, all of whom thought that I had lost my mind, even if I was her toy boy.

And, yes, we had sex. Rachel had told me there was no obligation but felt we should consummate our relationship at least once, and I’m a bloke. Rachel was attractive, even if she was middle-aged, and we slept together in her London flat for the period between our marriage and my leaving for UAE. Actually, we fucked like rabbits, and both enjoyed it.

I departed for UAE a week later, knowing that I’d be there until I was impregnated with the foetuses which were being cultured from Rachel’s eggs and my sperm: at least one month and probably longer. But that wasn’t the only surgery I was going to have. I was having surgery to make me look, and sound, like a woman. Breasts, and hip enhancement as well as laser treatment to remove body hair and to increase the pitch of my thyroid. My testicles and penis were tucked, so they didn’t create unsightly bulges, although the latter could still be made to pop out for when I got back to Rachel, or as she feely accepted, when we stopped sleeping together. The surgery was all done within days of my arriving, and went by without incident, but then I had continual hormone injections, interspersed with feminisation lessons.

Finally, in just over one month, everything had gone smoothly, and I was impregnated by an injection of foetuses into my new womb. Afterwards, I felt exactly the same as before, although I had to remain in UAE for a few days, just to make certain that everything was well. Then I was flying home to my wife.

***

When I arrived at Heathrow wearing a pink tracksuit I’d purchased in Abu Dhabi, with my A-cup breasts gently declaring I was female, Rachel was there to meet me. I had short blonde hair cut in a not dissimilar style to Rachel’s and wore ear studs in my newly pierced ears.

“I’m pregnant,” I gasped in my now feminine voice, as I ran up to her and hugged her. “I’m going to have a baby – or babies, although they’re not certain how many, as yet. Isn’t that fantastic?”

Several people standing nearby grinned and one or two offered their congratulations, but none of them realised just how fantastic the accomplishment was. Apart from Rachel, that is, who looked at me and gave me the most genuine smile I’d ever seen on her.

“Benjie, it’s brilliant,” she said, using the name by which I would now be called. “I’ve booked a meal in one of the semi-decent restaurants here, and I have something for you. Come on.” She hooked her arm through mine and we walked to the restaurant. Once we had sat down and she had a glass of wine and I, a glass of fizzy water, she handed me a small box. Inside was a matching necklace and earrings, and in the bottom was a cheque for £500,000!

“Oh my God, Rachel. What a beautiful necklace. And those earrings are beautiful. Oh, and the cheque is nice as well. Now it seems money for old rope, just to become pregnant, but it certainly didn’t feel that way when I flew out there. Still, I guess the worst is yet to come. I’m not certain how many babies will be born but they’ve implanted four foetuses. With normal multiple pregnancies, they would normally reduce that to twins after it was clear that more than two were developing. However, Greg says that with my tailor-designed womb, there should be no need to do that, that it will expand to easily cope with multiple births, and that they can also manage my hormones more readily than with conventional motherhood. He says I’m a healthy person…(“I almost said man”) …and much stronger than most pregnant women. I’m not certain how I feel about that. On the one hand, I don’t want to lose any of our babies which are growing inside me; on the other, do I have such confidence in Greg’s words that I trust him absolutely with my life?”

“You already have trusted Greg with your life,” Rachel said. “I feel exactly the same as you but it has to be your choice in the end.”

“He felt that me being so much stronger than the average pregnant woman gave me a big advantage. Incidentally, he says that if I go ahead with the quadruplets, he is confident that, with my womb, I can probably go almost to full term. In turn, that would mean my final weight gain could be enormous. The babies alone could weigh around 15 kg. My total weight gain could be well over 25kg!

So, he wants to develop my strength even further and he’s given me an inflatable pregnancy bump. I’m to start with 5 litres of water inside, which is, of course, 5 kg. I’m to carry that around all day, but I can take it off at night. I have to add 500ml of water each week until I reach a total weight gain of 20 kg, which is the typical weight gain of women with twins. Then I can start reducing the water each week until it’s empty. Before we leave the restaurant, let’s go to the toilets and we can pour in the first five litres of water.

“But we don’t have to decide yet about whether I’m going to carry the four babies to full term. Indeed, we could simply continue and only abort if there’s a problem. Of course, if I did give birth to all four babies, It would only take another two to complete my part of the contract.”

“Your commitment was for a minimum of six babies,” Rachel agreed, “but I’d like you to go on much further than that.”

I grinned. “Do you really want more than six? You may find that caring for babies is rather more difficult than you expect.”

“Don’t be stupid. I can afford to hire a few nannies. They’ll do all the work. I will just be the mother who dotes on them.”

“Why do you want so many children?” I’d asked the question before and never got a satisfactory answer.

“I’ve always been a successful businesswoman. I started up my company with a simple idea that I turned into a hundred million pound business. But at the back of my mind, I’ve always told myself that someday I would have ten kids. Now, I’m in a position to fulfil that dream.”

“Ten kids. You’ve never mentioned that number before.”

She grinned. “I didn’t want to scare you too much. But yes, ten children is my ambition. I’d been exploring possibilities for achieving that for years. Greg Turner’s work excited me and then you walked into the office and I knew I was going to achieve my dream at last.”

We ate a nice meal, and then, after filling my pregnancy belly with 5 litres of water, we got on the road for Norfolk, almost three hours’ drive.

“It’s working out all right, isn’t it,” Rachel said after she’d negotiated the traffic around Heathrow and we were on the motorway.

“Yes, it is. I wasn’t certain how the sex thing would develop, but it’s gone fine, so far.”

“Don’t tell me you were more worried about the sex than about becoming a pregnant man?”

“I guess the male pregnancy thing is so weird that I just put it out of my mind. But getting married to a woman thirty five years’ older is… unusual.” I didn’t tell her about the serious ribbing I’d had from my colleagues at work about our marriage, often tinged with jealousy that I was a toy boy and clearly going to make money out of the deal. If only they knew what I’d really contracted for!

“How has your cock stood up to everything in the UAE?”

“OK. We’ll have to try it out when we get to Norfolk.” I’d had some serious transformation work to make me look feminine, and they’d tucked my testicles and cock into my groin, but they’d done my cock so that it could be let out to have sex. “Do you now have staff working at the house?”

“I have a live-in cook and a housekeeper, so far. They’ll basically look after us, and of course, they have been told that you are my wife, Benjie, carrying our babies. Later on, we’ll get a live-in nurse to help you, and she’ll be in on the whole project. The house was previously a cottage hospital, but it’s been long disused and empty for years. The private wing with its maternity wing where Greg is consultant, was built a short walk away.”

“So plenty of room for lots of babies and growing children?”

“Exactly. And well away from reporters and others who might take too much interest in a woman pregnant with quads. That transformation is marvellous, by the way. I’d never know that you were male.”

“I’m just a little worried that the hormone treatments is taking away my masculinity. That I’ll stop wanting to have sex.”

“We’ll try everything out when we get home. But the hormone treatments are only while you’re pregnant. When you’ve given birth, you stop the hormones and everything will revert to normal. In the meantime, if the hormones do reduce your desire to shoot semen into every female, it’s probably not a bad thing and it should remove the frustration that every male experiences if he can’t do that. What I’m really saying is that maybe you’ll become a happy pregnant woman rather than a frustrated male.”

“But in the meantime, let’s go at it like hell.”

Rachel smiles. “Yes. Let’s.”

***

So we did for a few weeks. The hormone treatment may have reduced my libido but it certainly hadn’t eliminated it and we continued to have lots of fun in the bedroom. But gradually, the consequences of pregnancy made themselves obvious and with the extra weight I was carrying, they appeared very quickly. For women generally, there are few obvious changes during the first trimester, or 13 weeks, whereas for me, the pregnancy belly made it over 10 kg, the kind of weight that some women only gain just before giving birth.

Just a few more weeks and I was up by 20 kg, the kind of weight of a suitcase you can put in the hold of an airplane. That is seriously heavy, but still I was gaining weight, despite reducing my extra ballast by on a weekly basis. Then, it got to the point that, rather than my bulge being attached to me, I was attached to the bulge. I had the mattress of our bed modified with a huge hole made for my belly, so I could lie face down with my belly resting in the hole. I also had a trolley which I could push before me, resting my belly on it. And still I grew and got heavier, and my bump bigger and bigger.

For the final week, I was so heavy, I simply couldn’t move, and had to lie in a modified bed all day. I became simply a general supply system for my bump. Then, I was being put under aesthetic and my babies were being delivered.

***

My babies were beautiful: three girls and one boy. They were all of good, healthy weights, unlike many multiple births which normally arrive early. But afterwards, my body was still huge, with an enormous flabby belly covered in stretch marks and veins. My breasts turned into milk machines trying to cope with the demands of four babies, although I couldn’t supply all their needs and they received supplements as I turned from being a general supply system for my bump, into a dairy for my babies to feed.

One month later, I was starting to get back into some shape, even if it was still huge. But I had two nannies to care for my babies, so I wasn’t tied to them like so many mothers. All the same, I was still a milk supply system, with frequent milkings throughout the day. I’d begun to take exercise to try to get my body back to normality, and was quite pleased with the progress I was making when in one of the regular checkups I continued to get from Greg Turner, he told me he had good news.

However, his definition of good and mine were not that consistent. “I have taken advice from the BMA and they see no reason why the next IVF should not take place in the UK. So there’ll be no need to go to the UAE to commence your next pregnancy. We can do it right here.”

I was aghast. “My next pregnancy! But I haven’t yet recovered from my first.”

“But everything went very well. Your babies were the healthiest sextuplets born in the UK ever, average birth weight of 3.1kg, and they are all growing superbly. Time for your next pregnancy.”

“It’s not time,” I protested. “I need some space to get used to motherhood.”

“Look at it like falling off a horse. Get back on it, straightaway, or you’ll never get back on it again.”

That made me think. I’d been looking forward to coming off the hormones which were still keeping up my milk production and damping down my ability to get an erection of my rarely seen cock. Once I was back to sex as a male, would I really again consent to virtually becoming a woman, and a very highly pregnant one, all over again?

I chatted with Rachel about it, but of course, she was right behind Geoff’s plan. “Of course you must become pregnant again. Another batch of wonderful babies – your babies and mine – and of course, another wodge of money for you.”

But again, it was Geoff who convinced me. “I want to make an announcement about the male womb in a couple of months’ time. If I can tell the world that the recipient has not only given birth to four healthy babies, but is again pregnant then it will give a respectability to the procedure that no amount of smooth talk could. Please, for all those women pregnant but who, for various medical reasons, cannot give birth, become pregnant again.”

“You make such a convincing argument. I presume you’re planning to implant another four foetuses.”

He bowed his head in an apologetic gesture. “I’m really pleased at how well you coped with your multiple pregnancy, and the artificial womb was great. I’d like to implant more, this time. I’d say at least six?”

“Six! It was bad enough last time with four growing inside me. I couldn’t take six.”

“You see, Ben, I think what we will demonstrate that my new womb will better cope with large multiple births than a natural womb. And that the male, being generally stronger, could become the person who could share with his wife large multiple births. But it all needs to be proven before we go down that line. You, Ben, hold the key to that medical, and sexual, revolution.”

I nodded. “I guess that if six babies were born, it would also mean I’ve completed Rachel’s shopping list for babies. OK, go ahead.”

So, while still providing enough milk to supply a diary, I became pregnant again.

Greg came into the milking parlour to give me the good news. “Wonderful news. You’re pregnant again. Another multiple birth.”

“How many?”

“It looks like seven at the moment, but we’ll see how everything goes.”

“Seven! But we agreed to go with six.”

“No. I actually said at least six. Anyway, seven is a lucky number and the press would love that.”

“I’m just being used as a press spectacle, aren’t I?”

“The press will never know your identity, so you’re not going to be a spectacle. But there’s no doubt this news is going to revolutionise pregnancy and you are an incredibly important part in bringing that to life. But your own life is very important to me. Fingers crossed that in nine months’ time, you may have eleven children.”

I had been about to scream at him until he said those words. I was going to be carrying another seven babies and it was the most exciting thought I, or any man before, had ever had. I was the Ultimate Leveller.

Author's Note: I have turned off comments, but if you enjoy the story, I'd be very happy if you would click on the Good Story button at the end. All events, people and places (apart from Brighton) are fictional. Don't try the things you read here (well, not all of them anyway), or proceed with caution at your own risk!

Tricia's Story

When God designed my vagina, he didn't have the letter G on his keyboard; at least, he never gave me a G-spot. The letters c-l-i-t-o-r-i-s also seemed to get missed out. In fact, when He made me, I think He was somehow thinking of those women in Victorian times, who simply had to lie back and think of England, without all the screams of ecstasy required of modern females.

I can remember thinking all those years ago, when Josh Walker took my virginity, "Is that it?" Certainly, after the build up I'd received from my older sister Patience and my friends, and all that bragging by the boys about the pleasures they could give a woman, the whole thing was a tremendous let down.

The problem was, I think I must have said the words aloud, for Josh got most pissed off, and afterwards spread the word around the other boys that I was a lesbian.

What I couldn't work out was whether there was something wrong with me, personally, or whether the whole thing about female orgasms was a giant con. I tentatively sounded out Patience, and she was totally derisive, and then told all her mates I was frigid.

By the time I met Tony, I had learnt my lesson. He was a junior manager at the insurance company in Bradford where Patience and I both worked as clerks. He'd been sent there from the Head Office in the South, and had this really posh accent. He was incredibly good-looking and all the girls were throwing themselves at him. Now there's two things you can say about us Yorkshire women: subtlety is not our middle name, and that we have more than our fair share of big tits.

Except for me of course. My chest was flatter than an ironing board, and although I had no need to wear a bra, I'd worked out by then that many blokes found bras very sexy. And since I had no need to support several pounds of quivering jellies, I could choose them entirely for their sexiness.

It also meant I could casually undo several buttons of my blouse, without flashing my tits. It worked superbly when I accidentally met Tony in the corridor and accidentally dropped my files as we accidentally tried to go through the same door together. I was immediately on my knees and bending forward to pick up my files, accidentally giving him a quick flash of my left nipple. I heard him gasp slightly as he bent down to help me gather the papers together.

"Thank you," I said, as we got to our feet. "You're new here, aren't you?" As though I hadn't noticed him before! "How are you settling in?"

"I arrived on Monday," he said. "I must say, everybody here seems very friendly."

"If you call slapping their juggs in your face as being friendly," I said with a grin, "then the girls here are friendly." (I told you before that us Yorkshire lasses are not known for our subtlety.) "I'm afraid I can't give you that greeting," I added.

He grinned back. "It can be a bit overwhelming," he admitted.

"Overwhelming," I said. "You'd be suffocated if some of those girls got on top of you."

"Mustn't risk that," he said. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

I knew that Patience also fancied him like mad and that if I managed to pull him, she was highly likely to move in on him. So I told her that Tony had mentioned the girl in the pink blouse (Patience was wearing her pink blouse that day) with the huge wobbling jellies, and joked that he'd be suffocated if she got on top of him. She's never forgiven him, which suits me fine.

It all worked out perfectly. Since my initiation with Josh Walker, I'd watched a few movies to hone up my techniques, and I reckoned I could act the part without a problem. That evening, I wrapped my legs around Tony's body, moaned, "Oh God! Oh God!" and "Yes!" and dug my nails into his bum as I reached my 'orgasm'. Tony was hooked.

Three months later, when he returned to London, I went with him and he wangled me a job in the sales department. We got married six months after that.

Tony's story

Of course, meeting Trish all those years ago was the best thing that could have happened to me. I'm now in my mid-forties and still reasonably happily married, with a good sex life and two lovely kids — Simon went off to University last year, and Jenny has just gone. It's been fantastic, watching them grow up, but if I hadn't accidentally bumped into Trish and discovered how much she enjoyed sex, things might have turned out very differently.

I've never told anyone that the reason I volunteered to go to Bradford was because I wanted a safe place to experiment with my sexuality. A place where, even if my secret was exposed, it wouldn't matter. You see, I enjoy wearing women's clothes. I can't explain why, only that I have this very strong urge.

I know there are evolutionary theories as to why men cross-dress: that it's a way in which non-alpha males such as me could put on their glad rags, walk past two alpha males sparring for control of the harem, shag all the females in the harem, and then wave a cheery goodbye to the alpha males, who by now have half-killed each other. (See The Human Cuckoo.) In order to survive, evolution finds weird and wonderful ways around any problem.

The theory certainly explains why we cross-dressers find it so erotic — for this is a prelude to sex and procreation — but the explanation only goes so far. It doesn't explain why so many cross-dressers want to exaggerate their female sexuality: huge breasts, for example, or high heels with short miniskirts; even though these are likely to make their deception more obvious. And it certainly doesn't explain why I want a vagina — but I'll come on to that later.

Obviously, all my cross-dressing habits have been strictly in the closet and, until now, very limited. I still had to look after the kids, even when Trish went off to Bradford for a few days at a time to visit her sister, Patience. (I've always maintained she should have been called Impatience. She hated me on first sight, and after a few attempts on my part to be friendly, we came to mutual agreement that the best thing was to stay away from each other.) Only occasionally would Trish's visits to Patience coincide with the kids being away on a school trip, so I could enjoy myself.

But now, with the kids at university, I've been actively encouraging Trish to see Patience more often, and to stay there for longer periods, which leaves me opportunity to exercise my secret needs. At first, it was simply wandering around the house dressed in Trish's skirts and dresses — it's quite good that she's tall for a woman and I'm short for a man, so we are virtually the same size.

But that was rather inconvenient every time someone knocked at the door, so after a while, I took to simply wearing her underwear beneath her jeans and tee shirt. I still got a tremendous buzz out of it, but as long as I chose clothes which could be unisex, no one realised. It's fortunate that Trish is no curvy woman; in fact, her breasts are slimmer than mine, so provided they didn't show through my shirts, I could go out wearing her AA non-padded bras and no one would be the wiser.

Down below, I would simply tuck away my testicles and use one of her control briefs to keep everything nice and flat, and that was fine for a while. However, it was always a problem when I went to the toilet, since as soon as I pulled down my knickers, things would start popping out, and they would then have to be tucked and packed back in again. How nice it would be, I thought, if I could get a nice vagina which would fit over my male bits and stay in place even when I pulled down my knickers and had a wee.

The more I thought about it, the more obsessed I became by the idea. It got to the point where cross-dressing seemed pointless without a vagina. So, I searched the cross-dressing sites on the internet for a while. The problem was that the only decent vaginas I could find were made to measure and had to come from America, so apart from costing an arm and a leg, I could hardly schedule their arrival in the limited timeslot between Trish departing to Bradford and her return a few days later. Then, a search on Google suddenly revealed a whole new opening (pun intended!). Just try typing in realistic vaginas, and you'll see what I mean.

OK, these are designed as male masturbation aids, but there are dozens of reasonably-priced vaginas on sale from on-line sex aid sites, often offering next day delivery. Ideal.

Well, not quite ideal. The problem is that they are designed to rest on a flat surface whilst the male sticks his cock inside and does press ups on top of it — hardly compatible with my needs. However, I reckoned a bit of surgery on the device could well make it work. On Trish's next trip to Bradford, I bought my vagina and proceeded to slice away at it with a craft knife, until I had something which would sit between my legs, with my penis entering the vagina from the 'wrong' side and resting with the head just perceptible through the vaginal lips so I could piss through it. I tried to fashion the anal passage into a butt plug, which would go up my arse and secure the rear of my vagina in place. However, that didn't really work and I couldn't manage to secure the device in place, so the thing was perpetually falling off my penis, every time I pulled down my knickers.

After a bit more research, I decided that medical adhesive was the answer. I bought a tube of it, along with adhesive remover, and prior to Trish's next trip to Bradford, I practised with it by sticking things to my finger and then using the remover to take it off again. It seemed perfect for my needs, although I have to say, I was slightly nervous about using it on my cock.

Still, needs must. A month later, Trish was off on her next visit to Bradford, and as soon as she was gone, I had out my vagina and my tube of medical adhesive. I trimmed off and then shaved my pubic hairs (I'll come back to that later), and tucked away my balls. Then I spread the adhesive over my groin and anal area, and the shaft of my penis. I slid my cock into place inside the vagina, pushed it into position and held it there for ten minutes. Then I let it go, expecting it to either drop on the floor, or start hurting like crazy.

It did neither; it stayed in place looking for all the world like a natural vagina — well, OK, it did look a little pink and new, but I rapidly solved that problem by sticking my genital hairs, which I'd previously trimmed off, over the surface of my vagina, giving me a lovely bush. In just a few minutes, I was at the point where, to all intents and purposes, my vagina would easily pass close visual examination.

I took a few photographs, delighted with the results of my work. I even had a little wee, although I thought it too sordid to photograph that. I dressed, went out to the shops, and even went into a coffee shop and had a bite to eat.

It was whilst I was in the middle of my Danish pastry that my mobile rang. It was Trish. I answered full of foreboding, since it was unusual for her to ring during the day.

"H Trish. Everything all right?"

"Hi Tony. No, it's not all right. Patience has gone down with some nasty vomiting virus. I've decided to come home straight away."

Shit! Shit! Shit! "Shouldn't you stay and look after her?"

"There's nothing I can do, apparently, and it means I would probably catch it. The best thing is to keep away from her for several days, so I'm on my way home. See you in a few hours. Bye."

It wasn't the end of the world, of course. No doubt Trish would be off to see her again as soon as the virus had gone, but it did mean I had to get straight home and remove my vagina, and pack away all the paraphernalia that went with it. I left my Danish half eaten and drove home.

Tricia's Story

Over the years, Tony and I had a pretty good marriage. We didn't row too much, our two kids were wonderful, and our careers took off. Although Tony's influence helped initially, the company pretty quickly realised just how damn good I was at my job, and I started to make more money in commission than he did on a salary. I changed companies after a year, partly because I didn't want Tony or anyone else drawing comparisons between his income and mine, and partly because I was always concerned that tongues would wag and Tony would hear.

You see, I pretty quickly came to the conclusion that we females have a unique advantage over males, but far too few of us use it properly: our vagina. It's said that men think about sex every seven seconds, although I think that's probably bullshit. But sex is always in the background of their minds; see a woman of shaggable age and they're thinking about it; have a serious business meeting and they're wondering what you look like undressed; ask them to decide between two companies, and they make the decision based upon how much they fancy you.

Whereas, with my particular insensitivity in that direction, I never think about sex except as a commodity which helps me gets things. All right, I keep Tony permanently shagged out so he's not likely to wander off with other women. But I have to say, that's not the only use to which I put my vagina. If sex meant anything to me, then I'd probably feel differently about it; but it doesn't. If sex with a client will swing the deal, then we have sex. If an occasional week away with the chairman of my company helps keep him sweet, then I'll tell Tony I'm off to stay with Patience, and we're all happy. I know that if Tony found out about it, he'd be really upset, but since he doesn't, then as a family we all benefit from my considerable income.

Tony's Story

The adhesive remover didn't work!

I splashed a little more on, waited several minutes for it to do its job, and still it made no difference. If I was upset before, I went into a blue funk now. It would take Trish a couple more hours to drive home from Bradford, and I had a vagina in place of a cock and balls!

I tried even more of the remover, but it had absolutely no affect. I drove down to the local hardware store and bought a tube of their adhesive remover, but in spite of it stinging like crazy, that too made no difference. I drove to another hardware shop, but they only had the same stuff. I was running out of time!

I thought of driving off and checking into a hotel, but knew Trish would immediately suspect I was having an affair, which would be far, far worse.

That thought brought me round. I had to go back home and greet Trish on arrival. Hopefully, I could bluff it through for an hour or so, and then say I was going out for a drink with one of my mates. I'd immediately drive to Casualty and throw myself on their mercy. The plan was fraught with risk, not the least that someone would leak it to the press, which would be an even worse mess than I was already in, but it was all I could think of.

In the event, it went pear shaped as soon as she walked through the door.

"Hello darling," she said, walking over to me with a big smile on my face. "Pleased to see me?"

I've already said we have a good sex life, so her next action was not particularly unusual. She gave me a big kiss, and then slid her hand down to my crutch.

Trish's Story

In a way, I was quite pleased when I discovered Tony was cross-dressing. It certainly didn't bother me, other than having to wash and iron a few of my clothes he'd messed up, and I could cope with that. But it did mean he was keeping his little secret from me; I know that for him it wouldn't equate to my shagging away from home, though it did help to relieve the minor unease I sometimes felt about my deception.

However, I was concerned one day when I'd mislaid a blouse and I searched for it in his private cache, that he thought I didn't know about. There was a vagina! It seemed weird, if you know what I mean, and I thought I ought to try to help him.

Which meant it had to be brought out into the open.

It was easy enough to tell him of my plans for another week with Patience, substitute water for the adhesive remover, and when the day came, to go away for a few hours before ringing him with news of my sister's 'illness'. But I knew that the way I handled things then were crucial.

Tony's Story

She took it all quite well, actually. After pulling down my trousers and gasping in amazement at the vagina which faced her, she started to shake slightly, and I thought, ugh, ugh, she's going to freak out. I'd always had an excuse ready, in case of this ultimate problem. It was one I'd cultivated over the many years I'd been cross-dressing so I tried it on her.

"It's for the book I'm writing," I told her. "I wanted to test out a plot development."

I told her how my protagonist had been framed for murder and had to go into hiding so he pretended to be a woman. As I spoke, she seemed to calm down and accept my words as the truth — she could hardly be expected to understand the real truth. Fortunately, I even had a manuscript prepared all ready to show her, and she skimmed through this for a few minutes, reading bits here and there. But of course, that didn't really cover the reason why my character would wear a false vagina, something she saw through and asked me about.

Thinking on the spot, I replied, "He was going to... er... a naturist resort." The solution had struck me in the face. "He thought that if he walked about naked showing his vagina for all to see, there'd be no doubt about his sex, whereas if he dressed up as a woman, he'd probably be sussed straightaway."

Of course, she'd then raised the objection that he'd have no breasts, to which I responded that neither did she, and no one thought her a man. I thought she'd have been horrified by what I'd been doing, but she thought about it for a minute, and her next words took me by surprise. She told me to strip off so that she could see the results for herself. We went upstairs to the bedroom and I nervously removed my clothes and slipped on my wig.

"So do you think you could pass?" she asked.

I stared at myself in the mirror, and I had to admit it. "No," I said. "I would never pass as a woman like this." I had slim male hips and a broad chest making just enough difference that, in spite of my vagina, I simply looked like a man with a vagina.

She agreed with me, saying that blew a hole in the plot for my book, which I'd forgotten all about. That, I thought, nicely let me off the hook with everything. All I had to do then was to get my vagina unstuck from my genitals, and we'd be back to normal.

"So you'll have to change your plot slightly," she said, before I could speak. "Go back to wearing clothes and go to a hotel instead. With the right clothes and a bit of practice, I reckon you could pass. Also, it would be better if your hero had someone pretending to be a husband with him. I could do that."

"Wha..." I gasped. "You'd pretend to be my... husband and I'd be your... wife?"

"It's more likely to work that way, don't you think?"

Well what could I say? Of course it was, but it had never crossed my mind that she would consider taking part in my cross-dressing activities. She immediately suggested we spend the rest of the weekend in Brighton, dressed as husband and wife.

"You mean, straightaway?" Events were getting out of control.

"Of course," she said, pointing out that she'd already booked the week off work to visit Patience and that I'd also said I might take a few days off to get some jobs done (like spending the week cross-dressed!). Then she started getting bossy about my female conversion, and how I wasn't doing the best to look like an attractive woman. She pulled some hair remover stuff out of a drawer and told me to use it all over my body, after I'd booked a hotel room in Brighton for a couple of nights and packed a suitcase of clothes for her to wear. And I was to make certain everything was properly ironed before I packed it. Meanwhile, she was going shopping for a few things.

Tricia's Story

I had it all worked out how I'd handle Tony and his little perversion, and it all went to pot as soon as I pulled down his trousers and stared at his hairy pussy.

I had never seen anything so erotic! No, I'll rephrase that; I had never seen anything before which was at all erotic. I've seen plenty of hairy bollocks and erect cocks, large and small, and plenty of pretty, naked women in changing rooms; I've even looked at porn on the internet; all of it has left me quite cold.

But as I stared at Tony's hairy pussy, I felt a tingling which ran throughout my body; my blood was surging through my veins; I could feel my forehead throbbing as though it was going to burst; and deep down below, I felt something tickling between my legs.

I was mesmerised by the sight; I wanted to reach forward and touch it; I wanted to lean forward and lick it; instead, I could do nothing except stare, whilst Tony rabitted on about some cock and cunt story he'd cooked up to explain it.

Eventually, the ludicrous nature of his comments got through to me and I poured cold water on them, whilst realising that it gave me the opportunity to turn things around for my own ends. There was a shop in the seedier part of town that I was sure would meet my needs.

Tony's Story

After I'd used the hair remover all over my body, I was fascinated by the improvement it made. I'd always suspected it would make a difference, but in the past I'd known that in just a few days' time, Trish would be returning and asking questions about why my body had suddenly turned hairless. My legs were just fantastic, and even my belly looked more feminine.

Beneath the vagina, I could feel a stirring indicating that someone wanted to come out to play. I put my hand onto my vagina and gave it a little massage, which was exquisite. I might have gone on for a little longer, but I heard Trish's car returning, and hurriedly returned to the ironing board and my packing.

"I bought these for you," she said, handing me a carrier bag. Inside were a slim pair of silicone breasts and some weird-shaped pads. They were hip pads, she said, and she reckoned the breasts and hips would give me a nice feminine shape, without making me too big to fit into her clothes. There was also another bottle of medical adhesive in the bag, and she'd opened it and was about to use it on me when I stopped her, saying the stuff wouldn't come off.

She took no notice, simply saying the remover must have been defective, and in any case, we had all week and there was no need for me to take them off. Within seconds, I had nice boobs stuck to my chest and wider hips. There was no doubt they improved my shape, but being a slightly different colour to my skin, it was obvious they were false.

"Which is why the nudist colony idea would never have worked," she said. "Just to complete your feminine shape," she added, "I bought you some waist cinchers, with matching stockings."

My cock really did want to come out to play when she said that, although I had to pretend I was horrified. "But you always wear tights," I said to her. "You don't wear stockings."

She smiled. "But I am already a woman, whereas you have to think yourself into the role. It's very different being a woman, and you need to understand that. A woman is always vulnerable and you have to appreciate what that is like. So you won't be wearing any tights or knickers. Your skirt might blow up with the slightest puff of wind and men will be staring at your pretty vagina, and thinking about fucking you. How does that feel?"

It suddenly felt bloody scary. "Do we need to go that far?"

She smiled and looked down at my pussy. "You've gone pretty far already, without my input. We might as well see it through." She wrapped one of the cinchers around my waist, fastened it and then started to draw in the laces.

My cock was getting so excited beneath the vagina, but virtually doubled up inside, it just couldn't get a hard on. I fidgeted a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position. If only I could slip a hand down there and rub myself a little.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Stop fidgeting," Trish said. "It's not that tight. I have to draw the laces in a long way yet."

She proceeded to slowly draw in the laces, every now and then, releasing them a little so they didn't get twisted, and all the time I was silently willing her to finish quickly. Eventually, she had tied them off, and before she could move onto the next garment, I told her I had to go to the toilet, and I dashed to the bathroom and shut the door.

I slid a finger inside my vagina, but it quickly came against the engorged head of my penis and couldn't get any further. It wasn't even pleasant, so I pulled out my finger and used the fleshy part of my palm in the same way I often used on Trish to masturbate her. It usually had her writhing with pleasure within seconds, and she'd have an orgasm in less than a minute, but whilst it made me feel even more aroused, I couldn't get to an orgasm. I ground my vagina, round and round, up and down and side to side, and still I couldn't orgasm.

After a while, Trish knocked on the bathroom door and asked if I was all right. I knew I wasn't going to orgasm and I slumped in defeat for a few seconds, before replying to Trish that I was just having a little difficulty in peeing, but I was all right really. I sprinkled a bit of water on my face and washed away the sweat before drying myself and going out to Trish.

"Time to get you dressed, now," she told me. "I've selected a nice summery dress."

I stared at her, suddenly realising she had not only changed into one of my shirts and jeans, but that her face looked different.

"I got it from the fancy dress shop in town," she admitted. "It's a stubble paste. Do you think it looks realistic?"

"You look great," I told her. "I wish I could convert as well as you do."

"We'll put the dress on you, makeup your face and I think you'll be surprised," she said.

Tricia's Story

When Tony arrived at our office in Bradford, his prettiness was stunning, in a Tony Curtis kind of way. Of course, all the jocks in the office thought he was gay and derided him, mostly behind his back, but us girls weren't fooled. He was gorgeous, which is why everyone was trying to pull him.

In the years since we'd first met, I'd kinda forgotten how pretty he still was, but as soon as I finished the makeup and stood back and looked at him, I thought he — no, I must say 'she' — was prettier than I was. Without my self-confidence, she had a girl-next-door look about her, and my heart did a somersault that she was my wife. Does that sound weird? It certainly did to me. We'd been married for twenty years, and he'd been shagging me rotten for twenty-one. Now, I'd fallen in love all over again with a new side of him/her.

"Do you think I'll pass?" she asked.

"You're gorgeous," I replied, and I turned her to face me, took her head in my hands, and kissed her.

***

We agreed to use a different version of each other's names to avoid confusion, so I became Anthony (quickly abbreviated to Ant) and she became Patricia, or Patty. We swapped credit cards for our joint account, and spent a few minutes practising the other's signature, and hoped no one would ask for photo ID from our driving licences. Then we set off to Brighton, with me driving Tony's car.

As we drove, I did what Tony often did for me, and let my hand wander across from the gearstick onto Patty's leg, and then slip it slowly up her thigh until it was resting against her crutch beneath the dress.

Hell! I thought I was a good actor under such circumstances, but Patty was far better, screwing up her eyes, lifting up her torso and grinding her vagina against my hand. Just like me, she uttered little requests for me to stop, but in a tone that indicated she was enjoying it too much.

I usually simulated an orgasm after a few minutes, just because I found the whole thing so wearing, but Patty continued for mile after mile, the sweat pouring off her face and ruining her makeup. OK, she may have been acting, but I found it very touching that she was prepared to put herself out so much, just to please me. I wandered how far she would be prepared to go, later on, to continue doing so.

We arrived at our motel in Brighton and I checked us in, using a rather gruff accent. Meanwhile, Patty simpered with excitement. Her voice was still quite low in tone, but she seemed to have all the mannerisms of an excited female and the receptionist clearly didn't suspect either of us.

Patty's Story

After Trish — sorry, Ant — had made me up, and I looked in the mirror, I stopped worrying about not looking the part. Instead, I had to concentrate on thinking myself into the part.

Ant decided that I didn't need any stockings to go with my summer dress, so beneath that, I was completely naked from my waist cincher down to my shoes.

Ant had packed my bag whilst I'd been trying to masturbate in the bathroom, so after swapping our credit cards and practising signatures, Ant said it was time to set out.

A sudden pang of fear surged through me at the idea of walking just the few yards to the car, no doubt with the neighbours looking out their windows, but Ant growled at me to get on with it, and with quaking heart I stepped past him onto the drive.

If I'd still been a man, I'd have thought it a windless day, but I could feel the breeze blowing around my legs, my thighs and my bottom.

Thankfully, because Trish was quite tall, none of her shoes had heels more than one inch, but Ant had chosen a pair for me with very spiky heels, and on the uneven drive, I was terrified I was going to tumble over and show my bush to the neighbours.

In fact, I got to the car without incident, but Ant had gone back inside to check everything was turned off, and the car was locked. I had to rummage through my handbag to find the keys to unlock the car, with old Mr Brown walking along the road towards me.

I hurriedly unlocked and got inside, as I normally do. I reached out in order to pull the door shut, and give a nervous smile to Mr Brown, as you do. But his eyes were transfixed on a point below my waist. I glanced down and realised that as I'd brought my one leg into the car to follow the other, the hem of my skirt had got left behind, and it was now hanging down, almost to the ground, and exposing my leg from ankle to buttock. I grabbed at it and pulled it in and across my leg, flushing a bright red as I did so.

Mr Brown gave me a nice smile and said, "Thank you my dear. You have just made the day of an old man so much nicer."

I think I went even redder as I slammed the door. Fortunately, Ant had just got into the car, and he was laughing fit to burst.

"Stop laughing," I told him, "and drive on. It was unfortunate he happened to be coming along just then."

"No it wasn't," he said. "I saw him coming along the road through the window. That's why I pushed you out the door so hurriedly, and then made an excuse to go back inside."

"You bastard," I told him.

"Tut, tut," Ant said. "Ladies do not speak like that. But you've just had your first meeting with someone, and you handled it as any woman might. He certainly didn't have a clue who you really were. But one tip, when you get in a car, as with any other operation, remember a woman has to take care."

I didn't say anything as he started the engine and we drove off, passing Mr Brown on the way, still grinning like a Cheshire cat. The journey was like the agony and the ecstasy — without the ecstasy! Ant slipped his hand onto my crotch, as I often did with Trish. It was lovely at first and I was so close to orgasm, but as he continued to work my pussy, I was never close enough. After a few miles, I knew it was no good continuing; that I was never going to reach that orgasm. I kept muttering, "Stop it. Stop it," to Ant, but he took no notice, presumably because Trish gets so much pleasure out of it when Tony does it to her. So I spent the whole journey writhing on the end of Ant's massaging hand.

Looking on the bright side, if I had ejaculated, it would have covered my dress in semen, so I guess I should have been thankful that never happened. It would certainly have messed up my entrance into reception. As it was, Ant stopped me from getting out of the car when we arrived at the motel, since the sweat pouring down my face had created rivulets through my makeup. He helped me recreate my face, but pointed out that I had to learn to do it for myself, since he wouldn't always be there to do so.

Ant's idea about not wearing knickers worked really well — it made such a difference when I walked into the motel reception and saw the pair of young guys clocking me as my dress floated outwards as I swivelled around, although thankfully there was no breeze to lift it. Even so, it was scary. What if... And if only they knew I had no knickers!

As soon as we'd got into our room, Ant was telling me we had to go out again and find somewhere to give me nail extensions. He brushed aside my objections, and in less than ten minutes we were on the streets of Brighton looking for a decent nail bar.

Thankfully, Ant chose a Chinese nail bar where they barely spoke English, so I didn't have to spend the hours it took talking about girlish things. When I came out, I had long talons which rendered my fingers useless for anything intricate.

As soon as we got back to the motel, Ant said I should shower and prepare for dinner. I asked him if he was going to change and he just shrugged and said he'd go like he was. Just like a bloody man!

I hadn't been able to use the hair remover on my face, so I had another shave - have you ever tried it with nails that could take out an eye — and then Ant was strapping me into another waist cincher — this time a black one with suspenders — giving me the same problem with my cock wanting to be noticed. I willed myself to think about other things, and chatted gaily to Ant about where we were going for dinner, and how we should find somewhere quiet and off the beaten track.

"But I want to show you off," he told me. "That's why you're going to be wearing your little black dress."

I almost shit myself! Trish's little black dress was a stunner which exposed her long legs and (for her) startling cleavage.

"But they'll see my stocking tops," I protested; "and I'll need to wear panties. And surely, they'll see my breast pads?"

"I think your cleavage will be OK with the right bra," Ant said. "And yes, of course everyone will see your stocking tops, and no, you can't wear panties. You'll need to keep pulling down your dress if you're to stop people seeing your pussy, and you mustn't forget that."

So Ant selected a bra for me which squashed my breasts together giving me a great natural cleavage, and then helped me slide the stockings up my legs and secure them with the suspenders attached to the waist clincher. The shoes were rather too small for me but Ant was insistent I had to wear them, and they were incredibly sexy. If anything, the heels were even spikier than the ones I'd been wearing, and I felt incredibly tottery on them. The dress fitted like a sleeve. As I stared at myself in the mirror, my prick once more tried to surge out, but once more was held in place by my vagina.

"What do you think?" Ant asked me, and I told him I felt pretty good. He replied that I needed some accessories, and fortunately had packed several of Trish's necklaces, bracelets and earrings. As he held them against my body, I realised he was right — they really made a difference to how I looked, and we chose the most suitable for me. He clipped the necklace around my neck, and then fumbled with the earrings.

"Ow!" I yelled, at the sharp pain in my ear.

"I'm just making a hole for the hooks to go through," he said. "It's all right. I've sterilised the needle."

"That really hurt," I told him, but he simply shrugged and said that was nothing compared with childbirth, so I could shut up whilst he pierced the other ear.

I had to admit that the earrings, necklace and bracelet made me look even more sexy than before, and especially, I found it quite erotic having the weight of the earrings dangling from my ears.

We walked through the streets of Brighton, heading towards the restaurant area. There were lots of other people out on the streets and many of them stared at the pair of us. A lot of the guys stared at me in a dirty kind of way. I could visualise the thoughts running through their minds: I wouldn't mind fucking that. It's really strange; I'm heterosexual; I don't find men in the slightest bit attractive, yet I was turned on by imagining their thoughts. My poor prick was incredibly confused, and needless to say, very frustrated.

But I noticed the girls were staring at Ant in just the same way, which surprised me. Even with the stubble paste, Ant still had quite a feminine face and I wouldn't have thought it cut much ice with most of the good time girls on the way to the clubs that evening, but there's no accounting for taste. I even saw one girl mouthing to her mate, "Wow! Did you cop a look at him?" and her mate saying, "I saw him first. He's mine."

When we decided on a restaurant, the waiter found us seats in the window. I'd rather we'd had seats inside, but Ant was delighted. You need to get used to being stared at, he told me. That was a laugh, because of the people passing by the window, there were at least as many women staring at him as there were men staring at me. Although it was disconcerting at first, I got used to it after a while, and we both started to enjoy ourselves, especially when he put his hand beneath the table and started fondling my knee. When I thought back to earlier in the day, and the disaster I thought it was going to turn into, I couldn't stop myself smiling.

"What are you smiling at?" he asked.

"What we're doing," I told him. "It's just so bizarre, but I'm tremendously enjoying it. Thank you for everything."

"Let's skip desserts," he replied, "and go back and fuck."

"There's nothing I'd love more," I said, and kept my voice low as I added, "but my cock is unable to come out to play."

"Never mind," Ant said. "You never know what might pop up."

***

We did skip desserts and make our way back to the motel. Personally, I'd have been quite happy to eat pussy all night long, just to repay Ant/Trish for what s/he had done, and I was a bit surprised when Ant got out a long nightdress for me. He pushed me towards the bathroom and said I needed to prepare for him.

"Prepare?" I asked.

"I've left a douche in the bathroom," he told me. "You'll need to use it."

I grinned at him, sharing his joke. "I'm afraid my vagina is a dead end. My cock completely fills it from the opposite side, so there's no room to flush it out."

"I wasn't thinking of your cock," he said. "I was thinking of somewhere to put this." And he dropped his trousers.

Ant's story

Over the years, I guess I've seen more than my fair share of cocks. I've seen small ones, average ones and large ones. With my particular insensitivity, size hasn't really mattered much to me, except in the way I had to react to it. It's always terribly important to the male that you dote on his cock. Even an average prick has got to be enormous, a tiny prick has to be beautiful, and even the guys with huge pricks - whom you'd expect had no need for ego bolstering - required you be terrified of the bloody thing. I reckon you could shove a pick axe handle up my cunt without too much discomfort, although I've never tried, so my reaction was always an act.

So it remains a complete mystery why, when I entered the sex shop, I told the sales woman I wanted the biggest strap on cock they had. Hell, I'd only just started to contemplate sex as a man, and already I was thinking like one of them. But when the woman realised that not only was I a novice with such devices, but that the recipient would be a virgin in that area, she made me slim it right down to the smallest girth they stocked - about one inch.

I wanted something which really looked like a prick, rather than some brightly-coloured toy; certainly I had no need for a clitoris or G-spot simulator. The woman came up trumps, showing me this nice strap on with a pair of hairy bollocks, and although the shaft was not exceptional size, it had those protruding purple veins around it which always look so obnoxious. I got the ejaculating version, and the woman told me I could fill the bollocks with water, or Greek yoghurt for greater realism, and then use a rubber bulb which fitted inside my vagina to squirt it out.

Now that, I really fancied. I would have put it on there and then, but the sales woman pointed out there'd be no room to fit it inside my skin-tight jeans, so I had to carry it home in a bag. Whilst Tony was pratting about in the bathroom, I filled the bollocks with my large pot of Greek yoghurt, which inflated them almost to the size of tennis balls, and strapped it in place. Even wearing Tony's baggy trousers, my new genitals bulged alarmingly, although Tony didn't seem to notice when he came out of the bathroom so I didn't bother about that any more.

At least, I didn't bother anymore until we arrived at the motel reception, and I noticed the receptionist checking out the bulge in my trousers, as did every woman we subsequently passed on the streets. Inside the restaurant, we were on display in the window, and the problem was accentuated because there were no tablecloths on the tables. Almost every girl walking along that busy road glanced at us in the window, and then did a double take on me, with my 500 grams of yoghurt bulging my bollocks out like balloons.

Talk about a turn on! Well, actually, I'm going to talk about it quite a lot because I've never felt that way before. It's normal for blokes to lust after me, as they do after any half decent woman. In the past, I've just viewed it as a fact of life that women can generally have sex with any man they choose.

Now, their stares combined with the knowledge of what was sticking out between my legs, made me feel incredibly horny. I could give any one of them a good fucking, and unlike most blokes who start to droop after the first ejaculation, I could go on and on until my yoghurt ran out!

Of course, I was with Patty and in spite of the dramatic changes we'd both been through that day, I still loved her very much. But as the desire grew in my loins, I knew that I had to fuck her soon, or I would go crazy. She was wittering about what dessert we would have, and I put my hand on her knee and suggested we return to our motel.

Patty's Story

I couldn't believe that I'd been so preoccupied all afternoon with my own conversion that I hadn't noticed the trouble to which Ant had gone to go along with my charade.

When he pulled down his trousers and exposed his monster prick and enormous bollocks, I felt so incredibly moved I almost cried.

I think as his trousers dropped to the floor, I must have bent over to stare at it properly and Ant suddenly reached out to grab my head with both hands and pull me down so I was kneeling before him.

Now Trish has always been pretty good with her mouth, particularly for bringing an exhausted cock back to life, but she always made certain she was in control when she did so, and I never had any problem with that.

So I just don't know how Ant got the idea of behaving in the way some men do. Knelt in front of Ant with his hands behind my head, I had absolutely no control over what happened. He was going to face-fuck me and I had no choice in the matter.

Staring at his cock, only inches before my face, it was absolutely hideous, and I knew that as a woman I must make my protestations.

"It's horrible..." I started to say, before he pushed the head of his prick into my mouth, cutting off my words. It was so erotic, I almost came on the spot, but I didn't.

He slid his cock right inside, until his hairy bollocks were nestling against my chin, and the head was tickling the back of my throat. It took a steely effort to relax rather than gagging, but I was pleased I managed it. In any case, what could I do? It wasn't even as though I could bite my teeth into it. I was totally powerless. That thought alone almost gave me an orgasm, but it didn't.

Ant withdrew his cock until my lips were encircling the head, and I could suck and lick it. Then he slammed it back inside as hard as it would go, his bollocks this time giving me quite a slap in the face. I knew I was almost there.

I reached behind him with both hands to encourage him by digging my nails into his buttocks. My action spurred him into vigorous action, and he was suddenly thrusting in and out at a tremendous pace and I was being knocked almost silly by his enormous bollocks slapping me under the chin.

On and on he went, and still I hadn't reached my orgasm. I let go his bum with one hand and reached down with the other to pull up my skirt, and start massaging my vagina. Delicious! If I could keep that going for just a minute, I'd be there.

Ant gave an extra large slam to the back of my throat, and then I felt something hot squirting down my throat. I choked.

I guess I'd have bitten Ant's cock off if it had been real. As it was, Ant had the good sense to hurriedly withdraw it and he held it just inches in front of my face.

I stared at it, the semen dripping from the end, wondering how a strap on cock had managed to do that. Then I saw Ant tense, and I knew what was coming (quite literally) and, with Ant's hands still clasping my head, could do nothing to avoid it.

The deluge of semen hit me straight in the eyes and covered my face.

"Agh!" I gasped, and would have said more but another squirt went straight in my mouth. Already choking, it made breathing impossible. I thought I was going to die.

Instead, I had an orgasm.

It was an orgasm like I'd never had before. It wasn't centred, as it usually was, on my cock. After all, that was still doubled up beneath my vagina and certainly wasn't thrusting away inside one (or even inside my hand). Instead, the gooey sensation seemed to spread from my groin throughout my whole body. A heavenly feeling that lasted for minutes, rather than the normal seconds.

"Lick it off," Ant said.

I had to admire Trish's playacting, which was just like that of an evil male. I managed to open one eye - the other seemed to be welded shut by the semen. Ant's cock was still in front of my face and still dribbling semen and still as rock hard as it had been before. I obligingly opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and cleaned the semen from the end of his cock.

When I had done, I looked up at him as a slave might look at her master.

He stared down at me. "You look a mess," he said. "Get yourself cleaned up."

Fantastic, I thought. Everything that Trish had done since she'd arrived home all those hours ago had been entirely for my gratification. Poor Ant couldn't orgasm with his false prick, whereas if Trish was here, she'd by now be on her third.

Ant pulled me to my feet and roughly pushed me towards the bathroom. There he filled the washbasin, and as I bent over it, he unzipped my dress and let it drop to the floor. As I washed my face, I could feel his prick nestling against my thigh — it was incredibly erotic, and even though I'd just had such a swishy orgasm, I felt ready for more.

But then I could feel something nuzzling against my back passage. With his prick still resting against my thigh, I was uncertain what it was.

"What..." As I made to stand up and turn around, Ant pushed my head back down towards the washbasin.

"Stand still. I told you to clean yourself out, but perhaps it's better if I do it, this time."

I gasped as something went into a place where it shouldn't be. Then I gasped some more as I remembered Ant talking about a douche. I knew exactly what was coming next. I could feel the water squeezing into my bum, more and more of it, filling me right up.

"Keep your buttocks clenched until you sit on the toilet," Ant directed.

You can imagine the next bit — I'm certainly not going to tell you about it except to say I had to do it several times over, and finally I had to take a shower and present myself to Ant in my gorgeous white nightdress.

"Get into bed and await my pleasure," he said.

It seemed quite natural to reply, "Yes master," to which he smirked a bit.

Ant's Story

I give Patty full marks for trying, but she really hadn't a clue how to simulate an orgasm; she simply knelt there in front of me with a stupid smile on her face, dripping with semen — well, Greek yoghurt, actually — she wasn't even digging her nails into my bum as she'd been doing earlier.

On the other hand, I'd had more sexual fun in the last few minutes than in the whole of my life. There'd been something so wonderful about dominating my husband who was pretending to be my wife. The shock on his face as I ejaculated was just out of this world, especially since I think my ejaculating vagina had never been designed for women like me.

You see, I realised pretty early on in life that, as my vagina got stretched to accommodate the larger pricks, I had to ensure I could keep Tony's tiny one happy. A friend put me on to the importance of pelvic exercise, and the various devices you could buy to help strengthen the muscles. She also reckoned it would increase the sensitivity of my vagina, although that never materialised. But I used to pop an exerciser inside me for the journey to and from work, and use the forty-five minute train journey to exercise. I reckon I could now crack walnuts with my vagina. Tony has always delighted that my cunt remained so tight, even after giving birth. So when I squeezed on the rubber bulb with my cunt, the stuff shot out so seriously I thought I might take his eyes out.

Certainly, I could understand now the compelling drive which made men commit rape. One thing was certain, I was going to fuck Patty properly in the next few minutes and nothing she could do was going to stop me.

I pulled her to her feet and took her into the bathroom, shoved the douche up her bum and showed her how to use it. Then I left the bathroom and waited for her to finish, and come to me in her nightdress. Tony had bought it for me as a birthday present and I'd always disliked it. It was a bit like wearing a net curtain: a sheer white gown with slits up both sides, only held together at the waist. As a nightdress, it was completely useless, but now I was on the other side of it, I could certainly appreciate its advantages. As Patty stood before me, she looked more beautiful than she had ever done. It made me feel very, very randy.

Just listen to me: me feeling randy! It was a first, and I was enjoying it.

"Get into bed and await my pleasure," I ordered him.

"Yes master," he replied, which gave me such an intense feeling of pleasure that, for a minute, I thought I might be in the throes of an orgasm.

Patty's Story

As soon as I was in bed, Ant got between my legs, violently grabbing them and spreading them apart and painfully forcing them backwards over my shoulders. I knew my tight little anus was pointing up into the air, ready for an onslaught by that horrible prick. It was the most uncomfortable position I could imagine in which to have sex, but, I guessed, a position that women had to get used to.

"Go easy with me, Ant," I said. "I'm a virgin."

"And I'm going to fuck you rigid," he said.

I knew he was only joking but it sure sounded realistic. "No. Please don't." I whimpered. I could feel his cock positioning itself outside my little hole. There was no way that monster could go inside.

"A-a-a-g-g-h!" I was wrong. Ant simply dropped his body on top of mine, with all his weight focussed on penetrating my hole. "Oh Jesus!" I cried. "That hurt. Please stop it."

Ant grunted, pulled his cock out so the head was again enlarging my little hole, and then he dropped onto me again.

"A-a-a-g-g-h!"

And again. "A-a-a-g-g-h!" I wondered, was it so bad that time?

"A-a-a-g-g-h!"

"A-a-a-g-g-h!"

"A-a-a-g-g-h!"

Nope, it was definitely getting easier.

"A-a-a-g-g-h!"

"A-a-a-g-g-h!"

"Oh yes!" Shit! Why had I said that?

My words seemed to make Ant redouble his effort. He took one arm away from restraining my leg and moved it down to start massaging my clitoris. As soon as he did that, I knew I was going to hit the most magnificent orgasm of all time. I started to scream.

Ant's Story

When Patty simulated her second orgasm, it was even worse than her first. I knew the screams of anguish had been real, and they incredibly turned me on, but with her mediocre second simulation, I knew that my own hopes of reaching an orgasm would once more go unfulfilled.

And then, as I continued to massage Patty's pussy, I found my fingers becoming moist. I glanced down and found they were covered in her semen; she really had reached an orgasm, and I'd assumed it was playacting. I did a double take on my actions: I had fucked Patty into an orgasm. I felt a tingling sensation starting in my groin, and sweeping throughout my body.

"Oh, fuck!" I shouted.

Patty's Story

I was rather sorry that the intensity of Ant's orgasm was nothing like Trish would have had, but Ant was wonderful about it; said it was the best orgasm he'd ever had, although he was obviously lying.

Over the next few hours, I went from one wonderful orgasm to another. I reckon I had more orgasms that night than when I had first met Trish and we'd spent our time perpetually in bed. We must have continued fucking until about five am, when we both fell into a deep sleep.

The sun was shining through our window when we next awoke. Ant was already awake and smiling at my face. I returned him a complicit grin and, in spite of the frustration he must have experienced the previous evening, he gave me an even bigger grin.

We lay for a minute in a mutual bliss, before Ant asked me how it had been and we chatted a bit about our experience. It was strange, but Ant really did appear to have enjoyed himself, even though his orgasms were nothing compared with normal.

But then he totally threw me by saying he had something serious to talk about. Oh shit, I thought, here comes the tirade against cross dressing.

Instead, Ant started talking about Trish's job. How the chairman of her company wanted her to become Chief Executive of one of his smaller companies in Yorkshire, but knew that, in that Yorkshire backwater, the workers simply couldn't cope with having a female boss — most of the specialists would leave, and the company would have lost its most precious asset.

"So your point is..." Except that I could see where this conversation was leading.

"I become a man. I take the job in your name. I'm sure the chairman would go along with it and I think I could carry it through without a problem. It would pay a fantastic salary — enough for both of us to live on. You'd obviously have to give up working, since the income tax people would smell a rat. In any case, it's a long way from London. You could live with me as my wife."

When I said nothing, he continued, "I know this is probably quite a shock to you, and we'd have to fix you up to play the part of the little woman at home. You'll need lots of new clothes and your hair would have to be done properly — perhaps even a breast job — but I'm sure you'd make a superb wife."

When I still said nothing, he asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"I'm a bit of a chauvinist myself," I said. "The husband should make the decisions and the wife has to follow his wishes. Do you really want me to have a breast job?"

When the vicar arrived at the mortuary, I was in tears, having just identified the body of my mother. I'd hardly spoken to her since I was fifteen years old when she'd remarried and I'd gone off to live with my uncle and aunt. Suddenly, I regretted everything: not loving her as much as I had loved my dad, who'd died the year before we split away from each other; not accepting that she missed her husband as much as I missed my father; and above all, for not making it up to her after her new husband, who I had hated, had died, many years ago.
I had dripped tears over the form I'd had to sign, identifying the corpse in the mortuary as my mother, Margaret Susan Russell, and the mortuary assistant was just making excuses to push me out when the vicar arrived. I barely registered her, other than noting a clerical collar, until she said, "Oh, you poor thing," and gave me a hug.

She was quite large and very soft; it was very comforting letting her pull me to her, and I swear I never had an untoward thought in my mind until I felt two nipples abruptly harden and thrust themselves into my chest. That certainly stopped my blubbering, and I think I may have even gasped, suddenly aware that if we continued in our embrace, she would quickly become aware of something else abruptly hardening!

"I'm so sorry," she said, pushing me away from her. "They don't normally do that. How incredibly embarrassing."

For me, it wasn't so much embarrassing as downright painful since, down below, something was trying to fight its way through my underpants. But she was fumbling with the front of her clerical shirt, making her protruding nipples less obvious by rumpling up the material. Within a few seconds, we'd both sorted ourselves out and I was able to inspect her rather more acutely than I had done to date.

I guessed she was quite a bit older than me; probably in her early forties to my twenty-eight but, in spite of our age difference, still quite attractive, in a pleasantly plump kind of way.

"Sorry about that," she repeated. "I guess I don't often have the chance to grope a fit young man."

I smiled back. "It certainly shook me out of my depression," I said. "I'd recommend you try that with all your downhearted parishioners. I'm Mike Russell, by the way. Margaret was my mother."

"Hello, Mike." She reached out a hand to shake mine. "I'm Heather Barnes, the Vicar of Diddley, and yes, I've heard all the jokes before." (For those outside Britain, she was referring to a long-running TV series of a slightly-different name.) "I'm so sorry for your loss," she continued. "I understand you've travelled up from London this morning."

I nodded. "I'd just got into my office in when the police telephoned and told me the news, and asked me to come up to identify Mum's body. They say they don't know exactly what she died of but they don't suspect anything sinister. They're doing a post-mortem, probably on Monday." It was Friday today, so I was planning to sort out the immediate issues concerning my mother's death and then probably go back home on Sunday, so I could go into work as normal on Monday.

"Did you drive up, or…"

"I came by train," I replied. "My car was at home, so I'd have had to go back there to get it, and it seemed the quickest way was to go to Euston and jump straight on the train to Manchester. On reflection, it's left me without transport so that's going to be quite a problem, especially as I don't have my driving licence on me so I can't rent a car. I suppose you couldn't give me a lift back to Diddley, could you? That would be ever so helpful."

"Of course I can," she replied. "The Vicarage is only a couple of miles from your mother's house so it's no problem. Have you had any lunch, yet?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't feeling hungry on the train but I am, now. What about you?"

"There's a pub on our way home which does decent food."

So we left the mortuary, part of the Manchester Royal Infirmary, and Heather led the way to the car park. She had an old Ford Mondeo, which had clearly seen better days, with all the debris inside typical of a well-used family car. When we got to the pub, I bought her a glass of wine and a beer for myself, and we both decided upon the beef and ale pie, before taking a seat.

"Your mother was a regular member of my congregation so I met her most weeks," she said, "although I can't say I knew her well."

"The tragedy is," I said, "that neither did I." And I started telling her my tale of woe, particularly about my relationship with my mother. Heather was a good listener, and I probably spoke for about twenty minutes, almost uninterrupted. We were both well through our beef and ale pie, before I dried up.

"So now you feel incredibly guilty," she said.

I nodded. "That's about it."

"Of course," she said, "I could say it was as much her responsibility to contact you – more so, in fact – than it was for you to contact her."

"Maybe, but I was pretty nasty to her when we parted. How did you get on with her?" I asked.

A shrug. "She was a fairly regular member of my congregation, I think more because it was a way of meeting people than because she was a Christian. But if I'm honest, I could probably say that about half of my congregation. The Lord works in mysterious ways and if I'm helping people to behave in Christian ways, even though they don't believe in Christianity, then I'm doing a worthwhile job. That's where…"

"That's where?" I asked.

"Can I be honest with you? Perhaps it will help you to understand your mother a little more." I nodded and she continued. "I felt your mother rather abused her attendance at the Church; that she was more an advocate of sin than of Christianity."

"I don't understand."

"It's not speaking ill of the dead to say she had Obsessive Compulsive Sexual Disorder.

"What?"

She grimaced. "Your mother was a nymphomaniac. I didn't have a particular problem with that, per se."

When it was clear she wasn't going to continue speaking, I tried to put her thoughts into words, "But she attracted men like bees to the honey pot."

"Yes."

"And not just unattached men?"

She inclined her head, neither wanting to speak ill, nor wanting to deny it.

"You said you didn't have a problem with her Obsessive Compulsive thing?"

"I understood it. We all have problems with sexual lust outside of marriage."

I wouldn't have said the words if I'd thought about them for one minute. But I simply opened my mouth and the words came out. "Like the lust you experienced when you saw me, just now?"

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. "Yes."

She thought for a second before adding, "As soon as I saw you, I thought you were one of the most beautiful young men I had ever seen in my life. My body was telling me, 'I want to have his babies,' but I'm happily married, have two lovely kids, and am a vicar in the Church of England. I could never get into the position of betraying my faith in all of those things."

She looked up directly into my eyes, pleading. "You understand, don't you? I fancy you like crazy, but I cannot let it go in the way your mother always did."

"Yes," I said. "I respect your position." At the same time, I was wondering how I was going to coax my way into her knickers.

She asked me about my job, then, and we spent the rest of lunchtime in social chitchat about our own lives.

***

"I don't have a key to the house," I said, suddenly panic stricken. "I won't be able to get in."

Heather gave me a sidewise smile as she drove her car towards Diddley. "That's all right. People often give a spare key to their vicar in case of emergencies. Your mother gave me hers for safekeeping, and it's in the key safe at home."

Her smile turned into a grin as she added, "The archdeacon also gave me a key to look after. Told me it was to be used for medical emergencies only; on no account was I to give the key back to him even if he begged me for it. You'll never guess what it was for."

I appeared to consider although I actually had quite a strong suspicion; after all, aren't most clerical types weird?

"Incidentally, he died a couple of years ago, so there's no harm in me telling you." She paused a second waiting for my guess, but I shook my head. "It was the key to his chastity belt!"

"No way!" I said. "People haven't worn those since the Crusades. In any case, I thought they were only for women." Sometimes, it seems wiser to appear naïve.

"There's considerable doubt," Heather said, "whether they were even known of before the nineteenth century, and even then, it was only as an item in fiction. But there's no doubt that many people use chastity devices nowadays, the vast majority are men.

"The night he died," she continued, "a paramedic rang me in the middle of the night to ask me to take the key to hospital. By the time I got there, they'd already cut the thing off him so it wasn't needed. I stayed with him until he died, and then comforted his sister, his only living relative.

"As I was leaving the hospital, the nurse gave me his chastity device, saying she thought it would only distress the sister if she gave it to her, and in any case, I was the key holder."

She laughed. "It had been secured by a padlock, so they hadn't damaged it when they cut off the padlock. I tried to get my husband, Dan, to try it on. I thought it might brighten up our sex lives, but he wasn't having any of it."

I laughed with her, but wondered whether she'd told me the story simply as a way of saying her sex life was boring.

***

Heather was gone rather longer than I'd expected just to collect my mother's key from her key safe. I began to worry she couldn't find it and I might not be able to get into my mother's house. But eventually she returned carrying a plastic carrier bag, a rather sheepish look on her face.

She passed the bag to me after getting into the driving seat, saying, "This is a little present for you. You may find it quite useful." She started the engine and drove onto the road.

The bag was surprisingly heavy. "What is it?" I asked, peeping inside, and then, "Oh."

I was looking at a chunky, black metal cross. "That's nice of you to offer it," I said, "but I'm afraid I'm not really into these kinds of things." I'd rejected Christianity during my teens and had no wish to be recruited again.

"You haven't worked out what it is, yet."

I gave her a questioning look and she added, "You may think it's simply a rather ugly religious cross, but actually it has a far more practical use. Examine it."

I pulled it out of the bag and stared at it. About six inches by four, with the horizontal crossing the upright about a quarter of the way down, the typical shape of a Christian cross. What was unusual was that, rather than being flat, it was of box cross-section about one and a quarter inches square. Steel bars created the basic box shape; between them was a portcullis-like, black steel lattice, so you could see through it from one side to the other. In spite of its religious connotations, it seemed… evil.

There was a thin leather belt, attached to hoops at either end of the horizontal, presumably so it could be hung around the neck. Two more hoops at the end of the vertical presumably provided an alternative fixing. But then I realised those hoops were at the bottom of the cross, not the top. Surely, no Christian would wear a cross upside down?

There was still something remaining in the plastic bag, and I reached in and withdrew a brass padlock.

"That's obviously not original," Heather said. "I borrowed it from our garage door and I'm keeping the keys."

That's when I worked out that the padlock would fit through the hoops on the vertical to secure them in place. Without it the hoops could be separated. With a little 'chunk', the whole thing split into two halves: the front and upper half in my right hand; the rest in my left. I stared at the two halves, trying to make out their purpose.

"I thought you could try it for a while," Heather said, a mischievous grin on her face.

A looked down at it again, a sudden suspicion in my mind. "Holy sh... ugar! It's the archdeacon's chastity device!"

The genitals would be laid onto the lower part of the cross, the balls resting on the horizontals. Then, the two halves would be fitted together, leaving a hole on the underside which would fit around the shaft between balls and body. With the two halves padlocked together, everything would be stuck in there until the padlock was removed. With the whole of its weight hanging from the genitals, and the tight fit, it must have been incredibly uncomfortable. Presumably, that was why the belt could be fastened behind the waist to support it.

Finally, her words sank in. "You want me to wear this! You are kidding! Why should I?"

She was negotiating a road junction and she paused before speaking. "Firstly, you know I have the hots for you something rotten. But if I did have sex with you it would destroy everything I believe in. Ultimately, it would destroy me. So I'm asking you to wear it as a personal favour to me.

"Secondly, we've talked about your mother's specific sexual needs, and I think that if you could experience her feelings of continual sexual frustration, it would help you come to terms with the differences which split your relationship."

"Wow!" I shook my head. This conversation was suddenly quite heavy. "How long would you expect me to wear it for?"

"For my personal benefit, just for this afternoon, or when I come round again." I noted she'd said "when" she came round again, not "if".

"And for me to cope with my mother's death, how long do you think I should wear it?"

"Why not try it until Sunday?"

"Sunday!" It sounded eons away.

"You can come to my morning service; I'll have the key with me in case you decide you want to end your chastity. Obviously, in emergency you could ask me at any time."

"You don't seriously imagine I could go beyond Sunday."

She looked very carefully at me. "I think you can be very strong, Michael."

I was silent, my thoughts whirling around my head. Shock! Horror at the idea of enforced chastity, of course. But then it was hardly as though I was bonking a different girl every night; or even the same one every night. But there was also a sexual eroticism combined with a personal challenge. And how might things develop with Heather, if she wasn't inhibited by the fear of having sex with me?

"I'll do it," I said, as we entered the drive of a large detached house.

"I hoped you would," she said with a smile, "for my sake as well as yours.

"You go inside and put it on," she continued, handing me the front door key. "I have to pay a visit to a parishioner. I'll be back in half an hour. OK?"

I nodded, suddenly frightened about what I was about to do.

Seeing my hesitation, Heather said, "It's your choice, Mike. I don't want to force you. But if you're not wearing it when I get back, it would be better if I went straight home. I think I'd regret it otherwise."

I nodded again. "Thanks, Heather, but I'll do my best to keep my promise."

***

So, as soon as I was inside the front door, I went into the adjacent cloakroom, pulled my trousers and underpants down to my knees, closed the toilet lid, sat down and stared at the device in my hand. Did I really want to place my balls under the control of a middle-aged Bible pusher? Was I really excited by the idea of enforced chastity? Did I really want to develop my relationship with a married vicar who emphatically did not want sex?

I shrugged. Yes, Yes and Yes. I pulled the device apart again and examined it in more detail. The first part was easy; taking the lower part of the cross with the front plate removed, it was simply a matter of laying my cock along the trough and resting my balls on the horizontal arms either side. The tricky part was then fixing the other half to it.

Firstly, holding it all horizontal, as I was, the top of the cross would have to be buried in my belly. Therefore, I had to tip everything downwards. I stood up and this time had far more trouble laying my genitals in the trough. Eventually I found the technique was to start off horizontally and then tip it downwards as I offered up the top.

Now, I had to proceed much more carefully as there were things poking down from the top bit into the trough below. For example, there was a separator between my cock and balls, with slots for my ball sacs to pass through. You can imagine, get the slot in the wrong place and you chop your balls off! It also meant that once it was on, there'd be no wriggling out of it without leaving my balls behind.

Then there was the problem that when it was all fixed together, my shaft entered through a hole in the base and then turned abruptly southwards through ninety degrees. I could see that once it was in, that's the way it would be forced to go, but it certainly wasn't volunteering to do it in advance.

Then, of course, I had an erection and I had to fill the washbasin with cold water and dangle my bits in it for a few minutes until they shrivelled.

I was drying off my tackle when I heard Heather's car arrive back. I only had seconds to get the thing on or she would go away. I slapped my cock and balls into position, located the other half on it and clicked into position without chopping anything off. Then it was a simple matter to push the padlock through the two rings and click it shut.

The doorbell rang.

***

I'll be there in a minute," I called. "I am wearing it."

I reached down towards my trousers, letting go of the cross. Big problem. The weight of the cross and the heavy padlock must have been easily as heavy as a bag of sugar – say a kilogram, or two pounds. That was now hanging from my genitals and it hurt – not as bad as I expected but sufficient for me to yell and hurriedly grab the cross and fasten the leather strap behind my back.

"Are you all right?" Heather's voice came through the door.

"I think so. It hasn't pulled off my testicles yet."

Even then I had a problem; I couldn't pull up my underpants and trousers! My trousers simply wouldn't fit around the sheer bulk of the cross, with the padlock hanging on the bottom. "I don't know what to do," I called to Heather. "My trousers won't do up."

"Well, if you're wearing the cross you'd better open the door and let me see the problem."

Before opening the door, I glanced down to check my appearance. You couldn't actually see that much, apart from a large metal cross sprouting from the point usually reserved for genitals, so I moved towards the front door, flipped open the rim lock and made to step back. Unfortunately, my trousers around the knees made me stumble backwards, and I ended up sitting on the toilet seat, my legs wide open.

"Oh my Lord," Heather said, staring down at the cross. Then her nipples abruptly poked through her shirt like thimbles, and it was that which really started things going.

I felt my cock trying to get hard, like really hard, and feeling the box restricting me, which made my cock try even harder. The flesh was starting to bulge out of every open square of the lattice, like a quilt.

Heather dropped to her knees before me and said, "In the name of the father…" Then she stuck out her tongue and ran it up the front of the cock. "The son…" licking the left arm of the cross (and my right testicle), "and the Holy Ghost," licking the right arm of the cross.

That was when the hidden teeth gnashed into my cock. "Aagh!" Where the hell had they come from? The excruciating pain was doubling me over. The teeth were biting along the length of each side of my cock, and along the bottom, especially into the frenulum. "It's like teeth biting into my cock. Heather, please get this thing off me. Where's the key?"

She shook her head. "I left it at home. After all, this was to protect me against myself. If I had the key, I'd have unlocked it and been shagging you by now."

If only… But at least the pain had reduced the strength of my erection, my cock had reduced and the teeth were starting to withdraw.

"The archdeacon would talk about Hell's Teeth," she said. "He used to pull funny faces too, especially when I wore something with a revealing cleavage. That explains it."

"He must have been a braver man than me," I said, at last able to produce a slight grin. "If I was trapped in this device, I'd have worn a blindfold when you were around."

She grinned at me. "Thanks. I guess this means I have to leave your cock totally alone; perhaps all for the good. But do you think you're up to sucking on these two beauties?" She pulled her shirt up her body to reveal huge tits straining to be released from their bra.

You're not going to shag her, I told myself. You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. For the time being, my cock was accepting the idea; I guess having endured the pain it had rather more wisdom than I normally gave it credit for. Perhaps I should tentatively explore Heather's lovely boobs, and see how things went. I lifted my hands and gave them both a squeeze, letting my thumbs wander across her erect nipples.

"Oh that's Heaven," she moaned.

You're not going to shag her, I told myself, as I helped to push her clerical shirt right over her head and then unclipped her bra, letting those lovely melons swing free. You're not going to shag her, I added, as I bent my head to suck on her left nipple.

"Oh, that's beautiful."

You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. I shifted my lips to her right nipple.

"Ooh, ooh, ooh."

You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. "Let's move to the lounge," I said. "I feel uncomfortable doing this next to the front door."

She helped me to my feet and, whilst holding onto her, I pulled off my shoes and managed to get out of my trousers and underpants. "You're not going to shag her," I muttered as we both stared down at my prick encased in its cross.

"What?"

"We're not going to have sex," I said to her.

"I know. Isn't it wonderful? Thank you so much, Mike for bearing the cross for me."

"If I'd known about the Hell's Teeth," I said, "I'd have made a different decision."

"Good job I didn't tell you about them, then, wasn't it."

"Bloody hell! You knew about them all along."

"Dan worked it out, which was why he wouldn't put it on. But that's rather beside the point now. Let's go to the lounge and have some more fun."

She took me by the hand and led me along the hallway and into a pleasant lounge. My mother, I noted, seemed to have had plenty of money in spite of being a widow for many years. I took Heather in my arms and let my lips wonder down to her nipples, again. You're not going to shag her. No, I thought, I wasn't, and fortunately my cock seemed to have realized it. It was still larger than usual, but felt pleasantly constrained by the cross, rather than painfully imprisoned.

Since I wasn't going to shag her, I thought, I could actually spend quite a lot of time on making her feel pretty good. One or two girlfriends (actually, that meant all the girlfriends I'd had some kind of relationship with) had complained I was pretty lousy at foreplay; too intent on squirting semen deep inside. Perhaps this might be an opportunity to get some experience in that field. I undid the belt of her trousers, and then unfastened them and let them fall down.

"Oh, you naughty man," Heather said.

I pulled down her panties and tights and pushed her back onto the settee, freeing her legs from all her clothes. Seeing her bulging pussy staring back at me started a little hardness to develop down below. You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her. I'll start with her toes and feet, I thought. That should keep things in check.

***

It must have taken me an hour, slowly working my way up her legs, before I first applied my tongue to her labia.

"Oh!" she screamed. "Yes."

But I reverted to licking the inside of her thigh, leaving her begging for me to attack her vagina. My cock had behaved well, all this time, obviously confused by the turn of events, and I was more than happy at both the experience I had gained and the cries of happiness and satisfaction from Heather. Another flick of my tongue along her labia and she started to orgasm. Might as well go for it, I thought, and I rested the flat of my tongue against her clitoris.

"Yes!" she screamed at the top of her voice, almost deafening me. "That is fucking incredible." Her hips bucked upwards whilst her two hands clamped down on the back of my head, forcing my face hard into her vagina, and particularly, my tongue against her clitoris. Rather than trying to fight her use of my head like that, I simply reached up with both hands so I could roll those big nipples between thumb and forefinger.

"Yes, fuck me!" she yelled again – and again – and again. I lost track of time as my head went up and down with her bucking, smelling her sweetness, tasting her juices and continually repeating to myself, "You're not going to shag her. You're not going to shag her." I have to say, my cock was getting quite interested again, but I managed to keep control by analysing with professional interest, my success at giving oral sex.

Fucking incredible, I thought. Never before, have you ever managed to bring any woman to such a climax, cock or no cock. This truly had been a lesson I would heed in the future. Except that the real lesson was never to put your genitals into a chastity device.

Heather finally worked herself into exhaustion and she slumped down into a semi-conscious state. After a few minutes, I managed to wriggle my head out of her clasp and move up to lie beside her.

"How was that for you?" I asked with a grin.

"Fantastic," she said, with a smile from ear to ear. "That was ten times better than sex; no, a hundred times... A thousand times... No a million times better than sex."

"Right," I said. OK, I could understand how important it was, both as a wife and mother, and as a vicar to remain faithful to her beliefs, but I have to say to exclude that incredible orgasm from the category of being a sexual act seemed to be stretching the boundaries more than a little.

"Sorry," she said, "I should have asked. How was it for you?"

"Excellent," I said. "I managed not to come."

"You poor dear," she said, "but thank you, thank you and thank you again for playing with me." She made it sound as innocent as the school playground.

"Incidentally," I said, "I worked out how the Hells' Teeth worked." It had helped me concentrate upon not getting too hard again.

"That's nice," she said.

"They're not Hells' Teeth; they're LLLs' Teeth," I said.

"OK." She obviously hadn't distinguished the difference.

"As in lots of L-shaped levers," I said. "They run all along the length of the cross on the inside, and pivot around their corner point. One end has the tooth, the other is attached to the lattice."

"How interesting."

"Whilst the penis is just filling the cage," I continued, "the tooth is barely in contact with the skin so you don't feel it. But as the penis hardens, it pushes against the sides and the fairly thin lattice is pushed outwards."

"Fantastic," she said.

"Imagine the penis manages to push out the lattice by two millimetres. But the tooth doesn't move outwards, it moves inwards by the same amount so it's actually penetrating the penis by four millimetres."

"Nasty." At least she'd grasped the point.

"I think the friction in the pivot means that it doesn't act gradually; it does nothing at first and then suddenly jabs in. Enough pain to discourage the penis from getting erect again."

"Hmm, I see."

"Only..."

"Only?"

"Only I'm not certain that is the real effect. You said the archdeacon used to get bitten whenever you flashed your boobs at him. I think the LLLs' Teeth make it erotically exciting."

"So you're enjoying wearing the cross?" Heather asked.

"No!" I said, then, "Well, maybe a little. What was amazing is how it meant I could concentrate on pleasuring you, rather than fulfilling my own sexual needs. I've never given that much pleasure to a woman before." It was questionable whether I'd previously given any pleasure at all! "But what terrifies me is the idea of sleeping in it. In fact, I don't think I will sleep knowing I'll be bitten as soon as I get the morning woody."

"Woody?"

"Erection. Hard on. Boner."

"Well, I expect you'll soon get used to it and simply not have a morning erection."

I don't think it works like that. I think I'd better remove it. Could you go home and bring back the key, please?"

"I think that's rather disappointing," she said. "I mean, I'm obviously very grateful you wore it so that we couldn't have sex, but I'm sure you could put up with a little pain in order to experience the frustration as you mother experienced it. Well, not quite as your mother experience it, obviously. But you know what I mean."

"But it's not a little pain," I said. "It's excruciating pain. Absolute agony. Look, I'm quite happy to wear it when you return for a little more… play. But not to endure that agony every morning when I wake up."

She seemed happier when I said I was prepared to wear it when she next visited, and said, "OK, but I can hardly bring the key back here, otherwise I'm likely to unlock you and do all the things we've avoided doing so far."

Which hadn't left out much, I thought.

"In any case, I have to pick up the kids from school at half past three. There wouldn't be time to fit it all in."

"Heather, I can't sleep in this device. I need to remove it. How do you suggest you get the key to me?"

"I need to hand over the key in a public place. I know. Presumably you need to get in some milk and food. Why don't I drop you off at the supermarket, go home and get the key, then I can pick up the kids from school and then meet you outside the supermarket. I'm afraid you'll have to walk home but that shouldn't take long. How does that sound?"

"I guess that'll be fine." She certainly wasn't making it easy to get out of this thing. "No. That's no good, I can't pull on my trousers, remember? I have nothing to wear."

Heather frowned and then her face broke into a smile. "That's no problem. We should be able to find something of your mother's to wear."

"Why should her trousers fit any better than my own trous... You don't mean a dress?"

"Of course. The archdeacon always wore a cassock, so it's no different from that."

"It's totally different. The archdeacon was a man of the church and wore a clerical garment. I am not and you want me to wear a woman's dress."

"I have said before, you are very pretty. You're about the same size as your mother, except for the boobs and we can simulate those, and I do know your mother had cancer at one time and lost her hair. She wore a wig; we could find that."

"No way," I said.

"It's your choice," she said. "I'm going to be too busy with the kids to return here this afternoon, I'm busy all weekend, so I suppose I could drop the key through the letterbox on Monday. How does that sound? It would give you a little more time to decide whether you could..."

"No way," I said. "I have to get out of this today."

"Then it's the dress or nothing," she said, "and I'm certainly not going out with you wearing nothing."

"But I'll look and feel ridiculous," I said.

"Trust me, you won't look ridiculous," Heather said. "As for feeling ridiculous, I think it will enable you to become as one with your mother for a little while. Once you've tried it, maybe you'll want to stay on a little."

"All right, I guess there's nothing wrong with giving it a try."

"Then let's go upstairs and see what your mother has which will be suitable."

***

Heather was still totally naked, and as she walked up the stairs ahead of me, her ample buttocks wobbling such a most agreeable way that I felt things starting to stir down below. Damn it, I thought, it's not even as though she's a beauty, just a rather plump middle-aged woman who I’d have thought no more about if she hadn't got the hots for me.

"Any idea which room is your mother's," she asked, turning towards me at the top of the stairs as she faced half a dozen closed doors. Her turn gave me a superb profile view of her left tit which was incredible – very large, well-shaped without a trace of sag and with that large nipple. I could feel myself getting harder and harder.

"I've never been here, I'm afraid. At a guess, I'd say it was that one." I pointed towards the front of the house, over the room in which we'd just been not having sex. Concentrate, Mike, concentrate.

My guess proved to be right and Heather spent a few minutes opening wardrobes, drawers and cupboards before she pulled a dress from the wardrobe, held it against me and said, "You'll look great in this."

My stomach did a complete gambol at what she was suggesting and I said, "Maybe this isn't a good idea."

"No problem with me," she said. "You can stay like this until Monday when I'd be able to..."

"OK, you've made the point. Let's get on with it."

"Firstly, after that bit of exertion this afternoon, we both need showers, but I want to put some cream over your skin before you have yours."

"What cream. What's it for?"

"It's to clean your skin. It will make you look more ladylike.

I shrugged. "I guess I'm in your hands. Do your worst."

So we went in the en-suite bathroom and she covered my skin in a cream from a tube. "I'll take my shower whilst we're waiting for the cream to take effect, then you can take yours and wash the cream off."

I gave another shrug. Leaving cream on for just a few minutes was hardly going to transform me.

Actually, once she was in the shower, I could feel my skin starting to tingle and by the time Heather had finished in the shower, it was positively painful. I almost pushed her aside as she wobbled out of the shower cubicle. "Sorry Heather," I said. "But this cream is stinging my skin."

"Just a sign it's doing its job," she said.

So I quickly rinsed the stuff off my body and then started to soap and properly clean myself. My skin seemed much smoother than before, and it was only when water started to collect in the shower tray because the plug hole was blocked that I realised why. "This cream has taken all the hair off my body," I yelled.

"Of course it has," she replied. "You can't wear one of your mother's dresses covered with hair. She would never allow it."

"But you could have just removed it from my legs," I moaned coming out the shower to show her my body. Actually, my legs looked incredibly sexy. I could feel myself getting a boner just looking at them. I hurriedly paid attention to what Heather was saying. She was back in her clothes, now, and she looked so angelic, it was difficult to think of her in the throes of orgasm, her face contorted in ecstasy whilst she screamed out obscenities.

"For this dress," she said, "you also need to de-hair the lower arms and hands. But many of your mother's clothes are quite low-cut so you'll need to be able to show your chest before you wear those."

"But I'm only wearing this one dress before I get the cross off my genitals. Anyway, you might have asked me first."

"You told me to go ahead and do your worst.

"But don't worry," she added. "Nothing else will be irreversible. Now, we need to hide the top of the cross where it rather bulges against your stomach. Dry yourself off."

The back of the cross sloped at the top so as not to dig a huge hole in my tummy, but I could understand her point.

She pulled something out of one of the open drawers as I towelled myself dry. "This'll do," she said."

"But it's a corset," I yelled.

"They call them waist cinchers now," she said, wrapping the garment around my waist and fastening it behind my back. "The great thing is that it's got suspenders to hold up stockings. Your mother always wore stockings rather than tights, which is fortunate with you wearing your cross."

I could feel my cock starting to harden. I'm not going to have sex. I'm not going to have sex. No, but you are going to wear stockings. My cock went rock hard. For a second, I could feel it fighting against its restrictions, then the teeth bit.

It was still incredibly painful but I was prepared this time. I gasped a little and concentrated hard on seeing stockings as a rather inconvenient item of apparel, rather than erotic wear. After a few seconds of agony, the teeth withdrew

Heather had turned back to the drawers and was selecting a white bra – just an item of clothing, just an item of clothing.

"It's huge," I said, eying the cups.

"I think your mother had several enhancements over the years," Heather said. She checked the label. "This is a 38DD."

"My God." I remembered my mother as being relatively flat chested. "But how are we going to fill the cups? It will take more than a few socks."

"I think probably," she said, opening the bedside cabinet drawer and pulling out a box, "yes, we'll inflate a couple of condoms with water. That will give them a nice bounce and look much more realistic than rolled-up socks."

"Right," I said. For once, I wasn't thinking of me having bouncing tits, only of my mother having a large box of condoms in her bedside drawer and I could see another fresh box in the drawer.

Heather held out the bra straps for me, and I slipped my arms through and turned so she could clip it up.

"I'm not certain how much water we'll have to use to fill the condoms," she said, tearing open one of the foils. "Perhaps we should do it empirically." She dragged me into the en-suite and moved the stool so that it was next to the shower. She reached in and unclipped the shower hose, and then unscrewed the rose on the end, and fitted the hose into the neck of the condom. She turned it on a little to get rid of the air inside the condom and then turned it off again. "Right," she said. "Let me slip this inside one of your bra cups and then I'll inflate it with water until it seems about right."

Ten minutes later, I had two huge wobbling breasts and a soaking wet bra. "Sorry about that," she had said, but we'll find you another bra as soon as we've tied them off."

Fortunately, Heather had had the presence of mind to wrap a towel around me so my waist cincher was still dry. "You seem awfully proficient at doing this," I said. "As though you'd done it before."

She grinned a little. "When I was a teenager, I used to do it all the time, although I never made a pair anything like as big as these." She nodded towards my image in the bathroom mirror, although I couldn't see them in the mirror from where I was sitting. Glancing down, they looked enormous.

"Did my mother really have breasts this size?" I asked.

Heather nodded. "You can imagine how it pulled the blokes in, particularly when it became known she'd have sex with anyone. They'd practically queue up at her door."

How strange, I thought, that her sex life had been so very opposite to my own near celibacy.

"Anyway, I think your new breasts look about right so let's get a dry bra for you and then you can slip on the dress."

Just an item of clothing that we women wear every day, I told myself. Just an item of clothing that we women wear every day.

After the dress, it was stockings (a really difficult moment in the fight against erections), shoes, and then the wig. I gasped as I stated in the dressing table mirror and Heather applied just a little makeup.

"I think you'll be able to wander around the supermarket without anyone realising, don't you," she said.

I nodded, quite overcome with emotion. I may not have had the sex life of my mother, but I suspected I looked very similar to how she normally looked.

"OK," she said. "Let's get going, then." She found a handbag for me, cleared out the junk my mother kept in it, but which included a set of keys that she put back in. Then she got me to find my wallet and put that in.

"There's a cash machine outside the supermarket," she said. "It might be better if you get out sufficient cash for your shop and anything else you might need, rather than trying to use the card of a male when clearly you're female."

It made good sense, but it made me suddenly realise what I was about to do. "Maybe I should miss the supermarket," I suggested. "Get the key from you and walk straight back here and get changed."

"And then walk back to the supermarket to buy your milk? Not only would that be crazy, it's also wimping out of facing up to your mother's life." She smirked at me. "You can do it, Michelle."

"Michelle?"

"In order to think yourself into being a woman, you need a woman's name. With Michelle I could call you Mickey."

I shrugged, outwardly resigned but inwardly, my mind was in turmoil. What would it be like to experience the world as a woman – indeed, as a woman with big wobbling breasts like my mother's? Why was I so excited by the prospect?

We left the house and had barely taken five paces towards Heather's car when I found I was staring into a woman's face, peering over the neighbouring fence. And not just any old woman's face; this was an incredibly pretty face; wide eyes, a pert nose, soft, rounded cheeks, and luscious lips which would normally be smiling (or preferably kissing) but now formed a rather sad shape, all framed by chestnut brown hair in a fringe at the top and chin-length bangs at the side which curved around her face.

"Hello Vicar," she said. "Is this one of Maggie's relatives?" She looked directly at me in a way which sent my heart pounding. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

"This is Michelle Russell," Heather said. "Maggie's..." She paused, uncertain what relative I should be.

I kept my voice soft and low; it sounded passable as a woman as I said, "Niece." My mother had three brothers, all of whom had countless numbers of children, whereas I was an only child. It would be easy to invent an extra cousin.

"I'm so sorry, Michelle," she said. "I'm Vivien Kennedy, Maggie's neighbour."

"Thank you, Vivien," I said. "I came up from London this morning when I heard the news." And why, why, why wasn't I dressed as a man, so I could get friendly with her, accept her sympathetic shoulder to cry on, and worm my way into her affections and her bed? Faint hope there; even if I'd been wearing my normal male clothes, I'd never have got a look in with this gorgeous woman.

"My husband will be devastated," she said. Damn! She had a husband. "He was far closer to her than I was." She said that in rather a bitter way.

"He was?" I said, my mind reeling that any husband could even look at my middle-aged mother in preference to his own beautiful wife.

"Let's just say, his eyes strayed a little," she said, her eyes flicking downwards towards my chest. "I was never certain about the rest of him."

"But you're so pretty," I replied. "I can't see how any... husband could look elsewhere." I'd changed my wording to avoid hurting Heather, who, for some reason, was so infatuated with me.

"We'd better get moving if I'm to collect the kids from school," Heather said, and I followed her to the car and got in, giving a final smile at Vivien as she watched us depart.

"Rumour has it," Heather said, "that Tom, Vivien's husband, has had affairs with half the pretty girls in the village."

"Poor girl," I said, wondering how I might console her, woman to woman, of course.

Within a few minutes, we turned into a supermarket car park.

"Here we are," Heather said. "I just have time to get back to the house and collect the garage key before I pick up the kids at three-thirty. I'll be back here at about three-forty five, and I'll wait outside. Otherwise I have to get the kids out the car. Don't be too long."

"OK."

"Oh, and, er, thanks for everything this afternoon."

My mind was in complete turmoil as I thought about everything that had happened, from hearing of and identifying my dead mother, giving a woman an incredible orgasm, through to meeting the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I got out of the car and Heather drove off as I walked towards the supermarket entrance. It wasn't until I got a delightful smile from the guy collecting the trolleys, whose eyes widened as they flicked down to my chest, that it suddenly hit me that I was about to walk into a supermarket dressed as a woman with huge tits!

"Are you all right, madam? Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

He gave me a sudden glance and I realised I had spoken in my normal voice. He was reading me. I felt my cheeks beginning to burn. Damn him! I wanted to run away but my pride wouldn't let me. Then my eyes settled on a cash machine, and I went over and withdrew £100, which should cover my groceries and incidentals, until I got back to normal.

I could still feel the guy's eyes on me as I entered the supermarket and started shopping. Of course, I should have checked out what my mother had in stock, apart from the two large boxes of condoms. Eventually, I decided to buy sufficient convenience meals to last me until Sunday, a box of cereal and some milk and sugar.

The good thing was that I don't think anyone else read me as I wandered around the shelves; indeed, I even got a lecherous smile from an old guy out shopping with his wife, and frank stares from a few schoolboys who were presumably playing truant from school. I went to the self-checkout to avoid having to talk to an assistant, and was stepping outside just as the supermarket clock was showing three-forty five.

"Hi Michelle," Heather called from her car window, and I walked over to her car. "This is Paul and Cassie," she said, waving at the two kids strapped in the back.

"Hi," I said in a kind of whisper, and gave a little wave.

"Hello Michelle," they politely called back.

"Here's the key," Heather said, handing it to me.

"Thanks," I said.

As Heather drove off, I could hear Cassie asking in a loud voice, "Mummy. Why did you give Michelle our garage key?" I was thankful I didn't have to supply an answer.

When Heather had suggested I walk back home from the supermarket, I hadn't really factored in that it was the best part of two miles; although even that wouldn't have phased me normally. But what I really hadn't factored in was that I'd be walking in my mother's heels. OK, they weren't particularly high, a couple of inches, I reckoned. But that was two inches higher than I was used to. My ankles were already feeling worn, having traipsed around the unfamiliar supermarket a few times, but that was as nothing compared to a two mile hike.

After ten minutes, my ankles were burning; after twenty, they were on fire and I knew I couldn't go on; except that I had no choice.

"Hello," said a voice which immediately lifted my heart. I looked up and stared into Vivien's beautiful smiling face. "This is my husband, Jack." She indicated a bloke sitting in the passenger seat of the car she was driving.

"Hello Michelle, can we give you a lift?" he said, staring down at my breasts - but what did I care. He was offering a lift.

"Oh. Yes please." I'd have accepted a lift with the devil at that moment; a lift with the most beautiful angel on earth was like entering heaven.

"I was just picking Jack up from school," Vivien said, as I quickly opened the rear door and got in.

"Isn't he a bit old for that?" I quipped, as Vivien started the car forwards.

"Ha ha," he said. "I teach Physics, there. Very important, you know, Physics."

"Yes," I said. "I quite agree."

"Really?" Jack turned round and looked into my face for the first time. "You look very like your aunt," he said, adding in a voice which attempted to sound casual, "She was quite good looking too."

"You obviously knew her quite well," I said.

"Well... Not that well." He was deliberately not looking at his wife. "We were neighbours."

"Quite good neighbours," Vivien said. "Jack was always popping round and doing things for her. Your aunt was very appreciative of Jack's efforts."

"Vivien always makes it seem quite sordid," Jack said, "but I was only being a good neighbour to a woman living on her own."

"Like you are to old Mr Williams, who lives on our other side," Vivien said. "He's been asking you to help turn his mattress for weeks."

Within a couple of minutes, we had arrived at the house.

"Why not have dinner with us?" Jack asked. "I'm sure Viv could rustle something up."

"Yes, of course," Vivien said. "I was just about to suggest it. Perhaps you could help Michelle carry her stuff into her aunt's house."

"No problem," he said, getting out of his car door and stepping round to open mine. As I glanced up at him, I realised he was looking directly into my eyes as though I was the most beautiful person on Earth. He was certainly a bit of a charmer. I couldn't help smiling back. If only he knew.

"Pass up your shopping bags," he said, "and I'll take them into the house for you. Do you have the front door key?"

I rummaged in my handbag and sorted out the front door key, which I handed over. Then I handed my shopping up to him and he carried it towards the house.

"What about the other key?" Vivien asked, turning around in her car seat to look directly at me. "The one the Vicar gave you?"

"What about it?" I asked, wondering how she knew about it, at the same time withdrawing it from my bag and holding it up for inspection.

"I'll take that," she said, deftly removing it from my hand and putting it in her own handbag.

"Sorry," I said. "That's an important key. I need it back."

"Yes," she said, "and I know what it fits."

I gasped. She knew it was a chastity belt, but… "I don't know how much you overheard," I said, "but there's no way I'm going to do anything untoward with your husband. There's no need for you to keep that key."

"I know that," she said. "I saw a very attractive man go into your aunt's house this afternoon and you come out. And in between, I heard the Vicar having a screaming orgasm. She really should have closed the front door behind her. I could hear everything, especially after I stepped inside the door and listened in the hall to the pair of you. It turned me on something rotten. All we have to do now is to work out how to get Jack out the way for long enough for you to do the same for me.

"And you needn't think you're going to get this key back anytime soon. I'm a married woman, you know. You really can't think I'm going to have sex with you."

"Are you going to come?" Jack called to me from the front door, his voice laden with innuendo.

"Not for a long time," Vivien murmured at me with a wicked grin. "I think you're going to be here for many weeks before you're going to come. But as for me and the vicar, I think we've found the key to paradise."

They’d Never Believe That in Court
by Lin Dale

Synopsis: Husband and wife, Judy and Ollie, were both barristers. Ollie had built up a good professional reputation and was under consideration to become circuit judge. His wife, Judy, had an even better reputation, incredibly energetic and rarely lost a case. But whereas he was white, middle-class and, of course, male, she was black, female and from a working-class background. No surprise, then, that whilst Ollie was likely to become circuit judge, Judy was still a junior barrister. But earlier that day, Judy’s lovely grandmother had died.

“Oh, Ollie, I didn’t want Nanna to die,” my wife, Judy, said as she got into bed besides me, that Friday night.

“I know darling,” I said, slipping my arm around her. “Your grandmother was a wonderful person but she’d been in terrible pain over the last few weeks. That’s ended now. And during her ninety-one years, she brought up five of her own children with fourteen grandchildren, one of whom is the most lovely person in the world.”

Judy grinned at me. “Apart from you, of course.”

“Of course.” I smiled at her, delighted that Judy was reacting to normal life once more, after the trauma of her grandmother’s death.

“When we spoke together for the last time this morning,” Judy said, her voice faltering a little at the memory, “she remembered when I was still at school and you were picking me up for our first date. I was furious with her because I’d arrived home from school with plenty of time to get showered and changed, and then Nanna was there and kept me talking about cousin Eddy, as though I could care. Then you arrived, looking so handsome. Today, Nanna told me that she thought you were absolutely right for me so she sprinkled her love potion over you, which is why you immediately fell in love.”

“Then it certainly worked,” I said, “and it’s continued working ever since. Personally, I thought it was your wonderful way with words which seduced me.”

She grinned. “I was a plump schoolgirl, late for her first date and in a terrible panic. I couldn’t get rid of my grandmother and I was trying to impress you. All I could do was throw on some jeans and a tee shirt and suggest we go out for a burger or a hot dog and then come back to coffee.”

“Whereas, ” I said, “you actually said that we should go out for a dog and then come back to fuck me.” We’d reminisced over that moment many times in our twenty years together and more than ten years of marriage. Fortunately for her career, that was the first and only time that she’d ever made such an error with her words. “Perhaps Nanna’s voodoo magic was working on you, as well.”

“Since you’re a potential circuit judge, ” Judy said, “ I really don’t think you should be considering a love potion as anything other than a sham.”

Judy had always played down the occasional hints from other family members that Nanna had voodoo powers. Indeed, since it was complete rubbish, why shouldn’t she?

“And as you’re a very accomplished barrister,” I said, “it’s good that you never confessed to having a grandmother who claimed she was a voodoo witchdoctor.”

Judy’s grandmother had emigrated from Jamaica to Britain as part of the Windrush generation. Judy and I had met at school, and after we’d started dating, she’d encouraged me to study law, as she was intending. Later, when we worked as trainees in the same law firm, it was immediately obvious she was far more skilled and accomplished than me. But she was a black female and I was a white male, so it was me who was now hoping to be appointed circuit judge, whilst she was still working her socks off as a respected, but still junior, barrister.

“Before Nanna talked about our first date this morning, she’d been saying we should start a family soon, or it would be too late.”

We both recognised the accuracy of that statement, as we also recognised the hurdle it would place on Judy’s career. And if I successfully made circuit judge, it would mean having far less time at home to help Judy through pregnancy and motherhood.

“What do you think?” I asked, although we both knew the answer. There was no simple way forward.

“Nanna said there was a solution but it would mean us both accepting changing roles, if we were to go along with it.”

“I think we both accept that parenthood will bring that,” I said. “What did she suggest? Another magic potion?”

“That’s when she started talking about that first date and me getting my words mixed up,” Judy said. “She added that rather than going for a dog, we should go for a double-dog. Any ideas, apart from it being some kind of street-speak for a dare?”

I shook my head. “No… Except that…” Memories were stirring in my mind. “No, there’s no way she could know about that.”

“What are you talking about.”

I shook my head again. “It’s stupid, really. My sister, Jenny, is two and a half years older than me so when I was eight, she’d be around eleven. She would play with me after school on some nights – and I absolutely forbid you to mention that I told you about this. One of the things she started doing was to go down on her hands and knees and pretend to be a dog and do a few ‘Woof-woofs’. Then she said I had to make it a double-dog by lying on top of her back. My arms hung down beside her arms. My knees folded into the back of her knees with my ankles on top of her ankles. Then we’d walk around the lounge as a double-dog. It was fun, but I used to get a strange discomfort in my little willy. When my mum found out she was absolutely furious with Jenny, which I didn’t understand at the time.

“Of course, afterwards,” I continued, embarrassed as I recalled my naïveté, “I realised Jenny was playing around and discovering sex, and I was having my first erection, and rubbing it against Jenny’s crutch.”

“But,” Judy surmised , “Nanna couldn’t possibly know about that unless she really was a voodoo witch.”

“Exactly.”

“So let’s do a double-dog.”

I was quite surprised where this conversation was going. After her well-loved grandmother’s death that afternoon, Judy was now suggesting trying sex in a position we’d never tried before (and believe me, we’d tried plenty!). I certainly wasn’t unwilling but… “You don’t really expect that your grandmother’s hocus-pocus will do anything, do you?”

“Of course not, but in the legal profession, proof is everything. Before deciding that it doesn’t work, we have to prove it.”

I wasn’t convinced, but hey, what the hell, Judy was proposing sex which would not only be good for her to overcome her grief, but it would be fantastically good for me.

“Come on,” Judy said, as she got out of bed and pulled her nightdress over her head revealing her voluptuous body whilst I hurriedly removed my pyjamas and threw them on the bed.

Judy dropped to the floor on her hands and knees and said, “Woof.”

“It’ll be very painful if I kneel on your legs,” I said.. “I think you need to spread your knees a little.”

The doggy obligingly did as she was told, and I knelt down behind her, gently inserted my cock in the place where it was meant to go and then lowered my chest onto her back.

“You’re very heavy,” she said, having to use the strength in her arms to support the two of us.

I dropped my arms besides hers and helped to support our combined weight.

“Woof-woof,” Judy said, adding, “You’re meant to Woof-woof as well, aren’t you, and shouldn’t we be moving around?”

“Woof-woof,” I said and we cautiously took first one step forward and then another. Then, we both went into a crescendo of barking as we cavorted around the floor of the bedroom, which later turned into a howl of pleasure from both of us.

***

“What the fuck!” a male voice said behind me.

Bloody hell, that scared me. Who was in our bedroom, watching us have sex. In fact, not just watching, as I realised he was actually lying on my back. An instant later, he’d lifted himself away.

Who the hell was this? I managed to twist around to accost my attacker, only to come face to face with my double, whose face bore a look as astonished as, I’m sure, was on my own face.

“Holy shit!” I meant to say, except that I heard Judy saying the words as I spoke them. I wanted to look around for her but couldn’t take my eyes off my double. Where had he come from?

“Now say that you don’t believe in magic,” my double spoke, pointing at my chest and adding, “Nice tits.”

***

It was five minutes later. I’d gawped down at the magnificent breasts sprouting from my chest, at the black skin all over my body, and felt down to the place where a semi erect cock should have been, only to discover it had gone.

“Is this some weird dream?” I asked in my Judy voice.

My double shook his head. “If it is, then I’m in the same dream as you are, and I don’t know which is most unlikely: that, or that my grandmother really has the voodoo charms to transform us into each other’s bodies.”

I stood up, my huge boobs wobbling about on my chest as I did so. They’d always looked fantastic on Judy; now they were on my chest, I was realising they were quite uncontrollable.

“If it’s a dream,” I suggested, “then we wouldn’t be able to reason or have self-will. We’d just have to do what happened in the dream. I feel like we can choose what to do, for example...” I reached forward to squeeze my double’s nipple.

“Ouch!” he said. “That hurt.”

In return, he reached forward and squeezed mine. It was rather erotic.

“This is so weird, Judy,” I said.

“Objection,” my double said. “You should now address me by my current name. I am Ollie.”

“Overruled,” I said. “I can’t get my head around that.”

“Then you’d better call me Oliver,” he said. “I’ll call you Judith, Judith.”

I slowly nodded my head. “Did your grandmother give you any clue about what might happen?” I asked.

“Not directly,” Oliver said. “But she did say to prepare for something pretty dramatic but not unpleasant. You’re not finding this unpleasant, are you?”

I opened my mouth to say ‘Yes,’ but the word didn’t come out. “It was an unpleasant shock,” I said. “Are we stuck like this forever?”

He shook his head. “Nanna wouldn’t do that to us. I’m sure we’ll be able to revert by having another double-dog. Do you want to do that now”

The tremor in his words revealed their importance. “Now we’re like this, we could try it out for a while,” I said. I was thinking of an hour or two.

“Then let’s review it on Sunday evening,” Oliver hopefully suggested.

“Sunday evening? That’s two whole days away.”

“Two days in the rest of our lives, together,” he said, staring me directly in the eye.

I gulped. Staying like this for the rest of our lives meant him taking the post of circuit judge, which I had worked hard for, and me trying to combine being a junior barrister (which Judy had worked even harder for) with being a wife. And a wife, I realised, who would become pregnant and give birth to our child. Our child! Oliver and Judith’s child. A child which would be coming out of my womb!

“Fuck me!” I said as the realisation sank in.

“Was that an invitation?” Oliver asked, moving his hand to touch me just behind my ear, in a way which made my nipples immediately harden.

My lover of twenty years now had a cock and wanted to stick it inside me and squirt semen.

I smiled. “Go easy with me, darling,” I said. “Remember, this is my first time with a man.”

Oliver smiled back. “They’d never believe that in court.

“But,” he added, “I suspect it certainly won’t be your last.”

Being offered the chance to work with Professor Trent in the university Cybernetics Department seemed an ideal opportunity for about-to-be-made-redundant lab technician, Mike. Little did he know that it was far more than a lab technician that Prof Trent wanted.

This is definitely not funny!
by Lin Dale

What has happened to me is unbelievable, and I’d better tell you in advance, it is definitely not funny! OK? If I talk about body snatchers, being transformed into a big breasted bimbo and forced to have sex, I know you’ll think it’s just one of those stories but I can tell you that it’s definitely not in that category and I’m definitely not joking. The real problem is that it’s true.

It started with a call from the University Bursar’s Office where I worked as a lab technician. As more and more courses have been going on-line, so the amount of work for people like me is reducing. In fact, for ages I’d been twiddling my thumbs, expecting a redundancy letter at any moment.

“Hi, Mike,” the Bursar’s Secretary said. “There’s a lab tech post become available with Professor Trent in the Cybernetics Department. You’ve probably heard that his wife has been seriously ill for some time so he only comes in for a few lectures a week, now. Mostly, he works in a lab he’s set up at his home. That’s where he’d want you to work from. Are you interested?”

I’d worked with Andrew Trent several years ago, before he became a professor, and had got on well with him. Some of the best UK factory adaptive robots are of a type designed by Andy and, incidentally, which I helped him build. I’d been to his house many times. It was miles away from the university, right out in the sticks and well over an hour’s drive, but I had a car and could get there. “That’s no problem for me,” I said. “I’ve always got on well with Andy. When could I start?”

“He’s suggesting the first Monday of next month, which is in just over two weeks’ time.”

***

Professor Andrew Trent had a Victorian house on the edge of a distant town. It was a large house but, by no means, a mansion. The original stable block had been converted into a garage with a flat above but it had been the adjacent large woodland park which had originally attracted Andy and his wife, Marianne, both keen joggers, to the house.

I arrived there on the agreed Monday morning. I’d had a chat with Andy over the phone and he’d suggested that I could stay in the flat over the garage and avoid the long journey every day, which suited me fine. Since my divorce, I lived on my own and had a pretty dull life. Maybe I’d have more fun living with Andy and Marianne.

“Mike, hi,” he greeted me after I’d knocked on the door. “I’ll show you around in a minute. First, come in and meet Marianne.”

“I’d like that,” I said, stepping inside the house. “How is she?”

“She’s been through a bad patch,” he said, “but I’m hoping she’ll be a lot better soon. She’s comatose now but at least you can see her.” He led the way to what had been a sitting-room when I’d last been there, but which had now been converted to a bedroom with a hospital-like bed.

I knew that Marianne had been diagnosed with a wasting muscular disease but when I saw her, I would never have known. She appeared to be asleep, lying flat on her back with just her head visible above the sheets. She was probably ten years younger than Andy and had always been a very attractive woman. She still was, her medium length dark brown hair cut in its memorable fringe and recently brushed. Her curvaceous figure was still obvious beneath the sheets, rising rhythmically with her breathing. As I stood watching her in that bright sunny room, it was as though at any moment she would open her eyes and smile. After a short time, Andy indicated we should leave.

“Does she sleep much?” I asked after we’d left the room.

“All the time,” he said with a kind of hopeless shrug, “but as I said, I’m hoping to improve on that shortly.

“It was actually her illness which got me onto my present project,” he continued. “I’ll take you into the lab now and show you around.” He led the way out of the kitchen door into the yard, saying, “I’ve converted what used to be the coach-house into a working laboratory. I think you’ll be impressed with the way I’ve converted it.

“When Marianne was first diagnosed with her illness,” he said, as he led the way inside the coach-house, “I knew nothing about human muscles, but I sat down and started to find out. Then, I thought that there must be a way of designing an artificial muscle that the doctors could use to simply replace the existing ones as they wasted away.”

He gave another shrug, in one of those hopeless gestures. “I should have known better. They insisted they would have to do years of research costing millions of pounds before approving such items for use on the human body, by which time, of course, Marianne would be dead.”

“So what did you do?” I asked, starting to look around the lab, where a number of plastic versions of human skeletons were in various degrees of dismemberment, with several of them dumped in a heap in the corner. Although innovatively brilliant, and in spite of Andy thinking I’d be impressed, I knew he was actually quite a sloppy and untidy worker. He needed people like me.

“Argued and argued, whilst continuing to research muscle replacement. In the end, I realised I was never going to win that argument, and that I should be thinking of devices external to the human body, which would do the same thing – exoskeletons. It was about then that I discovered this muscle replacement.”

He led me over to a device fixed to a lab bench. It was a cantilever arm with a 50 kg weight attached at the one end (that’s about 1cwt if you’re non-metric). But connecting the lever with the bench was something that looked like a chipolata sausage with plastic pipes feeding into it.

“I feed my chemical equivalent of blood into my muscle,” he said, switching on a small pump so a green fluid flowed through the pipes into the sausage, “and the muscle reacts like this.” The sausage contracted causing the arm to lift the 50 kg weight off the bench.

“Wow!” I said, impressed. “That’s pretty powerful.”

He gave a satisfied nod. “It certainly is. I’ve refined it since, and I reckon it’s about ten times more powerful than human muscle, weight for weight.”

“So this will power your exoskeleton?”

He shook his head. “Unfortunately, Marianne’s condition was deteriorating rapidly. I realised she’d be far too frail to be put into an exoskeleton. It simply wasn’t going to work. Instead, I started planning her virtual presence in a robot.”

“How do you mean, virtual?” I asked, slightly puzzled.

“I abandoned the exoskeleton and instead designed a robot,” he said. “I designed a rig that Marianne could be firmly strapped into. She could wear a headset so she could see and hear through the robot’s eyes and ears, and small movements of her muscles could control the robot. It meant that she’d be able to virtually roam the grounds of this house from her bed.”

“Sounds great,” I said, “but fairly complex to build. Have you got it working? Is that what you want me to help you with?”

“I contracted the whole design and build job for the rig to a company in Germany,” he said. “It was clearly going to be far too large an item for me to easily manage on my own, so I had it built into a container. It’s sitting on a lorry trailer right next to this building and we can access it through that door.” He pointed to a door in the far wall located a few feet off the floor. From the bare plaster around it, it had obviously been recently built into the wall, with unpainted wooden steps leading up to it. “Come and have a look. I think you’ll be impressed.”

He led the way up the steps and through the door. The trailer was parked immediately next to the building with a gap of just a few inches between, which we stepped over into the container. Suddenly, we had crossed from Andy’s Heath-Robinson laboratory into something resembling a build by the space industry. Occupying all of the space to our left, and looking just like some kind of space pod, we could see one half of a large white sphere, just under seven feet diameter.

“That’s the pod for Marianne,” Andy said. “Inside, she’d be securely strapped into the rig supported on gimbals so she could be moved in any orientation – standing up or sitting down, lying down or even hanging upside down, if she wanted. All the sound and vision would be coming from the robot, so she would be virtually inside the robot. Impressed?”

“Incredibly,” I replied. “How do you get her inside it?”

“There’s a tailgate lift at the rear which will take a wheelchair or even a stretcher. Let me open the pod and you can see how she’d be transferred inside.

He pressed a green button on the side of the pod and with a gentle humming, a section of the circular wall slid aside and a complex telescopic arrangement slid out in the same way that a drawer might emerge. There were black-painted steel rods and brackets, together with black upholstery currently formed into the shape of a bed but which, I guessed, could be reconfigured to be a chair, or any other shape the human body could contort to. Everything being black meant that there’d be no reflected light inside the pod so the helmet display would be the only source of light.

“We’d transfer Marianne onto the bed,” Andy said, “press the red button and she’d be taken inside the pod and the experience would begin.”

“Fantastic,” I said, “but...” I hesitated. “Isn’t Marianne a bit claustrophobic? How does she feel about being put inside this machine?”

“You’re right,” he said. “That is a major problem which I didn’t factor in. Which is where you come in.”

“You want me to be the guinea pig?”

Andy nodded. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’d love to,” I said. “Try and stop me.”

“Brilliant!” he said.

***

Half an hour later, I was lying naked on the bed-like contraption, my arms, legs, head and torso were all safely strapped to the corresponding metal rods; even my fingers and thumbs were strapped to hand-like metal structures. Andy had helped to strap me in and he had generally averted his eyes from my more sensitive naked bits. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help thinking that he had mentally scoffed at the size of my genitals. One or two girlfriends in my pre-marriage days had indicated my equipment was on the small side of normal; which I thought probably meant I had a tiny cock. I certainly had no desire to get into a cock comparison exercise with Andy.

I’d wanted to see the robot that I was going to be driving but Andy had vetoed that, saying he wanted it to be a surprise. Obviously, you, dear reader, will see what an absolute fool I was. I can only say I’d worked with Andy for many years, admittedly several years previously, and I trusted him absolutely. He’d shown me where the emergency release button was, which would release all the clamps and allow me to clamber out of the machine in the event that, say, Andy was suddenly taken ill. (That’s what he said, anyway. Later I found it didn’t work!) So, I was not only completely comfortable with the situation, but I was incredibly excited, raring to go.

Andy pushed the button and the mechanism slid me inside the pod, the door closed and I was in total darkness. Andy’s voice came through the earphones. “OK, Mike. I’m switching you through to the robot. It’ll take me a minute or two to get it going but then I think you’ll find it quite an experience.”

Silence and darkness followed, and then more of the same, and… more of the same. I relaxed in my cocoon, deep inside the machine.

***

Suddenly, everything was too bright and I screwed my eyes shut. Surprise – my robot eyes also closed. Wow! My robot had eyelids – now that was sophisticated.

I gradually opened them again and could see sunlight playing on a ceiling. I tried turning my head to one side. I could see I was in a hospital bed. In fact, it looked exactly like the hospital bed that Marianne had been lying in.

I lifted my arm which was trapped beneath sheets and I could see the sheets looked just the same as Marianne's. Suddenly, I had an awful feeling. I wriggled my arm from beneath the sheets and stared – not at a metal robot’s arm, but at a female arm, with long red nails at the fingertips.

“What the…” I stopped. The voice I had spoken in was not robot-like or even similar to Alexa or the Google Assistant. This was Marianne’s voice. I moved the sheets to one side and swiveled sideways so I could put my feet on the floor and sit up. I glanced down, wondering if my toe nails were painted the same shade of red as my finger nails, but my view was obstructed by two flesh-coloured globes suspended from my chest. Yes, I had boobs far larger than Marianne ever had.

I grasped hold of the bed frame to keep me steady as I stood up. Once I’d done so, I found I was reasonably well balanced on my feet.

“Good morning, Marianne. How are you this morning?” Andy’s voice came from behind me and I turned to see him standing there, smirking.

“Andy! You should have warned me this was going to happen.”

He smirked some more. “I thought you might not agree if I told you. You may have found it kinky.”

“Well it is bloody kinky, isn’t it? What does Marianne say about this? Where is she, anyway, if she’s not in this bed?”

“I’ll take you to her,” he said. “This way.” He turned and walked a couple of paces towards the door. Slowly at first, I took a few tentative paces towards him, then espying a dressing gown hanging from a hook on the back of the door, I reached forward to try to put it on. That’s when I first realized the mobility problems that a robot has. We simply don’t realise how incredibly versatile our own bodies are until we are suddenly restricted in their use.

I was desperately trying to get my arm into a sleeve when Andy said, “I’m sure you’ll get used to your restricted mobility with time and become quite nimble. In the meantime, let me help you put that on.”

It was actually quite nice, him treating me like a gentleman should treat a lady, although as I caught sight of myself in a mirror, I realized that lady might not be quite an accurate description. Huge knockers, a tiny waist and bulging buttocks and thighs gave me the appearance of a porn star.

“What does Marianne think of this particular design of body?” I asked.

Andy waved his hand in a kind of iffy way. “I bought a body mould from a manufacturer of sex dolls and this was the closest I could get to Marianne’s height and overall size. I gave them a plaster cast of Marianne’s face and they substituted that for their original face. Her breast and thighs had certainly got a lot larger in recent years, not too different from your current measurements so it’s the tiny waist which makes it look as extreme as it does. Incidentally, those skeletons you saw in the lab are made of carbon fibre and very tough. With my muscles, the combination is incredible. You may be interested to know that in the lab, this robot lifted 500 kg, which breaks the world record – for humans, of course. I have scaled your strength back, for now. I wouldn’t want you to go walking through walls. Anyway, you wanted to see Marianne. Come through and see her.”

He led the way into his study, and step by laborious step, I followed. “There she is,” he said, pointing over towards a shelf. On the shelf was an urn.

The dreadful shock swept through me. “Marianne’s dead!” I gasped. “But I didn’t know. I’m sorry but…”

“Nobody knew,” Andy said. “I kept it quiet. No funeral. Nowadays, you can order a cremation on the internet as easily as buying a box of pencils online. So her body was taken away and the urn delivered back last week. You see, my plan is that we will start presenting the new you as Marianne.”

“Hold it right there,” I said. “You want me to pretend to be Marianne.”

“I think, Mike, that it would be the ultimate test. Could you, controlling the robot, pass off as a real person. Obviously, all her clothes are still here. I believe that if we dress you up as her, few people, if any, will tell the difference.”

“Phew.” I shook my head in doubt, although with an excitement sweeping through me. “I’m not certain, but I guess it’s worth giving it a try. The problem is that I’m having so much difficulty in controlling my actions, it’s difficult to mimic a human being.”

“I think that will come with time. I am keen to put you through your paces with the simple stuff to start with – walking and then onto running.”

“Running! No way,” I said.

“You should be able to,” he said. “It would be great to get you running, again. Let’s get you dressed in some suitable gear and we can go out into the park and give it a go.”

I shrugged. “OK,” I said.

***

Thirty minutes later, I was wearing one of Marianne’s track suits, over a bra. No other underwear was necessary, Andy had pointed out. In fact, the bra was unnecessary for comfort’s sake, but was obviously essential to keep my breasts under control and prevent me looking like a hooker. The track suit bottoms had fitted my waist like a sack around a broomstick, but the large tracksuit top fitted down over my hips, and totally hid my tiny waist. On my feet, I wore white socks and track shoes. Andy had done most of the dressing for me, but had said that, in time, I’d be expected to fend for myself.

When we went outside, he suggested I took a walking stick with me, not so much as an essential need to assist my balance, which was all right, but as a prop in case we met anyone who knew Marianne and would be astonished that she was out and about, and looking so well.

“It’s going to be really difficult,” I said. “They’re bound to stop to speak and ask me how I am. I won’t even know their name.”

“Wait and see,” Andy said, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not going to give the game away, but Javid has designed the software.”

I’d first known Javid when he was an undergraduate doing his project in the Cybernetics Department, and he proved to be a brilliant software designer and programmer. He’d stayed on in the department to do his doctorate and the rumour was that he would be the next head of department when Andy eventually retired. His hand in the design certainly showed through in the way that my voice speaking into the microphone in the pod was converted into Marianne’s voice speaking from the robot. It certainly meant I was no longer fearful about meeting someone Marianne knew, but rather looking forward to it.

We left the house by the rear door and walked towards the gate set in the boundary wall that gave access to the park. Although the first few steps were as tortuous as my previous ones, I picked up speed as I got into the swing.

The park itself was heavily wooded, with plenty of paths providing pleasant woodland walks, and it was beloved by joggers. Fortunately, on that Monday morning, it was almost deserted and we walked for a good ten minutes without meeting a single person, by which time my steps were almost normal. Then, behind me I heard a voice.

“Marianne! Is that you?”

I turned to see a woman jogging towards us and – thanks to Javid – in my vision a square appeared around her face and text said: Sue Larkham, neighbour and close friend. Husband’s name is Gerry, who has been suffering from heart problems.

“Hello, Sue,” I said.

She jogged right up to me and then threw her arms around me. “Oh Marianne. It’s brilliant to see you up again. Goodness though, you feel thin. You’ve lost a lot of weight. These look good though.” She poked my breasts. “Did they give you a boob job while you were in hospital?”

“If only,” I said. “But I do feel a lot better than I was. How’s Gerry?”

“Oh, he’s OK,” Sue said. “Are you well enough to meet up again.”

“I don’t want to tax Marianne too much at the moment,” Andy interrupted. “Perhaps we’d better be getting back towards the house.”

“OK, lovely to see you looking so good, Marianne.”

“Bye,” I said.

“See,” Andy said. “I told you it would be all right. Now why don’t we try a little jog?”

I was on a slight high after my successful conversation with Sue, so I said, “OK. Why not?” I passed my stick to Andy and turned back in the opposite direction to the one Sue had taken.

Learning to run was a whole new experience, and several times I fell to the ground. But robots don’t feel pain, and as I began to realise this, so my confidence grew. It didn’t matter if I fell over because it didn’t hurt and I wasn’t going to damage myself. Within a few minutes, I was running with confidence, then as Andy increased his pace, so I increased mine. Faster and faster we went, until I was outpacing Andy and I could hear his breathing start to labour.

After a minute, I pulled to a stop and waited for him to catch up. “Slow coach,” I teased him.

“I can’t say the same about you,” he replied. “The muscles are working brilliantly.”

“Yes,” I said. “They are.”

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until we got back to Andy’s house. We came through the gate from the park and walked towards the house. That’s when I noticed it – or rather, noticed that it wasn’t there.

“The trailer,” I said, pointing towards the spot where the trailer containing the pod had been parked next to the coach-house. “It’s gone.”

“Yes,” Andy said.

“But…”

I thought through what I wanted to say. “My body is inside the pod in that trailer, yet I’m still virtually here, inside Marianne.”

“The trailer has a mobile data link on it,” he said. “There’s no problem.”

“But where has it gone?” I asked. “I’ll need it back here for when I revert from being virtually inside Marianne to being really inside me.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” he said.

“Whoa. What are you talking about? Of course I’m going to revert to being me in my real body. For one thing, it’s almost lunchtime. I’m beginning to feel hungry. That’s not the robot felling hungry, it’s my real body feeling hungry.”

“You’re absolutely right. Your body will need feeding, and it would starve if that didn’t happen. Fortunately, the pod is able to provide you with sustenance without you taking back control of it.”

“But Andy, you never told me you wanted me to permanently occupy Marianne. You’re cheating me.”

“Ah,” he said. “I wondered whether you might want to talk about cheating.”

“Well, you are cheating!” I was getting angry, now.

“Yes. But whilst we’re talking about cheating, I should tell you that, before she died, Marianne made a deathbed confession.”

“What?” My heart suddenly fell into my shoes. “What are you talking about?” But I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Marianne told me on her deathbed that she’d been having sex with you for most of the ten years whilst you were working for me. Now that’s what I call cheating.”

“Andy… It was… She always loved you. There was never any question she would leave you.”

“Because you were married at the time. Presumably, that was why your wife divorced you. Because of your affair with Marianne.”

I inclined my head in acceptance. “But Marianne loved you. It was just sex between the two of us.”

“Whereas with me, she was always too tired, or had a headache, or it was that time in the month. You stole my wife from me for all those years. And now I think it’s payback time.”

“Payback time?” I echoed.

He smiled. “Yes.”

***

When Andy moved from one of the London universities to take over as Head of Cybernetics, he and Marianne had been married for a few years. I’d recently joined the department as a technician and was keen to impress the new boss. So when he rang me one morning in my basement workshop and asked if I could pop up to his office, I said I’d be up straightaway. Andy introduced me to his wife, who was very sexy, but one learns at an early age not to show that, especially when you’re married and even more especially if you’re looking at the boss’s wife. It appeared that she needed help setting up her new laptop and I immediately asked about her problems.

“Sorry,” Andy interrupted, “I’ve got a meeting starting in a few minutes. Could you take Marianne down to the workshop and sort her out there.”

If only, I thought.

Apparently, that’s exactly what Marianne thought, because as soon as we entered the workshop and she saw we were alone, she said, “So, Mike. Are you going to sort me out?”

Ten minutes later, she was saying, “Thanks. Now, could you sort out my laptop?”

In that time, there’d been a few minutes of frantic coupling, ten seconds of ecstasy for me, and ninety seconds of earth-shattering orgasm for Marianne. And as I sorted out her laptop, the event might never have happened. The only reference to it came at the end when she asked if she could visit me again if she had more problems that needed sorting out.

So I was perfectly truthful in what I had told Andy just now. It had only ever been sex, rather than afternoons of loving lust – just quickies on a regular basis. There was never any pillow talk – indeed, there were never any pillows – merely a brief sentence to talk about the logistics of what we did.

I’d never discovered why Marianne so desperately needed me for her sexual satisfaction when she had a perfectly good husband. She was obviously using me as a sex object but still, if someone has to do the job, better it be me. Why she chose me, I don’t know. I’ve never regarded myself as a super stud and as I intimated earlier, I’ve always been aware that if size matters, then I didn’t cut any ice.

It came to an end ten years later, when I was in my forties and, let’s say, my physical stamina was not up to what it had been when our relationship started. My wife suspected an affair and hired a private detective to dig the dirt. When she found out, she was all for telling Andy but I told her that, since shagging on the premises was a sackable offence, then she’d better keep quiet if she wanted to collect reasonable alimony from me. But she did make me transfer to another post, where I would not have the personal freedom and quiet workshop that I’d had until then.

***

So there it was. Guilty as charged. Except that it takes two to tango and I would never have dreamed of instigating it, or have taken the lead as Marianne did. Why she found her husband inadequate, I still don’t know. Clearly, from what Andy had just said, he’d been incredibly frustrated for many years.

“When you say payback time...” I said, as we continued walking towards the house.

“I want you to be my wife, in all senses of the word.”

“You mean iron your shirts and cook your meals?”

“Of course. And I also want you to make up for my ten years of sexual abstinence.”

“Right,” I said. Keep calm, I thought. “And if I don’t?”

“Firstly, look on the positive side. You are occupying the superb body of a person who is physically much younger than you. You’ll be so much fitter than you ever were in real-life . You will live in comfort with me, able to experience all kinds of luxuries that you currently cannot afford. I will lavish you with clothes and jewelry, and, yes, I will have sex with you and I believe we will both enjoy it.”

“But Andy, I can’t feel anything. How can I enjoy sex if I have no feeling?”

“It’s not true that you can’t feel anything. There are certain parts of your body that you will feel. Indeed, as they are the only parts you can feel, this will be so pleasant for you that you’ll will crave to have those parts touched.”

I eyed him. “You mean my erogenous zones?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

“But where has my real body gone? What have you done with it?”

“A haulage company came to collect the trailer soon after we left the house. They are now taking it to a secure place which will remain unknown to you. Your body will be kept perfectly safe, it will be fed and your body waste disposed of.”

“Right,” I said, trying to get my head around what I had just been told. It looked as though Andy had thought things through fairly thoroughly. Since I was in no position to reject his offer, it made sense to go along with it until I could see a way out.

“So can we eat,” I said, “before we have sex?”

Andy smiled. “We certainly can,” he said.

***

Over lunch, Andy told me that the process of me, as a robot, ingesting food resulted in the pod pumping a nutritious gunge into my real-life mouth. Similarly, when my own body told me that I needed to use the toilet, I would have to direct my robot body to the toilet and when I was sitting comfortably, then my own real-life body could excrete its dirty stuff.

But it was when I was clearing away and loading the dishwasher that I discovered the most important aspect of my robot body. Andy came up behind me, placed his arm behind my neck and pushed it down. He had clearly turned down my earlier strength and I was powerless to resist as I was forced to bend even further downwards. With his other hand, he pulled down my track-suit bottoms and released his own fly.

It’s worth saying that although my head was literally between my knees, being bent over double like that wasn’t at all painful, such is the advantage of being in a robot’s body. I could see between my legs, and suddenly I understood very clearly why Marianne had not wanted him to put his cock inside her. In fact, I could understand why no woman – or perhaps not even a regular-sized donkey –would want to have that thrust inside.

But I wasn’t being given any choice at all, and Andy had been right about a few parts of my body being able to feel what the robot was feeling. I was trying to work out how the technology worked to achieve this, but suddenly, it became irrelevant. I had one of those exquisite moments which I hoped would go on and on forever. All I could say was, “Fuck me!”

“I certainly will,” Andy said.

And he did.

Wedding in Paradise
by Lindale

Because of a long lost family relationship, Tom is offered the chance of an expenses paid trip to the West Indies, commemorating the role of a man who not only released slaves, but gave them a proper life as well. Except that he also has to commemorate the role of the man’s bride.

****

“Hello, you’re Tom Deccan, aren’t you?”

On my way into my offices, I turned to face the attractive middle-aged black woman, smiling at me from the reception desk. ‘Alice’ her name badge said. “That’s right. I’m surprised that you know me as I don’t get many visitors; I’m in the Techy department.”

“When I heard your name, I thought we might be related. Have you ever done research on your family history?”

She looked of West Indian descent so I thought any family relationship unlikely but, in a company mostly full of young people, it was nicer talking to this woman of about my own age, rather than going back to my desk.

“My sister did,” I said, answering her question, “years ago when she was still at school. She thought our name was an Anglicisation of De Caen, apparently barons who came over with the Norman invasion in 1066. It sounded a bit unlikely to me.”

“No, I think she was right,” Alice said. “The other part of the family dropped the De and just became Cane, which is my surname. From what I know of our ancestors, the name matched their preferred method of dealing with the locals when they got out of line – a good thrashing with a cane.” She grinned. “Apparently, they were early entrants into the slave trade.”

“Oh.” The realisation hit me that her connection with the family had not been a voluntary one. “Sorry.”

Her grin widened. “No need to apologise for having ancestors who were evil. The family weren’t all bad. In fact your namesake, Thomas, ended slavery on Cane Island in the early 1800s. I was born there, but came over here for schooling and have never gone back.”

“Cane Island?” I queried. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s such a tiny island in the West Indies, hardly anybody’s been there. It was given the name by Thomas’s father and I heard they were trying to find old family members to help them with a commemoration ceremony. Would you be interested?”

“You mean on Cane Island? That’s quite a long way to travel.”

“They’d pay the air fare and all expenses.”

“Really! That’s a serious amount of money.”

“Thomas used part of the family fortune to buy a few acres of farmland on the edge of the City of London, which he put in trust for the islanders.”

“A few acres in the City of London,” I echoed. “That should pay for an air ticket.”

“If you’d be interested in helping the islanders, they would want to do a DNA test, just to ensure you really were related. I could put you in contact, if you wished?”

****

You hear of so many scams, nowadays, I’d been a bit suspicious, but the trust had paid for a solicitor who had researched and vouched that it was genuine. My DNA had established that I was a member of the Cane family. We had a very generous open contract, and I’d already received pay for three months, having being told that I may only need stay for a week, or they could invite me to stay longer than three months.

Eight weeks later, I’d flown first class from Heathrow to Antigua. From there I’d got on a ferry which spent most of that hot Saturday wandering from island to island. I was hot and tired and had been travelling for around 24 hours. Now, at almost the last stop of the day, the ferry nosed its way up to a small jetty, where it off-loaded me and several loads of supplies. I’d barely walked off the jetty to the shore before the ferry was reversing away. Too late now to change my mind.

“You must be Thom-ass.” A broad West Indian accent greeted me and I turned to find a sexy young black woman smiling at me. All hesitations immediately evaporated as she added, “I am Matt-ilda Cane. You can call me Matty.”

“Hi Matty. It’s good to meet you. You can call me Tom.”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh. You had your name changed, didn’t you? So you’re now Thomas.”

That was one of the stranger parts of my contract; the trust had wanted to state that Thomas Cane from Britain was here to represent the old family, so my name had been changed by deed poll from Tom Deccan to Thomas Cane. I was going to object until I heard how much they were prepared to pay me for the inconvenience. Then I simply shut up and so now I am Thomas.

“Thomas it is,” I agreed. “Can I get a drink before we go further?” I nodded towards the shack on the beach around which a number of schoolchildren were clustered. Clearly, this was the post school meeting point.

“We sure can. You can meet some of the children, as well.”

We wandered over and we both ordered beers, and she introduced me to half a dozen children whose names went out of my head as soon as they were spoken. But they all looked nice kids with big West Indian smiles.

“Is the secondary school not out, yet?” I asked, noting that these kids all looked of primary school age.

“All the secondary school children go to boarding school in the UK,” Matty said. “The trust pays for that.”

Lucky islanders, I thought.

“A few of us return,” she continued, “but most stay in Britain for the rest of their lives. The original Thomas Cane left a tremendous legacy for the descendants of the slaves.” She gave me an even wider smile. “And that’s what we want you to commemorate and re-enact during your stay here.”

“I’ll try my best,” I said, “although I’m still not really clear what it is you want me to do.”

“That’s deliberate,” she said. “We want you to act spontaneously, although we’ll always be there to give a guiding hand, and I’ll explain some of the back story, now.”

She talked as we started to walk up the hill towards the small church, with a plantation house behind it.

“The Cane family were naturals as slave traders in the West Indies,” Matty said, “and by the beginning of the nineteenth century, Jacob Cane and his family were rich plantation owners in Antigua. Jacob had three sons, but the youngest, twenty-one-year old, Thomas, had been a continual embarrassment to the family since he was born, far more interested in nature and spending time with the local natives than in thrashing the slaves to work harder.

“When Jacob won this tiny island in a game of cards, he’d seen it as an opportunity to get Thomas out of the way, and told him to take a few slaves and build a fine house here, where Jacob and his wife might eventually retire. And it was to be called Cane Island from then on.

“Then, the British Parliament got serious about ending the slave trade and passed the 1807 anti-slaving act. Jacob thought it the end of the world and decided to sell up his plantations on Antigua and move the family to Virginia. The 1807 Act allowed him to continue to own slaves but not to trade in them so he sold up the estate, planning to take his family along with his big chest of gold. He chartered a slave ship and packed his 512 slaves onboard in horrendous conditions,.

“He initially decided that Thomas should continue developing the house here on Cane island but, a few days before they were due to set sail for Virginia, they heard that Thomas had fallen in love with Beatrice, a slave, and was going to marry her. There could have been no more abhorrent thought to the Cane family than their son marrying not just a person of low descent, not just a black woman, but a slave, a person hardly thought to be a human being.

“Jacob sent immediate word ordering Thomas not to marry the slave, but he was twenty-one; he could marry without consent. So Jacob ordered the captain of his slave ship to sail here so they could interrupt the wedding and carry Beatrice away from temptation. The captain initially refused because of a forthcoming storm, but faced with being fired and losing his ship, he finally consented.

“So,” Matty turned to smile at me, “we have reached the point where our story begins and here,” she swept her around to indicate the solidly built church which they had just reached, “is the church where you are due to marry Beatrice on Monday. Come inside and meet your bride.” She pushed open the solid church door, oblivious to my mouth, gaping wide.

“Er,” I said, but Matty had already entered the church and was striding down the aisle towards where a bride stood before the altar with a stillness which could not be human. Phew, I realised. It was a dummy. I hurried after Matty and caught up with her at the altar.

“Meet Beatrice,” Matty said. “Beatrice,” she said to the doll, “meet your husband to be.

“She’s wearing the original dress made by Beatrice and her friend in 1807,” she added, although to be honest I wasn’t noticing the simple dress she was wearing, more the iron ring around her neck with the chains leading to the manacles on each wrist. “Of course, because of the chains, all slave women had to have dresses which were pulled upwards and tied around the neck or over the shoulders.”

Beatrice was large and had one of those voluptuous West Indian figures which look stunning at her age, supposedly seventeen. With those huge breasts revealed to perfection by the scoop neckline of the dress, a slimmish waist with the skirt flared out over wide hips, it was easy to see why the original Thomas had fallen in love with her. I certainly had. The apprehensions I’d been experiencing all day completely evaporated. This, I decided, was going to be fun.

“She looks so lifelike,” I said.

“The Trust can afford the very best,” she vaguely replied. She waved her hand around the church. “You can see that this is a very simple church, but very robustly built to withstand the tremendous storms which can cause waves to break right over the island. The house also, is very strongly built. Come along, it is time I showed you to your room.”

****

As Matty had said, the house was very solidly built but it was without any modern air-conditioning. There was a gentle breeze that flowed through the house but it was always hot. It functioned as both a residence and a schoolroom for the dozen or so young children, and there were five female staff who seemed to do a mix of schooling and other duties around house. I was, I realised with a start, the only adult male on the island.

“That’s right,” Matty said when I questioned her about that. “Storms occasionally wash right over the island and it simply isn’t big enough to be self-supporting for a community of people. So the trust fund that Thomas set up stipulated that no adult males were allowed, except under special circumstances, of which you are one.”

“So, whose children are these?” I queried. “And what about you and the other staff. Do you not have a boyfriend?”

Matty gave me an enigmatic smile. “It will become clear in time. You’ll see. But I’m a lesbian so I’m happy to live here with the other females.”

“Oh.” That disappointed me. Matty might be twenty years younger than me but a guy could still dream and… But not in this case.

“I’ll show you to your room. After your journey, you may want to have a rest for a while. However, when the children have gone to bed is a good time for everyone to meet you and we can discuss your role over the next few days of the celebration. Would nine pm in our dining room be convenient for you?” I said that it was.

****

The five adults were waiting for me in the dining room when I entered. Apart from Matty, I was introduced to Suzy, who was the doctor, nurse and school matron; Peggy, primary teacher and also seamstress; Alice, the cook, and Betty, the handyman and person who did everything else.

Matty started the explanation. “So we’ve already talked about the events leading up to Thomas’s wedding to Beatrice and what we’re going to reenact over the next few days commences on the Sunday, just before Thomas is due to marry Beatrice on the Monday, at midday. Due to the reading of the banns, this is the earliest day they can be married. When Thomas receives a message from his father instructing him not to marry Beatrice and that he is sailing there to intervene in the wedding, Thomas brought forward the wedding to the very first minute of that Monday.

“The wedding ceremony begins just as the clock chimes midnight and Peggy will be officiating as vicar. You, Thomas declare your vows. Then, your father’s men suddenly burst into the church and carry Beatrice away.

“One of your father’s men bars the door until Beatrice has been carried down to the sea and is in a boat being ferried to the ship anchored off shore. Then you all run down to the sea where the you find the storm is upon you. The boat carrying Beatrice is in danger of sinking and Beatrice it thrown, tied, into the water as unnecessary ballast. It’s too rough to enter the water and she is dead by the time she is brought by the waves to the beach.”

“Oh how terrible. Is this all true?”

Several heads nod and I’m left pondering on the evil of man.

“What follows next,” Matty continues, “is seen as an Act of God. The storm is suddenly on them, the rowing boat is turned over, and the ship torn from its anchor, and cast onto the rocks on the headland. None survive the storm.

“Thomas has Beatrice’s body taken to his workshop, which is still here today in the basement of this house. We’ll never really know exactly what happened there. What we do know is that Thomas was always interested in natural history and had become a proficient taxidermist whilst a teenager. Then he met a tribe of native Indians on Antigua who showed him new techniques that had never been seen before. But the tribe was eradicated a few years later by some disease they’d caught from the newcomers, and Thomas later decided to burn all the notes he’d made of the process, saying they must never become known to the academists in England. But what we do know is that Thomas preserved Beatrice’s skin and some parts of her body. It took him the whole day, working throughout, but just as midnight was approaching, Beatrice appeared, ready to continue the church service which had been interrupted almost 24 hours before.”

“Holy shit!” I burst in. “He put the skin on someone who took over her role? My God! That’s…” I stopped what I was about to say, aware that I was commenting on their highly respected ancestor. “…interesting.”

“It certainly beggars belief amongst modern taxidermists. Maybe poetic licence was taken with the timing and it took much longer than one day. Whatever, the skin survives to this day. You saw it this afternoon in the church.”

“What! That was the real Beatrice. Oh my God!” Again I stopped from saying anything that would offend my hosts.

“And so,” Matty continued, “The wedding of Beatrice and Thomas was completed before Monday ended. They went on to have many children together.”

“Except that,” I said, “it was somebody else in Beatrice’s skin.”

“She was only ever known an Beatrice, and after their first baby was born, Thomas decreed that she be called Queen Bea from then on.”

“And the entire family riches,” Peggy broke in, “which went down with the ship were recovered and invested in land in the City of London, which although fiendishly expensive at the time, Thomas believed would become even more valuable. And it has, which is what pays our keep and salaries, and for your expenses.”

“That’s some story,” I say. “Even if the time it took was stretched, it’s still phenomenal. So you’ll need me for the wedding at midnight tomorrow night and the night after, and presumably all the preparation for that.”

They all nodded assent, looking rather relieved about something. I wondered what I hadn’t asked them that I should have done.

****

It was the next morning, a Sunday, and we’d had breakfast in the communal dining room, which had included screaming babies, toddlers racing around the room, and all the other children staring at me – probably the first white person they had seen – with a mixture of fascination and terror. By now, everyone else had left the dining room, leaving Matty and me to talk. But a couple of children had just re-entered and they walked over to me.

“Please, sir,” the little girl said, “I have brought a message from your father.”

My father? My father had died three years ago, so… Then it hit me. This was a message from the original Thomas Cane’s father. I smiled at the rather nervous girl and nodded at the paper she was holding, “Can I see it?”

She handed it over and waited whilst I read it.

Thomas.
I am most disturbed to hear of your plans to marry a slave. I instruct you to do no such thing. We are all on our way to Cane Island and will be there tomorrow morning. Do nothing until then.
Your father

Matty and the two children were looking at me expectantly. She had told me the previous day I was expected to act spontaneously, and I was clearly supposed to say something, but what? Then my thoughts got in order.

“Summons the vicar,” I said. “We must bring forward the wedding to today.”

Suzy was to be the ‘vicar’ for the ceremonies, and she’d already told me she’d be leading today’s Sunday church service, as well as ‘marrying’ Beatrice and I tomorrow. Clearly, she’d been waiting outside the door, for she appeared as soon as I’d uttered the summons, complete with clerical collar.

“You wanted me, sir?”

“My father is arriving tomorrow to stop the wedding,” I said. “Beatrice and I must get married today.”

Suzy shook her head. “I am sorry, sir, but your final wedding banns are to be read at our service today, and I must allow the rest of the day to pass before I can marry you.”

She was waiting, hoping I was going to say something and then the idea came in a flash. “In that case, Beatrice and I will be married at one minute past midnight, tomorrow morning.”

From the grins that appeared all around, I had clearly spoken as required.

“I’ll see to it, sir,” Suzy said, and withdrew with the two children.

“Well done,” Matty said. “You’re going to make an excellent Thomas.”

****

Apart from the church service, the first I’d attended in decades, I spent much of that day preparing for my wedding. Peggy functioned part time as a seamstress, and she took a suit already tailored on the original Thomas Cane’s wedding suit and made a few alterations so it would fit me better. Suzy took me through the wedding service and made me rehearse my wedding vows. She also reminded me that the children would again be playing the parts of adults, so I must be careful for them at all times. Suzy also said that since Beatrice wasn’t always co-operative, I would need to sign the marriage register before the wedding rather than after. I didn’t understand the logic of that but I obediently nodded. Then, Alice, the cook, asked me about my food favourites, and started preparing a wedding feast which bore little similarity to any of my favourites!

With my internal timeclock still set to UK time, I went to bed in the late afternoon, with a request to wake me an hour before midnight.

****

The first part of the service went well after I’d signed the marriage register with my bold, new Thomas Cane signature. Beatrice continued to look as beautiful as ever (well, she would do, wouldn’t she?) and I remembered my lines.

But it was after I’d finished my vows, and Suzy, the vicar, turned towards Beatrice that everything changed. The door burst open and a boy’s voice, trying to sound like a man’s said, “Stop this service.”

All of us except Beatrice turned to stare at the collection of children standing in the doorway, holding cardboard daggers and swords. Clearly, my ‘father’s’ ship had arrived at the island and his ‘men’ were here to prevent the marriage.

“Beatrice is a slave belonging to Sir Jacob, and he demands she be returned immediately,” the boy declared, and he and his friends marched up the aisle, grabbed hold of Beatrice and pulled her off her feet. She was obviously a lot heavier than the children had expected as she almost fell to the ground and I had to catch her.

“No, you can’t take her,” I said. “She is to be married to me.”

“She is a slave,” another child said, “and needs the permission of her owner to marry. That permission is denied. We are taking her back to the ship and to slavery in Virginia,”

“No,” I cried. “You cannot take her.”

But a child of about ten had stepped forward to push me away. Remembering Suzy’s advice, I pretended to stagger back. “Please don’t take her,” I repeated as they pulled Beatrice along the aisle and out of the door. I made to follow, but the child stood in my way at the door, not allowing me to leave – at least, not without picking him up and moving him to one side, which was clearly against the rules.

Finally, there was a shout from the beach. “Come now and hurry. The storm is almost upon us.” The child turned and raced down to the beach.

****

There was, of course, no sign of a storm when we got to the beach, just a beautiful moonlit evening, but by then they had pushed the boat off from the shore and were mimicking waves rocking the boat. Peggy was in the boat using the oars to pull away from the shore.

“Oh no,” one of the girls cried. “We’re too heavy. We’ll never make it back to the ship. Throw the slave overboard.”

“No!” I yelled. “Bring her back to the shore.”

But I was ignored. Instead the kids struggled a bit but eventually managed to push Beatrice over the side and into the water.

“She’ll drown,” I cried. “I must save her.” I was about to strip off when Matty said, “It’s no good. The waves are too high.” She grabbed my sleeve to prevent me moving forward. “You’ll never make it. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“No! No!” I wailed. (OK, I was a terrible actor but it was all in good fun – or so I thought at the time!)

Eventually, the tiny waves brought Beatrice’s ‘body’ to the beach and we all gently carried her up the hill towards the house. A child ran up, handed me a piece of paper and proclaimed, “A terrible storm has thrown the ship onto the rocks. Your family, and everyone else on board has perished.”

The child motioned for me to read what was written.

“Oh no!” I obediently exclaimed, “my father, mother and brothers are all dead, along with all those poor slaves.” It also meant, I realised, that I (that is, Thomas) was now the only inheritor of the family silver.

“Bring Beatrice into my workshop,” I continued reading. “I need to preserve her.”

I hadn’t been into the workshop before, but it was in the basement at the rear of the house. Inside was a large bench upon which Beatrice was gently laid.

“Here is the key to her chains,” I said, following my script and Suzy conveniently pushed a key into my hand which I gave to one of the children. “First remove her chains and then her clothes and have them washed and prepared for the continuation of her wedding later today.” That puzzled me a little as my internal time clock was still terribly confused after the transatlantic journey, and the events over the last few hours. Then I realised that it was still very early on Monday morning and we could presumably go ahead with the rest of the wedding later on in the day, after Beatrice had been preserved, whatever that meant.

Beatrice’s clothes were removed, exposing her naked body. The girls all took no notice, but I saw several of the older boys staring, whilst I tried not to. She certainly was a beautifully voluptuous woman. No wonder the original Thomas had fallen for her.

When she was completely naked, I had to read the final part of my script: “Slide her into the preservative tank and we will let her rest for a while.”

I didn’t understand what that meant but the kids appeared to. They slid her body along the bench and into a tank of murky water at the end, where she floated for a little time whilst the children used sticks to submerge her. Eventually, she had disappeared beneath the surface and it seemed time for us all to leave the workshop.

I asked Matty about the preservative tank as we left the workshop and climbed the stairs towards our bedrooms.

“We’ll never really know what the preservative was,” she replied. “We’ve used water coloured with food dye to make it look like that. The main point, though,” she continued, “is that we re-enact what took place; we don’t have to go into every detail.”

Whatever, I realised that with my body clock completely confused, I was suddenly very tired again and I needed to get some sleep.

****

I must have slept for much of Monday, for it was around three in the afternoon when Matty woke me, telling me it was time to get ready for the second half of the wedding ceremony.

“Was there really this time delay between the two halves of the wedding service?” I asked. “And did Thomas really marry a clinically dead woman? It sounds positively creepy.”

“The vicar at the time decided that the ceremony must all take place within the space of one day to be a proper wedding, but the rest will become clear as the event progresses.”

“Hmm.” I wasn’t convinced but I was really just a bit player in their show. I simply had to do what I was told and enjoy the experience.

Matty took me back to Thomas’s workshop and she used a stick to hook the body out of the preservative tank, and I helped her pull it up onto the bench. Except that now it was completely limp, as though there wasn’t a bone inside it.

“What’s happened?” I asked. “You told me this was simply a tank of coloured water, not something that dissolves bones.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Matty said. “The original Thomas had to do all kinds of very gory things with Beatrice’s body which we skip for the re-enactment. Just imagine that you’ve spent all day preparing her body for this moment when she is ready to be brought back to life.”

“You’re going to put someone inside her skin, aren’t you?” I said, suddenly working it out. “That’s what Thomas did back in 1807. He took another slave woman and forced her to wear the skin, and he then married that other woman pretending to be Beatrice.”

Then another thought hit me. “Is it you who’s going to take Beatrice’s part?”

Matty smiled and shook her head. “No, it’s not me but that’s the general idea. Let’s now wash off Beatrice’s body and prepare it for the next stage.”

Of course it couldn’t be Matty, I realised. She was a lesbian and would hardly marry me and… And what? After the sham marriage ceremony, was I going to seal the marriage in the conventional way? I could always hope.

We washed off the skin; whatever had previously given the doll structure had been removed and it was now just an empty skin. I kept thinking of the other adult women on the island and I can’t say there were any which particularly thrilled me as stand-in brides. It didn’t look like I was going to be taking this pretend marriage through to a proper result. Still I was being paid a lot of money for what appeared to be a few days swanning around.

“OK, Thomas. Are we ready for the next stage?”

I smiled at her. “I certainly am. So who’s going to be wearing the skin?”

“You are.”

I did a double take at her smiling face. “You are joking?”

She shook her head. “No, this is exactly what Thomas did. He dressed in her skin during the second part of the wedding ceremony, so he kind of married himself.”

“Phew.” I shook my head. “No wonder you wouldn’t tell me what was involved.”

“It’s not a problem, is it?” she wryly asked. “Turning from a white man into a black woman?”

I stared at her, unwilling to display the incredible excitement surging through me.

“It’s really not that bad,” Matty added, seeing my face.

“I guess not,” I said. “Just a bit of a shock, that’s all.” I picked up the black skin, which I now realised was much more than a skin. The breasts and buttocks were still padded out with something (and I hope it wasn’t the original flesh, and were incredibly heavy. Was I even going to be able to move with this on me? “Will it fit me?”

“Of course,” Matty said. “You remember that you provided your measurements to the Trust in advance. They have made certain this will fit you.”

“It’s a bit sneaky,” I said, more for the sake of appearance because I certainly wasn’t going to object.

“But you’ll do it, won’t you?” Matty said.

I nodded. “I guess.”

****

She made me go behind a screen and change out of my clothes and put on a tiny thong and a dressing gown. When I returned, Matty was sitting on a bench seat, the skin dangling over her knees.

“Come and sit here, Thomas,” she said, patting the bench besides her with a reassuring smile, except that suddenly I didn’t find it that reassuring.

“It’s going to be a bit strange, isn’t it?” I said.

“I’m sure you’ll soon get used to it,” she said. “Come on. Sit down here.”

I sat next to her and she turned the skin around so we were looking at the bottom.

“Look, she said, “The fastening holding the anus together is open, so slide both your feet in there and down her legs.”

I did so and found my legs slid down inside the legs of the skin quite easily, and I was able to pull the suit up to my knees.

“This is now the tricky bit,” she said. “You need to bend right down and slide your head inside her anus too. You’ll find it is quite stretchy.”

So I bent forward so my chest was flat on my thighs, and she pulled the skin over the top of my head. It may have been stretchy but it was extremely strong elastic and once it was over my head, there was no way I could sit upright.

“It’s alright,” she said, “don’t panic.” Which was how I was feeling. “I want you now to slide your arms inside and I’ll pull it right over your shoulders. You’ll soon be fitting right inside it.

So I squeezed my hands up besides my head and into the skin and Matty continued to pull it over my shoulders and then down my body. I managed to get my arms inside the arms of the skin, and then suddenly, the squeeze began to get easier. I could even sit up a little, which forced the thing even further down my body until I was completely inside the skin.

“I just need to remove your thong,” she said, untying the cords which held it and pulling the cords through, and giving the whole thing a yank to remove it which was quite painful.

Finally, Matty was pulling the two sides of the buttocks together around my own backside. “There are eyelets here so we can feed in cords similar to shoe laces and pull the two sides together.” As she pulled the laces, my testicles felt bloody uncomfortable for a bit and I asked Matty to stop.

“Don’t be a baby,” she said. “Just imagine what a woman has to go through in childbirth.”

Which wasn’t much comfort.

Eventually, she’d pulled the laces as far as she could and tied the ends together and was stuffing the whole lot inside the remaining bit of the crack.

“Stand up now,” she said, “and you can look at yourself in the mirror.”

“Oh my God!” I looked for all the world exactly like that model which I’d ‘married’ hours earlier, except that I moved like a woman, and my breasts and buttocks delightfully wobbled like a woman’s.

“What do you think?”

“It’s incredible. I’m incredible.”

“One more thing before we get you dressed. We have to put on your chains.” She picked up the neck ring and manacles, shackled together with chains and held open the ring me to put around neck.

I gulped. “Surely, Thomas didn’t wear the chains of a slave?”

“That’s the kind of person he was. When he first came to Cane Island, he removed all the chains of the slaves, but at this moment in his life, he wanted to be treated as Beatrice had always been treated until he came along. So, he put on the chains that Beatrice had always worn.”

“Well it seems a bit extreme. I’m not certain…”

I would have argued some more, but Matty swiftly swung the open ring around my neck and it clicked shut. Just as quickly, she was flipping the manacles around my wrists, and they too clicked shut.”

“I’ll need to keep the key.”

“If you keep the key,” Matty said, “you’ll hardly be in the same position as a slave, which is what Thomas wanted. Now come on. Step into your wedding dress and let’s get you to the church on time so you can be married.”

****

Most brides will spend hours getting dressed for their wedding. I took about ten minutes. I stepped into the simple white dress and I pulled it up above my breasts. A belt tied just beneath my breasts to provide primitive support and Matty spent some time adjusting the material and my breasts to maximise their appearance. Then she tied the halter strap around my neck, again adjusting it several times to get it just right. Then, I slipped my feet into mules, Matty put her arm through mine and we stepped out of the workshop into the bright sunshine, and strolled towards the church, the chain clinking as I walked.

As we approached we could hear the chatter of the children and the adults, who were clearly awaiting us. As we stepped through the door, the sounds of the bridal march played on the organ and we walked down the aisle. A male dummy had appeared, dressed in the suit I had worn earlier when the wedding ceremony had commenced. I thought he was rather more handsome than I had been in his place!

And so the wedding continued, with me reciting my lines as a bride whilst Thomas remained silent. Then Peggy, the vicar, pronounced us man and wife and I signed the register as Beatrice, immediately next to the Thomas signature I had made in the early hours of the morning.

The wedding feast followed and plenty of alcohol was consumed by the adults, and the children chattered and sang throughout.

“Lady Beatrice,” Matty said, and it came to me that with Thomas’s family all now drowned, he was the new Lord Cane and I the lady. I grinned at Matty, rather foolishly, I suspected.

“I’m afraid that Lord Cane has had to disappear for a while, but I will lead you to your wedding chamber.” She gave such a wicked smile that suddenly my heart was pounding. She was a lesbian but I was now female – is that how it was going to work? Please, please, please, let that be, I silently begged.

That’s exactly how it worked.

****

I’d better say that there were a few physical limitations. Firstly, that dratted neck ring and manacles meant that I could never get my hands down to the important bits of my body which wanted to participate. Secondly, I’m pretty certain that even without the chains I wouldn’t have been able to get that particular part of my anatomy free of the bodysuit.

But having said that, there are some pretty good ways that a female can bring joy to such a restricted male and I can tell you, Matty did them all and then some. She knew exactly how to bring me to a peak, keep me there for a while, and then let me have my head. And somehow she kept it going for time after time. It may not have been a conventional wedding bed but I wasn’t complaining!

***

Talk about a honeymoon, this was even better. Matty and I spent endless hours pleasuring each other just like newlyweds. I’d assumed that after the wedding, I’d be returned to acting as the original Thomas, but I was told that Thomas continued to act as Beatrice for some time. I lost track of the days and I continued as Beatrice as the days turned into weeks.

Then one day I was taken violently sick. Matty thought it highly amusing. “Oh my darling, Beatrice. Perhaps you have morning sickness.”

“Ha-ha. I think I’d better take off the skin now that I’m ill.”

But Matty had insisted that I await a visit from Suzy, the island’s doctor. She prodded me, took samples of blood and urine and then pronounced that I was pregnant, as though Matty hadn’t already made that joke.

“It’s really not a joke,” she persisted. “I’d better explain your own position in a little more detail. You know that you are wearing the skin of Beatrice, which Thomas Cane had preserved and removed from her dead body within minutes of her death. The preservation technique utilised a process known only by native Antiguan natives, which was later lost to mankind. But, as you must be aware, he preserved not just her outer skin. Your breasts, for one, were Beatrices original breasts, as are the fleshy parts of your buttocks and hips which give you Beatrice’s original shape. Also preserved, was her womb.”

“Sorry!” I jerked into life. “You are saying I am carrying Beatrice’s womb around inside my body? But surely, it cannot still be functional. Her supply of eggs can’t last forever.”

“A woman is born with thousands of eggs,” Suzy said, “so the supply of eggs isn’t an issue. The preservation technique which Thomas used certainly shows no sign of fading with time. Beatrice’s skin and organs appear to be as healthy today as when she originally lived. As are her eggs.”

“But the eggs still have to be fertilised…” I broke off as I realised what had been happening since the wedding. “That’s what Matty has been ensuring, isn’t it. She has been bringing me to orgasm several times a day, but instead of ejaculating as normal, from my body into someone else’s, I’ve been ejaculating into Beatrice’s womb. I have made myself pregnant. Is that possible?”

“I think the best way to describe you is a true hermaphrodite, capable of impregnating yourself.”

“You mean like an earthworm?” The only thing I remembered from Biology lessons.

“Same idea,” Suzy said, “but in this case, we have merged two bodies into one, so we have the healthy mix of genes that sexual reproduction gives us.”

“I’m not the first, am I?” The magnitude of what had been happening on this island for over two hundred years suddenly hit me. “Initially, it was Thomas who conceived the idea, and no doubt made himself pregnant many times. Then, after he passed, someone else would have been recruited to substitute for him inside Beatrice. And again, and again. How many new fathers, over the two hundred years? How many children has Beatrice given birth to?”

“Two hundred and fifteen children,” Suzy said. “There have been eleven previous fathers over the two hundred years. For much of that time, the male part of the body gave out in middle age after the trauma of several childbirths. It was risky enough for a female giving birth and most males died in early middle age. Nowadays, we have much more skill at avoiding such catastrophes. The last father died at the age of eighty-six, and fathered over fifty children.”

“Fifty! At what age did he start?”

“He was about the same age as you when he came to us, but in recent years, we have developed the technique of producing multiple births, so in later life he averaged two babies each year. Not many women of that age can say that, never mind the fathers. Hopefully, you will have a nice pair of twin babies, inside you, maybe triplets.”

“But suppose I don’t want to be pregnant.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Suzy said. “You are pregnant with your two children, which you fathered and you will mother right up until childbirth.”

“But suppose I want a… an abortion?”

She smiled. "You can barely say the word. Remember that the most powerful love of all is a parent for their child. But you are not only the father of these babies, but also the mother. That means your normal love for your children is doubled, or maybe squared. Whatever, there's no way you could go ahead with an abortion. In any case, abortion is not legal on this island, unless for medical reasons.”

“Then I’ll go home.”

Another shake of her head. “On your passport? I don’t think you match your photograph, and I’m afraid that Beatrice is the only adult on this island who does not have a British passport so she’s not going to be permitted entry.”

“But I must be able to remove Beatrice’s skin from my body?”

“Over the last seven weeks, her skin has bonded to yours. It would take a surgical procedure to try to cut the two bodies apart.”

“Then I am trapped into pregnancy?”

Suzy gave a beautiful smile. “Look on it as being able to live in this wonderful paradise, whilst fathering more children than almost any other man alive.”

“But mothering twins will be incredibly uncomfortable.”

“Yes, there will be some discomfort, but the reward is unbelievable.”

“Shit!” I mutter, as Suzy leaves me, saying she will be keeping a very close eye on me.

***

“It was all a trick to get me here, wasn’t it?” I ask of Matty, when she returns.

She gives me one of her wonderful smiles. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“You admit it?”

“Yes, there’s little point in denying what is obvious to see. When his father’s ship went down, carrying 512 slaves with it, Thomas decided that his family had to make retribution. When Beatrice became pregnant, clearly with his baby, he decided that her children would be given decent lives in England. Later, when he realised that Beatrice wasn’t ageing, but he was, he set up the trust to enable 512 descendants of Beatrice and his extended family to do this.”

“So it wasn’t chance, was it, when Alice chatted to me at my work?”

“Of course not. The trust has carefully researched most of the De Caen family tree. You were chosen as the most suitable member of the family to undertake the role.”

“And I’m going to be here forever?”

“It’s a lovely place to live.”

“But I’m going to be pregnant with twins for the next nine months. And after that…”

“You’ll quickly become pregnant again, and again and again.”

“Just like the Queen Bee,” I said, the light dawning. “That is my role to continually produce babies. And all my children…”

“They will all be the children of you, Thomas, and you, Beatrice. They will have the right to British passports and they will go and be educated there in good schools and then universities, and the trust will pay for their education. Eventually, 512 children will have gone and the trust will be drawn to a close.”

“And I have no choice at all?”

Matty grinned. “Of course you do. You can choose to have sex with me later on, or you can have it now. What other choice does a man need?

There are an awful lot of decisions to make when you're an incoming president.

Author's Note: This is a light-hearted work of fiction and bears no relation to what really goes on in the White House – I think!
Copyright© Lin Dale 2017

"OK, just before I close down your entire fucking department, explain why I've been informed I should talk to you first."

"Yes, Mr President. Unbeknown to the previous president, we have been doing biological weapons research on live human subjects. Criminals, homosexuals, transsexuals, immigrants. People like that."

"Holy shit! That is fucking incredible. What have you discovered?"

"Firstly, we have isolated the combination of genes which identifies Arabs."

"A-rabs? That's another name for fucking Muslims, isn't it?"

"Arab Muslims are the largest…"

"OK, don't bore me with fucking details. What else?"

"We have developed a highly contagious carrier virus which can be directed to attack certain combinations of genes, whilst protecting others, which means we can target specific races. By putting spray dispensers on every American plane, we could quickly spread it throughout the world."

"So we could kill every fucking A-rab in the world without risking Americans?"

"I wouldn't advise that, Mr President. The world would be waist deep in dead Arabs. There'd be vermin and disease; it would take years to clean it up."

"What could we do?"

"We have also developed a virus which will attack testosterone in the body and turbo-boost oestrogen. Within a week, males will lose all heterosexual interest, they'll start to develop breasts and their genitals will reduce in size. Within a year, they will be fully-developed infertile females – incidentally, with massive breasts. Males and females alike will lose all signs of aggression and antagonism; they will only want to please men and bear children, which even the genetic females will be unable to do in their own country as there will be no fertile males left."

"Big breasted females, you say? And you could target this at a specific genetic group, such as A-rabs?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr President. The laboratory can target any genetic group."

"I could pass a law which said that – hang on, let me think… Yes we could pass a law which said that in order to identify people who'd had the disease, they would have to wear distinguishing garments, such as translucent harem pants and veils."

"Excellent suggestion, Mr President. Er, do we have your permission to proceed?"

"Go ahead."

"Yes, Mr President."

***

"Well, Ahmad. Did he buy it? Why are you pulling such a strange face?"

"He certainly did, Abdul. But I'm trying to imagine the President in translucent harem pants. It's a most disturbing thought."