Revenge is Snowy White by Jennifer Brock This is a sequel to my earlier piece While Sleeping, Beautified. Your narrator will begin by summarizing what came before, so you shouldn’t need to have read it to understand this one. Be warned that a fairly sarcastic tone is frequently taken toward some unfairly brutal issues. If that sort of thing offends you, skip this one

Abby Normal by Jennifer Brock In the movie Young Frankenstein, there's a scene where Igor (that's "Eye-gor") makes an error and the brain that Dr. Frankenstein (that's "Fronkensteen") uses in the monster is not the one Igor had been sent to collect. Instead of the brain of brilliant scientist Hans Delbruck, he says he brought the brain that had been labeled "Abby Normal." This story takes the premise "What if Igor wasn't lying?" This is the story of Abby Normal, and what happened to her brain. (Note that although inspired by a comic take on Frankenstein, this story uses elements from several adaptations, and is a more serious take on the subject matter.)

Jakob and I were skating on the river. I can remember it clearly. I was teasing him that if he could beat me to the bridge, he'd get a kiss. The other girls say I picked a bad beau; they call him a fat whale and wonder why I didn't go after a strong, rugged boy like they did. I had three reasons. First, he's the son of a baker and likely to open his own bakery some day; if we married my children would never go hungry (plus, he makes the most delicious cakes you ever tasted!). Second, I find his soft, round body more fun to cuddle than one of those angular, rough boys. No, we haven't gone much further than cuddling; I don't want to have to get sent off to a convent like happened to my friend Greta's cousin. And third, and most importantly for this part of my story, when a girl is in better shape than her boyfriend, she's the one in control of whether he can catch her when he chases.

So on that fateful day, I'd decided that my Jakob was going to get to kiss me, and maybe warm his fingers inside my blouse. His hands are buttery-soft, and more gentle than even I am with my goats. So I turned and taunted him a little, and then pretended to trip on a patch of rough ice to slow myself down. But I pretended a little too well, and tripped for real in the wrong direction. Off balance, I was sent speeding down right past my rendezvous and under the bridge.

When I managed to make myself stop, I realized I was in trouble. The ice where I'd ended up was thinner, and it was starting to crack. Jakob came toward me, but he was too heavy and it just started cracking more as he got closer. I told him to go back and try to find help. He didn't want to leave me; he spent a couple minutes frantically looking around for a tree branch or a rope or something he could reach me with. But there was nothing around us but snow and stones, so he very reluctantly left me.

I remembered what I'd been taught, and laid down on the ice and spread myself out and slowly began inching my way toward the riverbank. I dragged myself an excruciating few inches, and I could almost stretch my fingers enough to touch one of the stones sticking out of the ice. I must have leaned a little too heavily on my knee, because a spider's web of cracks erupted from beneath it, and I barely had time to notice it before I was suddenly in the river. The water was so cold that I went numb almost immediately. All my woolen layers that had just been keeping me warm were suddenly soaked full of frigid water and making me sink. I was having trouble keeping my head above water. Despite the ice on top, the river beneath was still flowing very rapidly, and I was swept by the current. I'm not exactly sure what happened next. I just remember feeling trapped, and struggling to breathe in a cold, wet, dark place.

I sent a silent prayer to Heaven, promising that if I somehow survived this ordeal, I would be a better person. And then everything went black.

~o~O~o~

I woke up in intense pain. It felt like my whole body was on fire, and there was a bright light, and a sharp smell. I didn't understand how the cold, wet darkness had suddenly been replaced with its opposite, but my mind was mainly focused on the pain. I screamed and couldn't hear myself; somewhere close an animal was letting out a deep, low bellow that seemed to contain as much despair as I was feeling. I wasn't sure exactly what manner of beast it was; it wasn't quite a wolf and wasn't quite a bull.

The pain subsided, and the bright light left my eyes. I didn't see anything I recognized, just some odd metal shapes in front of a stone wall. I tried to turn my head to look around, but my neck was held tightly. Likewise, I could neither sit up nor move my arms and legs because something had strapped them down. All I knew was that I was lying on some kind of flat hard surface.

Somewhere below me and to the left, a man's voice was laughing. He cried out gleefully, "It's alive!" Off to the right a second voice cackled.

I shouted out to get his attention, but that animal howled again at the same time. The vibration I sensed gave me a horrible feeling. I repeated my call, and heard that same bestial noise. Somehow, I was the one making that sound. My voice was all wrong, and I didn't know why. Perhaps I was dreaming, but if so this was a nightmare. I attempted to will myself awake, but it didn't work.

I heard a mechanical rumble and a metallic ratcheting, and the slab or table to which I had been clamped slowly moved downward. When it stopped moving, the man on the left approached and came into my view. He was tall and gaunt, with a high forehead. I vaguely recognized him from somewhere. He wore a leather apron and long rubberized gloves, like a butcher. He looked into my terrified eyes and smiled. "I did it!" Then he turned away and said, "Ygor, bring the spanners."

The person he was talking to moved with shuffling footsteps. "Yes, Baron." That explained how I had recognized the first man. He was Baron Victor Frankenstein, a nobleman whose castle wasn't very far from our village. Ygor came closer and I saw that he was a deformed little hunchback.

They used some tools on each side of my neck and then removed the large iron strap that had been holding me down. I tried to raise my head, but the baron placed his hand on my face and said sternly, "Stay," like he was commanding a dog. His hand didn't cover much of my forehead. It was odd; he'd never seemed small to me before.

He repeated his command as the rest of the straps came off, forcing me to lie still and wait. I wasn't even allowed to raise my arms. When they finally finished, the baron stepped back and said to me, "Now, my Creation, you may arise!"

I sat up and moved my head around to get a good look at the place. The room was filled with machines and equipment that I didn't recognize, with sparking wires and bubbling beakers and whirring cogs everywhere. It was so bizarre that I didn't even look at myself right away, but then I did and the nightmare got worse.

I was grotesque. My skin was a pallid greenish gray, and its surface was crisscrossed with long scars sewn together with thick stitches. Here and there were patches of bristly black hair. Everything seemed too large. If I brought my hand to my eyes, it was much bigger than it should have been, but it looked about the right size at the end of my arm. It was like I'd been magnified in a carnival mirror. For some reason, it took me the longest to notice the worst part. I was naked on the slab, but looking down revealed that my chest was broad but smooth, with no soft breasts beneath my tiny black nipples. And looking further down I saw between my legs some parts that I'd only had a passing familiarity with before. I was now a male.

The baron had done this to me somehow. I tried to ask him what had happened, but all I did was moan. I knew what words were, but I was having difficulty remembering what words I wanted to say and exactly how to make them. He looked at me without even noticing my confusion. He ordered Ygor to fetch my clothes and show me to my room, and then left.

Some of the clothes he gave me weren't all that different from things I'd worn before, but I had a lot of difficulty working the laces on my trousers. His laughing at me got me so annoyed I tried to slap him, but he was too nimble and ducked. Eventually I got completely dressed. My things didn't fit very well, and most had as many extra seams and patches as the flesh they were covering, and my boots looked they they'd been made by an amateur cobbler. But at least most of me was covered. It was easier to forget my situation without that you-know-what staring up at me.

Ygor led me out of the laboratory, through a passage, down a staircase and along a hallway to a door. He said it was "my room," and when I went in he quickly closed the heavy door and I heard him slide a bar in place. I was trapped in a small stone cell, with a tiny slit of a window near the ceiling. I had a thin pile of straw for a bed, and a small wooden stool as my chair or table. I'd been provided with a hunk of moldy bread and a jug of water as my meal, but my last piece of furniture was a bucket that I didn't even want to think about using so I chose not to partake. I lay on the straw and wept myself to sleep.

~o~O~o~

Over the next few weeks, the routine was the same. I'd be left alone in my cell all day, and then Ygor would come fetch me shortly after nightfall. (I couldn't see anything out my window, but I was grateful that it at least showed me the passage of days.) The baron would then give me some kind of test, to measure my strength or determine how many instructions I could remember to a complicated task. And when he had enough data to play with for that day, I'd get sent back to my room.

In my time alone, I slowly worked on my language. So one day I was finally able to ask Baron Frankenstein, "What me?" Fortunately for me he was enough of an egotist that he loved praising himself for his genius. So as he described his experiment I learned what I was. Apparently, he'd studied natural philosophy at university and got the notion to attempt to create a living creature from nonliving material. He'd managed to create some of my parts from scratch, using the chemical elements that make up everything in nature, but for other parts it was easier to use pieces taken from animals, and for the really complex organs he was able to procure dead human bodies and use their parts.

He didn't say exactly, but since I remember being Abigail I figured that I must have died after I fell in the river, and he got my corpse and used whatever organ houses my identity in making his Creature. I wished there was some way I could tell my family that I'm not gone completely. I also wondered what happened to my soul. Did it go to Heaven when I died, or have I still got it since I still think I'm me?

The Baron's tests got easier over time. I was very clumsy at first, but as I grew more used to the size of my new body, I tripped less and remembered to duck at nearly every doorway. I even got the hang of unlacing my trousers and using that thing down there when I needed to make water, but it still felt wrong.

I worked out in my head the layout of the building. Since my window got sunlight, I knew it had to be on an outside wall, and there was a door off the upper passageway that seemed like it had to be on that same wall. So one evening after I'd been sent back to my cell, I waited for what I felt was two hours, and then I threw myself at the door of my room. The door was strong, but I guessed from how I'd done on the baron's tests that I was stronger.

I was right. The door splintered enough that I could move the bar on the other side out of the way and open it. I hurried up the stairs and over to the door I hoped led to freedom. It also easily opened, and I had guessed correctly. I saw stars for the first time with these eyes. I had to go down a couple of steps and I was on the ground, and ran.

Looking back, I saw that I'd been living in a dungeon of the baron's castle. The forest wasn't far, and I was soon comfortably hidden. I crept into the underbrush and slept.

~o~O~o~

I wandered around in the forest for a few days, foraging what I could. I found some edible plants, and followed a game trail to a stream with fresh water. I had the shock of my second life when I saw my reflection in the water as I knelt to drink. My visage was even more grotesque than my body. My head was misshapen, nearly squared-off on top, and my forehead protruded. More of those seams ran along my face, and it looked like some of them had been held together with metal staples. And there were metal bolts sticking out on either side of my neck.

I was deeply saddened. The baron may have been proud of his creation, but it looked like he'd fallen very short of the mark in trying to create a human being. I was more some kind of inhuman monster. I considered going back to the castle and letting them do whatever they wanted to me; nothing really mattered any more.

But then in my wandering I heard something beautiful. I followed the sound and as it grew louder I could hear more clearly that it was the Ave Maria being played on a violin. It moved me so much that I realized that it must have been a sign from God to show that I really did have a soul, to be able to have such a reaction.

As stealthily as I could, I crept closer and discovered that the music was coming from a small hut stuck out here in the woods. I slipped to the window and tried not to be seen as I peeked at the virtuoso. As luck would have it, I didn't need to be that careful. The musician was a blind man in monk's robes, a blind hermit living a pious life alone in the forest.

He didn't see me, but he heard my giant feet snap a twig, and sensed my presence. I reluctantly let him know I was there. I wanted to tell him his playing was transcendently beautiful, but the best I could say was, "Music good."

He invited me into his home to share his meager meal, and I realized how hungry I was. I felt sorry that I couldn't be more of a conversationalist for him, but he appreciated my company anyway. And I also realized how lonely I had become.

I stayed with the old man for quite a while, helping him with his chores and trying not to be a burden. But one morning he didn't wake up. The Lord had called him to Heaven. I gave him a simple grave, and tried my best at saying a prayer over the body. I made an attempt at playing a dirge for him on his fiddle, but I gripped it too tightly and it splintered in my hands. I thought about trying to live by myself in his hut, but the time I'd spent with him had made me crave the company of others. I decided to go home.

~o~O~o~

I wasn't quite to the village when I heard a familiar sound, the bleating of goats. I slipped from tree to tree to get a better look. I saw that it was Frieda out with her flock in a meadow nearby. I remembered that she had a habit of falling asleep on duty, and hoped luck was with me. It was. She was lying in the grass, her blonde curls a natural pillow, her eyes closed, her breath softly snoring. I knew she'd be afraid of me, so I placed one hand on her mouth before I woke her. "No scream," I said. She'd spook the goats and they might hurt themselves.

Her eyes snapped open and I could see the terror in them. "No scream," I repeated.

What was I going to do? How could I tell her who I really was, and would she believe me? Remembering the violin, I worried that I might be pushing her mouth too hard. I looked to see that she was still breathing, and watched her chest continue to rise and fall. Frieda had always preferred blouses that revealed a bit of her bosom at the neckline, and this one was no exception. I'd always been jealous of her figure, and that was even truer in my new shape.

But something happened as I watched her, and as I breathed in her soft scent. I had a painful sensation, like I needed to make water but not exactly. Frieda's eyes changed expression, and I followed their glance down at me. That thing down there, which like the rest of me was larger than a person's should be, was getting even bigger.

I had to loosen my laces so my trousers wouldn't tear, so I shifted the position of the hand that was holding Frieda down. She seized the opportunity of my attention being elsewhere and bit down on my finger. I roared and pulled my hand away from her. She got up and tried to run away. I tried to grab her, but only got hold of a handful of her blouse, and it tore as she slipped away. That just gave me a better view, plus I managed to get a better hand on her when she tried to cover herself. Before I had time to realize what I was doing I ended up with my hands on her, her blouse completely open and my trousers undone. I fear what might have happened next if I hadn’t been tripped by one of her larger goats. (The flock had panicked when I yelled.)

When my wits recovered, I shamefully ran away. I hated the body I was stuck in and the things it wanted to do.

~o~O~o~

I needed to remember who I was. There was one person I needed to see. I went to the bakery and hid in the shadows by the back door and waited. The aroma of fresh bread was excruciating for my empty stomach, but I couldn't risk being seen. I waited until I saw my Jakob go out, and followed him from a distance until I could get him alone.

I noticed that he carried a bunch of fresh flowers, which made be angry. He'd gotten a new girl so soon after losing me? He was supposed to be pining for me romantically forever. That wasn't fair! He headed down by the river toward the end of town, which made me wonder what kind of girl would need such a sneaky meeting. Could his new girlfriend be already taken by another?

His pace slowed, and it seemed like he wasn't very happy to be seeing his sweetheart. He walked along the riverbank near the bridge, and I saw he was sobbing. He kissed a flower and threw it in the river, and said something.

I realized where he was, and suddenly forgave him for all the trespasses I'd imagined. I needed to get closer to better hear.

Sure enough, he'd gotten the flowers for me. He was visiting the spot where he'd lost me. I heard him mutter between tears, "I'll always love you, Abby."

It was so sweet I couldn't help myself. I was sobbing myself, and let out a heavy sigh. He heard me and looked up to see me, the monster. He shrieked and tried to run away from me.

He picked the wrong direction to run. His foot hit a wet stone on the bank and slipped out from under him. He lost his balance and fell in the river.

I knew my Jakob was not a swimmer, so I ran to save him. That was a bad move on my part. He saw a monster coming toward him and waded out deeper. There was a sudden drop off and the river bottom disappeared beneath his feet. The current grabbed him.

The baron may have done a good job at making my body strong and sturdy, but it lacks sorely in swiftness, and it has no buoyancy at all. There was no way I was going to catch Jakob to save him.

As my luck would have it, right then a couple workmen were passing by and saw us. One shouted out, "that monster just tried to drown the baker boy."

Faster than I would have liked, I soon found myself being chased by an ever growing mob of villagers. I couldn't tell, but I hoped that at least some of them were off trying to rescue Jakob.

I regretted what had happened, but I didn't have the words to explain how it had been an accident. And it didn't look like those people wanted to listen. I ran, seeking shelter in the forest once again, but I heard barking and knew the dogs would be able to track the scent of the dead things I'd been made from.

There was only one hiding place where my scent would blend in. I snuck into the cemetery outside the village and blasphemously opened a crypt (The stone slab sealing the entrance was easy for me to move) to sleep among other dead things.

~o~O~o~

I couldn't go on like this. This body was just not right for me. But there was only one person who could help me. I waited a day and in the dark of the night I made my way back to Castle Frankenstein.

I went back in through the door I'd used to leave, and surprised Ygor in the laboratory. "Get Baron," I told him.

Frankenstein was very annoyed with me when he returned. He told me about how all the villagers were in an uproar over "the trouble I'd caused," and he said that he was almost ready to turn me over to them.

I told him that the problem was that I didn't fit as a male, and the body he'd made for me was just too big and hard to control, but if he put me in a female body instead I would have a much easier time. At least that was what I tried to tell him. What I said was, "Me bad man. You make me woman, me good."

He looked at me with his brow furrowed. He said, "A woman, eh? Interesting idea. I suppose I could, but you have to promise not to run away again."

I promised. I said, "Me no run."

So for a couple months, I became the willing servant of the baron, doing all manner of menial physical labor for him. Every so often I got a peek at what they were up to in the laboratory, and that gave me hope.

Then the fateful night arrived. The body was ready. He brought me to the lab and pulled a sheet off the body on the slab. It was just as naked as mine had been, but there the similarity ended. It was as lovely as I was hideous. Its skin was flawless alabaster and as hairless as a high-class courtesan's. Like me, it had been built on a larger scale, but somehow everything looked perfectly proportional. Its breasts were large, but well-shaped and begged to be squeezed. It had tantalizingly rounded hips and long legs that tapered into feet that seemed cute even at their size. The body had the face of an angel, with full lips, strong cheekbones, and a slightly upturned nose. The scalp was covered by a tight cap, and I wondered what color the hair was beneath it.

The baron could tell that I was impressed. "Beautiful, isn't she? And I assure you the other side is just as nice. She's a callipygian goddess as though carved in Grecian marble. I think I outdid myself. You, my friend, were a first draft, a prototype. I wonder if the Almighty had a similar situation when his second Creation also came out more attractive than the first? I did everything better with her. Since I wasn't as anxious to see if it would work, I was able to take the time to use much smaller, tighter stitches. You can barely see them, even if you know where to look. I relocated her electrodes to the back of the neck, so they should be less noticeable than yours. And I kept up the quality on the inside. I know how rough you can be with your things, so I made sure to reinforce her pelvic bones with steel. And her cleft was designed with enough depth to take you at full maximum."

What he'd said at the end there confused me. "She not me?"

He didn't understand my question, either. "It is amazing, I know. But I actually did use the same techniques that created you for making your mate. You shouldn't feel self-conscious about your appearance. Since she was literally made for you, I'm sure you'll be compatible. Opposites attract and all that."

Oh, no! I thought I'd asked him to make a woman of me, but instead he made a woman for me. Not what I wanted at all. Although the more I looked at the vision of beauty before me, the more a certain part of me liked the idea. I tried rephrasing my request. "Me want go in she."

That came out all wrong and the baron just looked at me disgustedly. "Not yet, old chap. Please wait until the body is warm. Although I do appreciate the sentiment, and maybe I'll have a go or three at her myself before I pass her off to you. Droit de seigneur and all that, you know?"

I didn't know what to say; even more than usual. Fortunately, Ygor came in the room and broke the silence for me. "Master, the storm is approaching. Should we raise the platform?"

The baron nodded and then had me turn the wheel that pulled the chains attached to the slab. He grinned and laughed, a familiar gleam in his eye. "You know, you played more of a part in her creation than you realize. That boy you drowned provided a brain that fit her skull perfectly."

My jaw dropped. Too many horrible things had just been revealed for me to process. My creator, who was forcing me to live in this ugly, oversized body with all the wrong parts on it, was also going to force my Jakob to live as the wrong sex? And he was planning to force himself upon the woman my love would become? And then I, the hideous monster, was also supposed to violate her? This was too wrong.

I was better off before I'd met the baron. I should have been left at the bottom of that river. And so help me, beautiful prison or not, my Jakob did not deserve the same fate. I channeled all the hate and anger I'd been repressing while I'd thought the baron was working on helping me, and embraced my monstrosity. I shouted out, "No!" with all my voice, and then slammed my fist into the machines, sending sparks flying, and proceeded to smash every bit of equipment I could reach. Some fluid spilled and a spark caught it and it started a small fire. I did my best to encourage it to grow, throwing every flammable object I could find upon the flame. I threw a punch at Ygor and he crumpled. The baron had to choose between salvaging his masterpiece and escaping the room alive. He took the coward's route.

The walls started falling down around me, and I welcomed Oblivion. I had died and lived in Hell, and whatever awaited me could not possibly be worse.

A conversation is overheard about Dirtiness and mouths...

“There is no way I’m putting my mouth there! That is your dirty place”

“I don’t have a hygiene problem. Sometimes you are such a child. Your mother messed you up for all other women!”

“Don’t bring my mother into this!”

“She’s always here, whether you want to acknowledge everything she’s done to you or not! Now get down there and make sure you use a lot of tongue.”

“Tongue? Eww! No way! That’s just gross.”

“If you can’t worship at my altar of the goddess with your mouth, then there’s no way I’m letting any other part of you in there. I don’t know why I ever broke up with Michelle for you. She was amazing!”

“That’s not fair! Why do you always have to bring up your lesbian ex-girlfriend! There’s no way I can compete with that! She’s had one of those all her life, so of course she’s more comfortable doing… things.”

“Now you can’t even say vagina! I swear, you are so emotionally stunted. Actually, you’re not quite right. Before she met me, she wasn’t a lesbian.”

“What do you mean?”

“Michelle didn’t always have a vagina of her own to play with. She used to be a guy named Mike. But he was a total prick, so I turned him into the sweet little muff-diver she is now.”

“What? That’s impossible! I’ve seen her and there’s no way that used to be a guy! She’d have to be a real woman to have been that frantic the time she made me drive her around town looking for a place that would sell the Morning After Pill.”

“That was when I was in Fresno at that horrible convention. I remember when she called me and said she’d gotten drunk and woke up in bed with some guy the next day, and made him drive her to the pharmacy — that was you! You fucked my girlfriend while I was out of town? You little shit! And you still won’t go down on me? I knew you were immature, but I didn’t know you were a lying weasel.”

“You’ve got to let me explain. She was feeling awful about something and came over to talk to you about it, but you were out of town, so I offered to be an ear for her, and she’d brought a huge bottle of wine, and we went through it, and it turned out her problem was that she’d started feeling herself attracted to guys and it was freaking her out. And I kissed her, you know, just to show her that men weren’t so bad, and one thing led to another and before I realized it we were full-on making out. But we were really drunk so we collapsed and fell asleep, but I really don’t think we had sex. My doodle doesn’t have a lot of strength when I’ve been drinking.”

“That’s it! You can’t even apologize like an adult. You don’t deserve to be a grownup. Do you have any last words to say in your defense before I execute your sentence?”

“I don’t understand what you mean! I love you! Please don’t do something you might regret!”

“I’ve been putting up with your hang-ups and shortcomings for too long! I just hope you grow up more maturely the next time around.”

“Oh! What’s happening to me? Ow, it hurts! It hurts!”

“It’s okay now, Sweetie! Now go brush your teeth and hurry along to your own bed. I’ll be by in a minute to tuck you in.”

“Alright, Mommy! Night-night! I love you!”

“I love you too, Sally.” (even after everything)

Mother’s Monster by Jennifer Brock A woman goes to extreme measures to keep her child hidden from a dark and dangerous nightmare.

It happened when I was around four years old, so I’m not sure I remember all the details exactly. I was in my bed sleeping and some loud shouting and crashing noises coming from downstairs woke me up. I was scared and I think I started to cry a little, but then my mother rushed into my room and scooped me up and I felt safe and happy again for a moment or so until she told me we were leaving. I didn’t even have time to change out of my pajamas. She wrapped a blanket around me and carried me down the hall to her room, where she grabbed her purse and a couple things from her drawer.

She surprised me by opening the window and kicking out the screen, and then we climbed through onto the garage roof. She told me to hang on and close my eyes, so to this day I’m not sure how we got down, but the next thing I knew we were on the ground and she was smashing the window on the back door of the garage with a rock so we could get in and get to her car. She had me get down on the floor of the back seat, and almost didn’t wait for the garage door opener to finish before flooring the gas pedal and driving away.

We drove for a long time. I was asleep for some of it, but I think she only stopped when absolutely necessary for gas and food, and I think an ATM a couple times. I’m not sure if she slept at all between New Jersey and Illinois. We were somewhere outside of Chicago when I remember her talking mostly to herself about how she needed a plan; we needed to hide. The first thing she did was to sell her luxury SUV and bought a used van. I think she went to a slightly shady dealer; I vaguely recall she walked away with an impressive roll of cash.

Not long after that she made the decision that most impacted my life. It was time I changed my pajamas for real clothes and she’d been wearing the same things for over a day, so she went to a Wal-Mart off the highway to get us some new clothes cheaply. She told me that we needed to be disguised to stay safe, and there was one sure way no one would recognize me. In the back of the car she stripped off my pajamas and dressed me in my first pair of panties and then a little blue dress, white tights, and shiny black shoes. She told me I was now a girl and my new name was “Sally.”

She tried arranging my hair in a girlish style but wasn’t satisfied. She drove us around until she found a store that sold costumes where she could buy a wig for me. When we left the shop, my Mom and I both now had long blonde hair, a new color for her and a new length for me. It was itchy and uncomfortable, but she grabbed me tightly by the shoulders and said, “Sally, this is very important. You need to keep your wig on and stop fiddling with it. It could mean very bad things for us if you were found out.” She was so scary and serious that I just blindly obeyed without question.

We bounced around for a couple years, living out of the van, changing names every so often. Even after my hair grew out we still wore wigs sometimes, and other times my mother dyed our hair. The one thing that stayed consistent was that I was always a girl. I was blonde Sally Smith, and then Rachel Goldman the curly-haired brunette, and then Angela Delvecchio with black pigtails, and blonde again as Daisy Fairchild. For a fortunately brief time, I even wore corn rows and a whole lot of bronzer under the name Lakeisha Jackson.

My mother worked a series of odd jobs, usually under the table, and would leave me in the van when she was working, with only a few toys and books for company. Eventually she decided that she could no longer pass me off as too young for school. We moved into a shabby apartment in Portland, Oregon and she used very convincing paperwork identifying me as her five-year-old daughter Tiffany Potts. She told me to do my best to act just like the other girls, and try not to stand out in class. I was nervous and shy for a several months, but gradually I learned how to pretend to like to play with dolls instead of trucks and to flee in disgust when the “icky boys” teased my friends and me.

We stayed there for long enough that I almost thought I was going to be Tiffany forever. But something spooked my Mom and we left Portland a month before I was going to enter second grade. I’d even gotten some new pretty back-to-school clothes that I couldn’t wait to show to my best friend Sara. But I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her.

We just hit the road and I ended up going to second grade in Albuquerque as red-haired Bridget Murphy, and I started third grade in Sedona, Arizona as mousy Mary Brown. But halfway through the school year we moved again, and then Jessica Masters started her new job in Boulder, Colorado as a veterinary assistant and free spirit who home-schooled her pink-haired daughter Calliope.

She’d planned ahead. That job gave her access to things she needed, and since I wasn’t in school she wouldn’t have to explain a long absence. On my tenth birthday, the real one not the one on Calliope’s birth certificate, Mom had a serious talk with me. She said that very soon my body would start trying to turn me into a teenage boy, and that would ruin our disguises. There was only one way she could stop that from happening, and I wasn’t going to like it. Then she stuck me with a needle and I lost consciousness.

I only know from seeing the result, so I can’t say exactly what she did to me. She used either a technique she’d picked up at the vet’s or some of her skills from when she’d been a nurse back in her old life. But I do know she castrated me and arranged what was left so that it looked female. I don’t know if she cut my penis off or somehow sewed it up inside me, but it was gone. She kept me drugged for a while, so my memories of that time are really vague and hazy. I kind of remember her sobbing and apologizing a lot. I think I might have gotten some kind of infection before I was completely healed.

At this time she also started injecting me with hormones. I don’t know if she’d gotten them on the black market, or if she’d borrowed veterinary grade estrogen from work, or for all I know she might have robbed a pharmacy. She explained that like other girls my age I was going to start to become a woman. She promised that my new body was a good thing — I wouldn’t need to be afraid to be seen undressed anymore, so I’d now be allowed to go on sleepovers with my friends (not that I had any just then) and I could use things like public changing rooms. She said since I was going to start to get my figure soon, we’d be moving to California where everyone hangs out on the beach in bikinis all the time.

So I had to endure the shock of being neutered, the trauma of recovering from amateur surgery, and the beginning growing pains and hormonal mood swings of the wrong puberty all at the same time. I did not take it well. I threw a lot of tantrums and was not very cooperative with my mother’s demands. At one point I broke down and just screamed at her, “Why are you doing this to me?”

She went and got a stiff drink from the kitchen, and then came back to sit beside me. She said that I was probably old enough to know the whole story. She said that when she was a little girl, for big holidays the family would gather at her grandmother’s, all the aunts and cousins and everything. And one year when she was around seven, one of her older cousins had showed up at a gathering pregnant and everyone was taking turns touching her belly and asking if she wanted a girl or a boy.

And the grandmother spoke up and said, “You’d better hope it’s a girl. This family doesn’t have sons.” This was a true statement. My mother looked around the room and noticed that except for a couple of uncles there were no boys there, their grandmother and all the aunts had only had daughters.

But then her grandmother went on to tell a story. She said that many generations ago back in the old country (Mom wasn’t exactly sure what country that was), one of the family’s ancestors was a young bride who was having difficulty giving her husband children and had become so saddened she wandered off into the wilderness in the hope that some beast would end her misery. But it wasn’t a boar or a lion that crossed her path. In those days there were magical creatures in the hills and forests, the sorts of things the legends would call trolls or goblins or elves. It was one of these who met the girl, a being with sharp claws and long teeth and gleaming red eyes. She said “Eat me, Creature, for I do not wish to live,” and she told it how she did not wish to live since she could never know the joy of motherhood.

But the thing with the big red eyes said that it could solve her problem, at a cost of less than she’d been willing to pay the moment before. It told her to return home and lie with her husband and before the harvest moon she would bring forth a beautiful daughter that would be hers to raise and enjoy. However, in one year at the next harvest moon she would bring forth a strong and handsome son. The price the creature asked was that it be given the second child.

The woman was desperate and agreed to the deal. She returned to her husband, who’d become almost sick with worry over where she’d been, and they reveled in their love for one another. And sure enough, in time she grew full and heavy with child and by the light of the harvest moon she gave her husband a beautiful baby girl.

She realized that the red-eyed monster had lived up to its end of the bargain, and saddened at the idea of bringing another child into the world only to give it to a ferocious creature who would devour it painfully. She was a cunning woman who realized that she could make sure that this never happened. From the moment her daughter was born, she refused to share her husband’s bed so that there would be no more children.

The daughter grew up to be strong and beautiful, graceful and kind, the envy of all in the village. When she came of age she had a wide choice of suitors and chose not the wealthiest or the strongest or the most handsome, but the wisest and most hardworking man, a gifted woodcarver. The couple had a lovely wedding, and within a year the new bride herself was full and heavy of child. On a warm spring morning, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. He was her delight and joy.

One day when he was only a handful of months old, she was putting the baby down for a nap and from a shadow in the corner of the room a terrible clawed hand reached out and grabbed the child. She looked up just in time to see a pair of gleaming red eyes and to hear a gravelly voice say, “The boy is mine. Ask your mother.” And then the creature vanished.

She went to see the old woman her mother had become, who explained the bargain she’d foolishly made with the creature. It was tragic that the boy was gone, but at least the deal was finished. And when the next year the parents who’d lost their son were given a daughter, their hearts smiled anew. The girl was followed by two others, both as sweet and lovely as their mother.

The family was delighted to have a second son, handsome and strong, sure to follow his father. They’d put the arrangement with the magical creature in the past and thought all would be well. But before the boy’s first birthday, he was taken by the thing with the red eyes who said, “One was denied me, so I shall take all.”

Mom said her grandmother finished the story by saying that to that day, only daughters are born to the family, and should a son ever appear, he never lives long; Red Eyes comes for him. She said that the aunts tried to tell her not to frighten the girls with fairy tales, but her grandmother had said that all the old fairy tales were based on true stories. They needed to pay attention to the warnings in stories like Rumplestiltskin, Hansel & Gretel, or Red Riding Hood. There were monsters out there that want to eat you, so you’d better be careful.

My mother told me she’d never really believed her grandmother; when she got older she just thought the story was some kind of metaphor warning about infant mortality. Until the day my father opened the door to a Jehovah’s Witness and right in front of her this stranger’s form shifted to a deadly collection of claws and teeth and Red Eyes, and said it had come for the boy. She then told me that my dad had given his life to slow the monster down enough for her to get me and escape.

All that was a lot to lay on a ten-year-old boy on the cusp of womanhood, but I guess I had enough drugs in me to make her tone seem convincing. I accepted her description of our situation and became compliant for a while. We did end up moving to California, but it was in Fresno, nowhere near the beach. I started middle school there, and I was the fourth girl in my class to need a real bra instead of just a trainer.

At thirteen, my mother told me I needed to start dating boys. She said that if I said no to too many of the ones who asked me out I’d get a reputation of being stuck-up, but if I said yes to too many they’d think I was easy, so I had to aim for a happy medium and convince them I was a perfectly normal regular girl.

I wasn’t that thrilled about having to kiss boys, but it wasn’t like I was more interested in kissing girls; I didn’t have much of a libido at all. But I did my best to pay attention to what they seemed to like, and keep their wandering hands from discovering my secret.

We finally got that place by the beach when we moved to Miami in my sophomore year of high school. I was Morgan Conrad, with my hair dyed red and my eyes tinted green with colored contacts, and a seriously hot bikini bod, if I do say so myself.

In my junior year, I started going out with Jared Pierce. He was like the thirteenth boy I’d kissed, and my fifth serious boyfriend. I’d just broken up with Simon Tanner, an annoyingly persistent jerkface who just would not accept that no means no, and wasn’t satisfied with just my amazing oral technique. He was also one of those guys who gets really excited by naked boobs but doesn’t quite know what to do with them. I can’t tell you how many times I had to tell him that twisting is not a turn-on. At least he was better than my second boyfriend, Bobby Lake, who apparently was never properly weaned.

Anyway, I was telling you about Jared. I’d just broken up with Simon, so I wasn’t really looking to start something serious, and Jared was a big jock so I figured he was into casually dating a bunch of girls all at once. But I misread him totally. He was the starting varsity pitcher despite only being a junior, and he’d noticed that I went to all the games. So he asked me out and we talked baseball for a couple hours on our first date and only kissed a little at the end.

I think I’ve always been into baseball. I kind of remember going to a Yankee game once with my dad. I think he might have been a big fan. It’s tough remembering him sometimes. So in part I think I liked hanging out with Jared because he reminded me of my father.

As things stepped up between us, I felt more and more comfortable with him. He was the first one of my boyfriends that I wanted to truly intimate with. I told him that I had a medical condition, where my vagina was sealed up and incapable of being penetrated; there was an operation I could get to fix it but they wouldn’t’ do it until I was eighteen. In the meantime, I could have sex, just not vaginally. When he figured out what I meant, he was more than willing.

I’d like to say I was a natural and was the best he’d ever had from the get go, but truth be told it took us a while to figure out what worked for both of us. I’m not sure because I don’t have anything to compare it to, but I think he gave me my first orgasm.

I felt safe in his arms, and I enjoyed his company, and I just plain felt good having him around. So when he held me close one night and kissed me and said “I love you, Morgan” I kissed him back and said “I love you, too.” I don’t know if what I felt is the same thing that real girls feel when they’re in love, but it felt like the right word to me.

I didn’t like lying to him. One Saturday afternoon when we were cuddling in my bed while my mother was at work, my contacts were bothering me and I took them out. He was surprised and said my eyes were prettier in their natural blue, and that since we both had blue eyes there was a good chance we’d have blue-eyed children.

I held back a tear and said that related to my vagina problem, my uterus was messed up and there was a very little chance I could ever get pregnant even after I got that fixed. So he’d have to go find some other girl to give him blue-eyed babies.

He kissed me and said he didn’t want some other girl. When the time came for us to start a family, we’d just have to adopt. I was a little scared that he was thinking like that, and also really happy that he wanted me. I rolled over on top of him and asked him if he really was already planning our future. He surprised me by very casually stating that when college scouts had come to see him pitch, he’d always told them that he wanted to find a school that was also a good fit for me; if he had to he’d do the long-distance thing when we went away to college, but ideally he wanted us to go to the same school. He figured we’d get married just before graduation so that when we were figuring out where we’d look for jobs we’d make sure they were in the same place. And then when we were ready we’d start a family.

I was used to my mother making life plans for me, so it didn’t bother me so much that he hadn’t brought it up before. Plus, I really liked that he wanted my opinion on all the important decisions rather than just making them for me. It was sweet and beautiful and I didn’t deserve him. I knew I had to be honest with him.

I let him slip inside me and made passionate love to him for what I figured would be the last time. While snuggling after cleaning up, I said, “I need to tell you something that will make you want to break up with me.”
He pushed me away and asked if I cheated on him. I said that I could never do that, and he said there was nothing else I could say that would make him leave.

I couldn’t look at him, so I closed my eyes and said, “My mother is a psychopath. We’ve been on the run from a fairy tale monster since I was four. She mutilated me and drugged me, and gives me a new identity without warning every couple years, whenever she feels particularly threatened by what she interprets as clues that the monster is close.”

I opened my eyes and saw that his jaw had dropped and he was just staring at me. I dropped the punchline. “My name isn’t really Morgan Conrad; it’s Joey Bennett. I’m a boy.”

He blinked a couple times. “You’re telling me your mom is a nutjob and she forced you to get a sex change?” I nodded. “So when you get away from her are you planning to change back?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He kissed me. “Well then I don’t see any reason to break up with you.” He gently caressed my breast. “And I hate to break this to you, but you are not a boy, even if you were once. You are the prettiest girl in school, and way hotter than any of the trannies down on South Beach.” He slid down my body and kissed my scar. “Ok, so now I know what kind of operation you need, and I’ll help you save up for it. But I want to call dibs right now. Whatever goes here I don’t want to share with any other guys.”

He was more amazing than I’d ever realized. He even didn’t push it when he said I ought to get my mother locked up and I said I wanted to wait until I was eighteen; I didn’t want to go to foster care.

A couple weeks after telling him everything, Jared said he had a surprise for me. He invited me over to dinner and after some tame kissing in his room (his parents made him leave the door open) he showed me his computer. He’d found a web site dedicated to finding missing children, and showed me the page where someone was looking for Joey Bennett. He said that seeing the picture of me as a four-year-old boy was weird, but he still loved me anyway. He laughed at how wrong they got the computer-aged picture of what I was supposed to look like at seventeen, but it just made me feel regret that I would never know what it would have been like to be that guy.

There was an email address to contact with any information, and I wrote it down and spent about four days carrying it around in my purse before I decided to send a message. I used some of the tricks my mother taught me for being untraceable on the internet and created an email account just for this. And so “MiaGirl17925” sent an email that said “I know what happened to Joey Bennett. His mother’s been keeping him hidden.”

A couple days later, I got a reply from someone saying he was a private investigator hired by the Bennett family, who was delighted to know that Joey was alive. I was surprised to know there was a Bennett family, and he told me about a grandmother and an uncle I didn’t remember having, but he sent a photo and told me to show it to Joey. It showed a couple of vaguely familiar grownups sitting on a big couch with a younger me and my mom and dad. I could see some resemblance between my dad and his relatives, and it just made me really miss him. I did some googling based on the names he’d given me, and found pages for my Grandmother Dolores and Uncle Fred.

My web search also turned up an old newspaper article that chilled me to the bone. It was a report of my father’s death. It said how he’d been brutally stabbed and all the evidence pointed to my mother as the murderer. Police were searching for her and the child assumed to be with her. I knew my mother was insane, but I’d always thought she really loved my dad. Was it possible her delusion made her see him as the red-eyed monster she believed was stalking her? I didn’t know what to believe. Could she ever think I was the monster? Was I safe?

After a couple back-and-forths, the PI asked where I was, and we arranged for him to come down to meet me and get my story about Joey in person. Following the principle of always meeting internet strangers in public places full of people, we made a date to meet at my favorite open air café.
But a couple days before the arranged meeting, he told me that there was a slight change of plans and Dolores wanted to come herself. She thought I might be more willing to reveal Joey’s location to a concerned relative than an employee.

I was going to meet my grandmother! I went into a panic and was pretty useless at school. Jared had to calm me down, and helped me pick out the perfect outfit to wear for the occasion, a sundress that he said looked beautiful on me without being too sexy for grandma, and my favorite pair of sandals.

I was too nervous to drive, so he took me in his car and held back to watch me from a distance while he pretended to shop for fresh lemons. I recognized her from her photo and my first impulse was to just run over there and give her a hug and say “Grandma, it’s me!” But Jared and I had rehearsed this and realized that finding out your missing grandson was now a pretty girl was the sort of news you want to spring slowly.

So instead, I went over and shook her hand and introduced myself as Morgan. I took a seat and told her that Joey was a very good friend of mine, and asked her about his family. We had a ni8ce chat and I said that Joey’s main concern was that revealing himself wouldn’t mean sending his mother to prison. He knew she was sick and would rather see her getting psychological help than punished for what she may have done. Dolores said she wasn’t looking to avenge her son just to rescue her grandson. She told me which hotel she was staying in, and I said I’d take her information to Joey and if see if he agreed to come see her later in the evening.

My heart was racing and Jared had to use all his skills to calm me down, and talk me into making sense. I wasn’t sure if I needed to change to a better outfit, so part of that discussion was held while I stood in my closet in my underwear. He waggled his eyebrows at me and said he had an idea about how I could burn off some of that nervous energy, but I just stuck out my tongue and threw a shoe at him.

When the time came, he volunteered to come with for moral support, and I was very grateful to have him along to help explain if I got stuck. We drove to the hotel and I smoothed my skirt three times in the parking lot alone. I clung to Jared’s arm like a life preserver and we walked to the room.

I knocked on the door and there was a moment where I guess she checked the peephole before opening. Grandma Dolores led us to the sitting area at the far end of the room. I introduced Jared as my boyfriend and she took a long look at him. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and then smiled widely, really widely, like more widely than a person ought to be able to smile. She sort of shrugged and her body seemed like it was somehow unfolding like a person getting up out of a chair, becoming taller than she ought to.

She flexed her hands and her nails were suddenly longer. She opened her mouth and revealed row upon row of needle-like teeth. Her eyes rolled back into her head, revealing blood-red orbs facing forward. The thing that I had thought was my grandmother cackled and said, “You’ve been hard to track down, Boy!”

Jared gave me a shove that snapped me out of my stupor. “Morgan, run!”

I didn’t know how I was going to outrun this thing, but I headed for the door. It took me a moment to realize that neither Jared nor the monster was running with me. He’d realized what I had not, that the creature thought Jared was me, and he was ready to sacrifice himself so that I could get away. Just like my dad.

I caught Jared’s eye just before the monster pounced. He mouthed “I love you” at me. My eyes were full of tears as I tore out of there. I was halfway to the parking lot before I realized that Jared had pressed his keys into my hand when he told me to run. I made it to his car and drove away.

I called my mom and gave her the short version of what had happened and the most sincere apology I could. She took it all in and then gave me directions to where she’d parked the emergency getaway car she’d stashed with supplies and the necessary documents for our next identities. I met her there and we’ve been running ever since. I never doubt or question her plans anymore.

My muse wanted me to write this quick story about competitiveness instead of working on my serials. How far would a man go to top his neighbor?

It all started with lawns. Chuck Wilcox was out riding his John Deere around on his acre of grass when the corner of his eye caught Marty Nichols next door pulling a shiny new lawn tractor out of his shed. It was the Deere two models up from Chuck's, with the air-conditioned cab and tighter turning radius. He could tell by the giant grin on Marty's face that he knew perfectly well that his was better than Chuck's.

The next day he went down to the dealer and traded his mower in for the one two models higher than Marty's. His was already a year old, so it was due for replacement anyway. The look on Marty's face when the truck dropped off his new machine was priceless. But then the following week Chuck's jaw dropped when he saw that Marty was now driving around the top of the line, the commercial-grade mower made for golf courses and football fields. It was serious overkill, but he couldn't let it stand with Marty having the upper hand. Chuck went out and traded his in for one identical to Marty’s. They were tied.

Chuck started the next round by trading in his Mercedes for the biggest he could get the financing for. He could see Marty drooling every night when he pulled into the driveway. Paula told him that Marty had started arguing with his wife Rachel about whether they could afford to get a new car, and Chuck was sure that meant he won.

But then came the day Marty drove home in a new SLR convertible with a hot twenty-year-old blonde next to him. Chuck considered his options and checked around for doctors, and then tried to convince Paula to get some work done so she’d be just as sexy as Katie.

Paula said he was nuts and she’d put up with more than any wife deserved; she’d let him spend all their savings on the boat and the addition to the house for the home theater and the in ground pool that they only got to use two months of the year, but she was sick of his competing! She told him to just get it over with and just go over to Marty’s with a ruler and find out who truly was the biggest prick.

At least when she left Chuck was able to get an eighteen-year-old girlfriend. May was Japanese or something and had the flexibility of a gymnast. And after the boob job she was definitely hotter than Katie! The two girls got along even better than the old wives had. He even caught them kissing by the pool one afternoon, all topless and glistening with oil. Chuck didn’t mind, and even encouraged May to go as far as she wanted with Katie.

There was nothing sexier than lesbians, and he knew Marty knew that. If May was the first one to go down on Katie, Chuck would totally win that round. But that plan kind of backfired. The two couples were hanging out by the fence when the girls said they’d been wondering if the men would be up for trying a foursome. Marty tried to laugh it off with a golf joke, (knowing full well he had a better handicap than Chuck) but the girls were serious.

Chuck really didn’t want to have to compare himself to Marty that way. Maybe Paula had been right. He invented an appointment that he was late for, and walked out of the conversation.

A month or so later, he was watching one of May and Katie’s sex tapes and saw something new. During their kiss and cuddle intermission, a French maid in full uniform comes in and brings them a pair of champagne flutes on a silver tray. She was a little chunkier than the other girls, but seemed kind of sexy in her own way. She looked kind of familiar.

Chuck paused the tape and got May to explain who the extra girl was. He was shocked to find out that “Martinique” was actually Marty dressed up as a woman! He and Katie had started playing some serious sex games. Once May told him that Martinique had only been there to serve drinks and help clean up, and she hadn’t had sex with either Marty or Martinique, Chuck was okay with it. He asked some more questions about May knew about how far Katie and Marty had taken their games, and the idea intrigued him.

So now it wasn’t enough for Chuck to know that his girl was better looking than Marty’s, he really didn’t want Marty to beat him at sex by out-kinkying him. Chuck spent several weeks doing some soul-searching and researching to decide if he was prepared to go to the next level, and what it would take to get there.

After taking out a second mortgage on the house, forging some paperwork, paying a few bribes, and spending eleven weeks in Thailand for some very extensive surgeries, Charlaine took a nervous cab ride home from the airport. She hadn’t been in contact while she was away, and didn’t know what Martinique had been up to, and was a little worried that maybe she’d gotten some work done, too.

Maybe despite Charlaine’s button nose and pouty lips and high cheekbones she still wasn’t the prettiest. She felt a little more confident that there was no way Martinique could have gotten herself perkier tits or a tighter pussy than Charlaine; she was very proud of her body. She adjusted her boobs in her bra to make sure her dress was revealing maximum cleavage. The cabby, watching her in the rear-view mirror, nearly had an accident.

Arriving at home, she touched up her lipstick one more time before stepping out. The cab driver got her suitcase from the trunk and she gave him a kiss on the cheek in thanks. He wished her good luck with the new house as he drove off and she wasn’t sure what that meant until she saw the sign on the lawn that said “For Sale: Sold.”

This had to be some kind of a joke, she gave a little chuckle to herself and minced up the front walk. She took her keys out of her purse but she couldn’t unlock the door. Maybe her house really had been sold while she was gone. She really didn’t want to, but there was nowhere else to turn.

Walking over to the house next door, her stilettos clicked on the sidewalk as her ample hips swayed back and forth. She loved feeling so sexy, but her confusion spoiled the moment. Rolling her suitcase behind her, she went to the door and rang the bell.

Marty answered and he didn’t quite recognize Charlaine. She had to introduce herself, and he looked her over and let out a wolf whistle in appreciation. He invited her in and she delicately arranged herself on the couch before letting loose a million questions. Marty answered as many as he could.

First of all, she wanted to know why he wasn’t still Martinique. He explained that he’d only dressed up a couple of times, and hadn’t really gotten into it as much as Katie wanted him to. He hadn’t done it in quite a while, since before Chuck left.

Charlaine was devastated. She’d worked so hard to win a game without realizing that she was the only one still playing. Her eyes began tearing up, and she was grateful to be wearing longwearing waterproof mascara. Marty sat beside her and put a comforting arm around her, and she just turned and sobbed into his shoulder.

Marty didn’t realize how complete her transformation had been until Charlaine lamented all that she had given up to become the sexiest. He tried to reassure her that she was without a doubt the hottest woman who had ever graced his home, more tempting than either Katie or May, more beautiful than Rachel or Paula by far, and light years beyond Martinique. She had definitely won.

She smiled a little at that, but the megadose of hormones in her system wanted her cry anyway, but out of joy. Marty brushed the tears from her cheek and continued to hold her as he explained the rest of the story.

After Chuck left, Katie spent a lot of her time keeping May company. One thing led to another and soon they decided they really didn’t need men anymore. May sold Chuck’s house, (the only good part of the whole thing is she paid off his mortgages before taking the rest of the money) his car, his boat, and all the rest. Marty apologized for not trying to stop anything, but he hadn’t really been paying attention. With a sizeable chuck of cash, the two girls took off for California in May’s new hybrid. That had been about a month before, and he hadn’t heard from them since.

So that meant Charlaine had to start all over again. She had her suitcase full of sexy clothes and a little money in some accounts May didn’t have access to, but that was it. It would be tough, but it might be a fun kind of challenge. Marty offered his guest room to her for as long as she needed it, and even carried her bag upstairs for her.

Marty made them a nice dinner and they watched a little television before turning in. Charlaine waffled a little, but made up her mind. Dressed in a nightgown that was a mere whisper of black lace and left little to the imagination, she gently knocked on Marty’s bedroom door. She told him that she really didn’t want to be alone, and asked if she could sleep in his bed. The tent in his pajama bottoms was answer enough.

During her trip abroad, Charlaine had been trained in seventeen sexual techniques, and she used twelve of them that night. (Four of the others were strictly girl-on-girl maneuvers, and she wanted to save one for later.) As she felt Marty filling her completely without bottoming out, she finally got that measurement that Paula had joked about what seemed like a lifetime before; Marty was slightly smaller than her longest stent, which probably meant that before she got turned inside out Chuck’s was bigger.

But it really didn’t matter anymore, competing with Marty had been such a waste of those years when there were better things they could have been doing. Snuggling beside him in the afterglow, it felt like she finally got what she’d really wanted from him for so long. She’d won at last, but so had Marty.

A grifter with an unusual technique has to take things further when he finds himself in a tough spot. (This was supposed to be my entry in the “March of Fools” contest, but I missed the deadline by a few months, so I reworked it to fit the new theme and then finished it.)

I came back to my motel room feeling dejected. I’d been trying to find a target for my next big scheme and hadn’t yet. My last con up in New York had been nearly perfect, and so I didn’t want to follow up a big score like that with some penny-ante job. But so far I wasn’t finding any good prospects in Atlanta, and it was the third big city I’d tried. It was the damn economy! I still had around fifty thousand in cash left so I didn’t need to hurry, but it was frustrating.

If I was my old man, I’d be carrying a sixpack, but that kind of solution only brings more problems. I just wanted to get a good night’s sleep and start the next day with a clear head. I didn’t bother to turn on the light and just headed straight for the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face and then took care of things.

When I came out, the light was on and I saw that there was a stranger sitting in my room. I tried to leave, but he was faster than me and he got to the door first. He fastened the security chain lock and turned to face me. He was a big guy in a loose-fitting suit. He probably had me beat by a hundred pounds and almost a foot. He had thick black hair just starting to go gray, and a bristly moustache.

I tried to play it cool, and put on the Southern twang I’d been using since I’d got to town. “Hey, Mister! I think you’ve got the wrong room.”

His accent was from somewhere in Eastern Europe. “No, I’m in the right room. You are the one known as Elizabeth Preston, are you not?”

I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I tried not to let it show. I chuckled, “Do I look like an Elizabeth? I ain’t no chick!”

He surprised me by rushing toward me and shoving me up against a wall. He put his arm across my throat and held me there, and then used his other hand to rip open my shirt, exposing my breasts. They were not quite a full A cup, but with their large round pink areolas and thick nipples, they were hard to pass off as merely flabby man-boobs. He gave them a squeeze. “So these aren’t Elizabeth’s tits?”

I tried to keep up the bluff. “The doc says I got a hormone imbalance. Do I got to drop my pants to prove to you I’m a man?”

“No need for that. I know exactly what you are.” He then grabbed my goatee and tore it off. The spirit gum that had been holding it on stung like hell, so I couldn’t help but shed a couple tears. “Male or female, it doesn’t matter; you’re a bitch, Mr. Turner. Can I call you Quinn?” I was sunk. It seemed that this guy knew everything.

***

Maybe I should explain. My old man was a grifter, and he had me helping him out on cons even before I was out of diapers. Suckers were more likely to fall for a sob story from a guy with a kid than a guy just there by himself.

Then one day when I was around three, something happened which changed everything. Some rubes mistakenly thought I was a girl, and my dad didn’t correct them (The fewer details people get right if they bother to file a police report, the less chance there is of getting caught.) I think it was due in part to his letting my hair go a little too long between cuts, and in part to my wearing a t-shirt that had turned pink in the wash.

But mostly it was probably because I’d told one of the grownups my name. “Quinn Lee Turner” seemed to be just as appropriate a name for a little girl as for a boy. And the real irony is that my father had named me after his two favorite tough-guy movie actors. Sometimes I wonder if I would have still ended up the same if he’d called me Anthony Marvin instead.

We’d made a bigger score that day and he figured it was because a guy with a little girl in tow got more sympathy than a guy with a little boy. So he decided to do it again in the next town, and started dressing me in more girlish outfits. At first it was just girls’ shirts and pants or shorts, but the more I accepted it the more he pushed. Eventually he had me in cute little dresses with my hair in pigtails once it had grown long enough.

He taught me how to act like a little girl, crying my eyes out and sniffling cutely when he’d tell some sucker about how my mother had gotten sick and we just needed a few bucks for bus fare. Then we’d head back to whatever motel we were staying in and I’d turn back into just a long-haired boy in jeans and a t-shirt, and we’d laugh about how many people we’d fooled.

The whole girl thing continued through my childhood. It got more intense the year I was ten and we spent a whole year working a long con in Tallahassee, and I was even enrolled in school as a girl. I had my first kiss that year, during a game of Spin the Bottle at a birthday party. Jimmy Adams said he thought I was cute. And I couldn’t break character, so I had to act like it was something I’d enjoyed but was embarrassed about, like all the other girls did. I forced myself to giggle and blush.

Eventually we moved on, running other cons in other towns. I was still usually playing a girl, but then I hit puberty and everything went downhill. I was just too tall to be believable as a little girl anymore, and I wasn’t the right shape to be a girl my real age. We tried a few different things, but when I tried helping out as a boy we just didn’t make as much money as we’d gotten used to.

My dad said we just needed to find a new gimmick for me that would work as well as the old one. But to me it felt like he was disappointed that I wasn’t doing my share anymore. When I was fifteen, I thought I’d found the solution — instead of trying to be a little girl, I’d turn myself into one my own age. There was a guy we knew who sometimes helped my father get pain killers when his old back injury was acting up again, and I secretly asked him if he had access to other kinds of pharmaceuticals. After I explained that I wasn’t looking to get high but rather wanted to see if he could get me female hormones, we arranged a deal where I would do certain favors for him (that I don’t care to describe here) in exchange for the drugs.

It took months, but they did their job. Meanwhile, I spent all my free time studying fashion magazines, and watching teenage girls wherever I could find them. I shoplifted myself some clothes and makeup and practiced when my old man wasn’t around. When I was ready, I went back to our motel room a couple hours ahead of him and surprised him when he got home.

I was in a short denim miniskirt that showed off my smoothly shaven legs, and a tight green spaghetti tank that let my bra straps show. My hair was blown out and clipped back with a pair of barrettes. My eyes were accented with shadow, liner and mascara; my cheeks were dusted with blusher, and my lips were shiny and painted the same shade of pink as my finger and toenails. Gold hoops were stuck through the holes I’d made in my earlobes. I balanced expertly on my two-inch heels and did a twirl so he could take it all in. In my practiced girly voice, I told him that I’d found a way we could continue to run father/daughter cons.

I thought he’d be all proud of me, but instead he just frowned and said that it wouldn’t work. He told me to “take all that crap off,” and I started kind of crying a little. I tried to turn away from him when I took my bra off, but he slapped me and made me look at him. When he saw my breasts, he lost it. He forced me to tell him what I’d done and then he beat me raw for doing who knows what kind of permanent damage to my body. The next day he went and kicked the shit out of Lou for giving me the hormones.

Things just weren’t the same between us after that. I left and struck out on my own when I was seventeen. I was determined to make the girl thing work for me - since I had boobs I figured I should use them. The trouble is, most of the cons I knew how to run needed two people. I put the word out in our community that I was looking for a partner, and found George.

At the time he seemed so much older and wiser than me, but looking back I think he was only around thirty. Like most men, he was also bigger and taller than me, so naturally I fell into a pattern of letting him be in charge. We started out running some of the same “father/daughter” cons that I’d done with my dad, but he didn’t like having to play older.

So he shifted us to working a variation on the old “jealous husband” routine — I’d flirt with some middle-aged married guy at a bar and bring him back to our motel room. I’d get him worked up and tie him to the bed for some kinky fun, and then George would pop out from his hiding spot in the bathroom and snap a Polaroid of the scene, with my hand on the guy’s erection. He’d go through the guy’s wallet and get his address, and then threaten to send the photo to his wife if he didn’t pay us.

That bit worked most of the time, but sometimes the target didn’t want to be tied up. At first, I’d just open the door for George to come out and he’d chase the guy off. But then George decided that in those cases, I should just go ahead and start giving the guy oral sex and then he’d come out and snap the picture. I was reluctant, but I was kind of afraid of him so I went along with the plan. It was also embarrassing when George would point out my Adam’s apple in the picture, and tell the guy that not only would his wife find out he’d been cheating but that he’d had gay sex. And sometimes he’d even pull my panties down to make it clear to the target that he’d been sucked off by another guy.

Unfortunately for me, it turned out that the guys in that situation ended up willing to pay more that the others, so George said that I should always blow them even when they were tied up, so that they’d feel more guilty and ashamed and we could get more money. It wasn’t pleasant, but at that point I really had no grounds to refuse to do something I’d already done.

Those days, I spent all my time in female clothes. George scolded me if he caught me acting male, like if I didn’t sit down on the toilet. He took to putting his arm around me or holding my hand when we were out in public, and at first I thought that was just part of our cover story, but he started calling me “Baby Doll” and stealing kisses even when we were alone.

More and more often, he’d check us into a motel room that only had one bed, and we’d have to cuddle. He thought the t-shirts I’d been sleeping in were too boyish, so he got me some lacy nightgowns. He said they looked very sexy on me, and inevitably he started making me give him the same kind of oral treatment I was giving our marks. It didn’t seem worth it to complain.

I guess he took that as encouragement. It wasn’t long after he’d gotten me going down on him regularly that he surprised me with the gift of an enema bottle and a tube of lubricant, and told me it was time to take our relationship to the next level. Without realizing it, I’d become George’s girlfriend. He wasn’t a horrible boyfriend, but I really wasn’t interested in having one. I let him do what he wanted to me, and like so many other girlfriends I pretended to enjoy it. He wasn’t physically violent, and he always said he loved me whenever he had an orgasm, so I put up with it. Besides, I thought I needed him to make money.

Then after a couple months of letting George fuck me, I had a moment of perfect clarity. I wasn’t really a con artist anymore — all I’d been doing to make money was giving head to men. I was a whore. And therefore I didn’t really need a partner; I could suck dicks for cash without needing any kind of elaborate scheme or setup. After I let George have his way with me one last time and he fell asleep, I packed up my things, took half of our money, and left. I hitched to the bus station and caught the first Greyhound heading south.

I settled in Miami, working the streets and turning tricks with strange men. I kept on my toes and managed to stay one step ahead of the cops and the pimps. I met some other girls like me, and learned a few techniques for keeping things hidden, as well as ways to keep a john from noticing that you’d slipped a condom onto him. It was only dumb luck that I’d avoided catching anything before. Most of the girls were on one drug or another, but I resisted their offers to make things more bearable. They did introduce me to the amazing power of padded push-up bras, and I was suddenly able to show off cleavage, despite my breasts’ small size.

Even though my new friends didn’t know I was switching back and forth, I took their advice and started getting electrolysis. Even when a client knew he was hiring a “special girl,” no one likes to get whisker burn on his thighs. I have a fairly high pain threshold, so I was able to get my face clear and smooth with only a year or so of treatments. It gave me a little more confidence in my feminine appearance, but I still avoided trying to pass as a natural girl except at night in places with poor lighting.

In a tight sports bra and a loose shirt, I could usually look okay in male clothes. Since I had to keep my arms and legs shaven for my other job, if I wore shorts or short sleeves I looked kind of gay. But I stood out even more if I wore long pants and long sleeves in Miami. I tried it anyway, if only so I could keep my skills up by running small cons on tourists — bar bets, that kind of thing.

And then I met Ruth. She was older, but she’d kept her body in great shape, and her face was ageless thanks to her doctor. She was my first real girlfriend, and probably the first person who ever accepted me completely. Ruth believed my “glandular imbalance” story, and even took advantage of my condition to teach me the proper way to caress a woman’s breast by demonstrating on me. It was one lesson that has really stuck with me. Ruth was amazing!

The time I spent with her made the rest of my life in Miami bearable. I even nearly took her up on the offer to move in with her and stay. But I knew that I’d just end up as dependent on her has I had been on George and my old man. I needed to be in control of my own life.

I told her most of the truth — that I was living part-time as a girl, and that I’d been saving up my money so I could get surgery to reduce my Adam’s apple and I’d be able to pass convincingly without having to lurk in the shadows. I’d thought that would turn her off, but instead she introduced me to the best plastic surgeon in the state of Florida, and told me not to worry about the money; she’d take care of the costs. I was amazed.

The doctor taught me that there were other differences between a male and a female face than just the lump on my neck. Ruth was willing to pay for it all, so he went ahead and gave me a full treatment. Ruth was also kind enough to nurse me through my recovery. When all the bandages had come off and the bruising was gone, I was a completely different person. Besides having a flawless new throat, the bones under my eyebrows were smoothed, my jaw was round instead of square with a smaller chin, my eyes opened a little wider, my nose was smaller and turned up slightly at the end, and I had new cheekbones.

The surgeon had done more than merely make me look feminine; he’d made me pretty. And after Ruth took me to get my hair and makeup done professionally, I was absolutely beautiful. There was no longer any question of my ability to pass as a woman. As I’d guessed, Ruth really wasn’t interested in continuing our relationship as a lesbian one. I thanked her for everything that she’d done for me, and left Florida to go start a new life for myself.

I adored the attention I received now that I was a gorgeous woman, so I stayed female full-time for almost a year as I wandered around on the east coast. I was living out of my car much of the time and it was a major chore shaving my legs in restroom sinks, so I decided to get more electrolysis to have my body hair zapped off. I even had my genitals made baby-smooth, since it made it easier to use adhesives when I wanted to tuck things out of the way, leaving just a neat little triangle in the front.

Getting men to give me their money was almost too easy. If I played some of the oldest cons in the book like begging for money to buy a bus ticket to go see my imaginary sick grandmother, guys would fall over backwards to try to be a pretty girl’s hero. Sometimes I’d get reckless and do dangerous things like make a fifty dollar bar bet with a guy that he wouldn’t follow me into the ladies’ room and give me oral sex. I really should have gotten beaten up more often. I must lead a charmed life.

I reconnected with the community, and helped out some old acquaintances work cons that needed extra people. Since I’d been doing the whole “girl thing” before, they weren’t too surprised to see my perfectly feminine self. But I did look different enough that when my friend Obie told me my dad had been working out of Charlotte, I swore Obie to secrecy and went to go play a trick on him.

I drove around for four nights checking the kinds of bar he liked before I found him. I was dressed to kill in my highest stilettos and a tight sexy dress that showed off plenty of my artificially enhanced cleavage and gave an enticing view of my silk-encased legs, and painted for war with smoky, sultry eyes and glossy red pouty lips.

I did my slinkiest walk past where he was seated at the bar and perched myself on a stool a few spaces down from his. It didn’t take long before he came over and bought me a drink. I let him flirt with me for a while, and just when he leaned in close and it seemed like he was about to steal a kiss, I grinned and asked, “So, Dad, do you still think no one would believe me as a girl?” When the realization hit him, he swore and laughed so loudly we both got thrown out of the place.

We ended up going back to his motel, swapping stories until morning. We partnered up for a few jobs, but he preferred much lower class targets than I did, so we went our separate ways after a while. Every so often I’d help him out if he was running a complicated scheme and needed a pretty face to act as a distraction. But then he put together a team for a big job and it felt too dangerous for me, so I refused and he had to go with a different girl. Things went bad.

I was on my own again for a while, and then I tried working with a new partner, a female one this time. We clicked fairly well, both personally and professionally. We landed quite a few big scores, but the last one we tried fell apart and we ended up going in different directions at the end.

After that, I worked bigger deals, but by myself. When I needed help, I’d hire someone legitimate, like an accountant or a secretary, who didn’t know that everything wasn’t on the up and up. For the most part, I worked scams that were just over the edge of legality, selling things for more than they were worth, rather than committing outright fraud. What I was doing wasn’t all that different from what the respectable businessmen down on Wall St. do.

****

Okay, now where we we? That’s right. The Russian gorilla had just told me he knew who I was. “Last December, you took Dmitri Glubonin’s money. You really should research your targets better. His uncle is a very powerful man, and he sent me to see that you pay what is owed.”

I thought I had thoroughly checked Glubonin out. He was an executive in a new Russian energy company. He was young and ambitious and very easily swayed by a pretty face. As Elizabeth Preston, a well-dressed redhead with an Ivy League vocabulary, I “accidentally” bumped into him in his hotel lobby and hooked him with just a little flirting. Over dinner I told him I was a venture capitalist about to invest in a sure thing. I said I expected my quarter of a million to sextuple in size (when trying to lure a guy, it’s always best to use words with “sex” in them) within a year, but I wouldn’t tell him exactly what I was investing in.

On our third date, I finally told him that I thought I could trust him, and told him about Solatic Research, the company I was putting my money into. I said that it was oriented around a new way of boosting the efficiency of solar cells that these university scientists had stumbled across and formed a company to develop. I rooted through my purse and handed him a business card for the CEO of Solatic, Lee Turner. He tried calling it right away, but it went to voicemail. I stopped him from trying again with a kiss, and said there were better things we could be talking about than business. I let him think he’d be getting lucky and we headed back toward his hotel, but then my phone rang and I looked to see who was calling. I told him it was my sister, and excused myself to talk to her. When I got back to him I apologized and said that my sister was having yet another crisis and she’d probably keep me on the phone for hours. I asked if we could pick up where we’d left off the following night, and kissed him deeply enough that he thought I was still interested.

The next morning I called him back with a male voice from the phone whose number I’d given him. I told him that Elizabeth had vouched for him, and he sounded like the kind of investor I was looking for. I asked him to find the fax number for the hotel, and I’d have my lawyer send him a nondisclosure agreement. Once we got it back, I’d messenger him a prospectus. The company was an actual legitimate thing; I’d filed all the proper paperwork, and I’d hired a real lawyer. The only fake part was the technology; the con itself was mostly legal.

Once he read the documents, he decided to invest, and my lawyer set up a meeting with him. He actually ended up giving me a full two million instead of the quarter I was trying to get. It was my biggest score ever. He called Elizabeth me to celebrate his decision, and I accepted a dinner invitation, but at the last minute I had to call and cancel, telling him that my sister needed me to go help her through her problem. I promised to get together with him the next time I was in town.

What I really did was use some mud brown drugstore hair dye and then trim my hair into more of a mullet, attach my fake moustache and bushy eyebrows, and then change into male clothes before leaving the hotel where Elizabeth had been staying. I’d already moved most of my stuff out, so I only had one suitcase with me. I went to the parking garage where I’d left my generic white cargo van, and left town.

Now what I should have done was just have Solatic pay me a huge salary and then go out of business. But I thought I’d get clever and tried to launder the money and make a profit at the same time by having the company theoretically buy me a piece of real estate. I figured I’d wait a few months and sell it and have it made. Unfortunately for me, the housing market collapsed, and by the time I put my property up for sale I could only get back a fraction of what I’d paid for it. In a way I got taken just like one of my own marks — I’d gotten greedy and thought I was betting on a certain winner. That had been a hard lesson to learn.

I gave bluffing my way out of this one last try. “Look, you’re making some kind of mistake. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The big guy slapped me across the face. “I don’t make mistakes. I was intelligence officer before the Union fell, and I have no doubt you are the person I’m looking for. Now no more games. Just give me the money.”

I was toast. I tried honesty for a change. “I haven’t got your two million. I got taken by an even bigger swindler. I don’t have any deals in the works right now, but give me some time and I should be able to get it for you.”

He snorted derisively. “That’s the wrong amount. You promised Mr. Glubonin twelve million.”

I took a deep breath so that he’d get another good look at my chest. It was about the only card I could play. “Maybe we could come to some kind of arrangement?”

He reached out and grabbed my crotch and gave a squeeze. “Creatures like you do not interest me.” He let go just before I was ready to pass out from the pain. “But don’t let it be said that Sergei Volkov is an unreasonable man. You told Dmitri he’d have twelve million in a year. It’s been six months already, so that gives you another six to come up with the money.”

I relaxed a little. I’d have to top my biggest score ever, but I might be able to swing it. I’d have to pull in a few favors and try to work on as many jobs as I could. “That does sound reasonable.”

His forehead wrinkled as he thought about something. “But this number twelve million is so awkward. Let’s round it up to an even twenty, to compensate for the trouble you’ve put Mr. Glubonin and his uncle through.”

That much could be a problem. I couldn’t help stammering, “That’s not fair!”

Volkov smiled, an act which made his face take on the toothy aspect of a predatory animal. “A cheater does not get to decide what is fair. And just to remind you who is in charge here, you now only have four months. Have twenty million ready for me by the first of October, or…” He drew his finger across my throat, so that I knew exactly what the stakes in this deal were.

I tried to be as humble and polite as possible as I asked, “How will I find you when I get the money?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be watching, even when you think you can’t see me. And don’t even think of trying to run and hide from me. I will find you. Are we clear, Quinn?”

I swallowed my fear. “Yes, sir. Twenty million. October first. Or else.”

He nodded, let go of me, and left the room. As soon as I was alone, I relaxed and tears poured out of me and I began shaking uncontrollably.

***

The next morning I set my self-pity aside and set to work attempting the impossible. I needed a plan to pull in five million a month. I considered trying some kind of internet scam that would take like a thousand each from twenty thousand marks, but that kind of numbers would attract the interest of the feds. That started me thinking that maybe I could just turn myself in and get locked up in a nice, safe jail. But the kind of connections Volkov talked about were the kind that can get a jailbird shanked. Not to mention the fact that my looks would be certain to turn me into the most popular girl in the men’s prison. So that option was out.

I needed to do one or two really big jobs. My research still hadn’t found me any potential targets, so I’d have to leave Atlanta and go looking somewhere else. Maybe someone else knew where the big fish were biting. I took my laptop to a coffeehouse and spent the day checking my buddy list to see if any of my acquaintances in the community were online.

I’d been at the café long enough to annoy most of the wait staff and was about to give up for the day, but then my computer beeped. Joey Meatballs had logged into IM. I was in luck — he was one of the best sources of information out there. We exchanged hellos and then had some small talk and then I told him I was in a bit of a jam and wondered if he knew about anyone who was putting together a crew for a big score where I might fit.

I said it needed to be a real motherlode of a job. He wanted to know what ballpark I was talking about, and I told him I needed seven figures at least, preferably eight. He said that was quite a tall order, and at first he said he didn’t know of anything that big being planned. But then he sent, “Actually Pie, I just remembered something.” (My nickname in the community was “QTPie.”) He explained, “A few weeks ago Trixie was nosing around looking for a girl to help her run a game. She didn’t say much, but that it was a big one so she needed someone good. You’re sometimes a girl, so maybe you could check if she’s still looking.”

I knew Trixie, but I hadn’t talked to her in quite a while. I asked Joey where she was living these days, and he told me she was running a swami shop up in Boston under the name “Madame Zaria.” Since I was already on the net, I ran a search on “Boston psychic Zaria” and got a phone number. I thanked Joey for his help and closed the chat.

I pulled out my phone and called the number. A voice straight from a Dracula movie answered, “How can Madame Zaria help you? I sense a troubled soul.”

I chuckled. “Hi, Trix. It’s Pie. All that’s troubling me at present is cash flow. Meatballs said you were working on a big score and needed a girl to help. You still looking for one?”

She broke character and switched to her normal voice. “Pie — now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. How long has it been, three years? Wow. How time does fly!” She paused long enough that I wasn’t sure if she’d heard my question, but then she spoke again. “Actually, I have got a real whale ready to be reeled in, but I’m not sure you’ve got the right bait.”

I shifted to an innocent girlish tone and said, “Please give me a chance; I’m willing to do anything for this job!” Then I added in my most sultry feminine voice, “Whatever kind of girl you need, I can be her. I’m very flexible.” I switched back to my standard female voice. “Seriously, Trix, a really dangerous man wants a whole lot of money from me, so I’m pretty desperate here.”

“You really mean that? You’re desperate enough to do anything?” She sounded incredulous. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Come up here and I’ll go over the details in person, and if you’re still ready to do what it takes, we’ll go forward.”

She was being a little too mysterious for my comfort, but I had to choice. I agreed to go meet her. I closed my phone, shut down my computer and went back to my motel. I needed to be male to check out, but I wanted to be female when I arrived up north, so I removed my fake moustache and eyebrows and then took a shower using floral-scented soap. I shampooed and conditioned my hair, but I only blotted it dry with a towel, so it still clung damply to my head.

I tucked away my junk and taped it up and then finished off with a tight thong panty. I rubbed moisturizer all over the rest of my skin before getting dressed. I pulled on a loose pair of jeans held on by a belt with a large Confederate flag buckle. I strapped down my booblets with a tight wifebeater designed for making fat guys look thinner, and threw a chamois shirt over it, with the distinct outline of a can of chaw in the pocket. I tugged a pair of cowboy boots onto my feet, slammed a trucker cap on my head, and turned into a stereotype.

I packed up everything I’d left in the room and went to the motel office to pay my bill, in cash. I usually stay in places too long to want to use a bogus credit card, and I really don’t want to leave a trail with a legitimate one. So far I’d managed to avoid any messes with law enforcement, and I preferred to keep it that way.

Before leaving Atlanta, I drove my van to a self-service car wash. I removed the magnetic decals that claimed I worked for “Jones Electrical” and then gave it a good wash, so a casual observer wouldn’t notice anything had been there. Trix hadn’t given me enough details to know what my cover story would be, so I wanted to be as generic as possible.

It was about three o’ clock when I hit the interstate. I pulled off at the first rest area in South Carolina and made the switch. I went to the back of the van where I had all the steamer trunks with my various wardrobes in them and decided to go for a comfortable casual look, since I’d be driving a while. I traded my undershirt and shirt for a padded bra and a green scoopneck t-shirt, and then swapped my boots and jeans for a pair of cork wedge sandals and a denim miniskirt. I took the clear acrylic retainers out of my pierced ears and put in some gold hoops, and then coordinated with a thin chain necklace and a bracelet wristwatch. I threw a pocketbook together with my phone, some money, my most girlish sunglasses, a few cosmetics and a license that identified me as Angela Vanderberg.

I used the ladies’ room and then put on my lipstick and mascara in front of the mirror. I’d taken off my hat and had let my hair dry as I drove, so I just needed to brush it out. I wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests, but it looked reasonably feminine. I walked through a cloud of cologne and went back to the van. I flashed a flirty smile at a guy crossing the parking lot, just to check that I hadn’t lost my touch. The way he rubbernecked and nearly walked into a trashcan proved that I still had it.

I got back on the interstate and drove all night. I only stopped twice: once for a cheeseburger and a Diet Coke, and once at the best truck stop east of the Mississippi for breakfast and a tank of gas. Hettie the waitress was very chatty so I told her how I’d gotten a job in sales up North and had rented a van to move all my worldly goods. Even though I’m thirty-two, Angela Vanderberg is only twenty-four (I take very good care of my skin), so I let her mother hen me and give me all kinds of advice that a girl traveling on her own ought to know. It made her feel good, and I got a free travel mug of coffee out of it.

I drove through the night, finally hitting Massachusetts in the morning of the next day. I didn’t want to accidentally run across Trixie’s mark before I knew what the game was, so I didn’t go all the way to Boston. I stopped in Worcester, and found a Motel 6 that had a vacancy. I called Trix to let her know I’d arrived and made plans to meet her for dinner. I hung out the “Do not disturb” card, changed into my most comfortable nightgown (just in case the housekeeper ignored the sign), and crashed into bed. I’d been driving for over eighteen hours and I was beat.

Just before noon, the phone in my room rang, loudly enough to wake me up. I realized that I should have told the desk clerk to hold my calls, but no one should have been calling me. Trix only had my cell number. The caller was probably looking for some guest that had previously stayed in the room. I picked up the receiver and said, “Whoever you’re looking for isn’t here anymore. Please don’t call this number again.”

My blood turned to ice when I recognized the voice at the other end. It was Volkov. “Hello, Quinn. I hope you’re not trying to run. “

I swallowed hard. Admittedly, part of my reason for coming up to see Trix immediately was to get away from him. He must have followed me, but I hadn’t noticed a tail on the drive. He was good. “No, I wouldn’t think of trying. I’m just tracking down a lead on how to get your money.”

“Good. Next time you decide to take any sudden trips, call me first. I’d hate for there to be another misunderstanding.”

“Okay, but I don’t have your number.”

“Yes, you do. Just press number seven on your mobile phone.” He chuckled and hung up.

I grabbed my cell and checked. Sure enough, speed dial seven now said “Volkov.” When had he done that? Was it back in Atlanta, or had he snuck into my room while I was asleep? I’d never felt more vulnerable. Even though I was still exhausted, it took me a while for the fear-induced adrenaline rush to fade so I could get back to sleep.

I woke up around six. Volkov’s call had reinforced my motivation that I had to convince Trix to let me do the job. I needed my look to be perfect, so I spent an hour and a half getting ready. When I finished, I was a sophisticated, glamorous woman. I wore a silk cocktail dress that almost looked black, but when the light hit it right you could tell it was really a very dark green. It clung to curves that had been enhanced and amplified by state of the art lingerie. My legs were sheathed in sheer black hose and deep green crocodile Manolo Blahnik slingbacks were on my feet. I wished I’d had time to get my hair and nails professionally done, but instead I’d just coaxed my hair into a messy updo and filed my nails into ovals and painted them with deep red polish and an extra-glossy topcoat.

My makeup was almost too much for the occasion. The right combination of foundation and powder gave me a flawless complexion, with just a hint of rouge on the cheeks. My lips were a blood red shade that matched my fingernails, and just as shiny. I had a perfectly thin line around my eyes in a deep black that matched the mascara that had thickened and extended my lashes. I’d blended six different colors of shadow to dramatically accent my eyes.

I also drew attention to my brilliant emerald eyes by wearing real emeralds in the jewelry that dangled from my ears as well as the pendant that rested just above the cleavage my dress’s low neckline revealed. When the taxi I’d called for showed up, I covered my shoulders with a black pashmina wrap and grabbed a clutch purse. I could tell the driver thought I was too high-class for this cheap motel, but I let him wonder whether I was a society dame cheating on her husband or just an expensive call girl.

I got to the restaurant fifteen minutes later than we’d agreed to meet, but I wanted to be assured that she’d be there for my entrance. I checked my wrap and introduced myself to the hostess as “Ms. Quincy,” and asked if my guest was already waiting. She told me that my companion had already arrived, and she was waiting in the bar. It was still ten minutes before my reservation, so I was welcome to join her until my table was ready.

I totally owned the room as soon as I walked into the bar. All eyes were on the gorgeous woman whose every movement hinted at sexual paradise. I used my sexiest walk to cross over to where Trix was seated. I smiled when her expression showed that she finally recognized me. We air-kissed our hellos and she told me I looked amazing, which I did, and I told her she was looking fine herself, which she wasn’t.

She was around sixty, but in her swami job she usually tried to look eighty. The outfit she’d put together for our meeting seemed like she was trying to look fifty, and she wasn’t quite pulling it off. Her hair was a brassy red that was either a bad dye job or a bad wig. She was wearing a black sheath dress with a jacket over it, that was probably supposed to be her version of a “LBD,” but really just made her look lumpy and shapeless. Her shoes were so pointy they looked dated and must have hurt her feet needlessly. About the best thing that could be said about her makeup was that she colored inside the lines. Whoever convinced her that pasty coral was a good lipstick for her should be hanged! And don’t even get me started on her jewelry.

I ordered a chardonnay and we reminisced about old times for a while. She wasn’t ready to get into the real conversation yet. Once we had moved to the dining room and were enjoying our meal, (I had a delicious veal saltimbocca, since I was paying she got a filet mignon, and we split a bottle of an excellent Chianti) she started to explain the situation.

“We won’t be breaking any laws, and it’s pretty much the oldest con in the book: matrimony. This really big fish is looking for a wife, and I point him to you, and then you can start bleeding his bank account.” She smiled, and I nodded for her to continue. She leaned in and spoke a little more quietly. “You’re lucky I ended up in Boston. I wouldn’t even be offering you this chance in a state where same-sex marriage wasn’t legal. Or have you gotten surgery down there by now?”

I tried to blush. “No, it’s all still original equipment. I like being able to switch back and forth between genders depending on what opportunities present themselves.”

She thought for a moment. “How important is it to you that you’re able to do that? It might be necessary for you to take steps that aren’t quite as reversible.”

I got a little scared by that, but I was even more scared of Volkov. “I’m not sure what you mean, but if the payoff for this is big enough, I’m willing to take extreme measures.”

She took a sip of her wine. “Let me start at the beginning. About a month ago, this guy comes into my shop for a reading. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but doesn’t hold his head up with any confidence. He looks to be somewhere in his late middle ages, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and serious worry lines on his face. He’s got a strong nose but a weak chin and is looking at me through wire-rimmed glasses. He asks if I’m the kind of fortune teller that can talk to ghosts. I point out the sign that says my services are for entertainment purposes only. I tell him that the law says I show that, but I truly do have the Gift as a spiritualist.”

Her story was drawing me in. I tried to interrupt and ask a question, but she cut me off and continued. “I asked him what ghost he wanted me to contact, and told him it would cost $100. He handed over his credit card and said he needed to get a message to his mother. I went over behind my counter and ran his card through my machine, which not only processed the charge but also did a quick computer search on him. My business is a lot easier with today’s technology than in the old days of cold reading.”

I spoke up. “You sell yourself short. You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen; even without any kind of high-tech assistance you can tell an amazing amount of stuff about a person.”

She appreciated my flattery, but got back to her scene. “His name is Hiram Chillington. He comes from money so old it came over on the Mayflower, literally. The family business is banking, and he’s personally worth about a billion. I decided to try to turn him into a repeat customer. I had him sit at my table and arranged some crystals between us, and told him to pick which one gave him the strongest feeling of his mother. He touched each one and then selected an open geode that was such an obvious Freudian metaphor I was surprised he didn’t notice.”

She gave me a moment to process that image and figure out what she meant. “The message he asked me to send was a short one. He wanted his mother to know that he was trying to do as she’d asked, but he might need some more time. I told him that she’d been watching, and didn’t think he was trying hard enough. Naturally, I’d correctly guessed that he was a spineless Mama’s Boy, so he believed that I was genuinely connected to her.”

I let Trix bask in her brilliance for a bit. “Sounds like you’ve got him right where you want him. So how does all this lead to my needing to take irreversible steps?”

“We’re getting there. I pretended sympathy and asked him what it was his mother needed him to do, and asked if there was anything I could do to help him get it done. He told me that his mother had recently passed from a prolonged fight with cancer. As she lay in her deathbed, she said she was worried that he’d be alone when she was gone. His two older brothers had families of their own, but he was still single. She made him promise that he’d get married before his fortieth birthday, which as it turns out is next September. I was surprised that he was that young; time has not been kind to him. I told him that every soul in the universe has a mate, and I’d use my Gift to try to sense the lines of fate guiding him toward the one he was destined to be with.”

“So that’s where I come in? You’re going to lead this guy to me, and I get him to fall for me, we get quickie married before September (which lines up nicely with my own deadline) and then I deplete his bank account before divorcing him and taking half his fortune? That sounds like something I could handle. I’ve never taken it that far, but I have charmed men out of their money before. I think I might even enjoy being a high society wife.”

Trix looked at me. “That’s the idea, but there’s a complication. I already started telling him about his future bride. I was working the con with Chloe, but she changed her mind and backed out of the deal.”

***

That was a name that took me back. I first met Chloe in Virginia Beach when we were both called in to work as shills on a job run by Sammy Winks, a guy I knew through my old man. It was a fixed poker game to fleece a couple of whales. She and I were there to keep the marks distracted enough that they didn’t figure out what was going on. We were paired with a couple of guys playing our boyfriends, these fake Ivy League douchebag types whose names I don’t remember. The targets thought they were there to there to take the young morons’ money, when secretly it was the other way around.

She was a naturally curvy natural blonde, so most of her expertise was at playing “dumb and pretty.” At the time I was an unnatural strawberry blonde with curves courtesy of my foundation garments, so I’d had to work harder at being a seductress. We hadn’t practiced anything, but we played off each other brilliantly. She played off my cues, and I played off hers, and we drew the players’ attention by cattily flirting with each other’s fake boyfriend. It escalated to the point where we teased about having a threesome with whoever won the game, and exchanged some wet kisses to keep them all turned on.

The plan worked perfectly and we took the whales’ money and talked our partners into giving us a bigger cut. Sammy didn’t care, so he just went along with it. I told Chloe she’d been a pleasure to work with, and complimented her kissing. She caught that I was making a play, and said that she was regrettably not a lesbian. I said that wasn’t a problem since I was a dude. Chloe was surprised, and Sammy just laughed when I tried to get him to vouch for me. The douchebags didn’t believe it, so I bet them the rest of their money that I could prove it. I excused myself to the bathroom to release my adhesives, and then came out and lifted my skirt for them to see. The guy I’d been making out with earlier threw up, I collected my winnings, and Chloe’s eyes widened. Sammy thought the whole thing was hilarious. I tucked things back in place, pulled my panties on, and then Chloe and I went back to her room.

We struck up a partnership in both our private lives and our work that lasted for quite a while. It was a lot of fun. Mostly we worked romance angles, getting rich guys to give us stuff. Often we’d even pretend to be sisters, and they usually bought the ruse. Although there was this time we were on a ship and made so much noise in bed that the people in the next cabin looked at us funny for the rest of the cruise.

It wasn’t completely smooth between us; Chloe was jealous of my skills at luring men. She thought that with her sexy curves she should be the one drawing the boys’ eyes, but I did better at capturing their brains with my subtle movements and driving their fantasies with my words. Since I didn’t have her natural advantages, I’d had to work harder at using what I did have. She could get a guy’s interest just by wearing the right outfit, so she’d never put any effort into improving her seduction technique. The metaphor I usually used was that she was a sexier woman in a photograph, but I was a sexier woman in a video.

I tried to coach her to do better, but it bugged her to have a boyfriend that was better at being a woman than she was. It really bothered her that I could dress her and do her makeup more attractively than she could do on her own. She’d never needed to do much to look good and took pride in her ability to look naturally beautiful. But when I applied my skills and talents to her, I could make her look absolutely gorgeous. Those were the only lessons I gave her that she paid attention to.

The other source of conflict between us was that she had a few problems with my methods. She thought that it was better to tease the mark without actually delivering sex, but I had no problem giving the guy a little something. She thought I was degrading myself by going down on a man, but as long as proper precautions were taken so I didn’t catch any diseases, I saw no problem with it. My position was that the only person who can humiliate you is you, and it’s impossible for someone else to tell you what you’re worth. I’d put a lot of time and effort into improving my oral skills, so I saw absolutely no harm in using them to bring another human being physical pleasure. I also thought it made the targets less likely to seek revenge. But I could never bring her around to my point of view.

All told we lasted about a year and a half. The last con we ran ended badly. We’d set our sights higher than usual, and the guys we’d picked to scam were seriously loaded. Instead of settling for the usual trinkets and gifts, we were trying to get our marks to buy shares of a bogus company we’d set up. I was still new at the investment racket, so my dummy documents didn’t quite pass muster. And to make matters worse, the target turned out to have a friend who was a G-man.

So federal agents crashed the meeting we’d set up in a rented office space, and we knew the jig was up. We didn’t have a contingency plan for failure, so I had to improvise. We ducked and ran, sneaking through back rooms of neighboring spaces. It seemed like the safest option was to split up, and we took separate cars out of the place. I even stopped to switch disguises and genders first.

It was the closest I’d ever come to getting caught; I freaked out and withdrew from circulation for a couple months. I think Chloe blamed me for the game going wrong, because I eventually heard that she was looking for me and wanted money. I wasn’t about to take all the responsibility for what went wrong. I put the word out to let her know from my end it seemed like our partnership was through.

***

She snapped me out of my reminiscing. “I’d given him a general description, so he’s expecting to fall in love with a curvaceous blonde. Changing your hair is easy, but how would you feel about getting a boob job?”

So that was the step she’d been hinting at. “Are you sure that would be necessary?” I gestured at myself. “I look pretty curvy in this dress, don’t I, even if some of my curves do come from what I’m wearing under it? All the men in the room who keep stealing glances at me must think I’m sexy enough.”

She shook her head. “It’s not just a question of being sexy. I think I may have even used the word ‘voluptuous.’ You are beautiful in that dress, but none of the men in here would describe your figure as busty. You’ve got what, maybe a B cup, and that’s with padding?” I nodded, and she went on. “And unfortunately, I’ve already set up the scenario where he meets his dream girl, and padding won’t cut it. He’s supposed to be walking his dog on the beach, and he’ll notice a buxom blonde in a yellow bikini. And he’ll know she’s the one when she loses her top. I think the promise of getting to see breasts is what’s kept him coming back to me for more clues.”

“So I guess you’re right. I’d pretty much have to get a boob job.” I emptied my wine glass. “How much time do I have to get it done? Is there a particular date this meeting is supposed to happen? And what beach will I have to arrange to be on?”

“Does that mean you’re in?” She raised her glass in a toast. “To our success!”

I touched my glass to hers and tried to smile. I was going to have to go back under the knife, and implants would definitely make it hard for me to keep my gender a part time thing. But at this point I really didn’t have much of a choice. This deal would get me plenty of money; I could get the Russians off my back, and I could stay alive; plus maybe I’d be able to get them taken out sometime later on and everything could go back to the way it was.

Trixie’s smile was sincere. “There’s no set time or date, but he spends every weekend at his family beachhouse out on the Cape. And a silver lining for you is that it’s in Provincetown, so if he discovers too soon that you’re a tranny and says you tried to trick him, you can point out that you met him in one of the gayest places on the planet so he should have known. His family is so straightlaced that he’s the only one who ever uses the place, and he only likes it because the beach is dog-friendly.”

Over dessert (we split an absolutely scrumptious tiramisu), we hashed out the details of the plan. I’d need to set myself up a cover identity, for what I was going to tell him. I had to find an apartment in Boston and a job, and because we were trying to make things as legal as possible, I’d need to do everything in my real name. She volunteered to do some internet research and make a few phone calls, to find me a surgeon with a good reputation who could fit me in as soon as possible. My story would be that I was a transsexual who’d recently come into some money and I wanted a bikini-ready body to enjoy the summer.

The next few days were a blur. My first stop was finding a salon that would squeeze me in to get my hair dyed, trimmed and styled. I treated myself to a mani/pedi while I was there. I then worked the classifieds, to find a decent place to live that didn’t need references from my last landlord. I ended up finding a third-floor studio in a relatively safe neighborhood that wasn’t too pricey.

I then needed to go shopping to furnish the place. If everything went according to plan, I’d most likely be inviting my new boyfriend over at some point, so I needed the apartment to look like authentic. I went for a décor that was mostly neutral with just a few feminine touches here and there. One trip to Ikea satisfied most of my furniture needs. I was able to get most of the flatpacked boxes up the stairs on my own, but I’d bought a loveseat that gave me a little trouble. It wasn’t heavy, but it was just a little too big to handle easily. One of my new neighbors noticed my difficulty and offered to carry one end for me. He was a well-built guy somewhere in his mid-twenties, with curly red hair and a ladykiller smile. His name was Chris Farrel, and he lived on the second floor. I introduced myself and said that I’d just moved from Philly and was eager to start a new chapter of my life in Boston. It was the backstory I’d settled on, since I had a valid Pennsylvania driver’s license that labeled me as female, and had my real name. The chance of my soon to be boyfriend meeting my neighbors was low, but it never hurts to keep your story consistent. I thanked Chris for his help, and he welcomed me to the building. I promised to invite him over when I had everything unpacked.

I went to a quality furniture store for a top-of-the-line queen size mattress set, and paid to have it delivered. When the time came, I wanted my bed to look inviting. I did select a comforter and pillows in a floral pattern, but it wasn’t too garishly colored, so I don’t think it was excessively girlish. Besides, some of the flowers seemed rather “Georgia O’Keefe” in shape and might subliminally suggest things to my future gentleman caller.

I used one of my steamer trunks as a coffee table, to keep my room from looking too new. I wanted something that showed that I had a history. I left the other trunks in my van with all my male stuff, and found a storage facility where I could pay to keep it parked. A cargo van didn’t fit with the image I was trying to project. I bought a used Mazda that better suited my style. My apartment came with a permit that let me park on the street in my neighborhood, but there were always more cars than spots. I spent some time getting to know the city’s mass transit system.

***

I’d been trying to avoid thinking about it, but Trix called and let me know she’d found a plastic surgeon that would be able to fit me onto his schedule. She’d made an appointment for me and gave me the address, but she wouldn’t be coming with me; we thought it best to limit the people who saw us together, just in case.

I spent a while before I went to the doctor getting psyched up for my surgery, although really it was more like brainwashing myself. I couldn’t let the surgeon suspect that my heart really wasn’t in it, so I did my best to suppress all my masculine feelings. I had to make myself become excited about the idea of getting implants. I thought about how if I was already able to wrap men around my little finger with merely B-cups through padding, what more would I be able to accomplish with braless D-cups? And there would be so many new fashion opportunities to explore, from strapless evening gowns to sheer lingerie. I made a promise to myself that when the whole thing was over and I was a rich divorcée, I’d go lie on a topless beach somewhere on the Riviera and sneakily enjoy the view. I’d no longer be able to switch to being male sometimes, but I made more money when I was a woman anyway.

My attempt at self-delusion worked; I was almost smiling when I walked into the medical building. Dr. Nolan Stone was a handsome, silver-haired man in a tailored suit. He brought me into his office to discuss what I wanted him to do. He let me know that he’d been told of my gender situation, and said that although he didn’t do genital surgeries himself, he could refer me to someone who did. I assured him that I wasn’t ready to take that step, but I was interested in getting my breasts done.

I gave him the speech I’d rehearsed, and even managed to shed a couple tears. I explained how I’d recently inherited a few thousand, so I was able to budget the surgery. I said that I was just tired of having to wear a padded bra in order to feel confident in my gender. I told him how whenever I had to change in a locker room, I’d felt like all the real women were staring at me as though they could tell my secret. I said that I wanted a figure where when people are staring it’s the good kind of attention. I wished to be able to turn heads if I were to walk down the beach; I didn’t want another summer to go by before I could look good in a bikini.

He said that surgery wasn’t a decision to be made lightly, and I told him that I’d been thinking about this for a while, and it was only that I could finally afford it that I was in a hurry. I also pointed out that I’d already had my face done, so this wouldn’t be my first time under the knife for femininity. He was a little surprised by that revelation, but he took a closer look at me and he could tell what had been done. He said the other doctor had done excellent work, and I had to tell him all about my surgeon in Miami.

Since I seemed to understand all the risks, he agreed to go ahead. He brought in an assistant with a form for me to fill out, and she ran a credit check on me since I didn’t have any insurance and would be footing the entire bill. Fortunately I had opened an account at a local bank and gotten money transferred in from my bank in the Caymans, so my finances checked out fine. Once they were sure I could pay, I was led into an examination room.

I had to strip to my panties and stand still while the nurse took photos of me from in front, behind and on both sides. Then the doctor felt me up and then pinched my skin all over. No, I’m doing him a disservice. Of all the men who’ve touched my little breasts, Dr. Stone was the most respectful. He told me he was checking my skin’s elasticity, to see how big we’d be able to go, and determining how much of my chest was muscle and how much was breast tissue.

He then did something behind my back where he used some kind of tool to pinch at the skin. When he was done, he left the room to let me get dressed and then the nurse took a couple blood samples. I had to wait a little bit but then I was brought back into the doctor’s office.

He had a computer screen on his desk pointed toward me, and he had it show the pictures they’d just taken of me. He said he thought the biggest increase my skin could handle was to go up about three cup sizes to a very full C, almost a D. He clicked a button on his side, and the image on the screen changed so that I had the new breast size he was proposing. They were big! But they still seemed to fit my body; I didn’t look like a cartoon or a freak. The person I saw was just a woman with a large bust that even seemed within the range of natural sizes.

We discussed placement and material options, he handed me some sample implants to squeeze, to get a feel for their weight and consistency. After reviewing the risks and aesthetic differences, we both agreed that the best choice was to go with silicone gel implants inserted under the muscle. He showed me the difference in the simulated image, and I really liked the shape my new breasts would have under those conditions, as well as preferring the less squishy feel of silicone over saline.

The doctor changed the view so I was looking at my new busty self in profile, and my chest seemed even more noticeable. Then he flipped it around to the back, and I saw my same old self. He said that if I really wanted a figure that would be impressive on the beach, I needed some curves on the bottom as well as the top. He said that I still had a thicker waist and narrower hips than a natural woman, and adding more on top would only emphasize my body’s triangular shape more.

He recommended a procedure he called microinjection contouring, or more commonly known as a “Brazilian butt lift,” where he would remove fat cells from my stomach and waist and back with a smaller than usual liposuction needle, and then use them to reshape my buttocks. He clicked something on his computer and the picture on my screen changed again. My rear end was now round and sexy. The front view showed that he’d given me more of an hourglass figure instead of a triangle, but it was the profile view that was the most striking — I was curvy in all the right places.

Dr. Stone cautioned me that my results my not look exactly like the simulation, but he’d used the measurements he’d taken of my body fat to determine how much he had to work with. I was surprised that I had that much; I pride myself on keeping in shape. He assured me that even a healthy person has some extra fat, and I in particular could do this since he’d be helping my fat go from a male distribution pattern to a female one.

What sold me on getting the procedure was when he said that by law he was required to tell me that results were not permanent, and the transplanted cells didn’t always take. Since I didn’t really want to be stuck in a female shape forever, it suited me just fine. On the other hand, he warned me that since the breast size I’d asked for was such a large increase, it was unlikely I’d ever be able to go back to my natural cup size. There’s only so much elasticity in human skin. If at some point after my surgery I were to find that I didn’t like being so large, complete removal of the implants would leave me looking deflated. My only options at that point would be new smaller implants or major scarring.

I really didn’t want to hear that; it threw a monkey wrench into my whole plan for this new look to be temporary, but since the mark was expecting a bosomy blonde there was nothing I could do about it. I’d just have to revise my concept for what I’d do after this job was over.

He gave me a form to sign agreeing to the procedures, and said he wouldn’t accept it any earlier than 72 hours. He always gave his patients time to think about it to avoid making rash decisions.

I asked if it would be possible to get both surgeries done at the same time. I didn’t want to have to go through the whole post-surgical recovery period any longer than necessary, and be able to have a good chunk of bikini season left by the time my new body was ready to be shown off.

He told me that another doctor would be leery of doing both procedures at the same time, having me resting on your back for two weeks after the breast enhancement and then resting on my stomach for two weeks after the buttock contouring. But Dr. Stone said that his practice followed the Rapid Recovery philosophy, a breast enhancement technique invented by a doctor in Texas. He figured that I would likely be able to resume most of my regular activities within a couple of days after the surgery; I’d just have to lay off very strenuous cardio exercise for a few weeks since elevated blood pressure or heart rate could cause bleeding. He estimated that if all went well, I’d be able to show off my new bikini body at the beach within three to four weeks after my operations.

It was a difficult decision, but in the end I really didn’t have a choice. I showed up promptly after the required waiting period with my paperwork all filled out and ready to go, with my signature in three places and my initials in four. The receptionist took my forms and a deposit check so they could order my implants, and then told me the doctor had said he wanted to see me. I had to wait a little, but then I was shown into his office. He surprised me by saying he’d discussed my case with a colleague, and asked if I was willing to come in the following afternoon to see her. I figured it couldn’t hurt, (famous last words) so I agreed.

When I returned for my new appointment, Dr. Stone introduced me to Dr. Sebastian, a tall woman with chestnut brown hair done up in a tight bun and an athletic build under her lab coat. It turned out she was an endocrinologist. He’d brought her in to consult, since he thought I was a transgender patient concerned about my development.

She said they’d tested my blood, and noticed that I wasn’t on a hormone regimen, but from my photos she guessed that I had been at some point. I hadn’t prepared a lie in advance so I told her the basic truth that I’d been on hormones for a year and a half when I was sixteen, and stopped when I couldn’t afford them any more. She gave me a funny look and said that I must be misremembering, since doctors were forbidden from giving a minor hormone replacement therapy, and if I’d been self-medicating that would of course have been illegal. So she revised my story and said that it must have been when I was eighteen.

I had to go into the examination room and strip off my clothes again. Both doctors, plus a nurse, came in to look at me. I felt very vulnerable standing there in just my panties as Dr. Sebastian felt up my little booblets, and even more so when she pulled down my underwear and removed the tape to examine my genitals. I was embarrassed to be seen in my complete state, halfway between the sexes. I think I heard the nurse gasp, like they hadn’t told her what to expect.

Dr Sebastian concluded her probing and let me get dressed. She said she had good news for me, that if I resumed a program of hormone replacement therapy she expected that I’d be able to get the larger bust I desired. Her opinion was that my breast development was only in early Stage Four (out of Five) so there was more potential for natural growth. I thanked her but said that I didn’t want to wait that long for my sexy figure, so I’d be going through with my enhancement surgery instead.

Dr. Stone chimed in and said that I didn’t understand why he wanted Dr. Sebastian to see me. He said he knew I was disappointed in the maximum size he could give me, so he said that his surgery in combination with her hormone treatments could ultimately get me to that D-cup I’d been dreaming of. Also, he said that adjusting my hormone levels closer to female norms would help me keep the new shape he’d be giving my buttocks as my natural fat deposits rearranged themselves. He seemed really happy for me, and I tried to emulate his enthusiasm.

I needed to think of an excuse why I didn’t want the treatment. In retrospect, it was unfortunate that I’d had to keep up the story Trix had given them about me that I was striving to become completely female. If it had been up to me, I might have been able to seek out a doctor willing to operate on a sex worker seeking to improve that “chick with a dick” look. But I’d started out with one story and had already paid them enough that it would be annoying to have to start over with a new doctor.

So I had to stick with claiming to be legitimately transgendered. I took the best shot I could, a hail Mary, and shyly told Dr. Sebastian that I didn’t want hormone treatments because they’d shrink my penis, and when the time came to get my surgery to turn it into a vagina, length would turn into depth and I didn’t want to have trouble fitting a man inside me. She reassured me that I was already on the large side of average, so even if there was some reduction in size I should have plenty of material left for my SRS surgeon to work with. She joked that if I was lucky enough to have a particularly well-hung boyfriend I might end up needing a little stretching and have to work at it for a while to take him all inside, but it would be an enjoyable kind of work.

I’d gotten painted into a corner. I couldn’t think of another way to turn down what the person I was pretending to be would have wanted wholeheartedly, so I agreed to the treatment. I figured that maybe I’d skip a few pills and it wouldn’t be so strong, but she started me off with an injection and a patch stuck to my skin as well as a prescription for some pills, and she’d be monitoring my blood regularly to make sure everything was as it should be. That meant I’d have to take the right dosages at least through my post-surgical recovery, since my doctors would be talking to each other.

When I got home I was an emotional wreck. I blamed it on the new estrogens flooding my system, and had a good long cry over how messed up my whole situation had become. Gone was my plan to temporarily enhance my body’s femininity and put it back the way it was after I’d paid off the Russians, and now in its place was the reality that I’d be living full-time as a woman for the foreseeable future, with more lasting changes to both the chemistry and shape of my body. I was depressed, nervous, and more than a little scared.

***

Fortunately or unfortunately, I didn’t get very long to stew in my emotional juices. A week and a half later, Dr. Stone was able to schedule an operating room for me in an uptown hospital. He gave me a very specific regimen to follow the day before my surgery that included a prescription for some special drugs I had to take. I forced myself to go through the step-by-step mechanical process, and it made it easier to brainwash myself again into appearing more positive than I actually was.

I checked into the hospital and got taken to a nice room, and got introduced to the anesthesiologist and the next thing I knew I was in a different nice room, feeling kind of tingly and foggy and wearing new underwear. When I was lucid enough the nurse fetched Dr. Stone, who told me that everything had gone very well and he helped me out of my hospital gown and showed me that I was in a new bra. I looked down at my breasts, which seemed so huge! It must have been a special recovery room for cosmetic surgery patients, because there was a large mirror on the wall where I could get a better look at my new attributes.

He also explained that I was wearing a compression garment that was kind of like a girdle running from just below my bra to halfway down my thighs. This was to hold my new contours in position as I healed. In the mirror it looked like I was just wearing a waist cincher and a padded brief, but really the only padding there was me. I was still fairly numb, so it didn’t quite seem real. The girdle was crotchless so I’d be able to go to the bathroom while wearing it, and the doctor had been kind enough to tuck my bits into place and put on my panties over it so only a few people in the hospital would have to know my secret. I was supposed to keep the compression thing on 24/7 until he told me it could come off, but he said I could switch the surgical bra for any 36C sports bra whenever I was ready as long as I kept one on most of the time.

I had to wait a little longer in my recovery room before they said I could be released from the hospital. The annoying part is that the way they could tell my anesthesia had completely worn off was by waiting for me to feel pain. There was a nurse hovering around so I did get taken care of pretty quickly, but it was a rough sensation when the fog faded to be replaced by a wave of pain that somehow managed to be both sharp and dull at the same time. I needed to be fully cognizant to sign my release forms, but as soon as I did, I got to take a pill.

After the doctors cleared me to leave, they let me get dressed. I’d brought a loose-fitting cotton dress that buttoned all the way up so it was easy to put on, and a pair of relatively flat sandals. I put on a little bit of lipstick just to feel civilized. It was only when I tried to sling my purse over my shoulder that I realized exactly how big my new breasts were. There were a lot of things I’d have to learn how to do all over again.

Dr. Stone had told me that I should refrain from sitting until the fat grafts in my butt lift took. He had even recommended hiring a shuttle bus rather than a taxi to take me home, so I could ride standing. Also, since I lived alone and most patients need some help the first couple of days, he referred me to a service to provide me with a visiting nurse. The hospital was nice enough to call both services to let them know I was ready, so as soon as I checked out, my transportation and assistant were ready.

The doctor brought a wheelchair with a special donut pillow on it to escort me out. I liked that he was taking personal care of me instead of making an orderly or nurse do it, but it was still a stupid hospital policy to make patients who weren’t supposed to be sitting use wheelchairs in order to be released.

In the lobby he introduced me to the LPN the service had sent. I was surprised that they’d given me a male nurse, a tall, buff Latino named Enrique, but it made sense when he explained that he’d be able to do a better job lifting or supporting me while my legs were sore than a smaller woman would have. He had a sassy lilt in his accent, so I was less surprised when he told me that he was gay, so I wouldn’t have to worry about him trying to take advantage of me.

I winked at him and in my best Miami Spanish I told him that I wasn’t a complete girl so he still might get tempted. It was his turn to be surprised, and he told me he never would have guessed. He took my hand and brought me to my feet, and grabbed my pillow and purse with his other hand. I thanked Dr Stone and gave him a little hug, and then Enrique walked me through the door and across the lot to where our shuttle bus was waiting.

I don’t think I’d have been able to make it up all the steps to my apartment if it hadn’t been for Enrique. I swore that the next place I lived in would have an elevator. He distracted me with small talk about where I’d learned Spanish, which led to a conversation where we discovered that we’d both been to some of the same clubs in South Beach. But he was still focused enough to catch me every time I stumbled. I was exhausted when I finally got inside, I wanted to collapse. But Enrique would only let me lean against the back of a chair while he made me drink a bottle of water.

When it was finally okay for me to take a nap, he arranged the two thick foam-rubber pillows that I’d bought in advance of the surgery so that I could lie on by bed face down with one under my stomach and one under my shoulders, and my breasts could hang free without being squashed. It was an awkward position to sleep in, but I was tired enough that I didn’t care.

Enrique stayed with me for two and a half days, pushing me further than I would have liked, but I do think he was one of the biggest reasons why my recovery went so smoothly and relatively quickly. He had to keep scolding me every time I forgot and tried to sit down. Ironically, it was only now that my shape was more female than ever that I was standing to pee again like a male. My slave driver made me practice going up and down those damn stairs, and we walked to the subway station to get to my first follow-up appointment at the doctor’s office.

It was at the doctor’s that I got my first look at my new breasts naked. I hadn’t looked during my sponge baths, since I was afraid that I’d see bloody bandages or Frankenstein-y stitches, or worse — that my boobs would look misshapen or too fake. But what I saw in the mirror instead was a sexy topless woman with a really decent rack! They could almost pass for real. My areolas had even stretched out in perfect circles, and my nipples were pointing in the right direction. I was amazed. The doctor said I seemed to be healing well with no sign of infection, and then he let me put on a fresh bra.

It was a little harder for him to check on the other work he’d done, since he didn’t want to remove the compression garment. But he did have a special light he could shine that could see through the fabric, and he said I didn’t have any more bruising than he’d expected. I also checked in with Dr. Sebastian for another blood sample.

Enrique left me his number in case I had any emergencies, and said he’d come by to bathe me every other day, but otherwise I was on my own. Since standing around my apartment was pretty boring, I went walking around my neighborhood, going only as far as I thought I could handle. I made myself go just a little bit further and faster every day.

Gradually, I felt up to running light errands. I got some nice flowers to make my place feel more feminine, and that inspired a trip to a thrift shop for the perfect vase, an old porcelain ginger jar with just a tiny chip in it that you couldn’t see when it was full of flowers. But cut flowers don’t last forever, so I went out a couple days later and bought a potted plant for the kitchen, and eventually I needed one in the bedroom, too.

I liked the personality that the vase gave the place, so I went to other second-hand stores for a few assorted tchotchkes and souvenirs of fake childhood memories to make my rooms look even less like a furniture catalog. I also had fun browsing in a used book store to find well-worn copies of what I’d later call my favorite books.

All in all it took eight visits to the office and a little under four weeks before Dr. Stone finally took the compression girdle off of me without immediately replacing it with a clean one. He said the grafts were all healthy and alive, and I was finally allowed to sit down again. He had a pair of full-length mirrors set up so I could take a good look at myself from behind. My new butt wasn’t quite as impressive as my boobs; I wasn’t going to win any “bodacious badonkadonk” contests, but I was nicely rounded and close to the ideal heart shape. It was definitely a female posterior. The square male hips and thick waist were gone. When I was dressed again, I gave my doctor a big thank you hug and a little kiss on the cheek for doing such amazing work on me, and I was kind of sad that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.

I really wanted to stop seeing Dr. Sebastian too, but I’d been researching the effects of hormones on the web and stopping them abruptly wasn’t recommended. I looked up the symptoms of getting too much and did my best to convince her to lower my dosage. The problem was I was just getting off the pain killers for my surgery, so I couldn’t claim a headache, and trying to say my breasts were tender would make her blame the implants. It was impossible for me to claim vaginal bleeding, so the best I could do was say I was worried the hormones were screwing with my head and causing mood swings that were too severe. She said my hormone levels were right where they should be according to the tests, and thought I was just being a typical male exaggerating the things all women put up with on a regular basis, so she told me to stick with her prescribed regimen for another month and we would reassess the situation then. It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it would have to do.

***

As soon as I got home I took a long, soothing bubble bath, getting completely clean for the first time since my procedures. I spent extra time moisturizing my skin all over afterward, getting a good feel for all my feminine curves. I felt very sexy, and it was a little frustrating that the few masculine parts I had left didn’t want to come out and play, but I needed my sleep anyway. I slipped on my favorite nightie and evicted those horrible foam pillows from the bed and had my first comfortable night in a long time.

The next day I had a lot of shopping to do so I got up early and glued my tucked-away parts in place after my shower, and then put on a tight thong panty that looked great with my enhancements and one of my new sports bras. I dressed simply, in a light blue sleeveless t-shirt that was a little tighter than it used to be, and a knee-length navy cotton casual skirt with a drawstring I could tighten to fit my new waist. I put my hair up in an easy ponytail and kept my jewelry and makeup fairly minimal. I wore a pair of wedges with a moderate heel, since I needed to learn what impact my new center of gravity had on my posture.

My car was a little filthy from being parked for a month, so my first stop was a trip through a car wash. I tried flirting with the attendant to get the full treatment for the price of the basic wash, and even though I had glammed down my look, I was still a girl with big boobs, so he let me do it. I gave him a made up number and asked him to call me sometime.

I was fortunate in that my favorite lingerie boutique had a branch in Boston. That was my next stop. I asked the salesgirl if I could be measured for a bra fitting, and when we were alone I confided that I’d recently been enhanced and wasn’t sure of my new size. She winked and swore herself to secrecy. Her measurements and calculations had me halfway between a 36C and a 36D, just like the doctor had said. She recommended that I go with the C for a push-up or demi bra, but in a full cup style I might want to try a D.

I tried on twenty or so different bras and left the store with twelve of them in a shopping bag and wearing a new t-shirt bra under my top. It provided much better definition than the sports bra had, and didn’t squish them as tightly so they looked even bigger. I already owned matching panties for most of the bras, but a couple of them were in styles and colors I hadn’t tried back when I was a member of the itty bitty titty committee, so I bought three pairs of new panties for each of those.

My next stop was a sleazier lingerie shop, for some peekaboo and tearaway bras, a merry widow and a couple of teddies in my new size. I wasn’t expecting that my target was that kinky, but I wanted some really slutty stuff just in case. Trixie’s brief had described him as really straight-laced, but some of those uptight guys turn into major freaks behind closed bedroom doors.

Then came my most important purchase. I needed to find a bikini in a shade of yellow that didn’t look hideous with my coloration. I had to go to five different stores before I found one that I liked. It had a triangle top that I thought I could tie in a slip-knot so it would fall off easily enough. And it had a full-coverage bottom, wide enough in the crotch that it would conceal all my secrets. And I could buy the pieces as separates, which was good since my top wanted a larger size than my bottom and I didn’t want to have to buy two swimsuits and get extra parts. I found a nice green crocheted sarong that would work as a coverup, and a coordinating beach hat.

I was almost equipped for my mission. I went back to one of the stores where I didn’t like the bathing suits but they had other things I liked better than at the other one. I picked up a tote bag, a beach towel, a blanket, and a new pair of sandals. Then at a drugstore I got some suntan lotion, a cheap pair of sunglasses, a steamy paperback romance, and a couple liters of water. Now I was ready.

There was still some more shopping I wanted to do. I went to a mall that didn’t seem too cheap or too upscale, and bought some clothes that did a good job showing off my new body. I got a couple pairs of tight jeans that made my ass look so amazing that I had to get them even though they were uncomfortable as hell on my male parts. I got some tops with built-in cups that I could wear without a bra, and a few similarly made sundresses. There were also some casual spaghetti tanks in a style that had a “shelf bra” inside to hold up my boobs. Finally, I got this very sexy black nightgown that clung to all my curves, and a coordinating kimono-style robe to wear over it.

I still wasn’t done updating my wardrobe. When I got all my purchases home, I emptied my closet and tried on all my old clothes. Then I divided them into three piles: things that fit okay, things that didn’t fit quite right and needed to be taken to a seamstress for alteration, and things that didn’t fit at all (like nearly every bra I’d previously owned).

The whole process took quite a while. I decided to have some fun with it, and turned on some music and practiced my sexy moves in each outfit as though I was a model in a fashion show. You never really appreciate how large your wardrobe is until you try to wear it all in one sitting. I had to take a break in the middle to eat my dinner.

Just as I was changing out of a tweed skirt suit that needed a little more room in the jacket, my cell phone rang. The caller ID said it was Volkov. I’d almost forgotten about him. He said, “I just wanted to let you know I am appreciating your little stripper show. When I saw you go to that plastic surgeon I was worried you were trying to get a new face to hide from me. But instead you were getting a sexy body. It looks good on you. Did you go all the way and get the sex change operation?”

I didn’t know what to say. He’d been following me, and now he was watching me? I channeled my fear into sassy bravado. “No, sorry. I’m still male. You’ll just have to deal with thinking a man is sexy.”

He laughed. “I told you before. You’re no man; you’re a bitch, though maybe a better looking one now. Almost good enough that if you don’t have the money in time I might give you sex before taking care of you.”

I very nearly teased him some more before I caught a glimpse of my reflection and saw the tiny glowing red dot between my shoulders, and it told me that Volkov was probably in the building across the street, and he probably wasn’t just playing with a laser pointer. I was reminded of exactly what stakes I was playing for, and I wasn’t in a mood for teasing any more. I shut the window and closed the curtains. I continued going through my closet, but it wasn’t quite as fun.

***

I let Trix know that I was good to go, and had her arrange my reservation for a weekend in Provincetown. For my part, I needed to see about getting a job for my cover story. I looked through the local newspapers and websites with job postings, and tried to find something I was qualified to do that would believably cover my expenses.

My biggest problem was that I couldn’t prove any of my experience and I had no references. I decided to use that as the core of my plan. I made an appointment for an interview with Thompson Temps to try to get a clerical job. I mixed some truth in with the fabrication and told them that I had just moved to Boston from Philadelphia to start fresh, and that my previous job had been as administrative assistant to the chairman of an investment firm that collapsed due to the recession. I used the name of one of the fake companies I’d used in a scam, so there would be some kind of a history if they tried to google it.

I showed up promptly for my meeting, dressed in a newly re-tailored beige skirt suit and a pale pink high-necked blouse. Despite the summer heat, I was in pantyhose. I wore closed-toe burgundy pumps with a moderate heel on my feet, and carried a matching bag, something between a purse and a briefcase. My hair was in a French braid, my makeup was subdued in natural tones, and my only jewelry was a small pair of pearl earrings. I presented the image of a consummate conservative professional.

My interview went perfectly. I met with a pleasant woman named Mavis Palmer. She was fiftyish and a little overweight, but carried herself well. She seemed to believe I was everything I appeared to be, and I had answers for all her questions about my work history. She was impressed when I told her I was fluent in Spanish and Dutch and could could carry on a light conversation in Mandarin or Japanese, although I couldn’t read or write those.

She then took me into a room with a computer so I could be tested to verify that I knew all the programs I’d said I did. Making all the documents and websites and presentations for my fake companies over the years had given me a decent proficiency at Microsoft’s Office suite. I told her I could use Windows although I had a Mac at home, so either kind of computer was fine with me. She tested me on both, and I proved that I wasn’t lying. Well, not about that anyway.

Then I was led into a room that was set up as a sort of “practice office,” and I had to demonstrate that I could operate a photocopier, a fax machine, a multi-line phone, and even a coffee maker. I felt really silly, but didn’t let it show. I performed all the tasks I was asked to do with aplomb and grace.

Mavis told me I did very well. We went back to her office and she said I’d be an excellent fit with the company. She couldn’t promise anything, but said that it was very likely I’d be hearing from them with an offer. Sure enough, it was only a couple days later that I was returning to sign my employment papers. So I had a job, but I’d only get paid if they had a client who needed me. I still had plenty of savings, so it suited my needs fine. I now had an answer in case the guy I was supposed to flirt with asked, “So what do you do?”

It didn’t take long for me to get an assignment. It was a post that I was tragically overqualified for, filling in as receptionist at Romano Fitzgerald, a downtown architectural firm. I reported to a very industrial/modern office. I was so early that the building was still locked, so I had to wait for someone with a key to show up.

After a while, a silver-haired man in khakis and a sports coat arrived. He asked who I was, so I introduced myself and explained that Thompson Temps had sent me to be the new receptionist. He shook my hand and said he was Andrew Fitzgerald, the junior partner, and asked me to call him Andy. He gave me a brief tour of the place, and then had me wait in the lobby until someone got in who could show me what to do. Apparently the agency had told me the wrong time; the office didn’t officially open for another hour.

I didn’t like sitting around idle, so I did a little snooping, taking time to memorize the nameplates on all the office doors, so I’d know who would be where. I started up the coffee maker in the break room and then lightly knocked on Andy’s door to offer him a cup. He smiled and asked for black with two sugars.

I took a small cup for myself and went back to sit behind what I assumed would be my desk. The phone system was a little complicated, but the buttons for each extension were clearly labeled. It actually rang while I was sitting there. I answered it as politely as I could with a friendly, “Good morning, Romano Fitzgerald. How can I help you?” and took a message for Dan Lopez to call Max Braddock ASAP. I wasn’t sure how the voice mail worked, so I found a pad of sticky notes and stuck the message on his door.

It was kind of funny sitting there as all the staff arrived. I smiled and gave them each a “Good morning,” and nearly every one did a double take. Only a few actually asked who I was. I thought I was doing fairly well until Nora showed up. She was a bookish brunette with an irritated look on her face as soon as she saw me. She told me to get up from my desk and to wait until she came back to show me the job.

It turned out that she was the alpha secretary of the place and was pissed that someone else had usurped her authority and told me what to do. I tried to explain that Thompson had given me the wrong starting time, and Andy had let me in, but I’d just been poking around. No one had formally explained my duties to me.

Nora was in the process of chewing me out for acting on my own when an athletic-looking guy in a green polo shirt and blue jeans came back out from the inner offices. He held up a little yellow note. “Hi, I’m Dan. Did you write this?” I admitted it and he gave me a thumbs up. “Thanks a bunch. Braddock hates talking to machines and can never seem to understand that we open at nine. I’ve got to go check on a problem at a job site, before the delay costs our client thousands. Great instincts on using the Post-It! That’s the kind of improvising we like here.”

I had to bite my tongue to keep from grinning at Ms. Bossy Britches. She shifted into a less adversarial tone, and showed me what my duties were in a dry, academic manner. Then she brought me to Sara Kellogg the office manager, who was also in charge of personnel, to have me read and sign some documents concerning office policies.

I’d chosen an outfit as conservative as I had worn for my interview, and it was quickly obvious that I was overdressed. Halfway through the morning, I made a few adjustments. I removed my jacket and folded it under my desk. I undid the top two buttons of my blouse. Then I went into the ladies’ room and took off my hose, loosened my hairstyle a little, and changed my lipstick for a darker one with a glossy finish. It earned me a few more double-takes when people went out to lunch. On the whole, my first day at Romano Fitzgerald had been a positive experience. Over time, I grew to feel more like I belonged there. I almost forgot my real reason for being there.

***

The place Trixie found for me was priced a little steeper than I would have liked, but it was the height of tourist season in Provincetown and beggars can’t be choosers. Since I had a job now, I could only go for the weekend instead of all week like Chloe had planned to do. Reluctantly, I called Volkov and told him where I’d be, just so he wouldn’t think I was trying to run away from him. I asked him not to follow me too obviously; I didn’t want the mark suspecting that something was up.

I didn’t have a lot of time to get my bearings ahead of time, so I hit the highway as soon as I left the office on Friday night. Apparently, most of the greater Boston metropolitan area also had the idea to head to the Cape as soon as their weekend started, because the traffic was atrocious! It was some of the worst gridlock I’d ever been in.

I had a room in an elegant inn with a spectacular waterfront view, but when I arrived I wanted to just collapse on the bed and sleep. However, I needed to do a little reconnaissance. Trixie had found out which beaches my objective regularly went to, and I’d printed myself a little map. She also had given me a photo so I’d know I had the right
guy. I changed into a light dress and a pair of comfortable sandals and took a quick stroll around to get a feel for the place. I found a laid-back bar where I could grab a quick bite and made sure to make a definite impression on several of the locals as a single girl just looking for a relaxing weekend. When the night was at its darkest, I drove around town figuring out where I wanted to set up the next day.

My Saturday morning at the beach went almost too well. The combination of my new bikini and my new figure attracted the eye of just about every straight male and gay or bi-curious female out that day. Granted, it was P-town, so the proportion of straight males was far less than average.

I wanted to establish a pattern, which meant I needed to take interest in all the dogs that passed by. I met quite a few nice doggies and their pet humans. It was a tricky situation trying not to appear too flirtatious. Fortunately a good number of those dog walkers were obviously not interested in someone shaped like me.

I’d been lying on my blanket trying my hardest not to tan (I’ve always taken the best possible care of my skin) for around five hours when he finally showed up. I saw the dog first, and got up to see who its master was. As he got closer, I recognized him as my target. I strolled over to intercept his path and crouched down to look at the dog. “You’re a pretty girl!” I turned my face up to the man. “Can I pet her?”

The angle I’d given him caused him to have to a good luck at my boobs just to talk to me. He smiled and said, “Sure, but only because you could tell she’s female. Most people assume all dogs are male.” She was a medium-sized dog, with wavy chocolate brown fur and long floppy ears and a short tail.

I reached out and let her smell my hand and then gave the back of her head a good skritching. “Of course she’s a girl.” I added, “How could such a beautiful thing be a boy?” I giggled cutely at my little joke, even if he didn’t understand the irony of it. I looked up at her master again. “What’s her name?”

He looked a little embarrassed. “Well, she’s a pedigreed field spaniel, so her official name is Summerfield Montague’s Princess Charmaine Chrysanthemum. Her call name, that’s the name I use for training her, is Chryssie.” He reached down and pet her himself, and our hands almost touched. “Don’t get me wrong; I don’t show her anymore, and I do more than just train her. She’s my best friend.” I could tell by the way she was looking at him that he was telling the truth. They say you can tell a lot about a person by how they treat their dog, and it seemed like this guy was pretty decent.

“Well, it’s nice meeting you, Chryssie.” I pet her some more, and then stood up. “I’m Quinn.”

I hadn’t appreciated how tall the guy was until we were so close. I had to look up for us to be face to face. I think he was finally realizing that I was a buxom blonde in a yellow bikini, just like his psychic had told him his true love would be. He stammered, “Hi. I’m Hiram, Hiram Chillington.”

We chatted for a little bit, and I got a good idea why an eligible billionaire has to go to fortune tellers to find a girlfriend. I flirted heavily, doing cute hair flips, touching his arm with my fingertips, laughing at all his attempts at jokes, and making as much eye contact as possible. I even sucked on the tips of my sunglasses. But the cold fish didn’t seem to be catching any of my signals. He really seemed nervous. I patted Chryssie on the head and said goodbye and he actually shook my hand.

I told him the heat was getting to me and I wanted to take a dip in the ocean. He reminded me that there wasn’t a lifeguard on duty and there was a strong undertow, so I shouldn’t go in unless I was a strong swimmer. I told him not to worry and scampered off toward the water. He watched me go, probably wondering if I was going to fulfill the rest of Trixie’s prophesy.

I did a little swimming and some body surfing and then just before he was out of view, I made my move. I kicked around until I found a stone on the loosened my slipknot and then waited for a big wave. As it was tumbling me about underwater, I tugged off my top and hid it under the rock. It was a strange sensation feeling my boobs float free in the water unconfined. I came up for air and sputtered a bit, then “realized” that my top was missing. I covered myself with my hands and ducked back into the water. I pretended to frantically look around for my missing garment.

I squatted down in the shallowest water that would still guard my modesty, and then grabbed a boob in each hand and blushed my cutest shade of pink. I waved and shouted to get Hiram’s attention and then beckoned him over as close as possible without getting wet.

I looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes and said, “I guess I should have taken your warning more seriously. The undertow ate my top.” I let my fingers slip a little. “I know we just met, but you’re still the only one I know around here. Could you do me a big favor and go get my towel for me? I’m not sure how I can get it and still keep everything covered.” I lifted one finger and pointed. “It’s the big red one on that green striped blanket over there.”

He looked in the direction I was indicating, but then turned back to me. “I’m not sure where you mean, but I can help you.” His next action surprised me. He suddenly became more gallant than I’d given him credit for and pulled off his shirt and handed it to me. “Take this.” He even turned his back to me so I could put it on without him peeking. It’s a good thing he was a heavy guy and his t-shirt fit over my chest. It was gray and had the Harvard “Veritas” shield on it in dark red.

I thanked him with a little hug and then led him to my blanket. I insisted that he let me put some sunblock on him since he’d lost his protection for me. He was pasty white and flabby and probably the last person you’d want to see without a shirt, but I rubbed sunblock on him as though he were an Abercrombie model. Somewhere around there he noticed that I’d just gotten out of the ocean when he gave me his shirt and when you put a light-colored t-shirt on a pair of damp breasts, magic happens. It was sort of cute when he tried not to notice.

I asked if I could get him a cup of chowder from the snack hut down the beach as a reward. He said that if I really wanted good chowder there was a better place in town for it, and I decided to interpret that as a hint. When we parted company, he’d agreed to take me out to his favorite chowder restaurant for dinner. I told him where I was staying and he went back down to where Chryssie was waiting (he didn’t want to hurt her paws on the hot sand so she stayed at the water’s edge) and jogged back toward his beach house.

I went back to my hotel room and did a little happy dance. I’d confirmed my target and was well on my way to luring him in. I spent a couple of hours getting ready, but still made him wait a little when the front desk rang my room that my guest had arrived.

I made a stunning entrance. I was in a white cotton dress with a plunging scoop neckline and rows of eyelet lace on the hem. I’d chosen a bra with just a little extra cleavage enhancement, and hung a sparkly diamond pendant around my neck, to keep his attention down there. My hair was pulled back into a ponytail so that I could show off more gemstones in my ears. I’d chosen expensive jewelry so that my date would know I had experience interacting at his level.

My makeup was glamorous, with thick black lashes, wide eyes, and full, glistening lips. I strode sensually across the lobby in my three-inch heels to greet my date. He got a full dose of my chosen scent, jasmine and sandalwood with just a hint of female pheromones, a moment or two before I reached him.

He understatedly told me I looked great, and I lied and said he cleaned up pretty good himself. In fact, he looked fairly boring in topsiders, Dockers, and a baby blue polo shirt. I took his arm and told him to lead the way.

His car was not as luxurious as I’d expected. It was a fairly common middle-class minivan. He must have chosen it because Chryssie’s crate fit nicely in the back. She wasn’t with us, but the smell of her was; I just had to train myself to ignore it.

The restaurant was in a building that must have been there for a couple hundred years. The décor was classy without seeming too pretentious. Most of the other people dining there were casually dressed. I turned a few heads when we were shown to our table, but Hiram didn’t seem to notice. He ordered for us, selecting a crisp white wine and an entrée of lobster tails to go along with our chowder. The food was delicious. He was probably right about it being the best chowder on the Cape.

We had a pleasant conversation over dinner. I told him my story, about how I’d lost my job in Philadelphia and had been without a boyfriend for six months or so, and so had come to Boston to get a fresh start. I said that I’d originally planned on coming here with a girlfriend, but she’d met a guy and had decided to stay behind. So as a result I was then all alone in a new city.

Hiram said he had a hard time believing that someone like me had any trouble finding a boyfriend. I played dumb and asked him what he meant, and he got all shy and told me I was funny and nice and that I had to know how attractive I was. He said I had beautiful eyes, and that was especially nice to hear even though he wasn’t the first to say that. I didn’t tell him but many men have found my emerald-green eyes captivating, and it gives me a kick since my eyes are just about the only piece of original equipment I have left that people can see.

I told Hiram that my last long-term boyfriend and I had dated for almost a year, and had nearly gotten engaged. But he’d broken it off with me when he found out I couldn’t have children. Hiram put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder, and told me that there were plenty of men out there who weren’t looking to start a family, and he should know because he was one of them. I smiled at him and he became aware that he was still touching me and pulled his hand back.

Of course, I’d already known he didn’t want to have kids; Trixie had told me. But we needed to make sure that I let him know I couldn’t get pregnant so that he wouldn’t try to get our eventual marriage annulled. It also gave me something to fall back on if he tried to come after me for fraud. I would be able to say, “I told you on our first date that I didn’t have a uterus, and you met me on the beach in Provincetown. How could you not realize that I was a transsexual?”

To change the subject, I said that I’d chosen Boston because I’d always been interested in early American history, and Boston had almost as much of that as Philly. Hiram was playfully offended by that statement. In what seemed to him like a happy coincidence, he was also a student of the Revolutionary period, and he was able to counter all my examples of Philadelphia’s significance with something in Boston. It took me about six different ways of dropping the hint until we made a date for him to show me around the historic sites of his city the following Saturday.

I would have preferred to make our second date sooner, but Trix had warned me that he was very nervous around women, and I didn’t want to appear to be coming on too strong. He drove me back to my hotel and I gave him a quick peck on the cheek when he walked me to the door.

***

So the next weekend, we went walking around the city along this route known as the “Freedom Trail.” It covered a number of historical sites. Hiram called and suggested we meet at the Constitution. I played innocent and told him I thought that was on display down in Washington, and gave a playful laugh when he explained that it was the oldest ship in the US Navy. I agreed to meet him there and then looked up on my computer that the closest subway station was ten blocks away. Oh well, the exercise would do me good.

Since we’d be walking all day, I wore comfortable sneakers, but I also wanted to look pretty and feminine, so I dressed in a nice breezy tank dress that was cut wide, so my sports bra wouldn’t show. I applied an ample amount of sun block, and wore a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. I looked casual and not too touristy.

The U.S.S. Constitution was actually kind of cool. It was intriguing to think that it had been rebuilt many times, but was still the same boat, kind of like me. I also enjoyed that it wasn’t a bad thing that in flats I was almost six inches shorter than Hiram. The ship was built tight, so he had to keep ducking his head. One time he smacked his forehead on a beam when he wasn’t looking and it wasn’t so funny, but I did offer to kiss his boo-boo and make it better.

After wandering around the old navy yard, we followed the Freedom Trail signs to the Bunker Hill Monument. Despite being kind of doughy, Hiram had decent pace and stamina as a walker. That was probably thanks to Chryssie. I asked him why she wasn’t with us, and he said he didn’t want to have to tie her up outside every time we went into a building. I thanked him for giving up his day at the beach for me.

The Bunker Hill Monument was just another obelisk, but I impressed him by pointing out that I knew the Battle of Bunker Hill had actually been fought on Breed’s Hill, and asked which hill the monument was on. He said he was glad that I wasn’t just another dumb blonde, and I rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek.

Then we walked twelve blocks and over a bridge and then another two blocks and got to one of the oldest cemeteries in the city. It wasn’t the most romantic of places, but it was easy for me to act all girly and comment on how sweet it was when couples got to be next to each other for eternity, or how sad it was when small children died. Hiram had been there before, and led me to the graves of some significant historical figures, but only a couple of them were names I recognized.

A couple blocks over was The Old North Church, the place where Paul Revere’s “one if by land, two if by sea” lanterns had been hung. I teased Hiram that he was a fast operator; it was only our second date and he’d already gotten me to the altar. He blushed, and I think he hadn’t appreciated that what we were doing was a date. It also seemed like he only then realized that I’d been holding his hand since the bridge. But he didn’t try to let go, so I think he liked it.

The next stop on the trail was Paul Revere’s house. It was a really tiny place for someone so important. I was already familiar with his work as a silversmith, from a counterfeit antiques scam I’d been involved with a while back, and had fun showing off to Hiram all the technical terms I knew.

It was eight blocks to our next destination, and I was starting to get tired and hungry. Fortunately that destination was Faneuil Hall, an old colonial meeting hall that was right in the middle of the Quincy Market tourist trap, full of shops and restaurants. He bought me lunch at a nice Caribbean seafood place. I had a nice flounder and a glass of sweet white wine. One thing you can say about chubby guys; they really know how to pick restaurants.

I told him that I was really enjoying his company, and I hoped that there was more of his city he’d like to show me, since I really wanted to see him again. That was almost too blunt for him to handle, and it became even clearer to me why he was still single despite being worth a fortune; he was seriously flawed when it came to relating to women (or reasonable facsimiles thereof). I had to guess and assume that he was interested in me, but really, who wouldn’t be?

We walked together to the nearest subway station, but we needed to get on different trains. We made a plan to go out in the evening the following Thursday, and I gave him a kiss full on the lips, but he wouldn’t open his mouth.

***

I was settling in nicely at Romano Fitzgerald. I was friendly and nice to everyone, without being that annoyingly perky person no one likes. And I presented myself as pretty without coming across as overtly sexual. I was appropriately respectful of my place at the bottom of the pecking order and the other girls in the clerical staff soon accepted me. I offered to do the chores they didn’t want, like fetching coffee or refilling the paper tray on the copy machine. I wasn’t looking to steal anyone’s job or man, so they didn’t treat me as horribly as they would most temps.

And the architects got along with me because I could tell the difference between harmless playful flirtation and sexual harassment, and I gave as good as I got. Just to make things clear, I frequently talked about my boyfriend so they knew I was only kidding around. I was pretty sure Hiram didn’t know he was my boyfriend yet, so I never named him, only making a vague reference to “one of the most eligible bachelors in the city.”

Our third date was at the Museum of Fine Art. He picked me up at home and I was elegantly dressed in a nice emerald green dress that showed off my eyes. Another man would have torn it off me right then and there, but not my Hiram. He was a perfect gentleman.

The museum was amazing. I could have spent days there. Hiram was a member, and said that he’d take me again any time I wanted, so I didn’t need to rush and try to see it all at once. I decided to start with the European Old Masters. Art had always fascinated me, maybe since I was constantly revising my personal façade. We strolled through the gallery, and I took Hiram’s arm and leaned up into him

At one point he got a weird look on his face and he said the next painting was his favorite, but he seemed kind of ashamed to say it. It was a portrait of an old Italian merchant family, and I wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed by it. I told him that the artist was good enough that you could tell from their faces that these people loved each other, so I wasn’t sure why he was uncomfortable about liking it. He said he didn’t want to seem like he was bragging, and pointed out that the plate identified the painting as “on loan from the Chillington collection.” I was wowed. That painting had to be worth thousands if not millions.

I acted surprised. “I knew that you dressed nice and had a pedigreed dog and a second house on the beach, but I didn’t realize that you were ‘priceless painting that you keep in a museum’ rich! But you probably think I’m some kind of gold digger or something.” I put a quiver in my lower lip. “Please don’t think I was only going out with you because of money. I really like you, and I would hate for this to be our last date. You’re funny, you’re smart, and I feel like I can talk to you about all kinds of stuff.”

It was Hiram’s time to worry. “But you can do so much better than me! I mean, just look at you.” He waved his hand at me, gesturing like a spokesmodel showing off a new car. “You are breathtakingly beautiful.” Then he waved at his own body. “I am lumpy and blah.”

I brushed my hand across his cheek. “Sweetie, you are infinitely more interesting than any shallow gym rat who spends all his free time working on his abs. Guys like you are way more my type.” I pulled his lips to mine and kissed him, gently parting my lips and poking my tongue towards his. He started out stiff, but eventually began to respond to my passion with his own. We were seriously making out when a security guard came in and shooed us out of the gallery. I giggled and made a pit stop in the ladies’ room to fix my lipstick before we left.

We had drinks and a late light meal at this cozy club with a live jazz band. I pushed our chairs together and made put his arm around me as we finished our sandwiches. I kissed him some more, but he didn’t want us to get thrown out of two places in one evening, so he tried to keep it tame.

After he drove me home, I tried to entice him to come up for a visit, but he claimed he had to get up early for work. So I just gave him my toe-curlingest good night kiss and sent him on his way.

***

Our next date was a Sunday afternoon picnic in Chryssie’s favorite city park. I wore a pair of tight capris that showed off my new ass but were murder on my boy parts, light canvas sneakers, and a spaghetti cami with a built-in bra. As I was leaving my apartment, I happened to pass my nice neighbor Chris, the guy who’d helped me with my furniture those weeks before. I smiled and said hi to him, but he had to do a double take before he recognized me. My figure was completely different than when he’d seen me, but I could tell that he wasn’t sure exactly what looked different about me.

He said, “If I’d known you cleaned up that good, I’d have asked you out back when I met you in your grungy sweats.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” Just because I could, I twisted the knife. “I probably would have said yes. But you’re too late now. I’m off to the park for a picnic lunch with my boyfriend, hence the basket of goodies that I am carrying.”

Chris grumbled, “Just my luck,” and kicked a wall, then scampered off to his apartment, probably to masturbate to a mental image of me.

Chryssie, Hiram, and I had a fun time playing Frisbee and eating finger sandwiches. She preferred her roast beef sandwiches without bread or condiments. As I lay on top of my beau kissing him and feeding him grapes, I could feel his erection pressing against me, so I let him dry hump me a little as we played tonsil hockey.

It was also at that date that I officially became Hiram’s girlfriend. (And I suppose he became my boyfriend, although I’d been calling him that from Day One.) We agreed that it was kind of fast, but it felt right. I told him that I was ready to be exclusive with him, and he jumped at the chance to make the same statement.

***

He still had yet to accept an invitation to come in for a cup of coffee at the end of our dates, so I forced him to enter my apartment by insisting that he let me cook dinner for him as our next date.

I prepared a nice meal of lemon-basted chicken breasts, baby potatoes, and fresh sugar snap peas, with fresh strawberry shortcake for dessert. He brought an excellent bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses. Our conversation was fairly intellectual for most of the meal, but when I got to the dessert, I spoke nothing but double entendres and sucked the cream of my strawberries as sexually as humanly possible, but Hiram still didn’t seem to be taking the hint.

We retired to the loveseat after eating, and our tongues spent some more time getting to know each other. Since we weren’t in public this time, I ran my hands along his body and encouraged him to do the same to me.

We kissed and cuddled for a good while, and he was getting a little too into the kiss and gave my left breast a little squeeze as his hand brushed by. He realized what he’d done and jerked his hand away like I was on fire. I reached out and grabbed both of his wrists and pulled him close to me. I wasn’t letting him get away that easily.

I purred, “Baby, you’re my boyfriend; you’re allowed to touch me.” I brought his hands up to the back of my neck and guided them through untying the back of my dress and then brought his hands to my chest and pulled the top of my dress down. I was naked from the waist up, and he wasn’t sure what to do with a boob in each hand. He tentatively stroked my nipples and I let out a little moan of pleasure to urge him on.

Maybe I’d subliminally suggested it when I called him “Baby.” He brought his mouth to my breast and started suckling at it, while still using his hand on the other one. I grabbed his butt and made him think I was getting into it more that I really was.

He was also rubbing his body against me, and I think he accidentally went off in his pants because he suddenly stopped what he was doing and ran to the bathroom, and when he came out he was ready to go home. Still topless, I walked him to the door and caught him in one last embrace before he left. I had a good feeling that this job was going to be a successful one.

We started dating more frequently after that, sharing most of our dinners. I was over at his place so often, Horace his doorman recognized me when I came in and didn’t need to ask me which apartment I was visiting.

After I’d given him permission to steal second base, every one of our dates at some point would involve a lot of titty-sucking. This guy had a serious oral fixation, and I’m sure he must have been a bottle baby. But it wasn’t all bad; he was pretty good with his tongue. On several occasions he got me very turned on, and I was glad the hormones were keeping me from getting aroused. That would definitely have blown the whole deal.

After one of our sessions of breast appreciation, Hiram’s hands started to wander south. I told him that I wasn’t quite ready to take that step in our relationship, but I didn’t want to leave my guy feeling frustrated. I unfastened his pants and freed the obvious erection from his boxers. He wasn’t particularly long, but he had a sizeable girth. I let myself appear to be as excited about that as a natural girl would have been. I was surprised that he was uncircumcised. I thought all those repressed WASP types were cut.

I started giving him a dry hand job, but then I appeared to have a brainstorm and licked my hands to give him a better sensation, as though I was just then inventing the technique I’d used on dozens of men in my days as a pro. My newly lubricated hands had no difficulty stimulating him to orgasm.

I pretended not to notice when he was about to shoot, and grabbed my tissue a couple seconds too late. It was kind of messy and I was forced to wipe my sticky hands on the nearest available surface, which incidentally happened to be my bare chest. He seemed fascinated by my indirect pearl necklace, but he never got up the nerve to try applying it himself.

***

We’d been dating for about six weeks when he surprised me with a Friday evening date of his own devising. He started by taking me to the priciest restaurant in town for a filet and a lobster. Over dinner he told me a story about how he’d been lost and alone before he met me, and that he’d gotten so desperate he’d gone to see a fortune teller. I said I didn’t believe it. He said Madame Zaria had told him he’d meet the love of his life walking his dog on the beach, and she’d be a beautiful blonde who’d have an accident with her yellow bikini. He said he’d never really believed it was possible until he saw me lose my top. And the more he got to know me, the more he knew he was absolutely, positively, without a doubt falling head over heels in love with me.

I said that I had thought I was so over guys after my last relationships had gone sour, but there was something about him that let me know I could trust him, and that he’d never want to hurt me. I told him that I think it was when we’d been to Paul Revere’s church that I’d realized I loved him, but I wasn’t going to be the first one to say it this time.

We kissed and skipped dessert.

He had another surprise when we left the restaurant. A horse-drawn carriage was waiting there for us. We got in and he drove us along the Common, to a spot where a string quartet was set up under a pavilion tent, for a private concert just for us. We waltzed for a couple songs, and then he led me to a chair where I could sit. But he did not take the chair beside me. Instead, he nodded to the musicians so that they stopped playing, and then he got down on one knee in front of me and retrieved a small box from his pocket.

He held out the open box, revealing a marquise-cut diamond of at least four carats set in an elaborately filigreed band of white gold. “Honey, I know we haven’t known each other very long, and yet it feels like I’ve known you all my life. And I would love to spend the rest of my life getting to know you even better. So I’m asking, Quinn Lee Turner, will you marry me?”

I covered my mouth with my hands and let a couple tears run down my cheeks. I smiled widely. “Oh, yes! Hiram Chillington, I will marry you!” He struggled to put the ring on my finger and then I pulled him up to me for a kiss. The quartet struck up a romantic tune, and we had a slow dance while our lips were still attached.

We went back to his place, and I demonstrated my appreciation. I stripped his pants, pushed him down into his favorite chair in the parlor, and sucked him dry. I didn’t use every trick in my arsenal; I didn’t want him wondering where he girlfriend, no wait, his fiancée, learned such amazing oral technique. I even gave him a brief moment of contact with my teeth, and forced myself to choke a little when he came. It was still probably the best head he’d ever gotten, even though it was far from the best I’d given. I spent the night and cuddled with him, but I claimed that it was my time of the month and kept my panties on. Fortunately I had a pad in my purse to make my story more believable.

As soon as I got home the next day, I texted Trixie, “Mission accomplished.” Although perhaps like George W, I was a bit premature. And engagement is not a wedding, and there was still plenty of work to do.

It turns out that was unnecessary anyway. Hiram took me out to lunch to celebrate our engagement, and then brought me to “Madame Zaria’s” to introduce us. I showed her my ring and thanked her for whatever she did that had brought us together. Hiram asked her to give me a reading, (I later learned he’d secretly asked her to make sure I definitely was the one) and we disappeared into the back room.

I wanted to just giggle like a schoolgirl at how well our plan was working, but since Hiram might have been lurking outside the doorway, Trixie did her swami mumbo jumbo and decided that the spirits were pleased with me. I thanked her again and gave her a hug and asked if she’d like to be invited to the wedding.

***

As far as the wedding plans went, I told him that my only family was an elderly aunt who didn’t travel, so I didn’t need a big fancy ceremony in a half-empty church. We aimed toward a small service on the beach at Provincetown, with a minister friend of Hiram’s and only a couple of friends in attendance.

I’d shown off my ring at the office and had no trouble getting the girls to agree to be my bridesmaids, and that meant going through all the silly bridal rituals with them. We spent a number of weekends trying on dresses.

I was very happy with the wedding gown I chose. It was white satin and had a decadently plunging sweetheart neckline, but there was an overdress of Irish lace that gave the illusion of modesty. Since we’d be outside, I didn’t get a train, but it had a full bell skirt that required a huge crinoline.

The dress we settled on for the bridesmaids was satin like mine and with a slightly more demure neckline, but with a knee-length skirt. For ease of coordinating with the groomsmen and to increase the likelihood of reusing the dresses, we decided on black.

***

I’d thought everything was proceeding well, but then out of the blue I got a call from Trix. “We have a problem, Pie.”

My heart sank. “What happened? Is Chillington onto us?”

Her voice wasn’t quite as panicked as mine. “No, not quite that severe. But he has been to see me for another reading. He wanted to make sure I’d sensed his future correctly. He’s got a feeling you’re holding something back, and is worried that you’re not as into the relationship as he is.”

I was relieved, but only slightly. “Okay, so I need to be more affectionate. I can do that.”

“Well, I’m not sure you can.” She paused for what seemed like forever. “He said that he knew you’d been intimate with previous boyfriends, and wanted to know why you two hadn’t had sex yet. I told him that when a woman’s heart is set on a guy, she’ll usually wait to be sure she’s ready, even if she’s had empty flings in the past that didn’t mean anything. I said that I had a good feeling that you’d be coming around soon. So I bought you some time, but I’m not sure how you can pull it off without getting a full-on sex change operation.”

I chuckled. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ve got a few more tricks I can try. Besides, even if I wanted to, I don’t think there’s anywhere I could get a doctor to build me a vagina on short notice.”

Trix sounded doubtful. “I’m sure you’ve got ways to have sex with him, but can you really convince him that you’re genuinely female.”

My confidence was coming back. We were in my wheelhouse now. “You ever see one of those Jerry Springer episodes where a large-framed ‘woman’ says to her boyfriend, ‘Baby, there’s something you don’t know about me?’ Those girls have had sex with their guys without them finding out. Now I admit that those guys are usually idiot yahoos and Hiram’s a Harvard-trained MBA, but the principle is the same. You ever see the movie M. Butterfly? That one was based on a true incident, where the French ambassador to China fell in love with a transvestite opera singer and their romance lasted for years before they were both jailed for spying. She even claimed he got her pregnant and procured a baby to prove it. You can’t say that guy was an idiot yahoo; he was just ignorant to the fact that all parts in Chinese operas are performed by male actors.” I laughed again. “Don’t worry. I’ve taken guys to bed before without them finding out the truth. But thanks for the heads up.”

So I knew I needed to ramp up the intensity of my relationship with Hiram. First things first, I got Dr. Sebastian to take me off the hormone patch. If my fiancé was going to see me mostly naked, I didn’t want him noticing it and asking if I was secretly quitting smoking or something. And switching to an oral version gave me more control of my dosage and I’d be more easily able to step it down gradually.

After another nicely romantic date of dinner and a moonlight stroll, we went back to his place for one of our usual rounds of serious necking and heavy petting. His kissing technique was definitely improving, and he was still very good at stimulating my nipples. I very nearly let him jump my bones right there, but I wasn’t quite prepared. Instead I gave him what I was sure was the best blow job he’d ever gotten.

When I finished, I popped a breath mint and then snuggled into his lap. I whispered in his ear, “I love you,” and then gave him a big wet kiss. When I came up for air I said, “Honey, I’ve been thinking.” I playfully messed his hair with one hand and rubbed his chest with my other. “We’ve been dating for a while, and even though we’re not married yet, I think it’s about time we had an overnight date.” He smiled at the idea and I kissed him again. “I think it would be perfect if I joined you and Chryssie at your beach house next weekend. It’s where I learned you were my knight in shining armor.” I felt a poking beneath me, so at least part of him thought the plan was a good one. Eventually his mouth was able to form words and he agreed that it was an excellent idea.

I went on a liquid-only fast for three days before my romantic weekend. I needed to be as clean as possible for Hiram. I slipped some secret supplies into a compartment in the bottom of the suitcase I packed for the trip. On Friday evening, I took a taxi instead of driving myself, since the insane Boston cabbies could get me home faster. I spent an hour changing out of my work clothes and dressing for my date, but all Hiram noticed when he came to pick me up was that my green silk dress wasn’t quite appropriate for the office.

We drove out to his place on the Cape and let Chryssie out to play in the yard, and then he gave me a quick tour of the place. It was a beautiful old house with more rooms than I’d pictured in a “beach house.” Even if I wasn’t pretending to be interested in history, I would love to spend time exploring the place; there were so many fine quality antiques that I might be able to sell once I legally became the lady of the house. I made sure he noticed me leaving my overnight bag in his bedroom and not any of the guest suites.

We had dinner back at the site of our first date. I had a sole that was succulent and extra delicious because it was the first solid food I’d had in days, and another cup of their chowder. I ordered a scrumptious chocolate mousse for dessert, too! I needed the energy from the sugar rush for my project that evening.

Back at the beach house, Hiram surprised me with a chilled bottle of champagne, which suited my plan beautifully as I wanted him to get more drunk than usual. We sipped and kissed for a while. I passed him several ounces of alcohol as I kissed him. When he seemed ready, I excused myself and took my purse into the bathroom. I douched and lubricated my backdoor. Then I double-checked my crotch in the mirror to make sure the adhesive was holding up and that I looked reasonably authentic. I then put my dress back on and then touched up my hair and makeup.

I walked out to where I’d left Hiram in the parlor. I stood in the doorway and waited for him to notice. When he finally looked up I reached around behind my back and unzipped my dress the rest of the way, and let it drop to the floor. Hiram’s eyes popped. I just stood there in my sheer black bra and matching thong panty, with a coordinating garter belt attached to silk stockings, and still wearing my four-inch pumps. I curled a beckoning finger at him, and then turned and began to walk away, putting plenty of swivel into my hips to show off my tasty new ass.

He caught up with me at the foot of the stairs. He started to say something but I turned around laid a delicately manicured finger on his lips to let him know this little game would be played silently. I then pointed at myself and swept my finger around, then pointed at him all over, and then waved my finger to indicate that he’d been naughty. I started unbuttoning his shirt, and he eventually figured out that I was telling him to get as undressed as I was. To reward him, I unclasped my bra and dropped it to the floor before turning back to climb the stairs.

I lingered at the top of the staircase to watch him come up. He’d stripped down to that ever-popular and oh-so-sexy combination of undershirt, boxer shorts and black socks. Why do all rich white guys think that’s an appropriate look? I thought about his bank account and licked my lips hungrily. I wiggled out of my thong (always run your garters under your panties when you’re planning a striptease) and let him catch a peek at my simulated vulva, and then strutted into the bedroom. Fortunately, Hiram closed the door behind himself so we didn’t have to worry about Chryssie interrupting us.

I’d pulled back the covers on the bed and set the lights dim and had soft music playing. He tried to make me get in bed, but I spun and pushed him onto it first. I straddled his waist and pretended that I needed some foreplay. I brought his hands up to my breasts and let him play with my nipples. So he’d know my vow of silence had expired, I let out a few moans of pleasure and they weren’t all fake.

I put my hands under his t-shirt and ran them up his doughy stomach and flabby chest. I got the impression that he didn’t want to see his naked body any more than I did, and that actually worked nicely with my plan. I got up and turned the lights off completely, and then returned to the bed where I finished undressing him.

By this point his thick penis was very erect. I got back on top of him and guided him into my tight, wet hole. I made a couple gasps to let him know I was impressed with his size. We started slowly, but easily found a good rhythm that grew in speed and intensity as we went. He was a very conscientious lover; he brought me to three fake orgasms and unexpectedly one actual one before allowing himself release.

I felt him soften inside me and held him there for a moment, then I leaned forward and let him fall out of me. We kissed and cuddled a little and exchanged declarations of love, and then I rolled off of him. I pulled out the towel I’d stashed under the bed and wiped him off. The lubricant I use is supposedly designed to mimic a woman’s natural juices and I laced it with pheromones, so I didn’t need to be too careful about getting him completely clean. If he happened to catch a scent or taste of what I’d gotten on him, it would only support my illusion.

I handed him his underwear so he could get dressed again, and then went into the bathroom to clean myself up. I removed my shoes, stockings, and garter belt. I wanted to take a shower, but thought that might make Hiram feel self-conscious or worse make him want to join me. So I did the best I could and cleaned myself off with a soapy washcloth after douching so I wouldn’t leak. I dissolved the adhesive and turned my genitals back into male ones for a bit while I made sure any evidence of my own fluids was cleaned up. I let the boys hang out while I removed my makeup and moisturized my skin. Then I tucked it all back into place and re-glued everything down. I took one of the pain pills I had leftover from my surgery to deal with the discomfort of having my testicles retracted all night, and then slipped on my sexy sheer lace nightgown with matching g-string and returned to the bedroom to snuggle with my fiancé as we slept.

To avoid him seeking morning sex, I programmed my internal clock to wake up early. Just after dawn, I got dressed in a sports bra, tight little shorts, and sneakers and I took Chryssie for a run on the beach. I left Hiram a little note in case he woke up while we were gone, and we returned to find him in the kitchen cooking a delicious breakfast for us. He kissed me hello and told me I was beautiful. I modestly protested that I was sweaty and was wearing practically no makeup. He said I’d look gorgeous in nothing, and chose to interpret it the naughty way and blushed.

After breakfast, he had to brush Chryssie’s fur to make sure she hadn’t picked up any burrs, and I slipped out to take a shower before he got a chance to offer to scrub my back. I put on a simple blue sundress with a halter neckline that Hiram would be able to untie if he wanted to play with my boobs, and pulled my hair back with a coordinating ribbon.

We spent a lazy morning in the house. I made him tell me all about his memories from time he spent there. He recounted a few episodes for me, but was curious as to why I wanted to know. I said that he was important to me, and I wanted to know everything about him. I added that I was especially interested in his family because they’d soon be my family too, and I pointed at my ring.

While he was cleaning up our lunch, I snuck upstairs and broke my enema bottle out of my bag and gave myself a thorough cleansing. I called out to him that I wanted to go to the beach, but then I walked in wearing my yellow bikini bottoms and acted as if I’d only just realized that I hadn’t gotten around to get a new swimsuit. I asked if he had any ideas on what we could do instead.

The room had a little more light than it had had the night before, even with the curtains closed, but he still didn’t seem to notice that he wasn’t fucking a vagina. He wanted a shower afterwards, but I claimed that I liked having his scent on my skin and skipped it.

In the afternoon, I had him show me his favorite places around town. We had Chryssie with us, so we were limited to places within walking distance, but it still seemed like an interesting little town.

In our pillow talk after lovemaking that evening, I made sure he was okay with letting me be on top. I said it was my favorite position, and also I was worried that he might not be as comfortable if he had to support his body on his arms the whole time. I made up a story about having a boyfriend back when I was in college with a similar body type to Hiram’s (to further underscore the idea that he was my type) and his arms would cramp up all the time and he’d just collapse on top of me and that wasn’t fun for anyone. Hiram didn’t seem to feel insulted by that, particularly when I pointed out that my preferred position left his hands free to “do stuff.”

We had a few more overnight dates back in the city the next week, usually at his place so he wouldn’t have to leave Chryssie alone. Over time he grew more comfortable with my body, confidently grabbing my butt when we kissed, or letting his fingers seek out a nipple. But there was an area I kept his hands away from, and he was starting to notice.

***

Trixie called me again and said that we had a more serious problem this time. She told me that Hiram had been back to see her about me, and it took him forever to explain what was bothering him. He said the sex was great, which Trix still had trouble believing, but I told her that penises are fairly easy to fool. Give them a warm, moist place and they’re happy. Anyway, she said that Hiram was getting frustrated because I wouldn’t let him finger me, and apparently it really bothered him that I was okay with blowing him but I wouldn’t let him reciprocate. I should have realized that a guy that orally fixated wouldn’t be satisfied with a pussy he couldn’t go down on. She said he was questioning whether I was truly the one he was supposed to marry. I was totally screwed. I couldn’t think of a way to fix the situation.

Trixie tried to cheer me up. “There is a way we can fix this.” I looked at her blankly. “I wasn’t sure if you were serious before, so I looked into seeing if I could find a surgeon who’d give you a sex change operation, and I found a guy.”

Whoa. This was a big step I really wasn’t sure I wanted to take. “What do you mean? I’ve really got to think it over, but I do know that I need to know more than just whether a doctor is available to choose him to perform major surgery on me.”

“I was websearching and found this doctor in Thailand with fairly reasonable prices, and he comes highly recommended. Their website had testimonials from many satisfied customers, and some of them linked to those customers’ personal pages, and a couple of those were important members of legitimate transsexual support organizations, so I think they’re on the level.”

I was impressed by all the homework she’d done, so I had her email me the links and I opened them on my computer while she was still on the phone. “Can I take some time to think about this?”

“I called their office, and told them about you. They wanted a letter from a psychiatrist to say you’d lived as a woman for a year and still wanted the surgery, but I sent them some photos from when I’d met you a couple years ago, and photos of you today, and said that I thought you’d been living as a female for around twenty years. They said they could probably waive that requirement and just have you see their psychiatrist when you got there. Also, since you’d recently had a cosmetic surgery procedure, they said that if that doctor could send them your bloodwork, they’d be able to skip some preliminary tests. The best part was that they had a cancellation, and so there was an opening for next Tuesday. At least they did when I spoke to them yesterday. Someone else may have already snatched it up. There’s an eleven hour time difference, so their workday doesn’t start for another couple hours. You can use that to think. If you can’t come up with a better plan by then, I say go for it. Or say no and we’ll just scrap the whole project.”

I thanked Trix for her work and ended the call.. I’d already spent months and thousands and reshaped my body for this job, so I really didn’t want to drop it. If I had to start a new deal, I’m not sure I’d have time to land a big enough fish to get the Russians all the money they wanted. So saying no to this might mean I’d have to figure out how to hide deeply enough that Volkov couldn’t find me. Or possibly even figure out how to kill a former KGB agent before he could kill me.

I didn’t have any really good options. On the one hand, I’d be losing my entire self-concept — I’d always maintained that duality, that the feminine persona on the outside was just a mask in front of my true masculine self on the inside. But on the other hand, it seemed like my entire life had been pushing me in the direction of becoming a woman as completely as possible. It seemed inevitable.

I stripped and looked at myself in the mirror. Even with my junk dangling there, the person I saw looked nothing like a man. At best, I was a she-male, a pre-op tranny, a creature built for sex work and the fantasies of perverts. But really I looked more like a bad photoshop, a hot chick that someone had drawn a dick on. Or some kind of optical illusion where a woman was standing behind a penis floating in mid-air.

In a funny kind of way, I thought that I might have a better shot at a more normal life if I went all the way to the female side of the fence. I guessed that I’d probably have more luck finding a regular lesbian girlfriend than finding some kind of partial-bisexual girl who was into trannies.

If I was officially, legally and completely a woman, when I visited my dad in prison I’d be able to get searched by the nice female guard instead of the asshole male guard who always grabbed my breasts. At that was when they were AA’s — with my new D’s, he’d be unbearable.

And it would be more convenient to be fully female. I could wear tight pants without wincing, and wouldn’t need panties with extra-wide crotches any more. Those little bits of flesh caused more trouble than they were worth. Was the ability to pee while standing that important?

If I was going to be having sex with men anyway, it made more sense to have a body part made just for that purpose, rather than having to multitask. It would probably take less effort to keep clean.

The decision just seemed to make itself. There were so many reasons why going from partial male to complete female just made more sense. But I realized that I was crying anyway. Lousy hormones!

My stomach was full of rattlesnakes when I made the call. The nurse or receptionist or whoever it was that answers the phone spoke very good English. I’m not sure why that surprised me. I gave my name and said that my friend said she’d already told them about me, and she routed me directly through to the doctor. He asked me some questions, and I had some for him, and he agreed to email me a packet with some forms to fill out and fax back to him, and instructions on payment and other logistics.

I read the packet and it said I’d need to stay in Thailand for a couple weeks, but that there were still another couple weeks of recover before I’d be able to have sex. (I really didn’t want to think about what that meant, so I focused on planning the project and ignored its end result for the time.) That meant I’d have to hide somewhere for a couple weeks after coming back to the U.S. I did some web surfing for flight information, and looked like it would be easiest if I found somewhere on the West Coast for that, so that my flights to and from Thailand wouldn’t take forever.

I worked on coming up with a cover story, and decided that I’d go with mostly truthful, that I was a transsexual flying to Thailand for an operation, and I wanted to keep it a secret surprise for my fiancé. I figured that I’d have the best luck finding a sympathetic place to stay in San Francisco, so I googled for T-friendly beds & breakfasts in the Bay Area. I found a few and sent them emails asking for discretion and explaining my plan.

***

The next morning at work I went to Nora and asked if she could come with me to Sara’s office. Then I told them both that my only living relative, my Aunt Ursula, was having surgery on her knee and I wanted to go to San Francisco to be with her. I said I was really sorry; I’d stick out the rest of the week to help train my replacement. I loved working at Romano Fitzgerald, but family comes first. I said that I’d understand if they gave Thompson a bad review about my work. They bought my story and we all hugged and cried.

I called Thompson and told them the same story. They said they’d just suspend my contract; when I got back to town I could call them and I’d have to start all over again on working toward earning benefits, and I’d be at the bottom of the totem pole for placement.

After work, I checked my email and had some replies from B&Bs. One seemed sweet but didn’t have any vacancies. I settled for the second nicest, a place called “Rose Arbor.” I sent an email and then called them directly to make sure they were okay with helping me lie. The guy on the other end, a nice man named Armin with a Texas accent, said I was brave to go about fixing my body to match my mind, and that there was no problem using their address for my fake Aunt Ursula. I gave him a credit card number and he took my reservation.

My next step was to poke around and find the best rates for airfare. I got one round-trip ticket from Boston to San Fran, and a second one from there to Bangkok. I splurged and bought business class tickets, even though it left me very little money after processing a transfer of funds to the doctor and paying for my room in the B&B. I didn’t know how tender my sitting parts would be and I wanted to be comfortable on my return flights. I’d be getting my husband’s money soon enough, anyway.

The form from the doctor recommended traveling with a companion, since part of the time I’d be stuck in a foreign country immobilized for my recovery. I thought about it and decided to try to kill two birds with one stone. I called Volkov and told him my travel plans, and asked if he’d want to be my post-surgical companion, since he’d be following me anyway. He found my suggestion humorous, but agreed to do it. I called Armin back and had him change my room reservation to a double.

I told Hiram the “Aunt Ursula” story, and he was very supportive, and asked if there was anything he could do for me. He even offered to come with me, but I told him that wouldn’t be fair to Chryssie, and he’d be needed at his office; it would be horrible if we both ended up jobless. I spent a couple nights at his place just cuddling together. He really was a decent guy; maybe I’d stay married to him for a while instead of going for the quickie divorce.

The girls at work had a cake for me on Friday, since it was my last day. My replacement Ashley was a bit slow on the uptake, but it seemed like she’d be able to handle things. I was genuinely sad to be leaving the place. It had been a great place to work. I got a lot of hugs and went through a lot of tissues. Andy pulled me aside and said to let him know when I got back. He’d been considering offering me a full contract, and depending on how things went with Ashley it might still be a possibility. I thanked him and gave him the biggest hug of them all.

***

Saturday morning, Hiram drove me to the airport and we kissed so long on the sidewalk that the cars behind his honked their horns. I checked in and gave them my two suitcases, and they gave me my boarding pass and told me to proceed to the gate. I was using my Pennsylvania driver’s license for ID and hoped that I didn’t get selected for a cavity search and have to explain why I was smuggling sausage. I made it through security without any issues. I think the guard was disappointed that I didn’t need a pat-down.

I met up with Volkov at the gate, and he showed me that his boarding pass had him in the seat right next to mine. I couldn’t figure out it was possible that he had gotten there before me but had managed to get them to sit him next to me. Maybe it was just blind luck. He must have somehow pre-arranged to reserve a specific seat for me.

He tried annoying me by introducing me to the couple sitting nearby as his girlfriend. He also told them that the purpose of our trip was to get my penis cut off so that I could have sex with him. I willed my mortification away, and playfully told him not to make up stories like that. I said that he shouldn’t lie like that just in case these people knew my fiancé (flash the ring) and didn’t realize he was joking. I explained that we were old friends and he was coming with me to help tend my sick aunt.

It was a long trip. The food was disgusting, the movie was boring, and I had to spend the whole flight next to a smelly Russian. He’d ordered the Kosher meal, which either meant he was Jewish or he knew that the regular meal would suck. I’m not sure if my hormone levels needed adjusting, or if I was just irritable because I only had three days of manhood left. We landed at SFO a half an hour late and they made us wait another half hour until a gate opened up. I was shocked to see that nothing had happened to my baggage; both suitcases arrived in the right place, intact. Volkov traveled light, with only his carry-on. I wondered if that meant he was unarmed, but then again he might know some supersecret spy trick for getting a weapon onto a plane and I didn’t need to risk it.

We took a cab to Rose Arbor. I met Armin and his husband Leo, who ran the place together. They were a nice couple and told me that I was very feminine and extremely passable. I introduced them to my traveling companion, saying that he was going to be helping me with my recovery.

After a nice night’s rest, it was back to the airport. They let me leave my larger suitcase at the B&B. For this trip I’d have to use my Passport as ID, and it listed me as male, so I had to also carry a letter from Dr. Stone explaining that I was transgender and on my return flight I would be female. This made it take longer to get through every checkpoint, particularly customs, and was another thing that would be easier once I stopped being a half-and-half.

The flight to Bangkok wasn’t direct; we had to change planes in Taiwan. And that meant explaining my ID all over again, but it must be a common reason for going to Thailand, because they just scanned my letter briefly. The second flight was a scary one. We hit some bad weather and never seemed to shake it, and I couldn’t understand exactly what the flight crew were saying, but at least the food was good. My fingernails left marks in Volkov’s arm where I’d been squeezing it when the ride got bumpy. He hadn’t said anything about it, so he was either that tough or he had some sympathy for me.

The Bangkok airport was modern, but hectic. I was processed fairly quickly through customs, but Volkov’s Russian papers took longer. For a brief moment I considered trying to ditch him and go home, but I chose the safew course and waited for him.

The doctor’s office wasn’t actually in Bangkok, but had made arrangements to get me there. We had to go find a driver holding a sign that said “Q. Turner” and he took us out to his car, which wasn’t quite a limo but was nicer than I’d have expected in a Third-World country.

He knew a little English and pointed out some landmarks as we drove, but I was so tired I didn’t pay any attention. He took us to the guest house where we’d be staying, and a desk clerk took our names and showed us to our room. I was grateful that we had separate beds; I hadn’t been sure what kind of relationship they were assuming a patient would have with her companion. I made a minimal effort at getting dressed for bed and then crashed.

***

The next morning, the driver was back to take me to the medical center. In a rare act of chivalry, Volkov respected my privacy and declined to tag along. It was only a couple miles so I’m not sure why we needed to go by car, but I guess it made the operation seem classy.

I was brought to a reception desk that could have been in any medical office back in the States. I verified my name, and she brought me to a fairly typical-looking examination room. I took a seat and waited. Dr. Thamthanakom came in and introduced himself and shook my hand. He took the files I’d brought with me from Dr. Stone and Dr. Sebastian, and described the procedures he’d be doing, including every gory detail about splitting some parts open and turning others inside out. I tried to smile and make myself believe that it was what I wanted. Fortunately I was still so fried that he couldn’t tell whether he was reading doubt or exhaustion on me.

I had to remove my clothes and then he gave me a thorough examination. He seemed satisfied with the size of my genitals, and was pleased that they were hairless. I got dressed again, and he gave me a paper with some more instructions printed on it about what I needed to do the day before my surgery, and what I couldn’t do, like no alcoholic beverages and no solid foods after noon, and other stuff like that. Thai food had always been a favorite of mine, and to be in its actual country of origin but not allowed to eat any was sheer torture. As soon as I was done at the doctor’s office, I asked the driver to take me to a restaurant for an early lunch, but he assumed I’d want to go back and pick up Volkov first.

The driver not only brought me back to the guest house, but also said that the really good restaurants wouldn’t be serving lunch until later in the day, so I wasn’t going to get my feast that day. It would have to wait until after my surgery, when I was too sore to enjoy it. It seemed like such a small thing to be upset about when there was this larger thing about to happen to me, but being able to get lunch was like one thing I could control, but now that little thing was gone, and everything was spiraling out of control.

I thought about maybe going out and finding a prostitute, just to give my best friend one last chance at sex with a woman before he got chopped off. But I had to remember I was in Thailand, and the rest of my body would still have any diseases he caught, even after he was gone and I really didn’t want that. Plus, Volkov following me around kind of spoiled the mood. He even made it difficult for me to give the little guy one last date with Mary Palm and her five sisters.

In what would have been early evening San Francisco time and later evening Boston time, I called Hiram and told him I was mostly settled in, and Aunt Ursula would be having her surgery the next day; her doctor wasn’t anticipating any difficulties, but any time older people get anesthesia there is some risk. I told my Sweetie I missed him and we shared some sickeningly sappy sentiments. Volkov was eavesdropping and was making faces to get me to break character, so I threw a pillow at him. Hiram told me he loved me, and I responded in kind and then told him I’d probably be at the hospital for most of the next day and might not get a chance to call him again, but he’d be in my thoughts. After I said goodbye and hung up, I had to laugh at how much I’d been acting like a schoolgirl.

I was supposed to get a full night’s rest before my operation, but I had trouble sleeping. I was worried and frustrated and depressed all at once. I had to struggle to put all that aside and psych myself out. I had to focus on all the good things I’d be able to do after my reconfiguration, like how I’d have a much easier time swindling rich men out of their money if I could take them to bed, or how there would soon be nowhere that I couldn’t pass, be it a nude beach or a women’s locker room or even a gynecologist’s office..

I imagined how with this last stumbling block out of the way, I could marry Hiram and gain half a fortune just like that. Maybe I’d enjoy being a high society trophy wife, but if not I’d be able to use his connections to meet more men in his tax bracket and become mistress to them one by one, until I’d bled Boston’s blue-bloods dry.

I remembered talking to the girls in Miami, and how a couple of them had said that after their transitions, they’d become more interested in men sexually than when they’d just been crossdressers. I hoped something like that would happen to me, so maybe I’d end up enjoying sex with men more. I did know that my doctor had a reputation for making realistic-looking vaginas with a decent amount of sensation, so I had a good chance at getting more stimulation out of sex with a man, at least.

I did like being seen as a sexy woman, and this operation would only make me sexier. So there had to be at least some part of me that would like the new life I was about to start. I concentrated on that aspect of my personality and buried everything else deep down. By the time I fell asleep, I was actually kind of looking forward to my procedure and was very curious about how I’d look afterwards.

I overslept a little, but since I was supposed to dress in loose, casual clothes with no makeup or jewelry my morning routine took almost no time. I wasn’t even supposed to tuck my stuff up, so I picked a skirt with broomstick pleats that hopefully would camouflage any unwanted bulges. My top was a simple button-up blouse and my bra and panties were soft white cotton.

I was more nervous than I’d been before my other surgeries. I guess it was because this one seemed more permanent, even though they all pretty much altered my body in ways that weren’t quite reversible. I knew there were a couple of high-profile examples of men who had become women and then changed their minds and gone back to being men, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities that I could some day be a guy again. But the reality was that what I thought of as the last piece of the real me was about to go away. I pushed that thought out of my mind and imagined instead how amazingly sexy I would look on my wedding night, and pictured all the digits in my future husband’s bank balance. Somehow it was more comforting to consider that I wasn’t losing my manhood, I was selling it for somewhere in the nine-figure range. Put that way it felt like a fair trade.

The driver came and brought both Volkov and me to the medical center, so he could visit me when I came out. I had to sign some more forms, and then a nurse took me to a room where I undressed and put on a hospital gown. I was given some drugs and my memory of what happened next is a little hazy. I think I remember meeting the anesthesiologist and being sedated, but I might be mixing up this operation with one of the other ones.

What I do remember is waking up later that day in my recovery room feeling worn out. My throat was dry and my joints felt stiff. I could tell I’d been given some kind of narcotic, but there was still a tingly sensation in my pelvic area that felt sort of like I’d been having sex with a light socket. Not that I’d ever done that, it was just the first image that sprang to mind.

I wanted to get a look at what had been done to me, but a nurse caught me trying to sit up and stopped me, so that I wouldn’t accidentally tear my stitches. She made me lie back in bed, gave me a couple ice chips to suck on, and went to fetch the doctor to tell him I was conscious.

A couple minutes later, Dr. Thamthanakom was in my room. He peeked under my covers and seemed satisfied with what he saw. He told me to stay still and get some rest and he’d come back to check on me in an hour. I drifted off for a while then. Some time later, the doctor did come back, and he held a hand mirror up so I could see what I had down there without having to sit up. That first day all that was visible was a mass of gauze with a catheter tube sticking out of it. (It was another half day before I needed a nurse to show me how to use that.)

The first time my dressing was changed, it was like when a magician or a clown does that trick with a handkerchief, you know the one where he pulls it out of his pocket and there’s an endless chain of handkerchiefs tied together at the corners? He pulled a piece of gauze out of me, and then there was more gauze, and then more, and it was all coming out of me! Out from a place inside me that hadn’t existed until that day, too. It was hard to wrap my head around the concept.

With the dressing off, I got another look in the mirror. There was still a lot of swelling and some visible stitches, but it was a sort of familiar shape, although unfamiliar on my own body. He pointed to the various pieces. “This is your clitoris; here is the clitoral hood. Your urethra is over here now. These are your new labia majora and minora. And inside here is your vagina.” I blinked away a tear and just gaped. He looked me in the eye and smiled. “Yes, you are now a woman.” I was awestruck, more or less.

A nurse gave me a fresh dressing and then covered me back up, and then they brought Volkov in to see me. I was on too many painkillers to complain when he pretended to care about how I was doing. They gave Volkov a copy of my recovery instructions, and he patted my hand and told me he’d be back the next day to see how I was doing. I asked him to bring my phone, but when he did get it I still didn’t have enough energy to talk to Hiram so I just emailed him that Aunt Ursula got through her surgery okay, but I’d been very busy getting everything ready for her, and doing all kinds of housework that she’d been putting off. While I was at it, I also emailed Trix to let her know I was out of surgery.

I didn’t like being drugged out all the time, so I asked them to cut back my pain medication and switch me from a narcotic to an analgesic, like Dr. Stone had done with my last surgery. I told them that I could handle some amount of pain and discomfort, and I wanted to be able to feel how my healing was coming along. General numbness wasn’t telling me anything. Dr. Thamthanakom agreed, as long as I didn’t clench any muscles when things hurt, and he put me on a sleeping pill at night.

It was very weird when sensation started returning. I had to re-map my brain’s image of which parts were which. Like if I had a dull ache in my balls like I’d been kicked by a steel boot, I had to figure out whether that was a phantom pain in the testicles that had been removed, or if it was a pain in the scrotal flesh that had been rearranged to make most of my new vulva. Or when I’d get sharp pains as though someone had taken a nail gun to my penis, and I wasn’t sure if it was in the part that was now over here, or the part that was in there, or the part that got thrown away.

And it didn’t help that the medications I was taking was sending such vivid imagery to my brain. I don’t know if it was the sleeping pills, or the pain meds, or something related to the problem they were having getting my hormonal balance right, but something was sending my brain to a dark place and giving me creepy dreams. When I started to heal and my seams got itchy, I was forty percent sure there was a giant rat chewing on my crotch. (There wasn’t.)

Four days after my operation, a nice nurse pulled all the packing out from inside me and gave me a lesson in how to shove a plastic stent into my lady hole to stretch it out and keeping it from growing shut. It was very weird, and I could actually feel it touching me inside. The doctor was pleased to hear that, but personally I could care less. I wasn’t looking to be able to have sex for pleasure, just to be able to satisfy Hiram’s needs. My catheter was removed and I got an even more embarrassing lesson in how to pee.

Not long after that I got my stitches out, and the ghostly rat went away most of the time. I got to leave the hospital and return to the guest house. I just needed to come back daily for a checkup. I still felt worn out most of the time. Even though I was allowed to eat solid food again, I kept my meals fairly mild. I actually didn’t end up eating any really good spicy Thai dishes until my last few days there. I called Hiram every day, and I could tell he was missing me something awful. I tearily told him how lonely it was sleeping with no one to cuddle, and always made sure to send my love to Chryssie as well.

***

After two weeks in Thailand, it was time to go back to America. Dr. Thamthanakom said I was recovering nicely, and cleared me to fly. He gave me the name of a doctor in San Francisco in case I had any difficulties. And I got an additional letter to show to the customs agent, to explain why my passport said I was male but a strip search would demonstrate otherwise, but I had no problems at the airport. In fact, at both Bangkok and Taipei airports, Volkov got more hassle from the immigration officers than I did. The only incident I had in San Francisco was an impossibly long line.

Armin and Leo were very sweet, and happy to see me. I’d been in contact with them, so I knew that I had a big bouquet of red roses from Hiram waiting for me, but I hadn’t expected to find a giant “Congratulations, Quinn” banner hanging in their foyer and a fun cluster of “It’s a girl!’ balloons in my room. They wanted to take us out to dinner, but I was so fried from the flight that I took a raincheck.

There had also kindly unpacked for me the suitcase I’d left with them, so I didn’t even have to go rummaging through any bags to find a nightgown before I crawled into bed; they’d left my silk chemise right on the bed where I’d see it.

I wasn’t even thinking when I undressed and forgot Volkov was sharing the room. He saw everything, and I practically heard his jaw drop. He also let out a string of what I guess were Russian words, and regained his composure after I’d pulled my nightie on. He told me it was hard to believe I wasn’t always a girl. Of course he had to ruin it by adding that he still knew I’d always been a bitch

I took it very easy for a few days, barely going out much. Volkov was always hovering around, and wouldn’t even leave me alone when I needed to dilate. It was uncomfortable for me to do in the bathroom, so I just pretended he wasn’t there and let him watch, the perv!

I was a little more active after that and went to some touristy places to get pictures to send to Hiram. I told Hiram that Aunt Ursula was doing better, and I hoped to get back to him soon. I tried to get him to have a little phone sex, but he was too uptight and it just didn’t work. But it did get me thinking about him.

I asked my hosts to recommend a good shop for sex toys and the place they sent me was like in the gayest corner of the gayest neighborhood in the gayest city on the planet. Volkov was hilariously uncomfortable to be there. I took my own sweet time perusing the racks of dildos, until I found one that was the closest approximation of Hiram. I wanted to make sure he would fit before I got back to Boston. The cashier had read my companion’s body language, and told me that if I was planning on wearing a harness to use my new toy on my boyfriend, I’d be better off picking one with a socketed base. I laughed and pretended to think about it, and then declared, “No, I think I’d rather enjoy shoving it into him with my hand. Is that okay with you, Serge?” Volkov flushed so red I almost forgot who deathly afraid of him I was.

Hiram Junior was both longer and wider than my biggest stent, so I had to work my way up to him. It took me a few days, but I got him in. But my fella would be wanting to do more than just stick his cock in my pussy and hold it there. (The phrase “my pussy” still felt weird to say.) Hiram was going to want to fuck me. So once I’d gotten used to sticking a silicone penis into my body, I started using more lube and experimenting with how much thrusting I could handle. I went very slowly and gently at first, being careful not to tear anything.

But after nearly a week of using it, I got to where I could subject myself to some fairly rigorous action. And somewhere along the way I discovered that my clitoris worked, and these test drives turned into full-on masturbation sessions, with my other hand occasionally visiting my nipples.

During one such practice, Volkov came into the room from having taken a shower that expected to go longer. He saw what I was doing and said, “You don’t need to do that. If you want a man inside your pizda, you just have to ask. I can tell you if you screw like a real woman.”

I considered his offer for a moment. “If I have sex with you, will you cancel my debt?”

He chortled. “Your debt isn’t with me; it’s with Mr. Glubonin. It’s not in my power to cancel it.”

I squeezed my breasts in my hands and arched my back. “Well then I guess it’s your loss,” I said before turning my attention back to myself.

He tried to keep the upper hand. “I’ll leave my offer on the table. You’ll change your mind.” However, he went back into the bathroom and I heard the shower come on again. Cold water, no doubt.

So now besides trying to get my newly forged parts ready to be ravished by my fiancé, I had a new hobby: teasing Volkov. I wore the sexiest things I’d packed, and put extra effort into getting my hair and makeup right, just to frustrate him. Okay, so it wasn’t a particularly smart or safe thing to do. But I enjoyed messing with him, even if my impact on him was miniscule compared to how much my life had changed since he’d come into it.

My crowning achievement was when I’d gone out and bought myself a new cocktail dress that was scandalously small, and wore it out to a nightclub with absolutely nothing on beneath it. My nipples were enticingly obvious through the thin material, and I swear I could feel my lips touch the vinyl when I sat on a barstool. I got enough free drinks to get a cheerleader date-raped, and danced with a handful of cute guys. I grinded up against them in a way I never would have dared before my operation and poor Volkov had to watch it all without getting any play for himself.

I came this close to letting a guy follow me into the bathroom, but he noticed my ring and spotted the scary guy who’d been staring at me and put two and two together and got “get the hell away from the hot chick with the psycho boyfriend.” I sobered up and chose to go back to the B&B instead of finding another playmate. I was feeling kind of guilty about almost cheating on Hiram, and that freaked me out more than any of the physical changes that had happened to me. I think all the estrogen in my body was rewiring my brain. I had felt myself attracted to those guys, so I knew something was up with me. But I really didn’t have any time to figure it out.

***

My two weeks in San Francisco went by way too fast. I wasn’t sure if I was completely ready, but I already had my return ticket and my funds had dwindled to the point where I didn’t want to have to pay a fee to reschedule my flight. I called Hiram and told him I was coming home, but lied and gave him the wrong date. I wanted to surprise him.

I left California in the morning and arrived in Massachusetts in the early evening. I still had some sleeping pills left and I took one on the plane, so I was nicely rested by the time we landed. I lost track of Volkov somewhere in the airport and had to grab my own cab after getting my luggage.

When I got home, I had a quick bite to eat and then took a shower. After moisturizing all over, I just stood naked in my closet trying to find a sexy outfit to knock Hiram’s socks off. I flirted with the idea of heels and a trenchcoat, but there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t be alone. If my life was a sitcom, I’d do it and then end up interrupting a dinner party with his brother’s family or something.

So I wanted a look that was sexy without being too slutty. At the same time, I wanted something that would come off of me easily, so I could make it clear to him that parts of my body that had previously only been theoretical were his to do with as he pleased. I settled on a classic LBD with a deep plunge neckline and a diagonal hemline. My lingerie was an insanely sexy red satin set that I’d picked up in San Fran, consisting of a low-cut merry widow with six garters clipped to seamed black stockings with Cuban heels, and a coordinating panty that was so tiny I never would have dared to wear it before. A pair of open-toed fuck-me pumps completed my ensemble.

I selected jewelry that complemented my ring, gold chandelier earrings with tiny diamonds and a heart-shaped pendant with a ruby surrounded by little diamonds. I did my hair in a tousled, messy style and my makeup in a smoky, bedroom look. I stepped into a cloud of perfume and hoped he remembered my scent. Finally and most importantly, I stuck a couple vaginal lubricant suppositories up inside where my body heat would melt their coating. I wanted my man to find me wet and eager.

I called a cab to drive me to Hiram’s apartment. I wasn’t sure about parking in his neighborhood, and I was planning on spending the night anyway. Horace the doorman gave me a funny look when I asked him not to tell Hiram I was there. He let me go on up to spring my surprise.

The way I pictured the scene in my head, I’d knock on his door and I fly into his arms as soon as it opened, and then kiss him until we could no longer hold our breath. Then I’d ask if he was alone, and if he said yes I’d put his hand on the back of my dress and ask to be unzipped. When he got some blood back in his brain, I’d take him into the bedroom and let him make love to me in a position of his choosing, as many times as he could handle. Then we’d fall asleep naked in each other’s arms, and I’d even be willing to be the one in the wet spot. But what actually happened was something else entirely.

***

I knocked on Hiram’s door and a complete stranger answered it. He was a white guy who looked to be in his mid forties, with graying receding hair and a good number of wrinkles on his face. He was tanned, and wore a Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans. He looked at me and wrinkled his nose. “Can I help you? If you’re selling something, we’re not interested.”

I smiled at him. I figured this guy was one of Hiram’s friends or something. “No, I’m just here to surprise my Sweetie by getting in a day early. I didn’t expect he’d have company.” I stuck out my hand for him to shake. “Hi, I’m Quinn. I’m sure Hiram’s told you about me.”

He ignored it and left me standing looking silly with my hand out. He just looked at me and tilted his head. “Is this some kind of joke? I have no idea who you are.”

I was getting irritated with this guy. “Could you just get out of the doorway and let me in? I’m sure Hiram will be happy to see me; go get him and he’ll introduce us.” I saw the dog behind him coming to see who was at the door. I waved at her. “Hi, Chryssie! Go get your Daddy and tell him I’m here, but his rude friend won’t let me in.” She wagged her tail and gave a happy bark at me.

The annoyed guy looked over his shoulder. In a sharp tone he said, “Chryssie, sit!” and she obeyed. He turned his attention back to me. “I’ve never met you, but you seem to know my dog. I think perhaps you’ve been misled.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out his driver’s license. “I’m Hiram Chillington, and we’ve been out of the country on vacation for six months, so if you met someone who said he was me, he was an impostor. Since you know Chryssie and were expecting to meet him here, I can only assume it was my house sitter who lied to you. I hope he didn’t take advantage of you under false pretenses.” He took a step back and gestured at a chair in the parlor. “Do you need to sit down? Wait here. I’ll go get my wife; I think she’d be better at this sort of thing.”

I did as I was asked, since I couldn’t think of anything better to do. My thoughts were racing. My Hiram was a fake? So I wasn’t really engaged to a billionaire? That meant I wasn’t going to get the money for the Russians, so I was good as dead. And I’d be dying as a woman, to boot. All that I’d done to myself was for nothing! I didn’t know what I was going to do, and nothing made any sense. I heard footsteps and looked up and it suddenly became clear that I’d been tricked.

Chloe was standing in the doorway. She’d gained a little weight since the last time I’d seen her, but she still looked good. She was wearing a light blue sundress that pulled the color out of her eyes. Her fashion taste had improved some. She grinned at me broadly. “Hi there, Pie. Figure it out yet?”

I could feel the color leave my face. I muttered weakly, “Why?”

Her nostrils flared. “You dare ask that! Did you forget what you did to me? You promised me a future together. You said you loved me, but all along I was just another pawn in your game. So I wanted you to know what that felt like! And on top of that, I also got to make sure you could never do to some other girl what you did to me.”

I had no words. I just sat and stared,

She wasn’t done gloating. “You always thought you were the brains in our partnership, but I beat you so easily. You fell for all the classic sucker traps: you thought you were getting easy money, you put your trust in people without verifying their stories, and you never asked questions. We even gave you clues, but you didn’t act on them. You knew Trixie was my friend, after all you’d originally met her through me, and she even told you she’d been working with me at the start. But you never once showed any human feeling and asked her about me, how I was doing, or whether I’d gotten over you. You ran out on me when I needed you most, and you didn’t even have the common courtesy to check up on me. And it sealed it for me when you didn’t recognize your engagement ring. Do you remember? We’d been window shopping at Tiffany’s and you picked that ring out and said you’d get it for me when the job was over and we got our money. We were going to live happily ever after! But that apparently had been just another one of your stories. It had meant so little to you, you didn’t even remember it when it was on your own hand.”

I’d never expected her to be this vindictive. I sighed. “It’s too bad your revenge is going to be short-lived. I’ll most likely be shot by Russian mobsters in a couple weeks.”

She laughed loudly in my face. “You silly bimbo! That was all part of my con. There are no Russian mobsters after you; it was just the hook to keep you motivated. When I heard through the grapevine that you’d swindled a Russian oil guy for your biggest score ever and then subsequently lost it all, it started me thinking on how to trap you. I enlisted Trix and planned out everything we wanted to happen to you, and based the whole story on what had actually happened between me and the real Hiram, and took advantage of the fact that we’d be in Europe for six months on an extended honeymoon. I’m more or less retired from the game now and going legit; don’t think you can try to blackmail me by threatening to tell him what I’ve done. He knows about my past.”

She pulled a phone out of her purse. “I’ll prove that I was the one behind it all.” She dialed a number. “Hi, Sergei. It’s me. You can stop tailing Quinn. She’s here now, and I told her the whole thing.” She somehow managed to emphasize the gender on all her pronouns, and each one felt like salt in my wounds. “I’ve wired the final payment into your account. Tell her that she has nothing to worry about.”

Chloe handed me the phone. I spoke into it, “Hello? Is what she’s saying true?”

Volkov’s familiar chuckle came through clearly. “Yes, it is. There is no hit on you, and no one wants money from you. As far as I know, Glubonin isn’t connected to anyone; I’ve never met him. I’m done tracking you.” He paused for a moment then added, “But my offer still stands. Any time you want to experience a real man, give me a call. The number you have for me will be good for a while.” I was disgusted and hung up.

Chloe took back her phone and pulled something else out of her purse. It was a keychain adorned with two metal nuggets of some sort. “Just in case that wasn’t proof enough, Sergei smuggled these for me out of Thailand. He told your doctor he wanted you to have them for a souvenir, and he knew a guy who could get them bronzed.” She laughed at me when the realization of what she was saying showed on my face. “When you had the audacity to break up with me not to my face, but through a friend of a friend, I swore I’d have your balls for that.” She jingled her keychain. “And now I do. And what made it even better was I got you to pay a guy to cut them off. I’ll enjoy knowing that you’ll be reminded of me every time you cross your legs and nothing’s there. Whenever you have to wipe yourself after sitting to pee, you’ll know that I’m the reason why. And each time you let some guy fuck you like the whore you are, it will be in the vagina that I put there.”

I swallowed and tried to keep my voice steady. “Was I really that horrible that you needed to do all this? I’d thought we had a pretty good time together, but its time had passed. Besides, if I was so bad to you, wouldn’t it be better to just put it all behind you instead of carrying around a trophy of the guy who done you wrong?”

She had one more thing in her purse to show me. “You don’t understand. I’m reminded of you every day whether I want to be or not.” She handed me a photo out of her wallet. It showed Chloe and her husband standing in front of The Eiffel Tower. She was holding a little blonde girl whose striking emerald eyes were looking straight into the camera. It was a shade of green I was intimately familiar with, having seen it in the mirror all my life. “This is Riley. She’ll be three in a couple months.” I didn’t even need to do the math. “As far as I’m concerned, your involvement in her life lasted for about a minute and a half, and I don’t intend on changing that now. But I will sleep better knowing that you can’t hurt someone else like you did us.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

My apology meant nothing to her. “If you had cared, you would have known. But you didn’t bother to find out why I needed you. It should have been enough for you that I did, but it wasn’t.” She pulled the photo from my hand and pointed at the door. “Now get the hell out of my house, and if you ever come near me or any of my family again, I’ll see that information reaches certain law enforcement agencies of what you did and where to find you. And don’t think you have any similar leverage on me; I’ve already had some of the best lawyers in the country clean up my evidence trail.”

I rose from my chair as gracefully as I could, and then slowly walked out. My heels made me have to sway my hips sexily, but I tried to be as serious as possible when I turned to Chloe and said, “Okay, I will honor your wishes and leave. But know that I truly am sorry.”

***

I managed to keep myself together until I got in the cab Horace called for me. I barely got my address out before I erupted in a volcano of sobs. It just didn’t seem fair. Why should I have my sex, my body, my life devastated and destroyed so completely? I cried myself to sleep when I got home.

I thought about trying to come up with a way to get revenge on Chloe, but there was a part of me that really did feel bad for hurting her. I think it was those damned hormones at work again!

Anyway, someone once said that living well is the best revenge. So I’d take what she’d done to me and turn it into an asset. I still had a little money, and a place to live, and maybe I could get my job back at Romano Fitzgerald. If not I could sell my ring and my wedding dress, and that ought to cover my rent. I could sell my van and hock the stuff I’d left in it for a few more bucks, plus I’d save having to pay to store it. I was pretty sure I’d get through this okay. Maybe I’d try living like a regular person for a while, or maybe I’d just get out there and find a real billionaire to pull the old matrimony con on while my body was still sexy and vibrant. I hadn’t decided yet, but one thing I knew was that I would make sure I had all the facts before making any choice.

Prudence House
by Jennifer Brock

A group of college students are fascinated by the creepy old house down the block. Would it be wise to try to make some money off its reputation? Come along for a sexy tale of tricks, treats, costumes, ghosts and witches.

Brownie, Coop and I met in fourth grade and had been friends ever since. Ms. Zimmerman was unconventional and arranged the students alphabetically by first name instead of last name like all the other teachers, so we three boys named Matthew got put at the same table. For a while, we tried calling ourselves “Matt,” “Matty” and “Matthew,” but that didn’t stick. For the most part we were “Matt B.,” “Matt C.” and “Matt R.” I kind of liked that, because my name came out sounding like “Matter,” which is still a nickname I use with most people.

Unfortunately, the other guys decided they wanted to go by last names, which was okay if you’re Cooper or Browne, but not so great when your family name is Rose. It was bad enough with everybody calling me a flower, but then Coop decided that Brownie’s E shouldn’t be silent, and that led to them inevitably calling me Rosie. I tried getting back at them by calling them Chicken Coop and Junior Girl Scout, but neither of those nicknames caught on with the other kids.

I cried a lot in middle school. My dad tried to show me that our name could be very masculine by turning me into a major Pete Rose fan, making me wear an official jacket all the time and even got me the stupid bowl haircut. It didn’t help. He thought maybe Rosey Grier would be better, but after I found an interview where he talked about knitting, I vetoed that plan. He just couldn’t find any athletes named Rose except guys from a long time ago, so I gave up on that. I just worked to develop a thicker skin.

By the time we got to high school, we’d pretty much stopped seeing each other all that often. For the most part we kept to our own cliques. Puberty had been very kind to Coop and he turned out big and tall and strong, and he gravitated to hanging with the jocks. He was a second-string lineman on the football team, not very coordinated but he looked the part.

Brownie’s hormones were just as active, but they were making him the first guy in our class who needed a shave. It also must have amped up his pheremones or something, because he was real popular with the girls and just generally charming with everyone. He ended up getting elected president of our class a couple times. He joined all the clubs for the popular kids, and was pretty much on Easy Street.

As for me, I was on the lowest rung of the social ladder. I wasn’t smart enough to be a nerd, but I was still a dork. I was in the concert band, the drama club and the A/V crew. I really liked messing with audio equipment and tried not to notice how unpopular my hobbies were. I was scrawny and never really filled out much., and very awkward around people.

Then in our junior year of high school, I started getting harassed. Every few days I’d go to open my locker, and there inside would be a red silk rose. I got my hopes up by imagining that some girl was my secret admirer, but then one day I didn’t hide it fast enough and someone in the hall saw and pointed, and said they thought it was one of those “panty roses.” I didn’t know what that meant, so I stood confused while they grabbed the rose and ripped it off the stem and unrolled it and I saw that the fake rose was really a pair of lacy red satin panties.

A girl wouldn’t be sending me panties unless they were her own, and these were new and clean, so it wasn’t an admirer, just some asshole making fun of my name. Once I found out they were panties, I was torn. Instead of throwing them out like I had been, part of me wanted to keep them. I’d have been able to imagine them on some girl, and then touch them when I was masturbating and make it sexier. I only ended up keeping a few.

But then on Valentine’s Day, they kicked it up a notch. My locker had been completely filled with them, and they just kept spilling out. While my attention was on cleaning up the mess, I didn’t notice the sign taped to the back of my locker door. On fancy lacy stationery, in big red magic marker letters it said, “Roses for my Rose, the best Cocksucker in the school!”

The kids around started laughing and pointing and whispering amongst themselves, and then this guy Jimmy Riley comes over to me with his hand on his zipper and nods towards the sign and asks me how much. I looked up from the pile of panty roses I was hopelessly trying to contain and saw the sign. I lost it. I just started bawling my eyes out and then I stood up and screamed furiously that I had had enough of that shit and I wasn’t going to take anymore, and I just wanted to know who the hell had been sending me the fucking panties and why the fuck they were doing it.

I got in trouble for shouting and swearing and got five week’s detention. Three days into my punishment, I was joined by Brownie and Coop of all people. We passed a couple notes where they apologized for not having my back before, but it had been taken care of. Brownie had caught Eddie D’Amico bragging about “driving that little pansy nuts,” and he didn’t even have a reason. He just thought that dweebs like me were there to be messed with. But Brownie told Coop and he went after Eddie and said he was going to beat the crap out of him. Eddie got so scared he wet his pants right there in front of everyone, so Coop didn’t actually have to hit him.

But it was enough that when Eddie told on them they both got thrown in the dungeon. I thought it was great that my friends remembered me. We all got kicked out of our respective clubs and teams to boot. On the plus side we started hanging out with each other again, but it also threw a wrench into Coop and Brownie’s college applications.

That’s how we all ended up going to State, and part of me felt a little guilty about the other guys having to be there with me. In our freshman dorm, Coop and I were roommates and Brownie lived next door with a guy from Canada who moved off campus in October and didn’t tell the dorm office so he effectively had his own room.

Brownie’s charm didn’t work quite as well on college women as it had on high school girls, so when Coop got a girlfriend in the spring semester they switched rooms so he could have the single. Jess was pretty cool. She was a cute redhead from Oregon who was majoring in environmental science. I never did find out how she ended up going to a third-rate school in the middle of Massachusetts.

My favorite neighbors were The Fox Twins, Betsy and Lisa. They lived on our floor and they had me come over to help hook up their stereo, since I’d mentioned my electronics hobby in the orientation meeting where the RA got everyone on the hall together and made us each say something about ourselves.

They were tall, slender blondes with clear blue eyes and really pale skin. Their parents must have had a crazy sense of humor, since they named identical twins Elizabeth Lynne and Elisabeth Lynn. The girls liked to play the whole twin thing for all it was worth, having two of everything in their closet so they could always dress in matching outfits. They were sometimes a little too close, like when they’d get free drinks in bars by making out.

I spent enough time with them that I was one of like six people on campus who could tell them apart. I developed a major crush on Betsy but for some reason the few times Brownie and I doubled with them for concerts and stuff I ended up getting paired with Lisa. She was nice and all, but her sister was the one I wanted. Betsy just had a different attitude about things; she was planning to get her poli sci degree and go work for a non-profit to make the world a better place. Lisa was more practical and thought about going to law school.

At the end of our freshman year, we were already sick of living in the dorm. So when Brownie said we could pool our money and rent a big house in town, Coop and I jumped at the idea. But the places we could afford all looked like crap. We told our realtor the kind of place we were looking for, and she showed us this great four-bedroom place in an older neighborhood. Even if we could get a fourth person to split the rent, it still would be really steep, but we said we’d find a way.

Brownie said I should ask the twins if they wanted to move off-campus. I didn’t think they’d go for it, but it was definitely worth a shot. The one downside to leaving the dorm would be not having girls around, not to ogle or anything like that, but just to have a feminine presence in our lives. Imagine my surprise when they actually agreed to do it. My goddess would be living in the same house! I was overjoyed.

And then Coop told us that Jess would be coming along and sharing his room, which seemed kind of quick to me, but what do I know about having a girlfriend? That made it a six-way split on the rent, so there’d be no problem affording it. We thought everything would be smooth sailing from there. How naíve we were.

***

With getting everyone settled in, unpacking and getting ready for school, it took a while for us to notice that something was just a little off in our new neighborhood. At first it was just a nagging feeling of unease, but after spending a weekend staying in and working around the house, I figured it out. Everything seemed normal and fine until I happened to look out a window into the front yard, and then I would be filled with a profound sense of dread.

It took me a little longer to find out what it was out there that was so unsettling. At first I thought it was something to do with the ancient oak tree in front of the house next door — it was so full of grackles that it looked a little creepy. But that was just regular creepy, not sublimely creepy. Then I caught something in the corner of my eye and a shudder ran through me.

Some experimenting showed me that from the right angle I could see the top of a house behind the one directly across from us. It was taller and must have been on a higher ground to be so visible. There was a round tower or garret or whatever you call it projecting out from its upper storey at an odd angle that didn’t seem physically possible. You couldn’t look at it directly without getting vertigo.

I made sure to avoid looking in that direction and for the most part I was okay, but the uneasy feeling didn’t go away completely. In the back of my mind I knew that house was still there, and I could still picture it vividly.

I tried to warn my housemates when they came home, but I probably would have been better off keeping quiet. As soon as I told them not to look at the bizarre house behind the neighbors, they all started looking for it. And one by one, as I heard the girls shriek or the guys groan, I knew they’d found it.

We all took different approaches toward dealing with it. Jess would make Coop close all the blinds in the house every time they came home. Their room was the master bedroom and it had a bay window right in the front. She put up blackout curtains and lost the entire view just because part of it was disturbing.

The twins’ room was in the back of the house, and their solution was to just avoid the front rooms during the daytime. They took to leaving in the morning from the kitchen door, even though it was further from their parking spot. I thought they were sleepwalking the first time I caught them going down the stairs with their eyes closed to keep from looking out the window at the top of the stairwell.

My room was also in the back, (I shared a wall with the twins and sometimes I heard noises that would make me wonder if they were doing something more than sleeping in their double bed, but that’s not really relevant.) so my windows weren’t a problem. I just worked on keeping from looking in the wrong direction through willpower alone.

Brownie took the complete opposite approach. He put all his spare time into learning more about this mysterious house. He found the road that led over there and went to see the rest of it. Then he did some research into the local archives to find out more about its history and whose house it was. Every day he’d try to share some new tidbit with the rest of us, but we mainly just wanted to forget the place existed.

Brownie, the twins and I went out for a pizza and he was driving us home and took a different route back. We went the long way around the other end of Summer Street and took a left onto this little road where that didn’t seem as modernized. He explained that back in the colonial days when that part of town was the village of Verity, it was the way to the meeting house. He pointed out the empty lot where it used to be. Beyond that was a really old cemetery, and then past that was The House.

I spotted it before the girls in the back seat and told them not to look. Then I read Brownie the riot act. He stopped the car and got out, taking the keys with him. I had to follow him if I wanted to keep yelling at him. He was to show me that the place had a really interesting history, but I didn’t want to hear it; I was too mad at him for tricking us.

I heard the car doors and then the twins came over to where we were arguing. Lisa put her hand on my shoulder and said that the house really wasn’t so bad from up close. She even thought it was kind of interesting. Betsy came up behind me on the other side and told me I didn’t need to be so mad. So then I had to stop yelling at Brownie no matter how much he deserved it. You just don’t disobey your Dream Girl. I tried to smile and told him I was done yelling, but he took that as permission to tell us all the whole history of The House.

***

Brownie had spent some time at the library rummaging through old journals, and his old charm was in top form when he talked with Miss Bitterly, the president of the local Historical Society. He managed to put together a fairly detailed account of the house.

The original village parsonage, a simple three-room cottage, had been built on the site in 1641. In 1687, the minister died and a new one came down from Boston. Jeremiah Trumbull stirred up the fear of God in the people of Verity, and the town began to prosper like never before. He was a bachelor, but kept up a correspondence with a girl he’d known in the city, the daughter of one of his wealthier congregants.

In the spring of 1690, Prudence Edwards came to Verity to visit her swain. She was sweet and lovely and the entire village fell just as much in love with her. She was not quite as enamored of Verity, and in particular found his little hovel to be quite beneath her city-bred tastes although she tried to hide her disappointment.

The congregation worked together to gather funds for a major construction project, then made improvements to the parsonage. They brought in a master carpenter, a Dutchman who’d worked down in New Haven to make a plan, and then many hands set to work building an extension on the house that essentially involved making the shell of a larger house around the original one. It grew into a rather impressive manse, with three chimneys and a gabled second storey and even a full porch across the front. They named the new edifice Prudence House, officially after the Cardinal Virtue but everyone knew they were naming it in honor of the beautiful girl they hoped would be living in it.

In the fall of that year, they sent for her just before the harvest. She thought the house was perfect, and agreed to be married to Reverend Trumbull within a month. The whole surrounding county turned out for the wedding. It wasn’t the traditional floral exuberance of a spring wedding, but it did have the distinct color and tone of a New England autumn.

The newlyweds settled in to a delightful new life together, and Prudence was very popular in the village. She showed a talent for languages, discussing changes to her house with the carpenter in fluent Dutch, using their native tongue with the French traders that came by every so often, and teaching some of the village children some German Christmas songs. When a band of unfamiliar Wampanoags showed up at the edge of the village, she was able to work out a way of communicating with them to figure out what brought them; it turned out their people had had a fire and they’d lost some of their harvest and were looking to trade.

She also had a knack for numbers. When helping with some of the village’s accounts, she was able to keep accurate totals in her head faster than the clerk could work the figures out on paper. By today’s standards she’d probably be considered a genius, but by theirs she was unusual and remarkable and restricted by the roles a woman was allowed to play in their society.

In 1692, the happy couple was elated to become pregnant, but when the baby came out on a cold November morning, the joy turned to sorrow. Accounts described the newborn as “a hideous two-headed creature,” what were probably really conjoined twin girls, or perhaps a mutation or severe anomaly. At any rate, the midwife panicked and fled. Rumors spread like wildfire through the village about the demon baby born to the Reverend’s wife.

One version of the story says he was trying to baptize the evil out of the infant they had named Temperance. Another says he just wanted to be rid of her. But they agree that Jeremiah took his firstborn to the river and needed to cut a hole in the ice before he could hold her (or them) underwater until they drowned.

Prudence was heartbroken, but her tragedy didn’t end there. The mob decided that she must have been consorting with the Devil to have borne such a monstrosity. Too many people insisted that she needed to be punished for her apparent sins. They held a trial and all of her intellectual gifts were presented as evidence that she was in league with demons.

Worst of all, her husband was her judge and prosecutor instead of sympathetically defending her. He even claimed that she’d bewitched him into falling in love with her.
She was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging in the third week of 1693. Jeremiah’s sermons took a major “Fire and Brimstone” turn after that, and he never remarried. It’s said his heart had also frozen that day in the icy river.

The minister who followed Trumbull, Caleb Johnstone, preached much in the same vein. He was a lifelong bachelor who lived alone in the large house and didn’t even bother heating most of the rooms. An older pastor Arthur Bannister took over for Johnstone, and shortly after moving into Prudence House his wife had a heart attack, but it wasn’t seen as anything other than a sad coincidence at the time.

But the next residents were Reverend Thomas Lowell and his family. He and his wife Emily and their three children seemed to be settling into the House nicely at first, but Emily got badly burned in the kitchen after four months in the house and was left horribly disfigured. Two years later, their fourteen-year-old daughter Rebecca fell down the stairs and broke her neck.

Prudence House seemed to be collecting deaths. After the Revolution they had three more preachers living there, and some kind of tragedy occurred for each one. There was such a strong sense of evil associated with the house that when the meeting house burned down in 1843, the congregation mostly moved to the new church in Butcher’s Crossing, and they sold Prudence House to a rich banker.

After the new owner William Hale had lived there for several months he decided to make some changes to try to erase all the negativity associated with the place. He added a third story, built a carriage house, and expanded out the back of the kitchen to make better quarters for servants. But then he went South to make a profit from Reconstruction and left the house vacant for a few years.

Hale returned with Lynette Clayton, a bride he’d found in Georgia and their new baby Imogene, along with Candice, a nursemaid who had been Lynette’s back when she was still a slave. When Candice moved into Prudence House, she felt that the place contained an angry spirit, and dedicated herself to keeping her mistress and her young charge safe. She used a number of secret tricks to keep the spirit at bay, and life was relatively normal. Candice lived to a ripe old age and died when Imogene was away at finishing school. Lynette was sent away to a sanitarium shortly thereafter. It is said that she had tried to set fire to the house. Imogene did not want to inherit the house after her father passed, and she sold it.

It changed hands several times in the beginning of the twentieth century, with no one choosing to live there for very long. During Prohibition, it had been owned by a bootlegger who operated a speakeasy, and when he went to jail it remained vacant for many years. In 1976, the Bicentennial celebration caused a renewed interest in American history amongst the general public, and Miss Bitterly’s group had purchased Prudence House in the hope of turning it into a museum.

They did some work remodeling and modernizing the place, but it had to close after the cleaning woman drowned in a rain cistern in the cellar, where she shouldn’t have been cleaning anyway. They’d tried reopening the place several times, but none of the volunteers would work for more than one day.

I thought the whole story was too absurd to be real, and Brownie was probably just trying to tease the twins. They actually did seem moved by his words, and Lisa was even weeping a little. We walked around the grounds and peeked in a few windows. When we started getting uncomfortable, he finally agreed to drive us home.

***

In the last week of September, we were hanging around the living room watching late night cable and a local ad came on promising “The Scariest Haunted House Anywhere” would be opening for the Halloween season over in Preston. Betsy made a comment that if we wanted to go to a haunted house, we had a real one just down the next block. Brownie got a weird look in his eye, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.

But a few days later he gathered all the housemates into the living room for a meeting. He said he’d come up with a plan for how we could all make a bunch of extra money, since we’d all been complaining about finances in one way or another.

He said that we ought to rent out Prudence House for October and run it as a Halloween haunted house. We’d only need a few costumes and props and some ambient sounds, and we could be good to go. Most of the work would be already done for us since the house already had a reputation for being haunted. All we’d have to do is tell the actual story in an entertaining way.

He even had some details worked out. He’d already spoken with Miss Bitterly about renting the place, and had asked at town hall about what kind of permits would be required. It would cost $600 plus a he estimated a few hundred for extras, so if each of the six of us chipped in $150 we should have enough. Then if we opened the place on weekends and Friday nights through October, we’d only need to average $70 per day to break even. If we charged $8 a head (about the same as the movies) we’d be profitable if we only had ten patrons each day.

We talked about it, and it sounded a little shaky as far as business plans go. Coop seemed into it, and Jess agreed and thought it might be fun. It felt like Betsy and Lisa were just eager to see the inside of the house and thought $150 wouldn’t be too bad a price to pay for the opportunity. Ever since Brownie had told them all about the place, they seemed to have a strong empathy for poor baby Temperance and her twin. I think they hoped she was the ghost that was haunting the place. I expected that it would all end in a terrible mess, but I seemed to be outnumbered, so I caved in and went along with the plan.

We pooled our moneys and the next day Brownie got a lease from Miss Bitterly and applied for permits. The day after that, we all went over at lunchtime and checked the place out. He’d gotten a key so we had no problem getting in.

It didn’t seem as weird as I was expecting. It was old, and dusty, and smelled a little, but for the most part it seemed like a house. There were some changes the museum people had obviously made, but they would suit our purposes wonderfully. The place had relatively modern wiring, and although most of the plumbing wasn’t up to code, there were a pair of functional restrooms on the first floor.

They’d also installed a counter in the foyer where we could set up our greeter to collect their money and usher them into the house. A space off to the right probably would have been their gift shop or something, and we could let people wait in there before we had a guide come to start their tour of the house.

We decided that we’d have a “wicked witch” taking the money and selling some traditional old-fashioned Halloween refreshments like popcorn balls and candy apples, and warm spiced cider. The witch would tell the beginning of the story of Prudence House and show them through the study and the front parlor and then “summon a spirit” by opening a door to show one of the twins in a ghostly costume.

That twin would then take the tour up the stairs to the second floor, take them through the bedrooms, the sewing room, and the music room. She’d then take the group to the stairs and tell them she’d meet them on the third floor, but really the other twin would be there. And then she’d take them through the playroom, the library and the upstairs maid’s room, and then send them down the back stairs to the kitchen. In there, Coop would be dressed as an angry Grim Reaper and chase them out of the house.

I was assigned the job of taking Brownie’s notes on the house’s history and writing a narrative for the guides to follow. I thought I did a decent job. I decided that the wicked witch would also be named Prudence, and she could say “Welcome to my house,” and then tell the people about original Prudence. I thought I did a decent job. I even wrote two versions of the script; one for earlier in the day when we’d be doing the show for little kids, and one for later at night when we wouldn’t let in anyone under thirteen.

I also worked on assembling a system with speakers in various locations, and put together a mix of spooky music and sound effects that we could play throughout the house to set the right ambiance. I thought that would be the end of my responsibilities on the project.

I’d thought they were talking about Jess playing the “wicked witch,” but it turned out she had to work weekends for her work-study program. They actually wanted me in the role of the witch, since I had a minor in theatre. It was the fault of my counselor, who thought I could get over my terminal shyness by forcing myself to be in public speaking situations, but I mostly liked working on the backstage crew.

I really didn’t want to do it, but I did owe Brownie and Coop big time, and I was really the only one of us who could believably pass as a witch. Finally I figured that being an old hag would be okay, so I agreed to do it.

Somewhere in between accepting the job and going through with it, the girls had been talking and changed the role. Instead of an ugly old witch, they thought we should have a young and pretty witch greeting our customers. They thought it would be more reassuring for the little kids, and might get more of the teenagers to tell their friends and come back for more.

I said no way, but when three cute girls are trying to make you do something, and one of them is all you ever wanted in the world, and another one is her identical twin sister, what chance did I have?

***

So that’s how I ended up four days later being “fitted for my costume” by the three girls. They brought me into the big bathroom in our house and had me take my clothes off. I was really embarrassed about being in my underwear in front of them, so they joined in and stripped to their underwear too. It was funny that Betsy and Lisa still matched, wearing identical bras and panties. They then put on yellow rubber gloves like your mom uses to wash dishes and it made them look even sexier.

They were going to work on taking the hair off my body, so I had to get completely naked and stand in the tub. I got self-conscious and tried to cover myself with my hands, and said that it would only be fair if they joined in. I very nearly passed out when they called my bluff and the bras and panties came off. Jess did keep her underwear on, since she didn’t want Coop to get upset with me.

Betsy and Lisa even had identical moles on their left butt cheeks. I didn’t think that was even possible; at least one of them was probably a tattoo, which seemed like taking the twin thing just a little too far. And then they turned around and I saw two matching perfectly triangular bikini areas, and four magnificent breasts, and my brain stopped working.

Jess stuffed my hair into a shower cap, and then I had to stand with my arms straight out and my legs spread, like that famous DaVinci drawing. Each twin took one side of my body and smeared a strong smelling lotion all over the surface of my skin. And I do mean all over. It drove me absolutely wild when their fingers ran over my tender parts.

I had to stand there for a few minutes until it started to tingle, and then they rubbed me down with wet washcloths, and all my body hair came off. They used the handheld shower hose and rinsed me off with cold water. After being lightly patted dry, the twins took off their rubber gloves and gently massaged a soothing lotion into my stinging skin.

That just proved way too sensual for me, and Jess pointed out that the erection I was then sporting would be totally out of place on a female witch, and told the twins to “take care of it.” On each side of me, Betsy and Lisa began to stroke one of my aching and reddened nipples with one hand and used the other hand to fondle my tingling genitals. They were perfectly synchronized and must have done something similar before. It was completely out of nowhere and I was too turned on to have any time to react to the total strangeness of it all

Their upper hands moved to hold my shoulders in place, and their lips took over on my nipples. A fleeting thought ran through my head, wondering if Prudence ever got a chance to nurse her twins. I felt something touching me, and it seemed like Jess was pressing her breasts against my back. The twins bit down a little and really pinched hard, and jerked me faster until I exploded completely.

As soon as I was flaccid they cleaned me off with a fresh washcloth and had me sit on a towel on the toilet lid. Something was rattling and tickling the top of my shoulders and it got worse when I turned my head to look. Jess let me look in a hand mirror to see that she had pierced my ears while I was distracted. The earrings were very elaborate and looked appropriately gothic.

I now had these black metal posts going through my lobes with dark red crystals in the center. Three chains went down from that part to suspend a semicircular or crescent shaped piece in that same black metal, worked to look kind of like lace. Four teardrop-shaped red crystals hung from the bottom of that part.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be stuck wearing them for the entire month of October, and Jess explained that they could detach the chains and leave me with simple black studs with red stones when I wanted to be out of costume. It wasn’t my usual style, but there were other guys on campus with earrings and she promised I wouldn’t seem too out of place.

Jess had this paper with a diagram and some instructions for pushing my testicles up into the space they originally came out of when I was little. Lisa was very willing to try to help me, but Jess insisted that I be able to do it myself in case I had to go to the bathroom while wearing my costume. It took me a while to figure out what they meant, but I got my parts safely hidden away. It was uncomfortable, like the feeling you get a half hour or so after getting kicked in the crotch.

They had me step into this special undergarment that would keep me flattened out. It was like a pair of black thong panties with extra-strong elastic. I was okay with wearing panties as long as they weren’t red like the ones that humiliated me so long ago. Jess explained that they’d gone to this store in Auburn that sells everything a dude who wants to look like a chick could possibly need, and that “gaff” was just the beginning.

The next thing they put me in was a black satin corset with a zipper in front and laces in the back. It was scalloped out in the front with underwires that would go beneath breasts if I had them. And bizarrely when they tightened up the laces I actually got boobs! It was like the “Freshman Fifteen” flabby pounds that I’d gained the previous year were all squeezed in and pushed out over the top of the corset to a cute set of little girly boobies. The twins liked the look, too. They gave my reddened and swollen nipples a few more tweaks, but then Jess told them they could put their lingerie on since I already had mine.

I was a little disappointed that they’d be getting dressed, until they came back in wearing sexy little white lacy things that somehow made them sexier than when they were naked. Jess was putting this strong-smelling shampoo in my hair so my eyes were closed, but when I looked up I saw two lovely angels standing before me. Jess put the shower cap back over my hair and turned on a portable kitchen timer.

Lisa and Betsy went to work using this magic liquid powder stuff to make my fingernails longer, and Jess used clippers and files and buffers and pointy sticks on my toes before painting them a shiny jet black. I had two coats of nail polish on my feet and one on my hands when the timer went ding.

They helped me sit on the floor hanging my head over the edge of the tub. They got the shower hose back out and gave my hair a thorough rinsing. I was pulled up to a standing position and then led back to my seat. My hair got toweled dry and I got another look in the mirror. My hair was now a kind of purple-maroon color. It seemed to go well with the spooky black fingernails.

I had no idea how I was going to hide it when I went to class, but it was too late to do anything about it. They rolled my hair into hot curlers and put a hairnet over them. Then they finished the manicure and pedicure. They put this tinted topcoat over the nail polish, so they looked black from most angles, but when the light hit them right, there was a blood-red iridescent sheen to them.

Lisa took hold of my itty bitty titties and pulled, while Jess untied the laces of my corset only to pull them tighter and then retie them. It gave me an even smaller feminine waist and I think my bust was up to nearly A cups. I finally got to leave the bathroom, and I was glad the other guys weren’t home to catch us in the hallway. We went into the girls’ room, where the rest of our clothes were.

The twins sat on the edge of their bed and rolled filmy white stockings up their legs and clipped them onto garters that hung from their bustiers. Jess had a pair of fancy black ones for me, with a spider web pattern to their weave. I tried to do it myself, but my fancy fingernails got in the way and I couldn’t even open the package. A twin on each leg helped me get them on. My feet went into a sexy pair of black lace-up ankle boots with delicate 3” heels. Betsy and Lisa put on knee-high white ones that made their legs look incredible! I didn’t want to think about how my own legs looked.

Jess sprayed a lightly floral deodorant under my arms and then it was time to put on my first bra. It was more black satin, and had little pads in the cups to push my little booblets up and squish them together. It was a strange feeling to look down and see my own cleavage, and then she stuck more little pads in there to make my chest look even bigger. I stepped into a petticoat of black lace and netting that Jess tied around my waist, and then she pulled a pretty black slip down over my head. The twins got white petticoats of their own, but no slips.

My dress was red velvet with black lace trim. It had wide lace bell cuffs at the end of the sleeves and black ribbons that crisscrossed in the front to make it even cleavagier. The skirt part had a slit that could be strategically arranged to show off all the lacy layers underneath. The dresses the twins wore were strapless white gauzy things that seemed more like fancy underwear than dresses.

Jess brought up three chairs from the kitchen and had us sit in a row while she did our makeup. It gave me an odd sense of pride when she said I didn’t need the false eyelashes the girls were getting and volumizing mascara would be enough. She went through a bunch of liquids and powders and tubes and pastes, and I lost track of what was what. All I was sure of was that she seemed to spend way too long painfully plucking my eyebrows.

Jess finished up by spraying a puff of gardenia-scented perfume behind my ears and down my front. She hung a necklace around my throat that was in the same style as my earrings. The hairnet came off and she got my hair out of the curlers. She brushed it out a little and made a couple little cuts with a pair of scissors, and then put on a little headpiece that hung another one of those red crystals right in the center of my forehead. Jess gave me a couple tips on how to fix my powder and lipstick and I tried to get a look at myself in the little compact mirror before she put all the implements into a little bag that tied onto a little button at my hip.

She brought me over to a full-length mirror and when I opened my eyes I got my first good look at what she’d done. I saw a gorgeous Goth girl with a hot body in a tight dress. Darkly lined eyes with smoky sultry lids peeked out from under a lovely mass of wavy burgundy hair that was nothing like my old mullety brown mop. Bright red kissable lips stood out in sharp contrast to her pale complexion. I couldn’t help but stare at her heaving bosom as she hyperventilated. I needed to sit down and practice breathing in a corset.

Betsy and Lisa looked even lovelier. They had that same heavy-eyeliner, pallid face Goth look, but Jess had made them look even spookier by shading their eyes to appear more sunken, and giving them black lipstick to amplify the effect of bloodlessness. All three of us got long flowing hooded cloaks to wear instead of coats over our outfits, mine in black and theirs in white.

We went over to Prudence House to meet the guys, to rehearse some of our parts. I wasn’t confident about driving in heels so we took Betsy and Lisa’s car. Jess said she felt plain compared to the other three babes in the car, and I wasn’t sure how to react. On the one hand I liked that my disguise was impenetrable, but on the other I didn’t want Betsy to think of me as less than a man.

I’d spent enough time watching girls that I could figure out how to walk like a woman by copying them. It was just a matter of hanging my arms loosely at the elbow, swiveling my hips as I moved my legs, and taking tiny steps. We got out of the car and I followed the legitimate girls up the steps and across the porch to the front door.

Brownie saw me first, and he said “Damn, Rosie! You’re a fox!” Coop let out a little whistle and told Jess she was lucky he saw her first. I was totally embarrassed by all the attention. Lisa gave me a sneaky pinch on the ass and whispered that I looked cute when I blushed.

We had the electricity turned on, and the boys had already checked the fusebox. We’d decided not to buy fuel oil, and were using electric space heaters in some rooms. We thought that having some chilly spaces would help add to the haunted house aspect, since “everyone knows” that you feel cold when a ghost walks by you.

The front space with the main entrance and the waiting room would be heated. I liked that, since I’d be working there most of the time. I gave my opening speech for the others, and the breathless whisper the corset forced me into made me sound sexy and passably female. I did the kids’ version of my speech first, and then went into the one for the older crowd, with more romance and violence. When I finished, they applauded.

I then took them through the first couple of rooms for my part of the tour. I set up the underlying tragedy of Prudence Trumbull and explained about how her misfortune tainted the house that bore her name for all the generations that followed. Lisa pinched my butt again, or someone else did since she was getting into place for her part.

I did my little “summoning a helpful spirit” bit, including the special rhythmic knock we’d worked out, and Betsy opened the door. It was one made for servants entering the dining room, so you couldn’t tell it was a door until it opened. It was a great special effect, and we didn’t need any fancy Halloween stuff to do it.

Betsy and Lisa both knew their whole part, so they could switch off when they got bored. They spoke all their lines in unison, which was cool and creepy, and it was too bad they couldn’t do that in the real show. I’d assigned the various historical deaths to the different bedrooms pretty much at random, and the twins told the story with the right amount of pathos and melancholy. It was so sad I had to check with Jess to see if I could weep without getting raccoon eyes. Fortunately my makeup was waterproof.

Brownie actually put his arm around me when he saw how moved I was by the story, but he got a big static shock when he touched my shoulder and had to pull his hand away. There must have been something about the fabric of my cloak that built up a charge. Speaking of cloaks, I mentioned that the ghostly duo should probably keep theirs on for the kids’ tours, and got really bashful when it turned out I was the only one who’d noticed how their wispy white dresses showed prominent nipplage in the chilly spaces.

Betsy calmed my embarrassment with a “Thanks, Girlfriend!” and slipped a couple fingers into my bodice to see if the cold rooms were giving me any difficulties. I was seriously pushing the elastic on that gaff thing to its limit, as my Best Friend was prevented from trying to stand up and take notice of her attention. I also had to focus to remember how to breathe without passing out.

We got to the part where the girls would be switching off and they ran ahead, the rest of us followed on up to the third floor. I was the last in line, but I still felt like someone was behind me. It was hard to shake it off. The twins started the second part of their presentation, taking us into rooms where the guys had set up our spooky props. In the playroom, we had a jack-in-the-box that the tour guide could trigger to pop by remote control. It would be sure to trigger a startle response.

In the library, which as it turns out was the round tower room that started our interest in the place, there were spiraling bookcases running around all the walls. Our gimmick in there was a hidden wire that would move a rolling ladder along the stacks to a spot where another motor would make a book fall off the shelf. And it was a trick book that could only land open to an old woodcut image of a grinning skull-faced Angel of Death.

That would trigger the guide to urge the tour group to flee before the House decided that someone else needed to die. The twins led us through another secret door into the chambermaids’ quarters, and ushered us down the back stairs. They emptied out in the kitchen. Coop wasn’t even in his costume and hadn’t gotten into place for his cue, but he still disappeared into the shadowy corner, and I got a little scared when he jumped out and said his lines about being called to slay all who remained in the house. He’d only be working the late shows for the older kids. For the young ones, the twin would follow them down the stairs and just tell them it was time for the living to leave, and she would have to return from where she’d come, and then walk thorough a hidden door in the back of the kitchen.

On the whole the rehearsal went well. I was also supposed to work on setting up the sound system, but that was kind of hard to do with the way I was dressed. I ended up directing Coop and Brownie on where to put stuff, which was kind of fun except for that they kept calling me “Ma’am” or “Miss Rose.” It was kind of weird when Brownie pinched his thumb in a cupboard door and wanted me to kiss it better. I did to humor him, but there was another big static spark. It zapped me a little, but he acted like it seriously hurt him. He looked at me funny and blamed me for building up too much charge. I said it was his fault since the twins had been touching me without getting shocked, and one of them pinched me again to punctuate my point, but she was gone before I could call her as a witness.

We got everything set up and I tested the music and stuff and it seemed like it would go okay. Brownie was supposed to be running the board, but he wouldn’t let me show him what to do, since we’d have to touch buttons together. I had to show Jess how it worked, and then she did it for Brownie with me out of the room. I thought he was just being silly, but it worked without any static problems.

It was late when we finished, and I got outvoted when everyone else wanted to go out to dinner. We went to Paisan’s Spaghetti House and I had to pretend I was a real girl. I didn’t have any money with me, and Brownie said he’d pay for me. I kidded him that I didn’t put out on the first date, and he’d have to behave himself if he even wanted a good night kiss. He remembered the “shock treatment” he’d gotten earlier and said he wouldn’t be trying to get anywhere with me.

I was very nervous, and had to eat tiny bites to keep from being found out and had to excuse myself in the middle of the meal to go to the bathroom. The girls all came with me and made sure the coast was clear in the ladies’ room for me. We even took turns in the stalls. They gave me a little advice for how to deal with all the clothing in my way, and Lisa even needed to come in and show me how to unfasten my garters. She went further and ran them under my panties and refastened them so I wouldn’t need her help again when I was done.

It was scary doing my business with my hands full with all my layers of skirts; I couldn’t see what I was doing. And like a good girl I had to wipe myself when I was done. Then my poor little guys had to get shoved up in there again, and I had to pull my panty up with one hand and hold everything in with the other and still not drop my dress in the toilet. Female clothes are way too complicated.

When we got home, Lisa and Betsy helped me clean all my makeup off, and gave me a hand getting undressed. Lisa offered to lend me a nightgown if I wanted to have an all-girl sleepover in their bed. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, or if she was just kidding, so I told her I needed to get up early and turned down the invitation.

***

I got a few weird looks in my classes, and I had to explain what we were doing, but it kind of ended up as providing some publicity for our show. We were expecting just to get townies, but now word of mouth on campus was growing. The school paper asked for an interview, but we put them off until our permit came through.

We had both Miss Bitterly and a town safety inspector over one morning for a run-through of our show. The inspector didn’t find any violations and approved our permit, and while we weren’t absolutely historically accurate, Miss Bitterly thought we were paying decent tribute to the legend of Prudence House. We got full approval.

The housemates voted and made me stay in costume and had the school paper guys come over that afternoon. They sent both a reporter and a photographer, and they took a few pictures of the house, and some of me. I explained that we were opening a haunted house amusement in an actual haunted house, or at least one with a legitimate reputation of being haunted, and told the guy a rough version of the story of Prudence. He seemed interested, but he also seemed interested in looking down my dress. I considered telling him my real name, but figured it would be better for business if potential customers thought they could come see some hot chick. I simply stayed in character and said that for the time being he could call me Prudence the Witch. I think I might have smiled too much or something, because he slipped me his number as he was leaving.

With official paperwork, we took out an ad in the local paper. Following the pattern established with the school article, we decided to play up the “hot chicks” angle. Betsy edited together a photo of me in full costume on the left, and Lisa on the right, flanking a smaller image of Prudence House in the middle. At the top it said “Experience a Real Haunted House” and at the bottom it gave the address and our hours of operation and prices.

The first day we were open was a Saturday. We didn’t get too many kids coming through in the afternoon, but the ones that did seemed to be having fun. We also sold a lot of candy apples. One flaw in our setup is that I had to lock up the cashbox and the refreshments before starting every tour. It was awkward, but there really wasn’t a better way to do it.

The last group of kids we had that first day included one sweet little girl that started crying halfway through Lisa’s section. She was set up for texting Betsy to tell her details about the tour groups, but she had no way to talk to me. Betsy had to come running down the back stairs to get me, and then I went up to fetch poor little Susie. I picked her up and she gave me a big hug and said I was a pretty lady. I said that it was okay for even big girls like her to cry sometimes, so she didn’t need to be embarrassed. Fortunately her mom was in our waiting area, and I winked and told her that Susie had been worried that she’d be lonely waiting by herself, and wanted to come join her. Mom thanked me and said I’d make an excellent mother myself some day.

We broke for dinner and the boys worked on setting up the stuff for the older show. I held down the fort by just eating a salad at my desk so I could keep an eye on the door. A sadly sweet piece of music came on the speaker, and I turned it up to listen to it better. I closed my eyes and sat back in my chair and just let my mind wander.

I had a strange kind of daydream. I was still wearing my costume, but it fit a little differently somehow. I wasn’t in the house. There was a floor under my feet but I didn’t see any walls or floor; there was some kind of mist or fog in the way. I could hear the music playing, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from. A tall man in an old-fashioned looking black suit walked out of the fog toward me. He was a well-built ruggedly handsome man but with a sadness behind his eyes. He had long sideburns but no other facial hair and his hair was a little long.

He bowed and asked if I wanted to dance. For some odd reason I said yes. His hand was surprisingly soft, and he led me through something that wasn’t quite a waltz. It seemed more like a folk dance, but I knew exactly how to do my part. I felt kind of sad when the music ended and he let me go. Before releasing my hand, he brought it to his lips and I felt a tingle in my skin and a rush in my heart. I could even sense my vagina starting to moisten — wait, what? I was imagining myself as a woman! This costume was totally messing with my mind. I snapped out of the reverie and saw that I was standing in the middle of the room.

I noticed Brownie standing in the corner and he applauded, saying that I was quite a dancer. I hadn’t been just imagining a dance; I’d been actually dancing. It was really bizarre, and I tried to be mad at Brownie but it really wasn’t his fault. I just stuck my tongue out at him and pouted. He said, “Is that tongue a promise or a threat, Rosie?” I tried not to laugh too hard when he tripped as he left the room. He said that things were almost ready for the evening crowd.

The first mature tour group was mostly high school kids, but there were a couple older ones. The three girls shot daggers at me, as their boyfriends all kept constant eye-to-breast contact. I went through my lines anyway, and they started almost paying attention, but I was grateful when I got to pass them off to Betsy. I was still kind of shaken from my dream/fantasy/whatever it was.

The next couple of tours were pretty much the same, but then I got a surprise. The reporter from the school paper showed up, and kept hitting on me the whole time. He said stuff like if the original Prudence was half as pretty as me her husband was a fool for letting them kill her, and he kept following me very close, so he could brush up against me. When it came time for him to go off with Lisa, he quickly turned around and stole a kiss from me.

I was so steamed at him for doing that. He had to run up the stairs to catch up with the group, and somehow he lost his footing while trying to take them two at a time and he came tumbling down. His foot ended up in an unnatural position, and we had to call an ambulance to take him away. Just in case, we sent everyone else home and shut down for the night.

We went through the house making sure all the heaters got shut down and the lights were all off, and sat in the front room to talk about what we were going to do. When Brownie put the plan together to open the place he didn’t include getting insurance. If that reporter guy sued us, we could lose everything, and probably Miss Bitterly’s group would, too. Lisa joked that since he liked me so much, maybe I could convince him not to sue if I agreed to go out with him. At least I hope she was joking.

I said there was no way I’d be doing anything with that guy and in the corner of my eye, I thought I saw an angry face suddenly smile. I said that it was fun while it lasted and we hadn’t come anywhere near making our money back, but maybe it would be better for everyone if we just shut down for good and never came back. It then suddenly started raining heavily. There was even a flash of lightning and the lights went out in the room we were in.

We decided we’d just go home and continue the discussion, but the front door was stuck.
It didn’t seem safe to go wandering around this big spooky house in the dark. Coop tried to call Jess to have her bring us a light, but his cell wasn’t working. The rest of us tried and none were working. This sudden storm must have taken out a tower.

I remembered that there was a flashlight in my toolbox, but I’d left it with my gear in the sound room we’d set up in a closet on the second floor. I volunteered to try to go get it. Coop tried to say that he’d do it; I think he was having trouble remembering I was really a guy. I said that I was the only one who knew exactly where everything in the toolbox was so I was the best to go do this. Lisa and Betsy each gave me a kiss for luck and I was on my way.

I didn’t want to trip on the staircase that had taken out my wannabe boyfriend, so I took the steps slowly and clung to the railing. But I did that old thing at the top of the stairs where you pick up your foot but there are no more steps, and I lost my balance. I went crashing forward into the hallway and bumped my head and blacked out.

When I came to I put my hand to my forehead and there was no lump or anything. I seemed fine. But then I looked around and realized I wasn’t in a dark house anymore. I was sitting on the ground, on slightly damp grass. The guy I’d danced with was standing over me. He reached a hand to help me to my feet, and there was that tingle again, that extended to places I shouldn’t have had.

He said there was something he needed to show me before we could continue. He led me down a hillside and along a well-worn path. There was a large crowd of people gathered around something. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the flickering torchlight. Then I saw that we were in something like a village square, gathered around a large platform.

A man standing there who could have been the twin of my companion, and a woman knelt at his feet. He forced her to stand, and a rope was pulled down and a loop brought over her head. I realized that the platform was a gallows. The man spoke, “Prudence Edwards, you have been found guilty of conspiring with the forces of Darkness, and sentence to hang until dead. Do you have any last words to say before God before His judgment is carried out upon you?”

She looked up at him with plaintive eyes. “I’ve consorted with naught but you, Husband. If there be a demon in this household it is not I. I’ve broken no promises; if I’ve sinned it is only that I have loved you too well. I beg of you, please don’t do this. You’ll never find another who will give her heart to you as completely as I have. I pray that your soul shall not be at peace until you have found another love as great for you as mine.”

This was Prudence, so the guy with her, the guy beside me, must be Jeremiah Trumbull. We’d thought she was the one haunting the house, but we were wrong. I looked over at the man next to me and his eyes were crying. The guy up on the gallows pulled the lever and my companion squeezed his eyes shut.

He whispered to me in a ragged voice, “My Dear, this was my the moment of my greatest victory and also of my greatest defeat. I needed to show you this memory that I may be completely honest with you. Long have I sought solace in the arms of another, but you are first who did not flee my embrace.”

He seemed so sad that I reached out to take him in my arms and hold him. He collapsed into me and turned his face to mine in a hungry kiss. I felt my heart go out to him and let my lips part to accept his probing tongue. Suddenly we were back on the hillside and he pushed me back onto the grass. He removed his jacket and lay on his side next to me.

His fingers toyed with the laces at my bodice, and my hand dealt with the silver buttons on his shirt. Somehow my undergarments had become much less elaborate, since as soon as I’d been unlaced my voluptuous bosom spilled out. His soft hands played across my sensitive areolas and thick, engorged nipples. He brought his lips to one of them and suckled me gently. I ran my fingernails through the dense thatch on his chest.

The scene changed again and he lifted me up to place me on the bed. I felt a growing urgency to have him inside me! I shimmied out of my skirts and he wasted no time unfastening his breeches. I was slippery and waiting for him. He was firm and standing proud and ready. I kissed him and asked that he be gentle with me, as it was my first time.

His strong hands grasped my slender waist, and he guided his manliness between my eager lips. Even as he tore me open, I smiled up at him, letting him know I was completely willing to be his. He thrust into me and I felt like I was on fire, and again and the ground erupted, and again and the stars were ripped from the heavens, and then I could feel our hearts were both soaring together.

***

I woke up on the floor of what had once been the master bedroom. My head was throbbing, my costume had been shredded, and I was dripping with sweat. I saw that the lights were back on, and I heard the voices of my friends. I called out hoarsely where I was and tried to find a way to cover my nakedness. I pulled my cloak around me and hoped it would be enough to keep Brownie from staring at my breasts.

When a plane crashes on an uninhabited Caribbean island, a young man does what he can to help the other survivors. This one goes into some pretty dark places and gets a bit graphic, so be warned.
 

Survival and Sacrifice
By Jennifer Brock

---

(Special thanks to Bree for help with the logistics.)
 
This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. We had a week between the end of the semester and our lease ran out, so I thought it would be great to take Julia on a nice romantic vacation. We’d spend a week alone in a nice tropical resort before having to spend the summer apart. It would have been great! I had a nice surprise planned for her, too. But then my roommates found out about my plans and decided to go too. I figured, “Rick and Pete are my best friends. It might be cool to bring them along, for when Julia's tired or whatever.”

I really couldn’t stop them from coming along, so I tried to just have fun with it. At least there where two of them, so I could make them go do stuff together when I wanted to be alone with Julia. And for the first couple of days everything was cool. The beach was beautiful, the people were friendly. We were having a blast.

But on our third day there, I thought we should go check out the casino that the bartender had recommended, but she said she wanted to stay in; she’d had too much sun. I said I was cool with hanging out at the hotel with her, but she made me go to the casino without her, and I could tell her if I thought she’d want to go the next day. My friends were going to come along, so at least I wouldn’t be alone.

But when I got to the lobby to meet them, Pete was there by himself, and he told me Rick had met a hottie in the bar, and he was more interested in getting laid than going gambling. Typical Rick. So Pete and I caught a cab and headed over to the casino.

It looked like a pretty swanky place. I half expected to see James Bond playing at one of the tables. We had to wander around a little before we found a game we could afford, and I was getting all ready to buy a chip for the roulette table, and then I realized that I’d left my wallet back at the hotel.

I was going to leave Pete at the casino, but he insisted on coming along, and I should have gotten a hint that something was up when he spent the whole cab ride complaining about paying extra to give his phone international service but it still couldn’t get a signal. But since I’m the biggest chump on the planet I didn’t figure it out.

It was my own room, so I didn’t knock or anything. I was even trying to be considerate in case Julia had gone to bed early, so I ran my keycard and opened the door as quietly as I could. I went in and got the shock of my life. Julia had indeed gone to bed early, but she wasn’t sleeping. She was lying there naked, moaning softly, and my missing buddy Rick was right there on top of her, naked as well.

Pete was standing in the doorway making an apology, but not to me. He said that he’d tried to stop me, but it didn’t work. She saw me and got an angry expression on her face, like she was mad at me for interrupting her. Rick just had a shit-eating grin on his face, and he probably wouldn’t even have stopped fucking her in front of me if she hadn’t pulled up a sheet to cover herself.

I didn’t say a word to any of them. I pulled my suitcase off the shelf in the closet, making sure I got my wallet off the nightstand this time, then ran through all the drawers and packed up my stuff, grabbed my toiletries from the bathroom, and got the hell out of there. I went to the front desk and told them I was checking out, and had them call me a cab for the airport.
 

***
 

It was kind of late when I got there, and the attendant at the desk was almost ready to go home. I gave her my ticket and she said I was there on the wrong day. I said I wanted to trade it for an earlier flight. She pointed out some fine print on my ticket that said “No exchanges.” I’d been fucked over by my so-called friends, and now I was getting screwed by the airline, too.

No way did I have enough money for another ticket. I begged with her to change my ticket but she said it was out of her hands; the computer just wouldn’t allow it. I think she was about to go into full-on Customer Service Bitch mode, but then I just plain broke down. I started crying right there at her desk. I told her the whole story, about how my romantic getaway had turned into the worst day of my life. I’d caught my girlfriend cheating on me with my best friend, and I just wanted to get back to my own country. I even unzipped my carry-on bag, pulled out the little box I’d hidden there, and showed her the ring.

That’s right — the high point of this trip was supposed to involve me popping the question to my girl, and giving her the shiny rock that was the reason why there was no room on my credit card for another ticket home. My story somehow did the trick. She actually turned back into a human being, and said she was sorry there was nothing she could do for me.

But she did direct me to a regional airline that I might be able to afford. They wouldn’t be able to fly me all the way home, but they could get me to Miami. That would get me back to my own country, and maybe then I could get my folks to buy me a ticket home or something. She even gave me a tissue to clean up my face. I thanked her and headed over to the other counter.

The other counter wasn’t in as nice a shape. The company sign was missing a couple letters, their flight info was written on a chalkboard rather than a TV screen, the uniform on the ancient worker behind the counter looked stained and frayed, and she was doing everything manually instead of typing at a computer. It didn’t look great, but beggars can’t be choosers. Famous last words.

I was able to get a ticket for that night, on their last flight. Fortunately for me, (or so I thought) they were running a little late due to weather. I made my way to the gate, such as it was. It was furnished with plastic chairs stamped with a Pan Am logo that were probably modern and futuristic once upon a time, but now were just uncomfortable and weird-smelling. I didn’t want to sit down anyway, so I just kind of paced around near the window.

I looked around the space to see who my fellow travelers were going to be. The waiting area was dominated by a group of nine old ladies talking so loudly that it was impossible not to eavesdrop. They were headed home to Boca Raton, and most agreed that they never should have let Miriam’s nephew arrange their trip, even though he did get them a bargain price. Their hotel had been a disaster! There was a young girl, probably around nine or ten, sitting a few seats away trying to appear not to be with them, but every so often her grandmother would shout over, “Becky, don’t wander off!” It seemed that one of their original members was recovering from hip surgery and had to back out of the trip, so Esther paid to bring her granddaughter along in Sophie’s place. Why she thought a girl her age would have had fun being dragged around with a pack of seniors is beyond me. I tried to make eye contact with Becky, to let her know that she wasn’t the only one having a crappy vacation, but she never looked up from her magazine.

A trio of sophisticated-looking women, who looked to be in their thirties but may have been well-maintained forties were over in the smoking section having a conversation in that was a little two fast for my high school French to follow.

An older man came up near me, introducing himself as Gus Nelson, a retired engineer from Iowa. He figured he’d talk to me since we were the only ones who seemed to be traveling alone. His excuse was that just like me he’d visited the casino, but he got too caught up in a game of blackjack and had to cash in his plane ticket. His wife was sore at him, but he and Irene had been married for 40 years, so he was sure she’d forgive him eventually, especially since he hadn’t lost her ticket, too.

Gus cocked his head to get me to look over in the corner where a pair of newlyweds was necking. He thought it was hilarious, but it was too painful for me to watch so I excused myself and went to the restroom to splash some water on my face. That should have been me and Julia!

By the time I came back, Gus had moved on to bothering Becky. I took a book out of my bag and sat down to pretend to read. Across from me were these two sharply-dressed Latino guys that I think were gay were looking in my direction and laughing, and at first I was uncomfortable and thought they were checking me out, but it turned out that they were trying to get the attention of some people sitting behind me. It was a pair of couples in their mid-twenties, who’d been staying at their same hotel.

I needed to find a new spot to get out of the middle of their conversation, but there weren’t that many empty chairs available. One was next to a nun, who was engrossed in reading her bible. At the time I took it as a good luck charm. It would have to be a safe flight with one of God’s own operatives on board, right? But I wasn’t sure she wouldn’t try to talk to me to save my soul or whatever, so I didn’t sit there.

The only other free seat was near these two mousy-looking women who could have been librarians. As I approached, they seemed to recoil in fear. I wondered how virginal and uptight they must be to see a guy like me as a threat, but then I saw that another group of tourists had just shown up looking for a place to sit down.

This one guy was huge, he must have been six and a half feet tall, and probably half that across. His tropical print shirt was just a little too tight for his muscular torso. A tiny blonde with an annoyingly high-pitched squeal of a laugh clung to him. Their traveling companions were a wiry red-haired guy covered in freckles, and a short squat bald man with a broken nose. This group seemed to radiate an aura of danger, and the librarians vacated their chairs for them without even being asked to.

I stopped looking for a vacant seat after that, and went back to pacing and staring out the window. After what was probably an hour but felt like a week, our plane arrived. It was an old propeller job, a tiny thing. I doubted that all the people waiting with me would be able to fit inside. The haggard woman who was our gate agent set up a velvet rope by the door and got on the tinny intercom to tell us all to remain seated while the arriving passengers deplaned.

A couple guys pushed a rolling stairway over next to the plane, and then the door opened and the passengers started spilling out. They walked down the steps and across the blacktop to the door in our gate, where the agent bid them a stale welcome. After the passengers, the pilot and the stewardess came out and then the gate agent shut the door and went over some paperwork with them. The three of them had disappeared when I looked back over after watching two guys with a baggage cart unloading the plane.

Just after the gas truck refueled the old bird, the agent came back on the intercom to tell us we’d be boarding soon. What seemed to be that same pilot and stewardess returned from wherever they’d gone and the pilot walked out to the plane. The agent told us that the plane was not equipped to handle carry-on luggage, so any bags we had with us would need to be checked into the cargo compartment. The stewardess circulated among us, and handed out tags to attach to our bags, tearing off a stub for us to hang onto with our claim numbers.

The big scary guy didn’t want to have to give up his bag, but she told him that there was just no place inside the plane where it could go. They were fully booked, so he couldn’t even put it on an empty seat. He reluctantly obeyed, but swore he’d make somebody sorry if anything happened to his stuff. I felt bad for the stewardess; she was only trying to do her job, but he’d made her visibly unnerved. I tried to give her a reassuring smile when it was my turn to hand her my carry-on, but she was still pretty frazzled.

Then the gate agent got on the intercom and started boarding the plane, starting from the back since there was no first class. I was in the second group that was called. It felt weird to be walking across pavement to get to the plane, like something out of a bygone era. At the bottom of the stairs, we handed our bags to the two guys who’d driven the cart before, and they carried them over to the cargo hatch.

The inside of the plane looked more like a bus. There weren’t any of the fancy gizmos you see in modern jets. I guess that’s what all plane interiors used to look like. About the only good thing was that the seats weren’t quite as tiny as some of the coach class seats I’d flown in.

I ended up being seated next to one of the French ladies. Her name was Jeanne-Marie. Even though she probably had at least ten years on me, she was smoking hot! As we shared some small talk, (her English was much better than my French) I had to concentrate on not staring into her cleavage. Her breasts were very impressive, and her blouse seemed designed to show them off. I tried to focus on her beautiful green eyes.

When everyone had boarded, the stewardess closed the door and introduced herself to us as Dolores. She ran through the seatbelt instructions and did the old double-finger point at the emergency exits, and told us about oxygen masks. It was pretty much the same routine you get on the big planes. She told us that once we were airborne she would be passing out water bottles and bags of peanuts. It was kind of cool that she explained everything in English, Spanish, and French.

The pilot came on the intercom and told her to take her seat to prepare for takeoff. His name was Capt. Bill Cavanaugh, and said that we’d be going through and around some weather so there was a chance the seatbelt sign might not get turned off, but that our flight time was just under a couple hours, so it shouldn’t be too uncomfortable.
 

***
 

It’s easy not to be afraid to fly when you’re in a smooth, modern jet, but the noises the plane made as we taxied to the runway and took off were different than you get in a bigger one. I could feel the vibration through my seat, and it made the whole thing seem even more primitive and old-fashioned. It seemed like the bucket of bolts could collapse at any time, and I had a tinge of regret right before the sudden jolt of acceleration when he left the ground.

It was a pretty choppy flight, with a lot of ups and downs and tilting turns. To take my mind off how scary it was I struck up a conversation with Jeanne-Marie. I learned that she and her friends were going home from a vacation. They all worked in Miami in the fashion business. I asked if they were models, and she laughed at me for such obvious flattery, but admitted that she used to be one. She asked me if I’d been vacationing too and why I was traveling alone, and I gave her the short version of things, that I’d had to cut my trip short when my companions turned out not to be who I’d thought they were.

I guess she read it in my face or something, because she said “Your girlfriend let you down? That is a shame,” and then swore in French. I just nodded, and she leaned over and gave me half a hug, pressing one of those magnificent boobs up against me, and a kiss on the cheek.

Since she lived there, I asked her if she knew how far the bus station was from the airport in Miami, so I could see about trying to find a way to get home to Portland. She sighed and said she didn’t know, but since we’d be getting into the airport so late she offered to drive me back to her place for a place to sleep and freshen up, and then take me to the bus station in the morning. I thanked her for her generosity, and my imagination wandered, trying to decide whether she was offering me her couch or a space in her bed.

That moment of fantasizing was cut short when there was a sudden bright flash outside, and the cabin lights went out for a couple seconds. Jeanne-Marie grabbed my arm and squeezed so tightly her nails made dents. Capt. Cavanaugh came on the sound system and told us that the plane had been struck by lightning, but it was nothing to worry about. It was a property of metal containers that any electrical charge always goes to the outside, so we were perfectly safe.

One of his instruments was acting a little funny, but he reassured us that he’d flown this route hundreds of times and didn’t really need an electronic box to keep him on course. He was going to take us up and over the storm clouds, so they shouldn’t be bothering us for much longer. I tried to feel reassured, but it was really just too scary. I did my best to fake it to try to keep Jeanne-Marie from panicking, or maybe it was just so I wouldn’t look like too big a chicken in front of her.

The plane climbed at a fairly steep angle for a while, but we were still stuck in the cloud. The captain apologized to us, but this storm seemed higher than usual. Our cabin wasn’t pressurized, so we were getting close to the maximum safe altitude. He’d have to try a different maneuver to get out of the path of the storm. He swung the plane around in a sharp bank, and after a while we were flying level again. Everyone cheered and applauded, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief.

We were flying along decently for a few minutes, and Dolores was about to get up and start passing out snacks when our pilot came on. With a little bit of a tremor in his voice, he said that we were a little off of our scheduled flight plan, and he wasn’t exactly sure where we were, but we were out of the storm and there was a shortage of landmarks. He didn’t think we had enough fuel to make Miami and we’d need to make an emergency landing.

He said he could see an island ahead that looked like it had a nice beach. He’d done this sort of thing before, and it was nothing to worry about. He’d dump most of the remaining fuel, so there would be little chance of any kind of fire. Once the plane was on the ground, he could fix the problem the radio was having with its antenna, and he was sure it wouldn’t be long before a rescue craft of some sort would arrive, and we’d all have an adventure we could tell the folks back home about.

But first he wanted Dolores to make sure we all properly got into crash positions. She went around and showed us how to cross our arms in front of us and lean forward. Jeanne-Marie reached over and grabbed my hand in hers, and her face showed that she was absolutely terrified. Somewhere up front, Sister Maria started praying in Latin, and one member of the pack of old Jewish ladies even told her to do it louder.

With everyone in position, the pilot called for Dolores to come up front to be a second set of eyes in the cockpit. Most of us were freaking out at this point so there wasn’t a lot she could have done, but it still felt like she was abandoning us. I didn’t know if I was going to live or die, and I really didn’t care one way or the other. I said my own silent prayer that I wanted Julia and Rick and even Pete to feel guilty that their actions drove me to get on a crashing plane. I wanted to my death to haunt them forever.

The plane did a steep bank and started descending, just like when you land at a real airport. We all braced ourselves, and could feel our wheels hit, but we bounced and hit air again. The pilot tried to level us out, but we were really wobbling. Then it wobbled too much, and there was a horrendous noise of wrenching metal, and the plane was tipped up almost on its side. Loose things that people had brought on board were flying everywhere — someone’s camera hit Jeanne-Marie in the side of the head. Most of the ladies were screaming. We all could tell that we weren’t slowing down enough.

The plane rolled so it was completely upside-down and it still was sliding forward, making an awful scraping noise, and then we stopped short with a loud smack! We’d apparently hit the water, because it was starting to flow into the cabin, and as it flowed in, the front of the plane started tipping down. We were sinking.

People started unclicking their seatbelts and trying to get out. Most of them didn’t have the sense to realize that would make them immediately fall to the ceiling. A lot of folks hit their heads. I carefully hung onto the halves of my belt when I unbuckled, and lowered myself down. Jeanne-Marie was unconscious, but she had a strong pulse. I got her belt off and slowly brought her down.
 

***
 

The plane kept lurching forward. The cockpit door opened, and the captain came out. He told us that we were hanging on the edge of a sheer drop, and everybody needed to move to the back of the plane, to shift the center of weight, and then we could one by one go out one of the emergency exits.

The big scary guy that I’d noticed in the airport said “Fuck that! I’m getting out now.” He rushed toward the exit that would have been over the left wing if we were rightside-up, pushing people out of his way. His blonde was still hanging buckled into her chair, but he was clearly ignoring her, and so were the two guys that followed in his wake.

They muscled their way to the exit and forced it open. Gus was at the exit row, and when he got in their way the giant grabbed his arm and twisted it, and I heard a snap. The captain ran to try to stop them, but the big guy just clocked him one upside the head and he went down. He tried to get up again, but this time a massive hand grabbed him by the throat. “You’re not in charge any more. I am. And I say I get to leave now.” He squeezed the captain’s throat until he passed out, and then the three thugs went out the exit.

The plane was tipping even worse. Dolores was leaning in the cockpit doorway, holding a wound in her shoulder that was badly bleeding. She tried to direct people to calm down and get to the back of the plane. We were slipping forward and water was rushing in. I said I was a med student and worked my way over to Gus. His ulna was definitely broken, but he was still trying to help Becky get her grandmother down from her seat. He needed to get out of there, so I passed Jeanne-Marie to him and told him to get her to shore then come back for the next one, and I’d go help Becky. He reluctantly agreed, and they went out.

The water was coming way too fast, and the exit got blocked when three people tried to use it at the same time. Becky and I had gotten the old ladies unbuckled, but they’d lost consciousness. The plane got struck by a wave or something, and it rolled again and started sinking very quickly. I grabbed Becky’s hand and dove down for the front door of the plane. The lock almost got stuck, but a little extra leverage from my foot and I had the door open. I pulled Becky through the opening, and swam for the surface.

I was so relieved to hear her coughing as our faces hit air. I told her to swim to shore and I’d go back down to get someone else. She said that she couldn’t swim, so I had to bring her. There was just enough moonlight that I could see which way to go. I had her hang onto me tightly and did my best crawl stroke in. I turned to look back every so often, and when the tail of the plane disappeared into the water I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go back for anyone else, and if no one had followed me out of the plane yet they weren’t going to.

The shore was more of a rocky shelf than a sandy beach, which might have explained why our crash landing was more of a crash than a landing. It was easy to see where our plane had struck. There was a big scrape along the rocks, and about half of a wing was lying there. Some pieces of luggage were strewn about, and the three selfish assholes that had made the accident worse by not cooperating were checking each bag to see if it was theirs, and what was in it if it wasn’t.

Gus had placed Jeanne-Marie on the ground and was checking to make sure she was still breathing. We went over there and looked at his arm. I needed to splint it, so I went looking for a couple of sticks. Becky was still in shock, and didn’t want to get too far away from me, so I asked her to look too. She actually was useful, and got a couple pieces of driftwood that would do the trick, and I tied it off with a couple pieces of cloth torn from a shirt that had fallen out of a suitcase that had popped open, and then rigged a sling to hold his arm up from the rest of the shirt.

I was pissed off, and wanted to go complain to the enormous guy, even though he could snap me like a twig. But I’d been in a horrible mood before I got on the plane, and knowing that there was nothing I could do to save any more of those people just made me angrier at my own powerlessness. But this guy made a convenient target to vent at.

I didn’t want Becky tagging along, so I told her to watch the wounded people for me, and I could tell she didn’t want me to go but knew that I was asking her to do something important. I placed her hand on Jeanne-Marie’s diaphragm, and said that she should call out to me if she stopped breathing. It was around then that I realized I’d never introduced myself. I said “Hi, I’m Wayne. Just shout my name if you need me for anything.”

I worked my way over to where the three thugs were beachcombing, and said, “Okay, seeing as how you lost us the plane, and we don’t have any radio or signal beacon or anything to get rescued with, and we don’t have any fresh water or food or anything, what is your plan for keeping us alive and getting out of here?”

The giant guy just laughed. “The way I see it, the first thing we ought to do is find out if anybody lives on this island; that would be the easiest way to get rescued. But it’s night, and wandering around in the dark isn’t smart, so we’d better throw together some kind of shelter and get some sleep. So I’ve got my boys looking through these cases for something to use as a blanket. You got a better idea, Gilligan?”

I had to sheepishly agree that he was right. We could probably wait until morning to find food or water, but a good sheltered place to sleep was a priority. I turned to go back to the others, and he threw a backhanded compliment my way, “I’m not sure about the kid or the old man with the bum wing, but you did good there saving the chick with the big tits. I call dibs.” He truly disgusted me.

I asked him if they’d seen anything in the bags they searched that would be useful for making a fire, because we really needed to get dry. The shortest of the three men handed me a disposable lighter and nodded, like he also knew that fire was probably more important than shelter.

I set Becky to work gathering more driftwood, and looked around for the best spot to make my fire. I wasn’t sure if doing it on the rocky beach was a good idea, since I didn’t know how high the tide got, but I ran into some thick brush fairly quickly going inland. I settled on a spot as high up in the rocks as I could get.

We got the fire going and stood around it to dry off. I was worried that Jeanne-Marie was still unconscious, and couldn’t get dry like the rest of us, but we had found a beach towel that would work. I brought Becky with me to rummage for clothes that might fit, Jeanne-Marie and had her help me undress her, dry her off, and get her dressed again.

The big guy was watching us the whole time, leering. I said “Excuse me, Mr…?”

He snarled. “Call me Frank.”

“Okay, Frank. Could you give me a hand carrying her over near the fire?” He looked at me for a second, and decided that I wasn’t asking too much. He very easily picked her up and carried her over to where the others had already arranged themselves. At first he wanted to put Jeanne-Marie over next to the spot where he was going to sleep, but I told him I’d need to check her vitals every so often and wanted her near me. He shot me a look for defying his authority, but he did as I asked anyway.
 

***
 

In the morning, Frank and the other two guys, whose names I learned were Rocco and Fitz, went off exploring. They were going to keep to the shore and try to walk the perimeter of the island, and see how far it went, and look for signs of civilization. They planned to turn around if they didn’t find anything by nightfall. The rest of us stayed behind to try to make our camp more livable.

Gus proved to be very handy. He did a few calculations in the sand, and came up with a plan for how we could make a lean-to shelter using our broken wing as a roof, and prop it up against a couple of palm trees for support.

He started by reaching in there and yanking out some of the wires and cables and hydraulic tubes to make it lighter, and we used some of those cables as ropes to pull it. It was a tough job, especially with Gus having only one good arm, but Becky and I pulled as hard as we could and got it up into place. Then he rigged up a kind of pulley in the tree and hauled it up and had me climb up and tie it off in place. With a pile of rocks under the tip of the wing, and the wider end lashed up in the tree, we had the start of a decent shelter.

He was a little worried that tying the wing to the tree wouldn’t be strong enough, so he worked with some scrap metal that he heated in the fire and pounded it with rocks like a blacksmith. He made a kind of bracket that would keep the wing from falling; gravity actually made it hold tighter.

We used lengths of wire and mostly muumuus and hung curtains down along the long side of the wing. Those old ladies had a lot of muumuus. It was tough on Becky when she realized her grandmother and her friends were all gone, but we told her that her grandmother would probably have wanted her to use her things, if it meant Becky would have shelter. We hung more curtains to section off the space under the wing, so everyone would have their own private “tent” of sorts.
 

***
 

Gus’s other great project was the construction of a still. He hammered out a cooking pot from a piece of crumpled aluminum, but he needed to cut a glass bottle and asked if I’d seen any diamond jewelry in my scavenging of people’s luggage. I said I hadn’t, but I pulled the ring box out of my pocket and handed it to him. He eventually got my whole story, but that time all he did was thank me and get to work. By cutting and melting bottles, he’d built a thing where he could boil seawater over the fire, catch the vapors, and create a bottle of clean water for drinking. It was slow, but by running it constantly all day we were able to make enough water for us all to stay hydrated and still stockpile some extra bottles. It was a good thing, since Frank and the boys had taken all the water bottles we’d found from the plane with them on their exploration mission.

Gus and I tried to catch a fish, but Becky was the one who actually found us something to eat. She noticed that some of our palm trees had coconuts in them, and we were able to get one to fall by throwing rocks at it. It wasn’t great, but it was food. I wished there was a way I could give some to Jeanne-Marie, but she still hadn’t regained consciousness. I hoped the knock in her head hadn’t damaged her so much that she’d fallen into a coma; we didn’t have what it would take to treat that.

In the evening when the explorers returned, they told us the bad news. They’d gone part of the way around the island, and had to return. Not only hadn’t they found signs of civilization, they’d literally found a sign that there definitely wasn’t any to be found. They’d only gone a few miles when they’d seen a large signpost out in the water, and had to wade out to be able to read the other side. It was an announcement that the island was a protected wildlife preserve, for the study of seabirds. Trespassing was prohibited. The announcement was in several languages, so they couldn’t tell what country we were in.

If the island was for studying birds, maybe there were some scientists currently working on it somewhere, so Frank planned to go out on a more complete circuit in a couple days. On the plus side, once they knew there were birds on the island, they went hunting and managed to bring down a couple. He handed me a couple of dead birds that looked like small gulls and said, “Here, Gilligan. Find a way to cook these.”

I brought them over to the fire and started plucking feathers. Once the birds were dressed I took a knife (There had been a couple of decent pocket knives in the luggage) and gutted and cleaned them. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep an even enough temperature to roast them, so I filtered some sea water through a t-shirt to get rid of sand and stuff, and then cut it with some of Gus’s fresh water so it wouldn’t be too salty, threw in some of the tastier leaves I’d tried from all the plants around, and boiled up the birds until the meat was falling off the bones.

I served the resulting stew to everyone and it was a hit. Frank declared me the official designated cook from then on. “Maybe I should call you Mary Ann instead of Gilligan. But we’ve already got a Mary Ann over here.” He pointed at Becky. “Maybe if Ginger doesn’t wake up, Mary Ann will have to be our new Ginger and you can be our new Mary Ann.” He laughed at his own joke. I just glared at him powerlessly. “Anyway, the Professor here has built some pretty incredible stuff for us. That still you were showing us before, can it be used to make booze?”
 

***
 

Gus said he thought it could, and then went into an explanation for how. I didn’t feel like a lecture and excused myself to go check on Jeanne-Marie. I said I thought it would be a good idea to go through the suitcases we’d found and take an inventory of any prescription medicines they had. Maybe there would be something that could help Jeanne-Marie, and also we’d be a little more prepared in case any of the rest of us got injured or sick.

Fitz volunteered to help me with that, and I couldn’t think of a way to tell him not to. He was useful, but he kept stopping to read labels whenever he found a little orange bottle. I asked if he was looking for something in particular, and he got a terrible glint in his eye. “You find any Oxy, you give it to me. You don’t tell Frank; you don’t tell anybody. You just give it to me. I find out you got any and didn’t give it to me, I’ll cut you in your sleep!”

So one of the killers I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with was also an addict. Fortunately, there weren’t any bottles clearly labeled Oxycontin, so I didn’t have to feed his addiction. I did find Ten Percocet tablets in a “days of the week” pill box that probably belonged to one of the old ladies. I kept Fitz from noticing them and hid them in a vitamin bottle when he wasn’t looking.

I got him to leave me alone by suggesting that maybe if Gus could distill some strong liquor, it might be what he needed to soothe his nerves. I hated to do that to Gus, but it really wasn’t an unreasonable prescription. Besides, I knew that Gus had already started trying to figure out what stuff we had that would ferment.

Our island pharmacy ended up containing three different antibiotics, a couple of antidepressants, a couple of mild painkillers as well as the Percocet I kept hidden, (Secretly I planned that if it got too unbearable I’d just take them all and go for a swim) a half-used wheel of birth control pills, a good supply of various vitamins, an empty insulin syringe, an allergy shot pen, and a fairly large amount of estrogen supplements ready in case any of us went into menopause. All in all it was fairly disappointing. I had nothing that would help me get Jeanne-Marie to wake up. I just had to wait.

Fortunately, I didn’t need to wait long. The next morning, she woke up. But her brain had clearly been damaged. She barely understood French, let alone English. But she was able to finally eat and drink something, so I didn’t need to worry about her dying of dehydration.

But she did need constant supervision. She was roughly equivalent to a giant baby, including the need to wear a diaper. I tried having Becky watch her, but that didn’t work out too well. Jeanne-Marie got mad at her and slapped her so hard it left a mark. Frank stepped up and started keeping an eye on her, and he really was the best one of us to do it. If she wandered off somewhere dangerous, he could pick her up and carry her back.

I was trying to help Gus with his latest project. I tried to assist him as well as I could when something needed doing that took two hands. He’d scavenged all the broken electronic devices we had, and assembled a radio transmitter, but it didn’t have a lot of range. He needed more power and wasn’t sure where to get it. He’d rigged up this little crank-powered dynamo generator that could charge a capacitor, but it wouldn’t hold a charge for very long. Once he was able to get a phone to come on, but it couldn’t find any signal. He was getting very frustrated.

We were doing fine for a few days when I saw something I wished I hadn’t. I was looking around inland for edible plants and happened upon Frank and Jeanne-Marie. At first I thought she was just lying in the grass to get her diaper changed, but then he opened his pants and got on top of her. In her current mental state, that could only be a rape - no way could she consent! I screamed at him to stop, and he just looked at me and grinned. He said she liked it and he liked it, and he figured he might as well get some use out of her.

I was livid, and ran back to camp to try to come up with some kind of plan. I ran into Gus, and told him what I’d seen. He wasn’t as shocked as I’d expected, and admitted that he knew what Frank had been doing with her. I was hurt, and asked him why he hadn’t told me. He said, “Because I knew how you’d react. You’d want to find some way to save her, to stop him. And there just isn’t a way. Frank is bigger, stronger, and tougher than you or me, and he’s got his two thugs backing him up. You saw what he did to the captain back on the plane, and what he did to me. I’m pretty sure he’s killed people before, and felt no remorse about it. He’s not a human being; he’s a monster.”

I could feel hot tears flowing down my cheeks. “But he needs to be stopped.”

“I don’t disagree, but there’s nothing we can do to stop him. You get in his way, he’ll kill you.” He put his hand on my shoulder to hold me back.

I shrugged him off. “So what if he does? At least I’ll have tried. Maybe I’ll beat those million-to-one odds and stop him.”

“You won’t win. The odds are zero to one. He’ll kill you, and then what will happen to Becky?” He pointed a finger in my face.

I had no clue what he was talking about. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it. You’ve got to know that you’re the only thing that girl’s got left. You’re the hero who saved her from certain death. She idolizes you, and if you let Frank destroy you, I think she’d lose the will to keep going.” He put his hands on his hips and rested his case.

He hadn’t completely convinced me, but I agreed to sit on my hands and keep from directly confronting Frank.
 

***
 

But the days passed and he was sexually assaulting Jeanne-Marie more overtly. He’d taken to dressing her in loose dresses, so he could just reach in and grab her breast any time he wanted to. I wished for the strength to stop him, or a brilliant idea on how I could save her. A dark thought crossed my mind, and I considered that he’d have to stop if she died, and at least her soul would be at rest. But I was too scared to try anything. There was still a chance she wasn’t permanently damaged, and if we ever did make it back to civilization, maybe a neurosurgeon could fix her.

Maybe Fate heard my prayers, or just wasn’t as big a chicken as me. One afternoon Frank came and got me and said that she’d just stopped moving when they were in the middle of what they usually did. He brought me to her and I checked her vitals. She had no pulse and wasn’t breathing. I made an attempt at CPR, but she was gone.

He at least let me cover her up before fetching the others to give her a decent burial. We read some Bible passages, sang a couple lines from Amazing Grace, and put her in a hole. Becky cried the whole time, and I told her she didn’t need to stay to watch us shovel all the dirt back in, but she wanted to be there. I think she was symbolically grieving for everyone that had died on the plane.
 

***
 

It was only a couple days before Frank started looking at Becky in a very uncomfortable way. That was what finally made me go to him. I said, “Frank, you’re not going to do anything to Becky, are you?”

He smirked. “Well, Gilligan, real men like me have needs. And one of those needs is regular pussy. And now that Ginger’s dead, Mary Ann’s the only slit we’ve got.” He knew how much I hated his stupid nicknames, and kept it up.

“You are not going to touch Becky.” I tried to sound forceful, but my voice betrayed me and cracked.

He just laughed. “Look, now that my main reason for hanging out around here is gone, me and my boys are going to finally going to do that hike all the way around the island to try to find some bird scientists or look for a boat or whatever. My best guess is that it’ll take us a couple to three weeks, just going by how far we’ve gone already and how big this place seems. When we get back, I’m going to get laid. You spend that time preparing your little girl, but don’t you dare pop her cherry! That’s my privilege.”

My mind raced for a solution, and I thought about the bottles of hormones back in the first aid kit. I tried a bluff. “What if I could get you some other woman to ‘meet your needs,’ would you agree to leave Becky alone?”

“And how would you go about that?”

“We recovered a whole lot of estrogen from the plane. What if I took enough to give myself the sexy, feminine figure you desire? If I became your sex slave, would you declare Becky off limits?” My lack of strong masculine features probably helped me for the first time in my life, as I swallowed my bile and tried to look flirtatious.

Frank shook his head. “I’m no fag, so I won’t agree to stay away from the girl if all you’re offering me is a guy in a dress. But if you really can turn yourself into a real woman all the way, and do a good enough job that my dick believes it, sure. I’ll leave the kid alone. I mean, she hasn’t even got tits yet. You’ll have them, right?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.” There was no way hormones would work that quickly, but there were other ways.

“All right then. Consider it a deal. If you can become a hot-looking chick, with tits and all, I’ll fuck you instead of the kid.” He reached out and shook my hand. “But if I stick my hand in your panties and find something that shouldn’t be there, the deal’s off. Got it?”

I nodded my head, realizing exactly what I was promising, and hoping to God that it worked.
 

***
 

The next morning, Frank looked at me over breakfast and I could feel him trying to figure out what kind of woman I’d look like. I really didn’t want Becky to turn into his sexual plaything, so I put every effort into trying to sit in as girlish a manner as possible. I needed him to believe that I truly could become his new girlfriend. I didn’t stick around to see them off, and instead spent the morning searching through the extra clothes we had that no one wanted to wear. It was the first phase of my plan.

I knew that breasts were a very important part of what Frank looked for in a woman. I had an idea on how to make it work, and snuck off to do the shameful deed alone. I’d seen the scars. I knew Jeanne-Marie’s endowments weren’t entirely natural. I just wasn’t sure if France switched to saline across the board when the US did. It was a long shot, but it was really the only hope that I or Becky had. I was glad we hadn’t buried her that deeply, and it didn’t exhaust me to dig her up. She was already decaying, but she still seemed beautiful in a way. I asked her forgiveness and got the knife to mutilate her corpse.

I recovered her implants and was relieved to discover that they were indeed silicone; this ghoulish business hadn’t been for naught. I borrowed Gus’s still to boil some water and get them as sterile as possible, and then took them to my tent. I’d stockpiled all the bras I could find from the luggage, and had already checked which ones seemed to fit me. All I had to do next was figure out which one had the right cup size for my new breasts. I almost laughed at the silliness of sitting there trying on bras and stuffing them with blobby balloons, but it really was very serious business.

When I’d tracked down the best fit, I put it on as tightly as possible, and pulled what little flesh I had on my chest into the cups. I paused for a moment and asked myself if I was really sure I wanted to do this, and my brain conjured an image of Frank brutally violating Becky. I really didn’t care if Frank killed me, but she deserved to get out of this alive and still innocent.

I was resolved to do it. I stuck the syringe into the implant and filled it with silicone gel. I slipped my shoulder strap down and stuck the needle in behind my nipple. I repeated the process, making a spiraling pattern all the way around, slipping the strap back up into place every so often, to check that I was making the right shape.

The implant held around 400 cc’s of saline, and my syringe only held 3. I had to stab myself 129 times in order to fill out the breast. I knew that loose silicone gel in my chest could probably kill me over time, but I figured I’d live long enough to keep Frank satisfied until we were rescued.

The right side was a little more difficult to do. For one thing, I wasn’t left-handed, and for another, my arm kept bumping my new sore left breast. But I was pleased with my results; they seemed symmetrical and filled the cups nicely. I kept my bra on and slept on my back, after taking a couple of my hidden Percocets.
 

***
 

In the morning, I slipped on the dress I’d picked out for my unveiling, and went out to tell Becky and Gus what I’d done. I found them by the cooking fire having some breakfast. I’d never had a really deep voice, so it was easy for me to pitch my voice up into a Marilyn Monroe-style breathy whisper. I said “I’ve decided to become a woman. This island has really brought out my feminine side.” They laughed and what they assumed was a joke, but then I unbuttoned the top of my dress. The sheerness of my bra showed that I was not using any kind of external padding to make my breasts. “I already started my transformation. What do you think?”

Becky wanted to touch me to make sure they were real, and I let her, trying not to wince too noticeably. Gus shot me a confused look, and I tried to make eye contact to let him know I’d explain later. I asked Becky if she’d help me figure out how to make my hair look more girlish, and sent her to go see if we had any magazines with pictures of pretty women in short hairstyles.

When she was gone, I explained to Gus what was really up, and that Frank had given me three weeks to turn into a woman, or else he was going to rape Becky. I had to become the sexiest, sluttiest bimbo possible and meet all of his needs or he’d probably go after Becky anyway. And I would need Gus’s help for the worst part. I spent the day working with him on sewing, ostensibly doing alterations on some things that didn’t fit the new me quite as well as I’d like.

Our only mirror was kind of small but I think the haircut Becky gave me was a cute one, a sexy pixie style with long bangs on my forehead. She had fun showing me how to wear hairpins and ribbons and things in it. I think she saw me as a giant doll.

While Becky was working on brewing the stew for dinner, Gus came into my tent with me to go over the routine one more time. He thought it was crazy, and wondered if we could just hide things instead of cutting them off, but I said I didn’t think Frank would say that met the terms of our agreement.

At night by the fire, after Becky had gone to bed, I took a couple more Percocets. Using the straightest length of straight wire Gus had and a little bit of coconut oil, I gave myself a urethral sounding. Then I tied a tourniquet at the base of my penis and a second around my scrotum, and waited for everything to go numb. While waiting, I drilled Gus on the steps to take in my castration, in case I passed out before I was able to finish. He was really shaky and needed to take a shot of moonshine to calm his nerves. We were about to do a horrible thing, but what Frank would do to Becky if we didn’t would be even more horrible.

We cut off my penis, and then Gus brought over the red-hot tip of a metal rod that had been in the fire, and touched it to the exposed blood vessels to cauterize them. It smelled like cooking meat, and felt like my spine had been struck by lightning, but I willed myself to stay awake and aware. After letting it cool for a minute, Gus used a needle from a sewing kit and a length of silk thread I’d unraveled from a scarf, to sew the edges of my stump in tightly around my urethra. Then we slipped a plastic straw around the sounding and slid it down in there and pulled the sounding out. The straw would serve as a catheter so I could still urinate as it healed. We trimmed it down so it only stuck out an inch or so from my body, a mockery of the spout that we’d just removed.

Gus had to take a break to go vomit before we continued, and I didn’t blame him. But I wanted to get the next part over with as quickly as possible, so when he got back, I’d already cut my sac open and severed the connections to the testes. All he needed to do was bring the hot poker over again, and then sew me up down the middle to make two little flaps to resemble labia. Somewhere in there I passed out, and woke up a while later in my tent. He’d cleaned me up and thrown all the waste into the fire, and brought me to bed.

I was sore for a few days, and didn’t do much except lie in my tent and take drugs. I was on antibiotics, but only as a precaution. There didn’t seem to be much sign of infection. I tried to ration my painkillers, and supplemented them with some of Gus’s homebrew. I also decided to start taking hormones, even though they wouldn’t be making noticeable changes to my body before Frank came back. I thought they might help rewire my brain. Becky brought me food and water, and assisted me in getting up when I had to squat over the coconut shell that served as my improvised bedpan. She was fascinated by how natural I looked down there.
 

***
 

We had some salvaged razors, but I foolishly thought shaving wouldn’t be sexy enough, and worked with Gus to invent a way to use tree sap to wax my legs. I’d say it hurt worse than cutting off my genitals, but you probably wouldn’t believe me. Gus and Becky even waxed my bikini area, being careful to stay clear of my stitches. They even took turns tweezing individual hairs from around my anus. I’m just glad I was never a particularly hairy guy.

I was unsure what to do about my facial hair, when Becky remembered that one of the old ladies in her group had a thing for plucking her moustache hairs, and she went looking through our inventory to see if we had recovered it. We did. It was a sort of battery-powered electrolysis device. Gus didn’t think it had enough juice to do anything useful, and rigged it up to his generator/capacitor thing.

He was able to crank it up and zap each of the little hairs above and below my lip, and they just fell out one by one. He could only get a few hairs per cranking, but it worked, and Becky did her share, too. I couldn’t do any of the plucking, but I did do some cranking when they got tired. I’d always been annoyed that I could never grow a full beard, but now I was grateful for it.

My face was red for a couple days, but after that I was smooth everywhere that I needed to be. I grew stronger and was able to do more things for myself. I was nervous about what I’d have to let Frank do to me, so I started practicing with some sticks the right size and a lot of coconut oil. I also started trying to get into the right mindset. I kept repeating to myself, “I’m a dirty slut,” to try to reprogram my brain.

I tried flirting with Gus, but he’d get really uncomfortable and need to turn away. One afternoon when I was working on poses to show off my breasts I caught him looking and he got really embarrassed. I think I saw a reaction in his shorts, but he turned away too quickly.

Becky helped me work on my appearance. She pierced my ears for me, helped me file my nails to a more feminine shape and polished them a sexy shade of red, along with my toenails, which also needed to be trimmed and shaped. We worked together going through magazines and trying to figure out how to best use the bits of makeup we had to make me my prettiest. We also spent a lot of time putting together my wardrobe, seeing what fit and also looked good on me.
 

***
 

Just two days after my stitches came out, Frank and his boys returned to camp. Their journey had been totally fruitless, and they were in a sour mood. I hid in the tent and waited until they were all gathered for lunch before I came out. I’d put on a pretty tropical-print sundress with a halter neckline that revealed a lot of cleavage, and a pair of sandals with high wedge heels that were just a little tight on me. I had gold bracelets on my right wrist, a twinkly necklace dancing between my breasts, a chain around my leftt ankle, and dangling earrings that jingled when I turned my head.

My eyelashes were long and lush, my eyelids were deep blue and smoky, and my lips were full, red and glistening. I wiggled my way over to Frank and let him breathe in my perfume. I purred, “Welcome home,” and gave him a deep kiss on the lips. My lips parted and I was not surprised when his tongue pushed into my mouth. I sucked as hard as I could and broke the kiss, as I felt his massive hand cup my behind. I concentrated on my inner mantra to keep from being disgusted. I’m a dirty slut. I leaned back into his hand, and pressed my breasts against him before backing away.

Next, I gave a little speech that Gus had helped me work on. We’d prearranged a signal so Becky would slip away and leave the grownups alone. I stood up facing Frank and untied my dress, retrieving the ring that I’d hidden there as they all watched my dress fall to the ground. I was completely naked, and he could see that there was nothing male left of me whatsoever. “Just like back home, I’d like to be able to show everyone who I am. If you like what you see and want to claim me, put this ring on my left hand so these guys know I belong to you, and they can’t touch me without your permission. If you don’t want me, I’ll have to find someone else who can appreciate all of this.” I struck my best pose and did a slow spin, showing off all my sexy parts. I’m a dirty slut. “So, what do you think, Frank?” I stood before him, my left hand out with the palm down, and my right hand out palm up, with the ring inside it.

Frank wasted no time. He snatched up the ring and slid it onto my finger. “Wow, Gilligan. You’ve outdone yourself. If you fuck anywhere near as good as you look, I’ll hold up my end of the deal.”

I sat on his lap and kissed him again. I’m a dirty slut. “Now, unfortunately we just didn’t have the tools to make me a sweet pussy like you deserve.” I rolled my hips against his growing hardness. I’m a dirty slut. “But I have got the sweetest piece of ass around; I’m tight, wet, and eager for you to fuck me senseless. You want to go to the tent and get in bed, or would you rather start right here with a blowjob?” I’m a dirty slut. I slid down his lap onto my knees, and stopped with my hand resting on his fly. “But whichever you want to do, I’m sick of that nickname. Call me Julia.” I’m a dirty slut.

He scooped me up and carried me off to what from that point on became our tent. I squealed and wiggled in his arms playfully. As soon as the curtain was closed, he had his pants off and me on all fours. Frank wasn’t much for foreplay. It was a good thing I’d thoroughly lubricated myself ahead of time. Since so much of him was so large, I’d feared the worst, but he turned out to have a rather average-sized package, which seemed quite small compared to the rest of him. He gave me six fake orgasms, and one that came close to being real before he finally got off. As a lover, he wasn’t as rough as I was expecting, although I did need to ask him to be a little gentler with my boobs a couple of times; they were still new and fragile.

He did make me clean him off after he fell out of me, and so dirty slut that I was I diligently used my mouth to lick every nook and cranny free of his juices. That got him extremely turned on, so I was rewarded for my efforts with a mouthful of fresh sperm. I swallowed every drop, licked my lips hungrily, and thanked him for the yummy snack. I’m a dirty slut.
 

***
 

It was an adjustment, but constantly reminding myself who and what I was helped me stay in character. I played the dutiful little sexpot housewife, and my role was to dedicate myself to the service of all my man’s needs. For the most part, it was fairly easy keeping him satiated. The only times I really hated were the days when Rocco and Fitz had done a good job hunting or whatever and Frank rewarded them by lending me to them. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t insisted on taking me at the same time. They called it a “spit roast” and I didn’t much care for it, but I’m a dirty slut, so I had to be game for anything.

I encouraged Becky to be more of a tomboy, cutting her hair short so it wouldn’t be as difficult to manage, keeping her in jeans and loose shorts instead of skirts, and letting her spend time with Gus building and exploring instead of hanging out at the cooking fire with me. The less female the men saw her as, the better. I would frequently parade around camp in my skimpy bikini, but I made her change out of hers immediately whenever she was done swimming. I think she might have understood some of my reasons, but it didn’t stop her from complaining. I really didn’t want them to notice her budding figure.

We started falling into a routine. The men would go off hunting or fishing, I’d turn it into something tasty, and then I’d give my man his favorite dessert. I’m a dirty slut. At night I’d work on trying to make a sexy outfit out of pieces of some frumpy old lady’s collection, and spend the night wrapped in the arms of my snuggle muffin, after exhausting him repeatedly in a wide variety of positions. I’m a dirty slut. There was a morning when I caught him watching me before I woke up, and he lightly kissed me and said he could hardly remember what I used to look like. He thought he’d broken me, but that was the moment I realized that I had won. I was really the one in charge of our relationship. He was letting me lead him around by his convenient handle, and he didn’t even realize it.

Gus had tried another experiment, and ran a long wire up the highest spot on our island to serve as an antenna. He got his radio working, and for just a second he was able to send a simple Morse Code SOS signal, but then Frank thought it would be funny to kick his radio and throw it into the ocean. He said he didn’t want a message getting out to just anyone; there were certain countries where he was a wanted man and he didn’t want them finding him first. He told Gus that he should start building a boat instead of a radio; it would give us a better chance of picking the country that saved us.
 

***
 

He’d told Gus that the boat didn’t need to hold more than three people, so that night I pouted and asked him why he didn’t want to take me with him when he left. He tickled me and said that I was one of the three who’d be going; he never trusted Fitz and was planning to leave him behind. I was his girl, and he wasn’t about to throw me away — I was wearing his ring, wasn’t I? I gave him some of my best work out of “gratitude” and he snored off.

A couple weeks later, I gave Gus the signal. It was time to put the plan into motion. After dinner, he took Fitz off to the still to show him the latest batch of his brew. A while back he’d caught a puffer fish in one of his traps, and had worked at seeing if he could distill the toxin from it. Tests on birds seemed to show he had the right stuff, but he mixed it up with a batch of 180 proof moonshine and one or the other ingredients was bound to take him out.

I took Frank back to our tent for some incredible sex, but about twenty minutes later I came running out in my filmy negligee, tears running down my face. I grabbed Rocco and told him that something had happened to Frank; he was bleeding from his ears and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. He went in and leaned down to check Frank, and sure enough he was bleeding from where I’d stabbed the sharpened knitting needle through each ear and into his brain, for good measure. He hadn’t seen it coming, and actually seemed surprised when I told him to go to hell. I struck when he was the most vulnerable, right in the post-coital moment when his body was spent. It was a shame it killed him so quickly. Frank deserved a slow death.

Anyway, While Rocco was leaning over the body, I stabbed the syringe of Gus’s potion into the back of his neck, but his muscles were so thick I think I missed the vein. He spun around, and said “You shouldn’t have done that, Girly. He drew a nasty-looking knife and came at me.

I heard a shout from up above. “Julie, get back!” Becky had climbed up the tree. I did as she’d asked, but Rocco turned to look and when she pulled the bracket pin out, the heavy metal wing that was our roof came swinging down and hit him squarely in the head. I think that only knocked him out, but it gave the poison enough time to work on him.

I was sad that Becky’s innocence had been lost, but she hugged me and said that I’d saved her life before, so she was happy to return the favor. I’d become a sort of mother figure in her life, even before my change.
 

***
 

We thought about finishing the boat and heading to sea just the three of us, but Gus’s arm had never healed properly, and Becky and I were so full of estrogen that we had no upper body strength. We didn’t think we’d be able to sail it. We dragged the partial hull down to the shore, loaded the thugs into it, and set it adrift. Jeanne-Marie didn’t deserve to have to share her cemetery with scum like them.

We also felt like our home had picked up some bad vibes from the two guys who died there, so Gus took some of the techniques he’d been working on for making the raft and applied them to creating a new treehouse for us. We didn’t need as many privacy curtains this time. We usually slept together in one big pile, all three of us. A couple of times I tried to show Gus some of the tricks I’d learned, but he wanted to remain true to his wife. I honored his wishes. I wasn’t a dirty slut, after all.

We were living there for eight months by our reckoning, when it happened. I was just lying in the hammock watching my family. Becky was giving Gus a hand at his latest project, glassblowing. He thought we could use some better windows for the next rainy season. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but he’d done the impossible so many times before.

Two well-tanned people in matching khaki shorts and shirts came walking out of the trees and drew handguns, and told us to freeze. They said we were trespassing on government land, and camping wasn’t allowed. I carefully put my hands up in as nonthreatening a way as possible, and swung my legs around to get out of the hammock. I explained that we weren’t there by choice; we’d been in a plane crash some months previously.

They put their guns away and listened to the rest of our story. We brought them down to where we’d left the wing, and that was enough proof. They were scientists who’d come to monitor the birds, and had seen the smoke from our fire, and thought we were tourists. When their seaplane returned for them three days later, we were allowed to go with them.

Gus missed his wife, and Becky missed her folks, so they were both grateful to go home to be reunited with their families. But I had no one I missed, and nowhere to return to. So that’s why I want to change my major to ornithology, so I’ll be allowed to return to the only place that feels like home to me.

Taken by Jennifer Brock On Halloween, Monica's husband goes missing. Did he leave on his own free will, or was he taken by someone or something, perhaps even not of this world?

Before the economy collapsed, Howard would have been able to get off work early on Halloween so he could be home in time to take the kids trick-or-treating. But this year they made him stay late to make sales calls so the company could stay in business. So I had to take the kids out, which left no one at home to give out candy. Tucker and Emma dragged me around for hours, extorting goodies from our neighbors. When we got home, we learned that the disappointed kids who had been to our house looking for treats while we were out had apparently brought plenty of tricks. The jack-o-lantern on our porch had been smashed; our windows were covered in ugly profanity written in soap; and our oak tree was covered in Charmin.

While I stood out in the yard with a bucket and a brush, scrubbing the windows, I cursed my stupid husband and his stupid boss and the stupid recession and the stupid kids who’d vandalized my house. I tried playing my favorite hard rock oldies station on the radio for some music while I worked, but they were running a special Halloween show, saying that Martians were attacking the city, like that old Orson Welles thing. It helped a little with my anger, as I pretended the buildings the little green men were blasting with their laser beams were the ones my stupid husband and his stupid boss were in.

I didn’t get all the soap off, but I did smudge it around enough that the kids wouldn’t see any more naughty words than they already had. I was still livid so I sent them to bed and wouldn’t let them have any of their candy until I’d checked it over to make sure it was safe. I then poured myself a glass of Bailey’s and ripped open the bag of Fun Size Three Musketeers that Howard was supposed to have been home to hand out. I cranked up the rest of the Martian invasion on the stereo in the living room, and my mood eventually mellowed, even though the size of those miniature chocolates was far from “fun.” At least they were still chocolate.

But then my cell jingled in Howard’s ring tone, and I got pissed off at him again. I read him the riot act, asking him where the hell he was and pointed out that he was supposed to have been back hours before. He tried to apologize and said that he’d already left and was in the car heading home. I’d told him a thousand times before not to use his phone while he was driving.

He must have been listening to the same station that I was, because I heard his brakes screech and then he said something about a bright light coming down from the sky toward him. I told him to knock off the jokes and get his butt home so I could kick it, but then the line went dead. I called him back, but I got the “phone is out of service” message. That was weird — maybe some hooligans knocked over a cell tower.

I waited fifteen minutes and tried again, when he should have driven on to a new tower, but his phone was still dead. Just to make sure it wasn’t my cell that had the problem, I tried calling him from the house phone and that didn’t work either, but I could call myself, so the whole system wasn’t down.

I tried again later and it still wasn’t working. I added the stupid phone company to the list of people I was mad at. At about a half an hour after Howard should have gotten home, worry started creeping in at the edges of my anger. I wanted him to be alive and well and come home safe so that I could kill him myself. When another hour had passed, I’d run through all my little candy bars, and burned off all the alcohol in my system from nervous energy.

At some point, my body’s needs became stronger than my will and I fell asleep sitting in the living room waiting for him. The kids woke me up when they came down looking for breakfast. They asked me where Daddy was, and I didn’t want to upset them so I said he’d had to stay overnight at work. I got them off to school, but I called my shift supervisor at the store and told her I needed to take a sick day. She knew me as a pretty reliable worker, so she didn’t give me too hard a time.

I was just too much of a wreck emotionally to have to deal with customers. But staying home alone wondering where the hell my stupid husband had gone wasn’t such a good option either. I couldn’t sit still. I did chores that I’d been putting off just to have something to do, so my brain wouldn’t dwell on worrying. I cleaned all the expired food out of the refrigerator, put down new shelf liner paper in the pantry, and did every scrap of laundry I could find, including the sheets on all the beds, even the guest room.

I was dusting the dining room when the doorbell rang. For a second I thought it was Howard, but that was silly; he wouldn’t ring the bell at his own house. It was a couple guys in poorly fitting suits. They were police detectives; they flashed badges and asked if this was the home of Howard Perkins. I told them it was, but he wasn’t home, and invited them in. Then I realized that they had probably come to tell me he was dead and I just lost it. I crumpled into a chair in the living room and just started weeping.

I don’t know how long I was like that. The next thing I knew this girl cop in a uniform was trying to calm me down so they could talk to me. It turned out that Howard wasn’t dead; at least they hadn’t found a body. What they had found was his car.

It was in the middle of one of the back roads Howard preferred to use instead of the highway, so they’d had to tow it out of the way. The doors were locked and the keys were in the ignition, but the engine was dead. All the electronics in the car had been fried, like the car had been hit by lightning or something. So I asked them if maybe Howard had gotten out and walked.

Then they told me the weird part. Howard’s clothes were left in the car, strapped onto the driver’s seat with his seat belt. Everything he’d had on was there just as if he was still inside it — underwear, socks, shoes, the works — his undershirt was inside his shirt which was inside his jacket and all the buttons and shoelaces were done up. His wallet was still in his pocket. His phone and watch had also been killed.

The police asked me if Howard had any history of drug use. I said he hadn’t ever taken anything stronger than an occasional drink, to the best of my knowledge. They showed me his clothes in plastic bags, and had me confirm that it was in fact what he’d been wearing. One little bag had his wedding ring, and that’s when I knew he hadn’t left his car willingly. He’d never taken it off since the day we’d exchanged our vows and I’d placed it on his finger.

I told them that it proved that someone had taken him, and I’m not sure if they believed me. They wanted to know the last time we’d spoken, and I had to tell them about his dumb UFO story. They decided that maybe this was all some elaborate practical joke on his part, to make it look like the Martians had disintegrated him in his car, or something. I said that didn’t sound like his sense of humor, and asked if maybe some bad guy was out there faking alien abductions to cover for something worse. Was Howard the victim of some kind of freaky serial killer?

The lead detective, Sgt. Jones, tried to reassure me that they would be taking the case seriously, but that it was best for me not to assume the worst. He said I should go with the practical joke theory until they had evidence that it was something else. He gave me his card, and said to call him if I heard anything from Howard, and told me not to watch any of those crime procedural TV shows like CSI in the meantime; they’d only give me bad ideas.

He asked if I knew of any enemies Howard had, and I couldn’t think of anyone. I told them that no one I knew hated him, and maybe they should go check at his office to see if he had any professional rivalries. The police said they were going to do that anyway. When they left I was still pretty much in a state of shock. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

Gradually word spread that Howard was missing. I tried to keep it from the kids, but it made the local news due to the mysterious circumstances around his disappearance, so their school friends knew about it and they came to me, so I had to tell them I didn’t know where their father was. That was the hardest conversation I ever had. I did refuse to let the media jackals interview them. I gave a statement myself, but when they were sure I didn’t have anything to do with it they left me alone for the most part. Enough of the neighbors saw me either out with the kids getting candy, or later washing my windows, that I had a solid alibi.

It took me a few days to get back into a functional state. One thing I decided for myself was that I wasn’t going to let the bad guys win. If they came back for me, or God forbid my children, I was going to stop them. I went out and bought a gun. Thanks to Pennsylvania’s instant background check, I didn’t have to wait days to be allowed to buy it. I did practice good gun safety, telling the kids to keep their hands off it, and kept it in a locked box on my nightstand.

I applied for a permit to carry it with me all the time, and called to ask Sgt. Jones if he could do anything to help me get it faster. He read me a standard department statement to victims, but said he understood why I wanted to be protected. He had me sign up to join a gun club, and took me to a shooting range. He said he’d call in a favor to get me my permit quickly if I agreed to put in an hour a day at the range. Once I was hitting the center of the target more often than not he’d get me my permit. In the meantime I took to illegally carrying it around in my biggest handbag. It was legal to transport my gun to and from the range in a locked box, but it was supposed to be in the trunk of my car.

The target range did help me feel more like I was back in control of my life. It was the one place where I was in charge of who lives and dies — Take that, Paper target silhouette guy! The police had tested his clothes and ruled out that some kind of fire had incinerated Howard, so there must have been an actual criminal involved. I refused to believe that he’d somehow left of his own will.

I was going frantic considering the possibilities. Was it a killer, or a kidnapper, or some kind of terrorist? I had no idea, and a part of me was blaming myself for wishing horrible things on him when he wasn’t home in time to take the kids to go trick-or-treating. I knew it was irrational, but my head couldn’t convince my heart that.

Howard had been missing for nine days when I got a text message on my phone in the middle of the night from a number I didn’t recognize. It said:

“Hi, it’s me. I had to borrow this phone from someone, so don’t call back. I’ll try to get home as soon as I can and try to explain. Don’t tell anyone, not even the kids until I get there. I love you. —H”

I tried calling back, but it just went to some guy named Tony’s voice mail. So I just sent back a text message of my own instead:

“Ok, so I can’t call. Maybe you’ll get this. What happened to you? Are you safe? Did someone do something to you? The police are looking for you. I love you, too. Just come home.”

There was a reply almost immediately.

“I’m safe. I’m all in one piece and out of danger. It’s hard to explain this way. I promise I’ll tell you everything I know when I get home. I’m kind of far away right now, so it might take a few days. I have to give this guy back his phone, so don’t call or text again. Please don’t tell the cops. They wouldn’t understand.”

I was relieved but confused. Tears were running down my face. Howard was alive! Something weird was going on, but he was on his way home. That was all that mattered. I was trembling and sobbing for a while, but when I finally tired myself out I had the deepest sleep I’d had in over a week.

When I woke up I had the pleasant idea that maybe Howard had come home while I’d been asleep. I took a moment to freshen my face and then bounced around the house looking to see. He wasn’t there, and the kids looked at me funny, and since I’d promised I couldn’t even tell them why I was in a good mood. My excitement turned into nervous worry again as the day stretched out without any sign of him.

Scary thoughts were filling my head, like maybe he’d escaped from his abductor and they caught him again, or maybe the bad guy was the one whose phone Howard had borrowed, and he killed him right after he had him send me some hope. Creepy serial killers get off on that sort of thing.

I was close to giving up when I got another text the next morning:

“Still on the road. I’ll do my best to try to get there soon. It may be a couple more days. I love you and miss you all. —H”

It would be another couple days? Where the hell had the kidnappers taken him? I wasn’t sure how much longer I could handle the emotional roller coaster of bouncing back and forth between dread and anticipation. I just wanted the whole damned thing to be over. Couldn’t we just go back to the way it all was before the scary mysterious whatever happened?

I decide to ignore Howard’s messages, and act like I hadn’t seen a thing. I pretended that nothing new had happened, and proceeded with getting on with my life. I worked my regular shift at the store, started bothering the police about when they’d be done examining his car, so I could file an insurance claim on it, and even tried to find out if they’d made any progress on the case. They hadn’t.

So I was kind of shaken when I came home one afternoon and when I went to my room to take a nap I heard the shower running in the master bath. It took a moment for the thought to process, but then I realized it meant that my Howard was home! At first I thought I’d surprise him by putting on my sexiest lipstick and joining him in there, but then I got the frightening image that maybe he’d be horribly wounded by the criminals who’d taken him, and I might not want to climb into the shower with that.

So I settled for brushing my hair, fixing my makeup, and putting on a welcoming smile. I rushed into the bathroom, threw open the shower curtain, and then I saw Her! This little blonde sexpot was in my shower. I had about twenty years and thirty pounds on her, but she had me beaten me by a cup size, maybe two. Her skin was flawless and perfectly smooth, without a wrinkle or blemish or stretch mark anywhere. It all started to make sense to me — Howard had faked the whole mysterious kidnapping thing just to cover up an affair.

I grabbed the bimbo by the arm and pulled her out of my shower just as she was finishing rinsing my shampoo out of her whore hair. I shouted at her to tell me where Howard was, so I could kick his ass for bringing his little chippie to my house. I threw the shivering bitch a towel so I didn’t have to look at her perfect body any more than necessary.

She whimpered a little and just listened to me call her every slutty name in the book without even trying to fight back. I could see why this vision of every man’s dream girl thought she couldn’t do any better than my Howard. I mean, I know he was my guy and everything, but he was hardly in peak shape. And he was just a salesman, hardly any gold digger’s meal ticket. But since she had like no strength of character, even someone like my Howard could convince her to drop her pants.

When I’d run out of steam, she actually sort of began to talk back. Howard must have told her my name, because she said, “Monica, please listen to me. If you still want to throw me out when I’m done I’ll understand, but just let me say my piece.” The little whore was starting to get some guts. I nodded and let her continue.

She then proceeded to tell me the strangest story I ever heard. She said that she actually was Howard! According to her, the bright light Howard had mentioned in his phone call with me really was a UFO. Space aliens had shone some kind of ray gun that made his car stop, and then there was this light everywhere and suddenly he wasn’t in the car anymore. They must have beamed him onto their spaceship or something.

He was in a bright white narrow space the size of a phone booth but shaped like a hexagon. There was nothing there but him, and somewhere around then he realized he was naked. He called out to his unseen captors to ask what they wanted with him. The only answer he got was for the chamber to start filling with thick purple liquid. It pooled at his feet and started rising. It was oddly warm, and didn’t feel as wet as he’d expected. When it got to his face, he tried holding his breath, but it flowed into his nose anyway. However, he didn’t drown. It just flowed into his lungs like it belonged there. It seemed to flow into everywhere.

After a while in the fluid Howard discovered that it he couldn’t move his arms or legs anymore. The alien juice was paralyzing him somehow. He concentrated on trying to move his left hand, but it didn’t move, or maybe it did move but he couldn’t tell because the stuff was blocking sensation, and he couldn’t make his eyes open to see.

He could feel electrical tingles everywhere, as he was probably being scanned and probed by the Martians. And there were pains inside his body that he couldn’t understand at the time. This went on for some time, maybe hours, maybe days. (Slut Girl wasn’t sure, or maybe she hadn’t made up that part of the story yet.) Finally the weird feelings stopped and it was just Howard alone in the tube full of liquid.

He concentrated over and over again on trying to get his hand to move. It seemed like it would never work, but he had to keep going. It was the thought of somehow making it back to me and the kids that kept him at it. (That was a sweet thought, but I wasn’t going to tell Little Miss Storyteller that.) Howard struggled against the paralysis, and at last got his arm to wiggle a little. He moved it more and more, until he got his fist to slam into the side of the tube, over and over. And then the tube started to crack, and the purple stuff began leaking out.

The more the fluid went away, the more he could move. It got so he could kick a large enough hole in the wall that he could get through. On the other side of the tube was a corridor filled with scuttling metallic insects or possibly robots. The puddle from the tube caused them to back away, and Howard took advantage of the opportunity to make a run for it. He was too panicked to pay much attention, so he didn’t realize that “his” boobs were bouncing as he run on his shapely legs and dainty toes. It was only when he’d ducked through this round doorway thing that irised opened like a camera shutter into a little round room that he had a moment to catch his breath, and he noticed the new body parts moving.

Howard did a quick check to verify that she was actually a she now, and didn’t know why the aliens had done that to his body, but really didn’t have time to think about it. She looked around the room and saw a panel of the wall covered in strange hieroglyphic-like characters. She ran her hand along one and as well as noticing her elegantly shaped nails, she saw that her touch made the character light up. She touched a few more and then there was a deep humming noise from behind the wall. She hit another one and the hum changed in tone, and she then skipped around rapidly between symbols, making the whatever machine almost play a tune.

But then there was a solid “Thud” and the machine stopped, and the whole room tilted. She’d done something that not only messed with the singing wall but with the whole spaceship. It was lurching wildly. She went back to the corridor and the robot bugs were running down the hall in a line. She followed them and saw they were scrabbling at another of those round doorways. She ran her fingers through her hair and collected more of that purple stuff and dripped it on the insect things to get them away from the door. Then she went through.

The other side of the door was a small cramped dome with windows out to a rapidly moving Earth far below. There was another panel with more of those symbols, and she played with them until something happened. That something was a loud explosion and suddenly gravity shifted in the room, and the Earth in the windows started getting closer.

The little dome room crashed into the ground, but she survived the impact. She must have stumbled into some kind of “space life boat.” She was in the middle of the desert somewhere. She climbed out of the hatchway and found herself in the rain. Her lifeboat was glowing red-hot, and the water was causing it to make scary steamy noises. She ran away from the crash site before it exploded.

Lost in the middle of nowhere, naked, female and soaked to the bone, she started walking in a random direction. As luck would have it, she found a highway and started walking along it. She scavenged a windblown plastic grocery bag to cover her nakedness a little, and managed to flag down a passing truck.

She worried that it would be some creepy guy that would make her do stuff for the ride, but it turned out to be this nice lady trucker who took her to a truck stop and bought her some cheap souvenir clothes (a large t-shirt with “Albuquerque” printed across the front that worked on her as a dress, a pair of flip-flop sandals, and some red panties that were sold rolled into the shape of a rose as a romantic gift) and a free breakfast. She made up a story about having been kicked out of the car by her boyfriend on the side of the highway, and she just wanted to go home. She didn’t think Bertha would believe her about the aliens.

Bertha didn’t have a cell phone, so she had to borrow one from one of the other truckers to send me a text message; she said it was for her mother. Tony read her message over her shoulder and asked what the “H” in her name stood for. She couldn’t think of a name so she had him guess, and went with the third name he picked for her. So she’d been calling herself “Hayley” ever since. It was a cute name, and suited her. I wondered if that was her real name or if it was just another lie.

It took a few more days for her to finish hitching her way home. (There were some details she didn’t want to share, and let slip that she’d had to do things she was ashamed of) She’d used the key hidden in the fake rock to let herself in, and after four days in the same clothes the thing she wanted most was a shower. That’s where I’d come in.

That this cheap floozy actually wanted me to believe that she used to be my Howard was amazing. How naíve did she think I was? I tried to stare her down, but something in her big doe eyes made that hard for me.

She called me “Nicki,” which was what Howard called me when we were in school, but maybe he would have told his girlfriend that. I said that if she was really Howard, she should tell me something that only he would know. She crinkled her forehead cutely and thought hard, and then said that on our wedding night Howard had been unable to perform his husbandly duties. That was one that he’d unlikely want to share with his hot little mistress, but it wasn’t quite enough. I told her I needed more.

She told me about the time Howard had brought Emma to visit me at the store when I’d started working again after she was born, and he was so proud about taking care of her by himself. But when my co-workers gathered around to see my beautiful little girl, that bitch Shirley had to point out that he’d put Emma’s pretty little dress on backwards and everyone laughed. Howard was so humiliated.

That was a cute story, but it seemed like the sort of thing he might have shared with his girlfriend so he’d come across as vulnerable and sensitive. I wasn’t ready to buy this crazy “aliens turned my husband into a girl” thing. It was just too impossible.

She gave it one more shot. She described the worst day Howard ever had. He’d been up for a promotion at work, and his ass of a boss gave it to this kid who was less qualified but had a fancier Ivy League degree and a more expensive smile. He was feeling miserable and had a couple beers after work and didn’t get home until late. When he did he was in such a foul mood that he snapped at me when I’d told him someone had run into my car while it was parked at the store. He’d blamed me for leaving it in a bad spot and chewed me out for something I’d had no control over.

We got in this huge shouting match, and it woke up Tucker and he came out to see what was happening, and I tried to explain that Mommy and Daddy were just having a disagreement, but Howard swore at him and I had to rush to get him back into bed. When I went back to the living room, we got back into it, just not as loudly. I scolded him for talking that way to our child, and he came this close to hitting me. But then he realized what he was doing and he just broke down and started crying. He really didn’t want to turn into his father.

Hayley tried to make a joke about there being little chance of that happening now, but it fell flat. She’d reminded me of a time I’d hated Howard and had even thought about leaving him. It brought a lot of those old emotions to the surface and I got pissed off at her for reminding me. But I noticed she was kind of shaking, and I was torn between wanting to comfort this person in obvious pain and still not quite sure who she was. I froze up.

She sensed something in my reaction and wiped her face in the corner of her towel, which seemed to remind her that she was wearing it. She stood up and got her clothes from where she’d left them on the bathroom counter, unwound her towel and got dressed. Her body was truly amazing. If she really did get it from aliens, there was no doubt what they wanted to do to her in it. I envied her breasts, bigger than mine and jiggling enough to let me know they were real, but perky enough not to need a bra.

As she slipped into her sandals, she looked at me and sniffled. “I get it. You don’t believe me. I don’t completely believe it myself, and I was there. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and find that this was all a dream. I’ll go now — I think there’s a shelter in the city for teenage runaways; I can probably pass for one. But can I borrow some money to go get something warmer to wear, at a thrift store or something? I’ll pay you back as soon as I can find some kind of job that doesn’t need a Social Security number. I’ll mail it to you if you don’t want me coming around again. Maybe that hundred you always carry in your purse for emergencies?”

Was that her angle? Was this weird story just a complicated con to get my money? It seemed a little too elaborate for just a hundred dollars. I was getting puzzled, but I got my wallet out of my purse anyway and retrieved the folded-up hundred hidden in an empty book of stamps and handed it to her.

She kept it folded and hitched up her t-shirt to tuck the money in the elastic of her panties. “I hate not having pockets,” she said almost to herself. Then she turned her baby blues to me and said, “Thank you. I’m sorry it has to work out this way. There’s a couple things I want you to do. Promise me you’ll do them.” She waited for me to nod before she continued. “First, call my cousin Andy. He’s in insurance, but since you’re family he shouldn’t try to screw you like the rest of them do. Ask him what the procedure is for how long I need to be missing before you can collect on my life insurance, and if you have to keep paying the premiums while I’m gone. You deserve that money, and with only your salary to live on, you’ll need it.”

She looked very serious, and I thought I caught something familiar in her eyes. “Second, after a couple months call Bert, and find out what it would take to divorce me in absentia or get our marriage annulled due to my being gone, or to just get you declared a widow. He’d know the right lawyer term for it. I want you to look toward remarrying; the kids need a man in their life, especially with me gone Tucker will probably start acting up again. But don’t just settle for the first man who comes sniffing around; find a guy that deserves you. You’re an amazing woman.”

She was starting to get a little weepy again. “And tell the kids - I don’t know how you can say you learned this - but tell them that their Daddy loves them and misses them and that his being gone isn’t their fault. And they don’t need to be afraid that what happened to him will happen to you, too. The ones who took him away from them are gone for good. Tell Em not to worry too much about trying to get perfect grades; mixing up the state capitols for the Dakotas and the Carolinas is no big deal. And tell Tucker that I’m really sorry I won’t be around to watch his soccer games next year; I think that kick we’ve been working on will really be something to see. Do you think it would be okay if I snuck into the crowd at one of his games to watch? I’ll try not to call attention to myself. It’s just my dad never made it to any of my games, and I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to miss seeing my little man trying his hardest, even if his team never wins.”

The tears were really flowing now, and I was even shedding a few of my own. And for the life of me, I finally bought the story. I reached out and pulled her in for a close hug and said, “Honey, you don’t have to go anywhere. We’ll figure something out to tell the kids.”

I went through my closet to find something better for her to wear. She had a tiny waist so none of my pants fit her. But after trying a few options we came up with a summery blue cotton dress that didn’t hang too low on her and could be belted tight enough. We layered a black cardigan over it to be more appropriate for October. It hung loose but still looked nice; we left it unbuttoned so it was less noticeable that it didn’t fit. With three pairs of socks, her feet fit into a pair of my sneakers.

When the kids got home, I introduced them to “Daddy’s cousin Hayley from Albuquerque,” who’d be staying with us to help out until he came back. We were still pretending that Howard’s disappearance would only be temporary. But I suppose in a way we weren’t lying about that, since Howard was still sort of around. It was weird adjusting my mindset to the new definition of reality.

I took her measurements and brought Hayley to the store to get her some clothes of her own that fit right. The story I told people was that her luggage had been lost by the bus company. The lie just kept getting more complicated. We ended up saying that we’d never mentioned her before because Howard hadn’t been close to his Aunt Mary and Uncle Frank. They really did exist, but their only child was a guy who lived in Seattle, and they weren’t all that close to Howard. They’d called when they found out he was missing, and it was the first I’d heard from them in four years.

But in our revised version, their daughter Hayley had decided to come see what she could do, since she hadn’t quite figured out what to do with her life since graduating high school. She had such a youthful complexion that we didn’t think we could pass her off as older than twenty, and we didn’t want to make her a college student, since it had been a while since Howard had been in school and we didn’t want her to get the details wrong. There was lot to keep track of to make sure we kept our story straight.

We soon fell into a new routine. Since her amazing body didn’t seem to need as much sleep, Hayley would get up early and start the coffee for me and then make some kind of breakfast for all of us. Sometimes it was something like eggs or pancakes, but even when it was just cereal she put an extra effort in and added freshly cut pieces of fruit or she’d hand-squeeze juice for us. We were spoiled. She also made the kids’ lunches for them, a chore which had already been Howard’s before.

After the kids had gotten on their bus and I’d left for work, she’d spend her day watching the Style channel and reading fashion magazines in order to get better at doing her hair and makeup and putting an outfit together. And sometimes she’d switch over to the Food network to get ideas, since she also got in the habit of making dinner for us. It was nice to come home on a day when I worked a long shift to not have to do anything, and suddenly a hot meal would be put in front of me. At first, her culinary skills were fairly limited; Howard had never been much of a cook. But as time passed she got better at it.

The children got along great with Hayley. To Emma, she was something of the older sister she never had. At eleven going on sixteen, Emma saw her as more of a peer than a grownup, so she’d go to her for advice about how to do her hair or what to wear. In fact, it was trying to help Emma that got Hayley interested in fashion; she didn’t want to give her bad advice. Hayley managed to convince me to take them both to the mall to get their ears pierced, and it strengthened their bond. Sometimes I felt a little left out, when I’d catch them off giggling together over some private joke that they didn’t want to share. Hayley did let me know that Emma had shared some secrets with her, but it was nothing I needed to worry about, mostly just stuff about boys she liked.

Tucker’s relationship with the newest member of our family was a little less healthy. He gave her a lot of attention, giving her big hugs when he left for school in the morning, asking for her to tuck him in instead of me, trying to sit next to her on the couch when we watched TV — that sort of thing. At first I thought he was just being extra-friendly to his cousin out of abandonment issues from his father being missing. But over time, it became clearer that he was crushing on her. I guess it made sense; she was beautiful and sweet and very lovable. It got less cute when I caught him sneaking peeks down her top when she’d lean over the dinner table, and when he’d hug her he’d tip his face up so it would smash into her chest. I knew that all boys eventually spend most of their day thinking about boobs, but I just didn’t think that eight-year-olds were supposed to be doing it yet.

I had to make it a rule that Hayley needed to stop coming to breakfast in just her nightgown, and to at least put a robe over it. I also insisted that she always wear a bra; she’d been skipping it sometimes when she didn’t have to go anywhere. When I explained my reasons why she had to do this, instead of being horrified like I was, she just thought it was cute. I worried that he’d end up completely screwed up when later in life when he found out that the first girl he lusted after was really his own father. She said we’d just have to wait to tell him until after he was at least a teenager and had had a few actual girlfriends. I supposed that made sense, but it still freaked me out.

Naturally, my own relationship with Hayley was also weird. I’d set her up in the guest room to conform with our story, and I felt lonely all by myself in half a king-size bed knowing my soulmate was just down the hall. I was missing Howard, but I had Hayley instead, except that I didn’t exactly have her. It was confusing and frustrating, and I spent more than a few nights sobbing into my pillow.

But then there came an evening where after the kids were in bed Hayley and I watched a lovely romantic movie on the Hallmark channel. We sat on the couch and it was a chilly night so we snuggled up together in our nightgowns and shared a blanket for warmth. When the movie was over and we were turning in, she gave me a warm hug. My heart recognized the feeling and when she whispered “I love you,” I replied with the same. And when she turned and pressed her lips to mine for a kiss good-night, I didn’t fight it. My lips tingled with a familiar energy and I felt my heart race.

I was feeling more excited than I had in a long time. I took her hand and led her back to my bedroom. We kissed some more, and I pulled her nightgown up over her head and laid her on the bed. I remembered back to my experimenting with my college roommate, and gave her a thorough tour of all her erogenous zones. She was very sensitive, and surprisingly vocal in her enthusiasm. At one point, she woke up Tucker, and I had to go in there and talk him back to sleep, telling him that his cousin had just been having a bad dream, so I was letting her share my bed. I tucked him in and kissed him on the forehead, hoping he couldn’t smell her on me.

When I returned to my bedroom, she said it was my turn, and she stripped my nightgown off and set to work exploring my body with her gently supple lips. She was better than Howard and my old roommate combined — I had to cry into my pillow again, only this time it wasn’t out of sorrow.

She didn’t officially move into my room, but we spent many nights together after that. I introduced her to my buzzy little friend, and that inspired her to get me to take her on a shopping trip to the adult toy store. We got Hayley a jackrabbit of her own, and she thought a strap-on harness would be fun. The piece of “equipment” she chose to get for attaching to the harness was huge and surprisingly realistic, with a veiny texture and its own silicone testicles. I teased her that if we got that one I’d be using it on her before she got to use it on me, and that actually seemed to get her more excited. And when I picked out a ball gag to deal with her noise issues, she got really enthusiastic and picked out some fuzzy handcuffs so I could tie her up, too. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but I have to admit I found it all kind of sexy.

I did eventually let her use the big tool on me, but for some reason we both seemed to like it more when she was on the bottom. The best time we had was a Saturday night when Emma had a sleepover at her friend Nina’s, and my parents had taken Tucker for the weekend. Hayley and I did amazingly naughty things in nearly every room of the house. Trying to keep up with her energy level wore me out, but it was totally worth it.

But a few days after that, everything changed. I had a day off and was home in the afternoon. Hayley and I had been brainstorming over lunch about how we could get her a fake birth certificate so she could get a driver’s license, and then a social security number. Money was getting tight, and it would be useful if she could get even a part-time job. The doorbell rang and she went to answer it and she let out a shriek.

I went running to the living room and standing there in the doorway was Howard. He was wearing rags and had a scruffy little beard, but it was him! Hayley was standing there motionless with her jaw dropped and he walked right in and closed the door behind him.

He saw me and threw his arms open and ran to me. “Oh, Monica, I’ve missed you so much, Baby. Who’s your friend?” He tried to give me a hug and I backed off.

Hayley finally snapped out of it. “Get away from her! Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my body?”

The man who looked like Howard shouted back. “What do you mean ‘your body?’ Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?”

She tried to take a menacing stance, but she was just too cute to pull it off. “I think I know what’s happening. I bet you’re an alien. They abducted me and were planning on pulling some kind of switcheroo. You were going to replace me, but I escaped and ruined their plans.”

Howard was starting to figure out who she was. “Wait a minute.” He turned to me. “Did this bitch here try to make you think she was me or something? I would have told you about the aliens, but I didn’t think you’d believe it. It’s true; back on Halloween I was taken up in a spaceship and they poked and probed and did stuff to me. I guess they scanned my brain or something if she was able to convince you they somehow made me look like that. It must have been some kind of experiment to find out how gullible Earth people are. But get out of my house now, you Martian whore! We’re not buying it.”

I didn’t know who to believe. “If you’re Howard, how did you escape from the spacemen?”

“What do you mean ‘if’? Honey, we’ve been married for almost twenty years! You don’t recognize your own husband, and you think some alien chick is really me? She must be screwing with your brain. I think they gave her something like super mojo pheremones, because as much as I want to kick her ass for trying to steal my life, and even though I’d never dream of cheating on you, there’s a part of my brain that can’t stop imagining throwing her down on the couch right now. Sorry.”

Hayley made a little gagging noise. “Eww. Maybe if you cleaned up a little and you weren’t some kind of body snatching invader…” She winked at me. “Would it be considered cheating if I did have sex with myself, or would it just count as a sort of masturbation? Anyway, I don’t doubt that your Martian friends did something to make this body extra sexy. I bet they were planning on using me as some kind of love slave. Think I’d look hot in a gold bikini?”

I giggled at the image, but it wasn’t helping me. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. One of you is my husband, and one of you is probably an alien. How will we decide?”

Male Howard said, “Ask me anything about my life. I’ll prove I’m me.”

Hayley said, “Maybe if you gave us each a kiss, you’d know which one truly loves you.”

That intrigued me, so I tried it. Hayley’s kiss curled my toes as usual, but Howard smelled horribly and I nearly choked. He needed a shave, a shower and a change of clothes, so I’m not sure if it was a fair test. We did try a couple rounds of Howard Perkins trivia, but they both knew everything I knew about him, so that was getting us nowhere.

I went to my room and left them alone for a while. I came back, wielding my freshly-loaded gun. Both of them looked at me in shock. I made them sit in chairs on opposite sides of the room, and told them to be quiet so I could think. They both started to complain, but then thought the better of it and shut up. It was kind of scary how similar their reactions were; they even seemed to be sitting in the same pose.

The easy choice would be to just keep the male Howard, the one who looked how everyone would expect my husband to look. We could tell the cops he came home, maybe tell them about the UFO, maybe not. The kids would have their dad again, and he could go back to his job and everything could go back the way it was before all this.

But on the other hand, what if that Howard was the impostor? I don’t think I could kick out the man I loved just because he wasn’t a man any more. If Hayley was the real one, I’d have to keep her. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I made a choice just because it would make my life easier. I had to be sure. I gave them each a chance to plead their case.

In the spirit of “Ladies first,” I began with Hayley. “Don’t shoot anyone, okay? Let this guy say he’s me, but then you call Bert and tell him you’re going to file for divorce. This alien bastard will probably end up getting all my clothes and things, and taking half our money, but he’ll be out of our lives for good. Even if that means he’d be able to finish whatever his mission for the Martians is that needs him to be me, I don’t care. Just don’t let him get any kind of custody of Tuck and Em. I don’t want to think about what he might do to them when you’re not around.”

The other Howard took a different approach. “This alien bitch is good. They made her pretty charming. Don’t listen to her lies. I’m not sure where you got that gun, but even though getting rid of this monster would be a good idea, it would be a mistake for you to shoot her now. The neighbors would hear the shot and probably call the cops. But I have an idea; since nobody knows I’m back yet, why don’t you hand me the gun? I’ll take her out of town somewhere and fix it so she won’t bother us ever again. We’ll show those Martians not to mess with us, and get our lives back to normal.”

I let my instincts guide me. I held my breath, pointed my gun at the alien, and squeezed the trigger.