This story contains what is known as "transgender material". It does *NOT* contain any elements of m/m, s/m, b/d, humiliation, pain, or anatomically detailed descriptions of sexual acts. If this lack offends you, do yourself a favour and read no further.

All characters and situations described herein are fictional and any resemblance to any real or fictional persons or events is purely coincidental.

The story may be freely copied, archived and distributed, on the condition of this header remaining its integral part.

"Of course it was written by a woman! Any idiot can tell that from the way she expresses a genuine feminine viewpoint!.."

This was just plain silly. True, Andrew always had the knack of coming up with a novel angle on practically anything. That's what it takes these days to be a successful media critic. That and a certain flair with words, a smart-alec attitude and preferably a frustrated ambition to be a writer.

This though, was clearly one of those occasions when mister too-clever-by-half had gone round the twist - and that despite the fact that he could pontificate at length about the Anima being really masculine in nature, on account of it being a product of the masculine rather than the feminine psyche. In his search for a novel angle on the current hot best-seller, all this psychological sophistication obviously went by the board. Men are such linear creatures...

His idea that the author of _Mirror, Mirror on the Wall_ was a man was just stupid, and I made the fact clear in no uncertain terms, throwing back at him some of his own erudition. OK... I might as well admit that I rather enjoyed delivering my impromptu diatribe: it was simply an opportunity too good to miss. He could always dominate an intellectual argument and it was rare enough to catch him straying into more socio-emotive areas.

He listened to me without interrupting, almost sliding out of his easy chair, his hands linked around a knee stuck up into the air. It was the lack of a response that finally brought me up short. Always a bad sign when he is not bothering with interruptions.

"A fair effort," he said when he was quite sure I'd finished. "But then, I understand, even parrots can be taught to repeat whole phrases, without apparently the slightest idea of the meaning. Still, decidedly a fair effort. I concede all your psycho-theoretical construction - I could hardly do otherwise without contradicting myself. But it just so happens that it simply does not apply in this particular case."

The patronising so-and-so! He was either in a mean mood or on a losing ground and trying to provoke me into lashing out. So I grit my teeth instead.

"And what makes you so damn sure? No, don't tell me... The life-long and so far fruitless ambition has finally born a fruit after all. You are the author. Right?!"

He just blinked at me for a while and then said: "An interesting idea. Almost, one might say, a good shot. And if I were?..."

"Don't make me laugh..."

"I have no intention to. I only asked a question."

"No you flaming well didn't! *I* asked a question and you have avoided answering it. I repeat, what makes you so damn sure!?"

"Let's pursue your fascinating conjecture. Suppose I wrote it."

"Yeah, OK... I see. Your artistic pretensions have finally gone to your head. Be honest with yourself - you lack the equipment to really appreciate a woman's point of view. No let me re-phrase it. You lack the equipment to appreciate ANY point of view!" Oops! That didn't come out the way I intended it. Andrew had been known to be a touch sensitive to innuendo in the masculinity department. "Other than your own, that is..." I added lamely.

But it was too late. He shot up to his feet. "OK, Miss Smarty Pants! Choke on this!" he spat and to my surprise shut his eyes.

How to describe what happened next? Perhaps it is best to be honest. I have no way of describing what happened next, but a second later, when he opened his eyes again, locking them against my incredulous stare, those eyes were large, blue and belonged to a male wet-dream of femininity. She would have been a caricature if she weren't so damn near-perfect. Long mane of golden waves cascading over her shoulders and back, large blue eyes with impossibly long eye-lashes, sculpted face with voluptuous red lips, a body with all the right curves in all the right places... To top it all, she was dressed in a provocative, cleavage showing, floor-trailing, bias-cut dress of royal blue clingy velvet. And I didn't have to see her heels to know they would be inches high.

I took all of it in, more or less in a single glance, which was just as well because in the next heartbeat Andrew stood once again in her place, quickly averting his glance.

I picked my jaw off the floor and just sat there, not knowing what to say or do. It was Andrew who broke the silence, moving over to the drinks cabinet.

"A glass of something?" he asked with a slight catch in his voice. "Gin and tonic? Or something stronger?"

"Thanks," I said finding my voice again. "G&T would do nicely."

He fussed with two glasses for a while. In fact he fussed very much longer than it should have taken to pour my drink and whatever it was he was going to have for himself. But that was OK by me. Seeing one's boyfriend turn into a whorish sex-bomb and back again in a space of a few seconds, was not exactly something for which my education and life experience had prepared me. I needed time to decide whether I'd seen what I thought I'd seen. The jury was still out, but as an expert witness I was inclined to think that I thought I did. Let the members of the jury make what they will of it. Do I sound incoherent? That's OK too. I was.

"Well?" he finally said handing me the glass and settling back in his chair, "Aren't you going to ask me 'Where are the mirrors?' or something to that effect?"

The stupendous inanity of it helped me to regain my feet. Men can be so naive, I thought to myself, as he lifted his slim glass of whatever it was. He really thinks I must be impressed. Let's face it I was, but if he thought some such visual wizardry - however miraculous - had any relevance to our argument...

"Impressive," I said, "And one day I will ask you about the mirrors or holograms or 3D projections or whatever new technological wizardry you've managed to get hold of. But I am not going to be distracted from pointing out the idiocy of your ridiculous assertion. Only a dumb man would think that projecting an erotic daydream image has anything to do with experiencing life as a woman, so in fact you have simply confirmed my point."

Andrew sighed. To my surprise it sounded like a genuine sigh, rather than a theatrically exaggerated polemical device. He muttered something which sounded like "What the hell!" and there she was again, that hussy, sitting in his place, still holding the same glass in her manicured hand. Some part of me couldn't help noting that that sort of glass with that sort of drink looked much more at home in that sort of hand, but I refused to get distracted by that too.

"No mirrors," she said, and damn her blood-red talons if even the voice wasn't the perfect breathy sort that men find so inexplicably irresistible. "This is for real." She crossed her legs, making quite sure that I wouldn't miss the frock being side-slashed to mid-thigh. "All the way, in case you are wondering."

"Yeah... And I am the Queen of Sheeba, or more appropriately, King Solomon! Andrew, even if it were for real, do you really think that taking on the image of a male sexual fantasy is going to tell you anything about what it is like to be a real woman?"

She sipped her drink for a little while, looking at me thoughtfully, with her head slightly to one side. "The book," she said at length, "is about the heartbreak and loneliness of being a very desirable woman. What makes you an expert? What do YOU know about what it is like to be a desirable woman?"

I didn't even consider my response. Any Zen master would have been proud of me! The next second my drink was in her face and dripping all over her, spreading in dark stains through that ridiculous frock. "Bitch!" I said. "If you take on the looks of a bitch and the manners of a bitch, expect to be treated like a bitch!"

She put her glass down very carefully and stood up wiping her creamy bosom with one hand.

"Out of character," I said nastily. "You were supposed to faint or at least burst into tears."

She must have studied with the same Zen master - her open wet hand hit me across my left cheek. It was meant to hurt and by golly it did. I clutched at my face, looking at her incredulously, completely at a loss as to where this absurd situation was going.

She sat down again, briefly examined the damage to the frock and wiped her face on a sleeve. Then looked up at me.

"Now that we've got that out of our systems," she said pleasantly, "Could we resume our discussion in a more civil modality, please?"

As I continued to stare, completely thrown by the mismatch between the words - so very Andrew - and the person before me, she added "Sorry about the slap. It wasn't exactly unprovoked." She glanced down at her dress again. "Would you like a wet towel or something for that cheek? Cold compress does help." She grinned ruefully. "I should know!..."

"Thanks. Aren't you going to change?" I asked, surprising myself. "It can't be very pleasant..."

"Honey," she said, disappearing into the kitchen, "I ain't got a female wardrobe to hand." She returned with a wet kitchen towel and handed it to me.

I gingerly patted my still stinging cheek with the towel and then pressed it on quite firmly. "Sorry about that drink. It wasn't exactly... unprovoked... Could I have another, please?"

She grinned: "Gin and tonic again? Or something stronger?"

"Absolutely stronger. Got any whiskey?"

"Sure.... On the rocks?"

"Stuff the rocks!..."

She raised a perfect eyebrow at me, but without further ado poured me a couple of fingers of amber liquid, which I am sorry to confess I upended in one gulp - vodka style.

"Oh, heck...," she said, "It is uncomfortable and you won't be convinced otherwise." With these words she got hold of the neckline and stretching it out, pulled the frock down and stepped out of it. It is hardly necessary to say that what she wore underneath, matched the image exactly. Skimpy negligee of dark-blue satin included (of course!) a suspender belt, holding in place sheerest stockings imaginable.

She kicked the heap of velvet aside with one of the vertiginously-heeled silver pumps and plonked herself on the sofa next to me.

"Come on," she said. "You might as well feel me, or you'll never believe it."

I mutely shook my head and just stuck out my hand with the empty glass in it. She thought about it, then took the glass, got to her feet and went to pour me another drink. It was only a few steps, but I watched her undulating posterior in a haze. It occurred to me briefly that I must be hallucinating. Too much drink, or something. But when she turned back handing me the glass with a generous portion of whiskey, I am afraid I simply upended it again. Mistake, I know, but that's hind-sight for you.

Things got rather hazy after that, or to put it more precisely, that was the last I remember of that day. I woke up next morning in Andrew's bed, in Andrea's arms. The first was not unprecedented. As for the second, I was feeling too dreadful to be bothered.

For a few minutes I simply lay there, re-assembling my recollections of the previous day. "Andrew," I croaked after a while, "Is it really you in there?"

For some reason that amused her. "You bet!" she purred. "Or did you think you unconsciously constructed a novel alibi for indulging unsuspected lesbian fantasies? Sorry, honey, I don't do multiple personalities. Not even to satisfy your jaded appetites."

I wasn't at all up to following the characteristically convoluted meaning, but aside from the "honey", that was Andrew all right. Reassured, I crawled out of the bed and staggered into the bathroom to relieve myself, and to try getting rid of the consignment of sewage somebody unkindly deposited under my tongue.

By the time I felt able to face the world again, Andrew was busy setting out breakfast on the kitchen table. Taking one glance at me he put away one of the cereal plates, poured a large mug of steaming black coffee and thrust it into my hands.

"Thanks..." I mumbled, sagging onto a chair.

"My dear," he said lightly, "Didn't your parents teach you NEVER to drink whiskey like that?"

I just shook my head and sat there, wrapped in his towel robe and sipping the coffee. It helped. A bit, anyway. Enough for me to stagger back into the bed afterwards for a proper, and this time refreshing snooze.

When I woke up, Andrew was gone. On the table in the kitchen was a scribbled note saying he wouldn't be back until next day and quite unnecessarily reminding me where to look for the spare key. I made myself another mug off coffee, dressed up, locked up, pushed the key through the letter box and went home.

I didn't manage to catch up with Andrew until nearly a week later. It's not that he was avoiding me, yet I had a definite impression that he was not exactly looking forward to seeing me again. In the circumstances I didn't find that entirely surprising. So when we did get together for lunch, I didn't press him until after the meal, when we got back to his place and settled for a drink in his living room.

"Cheers!" I said taking a glass from him. "Now then, we seem to have some unfinished business, which at the very least requires clarification."

"I thought you'd see it that way," he grumbled. "I really don't know what'd got into me, after all that time... Look, I can only apologise for inflicting my, er..., idiosyncrasies on you. It must have come as quite a shock, if I read your reaction aright."

"Andrew, cut the nonsense - I am no wilting flower. You know perfectly well that I am dying to ask what you expected me to ask straight away. So, come on, Mr Smoke-and-Mirrors, spill the beans!"

"Hm... Which particular bag of beans would you like me to spill?"

"Should I help you to refresh your memory? Let's see... Your uncle Pete left you this chest for your personal use..."

"You forget, my dear - Freudian jokes are rather passe these days. But to answer your question, no, not a chest. A mirror, actually. And it wasn't my uncle..."

I groaned. "Smoke and mirrors after all... how can you bear such a corny story line? And I suppose the mirror allows you to change into whatever shape you wish, so of course you chose..."

"No, silly, it wasn't like that at all! It simply reflected... Her. Andrea. There didn't seem to be any choice in the matter."

"Am I to infer a secret yearning for womanhood?" The very idea seemed absurd. Let psychoanalysts babble what they like, Andrew struck me as the last man in the world to be turned on by that sort of fantasies. Then again, there was no escaping the fact that we were already far into the surreal territory anyway.

"No," he said simply. "And it didn't strike me that way, if you want to know. She wasn't me. Not then. She was an object of desire, shown to me by the magic glass."

"So you tried to fuck her." I grinned at him and promptly wished I didn't. But instead of lashing back, Andrew looked sheepish. "You didn't! Did you?"

"Well, not as such..."

Yes, well, I could well imagine. "Spare me the details!... Unless they are germane, of course - are they?"

"No, no... Not at all. In the end, I just wanted to look at her - all the time. And eventually she looked back at me from another mirror - the one in the bathroom. It didn't immediately struck me as significant." He suddenly blushed,

Unfair, I know, but I couldn't resist another shot: "So you got to fuck her, in a way, after all."

"Uh... Let's say it was a most interesting night, OK?"

There was a sudden edge to his voice, warning me not to probe further. I heeded the warning and changed the tack: "But, you can control it, obviously."

"Oh yes. Though not when looking into the mirror - that mirror. Not any more. Also, the more I looked at that reflection, the harder it seemed to be Andrew and the easier to slip into being Andrea."

"What is it like, being her?" I asked, genuinely interested. "Do you actually like it?"

He thought about it. "It's not like that. What is it like being you? Do you like being you? The questions don't really apply. Whichever 'me' I am, it's me."

"Oh come on... I don't believe you just learned to move the way she does!"

"Well, no. When I am her, I just do. Just like I do as I do as Andrew - by just doing. If I start thinking about either, I have no idea, but let go, step back and... it is all as it should be..."

It was a hard work making sense of it, but there was something stirring on the edges of my mind: "Even when walking the streets, as... her?" I am not really sure exactly what made me ask the question - call it intuition - but it clearly scored.

There was a heavy pause. "How did you know?", he asked eventually.

I am not one to admit easily to a lucky guess: "It's obvious! Let a man imagine an ideal woman and he imagines a slut. It takes no imagination to work out how Andrea would support herself if she had to. She'd be good at it too, I wager."

"She was," mumbled Andrew, rapidly turning crimson red. "But she wasn't... isn't... my ideal woman!"

There was no point being cruel, so I changed the subject: "What did you do with the mirror, anyway? From what you are saying, it is... was?... rather dangerous..."

"Well, I had to put it away, of course."

"Not demolish or sell?"

"Good Lord, no!" - he seemed genuinely taken aback.

"Good! I want to see it. Just briefly. It sounds like a truly wonderful thing, dangerous or not."

"I really don't think that would be wise," he said weakly - I guess he'd known all along we would be coming to this point.

It took another half an hour. We both knew, of course, that the outcome was never in doubt.

It was in a small dusty room with a single bare electric bulb hanging on a wire from the ceiling. Among other junk, there was a large oblong shape leaning against a wall, with some old sheets draped over it and secured with a piece of string, clearly making sure that the cover didn't slip off.

Andrew fumbled with the string for a while and, finally succeeding, pulled off the sheet and stepped away from the mirror to stand next to me.

And it was true. Reflected in it stood Andrea in her velvet frock, eyeing us with those provocative eyes of hers. But next to her... Next to her... No, it wasn't me. It wasn't even a hyper-male stud standing next to her, as I'd half expected. No, standing next to her was a huge tiger, looking straight into my eyes.

There was a slight shimmer of reality by my side and I knew that a part of the world conformed to the image, and that if I were to look, I'd see a velvet-clad woman standing there. And that meant...

Time literally stood still and I felt different futures peeling away from me and spinning off to... elsewhere. I smashed the mirror then and there, cutting myself badly and causing Andrew to know what it was to live as a woman without an escape clause. I tried to smash the mirror, but I should have known better, and only hurt myself and then had a flaming row with Andrew and never spoke to him again. I was drawn to the mirror by that hypnotic gaze of the slit yellow eyes, bespelled, knowing my future, until alarmed Andrea pulled me back and... no, let's leave it at that. I turned and ran, quit my job, quit the country and settled down as a farmer's wife in the depth of rural France. I... did many things. Some wise, some foolish, some outrageous; some understandable and some surprising.

And inaction is also an action. I stood there while these futures, and their variations and variations on variations, split off and spun off, leaving only the here and now. I stood there, no longer a crowd, but once again a singular human being, lost in a world stranger than anything imagined by philosophers, ancient or modern.

"Enough, enough...", said Andrea's voice gently into my ear. "You don't want to look at it for too long, believe you me...".

With those words, she put her arm around my shoulders and steered me out of that room, towards daylight and mundane life of a big city. She parked me on the sofa and disappeared briefly, I guess to cover up that incredible piece of glass, and then busied herself with making a coffee and holding my hand and talking to me, about trivia, not expecting any response - just to deposit a detritus of normality over the terrifying chasm that had opened at my feet.

I don't recall much from that day. At one point we made love, Andrea taking the lead, but keeping it very low-key; no high flames of desire, no fireworks, just cleansing pleasure, just giving and taking the way I could never do with Andrew and never imagined doing with a woman. It was just what I needed.

And it worked. Normality reasserted itself, as it usually does, even if what is normal gets drastically redefined in one's mind's eye. Life goes on, We are still good friends with Andrew. We are still girlfriends with Andrea. And I still don't know whether either of them wrote that wretched book. It doesn't matter. In this mortal life, what does one know for sure anyway? Andrew says I've become resigned and less driven. Andrea says I've learned to be more of myself. They approve, though I am not sure they are right.

We never talk about the mirror.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when I am sleepless and alone, at least in my mind, I know one thing with a certainty beyond all reason or doubt. And it goes like this...

There is a room I could enter. And in that room, there is a glass covered with an old dust-sheet, which I could lift. And in that glass, burning - oh, ever so bright! - there is a magnificent tiger.

Me.

Waiting.

- o O o -

Mixing metaphysics, sex, magic and attitude, the narrator recommends her own, uniquely satisfying TG approach to achieving an amicable separation.

This story contains what is known as "transgender material". It does *NOT* contain any elements of m/m, s/m, b/d, humiliation, pain, or anatomically detailed descriptions of sexual acts. If this lack offends you, do yourself a favour and read no further.

All characters and situations described herein are fictional and any resemblance to any real or fictional persons or events is purely coincidental.

The story may be freely copied, archived and distributed, on the condition of this header remaining its integral part.

Greg has been fun, no question about that, but it's time to move on.

Before we do... Old-fashioned as I am, let me indulge in an authorial digression, and address you, my reader, the way it used to be done in the bad-old-good-old days by *real* writers - it's good for the soul. So, with regard to my opening sentence, I expect you may have an inkling as to what I have in mind, given that you are probably reading this piece on a TG board. (No dahrling, if you need to ask what TG might be, then you don't need to know what TG might be - be a dear, go and find yourself another play-pan). So I won't bother to pretend otherwise. There may indeed be "fifty ways to leave your lover" as the song has it, but I doubt mine got included in the count. I do it *my* way, and bother Sinatra for pinching my tag line!

And by the way, I was going to call this piece "My Way", but then I recalled a line from some song, which seemed highly appropriate: "...how you lost your jigsaw corner, playing indoor games". Which is where it's at. Oh, yeah...

Now, on with the tale!

"Greg, have you ever wondered what's it like to be a girl?"

The answer is always yes, by the way. If any male tells you otherwise, he is lying through his teeth.

"No, not really. Why?" - Liar!

"I was just musing whether it was at all possible to communicate such things without experiencing them." OK, that makes us both liars - honours even! "Oh look, don't you think that gull is positively *enjoying* the wind?"

"Heh... How, not being a gull, can you possibly..."

"OK, OK... if you must be so rational about it!..."

A few steps along the beach further...

"Did *you* ever wonder what it's like to be a man?"

"Oh, Greg, frequently! It must be *wonderful*. All that power! That incisive intellect! The masterly... Ouch! That hurt!"

"You are well enough padded there to take a small slap for your shameless fibbing."

"No, seriously."

"No, seriously my girl, thou knowest not what thy speakest of."

"Ah, the manly man's burden! Spare us!..."

"Oh, oh, oh... It's sooooo terrible being female in this rotten culture!..."

"Watch it! That'll rate a slap right back... Aw!! well there! That proves it! Let me go, you brute!"

A long kiss later...

"So you don't think gulls enjoy themselves? Look at that one - I swear it is doing its utmost to balance on the wind without flapping its wings, just for the fun of it."

"Speaking of gulls and Chinese sages and butterflies..."

"Fish, actually, if you are referring to Lao Tzu's famous sophistry."

"Whatever! What *is* it like being a woman?"

"How in blazes should I know?"

"Mmm... I rather thought what with you being one... Or have I been misinformed? I know my parents neglected my sex education, but..."

"No, silly. Look, what is it like being a man?"

Pause.

"Hm... Tricky one!"

"Exactly. It's that word 'like' that's the problem. I know what it is being 'me'. And you know what it is being 'you'. But not having ever been anybody else, how could one possibly know what it is *like* being 'me', 'you' or anybody or anything else?"

Long thoughtful pause... The gulls still enjoying themselves in the gusty wind. Oh yes, I *do* know, by the way. You bet I do! I've been a gull. It's quite fun for a while. In a limited sort of way. Not as much fun as being a sexy girl, though. And not *nearly* as much fun as being turned from a horny boy into a sexy girl. Doesn't work like that the other way, for some reason. Beats me why, but that's how it is, take my word for it if you have to.

Anyhow, where were we... Oh yes, me explaining a few things about perceptions of identity...

"Like, take that gull for example. What is it like being a gull? The gull has no way of knowing the answer, and neither do you. You'd have to become a gull having first been human..."

"... and I still wouldn't know anything, because gulls don't know."

"How, not being a gull, can you..."

"Oh, shush!"

"But you are right, I suppose. You need comparable intelligence at both ends. Turning you into a gull wouldn't do a thing..."

"Except making a seriously useless gull."

"How's that?"

"My dear, I have no idea how to fly, and I have no taste for raw fish."

"Bah! Being turned into a gull would make you a gull. Did you think such things were somehow separate from the gull's gullness?"

"They aren't?"

"Nope. And ditto being turned into a girl would make you a girl. Fully."

Another pause...

"You seem to know an awful lot about it."

"Heh! I have fertile imagination!" - plus a degree in psychology from the University of Life. Which is how I know to leave it there. Let it stew. Maybe arrange for a dream or two in a few days. Lovely, seductive TG dreams. But perhaps not too obvious in their intent...

"You know, I had the weirdest dream last night!"

Feigned lack of interest... "Really?"

"Yeah... We were going out for a drink, and you turned me into a frock."

"Really!"

"Yup, really. And you put me on and..."

"Hang on, it being your dream, I have to care about my modesty... was I wearing anything under... erm... under you?"

Wolfish grin. "No, actually. That was an amazingly sexy sensation embracing you so completely; hugging and caressing your naked skin all around. But anyway, you put me on and went out..."

"While you were suffering agonies of ecstasy, of course."

"Look who's telling it? Me or you?"

"OK, OK, go on..."

"So you got to this bar, and some guy started pawing you."

"Through you."

"Yeah, that was weird. And then without any transition, you and that guy were in some pad - his I guess. And you took me off..."

"I am scandalised! Whom do you take me for? A cheap..."

"Hang on... then you made him wear me!"

"Oh? I didn't know you've been sitting in a closet!"

"No, listen, you made him wear me, and I didn't like that any if you must know, but as you zipped him into me..."

"You had a zip? Well, fancy that!"

"Shush! As you zipped him into me, he turned into a woman!"

"And then all three of us had an orgy."

"No, then I woke up."

"Zipped or unzipped?"

"You are not taking it seriously, are you?"

"I am sorry - was I supposed to? I thought you were just telling me a weird dream."

"Yeah. Weird all right... But you know what was the weirdest bit? When he changed, I could suddenly feel his long hair lying heavily on me... on his back and shoulders, if you see what I mean. Almost as if they were lying on mine. A very... odd sensation."

Ooh, aah! Greg's subconscious ad-libbing on its own! This is going to be just tooo easy.

A week later, at my place...

"So, have I been wearing you any more of late?"

"Eh?? Oh, you mean... Well, no, actually. By the way, that kind-of reminds me, you remember our conversation about what's it like being a gull?"

"Sure."

"Well I've been thinking..." Aha! A dangerous activity!... "And while I take your point about knowing what it is like being a gull, it occurs to me that it cannot be quite so bad where boys and girls are concerned."

"Um... Really? So, surprise me!"

"Well, to start with, the 'gullness' of a gull, as you'd put it, is largely inborn, which is not the case with humans."

"Oh, so you reckon you just 'learned' to have that package between your legs?"

"No, but I reckon that we learn to be what we are to a much greater extent than gulls do, AND - my second point - we have language, which we use to communicate our learned experiences to some extent. So it shouldn't be *quite* as hopeless as with learning the gullness of a gull."

"Hm... Not convinced..." Pay attention class! This is called a pawn sacrifice. "What and how would you communicate? I really cannot see how to describe my sexual experience to a man." Come on, Greg, hit me with the obvious!

"Tut... You are not suggesting that sex is the one thing that defines a woman?! What about all the cultural elements? Some may have some anatomical basis and some don't!"

"Oh, you mean things like clothes, hair styles, cosmetics etc?"

"Got it in one!" The smug so-and-so!

"But Greg, there is no need to *describe* any of those. Sure I could try telling you... um... say the way a satin slip feels against my skin, but what's the point when any man curious enough can experience that for himself?"

"No, no... Dressing a man in drag tells him nothing about being a woman!" Ah, so true! And so much for any consistency of one's argument! "That's not at all the sort of thing I am talking about. What I... Um... what are you rummaging in that wardrobe of yours for?..."

Guess!

"If you seriously expect me to... Well, bugger me rigid!!"

"How vulgar! Hey, what's the matter?" As if I didn't know. "And it's rude to point like that!"

"But that's... That's the frock!"

"You've lost me. What do you mean 'the frock'?"

"The... the one... you know... what I dreamed about!"

"??? You dreamed?... Oh, you mean the *you* frock?"

"The very same!"

"But, Greg, if you were a frock, how would you know what you looked like??"

"Beats me, but it was *my* dream and in my dream I jolly well knew, so there! And that's the one."

As indeed it is. Not anything very flashy. Just a surprisingly subtle mass-produced silk velvet one from Dotty P, though admittedly with some recent metaphysical enhancements by yours truly, but those don't show. And yes, it does indeed have a long zip along the back. There's a point to that - just you wait and see.

"Well, I am *not* putting that on, if that's what you have in mind!"

"Relax. I was just making a point."

"Mmm... Come to think of it, how the heck did I dream about a frock I didn't even know you had??"

Ah, well spotted. I was a bit sloppy there. Still, easily mended with a small lie: "Oh yes you did! I wore it to Ursula's wedding last year, remember?" What, expect your man to remember what you wore to a friend's wedding last year? It's a joke, yes? Yes.

"Oh... OK... That must be it then. Nice subtle effect in that fabric, by the way." Finally noticed, eh? My arm was getting tired from twirling the hanger to show it off from different angles. We can now drop the frock over the back of a chair - ever so casually...

So far, so good...

An hour later, I am relaxing in a hot bath, while Greg busies himself with my hi-fi kit. The dress, by the way, got left (ever so casually, remember?) over the back of a chair in the living room. Too blatant? To misquote Hari Seldon: it can pay to be blatantly obvious sometimes. More subtlety can be applied if a blatant approach does not pan out.

Aha! There is some commotion and a strangled high pitched yell. A minute or so later Greg staggers in - stark naked, white as chalk and babbling gibberish.

"Why, Greg, what's the matter!? And what happened to your cloths?"

Greg still babbling.

"Greg, calm down! Take a deep breath and calm down. GREG! I SAID CALM DOWN! That's better. Hand me that bath towel, so I don't drip all over the place. Thanks... Now then what's it all about? You seen an army of ghosts?"

"It's... it's... that..." Greg pauses and finally gets a grip on himself. "No, come and see for yourself, or you'll think I've gone nuts."

Hardly. Anyway, an attentive reader can easily deduce the events of the next few moments: Greg picks up The Frock off the floor and rather awkwardly climbs into it, with yours truly goggling her eyes and keeping her mouth shut; then Greg wriggles reaching his arms behind him and manages to zip himself up and becomes female. So, those are the bare facts. And how does one react to this? Well to start with, I am endlessly surprised by the Anima self-image manifested on such occasions. In Greg's case it's a raven-haired Spanish beauty, probably with a dash of Inca or something of the sort. But this is not the time for a detailed appraisal, tempting though it is. I have to react, and I am seriously tempted to chuck Plan A, and Plan B and simply faint on the spot, just for the fun of it. But then rationality reasserts itself...

"Greg!" I exclaim in delight, "You are a were! Why didn't you tell me?..."

Which of course throws him, that is her, utterly: "Of course I am aware, you dumb..."

"No, no, a WERE! As in were-WOLF - or a werewoman in your case. How delightful!"

"No, you idiot! It's the frock! Look!..." She unzips herself, quite gracefully, and (what a surprise!) there's Greg looking rather silly in an unzipped dress.

"Yeah. Sure. I think I can see what's going on. Take it off, put your cloths on and we'll talk it through. And let me make some strong black coffee in the meantime, you look quite white."

Look, I'll spare you the somewhat cringeful bits. Particularly the ones involving me faking some previously undisclosed academic credentials in the matter of weres. Of course, there is a little snag, which Greg is quick enough to spot.

"Yeah, OK, OK... So you know about all them werewolves and weretigers and such like, but this is different! It's that damn dress! I zip it up and... pffft!, I unzip it and... zing! A purely mechanical action! Nothing to do with me. I take it off, and I am back to normal. It's wearing the thing that does it."

"I very much doubt it. It's a bit of a puzzler, I grant you, but there must be an explanation. Like maybe that dream of yours the other day caused your unconscious mind to associate the zipping action with the were transformation. Hm... You know what? I think we can test this too... Well, maybe. Look, can you wriggle out of that frock without unzipping it? Here, let me help you to put it on without contortions... Right, now can you just take it off? No, no, no, you idiot! Cross you arms and grab the hem..." I guess some things one *does* have to learn!

After a bit of wriggling with his, sorry her arms crossed, the dress comes off.

"Well there... I thought it had nothing to do with wearing anything. But my dear, you are a hell of a hot package! Come here and have a look at yourself in the mirror!"

And yes, that's *the* magic, spine tingling moment all this has been leading up to. As she gazes in an ecstatic amazement at Greg's Anima-image made flesh, I come quietly from behind, and reaching around, caress her left breast with my right hand, while sliding the left one along her smooth flat belly into the soft patch of pubic hair. That simple act packs such a potent mix of sensual delight, deep symbolism, artful seduction, transgressive wickedness and white-hot desire, that yet again it shakes me to the very core. As ever. As ever and ever and ever. Addicted I am, addicted...

"Oh, my pretty one..." I whisper into her ear, as she trembles under my hands in response, her own undreamt of fires kindling as they must. "Oh, my pretty one... Let me teach you what it is *really* like to be a woman..."

Reader, there's nothing sweeter in the whole wide world than giving a man his first lesson in pleasures and ecstasies of female sexuality. And false modesty aside, I am damn good at it. Practice makes perfect.

I think I already said that he'd made a lovely girl. Of course - boys always do. It's the best kept secret of the whole gender business: 'tis boys who make the loveliest, sexiest girls. You'd be amazed to know... But no, I am getting distracted. What you really want to know is What Happened Next. Yes?

Well, for starters, I gave the dress to Greg as a present. And guess what? He decided that being a full-time, mostly hetero woman was what he really wanted in life.

Now, you may be asking yourself (assuming you stop playing with yourself for a few moments and engage a few higher-order brain cells instead), how do I expect to get away with it? A story on a TG web-site is all very well, but wouldn't it cause serious trouble in *real* life if Greg just disappears and gets replaced by a woman nobody has ever seen before? All true, up to a point, but there are always ways and means. Greg, for example, is reasonably well off and you'd be amazed what a bit of money can achieve if used properly and discreetly. Or maybe you wouldn't be.

Actually, buying a new identity is the only legally dodgy step. And amusingly enough in this PC-obsessed society, buying a female identity is ever so much simpler and cheaper than buying a male one. I'll refrain from commenting on the bone-headed idiocy of this state of affairs - you can supply your own expletives. And if you are after a Latino one, and aren't choosy about the name... well, say no more, but let's hope Senior will be back to do *real* business sometime soon.

So, reader, meet one Agueda Francisca Maria Isabel Santos de la Fuente, or Bel for short. This lively young lady gets employed by Greg as his private assistant and pretty quickly proves herself so useful that he delegates to her the running of all his public affairs, while secluding himself somewhere inaccessible (a Buddhist retreat in Himalayas sounds about right!). Bel has his power of attorney, and if any busybody so much as murmurs that she might be overstepping herself in spending Greg's money, why, Greg himself is not above breaking his mantric meditations to fly in and set the doubters right. And Bel uses such rare occasions to go and visit her ailing mother somewhere in Andes. All in all, a very convenient arrangement all around, I am sure you will agree. Bel's only regret is that Greg somehow never managed to break that zipper fixation of his were-talent. Not that it causes them any serious trouble.

But enough about Greg and Bel. If you brain cells are still operational, you may also wonder why am I telling you all of this. After all, I've dropped enough hints about TG websites, to make it clear where I intend to post my tale.

You see, it's like this... Now and then I like to kick off a "romantic involvement" with both parties knowing up front that *he* will be a sensuously sexy *she* by the end of it. It can add some extra spice, not to mention fun and games.

So, get in touch - it could be your lucky day. Just remember, whatever we do, we'll do it *my* way. And I promise, you won't regret it in the end.

Nick is rather taken aback when his girlfriend asks "Would you be my girlfriend?". Reluctant at first, he soon finds himself on the most erotic journey of his life. Maybe.

This story contains what is known as "transgender material". It does NOT contain any elements of m/m, s/m, b/d, humiliation, pain, or anatomically detailed descriptions of sexual acts. If this lack offends you, do yourself a favour and read no further.

All characters and situations described herein are fictional and any resemblance to any real or fictional persons or events is purely coincidental.

The story may be freely copied, archived and distributed, on the condition of this header remaining its integral part.

"No!"

"But darling..."

"No!"

"You are being thoroughly unreasonable, you know!"

"Oh yeah? I am being unreasonable? And what does that make you?!"

"It's not as if it were for the first time..."

"Quite! I've had enough. No!"

"I'll start throwing things!"

"Ah... We are now threatening to throw a fit, are we? How un-ladylike."

"You knew you weren't marrying a lady!"

"Damn right!"

"Is that supposed to mean anything?"

"Perish the thought!"

"Just checking!"

Meg dumped two steaming plates on the table and for a short while they were both pretending to be too busy concentrating on their food. Only when Joe got up to pour, rather belatedly, two glasses of beer, Meg decided that the temperature had dropped low enough.

"Look," she said, "let's start again. You are obviously upset over it and I can't work out why. It's only another session of the Circle, for goodness' sake. You know all about it. I've never made it a secret, have I? What's the big deal?"

"Yeah, and why does the damn Circle need to meet here? And every bloody week, too?"

Meg heaved a carefully judged sigh - just enough to show irritation, but not enough to trigger another bout of shouting.

"Joe, please... I did explain. Our place happens to be by far the most suitable, for miles and miles and miles around. A fluke of geography. We've been through all of this before you moved in with me, remember?"

Joe felt his anger losing its original edge and made a mental effort to generate a stubborn determination to fill the void.

"Oh, I don't mind the wretched Circle meeting here, dammit. But I do object to being booted out of my own home every time it does decide to get together! It was supposed to be 'a few times a year' - remember? And how many times has it been over the last months? Come on... Tell me!"

Meg allowed herself another sigh, making a note not to overdo it. "Darling, I am sorry. You know we've been having problems. It's really not my fault, as you know perfectly well. It won't last forever."

"No? So how long will it last?!"

"I wish I knew. I can only hope..."

"There! And in the meantime you boot me out of my own house for a whole night damn near regularly once a week! And you are surprised that I get angry?"

For a while they ate in tense silence. Finally Joe pushed away his plate, leaned back on the chair and said: "Look, I am sorry I shouted, but I really meant it. I am not spending another night in a cheapo hotel..."

"You never do!"

"...and don't interrupt me! The answer is no, and that's final."

Despite everything, Meg could not help wincing. Joe knew as well as she did that she would never force him to comply, as was in her power to do one way or another. There was no way he could be sure the same applied to the rest of the Circle.

"And have you considered how my guests would react to that?" she asked angrily.

"They are guests, remember? There are traditions about that!"

Joe did have a point, but Meg wasn't at all sure whether the likes of Amanda would stop considering traditional niceties before venting her disapproval in some unfortunate manner. Not that it mattered...

"Besides," continued Joe, feeling his momentary advantage, "What they don't know can't hurt them." To his surprise it was clearly the wrong thing to say. Meg just looked at him and the look spelt out volumes about just how idiotically dumb-headed that last remark was. Joe glared back until Meg got up to clear the empty plates off the table.

"Do you want a yogurt?" she asked from the fridge.

"What kinds have we got left?"

"Only apricot."

"Fine by me... I'll have one."

Meg fetched two yogurts and two teaspoons and settled herself back at the table.

"Darling, if you are contemplating lurking in the house you don't know what you are talking about. Your male Yang would stand out like a totem pole even if I hid you in the cellar behind three padlocks."

"Yang, Yang, Yin, Yin... That's just words you hang on your abilities. Things are things..."

"Rot!..."

"... and if my 'Yang' stands out so - disguise it somehow! You are supposed to be a witch, after all!"

Meg opened her mouth and then shut it with a snap. She felt like giggling, but didn't dare. She felt like many other things too - crying being definitely one of them, and that would have been even worse. So she fixed Joe with a thoughtful look instead.

"I could, you know!"

"So, what's the problem? You do that, I get a good night's sleep and everybody's happy! I wish I'd kicked up fuss before now. Women!"

With a triumphant look Joe dug his spoon into the yogurt. He was pleased with himself. Meg ate in silence. Finally, licking off the last spoonful, she said:

"You really would want me to do that?"

Joe looked up. It was typical of Meg to start wriggling almost immediately. The classic female trick - if you don't want to do something, persuade your man that he thinks it is not a good idea. He had to stand firm. But... Why was it he was getting the feeling he was about to lose the argument after all?

"Yeah, why not?" he asked challengingly.

"Because there's only one way I can disguise your Yang - by replacing it with a Yin for a while."

Joe looked bland: "Yeah - so? You are hiding behind words again." She was NOT getting around him this time.

"So. That would turn you into a woman for the duration. See?"

Joe stared. Meg smirked. She clearly thought she had him, and by golly, she was not far wrong! It was intolerable and Joe squared his shoulders and said: "So? Maybe I've been having this hankering for femininity all these years. Sitting in the closet, you know."

Meg laughed, got up, collected the yogurt pots, dumped them in the bin, dumped the spoons in dirty mugs filled with water by the sink. Then she walked behind Joe's chair and buried her fingers in his hair.

"You are a rotten liar, and you know it," she said pulling his head back and planting an upside-down kiss on his nose. Joe grinned at her upwards. "But," she continued, "you showed disrespect to my calling and this 'supposed to be a witch' really ought to teach you a lesson."

She let go of Joe and moved back to the sink. He got off his chair and sauntered over to the teapot, stretched past Meg to fill it with water, and switched it on.

"Seriously, though..." he said.

Meg turned round and put a finger on his lips: "Not a word! It's settled."

Joe's mouth opened... and shut again. He found himself profoundly unsure how to react. Was she expecting him to throw a fit? He knew perfectly well what his wife was capable of. He'd seen proof enough of her powers, even when not augmented by the formidable powers of the Circle. But it had been an unwritten law in their relationship that Meg never used her witchery to his disadvantage. Did he push things too far this time? How come? It couldn't have been such a big deal for her!

Seeing the doubt reflected in his eyes, Meg laughed and moved up to him, putting her hands around his butt and her forehead against his.

"You big baby," she said. "You scared I'll do something to you against your will?"

"No, no... Of course not!" said Joe swallowing.

"But you did sort of agree to it."

"Only before you spelt out the implications..."

Meg pressed herself against him and was amused but not really surprised, to feel Joe's erection.

"So you didn't mean it."

"Er... No. Not really."

"What do you mean, 'not really'?"

"I mean, 'no'."

"So why," whispered Meg nibbling his left ear, "are you so excited about it?"

"I am not! Well... I mean... Why shouldn't I be excited when my wife presses herself against me in a meaningful manner and starts eating my earlobes?"

"I tell you, darling, you are a rotten liar." She reached with her lips for his ear again. "I'll do you a deal, OK? Say yes, and I'll turn you into the most beautiful woman in the world - your own wet dream come true."

"You are my wet dream!"

"Liar! Liar! You think flattery can get you anything, don't you?"

"This is ridiculous!"

"You are being ridiculous."

"No I am not!"

"Oh yes you are! I am offering you the solution you wanted, and it's a nicely naughty one too - I wish it'd crossed my mind before. You get a night at home and we both get a look at your dream female. It's only for the night anyway. You can be yourself again as soon as they are gone."

"And I am supposed to buy this? What's the point of meeting my dream sex object and being unable to screw her?"

"Joe, Joe...," laughed Meg, now quite sure of herself. "I am positive you'll find a way around that. Come on, don't tell me you have one of those fragile masculine egos that go all to pieces at a mere hint of an unmanly experience. I wouldn't have loved you if you had one."

The kettle, which had been blowing steam for a while, finally decided to switch itself off. They both ignored it.

"Look, Meg... I mean, no... I mean, can't you see it would be wrong?"

Meg started shaking her head but Joe went on.

"Look, I know myself well enough. Please, listen... It's not that. It's... Don't you think I don't realise that my dream bimbo is really a ridiculous looking creature?"

That was a degree of insight Meg didn't really expect. Well, it made things simpler - all well and good. She cocked her head to one side thoughtfully and said: "Hmm... You do have a point there. Too much of a good thing isn't wonderful."

"Well, there... It was a nice thought, but..."

"...But I have another one. I take your point entirely. OK. It'd be harder for me, but it is an interesting challenge. Suppose I turn you into a woman you would want to be if you were one. How about that?"

Meg was gratified to feel Joe's erection harden again. There was something buried in that masculine psyche of his that positively luxuriated in the thought of becoming female... Strange but convenient. Perhaps it was indeed true of men in general, she thought ruefully.

"Isn't that a bit circular?" said Joe doubtfully, "I mean, not being one, I have no idea..."

"Well, no, neither do I. Makes it more interesting, doesn't it? Leave the how of it to me. Come on, darling. I am now curious. And you are curious too. I know you too well not to see that you are..."

She hugged Joe to herself and he hugged her back. Meg could practically hear Joe mulling it around in his head, and had no compunctions about loading the odds by nursing his erection with slight movements of her body. When Joe finally broke the embrace, there was no need to say anything. They both knew he agreed.

It'll hardly surprise a perceptive reader, that on that particular night their love-making was unusually intense and satisfying to both parties. Setting a new precedent, we shall not dwell on the details.

"Yes, yes... tomorrow." Lucy sounded quite uncharacteristically excited, thought Amanda with disapproval.

"Fine." she said, "I'll make sure there are no slackers at tomorrow's meeting. We'll need all our strength and all our presence of mind, I shouldn't be surprised."

"Getting together at Betty's first, is it?" asked Lucy's voice anxiously.

"Yes, as arranged." said Amanda and firmly put the phone down. Lucy was definitely beginning to get on her nerves. Of course they were all on edge, ever since losing Joan so stupidly in that unexpected attack. For once, however, things were beginning to look up. Just as well. It would be a relief NOT to be in charge again.

In the morning, Meg slipped out of the bed early, despite Joe's protests.

"Stop grumbling... I have some special preparations to make, as you should know," she said, kissed him on both nipples, slid her hand down his stomach to briefly nurse his erection, and was gone.

Joe let himself drift down into semi-sleep again, but soon wound up having a conversation with himself, behind his closed eyes.

"What the hell have I let myself to be talked into?" he asked himself.
"An experience," he replied.
"Am I really going to let her do this to me?!"
"I guess so."
"Am I gay or what?"
"Mmmm... Doesn't feel like it."
"The whole thing is ridiculous anyway."
"True. I've known life to get quite ridiculous now and then."
"Just look at me in a mirror!"
"Yeah... But after? She thinks it'd be worthwhile..."
"Can I believe that?"
"I think I do."
"I wonder what I'd look like..."
"I wonder."
"No way to find out, is there?"
"No, no other way."
"Well, I could always fantasise."
"But I know I don't necessarily get turned on most by what I can fantasise."
"Quite so. Let's see... Big boobs?"
"Yeah... But... [shudder!] on me???"
"Yeah, I guess. Big ass too."
"Masses of curly hair!"
"Yup! Platinum blond, you old lecher?"
"No... Hang on... Imagine it being me."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Quite."
"So why am I getting wet?"
"Because I've just fantasised a lovely wench."
"But not myself."
"No."
"Bugger that for a lark then!"
"I'll never know otherwise, will I?"
"No. But... Suppose she likes me that way? Do I trust her that much?"
"But I do."
"Of course."
"Well, that's that then!"
"Bugrit, bugrit, bugrit! What an unmanly thing to agree to."
"I make me puke!"
"It's mutual."

Meg was busy all day with her preparations and Joe, somewhat dazed by the prospect of the coming evening, busied himself in the garden, which required a lot of attention in any case.

Meg emerged blinking from her darkened workroom at mid-afternoon and settled herself in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and some biscuits. Joe wondered in from the garden a little while later and parked himself at the table with his own mug of coffee.

"Better don't eat anything," said Meg. "We'll have to get started pretty soon and you may find a rapid change upsetting on the stomach."

"You really want to do this?" asked Joe, sipping his coffee with a distinct feeling of unreality.

"I am not wasting all that work, that's for sure. You are not about to get cold feet, are you? To faint on me or something equally ridiculous?" she grinned, "That would be unmanly!. Hope you aren't suffering an uncharacteristic attack of macho-attitudes."

"I just don't know," said Joe with a sigh. "It is a bit much to take on a short notice." He looked mournfully into his mug.

"You'll manage it all right, my love. That's what I like in you," said Meg laying her hand over his on the table. "You are only feeling down right now because you feel silly - for no real reason I can think of."

She drained her mug and got up.

"Well, there is no time like the present." she said, "Better go and take a quick shower. I need you clean. But do make it quick. I am not really sure how long it will take, to tell you the honest truth."

"OK, OK," said Joe getting up and feeling more foolish than ever.

"And don't bother to dress after the shower," added Meg stopping in the door. "I need you naked."

Amanda stopped spinning her bracelet on the table and looked at Lucy sharply: "You are quite sure she actually got him to agree to it? You know how important this is!"

If at all possible, Lucy briefly looked even vaguer than ever, but Amanda knew better than to be fooled. Behind that confused image was one of the sharpest far-sensing minds in the world.

Lucy nodded, her hands fussing ineffectively with her untidy bun of hair: "Yes, yes... He consents. He is curious."

"Have you ever considered trying a pony-tail?", said Amanda nastily and pushed away her tea cup getting up in a rustle of gray silk. "We should be on our way - to stand by, if nothing else. Is everybody ready? Thank you, Betty dear. Do remind me to make you a present of some of my herbal tea."

She shut her eyes (not quite coincidentally avoiding a poisonous look from Betty) and concentrated, excluding from her mind the sounds of the members of the Circle getting from their chairs and sofas.

"By all the powers that be!" she thought fiercely, "This'd better work! I am TIRED of trying to organise this madhouse. The Moon be my witness, I never wanted the responsibility."

"Come in, come in..." said Meg without turning around in response to the knock on the door.

Joe slid into the room and shut the door behind him. Usually this place was out of bounds to him, just like his study was out of bounds to Meg. It avoided unnecessary arguments.

The room was crowded with cupboards and working surfaces, barely leaving enough room in the middle for the white pentagram carefully painted on the floor. The floor area within the points was covered in painstakingly chalked meaningless scrolls - presumably the fruit of Meg's preparation. Five small incense burners were positioned just opposite the points of the pentagram and Meg was carefully measuring the distances between them.

As always, Joe somehow expected to see bubbling alembics and glass tubes with multicoloured liquids, and couldn't quite suppress the childish disappointment that there weren't any. The room was full of stuff, but little of it looked even vaguely witchy or just plain magical. If it weren't for that pentagram on the floor and for the incense burners carefully positioned in its five corners...

Meg straightened from her measurements, satisfied, and had to suppress a smile - Joe looked so very apprehensive standing there, clutching the towel wrapped around his waist.

"Drop that towel on the top over there and get in," she gestured at the centre of the pentagram. "Just mind you don't step on any of the writing."

"You are not feeling bashful, are you?", she added with a smile when Joe turned away before removing the towel. "If your body is feeling horny, all the better."

Joe disposed of the towel and moved towards the centre of the room, his nakedness revealing a semi-arousal and lots of goose pimples. He stepped into the inner pentagon of the design and turned to face Meg with an unspoken "Now what?" on his face.

"Do you want to watch?" asked Meg and when Joe hesitated, added "You probably won't see any details anyway - it'll be near dark here. But there should be some special effects worth seeing."

Joe nodded abruptly, not trusting himself to speak.

"Right," continued Meg, "Turn towards the door, spread your legs as far as you can without stepping on any lines and lift your arms up and a bit sideways. No, UP - not in front of you. Good... Now, don't panic, I am about to immobilise you... It's to make sure you don't get hurt..."

Joe tried to nod and found he couldn't. Not that anything stopped him nodding - he simply could not find any will-power to make the necessary effort. That, as far as he was concerned, was the maddening thing about his wife's witchery. Most of the time there was no sign she did anything at all and half the time one wound up wondering whether in fact she did do nothing, simply allowing a verbal suggestion to do its own work. This time there was witchery involved all right. He was sure he would not feel so comfortable in this position otherwise.

Meg lit the brasiers and switched off the electric light, plunging the room into a flickering semi-darkness. She said something polysyllabic and strange, and the brasiers flared briefly, their light suddenly reflecting off a large mirror surface that now replaced the door. In it, Joe could see himself in a vague imitation of the classic "Leonardo" position. At another sharp word, the brasiers started producing a lot of aromatic smoke, dimming the meagre light in the room to a mere glow.

"My God," thought Joe, "She is really about to do it. Unless she's bluffing, by the time she's done with me I'll be a woman!" To his consternation, his penis eagerly responded to the thought.

All at once, the air around him lit up with a bluish glow, which quickly sank to the floor, concentrating into a bright circular band encircling him. A faint tinkling swirled around the room, and the band of light grew dimmer, allowing Joe to see that the room was filled with reddish, directionless illumination. It cast no shadows, making everything look flat and unnatural.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, allowing him to see quite clearly his reflection in the mirror. Meg was somewhere behind him to the right - he could not see her and she was keeping utterly still, making no sound at all. For several minutes, or so it seemed to Joe, absolutely nothing happened, but then he noticed the band of dim light slowly creeping upwards. His eyes were held by the movement and so it was only when the band crept above his knees that he noticed the change it was leaving behind. While above the level of the band his legs had their usual cover of dark hair, none at all was visible below.

Despite expecting changes, it took Joe a while to convince himself that his eyes were not tricking him, by which time the wave of change of nearly at his groin.

"This is it!" he thought. "Goodbye masculinity!" as the band of light traversed the pubic region making it difficult to see what changes might be taking place there. He could still feel his penis, standing to attention and throbbing with excitement, as a kind of "phantom limb" he imagined. To his surprise, however, as the change moved up, he could still see his penis too - now apparently quite hairless - standing up between a pair of shapely, quite feminine legs.

"Well," thought Joe, "There's a relief!" At the same time he felt a tinge of regret mixed with an anticipation of ribbing Meg about the inadequacy of her magical efforts.

By the time the change reached his neck, there was no longer any doubt. After the passing of the band of light, Joe's body was moulded into feminine proportions, losing all body hair in the process, but that was about it. His masculinity, though somewhat incongruous, was quite undeniable. His nipples did appear somewhat larger, but his chest remained as flat as it always had been. And when the band lifted itself over the crown of his head, it was clear that his face had acquired a somewhat androgynous look, but combined with the masculine haircut, it was quite far from being really female.

"OK," said Joe to himself. "Show over. Sorry about it, Meg, old girl..." And at that moment the band of light above his head lit up like a flare and with a bone-jarring crash fell back to the floor and instantly dimmed again.

Joe blinked several times, trying to get rid of the bright after-images, and stared: spread-eagled in the mirror in front of him was a voluptuous raven-haired beauty. Before he had a chance to comprehend the sudden change, a basso-profundo voice above him said "AUM!" and the band of light flew up, flared and crashed to the floor again.

This time Joe shut his eyes in time to avoid being blinded. Opening them, he was greeted by the sight of a dishy nordic blonde being reflected in the mirror.

"This is ME?!" he gasped inwardly, and with another "AUM!" a flare and a crash, there was a compact red-haired girl with a snub nose and lots of freckles looking back at him. With increasing rapidity, the reflection flicked through a number of different female types, gradually losing the initial sex-doll looks, until the voice said "HARUM!" and all went dark. It was only then that body sensations caught up with Joe's consciousness and they were profoundly strange. He could feel a mass of hair lying on his back, its weight pulling his head back. He could feel the weight of... presumably breasts! on his chest, with the burning radiance of excitement spreading from the nipples. Above all, he could feel a kind of lightness and... emptiness, between his legs. His skin felt strange, his lungs too full and his mind was stunned by the utter certainty that, indeed, he was no longer a he, but a she.

The immobilisation spell must have let go at that point, letting him sink heavily to the floor.

Meg slumped in her chair. After a long silence she said wretchedly, without lifting her eyes: "Sorry... I am just not up to it... He didn't respond at all and I simply can't go on with this... How could I? I look at him in that body and..." her voice broke. "Don't you understand?!"

To her surprise, Amanda felt all her carefully prepared words to evaporate under the weight of misery radiating from Meg. It would be so easy to compel her, to re-impose the simpler, compliant personality... And it would do no good. What had to be done had to be done freely or not at all.

There was another awkward silence while Amanda frantically searched for the right things to say, with the eyes of the rest of the Circle firmly on her. They weren't accusing eyes, not yet, merely expectant.

Unexpectedly, it was Mary who finally broke the silence. "Child," she said, "We do understand. Not all of us equally, but we do, believe me. Yet our need is great and your distress, however real and painful, is something that we can attend to. Trust us. Trust us one more time." She turned to Amanda, adding quite needlessly: "This is my strength. By your leave and the leave of my sisters..." She left the sentence unfinished.

Amanda nodded and closing her eyes thought "A friend in need... I won't forget..." Aloud she said: "Good. We must carry on with the final step. Meg, dear, I feel for you. You must be brave and joyful and above all persuasive. Through you, we WILL succeed." As long as it sounded decisive and confident - that was enough.

Mary got up from her chair and walking around to where Meg was sitting, slumped and hopelessly shaking her head, placed her hands on Meg's left shoulder and the forehead: "Come, child. It is for love, as you know. What else is there but love?"

"They would have been FURIOUS!" said Meg with a giggle, stroking Joe's breasts. "I was really terrified when Amanda first stepped in. She sort of sniffed around as if she suspected something..."

Joe wriggled, surprised how pleasant the sensation was despite all the love-making of the previous hours. Women did have a different physiology of sex, after all.

"Sorry I risked getting you into trouble," he said. "Wasting your efforts..."

"Wasting? Oh dear... I thought you were enjoying yourself!"

"Well, yes... And it is different, sure. And I will have been glad it happened, if you see what I mean. But I would have enjoyed it just as much as a man..."

"But not as long! And we now know what kind of woman you'd be comfortable as, if you were comfortable being a woman," laughed Meg.

"True and true... Not as good looking as I would have hoped..."

"Nonsense! Sexy as hell!"

"Nonsense yourself!"

"Rubbish!"

"Bollocks!"

Laughing, Meg collapsed on top of him: "Lack of!", she said, playfully sliding her hand between his thighs and slipping a finger between the lips of his pussy. "Does it feel very different?" she added curiously.

"Oh, it does... But... No, don't stop!..." Joe pulled her head towards him for a long kiss.

"But what?" asked Meg disentangling herself. "Is it because you are a man and it feels strange to be a woman?"

Joe thought about it. "I suppose that might be a part of it, I don't know..."

"Would you like to know how it REALLY is for a woman?"

"How do you mean? You've turned me into one already, remember? Yin replacing Yang and suchlike..."

"Love, I confess it wasn't quite as thorough as I'd hoped. That's why I nearly pissed myself when Amanda started sniffing. Trouble was, I didn't have the time to do anything about it."

"What?! What on Earth are you burbling about?" Joe lifted himself on one elbow and examined himself. "Are you saying this is just an illusion?"

"Oh, goodness, no! What I mean is, you are a stranger to this shape..."

"Well, I hope so! What did you expect? Was I too awkward for you as your lesbian plaything? Is that it?! Well, you can..." His sudden anger stumbled as he realised that Meg was convulsed with laughter. "Well... Now what?"

"What do you mean 'now what'? It was simply you all over. Demonstrating it perfectly! I may have changed your looks, but it changed you not one iota otherwise."

"I didn't expect it to... Did you?"

"Well, of course. It's only natural. Matter of fact YOU are unnatural right now. A man with a woman's body... However a delightful 'lesbian plaything' that makes! But, remember? I wanted to know what kind of woman you'd want to be if you were a woman and that is by no means limited just to the looks. I am still curious."

"Uh-uh... I can see it coming!"

"Aren't you curious?"

"Hmmm... You mean there IS more to experience?"

"How should I know?" mused Meg. "There may well be. Your reactions suggest to me that there is."

"This is beginning to sound like a bad porno-fantasy... You have somebody else, so you are trying to turn me into a woman and make me forget I ever was a man."

"And you'd believe that?"

Joe thought about it. "No." he said at last. "Beats me why, but no, I wouldn't."

"So let me do it... Just for the rest of the night. Cross my heart!"

Joe slid his hands over his unfamiliar form. "What the heck", he thought. "In for a penny, in for a pound..."

"I take it you want to drag me into that lair of yours..." he said warily.

"Nope. In your current shape and with your free consent, it shouldn't be difficult. Just relax and shut your eyes."

Joe complied and whispered, his voice almost too soft for Meg to hear: "I'll trust you, my love." It was just as well that he kept his eyes closed and therefore didn't see Meg's eyes filling with tears, despite all Mary's ministrations. She kissed Joe lightly on the forehead, slid her finger along his smooth cheek and thought fiercely at the Circle: "Do it, damn you! Do it! And better do it right!"

She awoke suddenly and, after a brief moment of disorientation, quickly scanned her surroundings for familiar signatures.

"OK, Amanda," she said, "You can stop lurking outside that door!"

There was a double gasp - one from Amanda and one... Her eyes flew open meeting the gaze of the naked woman kneeling over her. Her mental shield flung up, she dived into the eyes of the stranger. "Who!..." Then her shield disintegrated in the shock of recognition. "Mark! Mark?? What on Earth?..."

Mark/Meg fell on top of her, sobbing with relief. As Amanda walked into the room, Joan snapped at her: "This was YOUR idea, wasn't it?"

Amanda, quite unembarrassed by the sight of two naked female bodies, moved a chair to the bed and carefully sat down. "Yes, Joan," she said. "Welcome back."

The rest of the Circle slowly filed into the room. Joan scanned their faces and auras, straining her formidable powers of intuition in search of pieces of the jigsaw of events, and gradually putting the pieces together. Then she closed her arms around the woman lying on top of her: "You let them do THAT to you," she whispered. "For me."

"We had no choice, Joan," said Amanda. "You realise that already. It was either that or you were Joe for good, with no power to wield and no memory of yourself. Mark was desperate to have you back. As were..." she paused very slightly, "... all of us."

Joan held her eyes for a few long seconds and then suddenly smiled. "Well, you have me back. Now get out of here and leave me alone with my husband!"

"Blessed be the Mother!" thought Amanda, her soul filling with moonlight. "Blessed be the Moon, and the Swan, and the Dancer. The burden of choices is taken from me!"

Joan kept still and watched the Circle to file out, and then kept still listening to their departure, until the front door shut and her awareness of the others told her they all left the house. Then she turned her attention to the woman in her arms.

"Mark," she said. "Meg. Darling. How can I ever pay you back?" She lifted her husband's tearful face and kissed him gently on the lips. "You can be a man again tomorrow, but for now, let us celebrate as we are..."

It was morning. It was breakfast. Black coffee and croissants with jam.

"Yeah..." said Meg licking the jam off her fingers. "It was bad to start with. I nearly freaked out. But then Amanda did that thing of hers... personality overlay."

Joan nodded. "She is VERY good at that. I take it she did the same for me, to convince Joe he'd always been married to Meg?"

"Yup... She said she could only embroider over what was there, not do anything which would have worked against the personality imposed on you. Not without doing permanent damage. But for me, with my consent she manufactured a full female persona."

"I am sure she enjoyed that... There's always been a queer streak in Amanda... How long did she keep you 'under'? It could not have been all the time."

"Well, I started remembering who I was and why I was, something like half a year later, but Amanda didn't want to remove overlay in one go. She just let it weaken for a number of months. It was so gradual, I don't really know when it evaporated altogether - I guess it was a year all in all. Why? You look concerned... Was that dangerous?"

"Hmmm.. You could put it that way. So you have been fully 'yourself' waiting for an opportunity, for what, nearly another year after that?"

Meg thought about it: "Must have been. Doesn't really feel like that long. Time flies... I nearly blew it at the end, though. When we gave you back your own shape and it didn't dent the Joe personality at all, I nearly went to pieces. Mary had to work hard on me to put me in the right frame of mind for that last push." She poured herself more coffee, her hands shaking slightly. "I feel bad about it, you know... About lying to Joe at the end... If I hadn't been sure it was you, just twisted into a strange mental shape..."

"Don't," said Joan. "Joe is still here. I remember being him." She winced. "I will always remember being him. But what about you? You didn't have your overlay removed all in one go. Amanda just let it fade away imperceptibly, you say..."

"Yes. It's a problem? Yes? I wondered... I wasn't going to bring it up, but..."

"Let me guess..." Joan took a big gulp of coffee to disguise her concern. "You are unsure whether you want to be Mark again. I had a feeling there might be something like that. Your aura is just too convincingly feminine."

"Well..." Meg blushed, "It's not as simple as that. Yes, I am used to this body now, and to being a woman. No, I wouldn't mind being a man again, though I may find it... awkward for a while..."

Despite the concern, Joan was interested: "So what is it, sex?"

"Er... no... Yes, it is different, of course. Less driven, less intense, more all-embracing, more of a flow rather than an... act. But I enjoyed it as a man just as much. Differently, yes. It's... well, you know... how shall I put it..." She was desperately hoping that Joan would guess her meaning, and not laugh. And Joan, being Joan, of course did guess.

"It is the Power, then," she said in a quiet wonder. "You were THAT good at it?"

"Yes..." said Meg relieved. "And yes. Betty thought I was quite quick learning that sex-change spell I worked on you..." She stopped seeing Joan's jaw drop. "Er... yes?"

"Let me get this straight... YOU WORKED THE SEX-CHANGE SPELL? ON YOUR OWN?"

"Well..." Meg squirmed in embarrassment, "They DID provide the shielding... Was it taking too much of a risk?"

But Joan was screaming with laughter: "You silly idiot! It may be only a fancified sex-change, but for a raw novice..." she shook her head in wonder. It was the same old lesson of course - no power of intuition was any good if one fell for the lure of the obvious. It was so damn obvious that Betty and Anne must have been pulling tricks for Meg behind the scenes, that she'd never stopped to consider alternatives, despite the showy embellishments of that performance. But once alerted...

Joan stopped laughing. "Say, when did they realise you were a wielder?"

"Dunno. I think it must have been during the first few months, while the overlay was still at full strength. My memories of that time are very hazy, but as I started to recollect myself, I was already able to do some minor stuff."

"Which is why Amanda let the overlay merge into your aura... Waste not, want not. Recruit your talents where you can. Damn her! I'd probably do the same, but DAMN HER, DAMN HER ANYWAY!"

Meg flinched from her wife's vehemence. "I think she was right," she said defensively. "I can't see how I would have managed otherwise."

Joan sighed. "That as may be, but I'll skin her for this anyway!" She got up and went to the window and just stood there for a long few minutes staring into the garden. "I'll miss Mark," she said at length. "Though I'll have you of course... I hope?"

"So you wouldn't mind?" asked Meg carefully, coming up to her. "After all, I am Mark. I still am. It's just that I am Meg at least as much now."

"Oh, my love," said Joan turning to Meg and taking her hand, "Of course you are. I would know your feel anywhere, as I knew it when you broke the spell. You are yourself, even if that self has a different sex and a different gender. After what you've done for me, how could I complain?" She grinned weakly: "As long as you'll accept me as your 'lesbian plaything' of course!"

She wasn't at all surprised when Meg threw her arms around her and burst into tears.

In case you were wondering... Naturally enough, they were happy ever after. Yes, if you insist, they both had kids and it is none of your business who the fathers were. Meg grew in power to rival Joan and proved to be a bastion of strength in the Circle's deadly struggle with the Adversary, as Joan had known she would. But that, as they say, is a quite different story.