Industry Analyst

Sawyer checked his watch as he moved through the streets of Manhattan toward his dinner meeting. He felt hurried and anxious for some reason even though he had plenty of time.

Was it anxiety, he wondered? No, it was excitement, he reassured himself. He was actually excited for this meeting.

“Well that’s a first,” he thought.

Thought he had done his background prep, he could never have been prepared for what was really going to happen tonight.

It had been eight months ago when Sawyer, a Principal at the boutique financial firm, had approached the executives, his bosses, with the idea to add fashion and fashion retail to the sectors they analyzed for investors. He was dying of boredom having to research everything from mining operations to medical supplies. It seemed all the cool and interesting sectors were covered by the other analysts and he was tired of hearing stories of movie launch parties and industry events that he didn’t get to go to. Sawyer needed to find an industry that was fun and attractive that he could lead.

The idea had occurred to him one lazy Sunday as he and his wife Greta sat on their couch reading. He’d taken to reading her fashion magazines since they were always strewn across the apartment. At first, he’d just flip through the pictures. It was fun to see celebrities and models dressed up. But soon he’d become fascinated by the aspiration of it all and more than once found himself daydreaming about the world of high fashion.

The partners had been hesitant at first since they were all men and primarily focused on large consumer and industrial sectors; ironic as this sector was bigger than almost all of the others. Fashion had never occurred to them, but Sawyer had shown them the size of the market, almost $2 trillion, and how investors would find it a nice diversification strategy. All they needed was an in depth look into the market so they could credibly advise clients.

And so, after many months of back and forth, Sawyer was given the green light to deep dive into the business world of fashion. What better city to be in than New York to do just that?

It wasn’t a long walk from his offices off Madison Avenue and 43rd. He walked west into the Garment district to 7th Avenue and went down to 39th. He had on his finance uniform: lace up leather shoes, nice slacks with a flat front, buttoned down oxford and a “casual” vest to show they world they were no longer suit clad duds but rather hip and with the times. He tried not to hurry as he didn’t want to sweat under his fleece vest.

As he rounded the corner of the final block to his destination his phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at his watch but could have guessed who was calling. Greta.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked still moving up the block.

“Hey, honey. I was just calling to tell you I was home now. You’re heading to dinner, right?” asked Greta.

“Yeah, almost there now. I don’t think it will be too late since we’re starting at 6:30.”

“Great. I have so much to tell you about that little snake Liz in my office. Guess what she did today? She actually went into the meeting and…” Greta continued on for several moments.

Sawyer loved his wife of three years dearly, and normally actually enjoyed hearing the office gossip from her work. It beat having to explain his day to her, which he had no desire to do once he had gotten home each night. But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood to hear more about how Liz had been passive aggressive to her coworkers.

“Hey, hon, I’m at the restaurant so I’ll need to get going. Finish the story when I get home?” he asked

“Oh. Yeah of course, honey. Who are you meeting with tonight?”

He had been avoiding telling her all week because he knew Greta was a fan and devotee of the man with whom he was having dinner. Primarily, he just didn’t want to have to field questions about it all week. He had planned to tell her tonight when he got home, but guessed now would be fine since he’d need to hang up and go into the restaurant.

“Greyson Oliver,” he said matter-of-factly

“Greyson Oliver…wait, like the Greyson Oliver!” she almost shouted into the phone, suddenly excited. “The designer, Greyson Oliver?! The one I’m looking at in Vogue right this very minute?” she gushed into the phone.

He could picture her desperately rummaging through one of the half dozen fashion magazines she left by her favorite chair in their small apartment some thirty blocks north. Indeed, one of the recent issues had done an in-depth interview with him discussing, among other things, not only his genius with evening wear but also his uncanny ability to find and hire new modeling talent for his shows and photo shoots. A half dozen of the most highly sought-after models had all started by working for him, or so the article explained.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said with a big smile on his face. He was excited too.

“Holy shit, honey why didn’t you tell me? Oh my god! What are you going to talk to him about?”

“The firm is going to start covering the sector,” Sawyer said calmly. “So, we needed to begin doing industry interviews. One of the partners knows someone who knows him and set it up. I’m sure it will be as boring as the rest of them, honey,” he lied.

“Oh my god, you have to tell me everything when you get home! Wait, can I come down there and meet him?” she asked hurriedly. “I won’t make a scene I promise. Or I could just sit at the bar and watch. Please?” Sawyer imagined her poor parents dealing with their little girl who wanted a pony.

“I think we should leave the stalking out for tonight, what you think?” he responded, chuckling.

“You have to tell me everything when you get home. I mean everything do you understand. Not a detail left out.”

“Ok, honey.”

“I mean it! I will fucking kick your ass if you don’t.”

“Ok! Geez baby. Relax. I’ll tell you everything, okay? Now, I gotta go.”

“Everything!” she said, and the line went dead.

At least she didn’t drag it out he thought.

*******

Sawyer pushed open the door, a full ten minutes early, and walked in, letting his eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere. The hostess inquired as to his reservation status and he produced the correct name for her to check off her list.

“Party of two?” She asked unnecessarily

“uh, yes, two” he said as he scanned the room.

“Your guest is already seated. Follow me,” she said sweetly.

Sawyer worriedly checked his watch again.

“He’s already here? He’s crazy early,” he thought to himself, growing embarrassed that he’d left a world renown designer sitting alone waiting for him.

The restaurant had been Greyson’s choice and was an upscale brasserie style with warm lighting and décor. It was a fun spot, not too big or crowded and focused on the food given the diminutive size of the bar he walked by. The Hostess walked him to the back to slightly more secluded table in the corner. A man sat alone, back to the rest of the room, reading from the soft glow of his cell phone. The Hostess motioned to the table, smiled and left.

“Mr. Oliver?” Sawyer asked as he stepped to the far side of the table to face him.

“Yes, are you Sawyer?” the man responded looking up from his phone.

“Yes sir, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said offering his hand, a hint of his southern upbringing apparent for just a fleeting moment in what was an otherwise hidden accent.

Greyson rose from his chair with surprising agility and took Sawyer hand in his.

“No, no, I wasn’t waiting at all. I escaped from my studio upstairs,” he said gesturing to the ceiling, “to come down for a cocktail before our dinner.”

Sawyer saw a half-drunk glass of red wine on the table.

“Please, sit. I’ll have Dominic come get you a drink,” he said and looked back over to the kitchen, open and exposed. A frenetic energy danced across the restaurant emanating from the kitchen as its staff prepared for the full dinner crowd. A man in a black shirt noticed Greyson and came over.

The men took their seats opposite each other and Sawyer asked for a glass of the same red. As Dominic walked away Sawyer took in the man in front of him. He wore all black, but for now Sawyer could only see a black button-down shirt tastefully open at the neck and made of some sort of magical cotton fabric that was all at once soft, sturdy and chic. His hair was thick and dark and perfectly coifed as though he too could be a magazine model. Sawyer pictured him in a fragrance ad, rugged and aloof.

“Thank you for taking some time tonight Mr. Oliver, I very much appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble. And please, call me Greyson.”

The conversation proved to be effortless and Sawyer was captivated by the man across the table. Sure, he was a celebrity of sorts, but more than that, he was worldly and interesting. He was even a bit mysterious. It wasn’t Sawyer’s job to interview him like the Vogue reporter had, he was meant to get background on the industry and to discuss its future with the people who would take it there. But he couldn’t help being fascinated with the man across from him and how he connected his vision with the aspirations of women the world over. After all, he didn’t design ready-to-wear that one found at the discount department stores Sawyer had grown up shopping down south. His was a world of high fashion and glamour. The stuff you saw on the red carpet at awards shows and in the movies, not on the rack at the general store on main street.

They ate and talked for almost two hours, interrupted only by the half dozen texts Greta had sent him asking for, in effect, a play-by-play. Thank the lord he hadn’t told her what restaurant, though by now she had used the ‘find my phone’ feature and triangulated his exact location.

The check came, reasonable by New York standards, and Sawyer gave his credit card to Dominic who dutifully went off to run it.

“But Sawyer, if you want to understand the industry you really need to see how we do what we do. If you have time, why don’t we pop upstairs to the studio for a bit and I’ll show you firsthand?”

Greta was going to lose her shit when he got home tonight.

“That would be incredible, Greyson. But, seriously, you don’t have to take any more time. I’m sure you have better things to do than to show me around.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s only twenty floors up. Do you have time?”

“Of course. I definitely have the time,” Sawyer said as Dominic handed him back the receipt to sign.

“Great, we can pop out the back door to the freight elevator. My secret way up.”

Greyson made a point to thank Dominic and waved to the owner chef in the kitchen before leaving out the back. Sawyer followed the man and soon they were lurching upward in the large freight elevator, a remnant from when the building was heavily involved in manufacturing garments.

The elevator opened up on to a large studio which took the entire top floor of the building. Greyson had store fronts around the world and likely a showroom somewhere as well, but this was the heart of the fashion house, where it all happened. They had kept the old hardwood floors, brick and exposed wood beams, but had basically updated the rest of the space to a modern operation.

Greyson spent a half hour walking him around studio, now devoid of workers, showing him the various stations and specialties from the art department to where the seamstresses would assemble his vision. He had purposefully walked him around so that they ended in a section of the floor that had the finished pieces, gowns mostly, wanting him to understand start to finish how they got to hanging on a rack.

It was incredible, Sawyer thought to himself. He would have guessed there was a lot of effort put into these pieces but to be walked through it, step by step was incredible. And there were so many. The entire back corner of the floor was rows and rows of dresses and accessories going back several seasons. Greyson had begun to discuss the system they used in arranging them all when his phone began to ring.

“Excuse me, please. This will be a supplier in Asia. I’ll need to take this,” he said apologetically. He answered the phone and walked back to his office at the opposite wall, leaving Sawyer alone with the racks of beautiful gowns.

He thought to text Greta but knew if he did it would open the flood gates. He’d text her when he got in the cab later.

His eyes wandered down the row of gowns and he began to peruse through them. There was a lot to take in, the colors, the fabrics, the details. Lace, beading, buttons, zippers, he saw the same thing over and over down the row and none of them were the same. He ran his hands over fabrics and enjoyed the cool sensation on his skin.

“How could you think of this many ways to make a dress,” he wondered?

He came to the end of the racks and turned toward the long row of windows facing west. The sun had already crested the horizon but the faint glow of it still lingered in the sky. The lights of the city were already blazing. Against that wall, almost in the corner stood a lone rack of perhaps a dozen gowns near an old fashion partition screen used for changing behind. Sawyer wandered over and was immediately taken by the gowns. There was something almost magnetic about them, like they called to him. Clearly, they were finer and more beautiful than the rest.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

As he stepped to the rack, he saw a tall mirror to his left he hadn’t seen hiding behind the partition. He reached out and touched the first dress and was immediately rewarded with the exquisite feel and texture of the soft fabric. A sort of warmth flowed from it he felt in his chest and throughout his body. He pulled the first, a lavender creation, from the rack and held it up.

What would it feel like to fit into this gown he wondered, absently holding it up to his body?

He turned and examined himself in the mirror; images filled his head, dancing, laughing, flirting and the warmth feeling spread further through his body and into his mind.

What would it be like to have the fabric against his warm skin?

If he should have felt odd as a man holding up a dress and wondering what it would feel like to wear, Sawyer didn’t notice. His attention and thoughts were only on the gown.

But lavender wasn’t his color.

He kicked his shoes off as he returned the gown to the rack and tried the one next it, again holding it up and examining it against himself in the mirror. He did these three more times, each time becoming more animated with the garment and his reflection in the mirror, swaying and swishing waiting for it to speak to him, before rejecting it and picking the next. He removed his vest and then his shirt as he carefully took the next gown from the rack.

He was blissfully unaware, now, of anything else around him, so enthralled was he by these beautiful long gowns and their fabrics. He held the red gown up, holding it close to him and spinning around watching himself in the mirror as though he were dancing at a high society ball. He imagined himself stepping lightly as his partner twirled him, the hem of the dress spinning out full and elegantly before falling again to its resting state.

Sawyer was in a dream like state now, a trance really, unable to break away, not wanting to regardless. A soft voice, more pronounced now, seemed to whisper to him again that the red gown was not for him. He removed his pants and socks, now standing only in his boxer briefs and select one of the remaining two. As his hand brushed the fabric reaching for the hanger, he knew this was the gown for him.

It spoke to him in quiet tones and dreamy visions.

He picked it up and a euphoria washed over him, pure joy. He lifted the heavy, full gown up and off the rack and carefully held it to him studying the daring structure of the design in the mirror.

He held it away from him, searching the back of the garment for the zipper. Slowly, carefully he pulled the zipper all the way down to the end, opening the back of the dress. He slipped off the hanger and returned it to the rack then lowered the dress, lining it up to step into. He brought his first foot through the opening and felt a wonderful sensation run up his leg. He stepped his next leg in, and the same sensation enveloped it. Slowly, he pulled the dress up his thighs, the delicious tickling sensation spreading upward as he did. He brought the fabric slowly past his hips and felt as his sex melted away and his hips reformed. He brought it up just a bit higher and his waist was brought in, soon to be a perfect fit to the gown’s measurements.

Now, smiling, delighting in reverie, he held the top of the dress and lined up the armholes. He slipped his right arm down into the long sleeve, slowly pulling it up the length of his arm as it morphed to fit the delicately thin sleeve. His now long, thin feminine fingers escaped the end, lengthy gorgeous nails at their tips. A delicate hand followed, emerging from the sleeve and opening like a blossom on a warm spring day. He tugged at the top of the sleeve, pulling the dress up over his shoulder which similarly transformed, now smaller and more delicate. He brought his right hand across to hold the dress at the top and slipped his left arm slowly, deliciously down the sleeve. His new feminine hand again emerging from the delicate lacey fabric of the long sleeve.

Sawyer finished pulling the dress up to his neck in the front and felt his bosoms emerge into the soft sewn-in cups. He stood there, looking into the mirror, his boyishly good-looking face atop an impossibly feminine and beautiful body.

The long sleeve black silk dress was adorned with ornate stitching that ran down the bodice and full floor length skirt. The sleeves were the most beautiful delicate lace and mesh and came to his thin wrists. A smart bow punctuated the front of the dress at his new waist.

“I see you’ve found the Enchantresses,” a voice from behind him came.

It was Greyson, returned from his call.

Sawyer was still in a wonderful trance aware of Greyson but enthralled by his transformation.

“These are very special dresses indeed. Made from various fabrics sent to me from an ancient order of monks,” he explained as he walked up next to him. “Let me zip that up for you so we can see how you look.”

Greyson gently took the zipper of the dark gown between his fingers and slowly pulled it up until it stopped at the very top of his neck. As it did, Sawyer’s face metamorphosed into that of a stunning beauty, his hair flowing out and down his neck in a feminine style.

Sawyer the man was gone. Sawyer the woman, a goddess among women really, stood before the mirror admiring her own reflection.

“Yes, you are a beauty, aren’t you?” Greyson said standing close behind her. “Simply gorgeous.”

Sawyer had at that moment a vision of the life he could lead as this woman, perhaps as a model. He smiled and leaned back against Greyson, the warm euphoric feeling again overtaking him, making him feel better than he ever had in his life.

“It’s wonderful,” he said, now in a voice unfamiliar to him.

A woman’s voice. The sound of it seemed to pull him from the trance and back into consciousness.

“What, what happened,” Sawyer said, fully regaining his senses.

“Not to worry dear Sawyer, all is well,” said Greyson. “You’ve put on a rather special dress is all and it is giving you a glimpse of a new you, a different you, and perhaps a different life you could have, if you want it that is.”

Sawyer, now in a state of mild shock, walked close to the mirror. As he moved, the wonderful swishing sound of the gown’s fabric moving against itself, hem sliding delicately across the floor, came to his ears. His hands went to his midsection and discovered his impossibly small waist. He leaned in and examined his flawless, gorgeous face, younger than his years, and soft brunette hair that fell in easy curls down his neck, now past his shoulders.

He was a vision he decided. Or she was, whoever was in the mirror.

“Now, you’ll have many questions, my dear, I’m sure but let me just get you some proper shoes. Never make an important decision without the right shoes on!” he exclaimed and hurried over to the rows of accessories across the room.

Sawyer was still lost in his own reflection, turning this way and that, admiring himself with a growing sense of affection.

Greyson returned quickly with a pair of lovely black satin four-inch heels with petite satin bows on the top. He bent town and easily guided Sawyers newly formed feet into them.

“Now, before you say anything, let’s just see you walk over there,” he said gesturing back over to the racks across the room.

Sawyer walked slowly, wary of the heels toward the racks of dresses. With the new height, the hem of the dress was now nicely suspended just above the floor eliminating the threat that he’d step on his own hemline and crash to the floor. He could feel his hips swaying and how the heels pushed his rear up accentuating the lovely curves now hidden by the full skirt. He could feel the soft jiggle of his breasts and he felt like his hands were so delicate they might break if he wasn’t careful.

He walked until he ran out of space then put his hand on his hip and spun around striking a pose for Greyson as if he had been a catwalk model his whole career.

“Marvelous, my dear, and with such flare! How does that feel?”

Sawyers smile faded as the reality and absurdity of the moment seemed to return to him.

“What the ever-loving fuck is going on? I’m an actual woman, Greyson. And stunningly beautiful! This can’t be real,” a feminine, slightly southern accented voice exclaimed from his lips.

“It is, though. Very real. Most people would never have the chance to experience this,” Greyson explained walking to him. “The Enchantresses don’t work on very many people and almost never on a man. I’m actually quite stunned that they called to you.”

He seemed to become lost in a momentary thought as the words left his mouth.

Sawyer vaguely recalled hazy whispers that had seemed to come to him as he approached the gowns for the first time. They had called to him and he had felt their draw.

Greyson seemed to come back around, out of his thoughts.

“But the question really is how do you feel? Do you feel like you? Or do you feel like something foreign and strange?”

Sawyer searched his feelings. The sense of joy really hadn’t left him yet, which he supposed was why he wasn’t freaking out. No, he felt good. He felt natural and normal. He liked the feeling of the dress hanging from him and walking around, posing for Greyson. This was his body, every inch and, if he was honest, he felt better than he did just minutes ago.

“No, I feel good, like this is my body. Like this is the body I’m supposed to have,” he said then immediately wondered why he had said it.

“Was that true?” he wondered.

“Well, then, you are quite lucky to have found it. We don’t all get to have the body we feel we’re supposed to have, do we?” he said coming up to him and lightly putting his hands on Sawyers now delicate upper arms.

“My, he is handsome,” Sawyer thought looking into Greyson’s face.

How had he not seen how good-looking Greyson was earlier?

“Come, let’s get some more wine and let me explain some things. Come,” he beckoned.

He scooped up Sawyer’s old clothes and took Sawyer’s hand leading him back toward his office. Sawyer again felt the thrill of how the dress felt as he crossed the floor, the weight of the garment pulling on him, the swish of the fabric. Even the click of his new heels resonated with him and the warm joy he felt seemed to get stronger. Wearing the gown made Sawyer happy.

When they had crossed the floor, Greyson pause in front of their photo area, a thought sparking.

“Would you mind?” he asked motioning to where the models posed out in front of the camera.

Sawyer, apprehensively at first, obliged and stood where he was asked. Greyson took a series of pictures of Sawyer who, at Greyson’s urging and behest, did his best to pose for the camera, somehow happy to do it. They huddled around a small MacBook as the pictures were transferred from the camera to its hard drive. They were both stunned to see just how gorgeous the model in the photos was. She seemed happy, earnest and real, and lovely in an ethereal sort of way. In short, the woman in front of the camera belonged there in a way that only few did.

“Amazing,” said Greyson. “With just a little refinement on your poses you could easily be a cover model, top tier, no doubt.”

Sawyer almost blushed at the praise. He scrolled through the shots again, his slender fingers working the small laptop’s touch pad.

“This woman really could be a super model,” he thought.

They took the laptop with them as they continued on to Greyson’s spacious office. A long couch took up one wall and Sawyer sat, tucking the skirt of the dress as he did, careful not to damage it. Greyson produced a bottle of wine and two glasses. He opened it and sat down close to Sawyer. Almost at once he could smell Greyson’s wonderful cologne as it danced its way to his nose. He studied Greyson’s features, wanting to touch his magnificent face with his new, delicate hands.

“He had such wonderful, beautiful eyes,” Sawyer thought, and he stared deeply into them as Greyson spoke, almost transfixed.

They sipped at the wine while Greyson explained the history of the gowns he called the Enchantresses. He spoke about the monks who had sent him the fabrics years ago when he was just starting out. Explained how he had made them and how they had turned a handful of friends and colleagues into impossibly beautiful women, many of whom were now world renown models. He explained that this too was Sawyer’s option, to stay in this impossible body or to return to his life as a financial analyst. “She” was more beautiful than any of the others who’d worn the gowns he assured him.

“I can change back?” Sawyer asked, slightly relieved that he had options.

“Of course, just take the dress off. Simple as that.”

“Ah. Well, I guess that makes sense. I suppose it is a relief…”

They each sat there, thinking. Greyson began to smile, knowing what was about to come.

“…and…if…if I don’t want to? You know, if I don’t want to change back? What then?” Sawyer asked, taking another sip of his wine to buoy his apprehension.

Greyson grinned.

And there it was.

They always asked.

“Well, we found that out quite by accident not long after I made the dresses. It seems that if you, ah…, take in the male seed, shall we say,” Greyson explained, clearly choosing his words carefully, but looking down at his crotch so that there was no misunderstanding, “then the changes become permanent.”

Sawyer watched him as he spoke. His thick hair never seemed to move, and he imagined running his new thin fingers through it.

“That scent, too,” Sawyer thought, was incredibly attractive.

He felt the euphoria again course back through his body, giving him conviction and courage.

He was incredibly attracted to Greyson, and it felt right.

“Take in the “seed”? You mean…sexually? Like, you have to have sex?” he asked.

He was mildly surprised he wasn’t at all put off by the thought. Sawyer’s pulse actually quickened as he pictured what that would entail.

“Yes, that is what I’m saying,” Greyson responded, putting his glass of wine on the side table.

Sawyer slid even closer to Greyson, lascivious thoughts starting to crystalize in his mind. He’d never looked at a man and felt desire before, but that was exactly what his now female brain was feeling.

She wasn’t just attracted to Greyson; she desired him.

Without thinking Sawyer leaned in and kissed him, tentatively at first and then deeply. The kiss was returned with enthusiasm.

Sawyer slid closer still so that she was almost on top of Greyson’s leg, kissing him and running her fingers through Greyson’s wonderful hair.

“God this feels good,” she thought.

It felt true. Her conviction grew furthers and solidified, and he knew now what she wanted.

Her right hand descended down and found Greyson’s belt buckle. Soon she had unclasped it and gotten the loose end through the buckle. Greyson did not stop her. He knew she had made a choice and let her do what she felt she must. They always chose this. No one ever wanted to go back to what they were when they could be the embodiment of beauty perfected.

The pants were opened and brought down his legs and the underwear soon followed until his fully-grown member stood erect and beckoning. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t stop to consider the life altering choice she was making or the impact it would have on her life or those in her life. She did not stop to consider how to legally exist in society not as Sawyer the man, but as Sawyer the now woman. She did not consider any of the dozens of problems and issues the disappearance of the man would create. She had only want, not consideration.

She instead took his phallus into her hand and stroked him, using her own saliva as lubricant. She found quickly that she relished having him in her mouth and felt only the electricity of forbidden desire flow through her as she sucked and rubbed him to climax. She had never wanted anything more in her life than to have him right there. Sawyer the woman savored every last drop of the salty seed as she took it in and swallowed Greyson down. Her own euphoria grew and crescendoed as she did, manifesting into a small but powerful orgasm, the result of which changed her forever, setting her new form.

When she finished, she brought her head up and looked at him.

“I accept,” she said letting her southern accent loose, now fully, utterly and forever a woman.

“Yes, love. You’ve made the right choice,” said Greyson, pulling up his underwear and then pants before again kissing her gently and lovingly.

He leaned forward to the laptop on the table in front of them and opened it. Soon he was posting a few of Sawyer’s best shots online with a caption that read: “The House of Oliver’s next face”

“And, just like that you have a new career. Now, let me help you out of that dress and why don’t you go play amongst the clothes, find something you like?”

“Mmm, yes please,” Sawyer said in a wanton tone.

They both stood and she let Greyson unzip her, delicately removing her arms from the beautiful sleeves, careful not to damage them as she did. Soon she had stepped out of the dress and was nude save for her shoes and some ill-fitting boxer briefs.

“There’s panties, bras, anything you need out there. Go have fun!” he said to her.

She started to head toward her shopping spree, a large smile punctuating her face before it quickly fell away and she turned back.

“Oh…but Greta,” she said gravely, suddenly concerned.

How could she possibly have forgotten about her wife?

Greyson looked down at the black gown now hung over his arm and had an idea.

“Not to worry. Unlock your phone for me?”

Sawyer smiled. Yes, that would work. She rummaged through her old pants and produced the phone. With a swipe it was unlocked, and she handed it to Greyson.

“Thanks so much,” he said as he watched her retreat from his office.

Greyson looked at the home screen of the phone and noticed 11 unread texts, all from Greta. Sawyer had mentioned her at dinner, and he smiled as he read the texts asking how the meeting was going. He tapped on the name and then tapped on the phone icon to call her.

“Hello Greta!... No, this isn’t Sawyer, I’m sorry. I borrowed his phone to call you. This is Greyson… Yes, “the” Greyson Oliver…Yes, thank you… Well, I’m flattered, really… yes, thank you,” he responded at the staccato pace of praise that was coming from the phone.

He looked down again at the Enchantress gown laying across his arm, smiling again.

“Listen Greta, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind coming down and hanging out with us? Sawyer and I are looking at the new line and have delightful bottle of wine and thought you might like to join us. I have a few lovely gowns we think you might like to try on… You would? Oh, fabulous! I’ll text you the address. Yes, yes…goodbye.”

He looked again at Greta’s profile picture thinking perhaps the lavender gown…

Ocean Crossing

Devon had learned from his father at an early age how to manipulate people, gain their confidence to get what he wanted, and he was rather gifted in the grift. He had only just arrived at the pier but had quickly spotted the perfect mark.

The man was dressed well, certainly too well for the Southampton docks from which the ship embarked. He was accompanied by an older woman of means, dressed to the nines with multiple men and women in her entourage carrying their baggage. His guessed they were from London, wealthy, perhaps minor royalty. From the sheer volume of luggage, they were bringing, it looked as though they might be leaving England behind for New York.

Devon could be whomever he wanted to be in order to con someone. As a confidence man, he could become anyone he needed for his sham. He was further gifted in reading people, finding what was important to them and using it as a weapon against their mistrust. As he watched these two, son and mother, he quickly gleaned what he needed. The man was likely a homosexual given his mannerisms; they were ever too slightly flamboyant. As well, his suit was high end but had just a few extra flourishes, subtle but damning. The woman was clearly his mother; there was no mistaking maternal dissapointment. As they stood waiting to be let on board at the first-class gangway, she did not hesitate to nitpick him.

Devon moved closer in the milling crowd to listen in. Soon the man struck up a conversation with a young handsome member of the ship’s crew. The steward looked dashing in his uniform and clearly the man couldn’t help himself. Within moments the mother had inserted herself into their conversation effectively breaking them up.

“For Pete’s sake Reginald, can you please stop fraternizing with the help. That’s what’s got us in this situation to begin with.”

“Yes, Ma-ma,” resigned the man, reaching into his coat pocket for his cigarette case.

Devon surmised the man, Reginald, must have created such a social stir in London that they were forced to move to New York to start over and possibly find him a bride for what would undoubtedly be a sham marriage.

“Well, he’s as good a mark as anyone,” Devon thought to himself. “And First Class will be a much nicer way to cross the ocean.”

He himself was booked in second class as he was traveling by himself and preferred to save his shekels.

He had eight days to work with before they would arrive in New York. Plenty enough time to become an indispensable friend to Reginald.

Devon took the first half day after they embarked to get his bearings on the ship and to formulate a plan. He started by commandeering the necessary passes and papers to freely move about the first-class sections of the ship. A picked pocket and a subtle forgery were all he needed to be seated in the first-class dining room or move about the first-class deck.

Devon arrived at breakfast the next morning just as they opened and waited. It wasn’t long before he saw the man, Reginald, enter the dining room by himself. Devon casually rose from his table, circled the room and made a point to bump into the man.

“Pardon me old chap,” he said, laying on a pretend Eton upbringing thickly.

“Not at all,” replied Reginald, “one’s balance is never assured aboard ship, is it?”

“Too right. Still, I must apologize. Please, join me for your breakfast, won’t you? Perhaps I can make up for my clumsiness with my good conversation?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” said Reginald cheerily eyeing him. “Reginald LaMark”

“Ah, Devon Highbridge, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine, I daresay,” responded Reginald.

He liked the look of this man and he was desperate to have someone beside his mother to socialize with on the trip. The two talked for more than an hour after they had finished their morning meal and Reginald was more than flirty with Devon. Devon, wanting to get closer to the man, flirted back. It wasn’t the first time he had pretended to be a homophile to seduce a man into giving him what he wanted. And there was always the prospect of blackmail.

Before they parted for the day, Reginald asked if Devon wouldn’t care to join them for dinner that evening.

“Of course, my mother will be there as well, so the conversation may not be as lively, but I think we could still make a time of it. What do you think?”

“It would be my great honor,” replied Devon jovially.

“Excellent. See you at eight o’clock sharp then.”

At the agreed to hour, Devon turned up in white tie and flipped the tails of his coat out as the porter held the chair for him. Reginald and his mother the Dowager Lady LaMark had already been seated when he arrived moments later.

Lady LaMark studied the man intently during dinner. It did not take long for her to understand something was off about him. He was obviously pretending to be something he was not; she was certain of that much. Reginald, poor Reginald, she thought, could not see what she saw. He could never see what she saw in people. Nonetheless, the circumstances called for decorum, so she said nothing, waiting to see what Mr. Highbridge might do to tip his hand. Besides, she decided she liked him, despite his obvious lack of moral compass. She let the men retire for drinks and cigars while she took her nightcap to the suite.

*****

Even the best schemes run into trouble from time to time. Devon could not have known that the Lady LaMark was such an early riser. As he tried to quietly leave Reginald’s bedroom the next morning, he was greeted by the Lady LaMark in the suite’s parlor.

“I see it was a late night, Mr. Highbridge,” she called out, startling the man.

She put her teacup back down in the saucer as Devon slowly turned to her. He had not yet gotten his jacket on or tied his shoes.

“Lady LaMark, good morning,” he replied, trying to sound chipper.

His mind raced, how best to cover. He noted a small gold pendant hanging from the necklace around her neck, a triquetra, the trinity circle. Interesting, he thought to himself.

“What a lovely pendant Lady LaMark,” he remarked cheerfully.

Lady LaMark took the pendant and slid back down her neck under the dressing gown out of sight.

“And good morning to you,” she said impertinently. “I trust you slept well?”

The tone of her greeting spoke volumes to Devon. He would need to tread lightly.

Lady LaMark stood, setting her tea down on a side table as she did. She was still in her dressing gowns but well covered as there were likely to be servants coming and going if she were awake.

She took a moment, inhaling then exhaling as if calming herself.

“Sit and have tea with me, won’t you?” she started, less of a question and more of a command.

“Ah…certainly ma’am,” he replied bowing slightly in courtesy.

Lady LaMark moved over to the sideboard set next to the suite’s small dining table and removed a small bag from the tea caddy. He watched as she put some tea leaves into a silver tea strainer before replacing the bag into the caddy. She brought the strainer back over to the table where the tea service was set and placed the silver strainer on top of one of the cups before slowly pouring the hot water over it.

“Sugar?”

“No ma’am, thank you.”

“Good boy,” she replied approvingly. “Now, won’t you have a seat,” she instructed him, pointing to a chair opposite hers.

He took his place and she brought him the tea she had poured, first removing the strainer. She then retook her seat, picking back up her own cup and saucer.

“To your health,” she said coolly to him.

“And to yours, cheers,” Devon tried to say cheerfully.

They both took a sip of their tea. To Devon’s surprise, the tea was actually rather lovely, perhaps the best he’d ever had. He would need to ask her what blend it was if he made it out of this conversation he thought.

“It would seem my son, is rather fond of you,” she started. “Just what exactly are your intentions with him?”

It was an odd question to ask a grown man, but it didn’t surprise him she would be so direct. She didn’t seem to suffer fools well and he was certain her son had brought her enough grief in his almost thirty years.

“I beg your pardon ma’am?”

She paused for a moment, letting the room grow silent as she sat sizing him up.

“My son has many wonderful traits but picking his friends does not seem to be one of them.”

Devon sipped his tea again, wondering if he should respond or let her rant. It really was delicious tea he thought to himself. He had emptied half the cup before he’d even realized it.

The two sat for a bit quietly before Lady LaMark again broke the silence.

“I wonder if I might ask that you let Reginald spend the day with me. We have much to talk about and I find his interests tend to lie elsewhere. Would you do that for me?”

Devon drained the last of his teacup. That seemed a reasonable request, besides, given Reginald’s advances the night before, he was not worried; Reginald would find him soon enough.

Lady LaMark noted his empty teacup.

“Another cup?” she asked rhetorically and arose again.

She duplicated the prior process and soon held out a fresh cup of her wonderful tea. Devon took it graciously and did not hesitate to take another sip of the warm liquid.

“So, we’re agreed? You’ll let me have the day with him and we can reconvene for dinner?”

“Certainly, Lady LaMark. I look forward to seeing you both at dinner.”

“Very good. We will have our drinks here in the suite first. 7 o’clock sharp please,” she said matter-of-factly.

Devon noted the time and smiled. He did like the cocktail hour before hand. The two sat quietly for just a moment before Lady LaMark broke the silence.

“Well, why don’t you finish your tea and be off. I have a full day I must prepare for.”

Devon smiled again. In another circumstance he would quite like this old bird. He drained his cup and replaced it and the saucer on the table in front of his chair. He rose and bid Lady LaMark a good day, then turned and exited the suite out into the first-class hallway.

As he returned to his cabin, he realized he had forgotten to ask about the tea.

“Never mind,” he thought to himself. “I’ll inquire at dinner.”

It had been a long evening and Devon had not slept much. Reginald, for all his talk, was just that and the man had yammered into his ear all night. If he hadn’t been so wealthy, Devon would have cut his losses and returned to his own cabin. No, it was worth the effort he had reminded himself and so let the young homophile chat all night before they both fell asleep in the wee early morning hours.

Devon would have no troubles falling asleep for the rest of the day once he got back to his own cabin. Besides, the tea seemed to be ushering in a calm sleepiness he knew would have him out the minute he hit his bed.

He had been correct about the sleep. He awoke again sometime mid-day with a weird sort of cramp in his lower belly. He hadn’t drunk that much the night before and hadn’t eaten since dinner, so he wasn’t sure if it was something he had eaten disagreeing with him or if he might just be hungry. He got up a little wobbly and relieved himself before returning to his bed. His bones seemed to ache a bit, but he rationalized this as the effect of traveling and a poor mattress. He had intended to get up and walk the deck seeing if he could find another mark but found it easier to lay his head back down.

Before he knew it, he was out again.

He awoke with a start and noticed the light was fading in his room. He noted how tired he still was and how his bowels still ached a bit, almost like they were sore.

He pulled his watch to his face and looked to see where the small hand was.

6:45 PM.

He would be late!

A sudden panic rose in him, and he jumped from the bed.

He scrambled around and found a fresh shirt. His pants had been pressed and his tailcoat hung. Even his shoes had been shined which he hadn’t realized would be something his cabin class had included. He donned first his pants, noting the tighter fit in his hips and rear, and then the shirt with its fresh starched yoke bib front which now seemed a size too big.

He slicked back his hair as he looked in the mirror noting it was fuller and thicker than he recalled. He’d see the ship’s barber tomorrow. He was concerned he’d have to make an excuse about not shaving but he didn’t seem to have any stubble on his face.

“No matter,” he thought and quickly wrapped the starched wingtip collar around his neck then expertly tied the white tie around it.

Heading out the door, he was still tucking everything in as he walked. Oddly, his tailcoat seemed too big as well, the sleeves coming all the way up to the knuckles of his fist.

“They must have given me back the wrong suit when they pressed everything,” he thought to himself as he walked briskly toward the LaMark’s suite.

He felt a little odd as he walked, more aware of his chest and crotch then he wanted to be. Blessedly he was able to knock on the LaMark cabin door at just 7 o’clock.

Reginald opened the door after his third knock, a butler standing behind him looking perturbed.

“Devon old boy! So glad you could join us tonight. We’ll be eating here in the suite tonight despite the Captain’s invitation to join his table. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he responded, an odd, higher pitch to his voice.

He cleared his throat as he moved into the suite.

Reginald escorted him in toward his mother and Devon noticed he seemed taller and more handsome than the prior evening. Lady LaMark sat in the same chair he had left her in this morning but was now resplendent in a dark green velvet and lace evening gown.

“Mother, Devon Highbridge has joined us.”

“Lady LaMark, how do you do this evening?” Devon squeaked as he took her gloved hand, kissing the back of it.

He cleared his throat again. He must have woken up with some sort of odd frog in his gullet he thought.

“Charmed I’m sure,” Lady LaMark said, smiling sweetly at him. “You look positively glowing Mr. Highbridge. Did you take some sun today?” she asked, an odd tone to her question like she was teasing him.

The smile didn’t leave her face.

“Not at all ma’am…ehem…excuse me…ehem…I seem to have…ehem…an odd frog in my throat,” he sputtered.

Devon coughed and tried to clear his throat again.

“I was so tired from the journey; I dare say I slept most of the day.”

His voice sounded like he was a schoolboy, he thought to himself.

“Well yes, traveling does do odd things to the body, doesn’t it?” Reginald said politely. “Would you care for a cocktail?”

Devon looked again at Lady LaMark, a broad smile still creasing her face.

“Perhaps…ehem…perhaps some tea…for my voice before dinner?” he croaked out again.

There was something very wrong with the pitch of his voice. Try as he might, he couldn’t get back to his usual tenor.

“An excellent idea,” chimed in Lady LaMark. “I bet I know just the one you’d like too, don’t I Mr. Highbridge?” she asked sweetly winking at him.

“Ah…yes, please ma’am,” was all he replied.

He wasn’t sure if Reginald knew about this morning’s conversation.

Despite the butler’s protest, Lady LaMark insisted on making his tea again while Reginald regaled the man of his day. Before he had even finished, Lady LaMark handed Devon a warm cup of tea.

“I’ve made it a bit stronger, Mr. Highbridge, to sort you out more quickly I should think,” she said studying him up and down.

“Thank you…ehem…Lady LaMark…ehem,”

“This really is rather silly,” he thought to himself and took a big sip of the soothing tea. He almost sighed audibly; the tea seemed to hit the spot.

Reginald droned on as they took their seats. Lady LaMark was served her aperitif, a
glass of sherry, and Reginald nursed a dry martini as he continued to animatedly tell them about his day. Devon held the cup and saucer in his lap and sipped his tea, the wonderful tea, as they listened to the man blather about this and that.

It wasn’t long before he started feeling drowsy and his abdomen started to hurt again, stabs of pain this time. He downed the last of the tea in hopes it would squelch his stomach’s trouble but soon found that the uneasiness in his bowels grew worse. Reginald was still prattling on about some sort of nonsense, but Devon was having a hard time focusing. Beads of cool sweat appeared across his brow as he started to feel the ache in his hips and shoulders again. Soon his ribs felt like they were being squeezed. Worse, he was so tired he wasn’t sure he could stay awake.

“I wonder…,” Devon started in his new pseudo-falsetto, “if I might…be…able to…excuse me…from the…”

The darkness zoomed into his vision as he slumped over in his chair, the cup and saucer hanging precariously from his lap.

***

The sun’s early morning rays broke through the wide windows of the first-class cabin’s bedroom. There were no portholes on this deck like in Devon’s room.

Everything felt strange, he could tell before he even opened his eyes. His body didn’t feel right. He shifted in the bed, stretching his legs and felt an odd bit of clothing around his legs. Devon groggily pried an eye open and saw Reginald sitting next to the bed, a paisley silk robe covering his sleepwear, cup of tea in his hand. The clock on the desk behind him read seven thirty.

“Good morning, my love,” he said quietly, an earnest smile on his face. “You look lovely this morning. Here, I’ve brought you some tea.”

Devon rubbed his eyes.

His hands felt wrong, smaller, thinner somehow and he looked down at them. A woman’s hand hung from the end of a thin arm in front of him which strangely seemed to be attached to him. He sat up quickly, new long hair cascading around his face. Alarmed at what he saw, he swept the hair aside and inspected his other hand, finding, to his astonishment, much the same problem with that hand.

As his eyes drew up the length of his arms, he saw the white frilly lace of a cotton night gown that covered his ample chest. While his eyes took in the information, his brain was unable to comprehend any of it. He soon felt the weight of the bosoms on his chest and he instinctively grabbed them.

Devon had been with many women and as familiar as was the feeling of his hand caressing a breast, the feeling of his own bosom being caressed however, was a perverse shock to him.

“What…what is going on,” a foreign voice let out from his throat. “What’s happened to me? Why am I in this bed, dressed this way!” his voice grew ever more urgent with each word.

“It’s alright my love, calm down, and I’ll explain,” responded Reginald lightly, clearly not alarmed at all by the circumstances.

“You fell asleep a bit early and rather than carry you to your cabin, we let you sleep here. Mother said it wouldn’t be a problem since you were so tired. Traveling really can do odd things to the body,” he said soothingly. “Do you feel better after your rest?”

Devon did feel good, very rested in fact, but completely out of sorts. He continued to squeeze his own breasts before the thought occurred to him that he may have had more changes…

More dramatic changes.

He was sitting up at an odd angle but even with his odd posture he could tell that his crotch was not right. His hand went down, and he desperately felt for the appendage he worried was no longer there. Not wanting to believe what he felt through his nightgown, he threw back the covers and frantically pulled the hem of the nightgown up exposing his white cotton drawers underneath.

“Darling, please,” Reginald objected seeing her pulling away her undergarments in a rather unladylike fashion.

He turned, averting his eyes and Devon pulled down his drawers.

The soft curve of his feminine pubis greeted his touch as he finally sent his hand searching into his underpants.

“Oh my god…oh my god…” he breathed out in shock. “What have you done to me Reggy?” he blurted out; his voice all wrong.

“What do you mean darling?” he said chancing a glance but still seeing Devon with her hand down her drawers. “Please darling, pull your nightgown back down, it isn’t decent of you.”

Devon swung his legs out of the bed and slid down to the floor. His tiny feet landed with a thud and he stood to his full height letting the night gown fall to his ankles. His hair again fell around his face and everything in the room seemed ever so slightly larger.

“What did you do to me, Reggy? I’m…I’m a woman?!?” he half shrieked, again pulling the long hair out of his face.

Reginald stood from the small desk chair and put down his tea. He came to her and hugged her gently, further confusing Devon.

“Of course you are darling, and I love you so much. Please, here’s your tea, let’s have our breakfast and chat about today. We have so much to talk about, with the wedding plans and all.”

“Wedding? What are you talking about Reginald?” she asked pushing him away. “Good god man pay attention to what I’m saying! I’m now a woman!” he exclaimed in a delightfully feminine register.

“Yes, mother said you might be off this morning. Please, let’s put some clothes on you and have breakfast with mother. She can explain.”

“By god she’ll explain right now,” said Devon storming to the door and throwing it open.

As he suspected, Lady LaMark was sitting in her usual spot sipping her morning tea. She smiled a big smile and Devon thought he saw a shade of triumph on her face.

“Good morning Miss Highbridge, don’t you look radiant this morning,” Lady LaMark said, sipping her tea again.

“What in god’s name have you done to me!” fumed Devon in his new soprano.

He walked straight to her, standing over her, but not quite looming as he had hoped given his new petite stature.

“Please Miss Highbridge, that is no way for a lady to act. And could you please put some clothes on, I will not speak to you while you saunter around scantily clad.”

“Apologies mother. Here you are darling, here is your dressing gown,” Reginald said coming behind Devon and holding a long cream-colored satin dressing gown out for her to slip her arms through.

Devon allowed the robe to be put around him and once bundled, sash tied, Devon returned his attention to the Lady LaMark.

“Well? Out with it! What have you done to me?”

“Please, have a seat. We’ll have some tea and I’ll explain. Would that be satisfactory to you?”

She gestured for the young lady to sit in the chair opposite her.

While Devon sat, Lady LaMark set down her cup and saucer on the table next to the tea service and began preparing a fresh cup for Devon. She spooned some tea leaves from a small tin on the table into a silver strainer then poured the hot water through it into the cup slowly. When she was done, she removed the strainer.

“Sugar?”

“No thank you,” replied Devon.

“Good girl,” she remarked and slid the cup across the table.

Devon picked up the cup and saucer and sat back, trying desperately to be calm. He brought the cup to his mouth and sipped the tea. It was a different blend then the day before but was equally as tasty. He quickly took another sip before returning the cup to the saucer in his lap.

“There now. Isn’t that better? How do you feel now?” she asked Devon.

Reginald sat down in the third chair and looked at the young woman expectantly.

It was as if her request for calmness had been granted. She felt the tension in her evaporate and a nice wave of tranquility wash over her.

“I feel…I feel…better,” Devon responded, her mood brightening. “The tea is helping, actually. I feel so much more relaxed.”

She looked at Reginald smiling back at her and blinked her eyes. He looked so handsome this morning in his silk robe. She felt her heart flutter just a bit and was immediately taken by him. She blushed slightly and nervously took another sip of the wonderful tea.

What were these feelings?

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear you’re feeling better,” Lady LaMark replied, a wicked grin curling on her face. “Ladies really shouldn’t be quite so animated in their conversations. It’s unseemly, dear, remember that.”

“You’ve changed me into a woman haven’t you Lady LaMark,” Devon stated, the plot becoming clear to her now. “I saw your necklace. It’s a coven symbol. You’ve somehow turned me into a woman so that I can marry your wonderful son Reginald, is that right?”

“Yes dear, you are rather clever. I have indeed done just that. You see, Reginald was a bit of dandy if I may say so, and he was perversely in love with men. I tried so many times to cure him of this affliction whilst we were in London but I’m afraid without the use of my spells, I wasn’t able to turn him. Our spells are forbidden in London you see, so I knew I needed to take him to America so that I might make a proper gentleman out of him. Once he was married and produced an heir he could return to London and chalk up his prior behavior to the wants of youth.

I didn’t plan for you to join my little plot Miss Highbridge, but it was just as easy to make you his bride as it was any other woman. Besides, I believe your skills of manipulation will be quite useful in the new world. Have you yet explained to our Reginald that you were confidence man?”

Reginald looked at the two women, confused.

“Oh Reginald, darling, you are a bit tardy sometimes, aren’t you? Devon Highbridge was only interested in you for your money. His plan was to get close to you and swindle you somehow. Really, you must pick your acquaintances more carefully. Still, your bride-to-be has many good skills which will come in handy. I suspect New York won’t know what hit them,” she finished taking another sip of her own tea.

“But, I’m in love with Reginald as well. How did you do that?” she asked eagerly, shocked at the words she uttered, but excited to hear how her new matron had managed to bring her love.

“Why with the cup of tea you hold in your lap my darling. Just a simple love potion. Very strong, and permanent I should add. I gave it to Reginald as well. I dare say he won’t be having any more dalliances with the gentleman of London or New York from this point on. Frankly, I should have given it to him years ago. Regaredless,” she added with a wave of her hand. “He’ll only have eyes for you, my dear, as he should.”

Reginald reach his hand over to Devon who eagerly took it into her own. The two locked eyes and the spell was complete.

“I love you so much my darling,” he said.

“Oh, and I love you too Reginald. I don’t understand how this has happened, but I am so happy right now. I love you with all of my heart, my darling Reginald! And if this is the way I have to be to be with you, then I can’t wait to be Mrs. Reginald LaMark!”

The two sat quietly staring at each other before Lady LaMark interjected.

“Do finish your tea, both of you, just to be sure,” she said wistfully, sipping her own brew.

The two finished their drinks as instructed and put their cups and saucers back on the table.

There was much to discuss.

****

For the remainder of the trip the two were inseparable. Devon was renamed Daphne at the Lady LaMark’s suggestion. They were so smitten with each other that they insisted the captain marry them at sea. At first Lady LaMark protested, but Daphne cleverly explained how best to work through the problem of the identity of a woman who appeared out of nowhere. They agreed it was better for them to land in New York as Mr. and Mrs. LaMark. Devon Highbridge simply ceased to exist; his belongings unceremoniously tossed into the sea save for a few trinkets.

As for Daphne, she grew quite close to Lady LaMark and took great pleasure in learning all things feminine from her mother in-law. Fortunately, she was now rather close in size to Lady LaMark and so there was ample clothing choices for her to try and wear around the ship. At first, the corsets where burdensome but Reginald loved what they did for her figure and she loved making him happy. She would need a lady’s maid to do anything with her own long hair however, simply not having ever acquired the skill.

By the end of the voyage, Daphne couldn’t imagine not wearing the lovely dresses and gowns Lady LaMark put her in and she was especially pleased with the large hat and day dress she wore to leave the ship and enter New York.

The couple and their dear mother disembarked into the city and started their new lives in New York society. Daphne LaMark, neé Highbridge, was a hit with the society woman and drew their confidences quickly and deeply, this time not for her own gain but rather for that of her new family. In short time, with Daphne’s unique skills, Reginald had raised money and founded an import and export business that proved rather lucrative for generations to come. At Daphne’s insistence they had four children, two boys and two girls and the family would split their time between New York and London after the war, living happily ever after.

***

Blah, blah, blah…etc…etc… Shutting down my laptop for the night, I have to say I’m very pleased with the telling of my great grandparent’s story. I will, of course, have to leave out the bits about potions and magic and what not for the published version. Afterall, my readers prefer a straightforward love story to one of subterfuge and manipulation. My great grandparent’s love story - meeting on the ship, making it big in America - is sufficient to sell plenty of books without outing Lady LaMark for the witch she was. Besides, it would draw attention to things better left in the shadows.

In real life, and despite what I put in the book, Daphne did actually bear four children soon after their marriage, triplet girls, the sign of the trinity, and later one boy to carry the name forward. Over the first several years they spent in Manhattan, she became a paragon of the New York high society, known particularly for her impeccable femininity and dress. It was as if she over corrected in her womanhood for once being a louse of a man.

Lady Catherine LaMark, my great, great grandmother, was a brilliant sorceress and she and Daphne became thick as the thieves. Reginald was sadly killed in the Second Battle of the Somme in March of 1918. Family lore says that he was the last one killed in the fighting but who knows with the shit-show that was trench warfare. Daphne, still under the spell, was devastated and would never remarry. With no male old enough to run the family’s budding business, Lady LaMark, with Daphne’s help, used her powers to control the most important industrialists and Wall Street financiers of the day for the family’s benefit and saw to it they were well ensconced in high society. It wasn’t long before their wealth multiplied and they oversaw a vast, if obscure, import empire, the money from which supports my lavish lifestyle today.

Most remarkably, some years ago I was fortunate enough to have acquired Catherine’s considerable skills in what I guess you would call witchcraft. I had ventured up to the attic of the family’s Manhattan brownstone looking for some seasonal decoration or other when I came across her spell book. On a lark, I read aloud the first page and was startled to not only feel a tingling sensation all over my body, but to hear my great great grandmother’s whispers urge me to study the tome. With her guidance I quickly learned some small spells and potions, growing my powers steadily. Now I can do or get just about anything I want.

And tonight, I want the woman laying luxuriously on our bed. I’ve wrapped her in the most sumptuous satin and lace nightgown from La Perla which I will soon separate her from while I ravish her body and she mine. She’ll do anything I say.

You see, it was about the time I found my powers that I discovered my husband Douglas had only married me for my considerable wealth, a fact he barely tried to deny when I confronted him. Apparently, he wasn’t in it for love, and I had foolishly not insisted on a prenuptial agreement.

Anyway, rather than get into a fight, I seduced him that night, telling him I still loved him anyway; subterfuge to be sure, but I needed him to trust me. I did nothing to shake his confidence in me, biding my time until I had perfected the potion. It was just a matter of time to find the right moment to serve him a wonderful cup of tea. By now I was quite sure I no longer cared for men, and this duplicitous sack of shit needed a new world view. Poor Doug never knew what hit him; grandmother’s tea worked perfectly. By the next day, I had Donna, my perfect spouse - hot, saucy and devoted to me entirely. She attends to me obediently and I let her do things to me that Doug would never have been able to. Plus, she’s just my size so we didn’t even need to go shopping.

But of course, we do. I love dressing her.

My novel of turn of the century immigrant love will come out by the end of the year. Not long after, we should have our own bundle of joy. Next week Donna is scheduled for her first appointment, artificial insemination, and we couldn’t be more thrilled. She’ll make such a great mother, just like my great grandmother Devon did.

Please leave a comment! I always appreciate feedback. And please see my other work at https://www.deviantart.com/aliceduffield and on Patreon here: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=24221022&fan_landing=true

Chris pulled open the door and walked to the far end of the long bar to his usual stool. He could be found here a couple of nights a week right after work drinking his paycheck. His calloused, dirty fingers wrapped around the Budweiser just after it was put in front of him and he took a long pull before setting it gently down on the branded coaster the barman, Ray, had left.

With nothing much else to think about, he stared at the coaster and absently hummed the country song playing in the background.

He had never been one of the brightest guys. Just making it through high school, he was content to work with his hands the rest of his life if it meant he never had to sit in a classroom again. Occasionally a friend might pop in and have a drink with him, but most nights he had a drink or two by himself and drove his truck home to make dinner. He was never particularly popular with the ladies either, a point on which he tried not to dwell.

He was slender in a decidedly unmuscular way with “average” looks at best. He didn’t even really bother to chat up the women who came into the bar after years of striking out. It just seemed clear that anyone he was attracted to was out of his league, so he was more than a little surprised when she sat down next to him.

He watched her as she had come through the door, a little taller than most women, with a body all of them would kill for. The skintight jeans she wore tapered to her ankles, just above strappy heels, her painted toes on full display matching her red fingernails. Her red silk blouse was a little more sophisticated than most women wore in this joint, but it was casual enough not to be out of place.

She paused when she came in, undoubtedly letting her eyes adjust to the darker environs of the bar. As she stood there, she seemed to study the place and its two dozen or so patrons. Satisfied she was in the right place, she began walking down the length of the bar searching for a spot to sit. Her thick dark hair came down past her shoulders, bouncing slightly as she walked, and her red lips seem to frame her perfect white teeth as she smiled at Ray. There was something a bit wild about her, almost exotic and Chris could guess she wasn’t a local.

She kept walking all the way to where Chris sat, and put her pocketbook down on the bar. She slid onto the bar stool next to him and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

They talked for a long time, drinking long necks, Chris doing his best to flirt. She smelled wonderful, he thought, despite the bar’s stale beer odor trying it’s best to mask her scent. Some combination of flower and vanilla if he had to guess. In fact, he reckoned he’d never smelled anything so good. And the more he studied her, the more attractive she seemed to get. Her eyes were captivating and alluring and he allowed himself a thought of what it would be like to be in bed with her.

She did most of the talking at first, but slowly, as he drank, she teased more and more information out of him until she could get him to tell her anything. And it seemed she wanted to know it all. No woman had ever wanted to know anything about Chris and this creature wouldn’t change the subject. It flattered him.

Toward the end of that night, seemingly satisfied that she now truly understood him, she casually told him that he was one of the lucky chosen few. Chosen to bear the gift she would soon give him. He didn’t really know what she was talking about, and he was a little drunk, but she was hot, and she smelled so good, and she was talking to him.

She hadn’t stopped talking to him.

That alone made him more than interested.

They agreed to see each other again later that week.

By the second week he was hopelessly hooked on her. They had only gotten together for drinks a few times over those two weeks, but she was intoxicating to him like a drug. She haunted his thoughts. He woke thinking of her. He would see her reflection in passing windows and seemed to smell her scent wherever he went, stalking him, reeling him in.

And so, he jumped at the chance when she invited him to her place the following weekend.

He knocked on the large wooden door and felt his heart begin to race a little. He was nervous. She opened the door and bid him into her sanctum.

The house was well appointed, modern, but somehow with an old feel he thought. Dark tones and subdued colors dominated the room lit by candle and soft lamp light. She looked her incredible self, and her wonderful scent quickly found his nose.

One whiff of her and he was no longer nervous.

Her outfit was exceptionally sexy but decidedly sophisticated. The dress, black sequin and long-sleeved fell to just above her knee, showing off her long slim frame and smooth, silky legs. Her cleavage was just slightly visible through a long keyhole cut out that appeared from the collar that seemed to choke her at the throat. The shoulders squared on each side with some sort of hidden shoulder pad he guessed, and the sleeves tapered down to her slender wrists. The dress a perfect match to her dark complexion and dark eyes that almost seemed to glow at him.

He was comparably underdressed in jeans and buttoned-down red and white plaid shirt. It reminded him she was way out of his league.

“Wine?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, taking in the scene.

He followed her into the large living room, and she went to the wet bar, deftly opened a bottle of red wine and he soon had a glass in hand.

“To your health, Christopher,” she said using his full name as she tapped her glass to his.

They each took a sip and the smooth crimson liquid descended to his stomach. They sat close to each other and talked, her scent again filling his nostrils with every breath. It made him more relaxed and somnolent.

Soon they had finished the bottle. He could feel the nice swimming sensation as the effects of the wine gradually took hold. Now fully relaxed he sank into the couch. She slid closer to him, reaching her arm over and around to his cheek on the opposite side.

“Mmm….” she hummed softly into his ear. “I’m so glad we met Christopher. I have such wonderful plans for you my darling,” she cooed softly.

Her words felt like lyrics to some lullaby he had forgotten, and the light touch of her fingers on his cheek felt wonderful.

“You are one of the few I have ever found that is worthy of the gift I will give you tonight,” she continued. “Not many have a soul that is compatible.”

“My soul?” he asked, sleepily.

Damn her eyes looked good.

“Mmm, yes,” she breathed at him.

She brought her hand up and ran her long fingers through his hair.

“I can see how perfectly it matches. You will be a wonderful addition to our numbers, my love.”

“Our numbers?” he asked softly, not fully following, concentrating on her sensual fingers moving over his scalp.

His groin began to stir.

“Yes,” she answered, as she turned his head kissing him softly. “You will be one of our finest I think.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, leaning in farther toward her to kiss her again.

Their lips locked into another soft full kiss. Her tongue danced across his and sent a lovely sensation down his back. He hadn’t kissed anyone since high school.

She broke away, still stroking his hair, and looked deep into his eyes.

“Her numbers?” What had she meant by that, he wondered? “Who cares, she looks so good. And that dress…Maybe she will let me stay tonight if I play my cards right,” he thought.

“What did you mean by “our numbers”?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Why the succubae numbers of course. What did you think I meant?”

“Oh,” he replied, as if he understood her words.

“She thinks I’ll make a good one though,” he thought.

That made him proud for some reason.

His mind stubbornly came back around somehow pushing aside his burgeoning lust.

“Wait, you mean like the women who feed off sex? Those succubae?”

He had watched “Jennifer’s Body” primarily because Meghan Fox was hot, but now he was happy he had.

“Yes exactly,” she said plainly.

Her hand came again down his cheek and he could feel the flat of her long nails, her fingers curled inward. As they reached his jawline, she extended her index finger and gave him a little scratch under the chin, slowly and seductively.

“oh…” he said, again, feeling a twinge in his pants.

She slowly rose off the couch, casually realigning the hem of her dress with a smart tug before reaching her two hands out to him.

“Come,” she beckoned, and he took her hands.

Effortlessly, she pulled him off the couch.

“Wow she’s strong,” he thought, as he steadied himself over his feet.

He felt so relaxed and was eager to see if he could get her out of her dress.

She let go one hand and pulled him with the other, leading him away from the couch. Soon it was clear they were heading to the bedroom.

A sly smile played across his face, anticipation building.

Her room was large, well-furnished and stylish, in the same darker tones as the rest of the house. Candles again lit the room, obviating the need any other lights.

A fleeting thought entered his mind, something about the candles suggested this had been planned.

He was going to get lucky.

His smile grew.

A king-sized bed sat in the center of the far wall, covered in a thick black satin duvet that looked as though it would engulf anyone who lay on it.

In his warm drowsy state, he wanted to lay down.

She pulled him gently to the foot of the bed then turned to face him. She stepped in close, again lightly holding both his hands in hers. In her heels, she was almost his height, but she reached up and kissed him fully and more passionately.

What had been a twinge in his groin was now full-blown growth operation and soon the front of his pants were full of his engorged manhood.

“It’s time,” she said softly to him.

“Finally,” part of him thought.

“You’re not ready for this,” still another part of him chirped.

Though they had spent a few nights together deep into the evenings, they had never consummated their short relationship. Those nights she had looked at him hungrily, ravenously even, like she wanted to devour him, but for some reason she had not taken it to that level. He had not pushed, afraid to ruin whatever blossoming relationship they had. He could wait, even if the last time he had gone home in the early morning hours with a staggering case of blue balls.

She pulled at his shirt, untucking it from his pants and then slid her hands under it, pushing it up and over his head. She kissed him again as her hands went down to his belt buckle, deftly pulling the leather back through the buckle and releasing it. As she did, he stepped first on the back of his right shoe with his left foot, stepping out of his shoe, and then reversed the processes stepping out of his left shoe. By then his button fly jeans were wide apart and ready to be brought down so he could step out of them. His boxers couldn’t contain his aroused manhood and the length of his penis stood at attention through the fly of his underwear, exposed and ready.

She grabbed the waist of his pants and pulled them down, bending at the knees and keeping her weight on the balls of her feet as she descended down his legs with his pants. When she got them to his knees she paused, now face to face with his erection. Her eyes locked on the phallus but this time she could not take her prize. She reached one hand down to the hem of his pant leg and pulled as he stepped first out of one side and then out of the other.

Now in only his underwear, she stood again and smiled a wicked smile at him.

“Come,” she said and again took his hand, pulling him around to the side of the bed.

She pulled aside the duvet cover, exposing the bed beneath. She stood too her full height, her back to him, and told him to unzip her dress. As she held her hair to one side, he carefully pulled the zipper down until it met its end. She tugged at her long sleeves and soon had her arms free and let the dress drop to the floor. He watched the dress fall, covering some line on the floor he hadn’t yet noticed.

Had he been in any condition to observe, he could have noted the lines made up a star shaped pattern inside a circle, but he had so many other things on his mind.

She wore no bra, and as he suspected her breasts were as pert and perky as he had imagined when she turned back to face him. Besides her heels, she had on only a black silk thong who’s strap dove and disappeared between her delicious buttocks in the back, and which only scarcely covered her shaved and bare womanhood.

She leaned in against him, allowing her ample bosoms to press against his chest and kissed him again, this time deeply, wantonly. He could feel his rod push against the small of her tummy.

“Are you ready?” she asked. “It’s time.”

“Un-huh…” was all he could manage in reply, his mind a whirl in desire and anticipation.

She pulled his boxers down, careful to free his cock from the fly as she pulled the waist band past it. Her touch sent a shiver through him as her warm hand held on to his penis to protect it as the fabric moved past. It was only the second time a woman had ever touched him there.

He stepped out of the underwear and she climbed onto the bed moving to the center, pushing back the massive satin duvet further as she did. He stood at the side of the bed as she positioned herself facing him, lying on her side. She propped her head on her hand and patted the bed, beckoning him to lay down.

He slid across the cool black satin sheets until he lay next to her. Taking the initiative, he kissed her deeply and put his arm around her hip trying to pull her toward him to start the love making.

“No, no, love,” she said pulling his hand off her hip. “I can’t take it. You have to give it to me,” she said sweetly, a faint red glow in her dark eyes.

“Oh,” he replied, clearly confused.

“Lay back,” she said, pushing his shoulder back so that he lay flat on his back.

She brought herself up close so that her breast lay against his upper arm and her hand slid across his chest to his nipple, tickling it ever so.

“Don’t you want to give yourself to me, darling?” she cooed at him, sliding her hand up from his nipple to his cheek, softly caressing it. She leaned close to his ear, breathing heavily and whispering again, “I can’t take it from you, you have to give it to me, my love.”

“Mmm,” he said, closing his eyes taking in her scent yet again, anticipating the love making he was certain was to come. “Give you what?” he breathed out, smiling.

“Why your manhood of course,” she whispered back, sending her hand again down his bare chest. “Only women can be succubae.”

“Mmm, oh…” he half moaned as her scintillating fingers again played with his nipple.

She slid her hand down toward his waist and found his left wrist. She guessed it was his favored hand. She pulled it up and position his hand next to his full cock. She let it go and slowly returned her hand to his nipple and softly nibbled on his earlobe.

“Stroke it darling,” she commanded sweetly. “Give yourself to me.”

His hand found its favorite position and he gave his cock a few quick strokes and exhaled audibly.

“Give myself to her?” he thought, slowly stroking himself, savoring the feeling.

He was not a smart man, but he was beginning to understand more and more what she was after. His wine clouded thoughts worked their way through his sex addled mind. She wanted him to join their ranks as a succubae?

“I don’t know if I should do this,” he sort of moaned at her as he stroked himself, eyes closed.

“It’s ok, Christopher. I will give you such a better life than this sad one you leave. I picked you. You’re special. You can be one of us. You will be one of us…” she whispered in his ear.

Just a few more strokes. It felt so good, and her warm breast and hard nipple felt electric against him.

“You just need to accept and give yourself to me. I can take you away from all of this. The sisterhood awaits you. Come to us…” she cooed again, stroking his face gently.

He couldn’t see her eyes glowing, nor the large pentagram symbol on the floor under the bed as is softly began to glow.

At some level he now understood the bargain as it was presented. He had only to continue to stroke himself to climax, to give his manhood to her to join them, to become succubae. The fog in his mind was now thick but he understood and did the simple calculus. He had nothing here in this town, in his life. His family was gone, and friends were few. His nothing blue collar job had no future and he had many times wondered just what he would do with his life.

This was his future, his brain seemed to decide. This was a better life. She was the answer, and he would give what she asked to get it.

She sensed his decision and smiled wickedly. She always got what she came for. It wasn’t a fair fight.

“Mmmm…yes, darling. Now finish for me and start on your new path,” she hissed sweetly, her demon tongue licking his ear sensually, her elongating black claws softly raking his chest.

His mind let go and his hand pumped his cock vigorously. He was so fully aroused it took only a few moments for what he thought would be his hot ejaculated to spew forth.

Instead, unseen to him, his eyes still closed in concentration, what burst forth was not his seed, but his essence and it floated out of the tip of his phallus and was sucked in greedily by the succubus next to him. His body glowed brightly and as the last of his essence came forth it morphed into its new shape.

All his features softened. What was previously angular, his brow, his jawline, his nose and Adam’s apple, rounded and soften. His skin too softened and any hair he had on him seemed to recede into his body or lighten significantly. The hair on his head sprang forth and fell, full, thick and dark, around her head. Breasts sprang forth, plumping onto her chest, held back only by gravity from achieving their full perk and heft. Her waist tapered in and the small amount of belly fat disappeared leaving traces of abdominal muscles. Her hips widened some and her thighs, quite lean to begin with, slimmed further still. Her hand and feet shrunk slightly, and her fingers grew leaner, her nails arching out, solidifying and curving into sharp black talons.

The change was complete rather quickly and she lay there now fully sober, aware of not only the change but the implications of her choice. Her first thought was that she must have gained 50 IQ points. She smiled, delighted in the thought and opened her eyes.

“Hello Darling,” her lover cooed, leaning over her and kissing her. She leaned back again and looked at the new woman, eyes still faintly glowing. “How do you feel?”

“Wonderful,” she growled back in a sultry sexy voice. She pushed her head back against the pillow and let her hands slide up her new body, stopping on her breasts. She kneaded and handled them, mouth agape at the sheer ecstasy her new orbs brought her. She left one hand there and sent the other quickly between her legs, feeling the moistening lips of her new sex.

“Oh…” she whined, and her lover moved her hand out of the way and sank her finger into the new woman’s sex.

The two kissed as the demon brought her new protegee to climax for the first time as woman. The succubus formerly known as Christopher screamed out as her body was swept by its first female orgasm. Two more quickly followed.

“Now, my darling, the night is still young, and we have things to do. To start, I think your name should now be Christina. Would you like that?”

Christina nodded her head in agreement.

“Excellent. Now, come with me to the closet, we need you to be more presentable for your prey.”

She slid to the edge of the bed, reached down, and grabbed her sequin dress from the ground, before heading to the large walk-in closet. She donned a red silk kimono robe as she clicked on the closet lights. Christina, nude, followed her, stepping on the outer edge of the pentagram design on the floor as she did. The claws on her fingers gently morphed back to fingernails as she crossed past the symbol on her way across the room.

Once together, she brushed out Christina’s new hair and sat her down to do her makeup. Black satin panties and matching bra were put into place. She then had Christina step into a body hugging long white pencil skirt whose hem fell just below her knee and zipped her in from the back all the way up the high waist. She then selected a black draped duchess satin crop top from a well-known designer. The shiny black material seemed to sculp her new female body. Christina put her arms through the long sleeve and buttoned up the blouse. The gold button at the top was the perfect touch between the sharp collar points now framing her neck. She loved the feel of the material against her skin, and eagerly stepped into the long black patent leather heels she was given next.

She turned Christina to the mirror and stood close behind her so they could both look at her.

“How do you feel my darling,” she asked Christina.

“Hungry,” she replied.

“Let’s go hunting then, shall we?”

The Ivy – Sixth Floor

Prologue

Kirk felt badly for the woman, but he couldn’t see a way forward.

“Ms. Martinez, I understand your frustration. I can file the paperwork, but the court won’t grant you a restraining order without some sort of proof. Your husband has to have done something demonstrable, that is, something we can show the court as proof that he has said or done threatening things. If not, he, or his lawyers, will claim that he has a right as a father to see his children. The fact that you still live with him will, obviously, be a sticking point. If you could show some estrangement…” he trailed off as the woman broke down into tears.

Kirk felt obligated to take pro bono cases, but he never enjoyed them, at least not until they were over. He couldn’t think of one case he’d enjoyed in the eight years he’d been with the firm since law school.

“Ms. Martínez?... Ms. Martínez don’t cry. We’ll figure this out.”

“But I don’t have proof like you say,” she replied tearfully. “But he has been extraño, different, ever since he had that interview.”

“What interview, Ms. Martínez?

“It was for a cleaning job in some building on the east side. I don’t know what one. But he look at me different now. He whisper things to me like he is some other person. I don’t know what is going on but I see in his eyes,” she said pointing to her own eyes. “…I see the demonio
In his eyes.”

“Ok, Ms. Martínez. I’ll file the paperwork, but maybe you should be speaking with social services. I don’t think the court will help you here.”

She started quietly crying again.

He slowly packed up his brief case and after giving the woman a hug, left the apartment where she had taken the kids.

His heart broke for her, but he couldn’t do much more. She had no recordings, no phone calls, no pictures or police reports, just his word against hers. She was pretty shaken up, so he didn’t doubt the guy did something, but he just had no real legal recourse.

He just hoped nothing would happen to her. He hated these cases.

Kirk looked at his watch as he walked back to his car. “9:15AM”. Good, he’d be at his desk by ten he thought.

- I -

The phone rang on his desk and glanced at the clock. Four o’clock, he’d need to finish up to meet Charlotte by five thirty. He was pleased to have gotten so much done today. His meeting with Ms. Martínez had not taken as long as he thought it might which had given him a leg up on the mountain of work on his desk.

“Hello.”

“Yes, is this Mr. Kirk Soliman?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Yes. This is Kirk.”

“Oh, Mr. Soliman, my name is Cynthia Wheeler, I am the building liaison for The Ivy on Lakeshore.”

Kirk sat up, surprised.

“Oh, Ms. Wheeler, yes. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Soliman, I wanted to inform you that an apartment has come open here in The Ivy and I wondered if you were still interested.”

“Oh, yes, of course. We’d be very interested in the apartment.”

“We?”

“Yes, my fiancée Charlotte and myself, er, me,” he said, nervousness creeping into his voice.

“Oh, very good. We do like young couples. They add such a nice energy!” she replied.

He could hear her scribbling something. Maybe his engagement would actually help get the spot.

The Ivy was one of Chicago’s most exclusive buildings. Built in the early part of the 1900’s overlooking the vast Lake Michigan horizon, it had stood as a beacon of exclusiveness for over a century. Getting an apartment in the building was a cross between a lottery and admission into an exclusive secret society. One of the senior partners in Kirk’s firm knew the right person to give Kirk’s name to and mysteriously an application had appeared on his desk. He filled the document out and, following the instructions, sent it back to the address of another legal firm in the city, Grant, Fuller & Thom. Months had gone by with no word from the building and frankly Kirk had forgotten about it, lost as he was in his work.

“So, we will see you and Charlotte at 6pm sharp next Tuesday, August 9th for your interview. Do you have any questions?”

The notion of an interview wasn’t much of a surprise to him given how exclusive the building was. But as he was the one applying for the apartment, he wasn’t sure why anyone else would need to come with him.

“You would like Charlotte to come as well?” he asked.

“Yes of course. The committee will want to meet you both. After all, it would be her home as well would it not?”

“Oh, of course, yes. I’ll see if she if available next Tuesday.”

“Mr. Soliman, this will be the only appointment time we will offer. It would be best if she were able to accompany you.”

There was a pause as these words sunk in.

“I see,” he finally replied. “I’ll make sure she is with me.”

“Excellent! We look forward to seeing you Mr. Soliman”

“Thank you, Cynthia. See you next Tuesday.”

He put down his desk phone then wondered how they had gotten his direct line. He had only put down his cell number on the application.

He pulled out his cell phone and made the call that would change their lives.

“Hey honey…I’m good, yeah. Hey, what are you doing next Tuesday?”

***

The revolving doors off Lake Shore Drive opened in to and expansive marble lobby. Two small seating areas were set up, one each side of the door, affording a comfortable and warm spot to wait for a car or taxi without braving the icy winds that could blow off the lake.

Charlotte took Kirk’s hand as they walked toward the reception desk. She had taken this evening’s interview rather seriously. While Kirk was still in his suit and tie from work, Charlotte had changed from her work clothes into a far more chic and feminine Chanel outfit belying her family’s wealth. She was six years younger than Kirk, but she looked like a woman of sophistication well beyond her years.

The designer outfit consisted of the telltale Chanel matching top and jacket in soft pink with a matching skirt down to just below her knee. She accessorized with a matching set of pearl earrings and necklace, a smart gold watch and fashionable four-inch heels also in soft pink. She had even taken the afternoon off from work for a trip to the spa. Stockings weren’t appropriate for the late summer heat but her long smooth legs had a healthy sheen to them, like they had been shellacked, Kirk thought. Her makeup was flawless, and she had her chestnut hair styled at the spa in long soft curls that swept over one shoulder.

She was absolutely stunning. The review board had no chance, he had thought to himself when he saw her.

“May I help you,” said the uniformed man behind the desk.

“Yes, we’re here to meet Cynthia Wheeler. We have an appointment at six o’clock,” Kirk replied.

“Very good. I’ll let Ms. Wheeler know Mr. and Mrs. Soliman have arrived.”

Charlotte squeezed his hand as if excited to be called Mrs. Soliman. Getting an apartment in the Ivy would be the foundation for her standing in Chicago society. They would soon be married and start a family and Kirk would later leave his law firm to start his career in politics. Mayor, then congressman and then perhaps Governor or senator and the Ivy would be the foundation for their new lives as they climbed up the ranks.

Soon enough, Cynthia Wheeler came out from a door just beside the reception desk to greet them.

“Mr. Soliman, Ms. White. How do you do, I’m Cynthia Wheeler, we spoke on the phone.”

“When had he given Cynthia Charlotte’s last name,” he wondered to himself.

“Very pleased to meet you Ms. Wheeler,” Charlotte started in. “What a beautiful lobby, is this Italian marble?” she asked gesturing to the dark swirling stone that made up the lobby’s floor. The stone continued up the walls in lighter shades, punctuated by mirrors every fifteen feet or so.

“You have a good eye, Ms. White. Indeed, it is Italian marble and is original to the building. You’ll find many such treasures throughout the building, as well as all the modern amenities we all take for granted, of course. We like to keep the finer things intact. It gives the building its charm and feel.”

“Well, it’s simply lovely,” Charlotte remarked, adding a 1000-kilowatt smile. Charlotte could charm the bark of a tree when she wanted to.

“I’m so glad we have someone with decerning tastes looking at the apartment. In fact, the original tenant of the apartment is responsible for this lovely marble, Mrs. Mell. Shall we go up and see it before we sit down with the board?”

“The Board,” inquired Kirk?

“Yes, the interview is with the building’s five-person Board including the building’s Chairman, Mr. Grant. They won’t expect us before six thirty which should give us plenty of time to see the apartment.”

“That sounds perfect,” responded Kirk trying to seem at ease with the situation.

He was not at ease. He wasn’t uncomfortable either, but he was definitely not at ease with this entire thing. He had felt pressure to perform well, not just because it was an interview and he was competitive, but because he knew how much this meant to Charlotte. She had some pretty serious plans for the two of them, all of which her parents supported, and she had pounded into his brain how important The Ivy would be in their success, as if anyone cared where they lived.

He had also learned that Charlotte’s parents had tried twice to get into this building both before and just after she was born but had been unsuccessful. Like a parent who hadn’t gotten into Harvard, her parents wanted her to live at The Ivy. He was also not at ease with what he expected the cost to be. You were not allowed to buy an apartment in The Ivy, and you had to sign a lease for a minimum of three years, or so he had heard. In fact, he was not sure what the rent would cost but it had to be considerably higher than his current apartment in Lincoln Park, itself not a low rent neighborhood.

They followed Cynthia Wheeler to the elevator at the far end of the lobby from the spinning doors they had entered through. Soon they were heading to the sixth floor, a little less than halfway up the fifteen floored building. The elevator let them out in to a nicely lit and welcoming hallway that ran left to right as they stepped off. There were only four apartments on this floor, two on either side of the building. Two faced toward the waters of Lake Michigan, and two faced back toward the city.

She turned left heading down the hall toward the north side of the building. The Italian marble was still visible in places, but a more modern façade and carpeting had been incorporated to give the hall a more current feel. As they walked down the hall, Kirk noticed small figures carved into the stone just below the crown molding perhaps every ten feet or so. They weren’t grotesque figures, that is to say they didn’t have expressions of horror, but nor were the happy expressions. They seemed to have almost a blank, haunting look and he felt their eyes seemed to follow them down the hall. They were just creepy he thought.

Soon they came to a modern door at the end of the hall to the right with a shining chrome handle that looked brand new.

“Here we are, 601” said Cynthia, pulling a key from her suit jacket pocket.

Charlotte again squeezed Kirk’s hand as she knew immediately this would be an apartment facing the Lake. Cynthia opened the door and stepped in, ushering the young couple in as she removed her key from the door and shut it behind them.

The three of them walked through into a large foyer with a sizeable closet that could easily accommodate all manner of coats necessary for the Chicago climate. It also had a large oil painting of an elegant woman in a 1920’s style gown that looked to be a soft creamy peach satin. Opposite the painting was a large ornate mirror likely original to the apartment, perfect for checking one’s appearance before heading out.

Kirk examined the painting more closely. He was correct in his guess of the time period. “Miss. Evelyn Clara Rose. 1921” the small plaque on the ornate frame read. The woman was beautiful and the more he examined the painting the more enamored of the her he became. It was as though she was speaking to him.

“Rose was her maiden name,” Cynthia offered, noticing how intently Kirk was studying the portrait. “She later became Mrs. Evelyn Mell, marrying into one of the strongest political families of the time. She was an early member of The Ivy family and was instrumental in the building’s rise to prominence. She saw to it that the first six floors of the building were only rented to young women of certain means. That rule was done away with in the 70s and now the building allows all floors to be rented equally. Interestingly, the sixth floor’s four apartment have never had male renters except for Mrs. Mell’s husband. You would be the first Mr. Soliman. Right here in Evelyn Mell’s apartment!” Cynthia mused, noting the irony.

Kirk nodded, not able to take his eyes off the painting.

“It is a lovely painting…but, why is here?” Charlotte asked.

“It was hung here in memory of Mrs. Mell at the request of her estate. It has hung in that spot I believe since it was hung here by Mrs. Mell herself. It’s said she was so in love with her self-portrait that she put it opposite a mirror so she could look at herself all day. Maybe not the nicest thing to say of someone. Anyway, I’m afraid it must stay where it is per the agreement in the lease.”

“Well it is very lovely. Honey let’s see the rest of the apartment,” Charlotte cooed at him, tugging him away from the painting.

Passing through the foyer the hall continued forward into a large living area and connected to another hallway that led to the kitchen on the left and a hallway down to the various bedrooms and bathrooms.

As they walked into the empty living room, Charlotte again got excited. In the late afternoon, the apartment did not get the setting sun’s light directly, but it did create a wonderful view of the lake and shoreline in its stunning beauty with no glare on the windows. The views were simply magnificent.

“As you can see, we’ve just finished renovating the entire apartment and updating all the fixtures and appliances. Everything from the wood paneling in the front foyer to the kitchen cabinets are new. The only things we didn’t touch are some of the original hard wood and marble floors and fixtures,” explained Cynthia as they moved through the open spaces.

Charlotte had already started to decorate the place in her mind. A dark wood desk for the office, soft modern couches for the living room, a king bed for the master bedroom and his and hers children’s rooms in pink and blue. Kirk didn’t think he had ever seen her smile so long or so hard as the twenty minutes they spent talking with Cynthia and walking through the apartment.

Kirk liked the apartment as well. It was nicely updated and had a killer view. It was clearly a place that screamed “you’ve made it.” And he appreciated that the new updates hadn’t destroyed the history in the wood floors and marble facades on portions of the walls and bathrooms. It was the carvings and reliefs though that just threw him off a bit.

In each of the marble facades left in the apartment, perhaps ten or so around support columns in the powder room, and down the hallways were carvings and reliefs of Greek or Roman women. They were small, not particularly obvious but once you saw one, they weren’t hard to see. There was nothing particularly wrong with them, they weren’t creepy like the ones in the hallway to the elevators, but still, they were just oddly out of place in the apartment. Cynthia had explained that Mrs. Mell had adorned the apartment and the hallways of the sixth floor with these reliefs made for her in Italy.

“You can read all about them in the history book about The Ivy,” Cynthia told them.

She looked at her watch.

“Ah, now, shall we head back to the elevator, we don’t want you to be late for the board interview.”

****

The last of the boxes had been unpacked weeks earlier but it was only now that Charlotte felt the apartment was set as it should be. In the end, they had spent a small fortune updating their furniture for the new space, but they had both felt that it was a good investment in their future. If they were going to have The Ivy’s address, they wanted to look the part. Besides, her parents, her mother in particular, were so pleased they had gotten into The Ivy, they insisted on buying most of new pieces for them.

In her decorating, Charlotte had tried several different configurations in each of the rooms, save the dining room, making Kirk push couches and chairs around rooms interminably. He had to say though, now that she was finished, he liked their new apartment. He even liked the portrait of Miss Evelyn Clara Rose. So smitten with her was he that he made a point to say hello to her every time he entered the apartment. Charlotte, however, was much less fond of the portrait. In truth she had issues with it that bordered on animus and acrimony and told Kirk she would soon find a sheet to hang over it. There was something not right about it and that he was so enamored of it, of her, made Charlotte resent it even more.

It was late October when Kirk was called away on a business trip with one of the partners. He didn’t have to travel that often, but this would be the first time Charlotte was alone in the apartment since they had moved in and she had to say, she wasn’t thrilled. She hadn’t gotten used to its vibe just yet she had told him before he left.

“It’s only two nights, honey. I’ll see you Friday,” he had told her Wednesday morning as he prepared to head to the airport.

She spent Wednesday night with her parents in the upscale northern suburbs and had intended to stay that Thursday as well but had gotten sidetracked at work downtown. It was twenty minutes to get to The Ivy apartment or well over an hour to get to their house and so she had called to tell them she would just head to her own place that night.

Upon entering the apartment later that evening, Charlotte stood in front of the closet and doffed her coat. As she hung it in its place, she felt a sudden icy shiver run down her back like eyes were watching her. She spun around quickly and upon finding no one there let out a relieved chuckle.

“Great, I’ve already started to freak myself out,” she voiced aloud.

Wine was what she needed, and she headed for the kitchen, but not before she glared at Miss Evelyn Clara Rose.

“Honestly, how could anyone expect them to leave this portrait up?” she mumbled to herself.

After a few hours, a light dinner and three glasses of wine, Charlotte had a pleasant drowsiness as she turned off the TV to head for bed.

Outside the apartment, in the hallway of the sixth floor, one of the small figures carved into the wall twitched. While Cynthia, the building’s representative, was not aware of their history or meaning, Mrs. Mell had been. These figures were replicas of roman lemures and larvae who in ancient Roman mythology were greatly feared spirits, ghosts of the dead, who caused, among other things, infection. These figures were put in this hallway for a very specific purpose that few, save Mrs. Mell herself understood.

Soon the lemures figure released itself from the wall, descending as a dark mist which floated silently first to the door of apartment 601, then under it, entering the foyer.

Charlotte turned down the long hall for the bedroom passing the darkened foyer. Unseen to her, laying low against the dark floor of the foyer, the black, wispy mist lay. She continued to her room and shut the door behind her.

Whispers softly bounced through the foyer like a light breeze. Commands were given and received. The mist continued on, wafting down the long hallway toward the bedroom door where Charlotte was preparing for bed.

It waited there, patiently for the right moment.

Soon the light from the bedroom was extinguished and quiet sounds of bed sheets rustling could just be heard beyond the bedroom door.

The dark haze entered the room, first surrounding the sleepy young woman. Without intention, her quiet breathing brought the mist into her body, taking in the wickedness, intoxicating her in its malevolent intent, infecting her.

But this was not it’s only orders.

She was instructed to open her heavy eyes and behold the form in front of her. In the low light of the bedroom, the form of a man the lemures had taken stood at the end of the bed. She was to be given instruction on what she was to do, and she would be taught how to do it.

Charlotte removed the heavy bedding from atop her as instructed.

She had worn a silk chemise to bed thinking of how she would reward her fiancée when he returned, but she now smoothed it down her soft body in anticipation for another’s touch. The shadowy figure lay atop her eager body as she moaned softly in response, deep in its thrall. She parted her legs urging it forward, begging it to penetrate her as a lover should. Soon she was in the throes of intercourse with this tutelary spirit, moaning and writhing as it pumped itself into her, kissing her with its vaporous tongue. It spoke to her, putting salacious ideas in her mind for later use. She was directed to reposition herself into several debaucherously, prurient positions, each time rewarded with a continued deep, pounding penetration into her wanton sex. Soon, as it coaxed her to climax, it inseminated her with its essence ensuring her obedience to its master and fell away, dissipating quickly.

Charlotte was left on the bed lamenting the conclusion of their coition, cupping her own breasts and pinching her nipples as the last of her orgasm faded. Soon she rose from the bed, her chemise falling down to her mid-thigh and she padded to the bedroom door and down the darkened hallway to the foyer. She rounded the corner and stood in front of the portrait of Miss Evelyn Clara Rose.

“Certainly,” she said languidly, and turned to the mirror.

She took several steps toward it and waited. A faint glow, an outline of a body, shimmered into the mirror as if inside the glass.

“Mmm, yes it was,” she replied running her hand over the silky fabric and up between her legs reliving the orgasm she’d just had.

Composing herself she looked again into the mirror and the faint shape within.

“Thank you for the instruction, I know what must be done,” she responded to the voice in the mirror.

Thanks for reading. As always, love it if you could leave a reaction or a comment! If you want to read ahead, check out the second half of the story as well as my other stories on Kindle - https://www.amazon.com/Alice-Duffield/e/B08MX1TLVK/ref=dp_by...