The Fine Print               by: Heather St. Claire

 

I should have known better. I should have realized the caliber of person I was dealing with. I should have read the fine print.

Now, it seems, I have an eternity to deal with the consequences of my mistake.

Like many visitors to the online TG fiction world, I had spent years of dreaming of being a beautiful female. It seemed painfully clear that for a host of reasons, it could never happen to me in real life, so I dreamed big.

Not just to become female, but to become a truly exquisite beauty, and of course to become an authentic female, from a working reproductive system right down to every XX chromosome.

As long as I was spinning beautiful, romantic fantasies, why not take it a step further? More often than not, I dreamed of going all, or most of the way back...maybe becoming five years old, getting a chance to live it all again, only this time, the right way--as a little girl.

Imagine my mixture of excitement and skepticism when a mysterious e-mail arrived. Not to mention more than a little fright. This person claimed to know my innermost thoughts and fantasies! At first I thought--hoped, really--that it was nothing more than a cruel joke.

I quickly deleted the first message, and the second and the third. When the fourth arrived, I decided to set up a couple of new e-mail accounts and only told a few trusted relatives and friends to use them.

I am--was--a healthy man in my late 30s. But I swear I felt myself on the verge of a heart attack when I found messages from my pursuer on each of the new accounts.

"Please don't be afraid of me, Tim," the latest communiqué began. "I want nothing from you, except to help you make your feminine dreams come true. Please respond. I promise you won't be sorry."

After another, mostly sleepless night, I got out of bed a little after 4 a-m to begin composing a response. With much hesitation, I finally agreed to meet her (she had indicated her gender by this point.)

She responded almost immediately, and with great pleasure. "Wonderful, Tim! You don't know how happy this makes me, and how happy I'm going to be able to make you!" We finally agreed to meet the next evening in the lounge of a neighborhood restaurant in a different part of town from where I lived.

As I drove toward my destiny the next evening, I could feel my heart racing. Again, my emotions were a jumble of hope and fear. Could this woman somehow have the means to make me truly female? And if that was so, why had she chosen me?

I entered the restaurant, then headed toward the dimly-lit lounge in the rear. As I walked through the swinging doors, I felt my eyes adjusting to the low level of illumination. I was still scanning the room when I heard a low, sultry voice, saying, "Over here, Tim."

I glanced toward a booth near the corner, and my eyes were immediately riveted on a truly stunning beauty. She appeared to be simply dressed, in black jeans and sweater. But these garments only emphasized the perfection of her form.

Everything about her seemed just right; from her dainty feet, to her long, glamorous legs, her full hips, her tiny waist her large bosom, her slim arms, her thin delicate hands with perfectly shaped nails that extended a half inch beyond her fingertips.

Her oval face was framed by lustrous black hair that seemed to have a natural wave to it; it draped over she shoulders. Her every facial feature seemed ideally sized and placed, from her thin, arched brows, to her large, luminous eyes, her sleek nose, her full, pouty lips.

She was sipping on a scotch and smoking a long, thin white cigarette. She seemed totally at ease with herself and her surroundings.

Despite the exquisiteness of her beauty, something seemed to be lacking. Normally, the sight of a gorgeous woman would fill me joy at the wonders of creation and life...and maybe a little jealousy at not having such a nice body myself.

But this woman was different. There seemed to be no warmth attached to her beauty. It seemed to be a cold sort of perfection. That should have been my first warning; but hope, curiosity, and fear, all drove me forward. I stepped over to the booth and sat down.

"Hello," I said, swallowing deeply. "I seem to be at a disadvantage here. You seem to know everything about me, and I don't even know your name."

She smiled; it seemed to be the smile of a hunter who knows her prey is already captured. "I'm Sandra, Tim, and I'm the one who's going to make your fondest dreams come true." Before I could say anything, she said, "You're thirsty, poor dear." She called the bartender over and told him to bring me whatever I wanted.

After asking for a club soda (I wanted to be clear headed for whatever was ahead), I turned back to Sandra and tried to reassert myself, worried that she clearly sensed she held the upper hand.

"Now look, Sandra, or whoever you are, I came here for one reason, and one reason only, and that's to let you know that I want you to stop harassing me. These ridiculous claims about me wanting to be a girl--"

She sighed, took a last drag on her cigarette, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Oh, Tim, please don't. I know false bravado when I see it, and yours is very false." She shook her head. "It's one of the aspects of maleness that you're least comfortable with, dear, I know it, that's why I want to make my offer to you."

I could feel my shoulders slump as I exhaled a deep sigh of defeat. "Okay, you've got me," I said quietly.

She smiled, and shook her head. "Tim, Tim, please. What is it going to take for me to be able to make you understand that all I want is to help you achieve your dreams?"

"Okay," I said quietly. "What's this all about?"

She smiled again, ever so slightly. "Tim, I know that you at least believe in the possibility that magic is real. Well, it is. I am living proof of it." She paused.

I took a sip of my scotch, and served up the softball pitch: "And just how is that so?"

"I'm 87 years old," she said. And then, after I almost spilled my drink, she repeated: "You heard me. I'm 87 years old. I've literally spent my life on mastering the basics of the art. It's not as simple as most people might think. Can you imagine the chaos in the world if everyone could learn this?"

I shuddered briefly at the thought, but left the question unanswered. "Anyway, it's been a couple of years now since I assumed this form. I asked myself at that point what else I wanted in the world.

"Did I want another lover? No, I told myself, I had been lucky enough to find the love of my life, and we had spent more than five decades together. Did I want fame and fortune? Not for myself, not really, though I realized something about it was strangely alluring.

"Finally, it came to me. The great void in my life was not having a daughter, a child of my own. It seemed like the easiest way to accomplish this was to create one of my own, using a willing human subject, of course."

I ventured a question, "How...and why have you chosen me?"

"I didn't know where to begin. I stumbled upon a TG website and soon discovered how plentiful they are. I was particularly touched by some of the fiction. I knew some of these men were merely exploring interesting fantasies, while others were giving voice to their deepest wishes and needs."

I nodded; I was one of those who had truly poured my heart into my stories.

"So I found yours, and something about the depth, the honesty, the purity of your desire to be female struck a chord with me. Then, I began checking. When I found out your parents were dead, that you were an only child, and that you were stuck in a dead-end job, I knew I was on to something."

I felt a burning in my cheeks, a tremble in my throat. Could it really be true. I wanted to speak, but couldn't find my voice. The tears came, though I tried to hide them.

"Tim, Tim," she said, gently running her hand up and down my arm. "Yes, it's true. It's really true. You deserve this. You've earned it."

"Okay," I finally managed to croak out. "What do I do?" Sandra reached for a leather-covered portfolio that sat on the seat beside her. She opened it, revealing a contract. She handed me a gold pen and said, "Here, why don't you look at this. I thought it could protect you, and me."

The idea of signing a contract with a witch seemed absurd. If she violated it, who could enforce it? But I started skimming over it, before finally picking up the pen, and scribbling my name.

"Are you sure you're ready to sign, Tim?" Sandra asked. "You know what they say about contracts...you always should read the fine print."

I smiled, nodded, and told her, "If you can make my fondest wish come true, then I don't have anything to worry about." What I had read of the contract specified that she would transform me into a beautiful young female, aged six; that she would provide for all my materials needs until I reached age 18; and that I would act as her loving and obedient daughter until that time.

I completed the signature, and handed the document back to her. Well, I thought, she doesn't seem like the warmest person, and having her for a "mother" might be a little strange. But what the heck? When you're going to be five years old again, your whole life stretches before you in a way you can't even begin to realize the first time around.

This time I would grow up the way I wanted to, and once I was an adult, I would be free to do anything with my life I wished.

"Now what?" I asked her as she put the contract aside.

"Well, whenever you're ready to move into my home, I will complete your transformation, and your new life will begin."

I absorbed this, then told her, "How about right now?"

For a moment, she seemed taken aback, asking me if I didn't want to visit my apartment one last time, or tie up some loose ends.

"No," I told her, "You're right when you point out there's nothing tying me closely to this world, this life. The sooner I make my new beginning, the better."

So we left, me riding in her car, a late model Lexus. We made small talk during the drive. Part of me was wondering if this was all a prank or a dream, or if I would be dead in a gutter somewhere by morning. But the part that so desperately wanted it to be true kept me hanging in there.

We were soon in one of the wealthier sections of town; large, mostly older homes on meandering drives that wound up and down a hillside overlooking the city. We soon were entering a garage nestled below a what seemed like a sprawling bungalow, blown up to mansion-size. It looked like it dated back to about 1910, and hadn't been touched on the outside since.

Inside was much the same story. All the furniture was decades old, yet it seemed brand new. "My parents built this house, and I've lived here my entire life," she told me. "I never want to live anywhere else, and I hope you'll grow to love it as much as I do."

"Where's my room going to be?" I asked.

She led me upstairs. There were large bedrooms at the opposite ends of the main hall. One was hers; the other, was to be mine.

I stepped through the door into a little girl's paradise. The furniture in this room appeared to be older, too, but the effect in here was different. Instead of being dark and stuffy, this room seemed clean, airy, bright.

There was a beautiful canopy bed in the center of the room. The woodworking was covered with a bright coast of white paint. The walls had an intricate floral pattern on a light pink background.

There were large shelves, filled with dolls and tea sets and other wonderful toys; and the closet seemed filled to overflowing with pretty girl's dresses. The dresser drawers were an ocean of satin and ruffles and lace. It was all so beautiful, I wanted to cry.

I turned to Sandra, smiling. "This is where I get to live, Sandra--Mommy?"

"Yes, honey," she said sweetly. "Just as soon as we get you changed."

She led me to the basement and directed me to strip off all my clothes and stand in the middle of a pentagram that was painted on the floor. There was a large altar in front of the pentagram, covered with candles, incense, thick, ancient-looking books, keys, a crystal ball and a host of other objects.

The stone walls of the old basement were damp and slimy; the candles provided the only light. I shivered after removing my clothes, but more from nervous anticipation that the cold.

Sandra instructed me to remain perfectly still and quiet. She lit the incense, opened one of the books, and began a low chant in a strange language I couldn't begin to understand.

Before too long, I felt my entire body bathed in a tingling warmth. I had the sensation of my bones, organs and skin liquefying; that's the best way I can describe it. Then, I knew I was rapidly shrinking. Within seconds, I had gone from over six feet tall to much less than half that.

Other changes had been taking place at the same time. My skin was now downy-soft and almost completely hairless. What hair I had was almost all atop my head; I had natural golden blonde curls that flowed about halfway down my back.

My eyes had changed from a drab brown to a sparking blue; my cute little nose was slightly upturned; and of course, down below, I was all girl. A hairless slit testified silently to my lost adulthood and lost manhood.

When I spoke, a sweet little girl's voice emerged. "Am I done....Mommy?"

"Yes, dear," she said. "Come give Mommy a hug." I couldn't believe how different the world looked from my perspective, and how short my legs seemed. But it didn't matter; I seemed to be filled with a limitless fount of energy.

I ran to her and threw my arms around her. "Thank you Mommy, thank you," I said with as much feeling as I could put into it. "I promise you I'll be the best little girl I can be."

She rubbed my back as she held me. "Oh you will be, dear, I can assure you of that," she said matter of factly. I missed whatever implications might have been in the statement, and asked excitedly, "What's my name going to be now, Mommy? I can't be Tim anymore!" I giggled. A sweet, musical, little girl's giggle. I was indescribably happy at that moment.

"Let's call you Christina, or Tina," she said.

"Sounds good to me! Now what?"

"Now, young lady, you better get ready for bed! Do you realize it's past 10 o'clock! In my house, a six-year old goes to bed by 9 p.m.!" She had a stern tone, but I could tell from her smile that she was teasing.

"Right away Mommy!" I said happily, scampering up the stairs to my room, pulling on the fanciest little nightie I could find, a nice pink nylon all covered with ribbons and lace. I snuggled into the big, soft bed, and soon saw Sandra standing in the doorway, smiling at me.

"All set dear?"

"Yes, Mommy." She came over, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and tucked me in. "Goodnight dear. Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite."

Once again, I felt tears brimming up inside of me. Those were the exact words my first--my real--mother had used when getting me settled into bed.

I reached up to turn off the night light that nestled under a small lampshade above my head. I settled back, and fortunately, my exhaustion won out over my excitement, and I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I realized was that it hadn't been a dream. I was still a beautiful six-year-old girl. And I had to pee! Badly! I headed for the bathroom next to my bedroom, and fortunately, managed to get myself down, relax my new muscles, let fly, and get myself cleaned up pretty well.

I remembered mother had told me to take a shower, get dressed, then come downstairs for breakfast. I picked out a white dress with a lace collar and a colorful floral pattern on it. I put on white tights, a pair of Mary Janes, and found myself skipping down the stairs.

"Good morning, Mommy," I said cheerfully.

"Hi, darling," she said, placing a steaming hot bowl of oatmeal in front of me. "Sleep well? Still happy about the decision you made?"

After a few minutes of conversation, Sandra shifted subject matter and tone. "Well, Tina, I'm glad today is Saturday. We have a chance to get started on your new responsibilities."

"What do you mean, Mommy, like chores?"

"Well yes, honey, that's part of it. But I also plan to make sure you develop all your talent and potential. That's going to mean a lot of hard work on your part. I could use magic, but I think it's a lot more important you invest the time; it will have a lot more meaning for you."

I nodded, but still didn't understand. "What kind of lessons, Mommy?"

"Oh, let's see. Singing, dancing and piano for starters. Later on, I want to get you started on a foreign language. And we might see if you can master more than one instrument."

I took a deep breath. It sounded like a lot, but she was boss, in every sense of the word, so I thought it best to go along with her. Besides, I had never had any particular gifts as a male. It would be nice to develop some of these the second time around.

My change happened in late August, so I had a few days to get used to my new age and gender before starting school. My gosh...it was hard to believe I was going to be a first grader again!

Somehow, Sandra's magic had changed my brain in many subtle ways. As she promised, I still had all my memories of my former life. I could remember the things I studied in school, my brief, mostly unhappy sexual encounters as an adult male, and what life on my own as an adult had been like.

But she had also instilled something in me--call it a childlike wonder, or innocence, that allowed me to deal with all aspects of my new girlhood. Before too long, I found myself getting lost in play for hours with my dolls and dollhouses. And when school started, I managed to pay attention and participate appropriately in class, instead of being bored out of my mind by the simplicity of it all.

Sure, I missed the privileges and independence of adulthood at times. But to have the chance to be a little girl, to truly start over, seemed like a fair tradeoff.

I found that I loved getting ready for school every day, picking out which dress to wear. And before too long, I was making friends with other girls my age. I had wondered what my sexual orientation as a female might turn out to be; but I learned I shared the opinion of my classmates that "boys are yucky."

What I didn't enjoy as much were my routine of lessons. I found that Shannen, Lucy, Heather and my other new friends wanted to spend time after school playing or just hanging out. But I could rarely join them. It seems I had a lesson after school almost every day.

I tried my best, and was pleased to discover I seemed to have a natural aptitude for these activities. I felt beautifully girlish in my pink tights and tutu. But my new mother had chosen some very demanding teachers for me. More than once, I found myself coming home feeling tired and on the verge of tears, wanting to do nothing more than curl up on the couch and watch Nickelodeon.

But it was not to be. Mommy demanded that I spend further time at home practicing on my own.

When the day came I had the temerity to complain about the routine she was putting me through, she became enraged. "Young lady!" she said loudly. "Just think who's paying for these lessons, who's dressing you, who’s feeding you, who’s providing a roof over your head.

"And I also hope you remember who gave you the body of your dreams. Without me, you'd still be a lonely, miserable middle-aged man stuck in a dead-end job." She then sent me to bed without my supper and told me to think about these things.

Through my tears, I managed to say, "I'm sorry, Mommy," before heading up the stairs.

I had a surprise waiting for when Mommy picked me up after school the next day. I assumed she would be taking me to my piano lesson, but she informed me she had canceled it for that day. Instead, she brought me home, and told me it was time that I learned the purpose behind all these lessons.

She led me into my bedroom; laid out on my bed were half a dozen gorgeous gowns, loaded with silk, lace and sequins. "What's this all about, Mommy?"

She had a bright, perfect smile on her face. "Honey," she said. "I'm entering you in the Little Miss Riverside Pageant next month. I think you're ready."

A pageant for six-year olds? Well, thanks to the Jon Benet Ramsey tragedy, I knew such things had existed. I had dreamed about being prom queen or homecoming queen in high school, maybe, but wasn't this a bit early?

It turned out Mommy had other ideas. It turned out part of her idea of having the perfect daughter involved having a young beauty queen.

I'll admit that were aspects of the experience I enjoyed; dressing in those fancy gowns, getting my hair and makeup done in a way I wouldn't have experienced ordinarily until I was a teen; and the fun of performing for a crowd.

But I saw a darker side to it all, too. I could tell some of the girls were having fun, but there were clearly some who weren't. Although like many TG wannabes, my visions of girlhood involved scenes like this, I could tell a lot of these girls would have been happier elsewhere, just being children.

It was especially bad for those who had rabidly competitive stage parents, and I soon learned that my Mommy was one of the first.

I came home with the biggest trophy from that first pageant, and Mommy couldn't have been happier. She brought me several hundred dollars worth of Barbie gear and took me out to dinner at Chuck E Cheese, which I was really growing to love.

But it was a different story at the next pageant (and there are a lot of them, believe me). Why? I finished second.

As we settled into the car for the long drive home, I said, "Oh well, Mommy, I guess I can't win them all, can I? I did my best."

She was strangely quiet and puffing rather intensely on her cigarette. Finally, she spoke. "I suppose not, dear. Just don't make losing a habit."

The words had quite a chilling effect on me. For the first time since I had been an adult, caught in a high pressure job, I felt a tightening in the pit of my stomach.

The tension only seemed to worsen as the years passed and the events became even more competitive. Other parents seemed jealous of me and my success rate, but nothing seemed good enough for Mommy. Even after I had filled a display case in our living room with trophies and tiaras, her need didn't seem to be satisfied.

Meanwhile, I moved from first grade to second, and then to third. Things were a little more relaxed in the summers. I grew to savor the luxury of those months, even though the drive for pageant glory continued unabated.

My relationship with Mommy continued to be a strange one. She would shower me with gifts, affection and attention when I did well in the pageants; when I did not, she was cold, aloof and distant.

I finally got a clue one summer day between fourth and fifth grade. I was feeling bored, and decided to go exploring around the house. Mommy had made it clear that the basement and her witchcraft things were off limits, but she hadn't said anything about the attic.

I was looking at the contents of the dusty cartons, not sure exactly what I was seeking. But once I found it, I knew. I was seeking some clue to the motivations and behaviors of this strange woman who had been my rescuer from manhood.

I thought from time to time about growing up, whether I would go to college again, what kind of career I might have, how soon I might marry, how many children of my own I wanted. All the sorts of things young girls dream about. The only difference was I had experienced it all before, but from the other, less green, side of the fence.

I also found myself wondering what kind of relationship I might have with her as an adult. Would we remain close? What might my future husband and children think of her?

Finally, I discovered an old photo album. As I opened the pages and saw the black and white snapshots carefully preserved, I remembered that Mommy was really almost a century old. Although magic had given her back her youth, she had lived at a time so remote as to seem almost like ancient history to me.

As I looked through the book, I realized I had no idea what Mommy had looked like as a young girl or woman. Had she just restored her youth, or had she given herself an idealized body?

It soon became clear that the latter was the case. The girl identified in these ancient pictures as my Mommy, was, to put it charitably, ugly. She had been born with a cleft palate and crossed eyes, and even though surgery had corrected those defects, she was still nobody's idea of a beauty.

Having lived through four years of grade school a second time, I had seen with sharp clarity how cruel children can be to those who are different. I imagined the living hell her life must have been. No wonder she wanted to experience the life of a childhood beauty through me. I felt a closeness to her I hadn't known before.

Oh, if only I had realized the true depth of her needs. But I didn't have to wait long to learn.

I never said anything to her about my discovery; I felt it would be reopening painful wounds that obviously still weren't healed. But I did go to her in late July of that summer to ask her about my growth.

When she had turned into a six-year-old, I was 3 feet, 10 inches tall, and weighed 42 pounds, about average for a girl my age. Four years later, I had only grown 3 inches and put on just 10 pounds, and I was one of the smallest, if not the smallest girl in my class.

I came to breakfast one morning and asked innocently, "How come I don't seem to be growing more, Mommy? I'm worried about when I go back to school this fall...a couple of girls my age are even starting to have periods and grow breasts."

She stared off into the distance for a long time before answering. "Well, dear," she finally said. "You won't have to worry about that problem with the girls at the new school you're going to in the fall."

New school? Fifth grade was still a year away from junior high; I couldn't imagine us moving; she had told me she never wanted to leave this house.

"Mommy, I'm afraid I don't understand."

She seemed to be eyeing me exceptionally critically. "Hmm. I think I'll make you a green-eyed redhead this time. There aren't a lot of redheads on the pageant circuit. That might help you to stand out more."

By now I felt myself on the verge of tears. "Mommy? What are you talking about?"

"Dear," she said with that strangely malevolent smile I had become accustomed to. "You're not going into fifth grade this fall. You're going back to first grade. I'm going to turn you into a six-year-old again."

"But why?"

"I realized how much I love having a little girl, and how I didn't want to deal with an unruly teenager going through all the crises of puberty, beginning to date, and all those headaches. No, I think I'm going to keep you my little girl forever."

"But...but what about the contract? Doesn't it promise me I'm to be free when I'm 18?"

"Yes dear, it does. But nowhere do I guarantee that you'll ever reach the age of 18." She saw the tears starting to stream down my face as I realized the reality of the endless nightmare I had trapped myself in. I think I actually saw a look of genuine sympathy flash across her face for a second, but it vanished, replaced by that smile.

"Come on, honey. Don't you remember the night you changed? It's just like any contract. I told you to read the fine print."

 

 

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