POSSECATS*

by

Jennifer Jane Pope

 

AND ALL MADE POSSIBLE THROUGH

THE INSPIRATIONS PROVIDED BY

CRYSTAL'S STORYSITE'S STAR MUSE.

 

Thank You, Prue for your friendship, continual ideas and inspiration

and for being you, without whom this finished work would simply

not exist.

 

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many of you will already have read one or more episodes of "Booted and Suited", which have been available over the Net for some little time. If so, you will recognise those episodes being threaded into this story, as Prue's inspiration provided me with the means to bring that story to a conclusion as part of a greater one. So, if it wasn't for that Kiwi Muse, the likelihood is that "Booted and Suited" would have lain there without any final purpose, possibly for ever.

---

*Posse: ...any (large) body of people, usually with a shared purpose

Cat: ... any larger feline, such as lynx or wildcat ... a spiteful, or vengeful woman ....

[Definitions courtesy of RD Universal Dictionary]

And now the fur can really start to fly!

 

BOOK ONE

 

Part One - Hat Tricks

Everyone makes such a fuss about weddings and yet all they do is cause inconvenience all round. Some cause more than others.

For instance, if it hadn't been for George and Angela's wedding, I'd never have gone into that damned shop in the first place. George and Angela? Well, it doesn't matter who they are, except that they invited me to their wedding, said it was formal and formal meant buying a hat.

The woman who served me in the shop was far more important, but I had no way of knowing that upon first encountering her.

The shop looked pretty ordinary - a bit old fashioned and maybe a lick of paint around the outside, but high class, in the way only those old style gents' outfitters can be and with a way of making the customer feel that it's him that's shabby, not it.

The female behind the counter seemed to be running the place on her own and she was smart, in tailored black skirt and jacket, crisp white blouse, with starched sleeve cuffs just visible, sheer stockings and high heeled court shoes that I thought had gone out of fashion thirty years since.

Her face was just too perfectly made up, with penciled in eyebrows, very arched, giving her a slightly open eyed look, heavy mascara and liner and those eyelashes were never her own! The tight, cupid's bow mouth was painted dark red and there wasn't a blemish in sight. Enough foundation to cause a county wide make-up shortage single handedly and hair so black it just had to be dyed, quite long, but currently pinned back into a very efficient looking chignon.

Age? Well, if I'd had to guess, I'd have said mid thirties, but, in all honesty, it could have ranged anywhere from late twenties to early forties; it was one of those faces and the perfect, almost hour glass figure, could have come courtesy of Mother Nature, or could have been the victim of some serious foundation stuff.

There was no way to tell, though I was beginning to get a feeling that it might be fun finding out. Not my usual sort of woman, but decidedly striking and probably, beneath the paint job, naturally beautiful. I shook off the forming thoughts and concentrated on the task in hand.

'A hat, sir?' she replied, with a polite smile, when I had made my enquiry. 'A wedding, you say?' She smiled again and began walking along to the end of the counter. 'Groom?'

I laughed. 'Me? No, no way. Just a friend.'

'I see. I take it you're not married yourself, then?' She came around into the main shop area. I shook my head. `The way you said that so quickly, I mean,' she added.

'Married?' I grinned. 'No, far too set in my ways for that.'

'Maybe,' she mused, the smile wavering for a moment, 'none of us are as set in our ways as we might like to think we are.' She had reached the glass fronted display cabinet now and took a tiny brass key from her skirt pocket. Inside, I saw there were four hats, proper top hats, two black, one pale grey and one white. I dismissed that one. This was a wedding I was going to, not a Fred Astaire Look Alike contest.

I likewise didn't even consider the grey hat, as the formal suit I'd borrowed for the occasion was black and even I knew better than that, so I tried the remaining pair. The second one fitted, so I took it off and handed it to the doll like woman for boxing and wrapping, wincing a bit when I saw the price tag, but otherwise happy that an annoying job had been done and with the minimum of fuss.

I wasn't to know that, when it came to fuss, I was still very much the inexperienced amateur, nor that, given the benefit of that wonderfully precise science known as "hindsight", I'd never have taken that hat out of the box and would have thrown it into the river that ran through the park, instead of, for some unknown reason, trying it on again, whilst sitting on a vacant bench and enjoying the pleasant spring sunshine.

I was no expert on top hats, either - this was the first one I'd ever worn - but I'd seen plenty of them on television and one or two in "real life", so to speak and it looked pretty ordinary, too ordinary, I thought grimly, to justify the price I'd just paid. But then, a top hat isn't just for one wedding, it's for life.

Ho-ho, I sniggered, as I sat considering whether to do my bit for pollution by lighting up. I was making a serious effort to cut down on the cigarettes, you see. Ho-ho, very funny, for life! Like puppy dog not just for Christmas, but for ...

If only I'd known. Talk about laughing on the other side of my face.

Even the box had an air of quality about it, nicely finished in a sort of leatherette fabric, the flanged top sliding on and off with an enviable precision and just a slight sound of air pushing in and out. Setting it on the bench alongside me, I carefully lifted the hat in both hands and turned it over a couple of times, getting the feel of it. It was a bit like the day I was given my first pair of long trousers: I felt a sense of maturity, but tinged with an aura of uncertainty and the unknown. I smiled, as I remembered how long it had taken me to get into the habit of pulling up the knees of those trousers slightly, whenever I sat down.

`Well, you're a fine piece of kit,' I told the hat, pursing my lips appreciatively. `Short of fire, flood and accident, I reckon I'm gonna have you around for a good while. Get my money's worth out of you.` And a lot more than that, totally unbargained for, but that was still in the future, if only just.

`Yes, good fit,' I said, flipping the hat on to my head. I'd need to practise that, I thought. Good balance, but there's undoubtedly a knack to hitting dead on bulls eye every time and not rattling it slightly, like a marginally mis-aimed billiard ball kissing both jaws before finally dropping safely.

I tilted my head slightly, side to side, but there was no feeling that the thing might dislodge. It snugged about my head, sitting contentedly on the neat cushion of my hair and felt pretty good.

`Suave,' I said and a passing sparrow, hopping between grass blades, in a never ceasing quest for breadcrumbs, or whatever else it is that sparrows seem to be ceaselessly questing. The little bird turned a suspicious eye towards me, came to a rapid decision that I was probably mad, but no immediate danger, at least to him, and hopped on.

I didn't have a pocket mirror, which was a shame. The long glass in the shop had looked a bit dark and silvered, or whatever it is they call it when there are browny little spots all over it, so I'd not bothered looking at myself in it for too long, nor too closely. A top hat was a top hat, I'd reasoned and, if it made me look a pratt, too bad. The wedding was fast approaching, so it had to be done.

Now, however, I wanted to study myself better, suspecting that I probably wouldn't look a pratt in a hat at all, but that the rather expensive accessory might just make me look a little dashing. I began to look forward to the wedding. People do things at wedding receptions they wouldn't do anywhere else and the four eldest bridesmaids were all in their twenties, as George had relished telling me.

`Oh well, you handsome sod,' I said aloud, `you'll have to contain yourself 'til you get home. You won't be any less handsome for waiting half an hour.' I looked around guiltily, just in case there was anyone close enough to hear this, but it was mid-afternoon, mid-week and hardly a soul in sight. I sighed, grinned and reached up to take the hat off again.

It slid back into its box like a cartridge being slotted into the breech and I replaced the lid, which produced the same sort of feeling. Precision engineering. Lovely. Can't beat it. Picking up the box, I stood up and then ...

... did a double take.

The hat was still on my head!

I nodded side to side, reached up, wondering if I was just getting some sort of "after" sensation, where the brim had been pressing down into my hair. No, I wasn't going mad, I told myself, the hat was still there. I took it off, looked at it and promptly sat down.

`Either I am going mad,' I whispered, `or this is one neat trick hat.' Per-link! Trick hat. Trick hat, hat trick. The woman had sold me some sort of stage prop. This was a conjurer's hat, maybe one of those comedy conjurers, even. hat in a hat in a hat in a hat. Like Russian dolls.

Except this hat didn't seem to be any smaller than the original, the outer hat. It had fitted as snugly and not felt tight in any way. So how did it fit inside the first one? Come to think about it, the shape was all wrong, too. The hat I'd bought - correction, the hat I thought I'd bought, 'cause now there were two hats, not one - that hat had had straight sides, like any former topper.

Whereas this one had slightly concave sides, the brim and top being roughly the same, but the diameter of the "stove" section being maybe an inch or so narrower. This was a lady's top hat, the sort you see at hunt meetings, or on the heads of those showgirls, the ones with spangly costumes and tights, impossibly long legs and long hair spilling out from under -

Instinctively, my hand went to my hair. No! No, it wasn't; it had to be me. I was getting paranoid.

`Doctor, doctor, I think I'm paranoid.'

`No you're not, people really do hate you!'

Boom! Boom!

Only this was even less funny than a bad joke, because my hair was longer. Only an inch or so, maybe, but definitely longer. And thicker.

And, where it had been ramrod straight before, it was now beginning to curl.

I sat there for, well, I don't know, five minutes, two minutes? What's time, when it's suddenly suspended? And when your brain is buzzing around in overdrive, but not getting any sort of grip, let alone a start, on anything tangible. This was like trying to plait sawdust. I kept staring down at the hat, peering inside it, as if expecting a funny little man with a squeaky voice to pop out, crying:

`Now that's magic!' But of course, he didn't. This wasn't television, this was Stacey Park, through which I often took a short cut and in which, as a boy, I'd learned to kick a football, hit a battered old cricket ball without sending shockwaves up my arms and kissed my first girl. Stacey Park had a certain number of magical memories for me, but no actual magic.

There had to be a rational solution - something impregnated into the brim band inside the hat, perhaps, something that was reacting with my hair and making the ends curl, so thay they only felt longer. Quite a bit longer, in fact -

`Right, hat!' I snapped. `Back in the box, with your other half.' I turned to the box, pulled off the lid and frowned. On another day I might have jumped up with a cry of alarm, but now I sat and stared at the original hat with a puzzled and probably very stupid expression on my face.

Or, to put it another way, with a puzzled and definitely very stupid expression on my face, I sat and stared at where the hat should have been, because the box was empty.

`No way!' I bent over and peered right into the depths and then felt about with one hand. No pockets, no slidey bits, no hidden doors. Just an empty hat box.

So maybe it was me? Had I had a teensy little blackout and not put the hat back in as I was so sure I had? Or maybe I had put it in there, then had a brief lapse and taken it back out again? But, if that was the case, why was I so sure that the hat I now had in my free hand was not the hat I'd put on my head to begin with?

I destroyed a few more brain cells in this pointless fashion, before I came to the obvious conclusion. I put the hat - this hat, whichever hat - back into the box, replaced the lid and stood up.

`Back to the shop with you, my lad!' I said. `We'll ask the mascara queen. She'll know the answer, no matter how daft it might be.' I squared my shoulders, turned and took a pace back the way I had come some minutes earlier and ...

... and, at that moment, a sudden gust of wind blew the hat off my head and sent it spinning across the grass!

`Now, hang on a minute!' I exclaimed, looking upwards as if to find the explanation there, but there wasn't an overhanging tree branch in fifty yards. I set the box down on the bench yet again and ran the few steps to retrieve the rolling hat, picked it up, stared at it for only a few seconds and looked up again. I blinked, focussed on a couple of fluffy white clouds that were malingering their way across an otherwise clear blue sky and looked down again.

`Can't be!' I said, lamely, but there was no disputing it. The hat I now held in my hands was a different hat again, still that curvy sided topper style, but not so high. In fact, this was more the style the posh ladies wear when riding to hounds. The other one - the second one, that is - that was more the Las Vegas show look.

I walked very slowly back to the box, sat down next to it and lifted the lid. Somehow, it came as no surprise to see that the contents were ... gone.

`Well, I'll go to the foot of our stairs!' I exclaimed, even though I wasn't supposed to be surprised. I looked up, looked all around, but no one anywhere near enough to have nipped in, pinched the hat and nipped off again, not during the matter of seconds it had taken me to fetch the errant hat, anyway.

`Oh, this is getting daft,' I said. I dropped the hat into the box, closed the lid waited and -

Another hat appeared on my head. I reached up, grabbed it, started to examine it and then let out a cry of alarm, for it took just a split second for the fuzzy cells to register what the hands had felt on their way down with this latest prize.

`Ohmegod!' I gasped and twitched my head quickly from side to side. `Aaaargh! I choked, as the shoulder length tresses flicked in and out of my view in time to my motions. Shoulder length! My hair was never severely short, but shoulder length? Anyway - and this registered last of all, which may surprise you, but then you weren't there and it wasn't you it happened to, so keep your surprise thoughts to yourself - anyway, my hair was a sort of dark brown.

Not any more it wasn't. Now it was a sort of straw blonde. And wavy.

Very wavy.

Nearly curly, in fact.

I suddenly felt a strange tightening sensation in my chest and, for an instant and a half, thought I was starting to have a heart attack. Until I realised that the tightness was coming from outside, not in. I didn't want to look down, but I knew I had to, squinting to see inside the open neck of my thin casual shirt.

`Oh no!' I groaned. `No, not that, please!' Bad grammar that, should have said "those".

With trembling fingers, I undid another button and peeled the flimsy material back an inch or so. In a flash, I clasped it back to my throat and a sort of strangled squeak came out, probably via my nose, for I'd clamped my mouth tight shut in horror.

`Sneeeaaarkk!' I managed. Original, but not too helpful. `Fuck it!' Not much better, really, if at all. More intelligible maybe. `Fukkit! Fukkitfukkitfukkitfukkit!' I moaned, stamping my right foot in what was really, now I come to think of it, total, disbelieving, abject terror.

`Aaaarrgghhh!' I threw the hat away from me and it landed on the cinder path, the hard rim scattering a few loose stones. My horrified eyes grew rounder and went slowly from it to the box and then all the way back again. Waste of time - and effort. Nothing had changed, well, not in the last few seconds, anyway. The box sat there empty, like some gaping primeval mouth, whilst the hat sat upright, looking very much like it was issuing me a challenge.

`Aaaaah!' I said then. `I get it now!' Per-link! Per-lonk! I swung round, put the lid back on the box, then stood up and walked across the pathway towards the hat. `You stay out of the box now, you little sod,' I said, `at least 'til I get to the bottom of this.' It was easy, once you knew the answer - keep the hat out of the box and no more extra hats. I felt on top of my head, on sudden impulse. No, as I'd thought, no new top covering.

Except that the thick blonde mane was very new.

`This is not funny,' I said aloud. An elderly couple, who had been slowly making their way along the path, unnoticed by me whilst I was preoccupied with hats, hair and boxes, gave me a sideways look, but then carried on as if the sight of a bloke with shoulder length, curly women's hair was quite normal in Stacey Park. Which, of course, it wasn't.

Whereas ...

A bloke wearing slightly flared and very female accented slacks, beneath which a pair of patent shoes now protruded, a silky sort of blouse instead of a man's shirt and a very smart, if casual ladies' jacket ...

That was quite okay, wasn't it? Much more normal! Especially if aging eyes hadn't been able to distinguish the decidedly masculine features amidst the general confusion. I raised my hand to my face and then my brain really did go into overload mode and, if the little men in white coats had at that moment appeared running across the grass, believe me when I say I would have run to them with open arms and put the straitjacket on myself.

I woke up sitting on the bench, the hatbox by my side, lid firmly closed and yes, another hat perched firmly on top of my now seriously blonde and curly head.

`Ooh, no-on!' I groaned and now even my voice was different. Instinctively, my hand flew to my groin and I let out a long sigh of relief when I encountered the familiar mound, except the sigh became a little whinny, as I realised that the old familiar had become a little less prominent and considerably less familiar.

I pulled at the waistband of my skirt - skirt? - and thrust a hand downwards. Ohmygosh! Still male there, but only just. What was happening here? Crazy thoughts careered around inside a skull that had now lost its traffic control system, colliding randomly, denting themselves, rolling over and, in some cases, driving into brick walls and stalling.

Skirt!

I took a deep breath and removed my hand, suddenly conscious of the fact that the site of a blonde female, slumped with legs apart on a park bench and apparently touching herself up in broad daylight, in the middle of a city park, might - just might - be the subject of more than casual passing interest.

Sitting up, I looked at that skirt. Let's deal with one thing at a time, I reasoned, trying to find the little route marker that said "logic". There wasn't a skirt there just now, only trousers. Admittedly very feminine trousers, but definitely trousers, two legs, one of mine in each of them. My legs, whose trousers?

Question no longer valid. trousers gone and my legs - except they never looked like this before - were sticking out from under the hem of a knee length black skirt and were now clad in black stockings. I knew they were stockings, rather than tights, because I recognised the pull of the garter straps.

Now, before you go jumping to any preconceptions here, let's just leave me and my stocking clad legs on that bench and take a time-out, because I don't want you getting any ideas about my sex life that had no basis in fact. Okay, I'd worn stockings before, but at fancy dress stuff, mostly back during my university days.

Hallowe'en, Vicars and Tarts, St Trinian's Night, Rag Week Pub Crawl and of course, The Rocky Horror Picture Show - satisfied now? Witch, schoolgirl, tart been there, got the teeshirt and the stockings and had been about as convincing as Adolf Hitler in full dress uniform at the local synagogue, though maybe a little more popular.

So, stockings, eh? And pretty top quality stuff, if I was any judge of these things and I'd encountered stockings first hand from both sides of the trenches, so to speak. Stockings, garters (or suspenders, as we call them in England), a skirt, a bra -

Yike! A bra! And now my newly aquired breasts looked as though they were grateful of its presence, because I could see, beyond doubt, that they had grown considerably since my first tentative inspection of them. This was getting worse by the minute.

Much worse!

For one thing, I always keep my wallet, with cash and credit cards, licence, that sort of stuff, in the inside pocket of my jacket. My jacket - the jacket it had become - now had no such pocket, so I now had no wallet. And, by obvious extension of that fact, I was now penniless. I closed my eyes and fought to get my breathing back under control; for one thing, the way my bosom now rose and fell was nothing less than disconcerting.

After a few minutes of trying, without much luck, to reassemble the wreckage of my mind, I opened my eyes again and looked around the park. There were one or two more people in sight now, but they were just ordinary workaday people, going about their business, taking the chance for a breath of fresh air and none of them were close enough to be remotely interested in this distressed looking blonde female I had become.

I had no idea what had happened/was happening to me and no idea what to do about it - at least, about correcting it - but I did at least think I now knew what had caused it. How it had caused it was another matter entirely, but at least I was pretty sure I had the victim. I had it, because it was sitting on my head.

I'd almost been sure the previous time, when I'd refused to put the earlier hat back in the box, thinking that the act of closing it up in the box was what triggered the appearance of its successor, as that had seemed to be how it worked. By not putting the damned thing away, I'd reasoned, I'd at least halt the process.

Wrong. The hat/hats had no patience. So ...

It had to be that it was actually my taking the hat off that generated the forming of the next hat and, with it, a further transmorphing of my physique and clothes. Very interesting concept and one which normally would have intrigued me from a scientific point of view, but being the centre of all this generated more horror than curiosity. A whole lot more!

Why was this happening to me? I mean, why me?

Get a hold of yourself man. Huh! I looked myself up and down again.

Hah-hah-hah-hah -

Ha-ha-ha-

I found myself rocking backwards and forwards, laughing hysterically, maybe for two minutes, maybe for longer. Tears streamed down my face. Man? Hah-hah-ha! What a joke. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh my! My sides were hurting. I couldn't stop myself ...

I stopped, suddenly.

The sight of the hat laying on the ground in front of my feet was plenty enough to sober me up.

`Oh shit!' I hissed, bending forward to pick up the accursed object, reaching with my other hand to feel the top of my head. `Oh no!' I wailed, for there was no disputing that I'd managed to laugh the latest hat off my head. With a low gurgling scream, I tried to get the bloody thing back on agaiu, but too late.

`Now I think I'm really losing it,' I whispered, as the errant hat landed on top of what I quickly realised was a very nice and quite chic felt hat, with slightly assymetrical brim and what felt like some sort of small plume set in one side of the band. Very chic, that is, for a woman.

Which is what, I realised, I was now damned near enough, as a sudden twinge in my groin area signalled a further diminishing of what was left of my manhood.

`Ohmygod!' I said loudly. `Now I've got two hats!' I brought the earlier hat back down into my field of vision and studied it, furiously trying to think again. Two hats, one of which was on my head, and one hatbox. Probably now empty - no, not probably, definitely. Empty.

Because ...

The hat I was now holding in my hands was supposed to go into the box, like its predecessors.

`I wonder,' I mused, addressing the hat in my hands, `I wonder what would happen if I didn't put you back in the box at all, eh? That'd maybe queer your pitch, especially as your little friend is still on my head. Confuded hat - hats?' I grinned, idiotically. `Good,' I said, firmly, `then that makes three of us.'

Okay, I thought to myself, so assuming that the act of removing the hat is what brings the next hat and - Eeeek! I noticed suddenly how my breasts had now changed again.

`You gotta be joking!' I gasped, addressing no one in particular, plus the hats. `I can't walk around with these! I'll injure my spine, for crying out loud!' In truth, it wasn't that bad. Don't ask me specific sizes, because I couldn't have been sure then and I can't really remember now, but I'd seen bigger busts on women. Not many, admittedly, but I had seen them.

However, what I now had was more than enough for me, I thought and then thought again. What the hell was I saying - any bust was more than enough for me. I wasn't supposed to have a bust. I was a man.

Only the evidence before me, as I once again studied myself, seemed to point otherwise and the word "was" could only be applied to my masculinity as in past tense. I had been a man; I now was a woman, or near enough not to make much difference. Looking furtively all around, to make sure no one was watching, I felt under the hem of my skirt.

Bloody hell, when did that hem get that much shorter?

I groaned and snatched my hand back from the front of the flimsy little g-string panties I now wore.

`Bugger!' I cursed. `Well, actually I said something a bit stronger than that, from what I recall, but that was something certainly beyond me at the moment. What was left of my organ certainly wouldn't be up to that any longer, yet there was till no actual female opening. In fact, I was very nearly like the toy dollies my little sister used to play with - sexless down there.

`Well, just as well,' I muttered, turning to look back at the hat box. Something was niggling away at me. I could refuse to put the old hat back in the box, but that wouldn't stop me maybe losing the one from the top of my head again anyway and I didn't know just what effect having two hats out for fresh air simultaneously might have. I licked my lips, which had suddenly felt very dry and tasted something sweet. Sheesh! Lipstick!

I just had this funny idea that I didn't want to find out what would happen if I didn't put this hat where it wanted to go, so, carefully holding the one on my head, I manoevred the lid off the box and made to put its compadre inside, only to stop when I saw the box was not, in fact, as empty as I'd been certain it would be.

Putting the hat back onto the bench for a moment, I reached in, with trembling fingers, and drew out a small handbag, the sort Americans would call a purse. I narrowed my eyes and looked at it for several seconds and then, remembering my original mission, quickly dropped it into my lap, thrust the now surplus hat into the box and pressed the lid firmly into place.

`A handbag!' I'd seen that damned play more than a few times over the years. In the Importance of Being Ernest it had always brought a great roar of laughter from the auditorium. It was a bit flat here.

I looked at the little black velvet covered bag for quite a little while and then realised it was probably okay to open it. It was obviously in the box for me to find, so ...

Besides, I thought, grimly, however much worse opening it could make things, the point of no return was now a speck on the distant horizon behind me. I looked down and along the length of my legs and sighed. On a woman they were to kill for, long, shapely, the heels -

`Ohmigod!' I blurted out. The heels looked impossible, like twin daggers, long enough to spear to a man's heart the supposed easy way, via his stomach. How could feet even stand being contorted into such an arch, let alone put up with being stood on as well? Trouble was, I knew, I was soon going to have to find that out, because whatever else, I couldn't spend the rest of my life sitting on this bench.

But one thing at a time, the little voice was saying, deep from within what remained of my sanity, which was probably right then huddling somehwre as far back in the back of my skull as it could. Sanity is, after all, supposed to be sane and the sanest place to be from all this was as far out of reach as possible.

Okay, I thought, so one thing at a time. Open the bag.

I did so, popping the little clasp and folding back the stiffened flap, cringing as if a snake might suddenly rise up. Nothing of the sort.

Nothing of any sort.

Nothing happened.

It was just, after all, an ordinary handbag - well, ordinary apart from the fact that it seemed to have materialised from wherever into a box that was supposed to be empty. I peered inside and what I saw made me breathe a sigh of relief.

`Well, hooray for some things!' I exclaimed, drawing out the small fold of banknotes. I counted them, purple twenties, brown tens and four garish fifties. Five hundred quid in all.

`Not bad,' I muttered. `At least I won't have to let this body starve to death.'

`I looked further into the purse and found a credit card, which I turned over and examined closely. It certainly seemed genuine enough, as did the folding driver's licence I took out from the little bag next, along with another printed sheet that I smoothed out and saw was a bank statement, only three days old, showing that Miss Christine Beckett had just over two thousand pounds in her bank, thus making the little rectangle of plastic quite a powerful ally, as the name on that tallied with the statement and licence details.

`Hmmmm,' I mused, `very curious.' Which may seem to have been and probably was, a stupid thing to say, in the light of everything that had happened to me in the past matter of minutes, but to me, Christopher Beckett, to find all these documents for a Christine of that ilk, well, hit me over the hed with a red stiletto shoe if you think I'm wrong, honey, but somehow this is stretching coincidence just a little bit far, don't you think?

Which meant that whatever the hat was doing/had done to me was almost certainly not random and that whoever/whatever was behind it all, they weren't doing this as some kind of punishment, because giving a woman two and a half thousand pounds, especially whilst the shops were still open -

I stopped myself short, shaking myself mentally. No, that was just the sort of stupid, sexist joke that was okay down the pub with the lads, but which seemed just a teensie bit hollow right now. No, the money and the card were there to make sure I neither starved, nor slept on the streets, at least for the time being. I could also buy something slightly more suitable than what I was now wearing, for the very tight blouse, fighting a losing battle with my new superstructure, jutted through the open front of the jacket and with a neckline that was now so low as to be almost indecent.

The skirt came only half way down my thighs, the shoes were impossible, my nails - have I mentioned them lately, if at all? - were long, red and beautifully tapered, by blonde hair now hung half way down my back and I peered out at the world from beneath a curtain of eyelashes you could paint ceilings with.

Putting it bluntly, apart from carrying a placard, I was doing all I could to advertise the blatant sexuality of an available bimbo.

`Whoa there, sexy.' The young man slowed his bicycle as he came abreast - literally - of me and his voice cut through my inner deliberations. He grinned a grin that didn't need words and his machine was wobbling alarmingly.

`Fuck off, creep!' I spat, before he could get another word out. He wobbled again and nearly fell off, but the intense look of evil on my face must have convinced him and he quickly picked up sufficient steerage speed again.

`Your loss, darlin',' he called back, over his shoulder. My hand dropped to my groin and I scowled. He didn't know how true that was and I just hoped that whatever was left down there at least still functioned on the more basic plumbing level, because my bladder had suddenly started to send urgent complaint post-its to my brain.

It didn't - function, I mean. I managed to walk across to the public toilet block with surprising ease, given the shoes on which I was now perched, eased myself and that damned box into a cubicle in the ladies side, flushing with embarrassment in casee there was anyone else in there, hitched up my skirt (not a long journey that) and slipped the excuse for panties down around my knees.

I reasoned that, with what little aiming equipment I had left, standing to pee would be asking for trouble and, whilst having to sit like a female, that had to be preferable to splashing shoes, stockings and walls. The hat box could look after itself, as far as I was concerned. In the event, it didn't matter, because, try as I might, nothing came out.

`Oh, good grief!' I groaned. `Whatever next?' Exploding internal reservoir, the pains down below suggested. I leaned over and examined my remaining little stump, for the first time seeing it and wished I hadn't. `Oh no!'

Oh yes, it seemed, for the pathetic little remnant had no hole through its middle. About half an inch long, if that, it was totally sealed off. Whatever was inside wanting to come out could, it appeared, go right on wanting, for this was a most definite no through road we had here.

Another spasm hit me and I clutched my side, giving out a low growl of pain. Between my feet and the cubicle door, the hat box sat inertly, black, silent ... mocking me. It, it seemed, knew that I, it seemed, knew there was only one possible way out of this impasse and it seemed to be waiting for me to resign myself to the inevitable.

`Oh, what the hell!' I hissed, through gritted teeth and a rapidly thickening haze of pain in front of my eyes. I reached up, grabbed the hat and snatched it from my head.

`There!' I exclaimed. `Happy now?'

There was a sound like a dull "plop" and I felt the next hat materialise on my head, even through the by now incredibly thick mane of hair. I experienced another lurching sensation in my stomach and then -

`Aaaaaah!' I gasped, as a cascade of liquid gushed from between my legs, hitting the water in the bowl with a sound like Niagara Falls in flood season. `Ooohhhhh!' Ye gods, the relief was indescribable and my feelings at that moment could not be relayed in any words that would do them justice. I let out a long sigh and just sat there, groaning with sheer pleasure until the torrent slowed, via stream, trickle and, finally, a few little drips. I finally managed to look at the hat I'd just removed.

`You knew, you bastard,' I said, accusingly, but now with a feeling akin to warmth. That much relief can have that much effect, even on the sourest of tempers. `And that was a close run thing. Far too close.'

I used some of the cash to book into a room in a smallish hotel, but not before I'd used my credit card to buy some slightly less obvious clothes, into which I quickly changed, returning to the sanctuary of the public toilets to effect the tramsformation from near slut to somewhat more respectable female.

On impulse, I also picked up some makeup, though I didn't know how I was going to fare when it came to using it. I presumed that I could practice in the privacy of my room, once I had organised that and perhaps tone down the image that the loo mirror had revealed to me once my bladder had returned me enough self control to examine myself.

Short of finding a hair salon, there was little I could do immediately about the mane of blonde curls that now tell almost to my buttocks and swam about my shoulders, but the really strident eyeshadow and lipstick had to go and the sooner the better.

Now, I can sense two questions coming up here. Number one, why didn't I just go straight home and number two, why didn't I go straight back to the shop from which I'd bought the first hat? Shock? Lack of time to rationalise.

Neither.

I did consider my own flat, but the keys had been in my original jacket and had somehow disappeared along with its original form and my little retreat had two locks, one of them a security job. Breaking in there would be nigh on impossible and bound to arouse attention and I didn't want to be faced with questions later as to why this somewhat over the top blonde had been poking around outside my flat - after I'd got my old body back, I mean.

As for the shop, I did go back before I went clothes shopping and guess what? No, I half expected that it would somehow magically have disappeared, but it was still there all right. There - but closed, with a little sign on the door saying it was half day closing that day. How quaint and olde worlde. Hardly anywhere has half day closing anymore and the shops in the main street were still full as I went about hammering dents in "my" bank account.

Well, whoever had provided that account paid dearly for it, as I spent a total of nearly seven hundred pounds in total. Quite why I had suddenly become so enthusiastic, I had no idea, apart from maybe a desire to hit whoever was behind all this where I could hurt him most. Seeing as I wasn't witih stiletto heel range, I settled for his pocket!

The hotel room was quite spacious, considering, and I laid out my new purchases, hanging some in the wardrobe and folding away a few of the things that usually are folded away, then sat down in front of the dressing mirror and set about removing my makeup to replace it with a toned down version, courtesy, hopefully, of a small beauty guide magazine I picked up in the newsagents' at the end of the precinct.

I wasn't fooling myself it would be easy first time, but I'd bought remover and reckoned that a little experimentation would soon get me the hang. Except for one little unforeseen problem. My existing makeup wouldn't come off!

I slapped on remover and scrubbed away with cotton pads for all I was worth, but, after ten minutes almost flattening my eyeballs, I was forced to admit the truth. Short of taking a blow torch to my face, the way it now looked was the way it was going to stay - at least until I finally managed to get my old self restored.

I stared at the mirror and the face of desire stared back at me, so we spent the next few minutes getting to know each other better. Hi face. Hi face. Why do you have to look so bimbo-ish? Huh, who you calling a bimbo?

Actually, as face and I became better aquainted, I started to realise that it wasn't that bad. True, if I'd walked into one of the bigger hotels, especially dressed the way I had ended up in the park, I'd have been thrown out for attempted soliciting and I'd turned heads several times whilst I was shopping, but it was a beautiful face under all that warpaint.

The body was pretty impressive, too. I stripped to my underwear and backed away from the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door, until I could see myself fully and it was lucky I no longer had any male parts inside what passed as my panties, because they would have burst the gauzy fabric in seconds. I would have died to get my hands on this body, though getting my hands and every other part of me inside was a somewhat different matter, of course.

OK, I thought, selecting a pretty tailored blouse in pale blue satin like material, so I'm beautiful and tall and have a figure most women would rip my eyes out to have and I was handling it all pretty well, considering, but the question still remained - why? Not just "why me?", because that answered nothing if I solved it, but rather "why at all?"

Why take a perfectly ordinary bloke and give him (sell him, if you want to quibble) a hat that becomes a series of changing hats and, with that, changes him into this? It had to be a mistake, but even so, how did the hat(s) work? I still had the latest hat perched in my hair, a perky little thing that somehow reminded me of fifties movies.

`Right,' I said to it, reaching up, `let's see what happens next.' I snatched it off, shrugged, crossed the room to where the box sat on a chair and put it out of sight. Then I walked back to the long mirror and stood in front of it, waiting.

Waiting.

I tapped one toe. And waited some more.

After ten minutes, I nodded to myself and turned, hatless, away from the mirror.

`Well,' I mused, picking up the velvet skirt and stepping carefully into it, `I suppose there wasn't much left that you could do, was there?'

`So hat's hat, is it?' I giggled, zipped myself up and started thinking about which of the three pairs of new shoes I should wear for dinner.

The hotel dining room was half empty, but I still attracted enough attention - too much, for my liking - but the one great advantage was that the three waiters fought to get my order to me and everything arrived piping hot. Not only that, the food was astonishingly good for an establishment that wasn't quite out of the top drawer.

After dinner, I slipped into the jacket the hats had so kindly provided me and went for a walk, back through streets peppered with evening pub goers and such, through the end of the main shopping area and into the street where I'd last seen the shop - the shop.

Yes, it was still there, its windows now in darkness, the doorway in black shadow, as I was now, standing beneath a handy tree just down the way and across the street from it. For two hours I stayed there, watching, waiting, not sure of what I was expecting, but ready to confront anyone who came out of, or tried to go into, that door.

I felt my nails itching for someone, anyone - hell hath no fury like a woman formed, not when she's been formed against her bloody will, anyway!

I found myself back in the hotel bar just before eleven o'clock and sat quietly in a corner with a drink, musing, pondering, fretting, rebuffing a couple of approaches from very hopeful young men and a much older one who really couldn't have hoped, could he? The bar apparently stayed open until the last resident retired, or until the barman collapsed from exhaustion, but the arrival of a group of four besuited men, obviously slightly more than just oiled, convinced me it was time to retire.

I bought a small bottle of brandy, some cola and a can of lemonade and beat a retreat, ignoring the leers and slurred suggestions as I passed by the "gang of lads", nodding to the doorman in reception and taking the stairs instead of waiting for the antiquated lift.

Two thirty in the morning arrived, my brandy departed and I sat on the bed, wondering why I didn't feel in the least bit tipsy. That much alcohol would normally have me reeling and staggering, but now I seemed to be totally unaffected by what I'd drunk. Hm, interesting.

I didn't even feel tired, I realised, but I stretched out my legs - those lovely long legs - and closed my eyes. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.

Morning.

I woke instantly, coming back to consciousness without any of my usual waking torpor, and sat up, hoping ...

No, same old body - correction, same new body. Same legs, same breasts, same wild explosion of blonde hair. On a whim, I crossed to the hatbox and opened it. Nothing. The last hat had departed this reality as surely as its predecessors. Oh well.

I wasn't going back to the shop to change the hat, after all, I reasoned, I was going back to change what the hat/hats had caused.

`Excuse me, miss,' I muttered, grimacing, `I wish to complain about this body that I aquired from your emporium only yesterday.' There was a television comedy sketch in there somewhere, I thought, ruefully. Only right now it wasn't really quite comical.

I went down to breakfast, came back to my room and changed again, deciding that the slinky trousers looked less likely to draw attention than any of the skirts, the longest of which barely skimmed my knees. Why hadn't I bought at least one longer one, I asked myself? What had I been thinking about?

And what on earth had prompted me to think these trousers would be less eyecatching? Tight was an understatement. The fabric stretched to cling to every curve, of which I now had plenty more than my fair share. I should have tried these on in the store ...

Suddenly, I straightened my shoulders and stepped back a pace. Damn it! I thought.

`Damn it!' I echoed aloud. `If you've got it, flaunt it!' And I certainly had "it", that was beyond any argument. I tidied up my things and looked around the room, picking up my little handbag from the dressing table as I went, took one last look as I picked up the empty hatbox and set off on my journey for retribution, deliberately swaying with every high heeled step of the way.

`Look all you want, boys!' I whispered, as I made my way down the street. And girls, I added, mentally, seeing the not quite covert look flashed in my direction by a very striking thirties something woman as she stepped from a taxi outside one of the big insurance buildings!

I half expected the shop still to be closed, but no, as I click-clicked along the pavement I saw that the sign had been turned around again and the door opened easily under my touch. I stepped inside, closed it quietly behind me and dropped the locking lever on the antiquated latch mechanism. Right, I thought, this is it.

`Right!' I said as the saleslady of the previous day stepped through a curtain from the rear of the little store. `I think you've got some explaining to do!'

She smiled, nodding. `Of course,' she said, levelly. `Miss Beckett, isn't it? Come one through; we've been expecting you. You're the final one - the others have been here since we first opened. You did lock the door behind you, didn't you?'

She turned away again, holding the curtain aside as a sign that I was expected to obey her request without demur. For several seconds I stood and stared at her, but the pleasant welcoming smile did not waver a millimetre.

With a sigh, and clutching the damned hatbox tighter to my bosom, I stepped forward, little realising that there were not just "others" here, but other "others", elsewhere, whose predicaments were about to become even worse than mine.

 

 

Part Two - Booted and Suited

 

The box arrived a week after Kerri left. Marty stared at the handwriting on the label, recognising it instantly, for there was no doubting those looping ends that were so typical of Kerri. For an hour, he left it standing, unopened on the kitchen table, a n elongated cube of cardboard, about two feet square and three high, brown packaging tape crisscrossing its surface in a blatant challenge to the postal service to damage the packaging.

Why he didn't just open it straight away, Marty couldn't say, but there was a certain perverse thrill in wondering just what secret the box might contain and trying to fathom out just what might have triggered Kerri into making contact again, even if it were only by Royal Mail. His mind wandered as he conjured up all sorts of images, mostly pictures of Kerri, already fuzzy at the edges.

Marty shook his head. It was no good, he would have to open the box, face up to whatever it was she had decided was worth the cost of the postage. He doubted it would be something he wanted; more likely it was something she had found which had stirred s ome little need to get in one final jab at him.

It took a minute or two to cut open the top of the box and there, laying on top of the tight packing of white cellulose chips, lay a pale blue envelope, addressed simply to him by his first name and again, unmistakably, in her handwriting. Marty picked it up and tore open the flap.

Dear Marty, (he read) I know you think I was being unreasonable in what I asked and I probably was, but I didn't mean it the way it sounded. On the other hand, we had to get clear of each other, at least for the foreseeable future. I truly hope it won't be permanent, as you are a very special person to me.

To prove how much I still love and think about you, I came across the enclosed outfit and just knew I had to get it for you. You always look and act so good when you are being your feminine other self and I know how much you love the exotic. Well, th ey don't come much more exotic than this, so enjoy.

Love now and forever, Kerri

P.S.: The funny pen-like object is a special device that activates some sort of lacing if you haven't got a partner handy to lace up for you (you haven't, have you?) The woman was a bit unclear and said it only works when the outfit is all in place and warms to body temperature, so she couldn't demonstrate it. I think you twist the top clockwise to activate and the other end to release. There's a sort of pocket at the front of the corset to keep it in between times.

Have fun! K.

Marty furrowed his brow in puzzlement. What on earth was she on about? Okay, so Kerri had always been understanding about his "dressing up" habit, as she always referred to it - indeed, they had met at a fancy dress party at the university, when Marty had gone as Cleopatra of the Nile and his former room-mate, Jon, had been dressed as Madonna. Jon, Marty had subsequently discovered, was actually gay, unlike himself, but that had never been allowed to interfere with their friendship and mutual enjoyment of clothing slightly more exotic than might normally be expected to find its way into a male wardrobe.

Kerri had been totally captivated by the sight of two young men whom she had originally taken to be real females and even more astonished to discover that Marty was totally heterosexual. As their relationship blossomed, so did her participation in his lit tle rituals, but then, quite suddenly, she had seemed to draw back from him. When Marty tried to discover the reason for this change of attitude, she had become almost evasive.

`You really need to make up your mind, one way or the other,' she had said. `You can't have the best of both worlds all your life.' And then, one evening, when Marty returned to the flat, she was simply not there, just a brief note to the effect that th ey both needed to sort their lives out and she would be in touch again one day ... maybe.

And now, after a week, the box and this curious letter. Folding the single sheet and placing it to one side, Marty tentatively reached into the packing chips. His fingers touched something smooth and cool, explored a little, thought they understood what it was they were tracing and then floundered, uncertain. He withdrew his hand, searched out a black rubbish sack and carefully scooped out handfuls of the cellulose, slowly revealing something black and shiny, possibly, he thought, made of leather.

Ten minutes later, heart beating much faster, Marty had the outfit laid out on the table, its original box now by the kitchen door, the sack of chippings stuffed inside it. It certainly looked like leather, he thought, but he was certain it wasn't. At le ast, it wasn't like any leather he had ever seen before. Thick rubber, maybe? But no, there was none of the familiour heavy aroma of latex; in fact, the stuff gave off no odour at all.

Marty picked up the corset and studied it, carefully. It was beautifully made and designed, when fully laced, to give a real hourglass figure. The bust cups were padded with some sort of pliant, lifelike filling and there were two halter straps reaching up to join a wide, buckled collar. At the bottom, there was a total of eight suspender straps and Kerri had even included a pair of brand new fishnet stockings to be worn with it all.

The boots were quite incredible too. There was a sort of zip fastening at the back and laces at the front to ensure a snug fit and the pointed toes had been just slightly squared off. The heels, he estimated, were about four and a half inches, well withi n what Marty had grown used to walking in. He turned one of the boots over in his hand. For the thickness of the material from which it was made, it was extremely light, he thought.

The gloves were designed to be laced tightly too and reached the length of Marty's arms. He held them up, shivering slightly at the way the light danced on the black rippling surface and breathed in, deeply. Damn her, he thought, fiercely, she knew exact ly how much this would turn him on!

There were two more items in the bottom of the box. The first, as promised in the note, was the black pen-like device, a tiny gold band indicating where top met bottom. Taking it in his hands, Marty twisted, clockwise. Nothing happened, but then Kerri h ad said something about it not working until the entire ensemble was in place and warmed to the body. He put it down on the table and examined the corset again.

Strange, there was no sign of any mechanism for the control to operate. Perhaps the woman had just been having Kerri on. Marty lowered the garment once more and reached into the bottom of the box, drawing out two soft black straps, whose purpose, initial ly, eluded him, until he noticed the little fastening studs at the front and back of the corset's lower hem. These were intended as crotch straps, running back to front and to either side of the wearer's genitalia, whether they be male or female.

`Quite beautiful,' Marty said softly, speaking to the empty room, but also, almost, to the absent Kerri. `And quite irresistable,' he added, half under his breath. `But I bet the damned boots don't fit, even if the rest does.'

However, as he was soon to find out, Marty was quite wrong.

The corset opened and closed at the front, a row of curious, flat busk fastenings sliding smoothly into place to join the two sections about the wearer's waist. The back lacing was difficult, without help, but Marty persevered until he had managed to close the gap about half way. He remembered what it had said in Kerri's note about the pen device and he tried twisting it, but nothing happened. He sighed and tossed it onto the bed.

Still, it wasn't bad, even so, he mused, running his hands down the smooth fabric at either side of his body. There had not appeared to be any padding, but somehow the garment made his hips seem more flared, more feminine. Nice one, Kerri, he mouthed, silently.

It took a couple of minutes to fit the high collar and lace it snugly about his throat and it was all Marty could do to resist the temptation to see the effect in the wardrobe door mirror, but he knew it was best to wait until he had donned the entire outf it before peeking. Then, maybe, as he had an entire weekend ahead of him, he would add makeup and one of his wigs and maybe take a few pictures with the remote control Nikon. There was still half a roll of film in it, unless he was very much mistaken.

He had shaved his legs only the night before and the stockings slid smoothly up them with no resistance. He clipped each suspender in turn and noticed, with satisfaction, that they needed no adjustment whatsoever. He also noticed that the stockings seeme d to be made of a similar material to the rest of the garments, the mesh made from fine skeins of the gleaming black fabric. Tentatively, Marty tested with thumb and forefinger. Whatever the stuff was, it was very strong, he realised.

The boots were next and they almost purred over the stockings, his feet slipping easily and snugly into them, his instep curved perfectly. He closed the fastener and then spent a few minutes adjusting the laces to a skintight fit, before standing to test his balance in them. He nodded, satisfied and took a few practice steps. Just right.

Finally, Marty drew on the gloves. They seemed to need very little smoothing out, covering his arms like an incoming wave of black oil and only minor tightening of the laces was needed. He flexed his fingers and the mauve and green ripples danced up from them, bringing a satisfied smile to his face. He was ready for the unveiling and stepped towards the wardrobe.

The reflection that jumped out at him was unbelievable. But for the lack of makeup and wig, it could have been a real girl and somehow his own, bare features seemed to be almost feminine even without any adornment. He breathed as deeply as the corset wou ld allow and reached underneath to attach the two crotchstraps, all the while conscious that his male genitalia were in plain view and somewhat spoiling the overall illusion. Why wasn't there a single wide strap to cover them, he thought?

He turned towards the dressing table, wondering if any of his black panties would go with the new clothing. There was a lycra, PVC-look pair that would do at a pinch, he knew. Halfway across the room he stopped, his eye catching the little pen device sti ll lying where he had tossed it onto the bed. Pursing his lips, Marty paused, reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his gloved fingers. Slowly, he turned the top.

There was a sudden noise, like the hiss of air escaping from a punctured tyre and the switch fell from his shocked grasp as everything suddenly tightened about him in the same instant. The air was forced from his lungs and he tottered backwards, grabbing at the bedside chair for support.

`Wh-aaa !' he started, but stopped in mid phrase, for the tightening sensation stopped as quickly as it had started. `Phoaahhh!' he gasped, letting out what air remained in his lungs and slowly stood erect. `Ye Gods!'

Marty stared down at himself, unable to believe the transformation. At least another three inches, maybe more, had disappeared from his waistline and his hips seemed to have expanded even further, though that was doubtless an optical illusion, he realised . His legs, never a bad shape to begin with, had also adopted a sensationally feminine silhouette and his feet looked strangely small. Even his hands seemed narrower, his fingers longer.

`Bloody hell,' he muttered, tottering back to the mirror. `Oh, what?' He leaned closer, staring at himself in disbelief. `Must be lack of oxygen to the brain,' he muttered. `I'm just hallucinating, that's all.'

Ten minutes later, he wasn't so sure. Seated before the smaller dressing table mirror, his breathing now back to as near normal as the strictures of the corset would permit, Marty was forced to admit it was no hallucination, but there was no power or argu ment known to science that could account for the final stage of his transformation.

His hair was still fairly short, it was true, but it seemed to have styled itself into an attractive pageboy bob, a little longer than an urchin cut, but unarguably feminine, nonetheless. That in itself was hard enough to swallow, but the change in his fa ce was even more dramatic.

Starting from his eyebrows, which had grown thinner and more arched, he worked downwards to the eyes, the thick lashes that were as heavy as any false pair he had ever tried and the heavily shaded lids and pencil liner that gave him the current showgirl lo ok. And then there were his lips, cherry red and looking fuller and wider, so that his nose seemed shorter and narrower too, even upturned slightly at its tip.

It just wasn't possible.

Unless ...

It had to be the pen, he realised, turning to find where he had dropped it. Yes, that was it. Turning the top had released some kind of gas, an hallucenogenic of some description. Typical of Kerri's strange sense of humour, he thought. She would have k nown the effect this outfit would have had on Marty's alter ego and a quick whiff of whatever it was would be enough to trigger off auto suggestion - a sort of drug induced wish-fulfillment.

He stood up again, strutted across the room and admired his new self in the bigger mirror again, his red mouth curving upwards into a delighted smile.

`Thanks Kerri,' he said out loud, but stopped at the sound of his voice. It seemed lighter, somehow, higher pitched and softer - feminine, even. Marty laughed. Wow, whatever drug the pen released was certainly effective.

`Never mind,' he trilled, delightedly. `I'll just enjoy being Martine more than ever, until it wears off, however long that might be.' He reached down and took hold of his limp shaft, expecting it to stir quickly at his touch, the way it always did when he was dressed en femme, but there was no reaction at all. Puzzled, he stared down, wondering why his organ seemed to look smaller than usual and then he giggled.

`Bitchy touch,' he whispered. `A drug to make me think I look like the girl I dream about being, but something in it which prevents me getting off on the prospect. Damn it, Kerri, that's spiteful. Still, I can wait for it to wear off. Meanwhile, better find some panties.'

Four hours later, the delectable Martine was not quite so sanguine about what was happening to "her", for there seemed to be increasingly less of the original Marty and more of his feminine alter ego.and the flaccid manhood now hidden by the black panties continued to refuse to respond to any stimulus. With a sigh, Marty/Martine walked over to the bed and picked up the pen key, twisting it anticlockwise.

Nothing happened and she cursed, under her breath. She let out a little snort and tried again, but, as she twisted the top clockwise first, the outfit gave another little hiss and tightened a fraction more. Martine let out a little yelp of fear and dropp ed the pen again, tottering forward as even the feet of the boots seemed to contract and the heels rise another fraction of an inch.

Her hands flew to her face and the gloved fingers brushed aside strands of hair that had not only not been that long a few seconds before, but were now a whole lot lighter in colour. She turned slowly and approached the long mirror, wide eyed at the appar ition that in turn walked towards her in the glass.

The hair was definitely at least two inches longer now, maybe three and the eyes seemed bigger and wider. The mouth, too, was fuller and pouted back. Shaking with fear, Martine looked down at herself again and sobbed at what she saw. Another inch at lea st had gone from around her waist and added itself to her hips. Slowly, she turned, displaying the naked buttocks at either side of the black panties.

`Oh lord, no!' she groaned, for her bottom was far too pronounced to be anything but female. Desperately, she struggled with the laces of the gloves, but they refused to budge. She tried the boots, but the result was the same. Wildly, she reached aroun d to her back, fingers clawing for the laces there, but they seemed to have shrunk to a tight knot.

`Oh sheeeet!' she wailed and tried to release the front fastenings of the corset, but they appeared to have welded themselves immovably. Breath coming in sobs, Martine tottered to the bedroom door, out into the hallway and across into the kitchen. Frant ic fingers scrabbled through the cutlery drawer, finally emerging clutching a large pair of scissors. The blades stabbed and flashed, hacking at the snug black skin, but five minutes of maniacal attack made no impression on the outfit at all.

Sobbing through tears of sheer fright, Martine clattered back into the hallway, her reflection in the mirror by the coatrack seeming to mock her efforts. She stopped, clutching at the doorway of the lounge for support, shaking her head in an attempt to cl ear her fogged brain.

`It's the drug,' she groaned, through clenched teeth. `It has to be. None of this is real at all. Oh, you bitch, Kerri. You bitch!' She drew in a deep breath, or at least tried to, for the corset was exercising a fierce control over her lung capacity . Slowly, she drew herself upright and stepped determinedly into the lounge, crossing to the drinks cabinet. Brandy, or vodka, it didn't matter. She remembered reading somewhere that alcohol could act as a suppressant on most haluconegenic substances.

She gulped a treble, hardly tasting the burning liquid and followed it with another almost as generous and then walked to the sofa and lowered herself stiffly onto it. Closing her eyes, she lay back ... and waited.

Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty ... nothing happened.

`Damn!' she rose unsteadily to her feet again, the heels now a real challenge. It was not possible that they could have grown even higher, but it certainly seemed like it. Must be the effect of the drink, she thought, as she swayed unsteadily back into the bedroom.

She stooped awkwardly and retrieved the pen, holding it gingerly between finger and thumb. It had to be faulty. She tapped it against the knuckles of her left hand and tapped it again. Very slowly, she rotated it back ready to try again, but it had hard ly begun turning before the hissing sound started again.

Melanie recovered consciousness in the middle of the carpeted floor and struggled laboriously back to her feet once again. The pen had rolled under the edge of the bed, but she made no effort to reclaim it again. She stared at it, regarding it as if it wa s a venemous snake and then teetered over to the wardrobe mirror.

`Oh nooo!' But there was no way of denying the truth. The waist was even tinier now, though strangely the feeling of tightness had faded to almost nothing. The shoulders were now narrower, the hair reaching several inches past them and now almost white blonde. the nose had retreated above even larger lips and they huge eyes stared out to either side of it, the massive lashes looking like two basking spiders.

She turned away, trying to ignore the sight of her tiny, booted feet, only two aware that the heels now forced her to walk almost on tiptoe, but there was worse to come. There were sensations now that were unmistakable.

Hands shaking, Melanie peeled the bra cups back as far as they would go, revealing the twin mounds of flesh that had now displaced over half the original padding. In the shadowy recesses, two engorged nipples peered back at her. She gasped, choking back a cough over another cry of horror and her hands flew to the front of her panties.

A bulge, yes, but not what it should have been. Even before she peeled the shiny fabric away, she knew what she was going to find. The limp organ had shrunk to less than a third of its original size and the testicles, in their almost transluscent sac, we re now little larger than tiny grapes. The slender, gloved feminine fingers descended, lifting, probing, prying. tears welled up again as she felt the unmistakable beginnings of a virgin cleft forming down there, into which the shrivelling remnants of the male genitalia were already beginning to retreat.

In a paroxysm of rage, Martine tore at the suspender straps and stockings, but, although they yielded with a little elasticity, they refused to surrender before her onslaught. There was now no doubt at all in her tortured mind; the outfit was fitted to he r permanently. It was indestructible, unreleasable - at least by the switch that was provided for that function - and it was steadily changing her body, metamorphosing her into a real and very beautiful female.

She staggered to the phone in the hall through a mist of tears, grabbing up the receiver on the sixth ring. The voice was all too familiar, unmistakable.

`Kerri!' she screamed. `What the fuck have you done?' There was a brief pause and then Kerri came on the line again, her voice calm and soft.

`I take it you've tried on your present,' she said. `What do you think of it, Martine?'

`What do you mean?' Martine screeched back. `Have you any idea what this bloody stuff does?' Another short silence.

`I've got a pretty good idea what it's supposed to do,' Kerri replied, at last. `Though I must admit, I didn't really believe anything the woman said. It was only when she offered not to accept payment until I was satisfied that I decided to give it a t ry. Even if it was a load of hokum, i thought you'd like the outfit anyway.'

`This is crazy,' Martine wailed, fighting to regain control of her voice. `What is it, some sort of witchcraft, or is it impregnated with some kind of drug?'

`I honestly don't know,' Kerri said, quietly. `I was three parts drunk when I bought it. Like I said, I thought it was a load of bullshit anyway.' Another pause. `But it really does work?'

`Oh yes,' Martine sobbed, `it really does work. You should see me.' There was a gentle laugh from the other end of the line.

`I intend to, beautiful,' Kerri said, very softly. `I'll be there in about an hour. Just be a good girl and make sure the kettle's on. We've got a lot of talking to do, we two girls.'

 

 

Part Three - Head Hunted By A Hat?

As I said earlier, I had no knowledge even of Marty/Martine's existence as I ducked through the curtain, let alone of his particular predicament and, even if I had, I doubt I'd have been able to spare much time for tea and sympathy. I was more interested in my own situation - no, in fact I was only interested in my own situation and, until that was resolved, it was a case of every girl for herself.

I half expected to see a whole row of other "me's" behind that curtain, a collection of identical blonde bimbo types, all looking as dumb and as confused as I was myself, but instead, my guide led me through a couple of very ordinary stock rooms, past a kitchen and toilet and stopped before what I guessed had to be a lift door. She pressed the button to the right of it and the door slid open, confirming my guess.

`Where are we going?' I demanded, hesitating on the point of getting in.

`To get you what you came here for,' she replied, still with that polite smile on her elegant visage.

`My old body back, you mean?' I said. She gave a barely perceptable shrug. Even in that she was elegant, damn her. I felt like the bad girl caught with her knickers around her ankles behind the cycle shed, and she reminded me of a headmistress. Alongside her, I felt slutty, even with my personal choice of clothes.

`Ultimately, I should think so,' she said, evenly, `but I imagine you'd like to know what's happening?'

`Well, yes,' I said, `but I'd as soon settle for getting back to what I was and not bother knowing the reasons.'

`Naturally,' she agreed, indicating with a sideways nod that I really was just stalling, `but meantime, we would be most grateful if you'd at least hear us out.'

`We?' I echoed. `And who might "we" be?'

`Please?' she said. `I promise you'll find out everything in a very short while. Better you hear it all in one go, rather than in snippets. And Miss Beckett - Christine - I promise you that no one here intends you any harm. Quite the opposite, in many ways.'

`It's Chris,' I said, firmly. `Chris Beckett.'

`Of course, Chris,' she said, lips twitching at the corners. `Now, please, can we go down?'

We went down.

The woman who greeted me inside the round walled office could have been a sister to the one who had sold me that damned hat and, for a moment, I thought they might even be twins. Then I started noticing a few differences.

`I'm Magdala Rowan,' she said, indicating for me to take one of the plush chairs on this side of the desk. I sat, automatically and my guide left us alone. I wanted to scream at both of them, but something told me it would be better just to keep my lips zipped, at least for now.

`Chris,' Magdala Rowan began interlocking her fingers and resting her elbows on the highly polished mahogany that formed a wide gulf between us, `we owe you an explanation, obviously, but first an apology.'

`An apology,' I repeated, flatly. `Yes. At least. Not to mention one body, male, Chris Beckett for the use of.'

`Well,' she said, her features softening, `there is that, too, but that's why the apology. You see, we had to effect the changes without asking you first.'

`Oh, and why's that,' I asked, which was, when you think about it, a bloody silly question. She gave me the obvious answer. `Well, of course I wouldn't have agreed, so can I have my old body back now and apology accepted?' Her little smile gave me the answer before her words did.

`Not immediately, I'm afraid,' she said. `Oh, don't worry, the changes aren't irreversible, but it will be a little while before we would be able to start the reversal process. You body wouldn't stand up to the strain yet, you see?'

I didn't see and I said so. I also asked how long.

`Six months!' I screeched, my sultry contralto soaring up into glass shattering frequencies. `You owe me more than a body and an apology, then,' I snapped. `You'll owe me the money I won't be earning whilst I'm looking like this and a lot more for the fact I'll lose everything I've worked up to these past several years.'

`You'll be more than adequately compensated, Chris, I promise you,' Magdala said. `And if you agree to what you've been brought here for, there'll be a lot more in it for you.'

`Like how much?' I'm nothing if I'm not mercenary.

She mentioned a figure and I asked her to repeat it, in case my ears had suddenly gone funny and suddenly I was listening. Like I said, I can be very mercenary.

`Perhaps I can get you something whilst I tell you?' she offered, reaching for a button on the tiny panel built into the veneer of the side trim of her desk. `Tea, coffee? Something stronger, if you like, though you've probably already discovered that alcohol has no noticeable effect on your new body.'

I asked for a large brandy anyway. Call it a placebo, if you like.

 

 

Part Four - The Waist Thins, The Plot Thickens

By the time Kerri finally arrived, more than half an hour later than promised, Marty was no longer in any doubt at all as to his new sexuality - he was now she and she was Martine.

Not only had her breasts and thighs continued to fill out into unmistakably feminine contours, but her legs themselves seemed to have grown in proportion to her torso and her feet shrunk to no more than a size five. Absurdly, the boots appeared to be shrinking with her feet, except for the heels, which retained their original height, the effect of which was to force Martine's feet into an even more stringent arch.

Miserably, she stared down at herself, at the incredibly narrowed waist and the twin globes swelling out of the support cups at the top of the corset. She held out her hands, splaying her fingers inside the caressing gloves, shaking her head as she saw how slender and long they had now come and wondering how the whole outfit could not only force these changes upon her body, but how it continually altered its own dimensions to maintain a perfect fit.

Not only that, she realised, but, apart from the precarious stance the boots were demanding of her feet, the rest of the garments did not feel uncomfortably tight; the strange fabric simply formed itself against her flesh in the manner of a second skin, compressing, but not seeming to force itself upon her - though forcing itself was certainly what it was doing in every other way.

Muttering under her breath, she teetered through into the bedroom, eased herself down onto the bed and curled up in an unhappy little ball, face buried in the crook of one arm. That was how Kerri found her, having let herself in with the door key she had never bothered to return since her departure a week earlier.

`Good lord!' she breathed, when Martine raised her head upon hearing her enter the room. `Oh my!' Martine extended an accusatory finger.

`You knew this was going to happen all along, didn't you?' she almost screamed. `How could you do this to me?' Kerri stepped forward, grasping the extended hand and squeezing it in her own and perched herself on the edge of the mattress.

`I didn't know this would happen,' she whispered. `At least, not in this way. She said the clothes would help you sort out your identity. I guess I sort of assumed it would be a psychological thing. She said that once everything was on and the key mechanism activated, it would be impossible to remove anything for five days and that the corset would get slowly tighter, though not tight enough to cause any physical harm.

`I though that maybe she meant that if you were forced to spend that long a time dressed in female clothes, you'd either decide you were sick and fed up with it, or else maybe the other thing, if you know what I mean.'

Martine stared at her through tear filled eyes.

`Five days?' she echoed. `You mean this lot won't come off for that long? I can't even cut it, at least not with anything I've got around here. Not that it would matter if I could. Look at me!' she wailed, plaintively.

`I'm looking,' Kerri assured her in an awed croak. `And do you realise just how beautiful you are?' Martine screwed her hands into two fists of frustration.

`I don't care about that!' she shouted. `I want to know what sort of black magic, weird science or whatever has done this to me - and I want it reversed, the sooner the better. Always assuming it can be reversed,' she finished, her voice dropping to a whisper.

`Perhaps you'll change back once you can take it all off again,' Kerri suggested.

`Perhaps?' Martine snorted. `Oh great. Perhaps it'll all be okay in another five days and perhaps it won't. What'll I do in the meantime?'

Kerri sat back, forcing a smile onto her face.

`It needn't be that bad,' she said, soothingly. `After all, you've spent complete weekends dressed as a girl, haven't you? And last time was a bank holiday weekend, so it was three days. This is only two more than that.'

`That was different,' Martine sobbed. `That was just a game, a turn on which we both enjoyed. But we also both knew it was just a charade. This is bloody serious. I'm turning into a woman for real.'

`You look as though you've already finished turning, from where I'm sitting,' Kerri said. Her eyes went automatically to the PVC panties. `Those knickers weren't with the outfit,' she said. `Can you get them off, or are they stuck too?' `Oh, I can take them off all right,' Martine snapped. `Not that it'll do me a lot of good, though. Look!' She staggered to her feet and all but ripped the panties down to her ankles, kicking them off in a bitter show of temper. `Look!' she repeated, standing with her hands planted defiantly on her hips.

Kerri looked and her hand flew to her mouth. Martine, who had not been able to bring herself to examine her genitalia for nearly two hours now, slowly lowered her own gaze and could not stifle a groan at what she saw.

Where there had earlier been the shrivelled remnants of her previous sexual organs and the beginning of a feminine cleft, now there was a pronounced mound, heavy labial lips and a deep vaginal opening, from which just peeked what might have been the stub of a tiny penis, but which she knew, without having to examine herself closer, was a distended clitoris.

`I hope you're satisfied!' she stormed. `Because that's something I'll never be again. It was one thing to dress up for the thrill of it, but not much point if I can't ... well, you know what I mean.'

`How do you know you can't?' Kerri challenged. `Maybe not as a man, of course, but if you've got all the bits I've got, there's no reason - '

`That I can't have a female orgasm?' Martine screeched. `Oh, that's jus wonderful. I've lost something I've had since I was born and you simply tell me it'll be all right, 'cause I can still come like a girl.'

`Don't knock it till you've tried it,' Kerri pouted. `I've never had any cause to complain, I can assure you.'

`No? Well, I suppose I ought to take that as a sort of compliment, but it won't do either of us any good now, will it? That's one thing we certainly won't ever be doing together again.'

`Oh, I don't know so much.' Kerri smiled and stood up and for the first time Martine realised that her transformation had also involved the loss of at least four inches in height, for, despite her steepling heels, she was now still an inch shorter than her former girlfriend, whose own heels were little more than two inches in height. Kerri stretched out her arms and placed her hands on Martine's shoulders.

`You may not believe it,' she said, `but I find you even more attractive now than you were before, though that shouldn't rea;lly surprise you if you think logically about that. I didn't just tolerate you dressing up, I actually encouraged it and you were in drag the very first time I set eyes on you.'

Martine lowered her eyes. `You mean you preferred me to look like a girl?'

`Well, yes, of course,' Kerri replied. `I mean, think about it; how often did we ever have sex when you were dressed as a male?'

`Not many,' Martine admitted, sheepishly. `But at least even when I was dressed as a girl I still had the necessary male bits to satisfy you.'

`There are other ways to satisfy a woman apart from with `male bits' as you call them,' Kerri said. `I could show you, if you like.' There was a sudden charge between them, but Martine suddenly shook her head and pulled away.

`No!' she snapped. `I have to do something about this.' She gestured with her hands, indicating herself and the gleaming black fabric of the outfit. `You said something about a woman you got this lot from - where was it, a shop?'

`Yes, a little place at the end of Target Lane. I first spotted it when I was coming back from the market, about four months ago, I suppose. You must have seen it. The window's full rubber and leather stuff and inside is like Aladdin's cave. I went in because I thought you might like a rubber dress as a special birthday present.'

`And this woman was working in the shop?' Kerri nodded.

`Yes. I think she was actually the owner. It was strange, really. After only a few minutes talking with her, I found myself admitting that I wanted a dress for my boyfriend. Then we talked about people not being certain about themselves, their identities, life and everything and she took that outfit out from beneath the counter.

`She said it was the sort of present that everybody could do with and that it would help you sort out what you really wanted. Of course, as I said, I didn't really believe the rest of what she told me.'

`You mean she actually told you it would change my body?' Martine challenged, accusingly. Kerri shrugged.

`Well, yes,' she admitted. `But I didn't actually believe her. It was only when you started screaming down the phone at me that I realised she must have been telling the truth.'

`Well, if you didn't actually believe her, why did you buy it in the first place? Did you really buy it four months ago? And if so, why have you kept it a secret for so long?'

`Because she said I'd know exactly when to give it to you. And okay, perhaps I didn't really believe her, but I just knew you'd love the look and feel of something like this and I was right. You couldn't resist trying it on, could you?' Martine turned away. `So you're blaming me for all this, are you?' she snorted. `It's all my fault because I'm a transvestite who can't resist nice clothes. That's really rich, that is.'

Kerri sighed. `Look, arguing over blame is a waste of time. Like I said, I knew you'd try that stuff on, but I really didn't think it would do what the woman said it would. She seemed a bit, well, strange - you know and if the outfit was what she claimed, why did she offer it to me so cheaply?'

`How cheaply?' Kerri shook her head.

`It doesn't matter.'

`But you were still prepared to have me stuck in this - this thing, for five days? I never did anything to you to deserve that.' Martine stamped her booted foot angrily, a curiously feminine gesture and swung back to confront Kerri.

`The woman must know of some way of releasing me from this,' she snapped. `There must be some sort of master key. You'll have to go back and see her and tell her you made a big mistake.' Kerri's eyes widened in alarm.

`If you think I'm going back to that place on my own, after all this, you can think again, miss. Before, I just put her down as a bit cranky, but now, who knows what she really is.'

`I don't care what she is,' Martine retorted. `I only know she's the only person who can help me get out of these things and even then it might be too late.'

`Well then, you'll have to come with me. I'm not going back there alone!' Martine spread her hands in a gesture of astonishment.

`How can I possibly come with you?' she gasped. `I can't go out of here looking like this.' `Well, maybe not exactly like that,' Kerri agreed. `You'd get arrested before you'd gone a hundred yards. The law takes a dim view on girls flashing their fannies in public, especially when they're dressed up like something out of a soft porn movie.

`But we could find you some clothes to wear over that lot, though we need to do something about your hair. It's grown amazingly, but it needs trimming and styling properly. At the moment it's all shaggy and uneven.'

She walked across the room and stood looking out of the window. Beyond the glass, the world seemed perfectly normal, with birds circling lazily against a clear blue sky and cars weaving their way through the street below.

`We'll measure you and I'll go shopping,' she announced. `Unfortunately, none of your existing feminine wardrobe will fit you any more. Even my things would be too big for you. I'm a size twelve to fourteen and you, you jammy cow, can't be much more than a ten, apart from that bust.

`Whilst I'm gone, I suggest you wash your hair and brush it out, but leave it wrapped in a towel and keep it damp. It'll make it easier for me to trim it. I shouldn't be more than an hour.'

Martine had long since realised that it was fruitless to argue with Kerri once she had made up her mind. As soon as Kerri had left, Martine made her way into the bathroom and stood studying her reflection in the mirror.

Her hair had continued growing since the last time she had looked, but now, as Kerri had said, it looked unkempt and dishevelled. With a rueful grimace, she turned away and reached for the spray attachment that fitted onto the bath taps.

Water seemed to run off the gloves as though they were rubber, but the layer of fabric made it difficult to judge the temperature. Martine decided to err on the side of caution and, as a result, the first water to soak through her long tresses felt uncomfortably cool. Blindly, she reached out and made the necessary adjustments.

The high collar caused a few problems, but strangely, not only did the water not penetrate the fabric as with the gloves, it also seemed unable to seep between it and Martine's neck. She wondered about this briefly, but decided there were other things to worry about first.

Fifteen minutes later, damp hair wrapped in a towel as instructed, she made her way through to the kitchen and filled the kettle in preparation for making a cup of coffee. Switching it on, she suddenly that her newly aquired female genitalia were still fully exposed and felt suddenly very naked and vulnerable.

Leaving the kettle to boil, she hurried through to the bedroom as quickly as her high heels would allow and picked up the PVC panties. Perching on the edge of the bed, she pulled them over her booted feet and drew them up into place. Still not satisfied, she opened the smaller wardrobe and took out the grey silk robe that Kerri had picked up from one of the local charity shops only a few weeks back.

At last, the robe covering the majority of the stunning black outfit, Martine returned to the lounge and sat down with her coffee to await Kerri's return. It was a long wait and the clock showed a further hour and a half passing before Martine finally heard the sound of a key in the front door lock.

Kerri had evidently been busy, for she appeared in the doorway laden with large carrier bags, which she dumped in the middle of the floor with evident relief.

`That lot's heavy,' she announced. `Be a good girl and make me a coffee, would you?' Martine was half way to the kitchen before she realised how easily Kerri had assumed control of everything. It wasn't just being addressed as "girl", for Kerri had often referred to Marty as a girl whenever he was dressed as Martine in their original relationship. No, there was something else there, but Martine could not put her finger on it.

`Let's have that towel off, then,' Kerri said, finally, when she had taken a few sips of the coffee Martine brought back for her. She stepped back and scrutinised the mane of blonde tangles critically. `That's quite a challenge,' she declared, finally. She drew a straight backed chair from beneath the folding dining table and planted it in the middle of the floor.

`We can hoover up afterwards,' she said, indicating for Martine to sit down. Martine had tried to brush out her new tresses earlier, but not very effectively. Now Kerri went to work with a will and, after a series of protesting yelps and squeals, she finally had the tangle straightened to her satisfaction.

`I picked up a pair of proper scissors from Boots whilst I was out,' she said, producing them from her handbag. `I used to cut both my sisters' hair when I was a teenager, but I'm a bit out of practice, so I'm not going to attempt anything too clever. I'll just trim the split ends and even out the - good grief!'

`What's up?' Martine demanded, jerking her head round anxiously. Kerri shook her head.

`Nothing,' she replied, slowly. `Well, nothing to worry about. It's just that there aren't any split ends - none at all. I find that hard to believe.'

`What - harder than a set of clothes that can turn a man into a woman?' Martine exclaimed. `Oh, come off it, Kerri. Whatever this gear does, stopping hair ends from splitting must be well down its list of surprises.'

`I suppose so,' Kerri agreed. `Now, sit still, unless you want to lose an ear.' For several minutes, she snipped away and the room was silent but for the sound of the scissors. At last, she straightened up, walked around in front of Martine and tilted her head, first one way, then the other.

`Hmmm, not bad,' she said. `Better than I expected, but god, it's really thick and it's already well past your shoulders. If it keeps on at the same rate, you'll be sitting on it inside two days. I'd swear it's grown even whilst I was cutting it.'

`Perhaps you'd better cut it shorter now then?' Martine suggested. Kerri considered for a moment, but then shook her head.

`No, I don't think so. It really suits your face as it is and besides, I reckon that your outfit will stop doing whatever it is that it's doing some time before your hair gets totally out of control. I think you're intended to have lovely long hair and if I try cutting it off, it'll simply grow again - possibly faster than ever.'

`I hope you're right,' Martine said. `I keep thinking about Jack and the Beanstalk.'

`Rapunzel would be more appropriate,' Kerri laughed. Martine scowled.

`I'm glad you find this all so funny,' she snapped. `Don't forget, I'm still faced with the prospect of appearing in public like this.'

`So? We've been to at least a dozen parties with you dressed as Martine.'

`Yes. Fancy dress parties and usually parties where all the guys were expected to go in drag. This is slightly different, I'd say.'

`You're quite right,' Kerri agreed. `It is slightly different. Before, although you made a more than passable female, you were still a man under all the clothes and if we hadn't had a few drinks, you wouldn't even have risked a taxi ride, let alone the top deck of a bus, which I remember us doing.'

`Yes, well I was pretty pissed, as you said.'

`Quite. And fear of being discovered didn't worry you. This time, there is no fear of discovery. Under the clothes you are female. Holy Harry, you're a more feminine girl than almost any girl you're likely to meet outside a modelling agency or a chorus line!'

`Stop reminding me,' Martine retorted, sulkily. `Let's just get on with it and then we can go see your lady friend.'

`Okay, okay, no need to get so huffy.' Kerri turned and picked up the hairdrier, plugging it into a short extension lead that usually lurked behind the sofa for just that purpose. `It'll be too late today, anyway. It's almost four thirty already and all the shops by the market close at five every day.'

`Oh shit!' Martine slapped her hand against her thigh in frustration. `It can't be that late already. That means I have to stay like this until tomorrow. If I'm lucky, that is,' she added, darkly.

`Well, it won't be the first time you've been dressed for a few days, as I said earlier. Is that corset getting uncomfortable?'

`No.' Martine shook her head. `It's damned strange, actually. None of this stuff is uncomfortable at all, yet it feels so tight, it ought to.'

`Well, there you are then. Let me finish your hair and do something about your face and then perhaps we can go out later. I'll treat us to a meal.'

`You must be kidding. How can I possibly go out like this. I mean, it's one thing to jump in a car and nip across town to some pokey little shop, but going out on the town?'

`Why not?' Kerri persisted, resolutely. `If we go uptown, there are really glitzy nightclubs and restaurants. People are expected to dress and act over-the-top. That place near Barbi's is full of transvestites and transsexuals and all sorts of weird people. I never could understand why you never felt like going there when you dressed as Martine before.'

`Because I never felt right about it,' Martine said. `It's hard to explain, but there it is.'

`Well, there's no reason why we couldn't go tonight. I've got an outfit here for you somewhere that will really knock 'em dead.'

`You planned this deliberately,' Martine said, accusingly. `You purposely took so long shopping so that it would be too late to go back to that place tonight.'

`No I didn't,' Kerri said. `But, by the time I'd all but finished, I could see the time getting on and then I saw this outfit and ... well, judge for yourself.' Martine stared back at her.

`You didn't get it from the same shop, by any chance?' she demanded. Kerri smiled.

`No. It came from that real swish place on the corner of Essex Street, the one that does all the really OTT party gear.'

`You mean Fantasy Island? That's bloody expensive.'

`So? Maybe I think you're worth it.'

`Let's see the dress then.' Martine pouted, aggressively. Kerri's smile widened.

`Not yet, little Miss All-in-a-rush. First we do your makeup and find you some decent earrings. And I'm still not totally happy about your hairstyle. If we hurry, we can get you into the hairdressers I usually use. They have three late nights a week. I'll look up the number and phone to see if they can fit you in. The manageress is an old schoolfriend of mine, so we ought to be okay.'

`And what do I tell the hairdresser if this lot suddenly grows another three inches whilst she's working on it?' Martine demanded. `Besides, I thought you said it would be best not to cut it any shorter?' Kerri grinned.

`Who said anything about cutting?' she said. `I was talking about a proper perm. I think your face is now just perfect for curly blonde hair. You'll be totally knockout, just you wait and see.'

Martine opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again just as quickly. In this mood, Kerri was not going to be deflected from her chosen course and Martine was only too well aware that, without Kerri's help, she would be totally stuck - stuck in this flat, this outfit and this body.

Whether she liked it or not, Martine was about to make her debut as an uptown party girl. If only she did not have the feeling that Kerri was beginning to really enjoy the situation so much ...

 

Part Five - An Offer I Could Refuse?

 

Magdala Rowan spoke for several minutes, her voice gentle, but firm and I sat, clutching a mostly undrunk glass of brandy, listening to her every word with an ever growing sensation that I was totally lost. Some of it did make a sort of logical sense, in itself, but taking the whole concept of what she was trying to tell me and dumping it straight into the lap of someone like me, well.

It wasn't exactly rocket science, no. It was far more complicated than that.

`Hang on a minute,' I said, when I judged she'd just about finished her crash course in "things you'd never believe in a miilion Sundays" and leaned forward, forgetting for a moment that I had such large breasts and banging them painfully against the edge of the desk top.

`You reckon you come from some parallel earth, is that right?' I laughed. `You can't expect me to believe this, surely.' She regarded me, unblinkingly.

`That's another reason we let the hat do its work first,' she said. `You obviously looked in the mirror, before you came here? Well, is the idea of an alternate earth any more far fetched than what your reflection showed you?'

`Well, but that's ..' My voice tailed off, because it wasn't different. According to everything I'd ever learned in science and biology, what had happened to me in the space of about an hour the day before, that was impossible to believe, too.

`Okay then' I began again, `so let's say I believe you, yes?' She nodded. `Well then, you also say that there are these two factions, yes?' Another nod. `And your faction are the good guys, right?'

`Good girls,' Magdala corrected me, firmly.

`Sorry,' I said, `you're the good girls. And there are this other bunch who are the baddies, yes?'

`Put simply, yes,' she confirmed. I leaned back again and smiled.

`How do I know?' I demanded. `How do I know you aren't the ones with the black hats?' Why did I use that little allusion, I wondered?

`Well, you don't,' she admitted, `but then we could easily have transformed you by using the methods that our "opposition" employ and then you'd know who's on which side, my dear, I promise you.'

`And what method is that?' I asked, and not just out of idle curiosity. Magdala explained, very simply.

`And they end up as what?' I squealed, my pretty new eyebrows disappearing up in the blonde tangle above them.

`Almost insatiable nymphomaniacs,' she repeated. `whether they started out as male or female, the result is near enough the same. They crave sex with anyone and everyone, day and night. In the end, it drives them to physical collapse.'

`I'll bet,' I muttered. `And these other people from your world,' I said, louder now, `they take these poor sods back into your dimension, or whatever you call it and sort of sell them, yes?'

`Sell some, yes,' Magdala nodded. `Others are just rented out, by the day, the hour, the week, whatever the client requires.'

`As sex objects,' I finished for her. I screwed up my beautiful features. `That's disgusting.' I opened my eyes wider again. `But that won't happen to me, will it?' I demanded, mentally crossing my fingers. She shook her head.

`No, you'll remain in fairly normal control of your emotions and desires.'

`Fairly normal?'

`Fairly,' she said. `You may find slightly different sexual predilections than you've had before all this,' - she waved a hand, as if "all this" was hardly worth mentioning - `but nothing you won't be able to resist. If you really want to, that is,' she added, meaningfully. And no, I didn't ask. I had an awful feeling I didn't need to.

`Tell me,' I asked, sounding remarkably matter-of-fact, given the situation, `how do the hats work and why pick on me?'

`Part of the same question, Chris,' she said. `The hats are really just a physical means of attaching a sort of field into your body. And only a minority of human bodies on this side are suitable for transforming. You happened to be one of those, that's why you.'

`My, aren't I just too lucky for words?' I snarled, sarcastically. Except maybe for words of four letters, I added, under my breath. `But how did you know?' I said, aloud once more. `I mean, we never met before, did we?'

`No, but the shop up top is fitted with a sophisticated scan and analysis system. It alerts us whenever a suitable subject enters.'

`But you had that bank account and cards all ready?' I pointed out. She smiled, like a cat that's got all the cream.

`All taken care of as soon as you gave your details for the receipt,' she said. `It's hard to explain how in words your science would even halfway understand, but it wasn't a problem, believe me.'

`So why give me all that money and the account anyway?' I demanded.

`Well, from the moment you left here, you were observed, in order to evaluate you from the way you reacted.' She paused and her smile broadened. `We thought you handled everything very well,' she went on, after a short pause. `You managed not to panic, you took your time to analyse your situation, bought more suitable clothing for daytime street wear and found yourself a little bolt hole where you could have some time to think.'

`I didn't have much choice, did I?'

`You could have collapsed into total panic,' she offered. `More than half do, which means they aren't very suitable for our purposes. We need people who can handle themselves coolly under the most extreme pressures and not run screaming at the first sign of something unexpected.'

`Maybe I was just in a sort of coma?' I suggested. `Too shocked even to panic.'

`I don't think so,' Magdal smiled again. She did a lot of that, I'd noticed. `You were actually one of our most impressive recruits to date,' she added. `I may be using the word "recruit" a little prematurely, I understand.'

`Yes,' I agreed, `you may. You haven't told me what it is you want me to do.'

`Infiltrate,' Magdala said, simply. `Go back through to our world, posing as one of their converts, for want of a better word and help us get to the top of their organisation.'

`Can't you use your own people for that?' I said. `Why involve people from my world in your squabbles?'

`Well, for a start, if we try using the transforming technology on our own people, our little friends have scanners that can detect that the original body did not come from over here. People from our side just don’t transform the same way anyway, which is why they take their victims from here in the first place.

`Plus,' she added, before I had time to comment, `there's another reason.'

`There would be,' I sighed.

`Our own organisation on the other side has been compromised. There are quite a few moles in our ranks, but we don't know who they are. We only know that every time we make a move from over there, they seem to be one step ahead of us.

`By my bringing a handful of really trusted people here with me, and by recruiting only from your world, I know that the people we send back are not planted on us.'

`And all that money you offered?' I breathed in, deeply. `How do I know you'll keep your word?'

`Well, you bank on-line, so you can log into your account after we transfer the first fifty percent. The remainder will be paid on completion of your mission.'

`But I can't draw that money out of my account, can I?' I said.

`No, but you can transfer the money from your new account into your old one and only you will have all the necessary passwords. That way you know that the money will remain safe until you return.'

`My bank would ask questions,' I pointed out.

`Not the bank where we've set up your other new account, the one you'll be able to use when you come back from the other side and we return you to your old self. It's in your male name and you can change the default password.'

It sounded okay. I said so.

`That sounds okay,' I said. `So where is this bank? Switzerland?'

`Nassau,' Magdala said, taking a sheet of paper out of her desk drawer and slifing it across to me. `Bahamas,' she added, in case I needed further clarification, which I didn't. `Bring that with you and we'll go through to our communications room, if you agree to work for us, of course.'

I was already half way out of my seat, but I just had to ask, didn't I?

`These unusual predilections you were talking about earlier?' I said. `How different are they?'

She told me and I was right. I hadn't needed to ask.

 

 

Part Six - All Girls Together

 

For the short trip to the hairdressers, Kerri produced a long, black, kaftan style dress, in dark blue silk. It had long, loosish sleeves and reached down to the ankles, so it at least covered ninety five percent of the irremovable outfit. Martine was still not entirely convinced, however. She held out her gloved hands.

`What about these?' she demanded. `Isn't this hairdresser of yours going to think it a bit funny that your new girlfriend won't take her gloves off whilst she's having her hair done?' `You leave Lois to me,' Kerri said. `She and I have been friends for years and she's a bit out of the ordinary, if you know what I mean?'

`Out of the ordinary?' Martine looked dubious. `In what way?'

Kerri shrugged. `All sorts of ways. For a start, she's totally bisexual, she goes to clubs where the dress code is somewhat extreme and she never turned a hair when I told her I was living with a transvestite boyfriend.'

`What?' Martine shrieked. `You told her about me? How could you?'

`She's my oldest friend, sweetheart,' Kerri said. `We tell each other everything.'

`Everything?' Martine eyed Kerri suspiciously. `Including all about this?' Kerri shook her head.

`No, not this,' she said. `At least, not about what the outfit is doing to you. I did say about buying a getup that you wouldn't be able to get out of for a few days.'

`Which she thought was hysterical, I'll bet!'

`Actually, no,' Kerri said. `She told me I ought to go careful with things like that.'

`Shame you didn't listen to her,' Martine snapped back. `It would have saved me an awful lot of trouble.'

`Look, I've already admitted I made a bad mistake,' Kerri said. `Now, will you shut up and help me make the best of things as they are? It's no use crying over spilt milk. Now, I've got you a coat, too.'

The coat, like the dress, was full length and the black leather, whilst not exactly the same fabric as that from which the original outfit had been made, blended well enough with the small amount of boots and gloves that remained visible.

`Ooh! Kinky leather lady,' Kerri exclaimed. `Shows nothing, promises all - ve-ery sexy!' Martine glared at her, but secretly, despite her predicament, she was pleased at the compliment. She studied herself in the hall mirror and nodded. Yes, it was sexy and it would undoubtedly turn heads, but it was far less outlandish than some of the clothes that could be seen in town, even on a Saturday afternoon.

`C'mon then,' she sighed. `Better get it over with.' Kerri passed her a small shoulderbag. `What's that for?'

`Personal bits,' Kerri explained. `Some makeup, tissues, money - I transferred what was left in your wallet on the dressing table just now - and, well you know, just in case. I mean, we don't know how realistic this body change might turn out to be and if it is ... well, it could catch you out any time.' Martine looked at her, horrified.

`You don't mean - ?' she began, but somehow couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. Kerri nodded, solemnly.

`Tampons,' she confirmed. `Better to be safe than sorry and it's no good you going all coy about it. Those of us who were born female have had to put up with such lovely things for a long time, so you'd better resign yourself to the worst scenario.'

The walk to the hairdressers took less than ten minutes, but it was one of the longest ten minutes of Martine's entire life. She was convinced that everyone they passed was looking at her and, indeed, several men did give her more than a passing glance.

`Perverts,' she muttered, not quite under her breath. `Just 'cause a girl wears leather, it doesn't mean she's kinky.'

`Not always,' Kerri agreed. `But I know a few it would apply to. Listen, just loosen up a bit. You always used to enjoy dressing up and posing about, especially indoors and now you can do it, quite legitimately, at least for a day or so. Just enjoy it - enjoy yourself, even.'

`What, enjoy being leered at by a bunch of men who've got just one thing on their minds?'

`You mean you never used to ogle girls in the street?' Kerri challenged. `Be fair now.' Martine sighed.

`It's hardly the same thing, is it?' she whined. `I was a bloke, ogling girls; that's perfectly natural. And for all my body might have changed, I reckon it's still perfectly okay for me to fancy girls now.' Kerri grinned.

`You just hold that thought, beautiful,' she said and stopped to open the door to the salon.

Lois was a small, dark-haired girl in her mid-twenties, the black dyed hair framing an elfin face above a body which, whilst not overly tall, was perfectly proportioned and Martine could not help but notice how her generously curved hips and buttocks filled the tight leather trousers which she wore beneath a green, open-necked satin blouse. And from the way her breasts bounced when she moved, it was obvious that she was not wearing a bra underneath.

She ushered the pair of them into the separate rear salon and pulled the heavy velvet curtain which separated this area from the front, where two other stylists were still finishing off late customers. Martine hesitated, but eventually started unbuttoning the coat. Lois regarded Kerri, quizzically.

Is this - ?' she began, but seemed unsure whether she could go further. Kerri understood and nodded.

`Yes, this is Martine,' she said. Lois's eyes rotated, dramatically.

`Bloody Norah,' she breathed. `You'd never know, would you?' She smiled encouragingly at Martine, who scowled back at her. Kerri quickly intervened.

`I think I owe you an explanation,' she said. `Things haven't quite worked out as planned. You see, when I said that this is Martine, that's exactly what I meant - not Marty, playing at being Martine, if you get my drift?' Lois looked blank for a few seconds and then appeared to catch on.

`Oh, I see,' she said. `You mean the thing with Marty was a non-starter and this is somebody else called Martine - a real female?' Kerri shook her head.

`Not exactly,' she began. `In fact, not at all.' Slowly, she explained the sequence of events, leaving nothing out and checking with Martine for any detail over which she was not totally clear. As she spoke, Lois's eyes grew rounder and larger, until they totally dominated her ashen face.

`Fuck me sideways!' she exclaimed, when Kerri finally finished speaking. `Excuse my French, but it's a bit hard to believe. Are you sure this isn't some elaborate wind-up? I mean, it's not April first or anything, is it?'

`I wish it was,' Martine replied, bitterly. `But unfortunately, it's all true - every pigging word of it.' There was a silence between the three of them, which Lois was the first to break.

`Well, whatever you are,' she said, `you still need a decent hairdo. Kerri hear still seems to think she's at home with her siblings. She shouldn't be let out with sharp implements - at least, not if she intends putting them anywhere near people's hair!

`Look, you just come and sit down, Martine. Kerri, you go through to the little kitchenette and get some coffee going. I thought I'd had a hard day, but this poor bitch has had the hard day to end them all!'

Lois worked methodically and unhurriedly, building expertly on Kerri's original tidying operation, until gradually, Martine's new style began to take shape. Her hair was now well past her shoulders, very thick and even more pale than it had been when the two girls had left the flat.

`It's like it's got a life of its own,' Lois said, awed. `I mean, I've cut, layered and shaped it and it's staying in the shape I've created, but it's grown at least an inch since you got in here and I'd swear you're going blonder by the minute.'

`I am,' Martine confirmed, staring at her reflection. `Any fairer and my hair will be white.'

`I just wish I had hair like this,' Lois said. `Though I wonder how much longer it's going to grow?' Kerri, who had reappeared with the second round of coffees, explained their theory that the hair would grow to whatever length the outfit had decided.

`But you don't know how long that is?' Lois prompted. She stifled a giggle. `Maybe you'll end up like Lady Godiva,' she suggested. Martine sniffed.

`Not that I'll have much to cover up,' she said. `The bloody outfit keeps just about everything out of sight.' Lois flicked at the end of the long page bob she had created and replaced her scissors on the worktop.

`Well, that's all I can do for now,' she concluded. `Though I suggest we have our coffee and see what happens.' She reached for her cup. `Meantime,' she said, `how about letting me get a look at this notorious costume, or whatever you call it? I must admit, I'm intrigued.'

Martine was reluctant to remove the kaftan dress, but Kerri and Lois were unrelenting. Finally, rather than listen to any further nagging, she stood up and allowed Kerri to unzip her. As the silky fabric slid to the floor, Lois let out a low whistle.

`Wow!' she exclaimed. `That really is some outfit. Grief, I wish I had the legs for something like that. And just look at those heels and the length of those boots!'

`I don't need to look,' Martine replied, sullenly. Lois nodded.

`Yeah, sorry,' she said. `It's just you look, well, you look so gorgeous. It hardly seems fair, if you ask me. Oh, damn!' she added and turned to put her cup down again.

`What's the matter?' Martine asked. Lois smiled and guided her back to the chair.

`Nothing,' she said. `I've just missed a bit at the very back. It wasn't obvious whilst you were sitting, but now you've stood up, I can see a way to make it look a lot better. Sit yourself down a mo' and I'll sort it.'

`What about my dress?' Martine protested, looking back at the pool of silk in the middle of the floor. `What if someone comes in?'

`They won't,' Lois promised. `The last of the girls left ten minutes ago, so there's just the three of us here now.' Somewhat mollified, Martine allowed herself to be seated again and Lois snipped away for several more seconds.

`Drat!' the little hairdresser cursed. `These scissors are starting to go blunt. Just hang on there a minute and I'll get something a bit better.' If Martine had been a little more alert, she might have seen the wink that Lois gave to Kerri, but as it was, becoming slightly bored with the amount of time this was all taking, she simply relaxed back in the heavy chair and closed her eyes.

Which meant that by the time the straps had been snaked about her wrists and buckled to the heavy leather padded arms of the seat, it was too late for her to do anything by way of resistance.

`Hey!' she yelled, struggling to free her wrists. `What stupid game are you two playing at now. Let me go, you silly bitches!' But, far from releasing Martine's wrists, the two girls added a second pair of straps, this time just below the elbow and then Lois wound a fifth, far longer strap about Martine's chest, pinning her even more firmly to the chair.

`What do you think you're doing?' Martine wailed. The two girls exchanged looks and smiled.

`You, basically,' Kerri said. `Nothing nasty, I promise, but I think it's about time you learned a valuable lesson about being a girl. Get her panties off, Lois,' she instructed. `And don't you try kicking, Martine, or else I'll strap you over that coffee table and use one of these belts on your backside!'

Moments later, the panties were gone and the girls were using yet two more belts to fasten Martine's ankles to the front legs of the chair. By the time they had finished, she could no longer close her legs together and was only too well aware of how exposed her new sex was between her parted thighs.

`What do you think?' Kerri asked, gently probing at Martine's slit with one finger. Lois stared down, appreciatively.

`Looks delicious,' she said, quietly. `Are you sure?' she added. Kerri grinned.

`Be my guest,' she invited. Suddenly realising what was about to happen, Martine renewed her struggles, but it was all to no avail. The straps held firm and there was no way she was going to break free unaided.

`Please, no!' she wailed, but Kerri remained unmoved, as Lois knelt down, her face between Martine's open knees.

`Earlier, all you were concerned about was not being able to come like a man,' Kerri said. `Well, like I said, you shouldn't knock a thing until you've tried it, so now you get to try it.'

`But why her?' Martine pleaded. `I mean, at least you and I - '

`You and I were lovers, yes,' Kerri agreed. `And I still love you now, but that's the point. If I were to be the first to show you, all you'd do is shut your eyes and think of how it used to be. So, I'm going to let myself out the front door and go get some cigarettes and Lois is going to give you the time of your pretty little life.'

And with that, Kerri was gone, the heavy curtain falling back into place behind her. Dimly, Martine heard the click of the outer door opening and closing. She stared down at the dark haired hairdresser, who was gazing avidly at her intended target.

`Please, no,' she begged again. `You couldn't be so horrible.' Lois grinned, impishly.

`Oh, it's not being horrible,' she whispered. Her right hand snaked out, sliding up the top of Martine's left thigh and Martine felt a cool finger probing the tight opening. Lois let out a low, heavy sigh.

`God, it's virgin,' she said, her eyes bright with anticipation. `Oh, my pretty darling, that's wonderful.'

The finger probed deeper and made a contact that made Martine think an electric current had been passed through her body. She stiffened, back arching, toes jerking straight out inside the confinement of the towering boots. She felt the warmth of Lois's cheeks, pressing into the soft flesh at the tops of her thighs, the heat of her breath close to her destination.

`Relax, my little virgin poppet,' Martine heard her say, her voice sounding as though it was coming from a distant galaxy. `You just lay back and learn exactly how good it can be to be a girl.'

And, as her lips closed in and her tongue darted out, her helpless victim gave a little shriek that was at once despair, anticipation and urgency.

A few seconds later, the moans and shrieks, interwoven between gasps and incoherent mumblings, bore testimony to the fact that Lois was highly skilled in arts other than those which required scissors and combs ...

`That was unfair of you - unfair of you both,' Martine complained. They had returned to the flat by taxi, for Martine's legs had continued to tremble, long after they had released her from Lois's chair. `You had that all planned before we even left here, I'll bet!'

`Not in precise detail,' Kerri said. She smiled and reached out a hand to stroke Martine's long hair, which had grown another two inches in the last hour. `But Lois agreed with me after, it was what you probably needed.'

`What?' Martine exclaimed. `Being strapped to a chair and having a total stranger ... do - do that to me?' she finished, somewhat lamely. `I felt humiliated.'

`Oh, did you?' Kerri retorted, grinning. `Is that why you were writhing and groaning all over the place when I came back with the fags? Silly old me - and I thought it was because you were enjoying it.' Martine felt her face starting to burn up.

`That was hardly my fault,' she muttered, defensively. `I wasn't in any sort of position to resist.' Kerri reached out and drew her towards her, until their breasts were touching and their faces only inches apart. Her hand slid downwards, pressing the folds of thin silk back between the tops of Martine's thighs.

`And how about now?' she whispered, her eyes fixing Martine's in an unwavering stare, her tongue flicking between her lips. `How about now?' she repeated, her fingers pressing, probing. `Do you want to resist now, or would you like me to do what Lois did?'

Martine let out a little groan and shuddered, as she felt the hot pulses beginning to build deep inside her once more. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but she knew that any words would have been lies. Kerri suddenly withdrew her hand and stepped back, her eyes twinkling.

`Get yourself into the bedroom, my little lesbian slut,' she said, though her voice was kindly. `Get out of that dress and those knickers and I'll be right in. We've still got an hour before we need to get ready and I can think of a dozen ways to pass that time.

`I expect you can, too,' she added, as a bewildered and mesmerised Martine turned and began walking slowly towards the door leading to the bedroom ...

 

 

Part Seven - An Offer I Could Refuse?

 

It’s a funny thing how the vision of lots of money can change one’s perspective, isn’t it? Okay, so I’m willing to admit that not everyone is as mercenary as I am, but when I saw all those zeros heading towards an off-shore bank account in my original name and tested all the passwords that would mean I was the only person who could ever access that cash again, I started to feel a little differently towards that hat.

Apart from anything else, I thought, as I sachayed along the corridor in Magdala’s wake, there was also the promise of the same amount again to come. With that sort of money, I’d never have to worry about doing another stroke, not even if I lived to be a hundred. I had to smile, albeit somewhat grimly, for I wondered just how many other people could claim they’d been head-hunted by a hat!

Of course, there were a few drawbacks, stuff on the downside, but what the hell, I thought. Life’s a bitch anyway and opportunity seldom knocks more than twice - insistent knocking usually means debt collectors, in my experience.

Besides, I reasoned, how many people even suspect there’s a parallel world, let alone get the chance to visit it? Fraught or not, it would be interesting, at the very least.

Magdala Rowan, I quickly learned, was something very high up in a hush-hush government department "over there", a bit like MI6 here in England, or the CIA or NSA in America. Her people were supposed to keep an eye out for subversives, in whatever guise they materialised.

However, "over there" was a lot different from our world in a lot of ways, so her people didn’t run around rooting out spies from "foreign powers" and the like, because, basically, they didn’t have any - foreign powers, that is. "Over there" was one big state, though not quite as big as one big state would have been in this world, due to the fact that, when they did have foreign powers, said foreign powers in one half of the world got into a game of "my nuclear missile is bigger than you nuclear missile".

In the end, Magdala told me, it was declared a draw. No, what she actually said was that there were no winners, which isn’t quite the same thing, I guess. Even if there had been a victor, she told me, the field of play wouldn’t have been worth claiming.

All this had happened three hundred years earlier, because, parallel world or not, development through the ages had been anything but parallel and they had been enjoying things like electricity when our ancestors were still running around covered in blue face dye, so that during the time that Magdala’s forefathers were busily playing thermo-nuclear tennis, ours had been contenting themselves with iron balls and gunpowder.

But back to the present.

Over there they had one state and no wars since that big one - well, even the biggest fools can learn if the lesson is hard enough - but not all was rosy in the garden. There were dissidents, but then that’s human nature and one thing where the two worlds were spot-on parallel.

Give people paradise and they’re still not content. Eden always has to have its serpents and, of course, that one apple tree and there are always devils, some to play advocate, some to play "let’s make ourselves as much money as we can and who gives a tuppenny ha’penny fuck who gets screwed in the process".

And that, in a nutshell, was the basis of Magdala’s people’s problem: a little band had been steadily working themselves into a position of power and influence, using money they were mostly aquiring by this method of creating sex-crazed nymphomaniacs over here and then taking them back over there.

By the time their victims had been whisked across, they were already so nearly mindless and tunnel visioned that they were easy to control. They had but one tracked minds and even that track was too narrow for safety. Those whom the authorities did manage to get to had become so conditioned to serving their new mistresses with unswerving loyalty, Magdala said, that nothing on earth - that earth, that is - could induce them to give information, let alone testify in court.

`Besides,’ she said, `these people have moles planted everywhere and all sorts of strange accidents keep happening to any of these poor creatures who even look like they might be useful to us.

`So, I hand picked people I knew I could trust and we came over here to set up our own operation. The general idea,’ she continued, as we re-entered her office, `is that we create our own people, identical to theirs, but using slightly different technology, so that ours can function logically.

`Then, as we do manage to lift their subjects, we replace them, giving us eyes and ears inside their organisation, to report back with any information they can get their hands on. As they’re supposed to be mindless bimbos by then, no one will bother keeping too much of an eye on any of you.’

`It’s not eyes I’m worried about,’ I said, ironically. `It’s other body parts.’

`Well,’ Magdala replied, pressing the intercom button on her desk, `we can do something to help there. We can give you a certain amount of conditioning. No, not what you’re thinking,’ she added hastily, seeing the look that must have crossed my pretty face at that. `Just something that will help you handle whatever comes your way.’

`Without wanting to throw up or scratch some guy’s eyes out, you mean?’

`Yes,’ she said, smiling. `I see you’re getting the picture.’

I was - and it was in technicolour.

 

To be continued ...

 

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