POSSECATS*

by

Jennifer Jane Pope

 

BOOK TWO

 

Part Eight - Queen of the Dance?

It was a very subdued Martine who emerged from the bathroom some little while later, for she was truly caught on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, the fact that she had enjoyed the bedroom session with Kerri every bit as much as what Lois had done to her at the hairdressing salon proved that she still retained the ability she had had as a male to find females attractive, but on the other hand, she had enjoyed both experiences as a woman herself.

Not that she had any alternative, for there was not even the vestige of a trace of masculine genitalia between her thighs now, just a constantly moist vagina and what seemed to be a permanently engorged clitoris, as though the outfit, not merely content with changing her male body to female, seemed determined to turn her into a female who was permanently switched on for sex. At least she didn't fancy men, she thought and then added a silent codicil to that statement. At least she didn't fancy men ... yet.

Kerri was waiting for her in the bedroom, already changed into a very smart, but also very sexy lime green vinyl number, that covered arms, shoulders and neck, but whose hem line stopped just short of revealing her stocking tops and only then if she walked very carefully. Martine felt the heat rising in her groin once more and shook her head. Kerri looked at her, questioningly.

`What's the matter? Headache?' Martine shook her head again.

`No, it's nothing,' she said, tearing her eyes off Kerri's thighs with some considerable difficulty. `I suppose it's just a combination of everything.' She waved her gloved hands, expansively, indicating herself and the whole world in general.

`I mean, this is all too crazy for words and yet here I am, having lesbian sex romps when I should be desperately wanting the wherewithal back to do something I'm used to, but I don't - or at least, I didn't, not at the time.'

`And now?' Kerri raised her eyebrows. `Are you wishing you still had a prick to fuck me with?'

`I wish you wouldn't put it so crudely,' Martine snapped. Kerri merely smiled.

`It's the truth, though, isn't it?' she challenged. `You've still got that male ego hiding in there somewhere and yet you enjoyed just now every bit as much as anything we ever did before. More, if anything.'

`I know and that's part of the trouble. I keep looking at you and wanting ... ' Her voice trailed off and she turned away. `Oh, what's the point of trying to explain?' she sighed. Kerri changed tack.

`Are you feeling tired?' she asked. `Only we can forget tonight, if you really want to.'

`No,' Martine said. `And that's another thing. I can sleep all right in this stuff and yet I don't seem to feel tired at all. It's weird. If I lay down and close my eyes, I can drop off easily enough, but if I decide to stay awake, that works, too. It's as though I've been given total control of my body in one way, as a sort of compensation for having it taken over and changed in the other, if you see what I mean.'

`I guess so,' Kerri said. `Well, if you're not tired, let's get you ready to party, my girl. I've got a real stunner for you this evening. Here, look at this.'

The dress was black leather, again a close enough match to the curious fabric in which Martine was trapped, so that no onlooker would have noticed the difference. It had long sleeves, which could be tightened with laces, so that the ends of the gloves that remained visible looked as if they were part of the same garment and more lacing at the back, so that it could be drawn tightly to Martine's shape.

The skirt was a sheath, but split on one side to mid-thigh, revealing the top of one boot and a considerable area of stockinged thigh. At the top, the collar was high and fitted snugly around the collar of the corset, again giving the impression that the original collar was part of the overall design. Martine viewed herself in the mirror.

`Jeez, but this is too kinky looking for words,' she breathed. Kerri looked pleased.

`Right then,' she said. `Well, we'd better go for the complete look. It'll go down well where we're going.' She sat Martine down in front of the dressing table and began to work on her face.

First, she chose a very white base makeup, which she worked carefully over her entire face, so that Martine thought she resembled a corpse. Next came a brand new set of false eyelashes, so long that they looked like two spiders in Kerri's hand and were impossible to forget when in place, framing the top of her vision every time Martine blinked. Heavy black mascara emphasized them even more and then thick black liner and midnight blue shadow, blended into a paler blue just beneath the eyebrows, created an unmistakable vampire look.

They eyebrows themselves, which had thinned until they appeared to have been plucked, were drawn in and then out to a wider line, reminding Martine of Morticia Addams at the cinema. `I can't go out looking like this,' she protested. Kerri waved aside her complaint.

`Of course you can,' she assured her. `You'll be the belle of the ball, to use a rather quaint old expression. Now, keep still, whilst I do your lips.'

Once again, Kerri had spared nothing in the cause of kill-or-be-killed. The lipstick was a deep purple and she added a thin line of black around the outer edges, sealing the whole thing with a clear gloss that she assured Martine would see out the night.

`Lois gave it to me,' she said. `It's new from America and it's guaranteed waterproof, wipe proof and kiss proof. Want to test it on me?' Without waiting for an answer, she stooped and kissed Martine full on the mouth. Martine gave a little whimper, but immediately parted her lips to allow Kerri's tongue into her. She gasped, as the heat in her crotch immediately turned itself up several marks.

`Don't!' she gasped, pulling her face away. `Please, Kerri, you've no idea what that does to me!'

`I think I can guess,' Kerri retorted. `Ye gods and little thingies, you can't help yourself, can you? I reckon I should have bought you a chastity belt, just in case.'

`It's not funny,' Martine whined. `I'm turning into some sort of slut and you just joke about it.'

`No, it's not funny,' Kerri agreed. `Actually, it's quite nice, from my point of view, anyway. I seem to have gotten myself a beautiful lesbian lover who I can turn on at the bat of an eyelid. I quite like that idea. Anyway, vampire lady, let's get our jackets and phone a taxi. This place is a late starter, it's true, but time's getting on.'

Martine had only seen the outside of the club before. As Marty, although he had enjoyed dressing up in exotic outfits in the privacy of the flat, he would never have dared venture here, for the galaxy of incredibly dressed people he had often watched going inside were devotees of the extreme fringes of fashion. Kerri's outfit was quite tame by comparison with the average here, but Martine, shorter than when she had been male, but still taller than an average female and elevated several inches by the towering boot heels, caused as big a stir as Kerri had predicted.

On the short drive from the flat, their taxi driver had seemed unable to keep his eyes from the rear view mirror and had actually adjusted it to give himself a better view of his back seat passengers. Kerri had teased him, blatantly.

`Pull over and she'll ride up front with you, if you like,' she had offered. `But go careful, she'll suck the blood from you at the slightest excuse.' The driver had mumbled a refusal, but his eyes still kept returning to the mirror.

Inside the club, the lighting was a work of art and the music system quite incredible. Kerri led the way to the bar and ordered two drinks, at a price Martine thought was extortionate and said as much.

`Don't you worry your pretty little head about that,' Kerri had retorted, almost shouting to be heard above the din. `These'll be the last drinks we buy tonight, unless I'm seriously mistaken. Sure enough, it was only a matter of seconds before the two girls had drawn their first admirers. They were both in their late twenties, dressed in tight leather trousers, one with an open fronted, blue silk shirt and the other with a cutaway leather vest that showed off powerful shoulders and muscular arms, both of which were heavily tattooed with an incredible display of mythical beings, dragons, serpents, sorcerers, warlocks, witches and elves, among the creatures Martine could readily identify. The man, who identified himself as Carl, noticed Martine's interest.

`Like 'em?' he asked, holding one arm up for closer inspection. Martine nodded. As Marty, the idea of tattoos had never appealed, but now, seeing them on Carl, she appreciated the skill and imagination of the artist.

`They're beautiful,' she said. `Absolutely stunning.'

`But not nearly as stunning as you,' Carl said, his eyes twinkling. `Want to dance?' Before Martine could reply, he had taken her glass from her hand, passed it to Kerri, who was standing with his companion and seized Martine's gloved hand. He turned and looked back at her.

`C'mon, leather lady,' he urged. `Let's do it!' Martine closed her eyes for an instant, drew in a deep breath and followed into the melee that was the dance floor. There was a techno dance remix playing, not the sort of music she would normally have found appealing, but now, suddenly, under the lights and in her exotic new identity, something seemed to take over her mind, the way the mysterious outfit had taken over her body.

Marty had never been a very good dancer, but Martine was breathtaking. Very soon, it became apparent that everyone, especially the males in the crowd, were watching her, hypnotized by her movements the way the music seemed to have hypnotized her. Time no longer had any meaning and, when Carl had to excuse himself in order to go to the toilet, Martine scarcely noticed his departure, for there was instantly a volunteer to take his place and a second volunteer when he had exhausted himself.

Eventually, Carl managed to reclaim her and guided her back towards the bar. Kerri greeted her with a wide grin on her face.

`You seemed to be having a ball out there, young lady,' she teased. Carl was visibly impressed.

`She's incredible,' he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. `And look at her. All that leather and not a bead of perspiration in sight. Are you sure you're not a real vampire woman, Martine?' He laughed as he said it, but his words sent a chill up Martine's spine, for it was true.

Despite the all covering layers of leather and whatever it was the outfit was made from, despite her exertions and despite the heat from the dance floor lights and the surrounding bodies, she felt as cool as if she were standing naked on a fresh spring morning. It wasn't natural.

It wasn't natural at all. It was scary.

She looked at Carl's neck and was relieved to find she was not fighting back any urge to sink her teeth into the lightly tanned flesh. But on the other hand, she was now starting to fight back an urge of a totally different nature and she had to exert all her willpower to tear her gaze off the bulge in the front of his skintight trousers.

`I think I need another drink,' she said, turning away. `And then I'm going to dance some more,' she added, biting into her bottom lip to keep the tremor from her voice. Yes, that was it, she thought. Get back on the dance floor. There's safety in numbers. If I stay around Carl much longer, the unthinkable is likely to happen. She nodded to Kerri.

`I need the toilet,' she said. Kerri understood and excused herself, leaving the boys to get their drinks. The two girls pushed through the crowd and made their way to the ladies, but it was to crowded to talk without being overheard. Kerri, who clearly knew her way about the place quite well, led the way through to a back passageway, where a small office stood just before a fire exit. She knocked on the door and shortly, a balding fellow in his mid thirties stuck his head out.

`Oh, hi,' he said, apparently recognizing Kerri. `And what can I do for you, my sweet?'

`My friend's feeling a little faint,' Kerri told him. `I wondered if you could let us through to the back yard for a few minutes, just so she can have some air.' The man nodded, opened the door wider and stood aside.

`Use the door in the inner office,' he said. `If anyone opens the fire exits, it triggers an alarm and you'll have the area swarming with bouncers.'

Outside, the night air was cool, though it scarcely seemed to make any difference to Martine. The yard was deserted, with just a few stacks of empty crates and several empty beer barrels. Martine tottered across and parked herself on the nearest barrel. Kerri followed and perched on the next one to it.

`What's the matter?' she asked. `Feeling a bit woozy after all that effort?' Martine shook her head.

`No, though I should be. I feel absolutely fit as a flea and I've never had so much energy in my life. It's not natural. This - this thing is still doing things to me. I even started wondering if Carl's quip about vampires might not be nearer the mark than he thought.'

`And is it? You don't fancy sucking his blood?' Kerri laughed. Martine shook her head, miserably.

`No, it's not his blood I fancy,' she groaned. `It's him.'

`What, you fancy Carl?'

`I think it's worse than that, actually,' Martine sobbed. `My panties are soaking wet and I feel like I'm on fire down there,' she said. `If that's what you call fancying, then yes, I do, but it's worse than that. I don't just fancy him, I'm starting to ache for him. It's not love, or any other fancy name, just sheer, unadulterated lust.

`This new body of mine needs satisfying. The idea of going with a man leaves me cold, in most ways, but that's only up here.' She tapped her forehead. `Down there, however, it's a different matter and right now down there is winning.'

`You mean you want to have sex with Carl?' Kerri's eyebrows could not have risen any further if they had tried. Martine looked desperate.

`I don't want sex with Carl,' she said. `I need sex with him. And probably it needn't even be with him. Any man would do - any prick would do, for that matter. Oh god, this is so awful.' Tears welled up in her eyes and she looked away.

`Take me home, Kerri, please. Take me out of here now, before I give someone the fucking of their lifetime and regret it for the rest of mine!"

 

Part Nine - Eat Your Heart Out Frankenstein.

 

It’s very easy to be critical of other people’s actions, especially when they’re reacting to a situation you’ve never experienced yourself and hindsight is such a precise science, but I have to admit, even so, when I look back now, I’m just a little bit surprised at how I let myself be sucked into everything and with barely a show of even minimal resistance.

I suppose, if I think about it all logically, I was really in a state of shock, no matter how much control I thought I’d reestablished and then there was also the prospect of all that money. Combine the two influences and add my innate curiosity and maybe it wasn’t really that surprising, after all, that I suddenly found myself paying quite a lot of fascinated attention to that rather vampish new body that the headhunting hat had given me.

In another life and in different conditions, it really would have been more than just "something" - it could easily have been my passport to riches in a quite different way and only really needed me to learn how to use it to its best advantage and it could have earned me a not insubstantial fortune.

However, I wasn’t allowed to dwell on such thoughts for long. Although she appeared to handle everything with calm and unhurried dignity, I could sense that Magdala was not just a lady with a mission - she was working against the clock and there was no time to squander.

`This,’ she announced, as we entered yet another chamber and the overhead lights flickered on to reveal what I can best describe as an electronic sarcophagus, standing on a plinth in the centre of the floor, `is a neural interface.’

`Yes, of course it is,’ I replied, ironically. `Had one once, but the handle fell off.’ Magdala gave me a sideways look, a trace of amusement flickering in her eyes.

`That’s good, Chris,’ she said. `You’ll need to keep your sense of humour through all this.’ I pulled a wry face.

`Laugh a minute, that’s me,’ I replied. I stared at the machine, which seemed to be made in two halves, the bottom a sort of dull black sheen, the top a transparent Plexiglas. `Okay, then,’ I quipped, `when’s the next lightning strike due?’

Magdala steered me to a padded box stool and helped me as I began to undress at her instruction. My fingers fumbled their way over unaccustomed fastenings, which she discreetly and without comment, helped me with, so that I was very quickly standing naked before her and, despite the fact that my unclothed body was undeniably female, I felt acutely embarrassed and let my hands move quickly to cover my nudity where I thought it was most important.

`You’ll have to get over your shyness,’ Magdala said, moving across to the machine. `Remember, you’re supposed to be some sort of sex-starved nymphomaniac. This will help, of course,’ she added, patting the Plexiglas cover.

`But I will have ultimate control over my actions, yes?’ I reminded her. She nodded.

`Yes, ultimate control is always with you, otherwise you’d be no use, either to yourself, or to our mission.’ She turned and lifted the lid, which rose smoothly and easily and then seemed content to hover at an angle of forty five degrees. She pressed something on the black area and a small step slid noiselessly from the plinth.

`Up you get,’ she invited me, brightly. I moved forward and pulled myself up, so that I could now peer down into the interior, though all I could see inside was a grey padded mattress affair and a single, matching pillow. I turned back and peered down at Magdala.

`No wires? No helmet thingy to put on my head? No little pads to stick all over me?’ She shook her head.

`No,’ she said. `Our technology is just a wee bit further advanced than your science fiction films. Everything is contained within the skin of the cover. When activated, it generates the necessary power fields.’ I tilted my head to one side, shrugged and gingerly levered myself over the rim.

`No straps?’ I asked Magdala, who had now taken my place on the step and was looking in at me. Again, she shook her head.

`Just settle yourself down and lay out with your hands at your sides,’ she said. `Try to relax and just breathe normally. The machine will take a few seconds to map your coordinates, once I close the lid.’

`What if I move at the wrong time?’ I demanded, as she reached up to grasp the lip of the cover. Magdala grinned down at me.

`You won’t,’ she said, with quiet confidence and began to close the lid of my "coffin".

And, of course, she was dead right on that, though I can’t honestly remember losing consciousness. Apparently, as she explained afterwards, the moment the capsule was closed, an odorless gas was fed into it, a gas which didn’t even require me to breathe it in for it to work. All it needed was naked flesh - and I was offering plenty of that.

I opened my eyes again to find Magdala once again leaning in over me and I blinked in confusion for several seconds, before I finally realised that I had been "out". Slowly, I struggled into a sitting position, expecting my head to hurt, or my stomach to feel queasy, but there were none of the symptoms usually associated with post anesthesia.

`How long?’ I demanded. Magdala knew exactly what I meant.

`About five minutes, that’s all,’ she replied. `It doesn’t take very long, but the subject has to remain perfectly motionless during the process and that’s the only certain way. How do you feel?’

`Okay,’ I replied. `At least, I think I do. Should I feel anything different? Any after effects?’

`Not the sort you’d feel just yet,’ she answered, darkly, but I let the remark pass, as I had just an inkling what she was referring to and I wasn’t quite ready to confront that.

`I feel hungry,’ I said, suddenly. `My stomach feels like my throat’s been cut.’

`That’s quite normal,’ she said, reaching up a steadying hand as I stepped back down onto the tiled floor. `I’ll see to it that you get something to eat, once we settle you in your room. Here,’ she added, handing me a soft robe, though where she had got it from I couldn’t have said. `Put this on and follow me.’

`What about my other clothes?’ I asked, indicating the neat pile by the stool and the ridiculous heeled shoes that sat together alongside it. Magdala laughed.

`Leave them,’ she said. `You’ll be given a whole new outfit, now your new body has completely stabilized. We have to make sure that your appearance is identical to the poor souls our friends are taking through. Every little detail has to be perfect.

`Now,’ she said, turning towards the door, `I thought you said you were hungry?’

 

Part Ten - Now You See It, Now You Don't

Martine slept, but only fitfully, curious and disturbing images thrusting their unwanted way into her semi consciousness and several times she awoke, her gloved hand feeling for Kerri in the darkness, but finding only emptiness, for they had agreed that Kerri would sleep on the long sofa in the lounge, removing any temptation from the newly created female whose sex drive seemed to have gone into orbit.

`Maybe I can fight this,' Martine had groaned. `Perhaps if I can beat whatever this stuff is trying to do to my mind then my body will start to revert back to what it was.'

`That might be a shame,' Kerri had muttered, but so quietly that Martine had not heard her. Nevertheless, Kerri had made up a makeshift bed and left Martine alone in the bedroom.

The clock radio on the bedside table blinked that it was just before six o'clock when Martine finally gave up the unequal struggle. She swung her legs off the bed, the steepling heels biting into the carpet as she stood and swayed and tottered through to the kitchen. The sleeping form on the sofa did not stir.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, Martine reached behind her and took hold of her hair, which was now down to the level of her pert buttocks. Amazingly, although she had not yet brushed it, the pale, almost white tresses, fell untangled from her fingers and she shook her head in disbelief. The curious outfit seemed to work its powers in so many diverse ways, though thankfully the heels now appeared content to remain at the height they had finally reached the afternoon before.

Not that they could have grown any more without forcing Martine onto absolute tiptoe, ballerina style and yet she had absolutely no difficulty in walking in the boots. The only problem was that they forced her to sway and rotate her hips in a manner that was not just seductive, but absolutely provocative. She poured her tea, added sugar and milk and took the mug with her as she minced past the slumbering Kerri and into the bathroom.

The long mirror revealed little new from the night before, except that maybe, just maybe, her lips were a little more full and pouting and her eyes perhaps, just possibly, were slightly larger. Martine stared at her reflection and suppressed a small sob, for the image that confronted her said one thing and one thing only.

Bimbo.

She placed the steaming mug on the corner of the bath and tried tugging at the gloves, totally unsurprised when they continued to refuse to budge. She stared down at the almost unbelievable orbs that rose from the cups atop the corset and experimentally thrust a gloved finger between flesh and fabric, toying with her right nipple.

The effect was like an electric shock and she withdrew the digit hastily, her hands flying to her mouth, her foot stamping lightly in frustration. If her own touch could produce such an effect, any contact with someone else's hands would be devastating. Not only had the suit turned her into a bimbo, it had altered her entire physiology so that she was now a slave to the demands of her new body.

Anybody, male or female, who understood her secret could turn her into a helpless sex slave with just one touch. Martine shuddered at the prospect and turned to retrieve her tea, but she was not entirely sure that the reaction was one of abhorrence.

`Morning. Sleep well?' Kerri was sitting up on the sofa, the duvet wrapped about her shoulders. She looked slightly bleary-eyed and her makeup had not survived the night too well. Martine was only too well aware of her own reflection, lipstick, mascara, eye shadow all perfect - the outfit exerted its macabre influence in some strange ways.

`No, I tossed and turned all night,' Martine complained. `My head was full of weird dreams.'

`Damp knickers, was it?' Martine turned away, refusing to take the bait. `Ah well, I'll just have myself a shower and then, if you'd like to make me a cuppa, I suppose we'd better do something about your problem, assuming you haven't changed your mind, that is?' Kerri raised her eyebrows, quizzically, as Martine turned back to face her again.

`You have to be joking,' Martine snapped. `The sooner we get back to that shop and start getting me back to normal, the better. What time does it open?'

`Probably around nine,' Kerri replied, stifling a yawn as she stretched her arms. `But no need to hurry, just in case they don't open till later. No point hanging around the market all morning. Looking the way you do, we'll be fighting off all sorts of propositions.'

`So, where the fuck is it?' Martine hissed, through clenched teeth. Kerri spread her hands and shrugged.

`It was right here,' she said, nodding at the dilapidated shop front, above the window of which, in faded gold leaf, was the legend Felding's - Ironmongery and Hardware. Through the grime which coated the glass door, they could just make out an ancient cardboard sign, which announced that the place was closed and, to judge from the empty window and what scene of desolation they could make out beyond that, it had been so for some considerable time. From the cafe next door, the jukebox pounded out the bass line of an eighties disco hit, but Martine was not listening to it.

`Well, it's not here now,' she said, stating the obvious and fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. `You must have got it wrong.' Kerri shook her head and turned slowly, her right arm moving in an arc that indicated the entire market place and the ramshackle shop buildings that surrounded it.

`I've been coming here since I was four or five years old,' she stated, flatly. `No way I'm wrong. I know this place like the back of my hand.' Without thinking, Martine raised her own gloved hand and regarded the back of it; the glove was as near as she was currently likely to come to being able to match such a claim. She stepped closer to the door and peered into the dim interior.

`This place has been deserted for a couple of years,' she said. `I may not come shopping here as often as you do, but I can remember when it was open before and that was some time back. You must have made a mistake.'

`No.' Kerri shook her head. `I may have made a mistake,' she said, levelly, `but not over where it was. My mistake was going into the bloody place in the first instance. It was definitely here, sure as I'm standing beside you.'

`So, where's it gone to now?'

`God knows.' Kerri bit her lip. `Under normal circumstances, I'd say it was impossible, but then - ' She turned and looked pointedly at Martine, who shivered, violently.

`I don't believe it,' she whispered. `This means I'm stuck in this bloody thing for ever, that's what you're saying, isn't it?'

`Well, not necessarily,' Kerri said, putting out a hand to comfort her former boyfriend. `I mean, there's got to be a way of getting that costume off you - we just haven't found it yet, that's all.' Martine drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

`I'd be prepared to bet every last penny I have that even an oxyacetylene torch wouldn't cut through this stuff, but I'm not prepared to try it, anyway. The outfit would probably remain intact and I'd boil up inside it.'

`Well, we've got to try something,' Kerri pointed out, `unless you want to resign yourself to being a girl for the rest of your life.' Martine's shoulders slumped, but she nodded to the cafe.

`Maybe, just maybe,' Martine said, keeping her voice low enough so as not to be overheard, `I could get used to being a female for the rest of my natural, but not this sort of female.' A group of bikers had come into the cafe and the jukebox was now playing a series of seventies heavy metal tracks.

`This body is an absolute trap,' she continued. `Even that greasy lot could have it away with me, if they knew, and I'd be helpless to stop them.'

`Whoa - slut!' Kerri teased. Martine's pretty features remained set.

`Exactly,' she retorted. `I wish I could get it across to you, but I don't think I have the words to explain.'

`Well, try me anyhow,' Kerri invited. Ten minutes later, she was at least half way to understanding Martine's situation.

`Body and mind in disharmony,' she said, softly. `Yes, I think I can see what you're driving at. Well, there is a possible solution. It won't turn you back into a male and it won't help suppress your body's urges, but at least we can make sure you don't end up with some horrible hairy-arsed pleb's cock up you.'

`The only way you can ensure that,' Martine said, sourly, `would be to lock me in the bedroom and throw away the key.' Kerri smiled, mysteriously.

`Not quite,' she whispered. `But you're getting warm.'

Kerri refused to be drawn further about her idea, remaining annoyingly mysterious.

`I'll meet you back at the flat around tea time,' she said. Martine did not try to hide her displeasure at this.

`And what am I supposed to do meantime?' she said. Kerri made a vague motion with her head.

`I'd strongly advise you to get yourself round to the taxi rank at the back of the station and get straight back home. Watch Aussie soaps or panel games for the rest of the afternoon and keep yourself out of trouble. We should have got you something a little more discreet to wear than that.' She nodded down at the full length leather coat that Martine was wearing.

It was sound advice and Martine almost took it, but, having watched Kerri disappear into the market place throng and turning away in the direction of the railway station, she stopped after only a few tottering steps and turned slowly back again, her eyes traveling over the sea of faces. If the shop really had been there - and she had no reason to think Kerri was lying about that - then surely someone else must have seen it, too.

Her gaze settled on the fruit and veg stall directly opposite the dilapidated building. Behind the barrow, a weathered female of uncertain years was weighing Brussels sprouts into a brown paper bag. At her side, a younger woman - really no more than a teenager, though her features betrayed years of experience and hard work - was replacing carrots onto the "flash" from a hessian sack. Swallowing hard, Martine approached the stall with more confidence than she felt, catching the younger female's eye and moving around to the side of the display.

`Yes?' The girl's pale blue eyes narrowed, spreading wrinkles across the tops of her cheeks. Martine felt the two watery orbs boring into her. It was clear that beautiful women, dressed in expensive leather wear and poised atop skyscraper heels were not part of the everyday scenery around here. She coughed lightly, clearing her throat.

`I wondered if you might be able to help me?' she began. The girl's face remained impassive. `It's just that ... well, that shop over there - ' She jerked a gloved thumb in the direction of the abandoned premises. The girl's thin lips pursed a little.

`What about it?' she asked, her voice rasping. `Yew lookin' fer cheap premises, are yew?' A light suddenly went on in Martine's head.

`Uh - yes, that's it,' she replied. `Yes, cheap premises. Has the place been empty long?'

`Dunno.' The girl shook her unkempt mousy hair. `Coupla years, I suppose. 'Ere, ma, 'ow long's Felding's been gone fer?' The older woman turned, but kept adding to the scales in front of her. `Lady 'ere's lookin' fer a cheap shop,' her daughter went on. The woman shrugged.

`Can't be sure,' she growled. `Two years at least, maybe two and a 'arf. Old man Felding died three Christmases back and the son wasn't that interested, not after he got that lottery win, anyhow. Just upped sticks an' cleared orf. Never even bothered puttin' the place on the market, s'far as I know.'

`So there hasn't been a shop there since?' Martine prompted. The woman looked at her without comprehension.

`Wot, over there? Nah, nuffin since, luv.'

`Not even something short term?'

`Well, Wilf Miller was after openin' it fer Christmas swag lines last year, but no one knew who to get in touch wiv. My ole man suggested maybe goin' in roun' the back and then offerin' rent if anyone did turn up, but Wilf didn't 'ave the bottle fer that.'

`So there's been nothing there over the past few weeks?' Martine persisted. The woman shook her head, emphatically.

`Not whilst I've been standing here and that's four days every week.' Which left two weekdays, plus Sundays, unaccounted for, Martine calculated. But then what sort of a shop opened up for two days and then disappeared again without a trace? Come to that, she thought, as she thanked the mother and daughter and turned away again, what sort of shop sold outfits that trapped the wearer in them and changed their entire physiology?

Despite knowing that her efforts would be in vain, Martine wandered about the market and questioned a few other stall holders, but the story was always the same. David Felding had won a share of the lottery jackpot - four million odd pounds, so the informed opinion said - and had simply disappeared overnight, emptying the shop, selling the three bedroomed house that had been the Felding family home for nigh on fifty years and melting into the ether. As far as anybody knew, the shop had never come onto the market and there was no estate agent appointed to try to resell it.

`You could try down the council, though,' one brighter-than-average stall holder suggested, eyeing Martine with blatant approval. `Someone must be paying the business rates on the premises, otherwise the bailiff's would've been about and I ain't heard anything in that way.' Martine thanked him and drifted away, wondering whether it would be worthwhile walking the half mile to the Civic Offices in her high heels, or whether to head for the taxi rank.

Either way, she was determined to follow up on the man's suggestion, as her only alternative was an afternoon stuck in front of the box watching mindless daytime TV. She paused, considering her options, realising that her feet did not feel at all uncomfortable in the boots. The sky overhead was a clear blue, broken only by the occasional wisp of cotton wool cloud, so she set herself and began walking.

He caught her up after only a few minutes. The fellow from the cheese and egg stall who had suggested the council offices was maybe in his late twenties - early thirties tops, Martine thought - with almost black hair, a square jaw and wide, pleasant eyes that sparkled with the gleam of intelligence that she suspected was mostly kept hidden.

`Mind if I walk with you?' he asked, his wide mouth curving into a pleasant smile that revealed two rows of even, gleaming teeth. `Must admit, I'm a bit curious myself. David got lucky, I know, but why he should just abandon the shop, I haven't got a clue. The way us lot are brought up, no matter how much dosh you've got, you don't waste anything and that shop would fetch a few bob.

`You won't earn your fortune around here, but it's a prime little site, especially with the market on four days a week. I thought about trying for it myself, but the old studies take up a fair bit of my time.'

`Studies?' Martine looked sideways at him. The man grinned.

`Yeah, but don't shout it out around any of this lot. I'm doing one of those Open University courses. This is my third year now. I work day times on the old family gaff, then do my college work in the evenings and on my days off.'

`Oh.' It seemed an inadequate response, but Martine found it curiously unlikely that a market trader should be studying for a degree. The fellow sensed her incredulity.

`Yeah, I know,' he chuckled. `Market traders are supposed to be a bunch of gypsies, tramps and thieves, but you'd be surprised. Harry Gilbey's son is an Engineering Consultant, his daughter's a fashion writer and Josh Gilbey's daughter is a surgeon, would you believe.'

`If you say so,' Martine said. The man's grin grew wider still.

`I do,' he said. `Mind you, the Gilbey brothers were always hot on their kids' education and made sure there was no skiving lessons, whereas my old man was more than happy to have me helping him out in the mornings, so I didn't get too many qualifications as a teenager.'

`But you're making up for it now?' Martine suggested, catching the infection in his smile. `What course are you studying?'

`Well, it's a computer based thing, to do with economics and such things. I guess you'd call it a sort of Advanced Business Studies degree, but they've got a series of much fancier names for it.' They walked a few more steps in silence. `I'm Adam, by the way,' he said, eventually. `Adam Foster - Foster and Sons Dairy Products.'

`Martine,' she replied, quietly. `Martine de Lorean,' she added, picking the first fancy name that came to her out of the void. Adam laughed.

`Anything to do with the cars?' Martine shook her head.

`'Fraid not,' she confessed.

`But you're in business?'

`Well, yes.' She hesitated. `Sort of, I guess, but I'd rather not go into details, if you don't mind.' Adam nodded.

`Don't want to tip the opposition to a good idea?' he suggested. For a second or so, Martine was nonplussed, but then she understood what he was implying and smiled up at him, for, despite her extreme footwear, he still stood several inches taller.

`Something like that,' she said. `In any case, this is still only a sort of vague idea,' she went on, adding truthfully: `And I doubt whether you'd believe me if I told you.'

`Try me,' Adam invited. `I'm gullible as anything, I promise.'

`Nobody's that gullible,' Martine assured him, her smile suddenly set into a grimace.

 

Part Eleven - In For The Pennies

 

My room was very comfortable, if just a bit on the plain and functional side. There were no windows, of course, but the entire subterranean complex was served by one of the most efficient air conditioning systems I’d ever come across and there was no sense of claustrophobia at all.

The bed was a single, though a little wider than usual and there were two armless easy chairs, a stool and a dressing table unit and two closet doors set into the end wall. At the other end of the room, another door led into a small bathroom and shower unit and, midway along one of the side walls, a television screen was set flush. On the bedside table sat a conventional enough looking remote control unit, which I guessed - correctly, as it turned out - operated this system.

Magdala also pointed out the compact intercom unit, set into the bed’s headboard.

`You can order food and drink whenever you need it,’ she said, `but no alcohol, not at this stage.’

`Hmmm,’ I said, `and I was just thinking I could use a stiff drink, too.’ I sat on the edge of the bed, to test the springs and nodded approvingly. `Feels comfy,’ I said. `But how long will I be staying here?’

`Two days - three at the most,’ Magdala replied. `Time’s beginning to get a little short now. Ideally, we wanted to recruit twenty of you, but we’ll have to go with what we’ve got, I think.’

`Which is how many?’ I asked. She raised her eyebrows in a brief flicker that was as near to an apology as I was ever likely to get from her.

`You’re number ten,’ she said. `We did have thirteen, but three have dropped out over the past few days.’

`Not quite as mad as they thought they were, eh?’ I rejoined. I looked up at her, questioningly. `And you were happy enough just to let them walk away from all this?’ I asked. She shrugged.

`Well, happy isn’t the word I’d have chosen, but we’re not in the business of pushing people into doing something against their wills.’

`Apart from giving female bodies to unsuspecting males, that is,’ I added, sarcastically. Magdala seemed completely unfazed by that barb.

`They’ve been well compensated for their inconvenience,’ she said, dryly. `Not as much as you’ll get, of course, but more than enough to make up for what they’ve been through and to ensure they don’t go around shooting their mouths off. Besides,’ she continued, the ghost of a smile flickering across her face, `I doubt whether anyone would believe them if they did talk.’

`Probably not,’ I agreed. `They’d just end up in a funny farm somewhere and then, presumably, they wouldn’t be able to come back to you to have the body process reversed when the time came.’

`Quite so,’ she said. `And we’ve made that probability abundantly clear to them all. Anyway, enough of that - we need to concentrate on the assets we do have.’

Assets? She sounded like a bloody business tycoon, or some American general in a bad war movie. A mental image of pictures I’d seen, grey or sepia prints of first world war trenches, floated before me. Those poor bastards had been "assets", too, I thought - disposable assets.

Wait for the whistle, boys and over the top we go! March on for King and country, into the valley of whatever and remember to do your duty bravely ...

Duty.

Bollocks.

Well, praise the Lord and pass the fucking ammunition - and hope theirs runs out before we’re all killed.

I jerked myself back to the present. After all, I thought, I wasn’t being pressed into this, was I? And Magdala had said I was as free to leave as the three who had already had changes of mind, as well as changes of bodies. No, can’t blame this one on anyone else, Chrissy, you’re doing this for greed.

And for your own macabre curiosity.

And why not? I suddenly found myself getting quite indignant with that particular branch of my conscience. Why not, indeed? After all, how many people even know there’s such a thing as a parallel world, let alone get the chance to pay the damned place a visit, all expenses paid and a very fat fee into the bargain?

`So, what happens next?’ I asked.

I stared at the curiously erotic outfit as Magdala began laying it out on the bed, quite unable to believe my eyes, or that I would soon be wearing this bizarre costume. Gingerly, I picked up what was clearly supposed to be a corset and fingered the shimmering black material; it felt cool and warm, all at the same time and its touch seemed to send tiny electrical impulses running up my arms.

`What’s this made of?’ I asked. `It looks like it ought to be either thin leather, or maybe even rubber, but it’s not either.’

`No, it’s not,’ Magdala confirmed. `Actually, it’s a synthetically produced and biologically based fabric, called Neuroplasmaformalytin C, or Neurolytin, or NPFC for short. It was developed in our world, naturally.’

`Naturally,’ I agreed, somewhat ironically. I turned the garment over a few times, examining the way it had been made, paying particular attention to the ribbed seams, which appeared to have been welded in some way, for there was no sign of any stitching.

`All these items are made from Neurolytins of one kind or another,’ Magdala explained. `The boots are Neurolytin B, which you can see is a slightly thicker and stiffer form of it, whilst the stockings are Neurolytin F, which looks and feels very much like your modern polymer based fabrics that stockings and tights are made from in this world.

`The gloves,’ she added, holding them up, so that I could see just how long they were, `are Neurolytin D. The suffix letters denote the basic thickness and flexibilities.’ I leaned across and picked up what I guessed was some form of neck collar, which proved to be as stiff as it looked.

`Neurolytin A?’ I suggested. Magdala gave me a half smile and shook her head.

`Neurolytin B Two,’ she said. `Neurolytin A is as hard as steel, as you’ll probably find out, before this little venture is finished.’ Yes, I should have asked for some sort of explanation, I know, but the fact is that I didn’t and probably because I’d subconsciously decided that the less I knew to worry me, the easier this whole thing would be to handle.

`I’m never going to fit into this!’ I’d picked up the corset again and was trying to work out just how small the waist of it was. Probably no more than twenty inches, tops, I reckoned and that, by anyone’s standards, was ve-ery small. Magdala’s wan little smile returned again.

`You obviously haven’t looked at yourself too closely,’ she replied, nodding down to indicate my own waist measurement. I peered down, narrowing my eyes and let out a small murmur of surprise, for what she said was near enough true. I’d been so preoccupied with the more than ample bust line and the female plumbing department I’d acquired that I hadn’t taken too much notice of what had been going on in between them.

Now I did and it was pretty clear to me that the extreme measurements of the Neurolytin corset garment were not that much more extreme than my own measurements. A tightish squeeze might be called for, but there was little doubt that I was going to fit into the damned thing.

And the sooner the better, a little voice suggested. These tits are starting to feel bloody heavy!

`What comes first?’ I asked, knowing the answer even before Magdala gave it. `Okay, then,’ I said, holding the corset at arms’ length, `how do I get into it?’

It turned out to be easier than I’d expected, mainly because there was some sort of zip fastener that I hadn’t noticed during my inspection earlier. When it was drawn down, a row of metallic looking busk fasteners was revealed and these Magdala quickly unhooked, before holding out the corset to wrap about me.

`Once fitted,’ she said, all quite fatter-of-fact and "oh and there’s nothing to worry about, of course", `once fitted, the corset locks into place, as does everything else in this outfit. I won’t waste time trying to explain the way that happens,’ she continued, all the while closing fastener after fastener, `but these things aren’t meant to be removed by the wearer.’

`Well, I’m sure I can work something out, if I get desperate enough,’ I retorted. Magdala gave me a look that was both sympathetic and at the same time superior.

`This costume will not come off without the proper key device,’ she said. `Neurolytin is a bit more than just a sexy looking fabric. It doesn’t tear, it doesn’t burn and you cannot cut it, not even with an oxyacetylene torch, not that you’d want to try that, I’d say.’

`You mean it’s totally indestructible?’ I said, running my hands down my sides and feeling the sheen again. `Amazing. I’d never have guessed.’

`Well, there are a couple of solvents which will break down its molecular structure,’ Magdala said, fastening the last hook and straightening up, `but they will also make your own flesh become unstable, so I wouldn’t advise trying them.

`There,’ she said, stepping back, `I think that looks fine.’ I looked down at myself and was surprised to see that there was no longer any sign of the zipper-like device that I had presumed kept the fastening covered. I opened my mouth to ask about this, but the question remained unasked, for I realised that there was so much going on around me here that one more unresolved scientific mystery was neither here nor there and the answer, even if I understood it, wasn’t going to add anything useful to my knowledge anyway.

`It feels just a bit on the tight side,’ I said, trying to flex my stomach muscles. Magdala chuckled.

`Think yourself lucky you had your new body before you put it on,’ she said. `Usually, the poor beggars who find themselves in one of these have to be squeezed and molded for a couple of days, until the outfit has created the desired shape.’

`You mean this little lot does much the same thing as that flaming hat?’ I said.

`Much the same,’ Magdala agreed, `though in a slightly different way. The sequence of events is a bit different and a lot more dramatic for the subject, though generally speaking, the fact that the subject is willing to wear something like this in the first place acts as a sort of barrier to the shock.’

`I don’t understand at all,’ I retorted. `Why would anyone willingly put on something like this, especially if it was obviously too small?’

`Well,’ Magdala explained, patiently, `everything starts off larger than you see it here now. This suit has been prepared for your current body measurements, which means it won’t have to adapt you much further.’

`Okay,’ I conceded, `I’ll buy that, but why would anyone want to wear something like this anyway, especially as you say a lot of these victims are male, like me. Like I was,’ I corrected myself, almost without thinking.

Magdala explained, at the same time sitting me back on the edge of the bed, so that she could draw the stockings up my shapely legs. I stared at her, almost in disbelief - okay, so I’d had a sheltered life in some directions, I’ll grant you that, but then I’d never been one for fetishes, unless you counted stockings, suspenders and high heels, which isn’t exactly a fetish, is it?

Well, it isn’t, I’m telling you that, okay? Well, I’d never regarded it that way, anyway; it’s just that I reckon stockings are sexy and high heels do something for a girl’s legs.

Just like the heels on the boots were going to do for mine in a few moments, just as soon as Magdala had finished attaching my sexy black stockings to the four sexy garter straps that awaited each one. I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes. What on earth - what on either earth, for that matter - was I letting myself get drawn into?

Of course, that’s the point I should have called a halt to the whole thing. After all, I was already guaranteed a nice pay day and I could use some of that money to keep myself and my new body out of the frame for the six months, so why bother continuing further, eh?

`Okay, Magdala, that’s enough. This is too way out for me. Just take this stuff off me and I’ll slip away and you won’t see me again until it’s time to get my old body back.’ Except I didn’t say that, not out loud, anyway. Sure, I ran it through in my head, but my stupid male pride prevented me from actually voicing it.

Stupid male pride, made even more stupid and ridiculous by the fact that it was now currently housed in a body that was so far removed from anything male that it might have well been in another parallel world. And all the time, Magdala was working away on me, steadily getting this gorgeous new body into what was clearly designed to become a sort of sexual prison.

The boots were thigh length, so high that they all but covered the stockings and the heels arched my insteps even more drastically than the stupid shoes I’d arrived in. They also clung to my legs like an additional layer of skin, though the Neurolytin seemed to be able to move with me, at least to some extent, when I tried to bend my knees.

At Magdala’s suggestion, I rose to my feet, though I was all but convinced I’d end up falling headlong. To my surprise, I discovered I could balance quite well, even though only my toes and the very front of the balls of my feet were actually in contact with the ground now. I even managed to walk, though it was a bit ungainly.

`Not to worry,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring. `Once everything is on and I activate it, your feet and legs will quickly become acclimatized. You’ll find you can walk quite easily and all your movements will soon feel and look, more importantly, perfectly natural.’

`Oh, I am pleased about that!’ I retorted, sourly, sitting myself down again. `I wouldn’t want to look unnatural, would I? I mean, not after all the trouble you and your people have gone to to make me look so natural in the first place.’

So, I was being petty and spiteful and yes, I do know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but I ask you! Natural? A stunning blonde with a bimbo face, big tits and squeezed into a get-up that was some fetishist’s favourite wet dream and she talks about natural? Do me a favour ... please.

The gloves reached all the way to my shoulders and had laces at the wrists and on the upper arms, so that they could be drawn tighter than they already were. It struck me as being somewhat idiosyncratic that something that was made from such high tech material should have to rely on such a quaint and old-fashioned means of achieving a snug fit, but then I still had an awful lot to learn about the people who had originally conceived the idea of these outfits and of the quirky natures of the sort of people for whom they were originally intended.

`Comfortable enough?’ Magdala asked, when she had finished adjusting the second glove. Curiously enough, yes, I did feel quite comfortable and I said so, though I was a little conscious of the fact that my female sex was still blatantly on display, so I mentioned that point, also, adding a query as to how I was supposed to perform certain bodily functions if my nether regions were also to be "trapped" inside an irremovable garment.

`Not a problem,’ she assured me. `The panties for this are removable, or else you can select a pair of your own choosing. There are several in the bottom drawer of the dressing table there. Now, just hold your head up straight, whilst I fit this collar and connect the straps to your corset.’

I did as she instructed and quickly discovered that I no longer had the choice of holding my head erect or otherwise. The collar was not uncomfortable, but it was carefully sculpted and designed to fit so closely that, once it was adjusted in position, my chin was held up and my ability to turn my head to either side was seriously restricted.

`Is this really quite necessary?’ I demanded, feeling strangely helpless, even though I was perfectly at liberty to move about still. Magdala nodded tersely and began fiddling with something she had taken from the top of the dressing table. At first glance, I took it to be a pen of some description, but when she twisted the top of it, I realised it was for a far more similar purpose than writing.

I felt, rather than heard, a series of dull clicks and my entire body stiffened, as I understood the significance of this latest action. The clicks were some sort of locking mechanisms engaging and I knew, without putting it to the test, that everything I now wore would stay on me until someone else - hopefully - employed a device similar to the one Magdala was now tucking away in a pocket in her skirt.

`Now then,’ she said, walking across to one of the closet doors, `I want you to come over here and meet the ultimate bimbo. Come on, see for yourself.’ She turned the handle on the closet door and swung it open, revealing a long mirror fixed to the inside surface. There was maybe a second’s delay, before the angle of the glass was just right for me to see my reflection and then ...

`Hell’s teeth!’ I stood and gaped at the image I now presented and, despite my protestations about not having any particular fetish tendencies, I knew, deep in my heart of hearts, that if I’d still possessed my old masculine equipment, it would have risen to attention in less than the time it now took me to take stock of myself.

`This is almost grotesque,’ I virtually whined. `I mean, look at me! This is just asking to be fucked, if anything is!’

`Begging, more likely,’ Magdala replied, stolidly. `That’s supposed to be the general idea, don’t forget.’

`And these ... these people, they produce people to look just like this so they can sell them or rent them out? That’s awful! It’s obscene!’ I stared at myself again and then at Magdala. `I - I’m not sure,’ I stammered. She raised one eyebrow.

`I mean,’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper, `that I don’t think I can go through with this, really I don’t. I feel so ... so vulnerable like this. Ye gods, give me something to cover this damned crotch with.’

`All in good time,’ she replied, smoothly. `And yes, I can understand how vulnerable you must feel. That’s all part of why those outfits are designed to look the way they do. You now feel like a little mannequin, tottering around on your high heels, your boobs all but spilling out and your arse sticking out so invitingly, but imagine what it would be like for the real victims.’

`They couldn’t feel any worse,’ I assured her. I turned back to the mirror again - the image, horrifying as it was in one respect, had a curious magnetic quality about it. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from that epitome of sexual invitation and availability and the fact that I was that image just seemed to make it even more fascinating.

`I can assure you, Chris,’ Magdala said, her voice taking on an unexpectedly cold edge, `that you could feel a whole lot worse. That outfit has been partially deactivated, don’t forget. I could re-energise it again, just to demonstrate what I’m trying to tell you, but the effects can linger for many hours, days even, after it’s deactivated again.

`Imagine, though,’ she urged me, `being trapped inside that, as you now are, only you know it’s the outfit that’s responsible for your new body and not some weird hat. Not only that, but the outfit is also working away on your brain now, just as surely as it worked on your body.

`Imagine, Chris,’ she hissed, drawing closer, `that every time you looked at a handsome man, this terrible new body started taking over and your brain was becoming so confused it was no longer sure of whether it should fight these urges, or whether you were really a woman after all, that maybe you really ought to open your pretty legs and beg that handsome guy to stick his cock in you and fuck what’s left of your whorish brains out!’

`No!’ I gasped, but the gasp wasn’t in denial at the suggestion that I could ever fancy another man, it was an instinctive reaction, as Magdala’s hand closed over my naked mound and one finger probed between labial lips that had suddenly and inexplicably become very moist.

`Imagine that, Chris!’ Magdala rasped. I wanted to move her hand away, but somehow I found that I’d become completely unable to move even my own hands. She was leaning against me and I could smell her perfume and the warmth of her own body.

`Imagine, you beautiful little bimbo,’ she murmured, `what it must feel like to be so completely under the control of your own sexuality - a sexuality that should never have been yours in the first place - so completely under its control that you would get on your knees and promise anything to a man just to satisfy your lust.

`Can you imagine that, Chris?’ she said. `Can you?’

I closed my eyes and bit my lip, trying to fight back the tremors of passion that were already starting to well up inside me.

`Ye-es!’ I croaked. `Ye-es, I can!’

And I could. Most definitely, right at that moment, I could!

 

Part Twelve - Adam Adamant

 

The initial results from the Civic Offices were not promising. The youthful, bespectacled clerk behind the enquiries desk was not very forthcoming, though what he did tell them confirmed that David Felding no longer owned the shop premises, having sold it around the time that he received his lottery win.

The new owner was registered as a Ms Arabella Drake, so much he could disclose as being a matter of public record and the business rates were paid by bankers' order, annually. However, no amount of cajoling, even by the persistent Adam, who seemed to have a way of eliciting details in most circumstances, could persuade the pasty faced nonentity to divulge an alternative address for Ms Drake.

`Perhaps we could leave a letter with you, for forwarding?' Adam suggested. The clerk looked dubious.

`I don't know,' he muttered. `It's very irregular. We have rules about this sort of thing.'

`I'd be very grateful,' Martine purred, leaning forward and forcing herself to smile as enticingly as she knew how. The clerk's eyes grew round and the light glinted on a bead of perspiration that had suddenly appeared on his brow.

`Well, er - ' he stammered. `P-perhaps if you'd like to drop back with a communication, I'll see what I can do.'

`If you'd pushed him just a wee bit harder,' Adam said, when they were once more out in the sunlight, `he'd have turned over the key to the filing rooms.'

`I thought everything was computerized these days?' Martine countered. `You, of all people, should know that.'

`Well, his master disc, then,' Adam laughed.

`As long as it's his floppy and not his hard drive,' Martine grinned.

`I doubt he can tell the difference, now,' Adam said, steering her into the open doorway of a pub. They ordered drinks and retreated to a vacant, oak paneled booth. `Now then, what are you doing for the rest of the day?' he asked, when they were settled on opposite sides of the rectangular table. Martine lowered her eyes.

`I - I'm afraid I'm a bit tied up at the moment,' she said. Adam grunted.

`Sounds promising,' he joked. `But surely you can get an hour or two free. Dinner, perhaps?' Martine continued to stare down at her drink, but her head was filled with the image of his tight jeans and the promising bulge at his crotch as they had walked together. Fiercely, she gave herself a hard, mental slap.

`No,' she said, just a little too vehemently. `I'm afraid not. I'm sorry,' she continued, in a gentler tone, looking up at him once more, `I didn't mean to sound so rude. It's just that I have - well, I have a lot on at the moment.'

`So I'd noticed,' Adam said. `That coat is very sexy, but aren't you just a bit warm underneath all that leather?' If only you knew the half of it, Martine thought. Aloud, she said:

`I must have thin blood, I guess.' She paused, picked up her glass and sipped at the brandy and dry. `Listen,' she went on, changing the subject, `shouldn't you be looking after your stall, or something?'

`No, my brother and his girlfriend took over, just after I first spoke to you. We take it in turns and today was my day to pull out and set up. Then I do the morning and they show up for the last few hours and then strip down and put away for the night.'

`Oh, I see.' All sorts of conflicting emotions were hammering around inside Martine's head. She looked across at her companion and could not help but laugh inwardly at the ludicrousness of the entire situation, wondering if he would have been so quick to latch himself onto her quest had they met only a couple of days earlier and knowing the answer to that one beyond question. But then, two days ago she would have had no need of tracing the new owner of the mysterious little shop anyway.

`Tell me to get lost, if you'd prefer,' Adam said. `I mean, I'm assuming a lot. For a start, there must be a boyfriend somewhere, I'm sure.'

`No, no boyfriend.' Without realising it, Martine had stressed the syllable "boy", but Adam had not missed it. She saw his eyebrows twitch just a little.

`Ah, I think maybe I understand,' he said, sitting back in his seat. `Pity.'

`You don't understand anything!' Martine snapped. `Just 'cause a girl doesn't have a boyfriend, doesn't mean diddly squat!' Adam seemed quite taken aback.

`I'm sorry,' he said. `It's just that from your tone, I assumed - '

`Well, you shouldn't assume. I live with a girl, or at least, I used to live with her, but it's not what you think. We're just friends who happen - oh shit, why am I bothering to tell you this anyway? It's none of your damned business!'

`No, it isn't,' Adam said, calmly. `You're quite right and I apologise for assuming anything at all, but you can't blame me for fancying you. You do happen to be bloody gorgeous.'

`Oh yeah?' Martine felt her colour rising. `So you look at a pretty face, see blonde hair and your dick starts to swell, is that it? Ever bothered wondering about the mind that's behind that face?'

`Of course I do,' Adam protested. `It's just that - '

`Blondes with big tits are your bag, huh? Well, Mister Adam, go find yourself another bag and don't try anything with me.' The words hung between them like Damocles' sword and the air was almost humming, but then, without warning, Martine found herself giggling uncontrollably. Adam's brow furrowed, perplexedly, but it was several more seconds before he spoke.

`I don't understand,' he said, at length. `What's so funny?' Martine wiped a tear from her eye and coughed, struggling to control her amusement.

`No, you wouldn't understand,' she agreed. `But then, I'm not sure anyone would. It's just that I never thought I'd ever hear myself saying anything like I just did. Now, just shut up and buy the bimbo another drink. And try to keep your mind above your middle.'

By the time they parted, Martine had found herself agreeing to meet Adam back at the pub at nine thirty that evening. She tried convincing herself that it was the only way of getting rid of him, but had that been the case, why was she genuinely contemplating keeping the date? Or was she? Her brain was fighting with itself as she slid into the back of the taxi, though she didn't fail to notice the driver's eyes as he caught sight of the thigh length boots when the front of her coat slid apart.

Damn this outfit, she thought, fiercely. It was bad enough being female, without being forced to walk around dressed like a slut under the coat. Typical male reaction and she knew that the old Marty would have been the same. One glimpse of these legs in these boots and his male hormones would have been turning somersaults. Instead, her new female hormones were in heated conference over the darkly good looking Adam and, to her horror, Martine knew that her body was winning its battle with her brain.

`Where've you been?' Kerri demanded. `I expected to find you here waiting for me and it's well after five now.'

`I tried a bit of sleuthing,' Martine told her and related the events of the afternoon. Before she could stop herself, she also found herself telling her former girlfriend about the market trader with the impending university degree.

`It's a good job you've got me to look after you, then,' Kerri said, grinning from ear to ear. `You have turned into a right little miss hot pants, haven't you?'

`Who said anything about that?' Martine protested. `I only went for a drink with him. After all, he had been pretty helpful.'

`Oh yeah? And is that why your eyes are shining like two little buttons when you talk about him?' Kerri turned to the table, on which she had deposited two large, black and silver carrier bags. `Just get out of that coat and come over here, you soft tart.'

Slowly, Martine unbuttoned the front of the long coat and let it slip from her shoulders, catching it and draping it over the back of a chair. Deliberately, she let her hips sway even more deliberately than the heels necessitated, as she crossed the room, the tops of the boots rustling against the micro length leather skirt that she had selected that morning, though why she had not chosen something a good deal more conservative, she no longer knew.

Kerri had not moved meanwhile, but now she crooked a finger, summoning Martine closer to her.

`Turn around and face away from me,' she ordered. `We need to save you from your hormones, I think we both agree on that.' Hesitantly, Martine turned her back on the now taller girl and made no effort to resist as Kerri drew one of her wrists behind her back, not realising what was intended. By the time she did, it was too late. The double click of the handcuffs snapping shut had an air of finality to it.

`Hey! What's this?' Martine spun round, tugging at the steel bands that now encircled her wrists, but it was to no avail. `Oh, come on, Kerri, not this!' she protested, but Kerri was not in the mood to argue, nor to concede anything.

`It's not permanent,' she said. `Just to keep you under control whilst I sort the important bits out.' She reached out a hand, palm open, and stroked it across Martine's left nipple. Even through the fabric of her blouse and the imprisoning corset beneath, Martine felt the peak swell and stiffen. A small cry rent from her throat and she tried to back away.

`No, don't!' she wailed. `This isn't fair.' She wriggled and squirmed, but Kerri was relentless, pursuing her back until she was trapped against the wall, molding and kneading both breasts mercilessly. Martine's eyes rolled upwards into her head, until only the whites were visible.

`Time to release some steam, before your boiler blows,' Kerri crooned and suddenly the fingers of her right hand were inside the elasticated leg of Martine's panties, probing for the warm slit and finding it with unerring accuracy. `Or do you want me to stop, still?' Kerri teased, one finger touching on the pulsing clitoral bud. `Go on, you horny bitch, tell me to stop - if you can!'

But Martine couldn't.

`You can't seriously expect me to wear this all day long!' Martine wailed, as Kerri finally released her from the handcuffs. The thin steel bands of the chastity belt were covered in rubber, to prevent chafing, Kerri had explained, but the rigid embrace of the device was unyielding and the tiny prong which slipped inside Martine's vagina made its presence only too obvious.

`You could at least have cut this bloody thing off,' Martine complained. `It's doing all sorts of unbelievable things to me.'

`That's supposed to stop the belt from being moved to one side or the other,' Kerri said. `And the slit underneath is wide enough for you to pee. Just make sure you dry everything thoroughly, otherwise you'll get sore. Now, put some knickers on over it.'

`Oh, come on, Kerri, please! Take it off me.'

`No fear. It's for your own good,' Martine said. `I mean, if you're going to insist on meeting this bloke tonight, that's about all that'll stand between you and his cock. Your willpower certainly won't!'

`Ugh!' Martine shuddered. `Don't even talk about it. The thought of that makes me feel all queasy.'

`And yet you've agreed to a date with this Adam?'

`Well, yes. I mean, no. It's not exactly a date.'

`No? You're meeting a bloke in a pub and then going on for dinner. I call that a date.'

`Well, that's not how I see it. Adam was very helpful this afternoon and he knows loads of people around the market. He might prove very useful. He said he'd ask around and see if anyone else can remember seeing that shop open.'

`And he didn't ask you why it was so important?'

`Well, I told him I'd paid for a new dress and hadn't received it.'

`Did he believe that?' Kerri cocked one eyebrow.

`No reason he shouldn't. He did think it was peculiar that a shop should appear and disappear so rapidly, but then so do I.' Martine picked up the PVC panties Kerri had removed from her earlier and stepped into them, closing the zip so that the fabric was drawn snugly over the imprisoning bands of the chastity belt.

`Oh, this is bloody ridiculous,' she groaned. `What if he notices this?'

`I've got a calf length leather skirt you can put on over the top,' Kerri offered. `I reckon it's all the leather that turns this Adam on. You're going to have to find a good explanation for not taking off your gloves to eat.'

`Not necessarily. Loads of women wear formal evening gloves at dinner.'

`Yeah, but those are hardly Knightsbridge swank. More Soho slut.'

Martine scowled. `Just shut up, will you!' she snapped. `Don't forget, it was you who got me into this mess in the first place.' She turned away and stalked across the room on her high heels, her hips swiveling provocatively, despite her best efforts to control their movement. Kerri let out a sigh.

`You know,' she mused, `I'm beginning to wish I'd put that outfit on myself. God, but you've got a fabulous body now. That waist can't be more than twenty inches ... and that hair!'

`Listen,' Martine said, halting at the door to the bedroom and turning back, `this body maybe great on a woman, but it's not so great on me. You seem to be forgetting something. Underneath all this, inside, I'm still a man.' Kerri pursed her lips, thoughtfully.

`Maybe I'm not the only one who keeps forgetting,' she said, half under her breath. Martine, however, heard her clearly enough and shot her a venomous look as she disappeared into the adjoining room.

Adam was already waiting when Martine nervously pushed the door of the pub open. He nodded to the barman and then turned to look her up and down, his eyes gleaming with approval.

`You wear a lot of leather?' he asked, when they were eventually settled into the same booth they had used earlier that afternoon. Martine nodded.

`I like the feel of it,' she said. It was an honest enough answer, for, even as Marty, she had found herself very much attracted to the fabric. `And it looks smart, I think.'

`Not to mention sexy,' Adam agreed. He reached across the table and took Martine's right hand in his. Her initial reaction was to snatch away, but she stopped herself with an effort of will, reasoning that such a move would ruin the atmosphere before the night had started.

But why should that worry you and what the holy hell are you doing here anyway? Maybe Kerri had a point? She shifted her position slightly, feeling the pressure of the crotch band against the mound of her vulva and the insistent probing where it slid between her moist lower lips. Something in her expression must have betrayed her discomfort.

`Everything okay?' Adam asked. `You don't look too happy.' Martine had a sudden flash of inspiration.

`Girl problems,' she muttered. `It's that time of the month, if you know what I mean?' That should put him off too close an exploring expedition. Adam nodded and smiled, sympathetically.

`I understand,' he said. His thumb was slowly stroking her gloved knuckles, his forefinger rubbing gently in the palm of her hand. `These gloves must have cost a pretty penny,' he ventured. `I've never seen anything like them. Not even a seam showing.'

`They were a gift,' Martine replied. `From a girlfriend.'

`Pretty good friend, then,' Adam commented. `Wish my friends would buy me presents like that.'

`What? leather gloves?' Martine gave him a challenging stare. Adam didn't flinch.

`Sure, why not?' he agreed. `I happen to like leather, too.'

`Is that why you started chatting me up earlier?' Adam laughed.

`Not quite entirely,' he said. `I think I'd have chatted you up, as you put it, if you'd been wearing an old sack. You happen to be exceptionally beautiful.'

`And make a nice ornament for your arm?'

`That's not fair. You don't know me.'

`And you don't know me,' Martine pointed out. `So I'm not kidding myself it was the power of my mind that interested you.' Adam released his grip on her hand and sat back.

`There's always got to be a physical attraction to start with,' he pointed out. `I mean, I'm not a mind reader, so until I do get to know you, it's only the physical chemistry that I can go on. Sure I fancy you, but then who wouldn't?'

`Well, thank you for the compliment, I'm sure,' Martine said. `But I have to tell you, whatever my appearance might suggest to the contrary, I'm not an easy lay and I intend to keep my knickers on all night.'

Not that it would make much difference if I didn't, she thought, grimly. Fuck you, Kerri. That's about as close to a fuck as -

Shit! What am I saying? Whatever's the matter with me?

She reached for her glass and gulped a mouthful down in a most unladylike manner, spilling some onto her chin as she did so. Damn it! She was starting to wish she wasn't locked into this infernal belt, Adam's close presence triggering off all sorts of reflexive responses somewhere deep inside. She took out a tissue and dabbed herself dry, mumbling an apology as she did so.

Kerri had been quite right. Without the restraining influence of the chastity device, there was little doubt she would have ended up, legs splayed, impaled on Adam's cock and groaning for more. Her brain - the residual male part, anyway - might be saying no, but the rest of her body was aching for release. She would have to bring the evening to a premature close, or the torture would send her insane.

`Did you have any luck about that shop?' she said, tucking the damp tissue away and changing the subject. Adam shook his head.

`Not really,' he confessed. `Terry Maitland reckons he saw it open one Monday, a couple of weeks back, but I reckon he was having me on.'

`Oh? Why's that?'

`Because what he described wasn't what I think you were looking for.' Adam coughed, picked up his pint and emptied half of it in two large swallows. `He reckons it was a sex shop, with all sorts of strange bits and bobs in the window. Reckons the council must have closed it down straight away, which was why it never lasted. The local council are a bit funny in that way.'

`Oh.' It was a possibility Martine had not considered before. Yes, maybe that was it. Maybe someone had opened up the shop without permission, or a licence and the grey suit brigade had come storming in threatening legal action. But then surely that chinless wonder at the council offices earlier would have known about that? Or had he known and decided that his "vow of confidentiality", or whatever they called it, prevented him from saying anything?

She looked at Adam, who was regarding her quizzically.

`Okay,' she admitted, `so it was a kind of sex shop, but then buying really good leather wear can be difficult and - '

`You don't need to explain anything to me,' Adam said, waving his hands defensively. `I'm not your dad. But at least we know that the shop was there at some time and, if they were kicked out by the council, odds are that they've moved elsewhere. If we can find a new address, we might get your money back yet.'

`We?' Martine echoed. Adam grinned.

`Well, I guess I'm presuming, but I'm kind of interested on your behalf, now. Plus I don't like shysters who give the market, or even the area, a bad name. Life's hard enough anyway, what with the competition from all the big supermarkets. Our trade is dying and it doesn't need any extra nails banged into its coffin.

`Now, can I be rude and ask you how much this outfit has ripped you off?'

This outfit? Well, this outfit has ripped me off for a lifetime and deposited me in a body that's trying to get itself fucked at every opportunity now. But that wasn't what Adam had meant by his use of the word "outfit", as Martine knew only too well..

`Enough,' she said, simply. Adam nodded.

`In other words, mind my own business,' he said. `Fair enough. But the amount isn't important anyway. It's the principle.' He took another mouthful of lager. `But if you'd rather I kept my nose out altogether, I'll understand.'

It's not keeping your nose out that bothers me. But even that's not all of it. Why do I find you so bloody attractive to be with anyway? Even if bloody Kerri had sewn me up, I'd still find you nice to be around.

`No, it'd be rude to turn down any offer of help,' she said aloud. `I'm not sure where I should start anyway.'

`Well, we could try that skinny berk in the council offices again. Perhaps if you talked to him alone? He was positively drooling over you.' Martine recoiled.

`That's a horrible thing to suggest,' she said. `That's - that's immoral. I'm not flaunting myself for anybody.' Apart from maybe regaining the body I used to have ... maybe.

`I'm not suggesting you should do anything immoral,' Adam countered, smoothly. `But if you fluttered those eyelashes a bit and pouted and spoke nicely to him, he might be persuaded to bend a few rules. Now, where would you fancy eating? There's an Italian place about five minutes walk from here, or there's a new Indian just opened in Station Street.

`Or,' he continued, `my car's parked just across the road and we could always drive out of town. I know a couple of really good places.'

I just bet you do.

But Martine still found herself sitting in the front passenger seat of a three year old Mercedes sports car not ten minutes later, as they sped out into the darkness of the country night.

 

Part Thirteen - In For A Pound(ing)

 

I stood there, completely helpless, unable to move a muscle in my body, convinced that the alien outfit had me totally in its power, as Magdala slowly began to massage my clitoris inside its warm and, by this time, soaking little refuge. Even my tongue seemed to have become paralysed and only the steady rise and fall of my breasts betrayed the fact that I was not some bizarre, inanimate statue.

At last, as the waves of heat and desire threatened to sweep me completely away from what little remained of reality, I managed to find my voice.

`No!’ I groaned. `Please, Magdala, stop it!’

`Why don’t you stop me?’ she crooned, her tongue tracing a line around the lobe of my right ear. I forced myself to shake my head.

`I - I can’t!’ I whined. `You know I can’t. This outfit -’

`It’s not the outfit, Christine,’ she purred. `The outfit isn’t doing anything. It’s you! Look, if you don’t believe me.’ She suddenly broke the physical contact and stepped away, but for several seconds I remained rooted to the same spot, shivering and trembling, my eyes screwed tight shut.

`Go on,’ I heard her say. `Open your eyes and move, if you don’t believe me!’

With an effort, I managed to separate my eyelids from each other. Magdala had stepped back three or four paces and was standing, arms folded, regarding me with a look as inscrutable as a shed wall. I stared back at her, trying to muster some sort of defiance, for I could already feel my limbs beginning to loosen on me and I knew, even before I tried, that I was perfectly able to control my movements once more.

`Go on then,’ Magdala prompted. `Move your arms, take a couple of steps. Turn around, even.’

`Wh-what happened?’ I squeaked. `My arms, my legs - they wouldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything at all. It must have been something to do with all this.’ Without any conscious effort on my part, or so it seemed, my hands were now running slowly down either side of the glistening corset. I shook my head in bewilderment.

`I told you,’ Magdala asserted, `it was nothing to do with the outfit - nothing at all. It wasn’t really anything to do with the conditioning, either. That was more directed towards your future reactions to any intimate contact with males. No, Christine, what you just experienced was something quite different.

`Your body is finely tuned, even more so that a normal human female body, to react to stimuli of a sexual nature.’ As she spoke, I realised, for the first time, that my nipples now felt huge and were seemingly pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I ground my teeth and tried my best to ignore this.

`We’ve had to incorporate some of their technological features into our versions of the transformed body models,’ Magdala explained, coolly. `No doubt you’ve read all about women who fake orgasms, but faking is something that requires more than just a little bit of practice and besides, in your head you’re still very much a male, so it just wouldn’t work.

`Especially,’ she added, meaningfully, `as these people are used to seeing somewhat extreme reactions from their subjects. Therefore, we’ve eliminated the necessity for our subjects to have to fake their orgasms.’

I groaned out loud. `Oh great,’ I muttered, bitterly. `So now I’m not only trapped in a bimbo body, I end up trapped in a nymphomaniac’s reflex system.’

`Which is why you underwent your conditioning earlier,’ Magdala reminded me. I was far from convinced.

`If that conditioning was all you cracked it up to be,’ I protested, `then why did my mind react at odds with this body? Something gone wrong, maybe?’

`No, not at all.’ She moved back towards me and again I could smell that perfume. `It’s a bit like hypnotherapy,' she said. `The machine offers the suggestions and possible routes for your mind - your conscience, if you prefer - to go down, but the rest is up to you.

`Like everything else in life, this is going to require practice. You need to get some experience in your body, to become accustomed to what it is likely to do and to come to terms with the fact that you can now divorce it from your conscious mind, if you choose to do so.’

`This is all getting just a bit complicated,’ I said, as though everything that had happened to me so far had been straightforward. `Not to mention scary,’ I added. `I must have been mad to agree to do this at all.’

`Well, you can still pull out,’ Magdala said, `if that’s what you really want to do?’ She tried to maintain a passive expression, but I could see the look of disappointment flicker across her eyes and that did it, even though I made one final show of reluctance. Show, did I say? Hell’s teeth, I was reluctant, but ...

Yeah, okay, I was also a sucker, stupid, gullible - pick any combination from the above and throw in a few choices of your own, for good measure. Don’t ask me why, because I just do not have the answers.

`Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help,’ I began again, `and the money you’re offering will definitely come in handy -’ Now there was an understatement, if ever there was! `- but this isn’t quite what I expected when you said about giving me a bit of help to overcome my, er, natural reluctances.’

`No, of course not,’ Magdala conceded, `but then you haven’t yet encountered the sort of situation your conditioning was designed to help you handle. After all,’ she pointed out, reasonably enough, `I’m not a man.’

Ah, yes, well ... I couldn’t refute the logic of that argument.

`And,’ she went on, `I hope I wouldn’t be too far off the mark if I suggested that you might, in your previous "incarnation", shall we say, have found me quite attractive?’ Her turn for understatement, obviously.

`Yes,’ I replied, simply. She smiled at me. `Quite a lot,’ I added. `More than a lot, in fact.’

`Good,’ she said. `So, if I asked you to go to bed with me, you wouldn’t be totally averse to the idea?’ My beautifully arched eyebrows shot up in the general direction of my curly blonde fringe.

`Well -’ What was I supposed to say to that one? Of course I fancied the idea of sharing a bed with her, but ... well, ye gods and little fishes, what a time to get such an offer! It was pretty obvious that Magdala knew exactly what was going through my head at that precise moment.

`But you don’t have a cock any more, is that it?’ she said, levelly. `Yes, you’d like to take me to bed, but you are currently short of certain masculine equipment that you’ve always deemed necessary for sexual gratification - yours and your partner’s.’

`Something like that,’ I muttered. No, exactly like that, but I couldn’t just come right out and say it that bluntly.

`Exactly like that,’ Magdala said, firmly. Shiny shite, she was mind-reading! Mind you, it probably wasn’t that difficult to read my mind just then. I felt myself blushing.

`The thing is,’ she continued, ignoring my embarrassment, `is that I didn’t ask you if you wanted to take me to bed., I asked if you wanted to go to bed with me, which is slightly different.’

`It is?’ Oh, I can be really thick at times, believe me.

`Yes, Christine, it is,’ Magdala said. `I’m not asking you to prove to me how good a lover you are, how long you can keep it up, or even how big your cock is, seeing as you don’t currently have one anyway. I’m asking you to come and share my bed with me, so I can gently seduce you and slowly help you explore this new body of yours.’

`All in the cause of the "mission", I take it?’ I retorted. Magdala fixed me with a firm stare and for a moment or two I thought I’d really upset her, but then, just when I was expecting some sort of tirade, she burst out laughing.

`Well,’ she said, eventually, when she had brought her mirth under something approximating control, `I suppose it is for the ultimate good of the mission, yes, but I have to confess, I don’t think I’m going to find it too much of an arduous chore.

`You look so delightful there, all packaged up in your supposed slut suit, big-eyed and innocent, and with your pussy still dripping. I could eat you, honestly I could.’

`You mean -?’ I started to ask, but then realised it was a stupid question, though Magdala nodded anyway, just to avoid any misunderstandings, I guess.

`Yes,’ she said, quietly and stepped close again, cupping her hand between my legs. I let out a little squeak and started, slightly, but this time I made no attempt to pull away from her. In fact, if anything, I pressed my sex even harder into her palm.

`Little tart,’ she whispered, close to my ears, but I could hear the amusement in her voice. `I can see now why the other side use these particular outfits for their subjects. Just looking at you is giving me the quivers.’

`Mrtig orf iggle entsh,’ I said.

Or something like that.

`Perhaps we’d better get you back to my quarters, eh?’

This time it wasn’t even worth me trying to answer. A peculiar buzzing was echoing around inside my head and through it, all I could now hear was the sound of my heart, pounding, pounding.

 

Part Fourteen - She’s Just a Girl ...

Kerri picked up the steaming coffee mug in one hand, scooped up her cigarettes and lighter in the other and padded, barefoot, through to the lounge. Placing her small burden down on the walnut occasional table, she unwrapped the towel from about her otherwise naked form, tossed it over the back of the sofa and stretched, luxuriously, her firm breasts rising in response to the tensioned muscles.

"Poor Marty," she whispered aloud and giggled quietly to the empty room. "Or poor Martine, I should say," she corrected herself. "But then the silly bitch needed to be taught a lesson." She turned, stooped and picked up the cigarette packet, extricating a cigarette and placing it between her full lips.

"However," she said, continuing aloud as she breathed out a cloud of tobacco smoke, "enough is enough and this isn't quite what I expected. In fact," she added, breathing out a second lungful of smoke, "this isn't anything like what I was expecting. You never got half way to telling me the truth, did you?" She grinned, addressing her question to the telephone receiver, which lay mutely in its cradle. She picked up the coffee and sipped gingerly at the hot liquid.

"How the hell d'you do it, eh?" she mused, still staring at the silent instrument. "Some kind of magic hocus-pocus? Nah!" She shook her head and sipped again. "No, not magic, but some sort of ... well, whatever, it's gone far enough. Maybe too far." She lowered herself onto the end of the sofa nearest the telephone, placed her mug alongside it and reached for the receiver.

"Most men are turned on by the sight of a pretty girl wearing leather," Adam said, grinning across the table at Martine. "Most of the men I know, anyway." Martine lowered her empty fork to the side of her plate, chewed and swallowed the morsel of food in her mouth and swallowed with as much delicacy as she could manage.

"Most men I know entertain fantasies well beyond any possible reality," she said, choosing her words carefully. "There was a time ... " She shook her head, using the fork to push the remnants of her salad around her plate. "No, what I mean to say is that men see no further than the obvious. Girl wears leather - rubber even - and that can only mean one thing."

"Which is?" Adam prompted. Martine raised her perfectly arched eyebrows and gave a little grunt.

"You need me to draw pictures?"

"No." Adam smiled and shook his head. "No, of course not. That wasn't very gentlemanly of me, was it?" He laid his knife and fork neatly down and sat back. "I'm sorry, Martine," he said, the expression in his eyes showing that it was no idle apology. "I didn't mean to imply anything, it's just that, well ... well, to be blunt, I fancied you the moment I first set eyes on you."

"I'm not surprised," Martine retorted, surprising herself with the bluntness of her reply. "You're a man, with something between your legs that runs your life and you see me, blonde, big hair, long legs, tight skirt and high heels and you think of one thing only."

"But if you're so worried about how men react to you," Adam pointed out, "why dress the way you do? Not that I'm complaining, mind, but if you already know how men are going to react to seeing this particular image, why not change it?"

"Why not indeed?" Martine agreed, her voice tinged with more than a little sadness. She stared down at the wreckage of her meal and pushed the plate slowly away. "If I told you," she said, keeping her gaze lowered, "I doubt you'd understand, even if you did believe me."

"I assumed it was something to do with your work," Adam replied, leaning across to top her wine glass from the carafe. "Presumably this image of yours is a professional thing and no, I don't mean that in any, well, any unpleasant way. I'm not implying anything."

Martine reached for the glass and tried to adjust her sitting position. Her well rounded buttocks had accommodated the thin steel band of the chastity belt reasonably well, but the little positioning prong kept reminding her of its presence in a way that was not doing her self-composure too many favours. She suppressed a little shiver and raised the glass to her lips.

"Something wrong?" Adam asked. "Look, if you'd rather, I can run you back home now."

"No, not yet," Martine said. "I'd like to get out of here, but I don't want to go home yet. I'd like to talk to you, but I'm not sure where I should start."

"Perhaps you'd like to come back to my place," Adam suggested. "I live on my own, so we won't be disturbed. And I promise," he added, "that I won't try anything. Scouts honour."

"It wouldn't do you much good if you did," Martine muttered, darkly. "Not unless you're a locksmith."

Kerri replaced the receiver with a petulant slam and threw herself back into the sofa cushions. Five times she had dialed the number and each time the result had been the same. Number unobtainable.

"Shit!" she exclaimed and put her hands up to her face in a gesture of frustrated helplessness. "Now what do we do?"

The number, the woman had told her, was ex-directory and a private line which went direct to her mobile phone, during shop hours as well as outside of them. However, with the shop gone, what exactly were `shop hours' anyway? This whole thing was becoming very confusing, not to say frightening.

The outfit had been a bit of a joke, as far as Kerri was concerned. Stunning as it was and knowing Marty's penchant for dressing up, she'd known he wouldn't have been able to resist trying it on and the prospect of it trapping him for a few days was more than a little appealing. Having to stay dressed as a female for the better part of a week, with no respite in between, that would certainly teach him a lesson, as the woman had pointed out.

"It'll get his thinking processes straightened out, dear," she had told Kerri and Kerri had seen the logic in the scheme. It was one thing for him to dress up and swan around as Martine for a few hours at weekends, but having to remain trapped inside that corset and boots for five days, unable to go outside dressed as a man throughout, that might make him stop and reconsider.

But this was now altogether something different, something much darker. Whatever that outfit was, it was nothing normal, far from it. Maybe it was impregnated with something, some hormone or drug, but if it was, it was like no hormone that Kerri had ever heard about.

Okay, she'd read about men taking female hormones which changed their bodies from masculine to feminine, but not within a space of hours and certainly not to such an authentic degree. To the best of her knowledge, that required a skilled surgeon and involved a long operation, a considerable degree of pain and a lengthy convalescent period.

This was truly scary and now, as she sat and analysed the situation properly, Kerri began to realise the awful import of what she had done. Whatever the explanation for the outfit, however bizarre, unlikely or far-fetched, there was one inescapable fact that was refusing to go away.

For whatever well intentioned reason, no matter how she could try to console herself with the fact that no one would have believed the consequences, even if the woman had explained them in the first place, she, Kerri, had helped to turn her ex-boyfriend Marty into a woman. Worse still, into a woman with a body that seemed unable to resist any intimate contact, with either sex.

She stood up, padded across to where her bag lay open in the armchair and fumbled inside for her purse. Taking it out, she flicked the snap and withdrew the tiny steel key to the chastity belt, holding it in her right hand in a grip that became increasingly fierce ...

"Bloody hell! That's positively medieval!" Adam was staring in amazement, his gaze riveted on the thin steel chastity belt, where it passed between the tops of Martine's thighs. At her feet, the leather miniskirt lay entangled about her boots, where she had let it slip to the floor and now she stood, hands on hips, in a blatantly defiant attitude.

The silence screamed around the room, echoing off the art deco furniture and lamps and slapping against the two large impressionist prints with an almost audible crack.

"You let her put that - that thing on you?" Adam said at last, his voice dropping to something little more than an awed whisper. Martine gave him a wry smile.

"Not exactly," she replied, striving to disentangle her feet from the little pool of leather, which seemed to have developed an affection for her spiked heels. "Let's just say that I wasn't quite in a position to have my democratic say in the matter."

"And this is a friend?" Adam rolled his eyes in a melodramatic way. "With friends like that, as they say," he added, shaking his head.

"Kerri's more than just a friend," Martine said, carefully, finally stepping clear of the skirt and the PVC panties that were hidden within it. She was only too aware of the effect her booted and stockinged legs were having on Adam, now that she had revealed them in all their glory and the vertical band of the chastity belt covered barely enough of her sex for decency's sake.

"This," she said, tapping the gleaming metal waistband, "is to protect me against myself."

"You need that sort of protection?" Adam's voice sounded hoarse now and there was a slight tremor when he spoke, too.

"Putting it bluntly, yes, I reckon I do," Martine replied. "But it's not quite what you think." "It isn't? Er, no, I don't suppose it is," Adam corrected himself. Martine grinned, steeling herself.

"No, it isn't," she confirmed. "But then the truth is something you wouldn't think, not if you lived to be a million years old ... "

Kerri came to a decision - at least, a decision of sorts. She stubbed out her cigarette and made her way back through to the bedroom, where she quickly raided both dressing table and wardrobe, laying out her choices across the end of the bed.

So, the little shop was gone - or at least closed down and emptied - but it was the only connection she had and there seemed little alternative. Sitting on the sofa, dialing a dead number interminably offered no chance at all, whereas the empty premises ... well, at least she would be doing something.

She picked up the rubber catsuit and began dusting the inside with talcum powder, sneezing as some of it drifted up into her nostrils. It was, she reflected, as she sat on the edge of the mattress, easing her left foot into the cloying fabric, a bit "Modesty Blaise", but at least the suit was black and, with the black rubber miniskirt, her black ankle boots and Martine's black leather bomber jacket over the top, she would blend easily into the dark shadows around and inside the place.

Always assuming, she thought, grimly, that she could get inside.

"You're not having me on, are you?" Adam said, quietly, when Martine had finally finished speaking. It wasn't really a question, but she could tell from his expression that he was struggling to come to terms with the reality of the situation as she had explained it to him. But then, she thought, who wouldn't?

"Every word is the truth," Martine asserted, firmly. "I'm really a man - no, I was really a man. God alone knows what I am now."

"Well, you look every inch a woman, from where I'm sitting," Adam retorted, in a halfhearted effort to lighten the situation. "Whatever else that steel belt might be doing, it's certainly not hiding anything ... well, you know what I mean?" Martine laughed, despite herself.

"You mean it isn't hiding a cock and balls?" she said. "No, it certainly isn't. So, where do we go from here?"

"Go?" Adam looked blank. "I'm sure I don't have the first idea. I'm still trying to get my head around this thing. I mean, you sit there and tell me, calm as you like, that you're really a bloke, but my eyes and every other sense I possess are telling me a totally different thing."

"You mean you still fancy me, despite what I've just told you?" Adam looked uncomfortable.

"Well," he began, "it's not as though you've just stripped off and shown me - well, shown me proof, for want of a better way of putting it. I'm still seeing what I saw the first time we met - more, actually," he added, grinning again.

"And, judging from the way you're sitting, not only have you got in your pants what I used to have in mine, but it's raising its eager little head in anticipation." To Martine's delight, she saw Adam's cheeks redden immediately at this. "Perhaps you've had little fantasies in the past?" she suggested. "Wondered what it might be like to take a transsexual to bed? After her operation, of course."

"Well, it wouldn't be any different from taking any other woman to bed, surely?" Adam reasoned. Martine sighed.

"You don't understand at all, do you?" she said. "But then maybe neither would I, not if something like this had happened to me even a few days back."

"Maybe we'd better change the subject," Adam suggested. "Perhaps you should put your skirt back on again."

"You still fancied me with the skirt on," Martine pointed out. "And if I have to sit here frustrated, why shouldn't you?"

"Frustrated?" Adam echoed. "You don't mean you, well, ... ?"

"Maybe not up here." Martine tapped one finger against her temple. "But then my brain and basic logic system doesn't seem to have the casting vote where this body is concerned." She closed her eyes for a few seconds, considering carefully.

"Do you have a pair of handcuffs here?" she asked, suddenly, opening her eyes again. "And don't go all coy on me. These days almost every red-blooded male I know has a pair somewhere, just in case he gets lucky enough to meet the right girl."

The window pane was old and the diagonal crack across it made it a simple matter for Kerri to prise out a triangular segment of the dirt encrusted glass. Laying it carefully to one side, she reached in with one arm, her fingers seeking, then finding, the ancient catch. For a few seconds, the dust, rust and moss of years resisted her efforts, but then suddenly the metal moved, scraping around through ninety degrees with a rasping sound that fear amplified out of all proportion to reality.

Breathing hard, Kerri paused, ears keened for any sounds that might indicate that she had attracted untoward attention to herself, but, apart from the sound of an occasional vehicle passing through the deserted market place at the front of the building, all remained quiet.

"Here we go then, girl," she whispered to herself and turned back to work on the rotten sash frame. To her surprise, her efforts encountered little resistance and the lower section began to rise clear of the cill ...

 

Part Fifteen - A Suitable Job For A Woman

 

Magdala’s quarters were a lot less spartan and functional than my own, but to be honest, I didn’t really have much chance to take stock of my new surroundings until some time after my first entrance.

I opened my eyes slowly, surprised to realise that I had actually fallen asleep and quite prepared to find myself alone. However, when I turned my head - not that easy, given the strictures of the collar, I saw that Magdala was laying alongside me on the huge bed, sprawled in an ungainly, if peaceful, little heap. Stifling a groan, I struggled into a sitting position and looked about me.

The bedroom was huge, compared to anything I had ever been used to before and the entire floor was carpeted in a deep pink, the pile thick and luxuriant. In addition to the bed, I saw a long dressing table and two matching chests of drawers, either Victorian or else very good imitations, three similar vintage easy chairs, a low coffee table and a chaise lounge, all in such immaculate condition that they could have just been delivered from the maker’s.

There was even an imitation bay window, lined with heavy velvet curtains and with a pleated pelmet above and the lighting seemed to all be coming from discreet uplighters, set at intervals around the walls. Underground refuge or not, it seemed that Magdala and her people were not short of money to indulge in a few luxuries, but then, given the huge some they had offered me, I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised at that.

I swung my legs off the bed and onto the floor and stood up, almost toppling headlong, until I remembered the ridiculously high heels of my boots and compensated for them. I stretched my shoulders back, rotated my back inside the stiff corset and made my way carefully towards the door I could see set in the farthest corner. I dimly recalled entering by the wider door in the side wall and guessed - rightly, as it happened - that the bathroom must lay this way.

The water ran wonderfully cool and there were three or four clean glasses set on a shelf above the basin, so I filled one and, leaning back against the wall, gulped gratefully, for I had awakened with the sort of mouth that usually required seven or eight pints and a vindaloo to acquire. On this occasion, however, the residual taste was neither Indian nor alcoholic and I couldn’t resist a small grin of satisfaction.

I peered down at myself, splaying my legs slightly and probing between my thighs with two fingers of my right hand, wondering if I had tasted as sweet to Magdala as she had to me. Sipping more slowly now, I shook my head in disbelief, as the jumbled memories came flooding back. I closed my eyes and sighed.

`Madness,’ I muttered. `This is all sheer, unbelievable madness.’ I peered sideways, to where the huge wall mirror reflected back the image of my new self and then looked away again. There seemed to be something oddly wrong with indulging any more narcissistic fancies and besides, I couldn’t stay in here for much longer. Magdala could wake at any moment and there were more questions I now needed to ask.

First, however, gravity was playing its usual game with my waking bladder and I needed to relieve the growing pressure. I tottered across to the toilet bowl and, without thinking, my hands went down to my groin, the reflexive action of many years, of course.

`Fool!’ I whispered, mocking myself and turned carefully around, lowering myself onto the seat.

`So, we’ve proved that I still fancy women, even though I have to employ somewhat different techniques to satisfy them,’ I quipped. Magdala, now wrapped in a plain white silk robe, was sitting back in one of the easy chairs, her bare ankles crossed, her toes wriggling spasmodically. I was perched on the dressing table stool, as the chairs all looked a little low for someone as stiffly constricted as I now was.

`And we’ve also proved that you can be satisfied by exactly the same techniques,’ Magdala replied, grinning crookedly. I blushed, though the time for such modesty should now have been long past. `The next question, of course,’ she continued, `is how you react to a different form of sexual stimulation.’

`You mean with a man?’ I said, flatly. `Yes, I wondered when we were coming to that bit. I’m still not sure, though.’ It was a day for understatements, it seemed.

`Of course you’re not,’ she agreed, placatingly. `Which is why I have no intention of just throwing you to the lions, as it were. Credit us with a bit more sense and sympathy, please.’ Which was rich, coming from someone who was largely responsible for having taken a perfectly normal, human male and turning him into a blonde bimbo with a libido that was all but off the end of the scale.

`We could both do with something to eat,’ Magdala said, rising gracefully and padding silently across to a blank section of wall. `However, first we should find you something to wear over the top of that.’ She pressed against a seemingly flat surface and, to my surprise, a rectangular section slid away, revealing what was clearly a walk-in closet.

`I’m afraid we need to stick with the sort of thing you’ll be expected to wear when you go across, but at least it’ll afford you a degree of modesty,’ she said, her voice muffled from within the closet, as she rummaged along the rail of garments.

I looked down at myself and suppressed a rueful smile: almost anything had to be more modest than what I was now "trapped" inside - in fact, I’d have almost felt less naked if I had been naked. There was something about the way the glistening black garments ...

I stopped dead in mid-thought, staring at my waistline, now barely visible over the crest of my bosom. Surely not, I told myself?

`Magdala?’ There was a momentary hesitation, accompanied by a series of squeaks and grunts from inside the closet and then she reappeared, holding something black in her hands.

`Yes?’ She raised her eyebrows. I nodded, downwards.

`Um,’ I began, hesitantly, `I may be imagining things, but my waist seems to have got a bit, well, smaller and these boobs - breasts - do they sort of look, sort of, well, bigger to you?’

`Ah.’ It was one word - well, more a sort of sigh, I suppose - but it told me all I needed to know and a lot more than I wanted to know.

`There’s something you should have told me earlier?’ I prompted. She did have the good grace to at least appear to look guilty, but I wasn’t convinced her expression was altogether genuine.

`Yes, well,’ she said, `I suppose I sort of assumed you’d know, or guess, or something.’

`Or something?’ I echoed. Curiously, I wasn’t feeling in the least panicked now; I suppose there comes a limit to how far someone can be surprised, shocked, or even scared. I tilted my head slightly to one side and waited.

`Ye-es,’ Magdala said, cautiously. `You see, the suit - that outfit - it’s an original, one of several we managed to acquire by various means. As I said, we’ve been able to deactivate that function which affects your brain, but the rest of it we had to leave more or less as it was.

`You see, if they detected a counterfeit suit - which they could do, with the scanning equipment they have - or even saw a body that didn’t look the part, then they’d know something was up.’

`You mean this little lot is going to keep on changing my body even further?’

`Well, yes,’ she confirmed. `But,’ she added, holding up a hand, `not that much more, not in the overall scheme of things. Just a few extra things, here and there - smaller waist, larger breasts, slightly longer legs in proportion to your torso ... oh, and you may not have noticed as yet, but your heels have become slightly higher and your feet have adapted to the different position.

`From what I can see, that’s about the maximum height now, so another few hours and you should also find your entire body is able to balance better on them. The idea isn’t to make you unstable on your feet, but quite the opposite. By this time tomorrow, you should be moving with all the poise and grace of a trained ballet dancer.’

`But with the mind of a sex-starved, nymphomaniac bimbo, if you hadn’t adapted this thing otherwise,’ I said. `Seems like a weird combination, if you ask me.’

`Not really,’ Magdala said. `If you think about it, what these outfits are originally designed to produce is every macho male’s dream fantasy female - hourglass figure, long legs, blonde hair, perfect face, pouty lips ... why spoil it by having the subject tottering around like a drunk?

`Perfect grace on top of everything else and a complete willingness to indulge any sexual fantasy in order to obtain the subject’s own gratification and you have everything most men could ever dream of - the ideal feminine icon, the perfect woman!’

`And they have the perfect job for their perfect women,’ I muttered. `Or that’s how they see it, anyway.’ I took the little black dress from Magdala and held up what there was of it for inspection.

There wasn’t much to look at, to be honest, but then, as Magdala had already said, that was the general idea. The packaging, sexy as it was supposed to be, was clearly not intended to get in the way of the gift!

 

Part Sixteen - ... Who Can’t Say No.

 

"So now what?" Adam tried to sound nonchalant as Martine locked the second cuff, securing his wrists together behind his back. She had insisted he remove his shirt first and now he stood before her, naked to the waist, wearing just his trousers and expensive designer shoes.

What indeed, Martine thought? What on earth was she playing at here anyway? This was ridiculous, chastity belt or no chastity belt, but some streak of devilment seemed to have taken her over and was driving her on now. She stepped back and strutted to and fro a few times, allowing him an uninterrupted appraisal of her new body, now dressed only in the original outfit that had been responsible for creating it - if she discounted the wretched belt, that was.

"Perhaps I should just get dressed again and leave you here," she suggested and for a second or so a flicker of doubt crossed his features. She stalked up close to him - in the heels she was not as tall as he was, but the boots gave her a sense of command - grasped his upper arms and pulled him close to her, so that his broad chest pressed against her full breasts. On an impulse, she leaned forward and her tongue flickered along his right shoulder, eliciting a groan. She released her grip and stepped back again, reaching out with one gloved hand to cup between his thighs.

"Whoah!" she breathed. "We are excited, aren't we?" It hadn't taken a tactile exploration to learn that, for the bulge in his tight fitting trousers was now only too obvious - painfully obvious, as far as Adam was concerned, she guessed. And suddenly there was no more Marty.

Slowly, Martine swayed around her "prisoner", one finger tracing the length of his spine as she passed behind him. Through hooded eyes, she surveyed him closely, letting a leering smile play across her pouting lips.

"Poor Adam," she crooned. "Poor Adam wants to put his great big man's cock in my tight little pussy hole." She stroked the bulge again and Adam let out a strangled sigh. "But poor Martine's all locked up, tighter than a Scotsman's life savings," she went on. "Poor, randy, dirty little Martine has to stay chaste, because wise Aunty Kerri knows her better than she knows herself."

Dammit, she thought, if I've got to suffer, so can he!

"Let's see what poor Martine is missing out on, shall we?" she breathed, dropping awkwardly to her knees and tugging at his shoelaces. He nearly toppled off balance twice, as Martine removed both shoes and socks, keeping upright only by a superhuman effort and a lot of comical hopping about.

"Trousers next, I think," Martine whispered and deftly unbuckled his belt. The fly zipper sighed downwards in one deft movement and, a second or two later, Adam was left with only his tanga styled underpants to cover what little was left of his modesty. Martine stared at the straining material wide-eyed, for Adam was certainly far better endowed than she had ever been as Marty.

A minute or so of more slapstick hopping and struggling and she at last had her victim totally naked, his rampant member sticking out in front like a flag staff on a department store building. Gingerly, Martine took the length in her gloved right hand and gently massaged it a couple of times. Adam's eyes were closed, but not for long. Her hand withdrew and then arrowed in again in a short, swiftly exercised arc.

"Aaah!" Adam gasped, staggering backwards, his eyes flying open in surprise and pain. "What on earth -?"

"Pay attention!" Martine snapped. She reached up and pulled down the cup covering her left breast, revealing the swollen nipple at its centre. Hefting the entire globe in one hand, she lifted it and moved back towards Adam. He guessed her intention and parted his lips, obligingly.

The first warm touch sent Martine into a paroxysm of desire and her knees almost gave way beneath her.

"Suck!" she rasped and shuddered again as he drew the engorged flesh into his mouth. "Oh my god, don't stop. And the other one!" She bared her right nipple in turn and Adam transferred his attentions to it. Her hands flew down to her crotch, fingers seeking a gap between steel and warm flesh, but the band fitted too snugly and Martine let out a wail of frustration.

Desperately, she flexed her thigh muscles and ground her hips and was rewarded by a slight movement of the prong within her. It pressed against her swollen bud and fingers of fire shot up through her entire being. She felt Adam's teeth nipping at her tender teat, but it served only to heighten the sensations which were washing over her.

"Oh yes!" she screamed, as the first wave of orgasm began to crash over her shore. "Oh my god, yes! Yes!"

How long she was unconscious, Martine could not tell, but when she came round she was lying in the middle of the thickly carpeted floor, with Adam, hands still chained, kneeling a few feet from her. She propped herself up onto one elbow, though not without some great difficulty and stared across at him, shamefaced, until she saw that his massive erection was still very much in evidence.

Slowly, Martine rolled herself over onto all fours and began crawling across the short distance that separated the two of them. Adam, chest rising and falling, watched her approach, but did not flinch when she reached out to grab his shaft in her right hand. Wordlessly, they regarded each other for several seconds and then, slowly and deliberately, Martine lowered her mouth, stretching her lips wide to accommodate the huge purple tip of his organ.

For maybe a second and a half, she hesitated, one final vestige of the old Marty threatening to rebel, but it was a completely unequal contest and, as Martine the nymphomaniac reestablished mastery of her glorious body, her mouth and throat opened to draw in several inches of throbbing manhood. Adam raised his hips and thrust in time with her movements, almost causing her to gag. Martine raised her hands above her head, placed them against his chest and pushed, sending him sprawling backwards, though still with her mouth clamped firmly around his imprisoned phallus.

Briefly, she disengaged her mouth and half raised herself, so that she was staring into his glazed eyes. She rapped her knuckles against the belt of her chastity device and gave a short, harsh laugh.

"Mister," she said, "if it wasn't for this thing, I'd mount you right now and fuck your brains out!" The laugh that escaped her lips sounded barely human. "But don't think that lets you off the hook, baby. I'm gonna suck the life out of you from now till dawn and then we're gonna go find that bitch Kerri and get ourselves a key!"

 

Part Seventeen - On The Job Training

 

Looking back now, I can see that I did allow myself to get sucked into the whole crazy affair a whole lot easier than perhaps I should have done, but I can also see just how everything was structured and worked so that it happened the way it did. Some people are naturally inquisitive, some are born with an adventurous streak, some are naturally mercenary and some of us are a mixture of all three.

Really, from the moment I first tried on that hat in the park, there was only ever going to be one outcome and, by the time I met up with Magdala, she already knew that, even if I didn’t - but then, as part of her job, she was a trained psychologist and human nature was much the same in her world as it is in ours, as I was soon to discover!

First, however, there were further things to learn in this world, starting with my discovering a lot more about this underground complex and Magdala’s setup here. For a start, although she had indicated that her group was a small one, in fact there were at least two dozen of her people wandering about the place and they were just the ones I got to see during my fairly brief stay.

There were more than half that number dotted around a number of tables in the refectory area - it was actually more like a rather up-market restaurant, but Magdala referred to it as the refectory, so who am I to argue? As we walked in, me trotting, almost on tiptoe now, in Magdala’s wake, one or two heads turned in our direction, but the interest aroused was cursory, to say the least.

The food was excellent, if quite simple fare and there was a large bottle of very palatable Italian wine to go with the meal. Magdala kept refilling my glass, so that by the time we rose to leave again I was, if not exactly drunk, certainly very mellow. Which, as I realised ultimately, had been her intention all along. A liberal application of alcohol served to lubricate the conditioning implanted by that sarcophagus machine, but then a liberal application of alcohol serves to lubricate a whole lot of things anyway!

Back in Magdala’s bedroom again, she made little attempt to rush into things, producing two glasses, another bottle of wine and a small bottle of a rather sweet tasting liqueur I couldn’t identify. Examining the label, I saw that it was called Majestique, but the name meant nothing to me and the taste, as near as I could isolate it, was somewhere between an orange brandy and a sloe gin, though it tasted a lot better than that description probably suggests.

By now, you will have realised that I’ve given very little description of the dress I wore over the outfit, other than to say that there wasn’t very much of it. In fact, that’s about the best description I could give, though perhaps I should add that it did have a high neckline, which fit snugly about the base of my collar, was sleeveless, to leave the long gloves and bare shoulders clearly visible and had a hem line that stopped about half an inch clear of my boot tops.

In between, it had an uncanny ability to sculpt itself to my every contour and move with me, exactly as if it had a life or an intelligence of its own. It was as black as everything else I wore and shimmered as I moved, but although it was made of the same fabric as the rest of my outfit, Magdala assured me that it had no body changing properties and could be removed as easily as it had been put on. I assumed that she had every intention of demonstrating that last feature to me, but, as it turned out, I was quite wrong.

I also didn’t expect Magdala to strip off and begin dressing herself in an outfit that was the twin of my own, from the collar, right down to the tips of her long boots, complete with shoulder length gloves and tight fitting corset.

`This outfit is just a copy,’ she said, tossing her hair loose. `I just thought it might make you feel a little easier if we were both wearing the same thing.’ She picked up her own little black dress and quickly wriggled into it, smoothing down the skirt and then standing with her shoulders back, inviting me to admire her.

`And now you wish you still had a cock to fuck me with, eh?’ she laughed. `Well, dear Christine, maybe when this is all over and you finally get your old body back, perhaps we ought to think about that. I’ve seen the stills from the surveillance, showing what you looked like before your transformation and though I much prefer you as you look now, well, it wouldn’t be the end of my world, shall we say?’

`Oh, well thanks a whole bunch,’ I retorted, my masculine pride suddenly severely dented. Well, can you blame me? Okay, I’d never been under any illusions that I’d had film star or model looks, but I’d always thought of myself as reasonably good looking and now, to be told by a woman I found almost irresistibly sexy that I was more fanciable with blonde curls, tits and a void where there should have been something quite different - well, of course I was a bit miffed.

However, Magdala made sure that I didn’t stay that way for long. Like a predatory big cat, she moved in on me, except that instead of trying to tear me into edible sized pieces, she contented herself with slowly and expertly shredding my resolve and devouring the last traces of my masculinity.

Her hands, with those devilish fingers, seemed to be everywhere at once and her lips were never far behind. I heard myself groaning with delirious pleasure and my own gloved fingers started roving in their turn, eventually reaching that warm cleft at the top of her thighs. However, this apparently did not suit Magdala’s plan, for scarcely had my two fingers begun to penetrate her than her hand closed about my wrist.

`Not there,’ she whispered. `Here!’ And she moved my hand away from her sex and guided it to my own. My eyes, 'til this moment hooded in pleasure, opened wide in surprise, but she merely smiled at me.

`C’mon, sexy lady,’ she cooed. `Don’t be shy. Girls do the same as men do, surely you know that. The only difference is, so I’m told, that it’s far better for us than it is for them.’ She pressed my fingers firmly against my slit, which, needless to say, was already leaking and well lubricated, so that it yielded easily to my touch and, a moment later, I found myself standing, legs apart, with two fingers buried inside me.

`Find your clitoris,’ Magdala instructed. `Go on - you know where it is by now. Yes, that’s it!’ she cried, as I indeed found the swollen bud and immediately stiffened. `Gently now,’ she coaxed, as I began to rub the treacherous little nubbin. `No need to rush. Just lay back now, on the bed and diddle yourself quietly, whilst I get myself ready.

`Close your eyes now and no peeking,’ she added, as she completed the task of pushing me down onto my back, `or shall I find a blindfold for you?’

`No-o!’ I gasped. `I won’t look, I promise.’ And I didn’t, for by now I was quickly becoming immersed in my own private little lust-filled world. In fact, I was already very close to a climax and Magdala must have guessed as much.

`Don’t worry if you make yourself come, Christine,’ she called out, from somewhere across the room. `We don’t have the same silly restrictions men have, don’t forget.’

Vaguely, I remembered from a few hours before, but nevertheless I slowed my actions, savouring the way in which the little waves of pleasure built to small peaks, receded for a few seconds and then began to build again. For what must have been several minutes, I lay back like that, legs spread wide, knees bent, finger frigging myself with total abandon.

`You can look now,’ I heard Magdala say. I half opened my eyes and almost stopped, so unexpected was the site I saw, for she stood there, close to the edge of the bed, directly in line with my gaping sex and, from between her own legs now rose a thick, black penis.

`Wh-what?’ I gasped. She was holding it firmly in one hand, making as if she was masturbating the monstrous thing, but in the next moment I realised that it was not real, but a dildo, which she had strapped to herself and I knew, even before she told me, that this shaft on the outside was the twin of another, which was now embedded as deeply inside her as she plainly intended to embed this one within me.

`Don’t worry, my blonde bimbo slut,’ she teased, leaning forward until she was kneeling against the side of the mattress. `I’ll be nice and gentle with you. Yes, that’s it, just relax and keep doing that.’ She was actually on the bed know, crouching between my knees, lowering herself. One had took my free hand and placed it over my head, pinning my wrist there with a gentle, but firm pressure.

`Your first taste of cock, sweetie,’ she breathed, lowering herself further and now I felt the pressure against my moist slot. `Hand away now,’ she purred and took my "working" arm up to the same position as its fellow. I supposed, vaguely, that I could probably have broken free of her grip, even though this body was nowhere near as powerful as my original one, but already it was too late.

With a stifled grunt, Magdala thrust her hips forward and in an instant I was deflowered. It was something I hadn’t considered before, though she must have been aware that my female body had been formed in a virginal state and I gave a startled squeal as I felt the flimsy membrane of my hymen tearing before her onslaught.

`There!’ she exclaimed, letting her weight rest partly on me and staring straight into my eyes. `There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now, let’s show you what it feels like to be fucked, shall we? Oh yes, I can see you’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?’

And I did. Amazingly, I found that the thick cock was inducing the same sensations as my own fingers had done earlier and before them, Magdala’s fingers and tongue. I wasn’t to know - and I hadn’t looked closely enough to see - but the rubber phallus was cunningly ribbed, with little peaked edges at crucial points, designed to stimulate my swollen clitoris with maximum effect.

It didn’t take long at all and, as my strangled, animal howl echoed around the room, my body succumbed to what was to be only the first of a series of multiple orgasms so shattering and repetitive that they melded into one, long, abandoned convulsive fit and I began the next leg of my journey into submissive sexual womanhood.

 

Part Eighteen - Missing Inaction

 

"It looks as if she's not been here for hours," Martine said, emerging from her bedroom. "The bed's still made up and there's washing up left over from yesterday. Kerri's a tidy bug and she wouldn't go to bed without seeing to it first."

"Did she say anything about going out last evening?" Adam asked. Martine shook her head, the blonde tresses dancing about her shoulders.

"No, not a thing. She said she'd wait up until around one a.m. and then turn in, if I wasn't back by then."

"And this is the ex-girfriend?" Adam mused. "She didn't seem that worried about what you might get up to." Martine tapped her hip, her gloved knuckles making a hard sound where they made contact with the steel waistband beneath the leather skirt.

"She seemed to think this would keep me out of trouble," she muttered grimly and then her cheeks began to colour at the memories of just what she had got up to, chastity device or no chastity device. "Anyway," she went on, hurriedly deflecting the course of the conversation, "she walked out on me long before all this started - and that's all her fault anyway.

"No, I'm a bit worried, to be honest. She would have left me a note if she intended to be out for any great length of time."

"What's she taken with her?" Adam suggested. "I mean, don't take this the wrong way, or anything, but maybe she changed her mind, especially when she knew you were determined to meet me. Maybe she was a little bit jealous?"

"Maybe," Martine said, "but I don't think so. That's not Kerri's way, not since I became ... became a girl, anyway." She broke off, recalling how Kerri had set her up as a lesbian sacrifice for the voracious appetite of her hairdresser friend, Lois. Or maybe Adam had a point - sharing her new girlfriend with her old girlfriends was one thing, sharing her with a man ...?

"Wait," she continued. "I just want to check the wardrobe." She turned and went back into the bedroom. Less than a minute later she was back.

"Curious," she said. Adam looked interested at her tone of voice. "Unless I'm much mistaken, she's taken what was my rubber catsuit. Certainly most of her own stuff is still here, though she's wearing her black ankle boots and a little rubber miniskirt and leather bomber jacket that used to fit me before ... " Her voice trailed off and she bit her bottom lip gently.

"Why would she want to take my catsuit?" she mused. "I mean, she's never really liked rubber that much. Leather and PVC, yes, but she always reckoned rubber made her feel too hot and should be worn by submissives."

"She sounds an interesting girl, this Kerri of yours," Adam said, unable to suppress a grin. "Likes to be the one in charge, does she?" Martine nodded, pensively.

"You could say that," she agreed. Adam shrugged.

"It's all a bit beyond me," he confessed. "I mean, yes, I had those handcuffs and I've even got one of those little braided whips you sometimes see on the market stalls, more for fun than anything else, but I never realised there were really people who played these things for fun, let alone ... " He stopped speaking in mid-sentence and turned to pace to the window, drawing aside the curtain and staring out into the pale morning light.

"You wouldn't be having me on, now, would you?" he said, carefully. Martine looked up, but he kept his face away from her and she could not see his eyes. "I mean," he went on, "all this stuff about you having been a bloke. It is just a wind-up, isn't it? Yes, I reckon that's it." He turned back to face the centre of the room and now Martine saw that he was grinning hugely.

"Your girlfriend locks up your cunt and sends you out on a date, knowing it'll frustrate the hell out of you and probably - if my guess is right - knowing exactly, or nearly enough anyway, just what you were likely to do. What was it? Some sort of penance or forfeit?" Martine stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," she said, slowly. "Or at least, I hope I don't." Adam looked at the expression of consternation and laughed out loud.

"It's okay, sweetheart, you can drop the act now," he said. "It doesn't bother me either way and I have to say I had a damned good night." Martine felt the anger surging up within her and only just prevented herself from flying at Adam, fists flailing. That might have been of some use once, but now her relatively diminutive frame would be no match for Adam's strong masculine physique.

"You pig!" she spat, instead. "You think this is some sort of lesbian girls' game, do you, is that it? What you think is that Kerri locked me in this bloody contraption and sent me out to give you a blow-job and that what I told you was some sort of ... test, maybe? ... to see how you reacted? That's sick!" Adam shrugged.

"No sicker than you trying to kid me that your underwear, sexy as it is, is some sort of shape and gender rearranger. Clever idea and you told it well, but you didn't think for one minute that I really swallowed any of it, did you? Shit, girl, I'd have had to be mad."

With a cry of anguish, Martine threw herself into the sofa and buried her face in her gloved hands. There was a brief moment of silence and then she felt his strong hand on her shoulder. Instinctively, she shrank away from his touch, flapping at his fingers with her left hand.

"Don't!" she snapped. "Keep your filthy fucking hands off me, you bastard!"

"Look, I'm sorry, really I am. I just thought - "

"Fuck what you thought!" Martine snarled. "I thought - I was stupid enough to think - that you really believed me."

"Is it that important whether I did or not?" Martine stared up at him, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"Maybe not to you," she retorted, "but then you're not the one who's - shit!" Her hands dropped away from her face and she sat bolt upright once more, staring at Adam in a way that made him take half a pace backwards. "Shit, that's it!" she almost shrieked.

"What is?" Adam asked, uncertainly. Martine extended one finger and pointed it at him like a pistol.

"If I can prove I was telling the truth, you promise to do every single thing I tell you for the next forty eight hours?"

"But you can't prove - "

"Shut up!" The vehemence of her command surprised even Martine. "I didn't ask if I could or not, nor whether you thought I could. But if I could, just supposing, prove any part of my story beyond reasonable doubt, would you agree to what I just suggested?"

"Maybe." Adam appeared to be considering the proposition. "But if I agree and you fail, what do I get in return? Do you agree to obey me for the same period?"

"As whatever you have in mind undoubtedly includes finding some tools to get this damned belt off me, yes?" Adam stared at her and shook his head in disbelief.

"You mean you'd happily let me cut that thing off, even though you know what I'd want next?" he asked, incredulously. "After I've just upset you big time, too?" Martine rose to her feet, covered the few steps between them and grasped his large hands in her own tiny ones.

"Listen," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, I shan't be losing this little wager and the belt gets to come off, whatever the result. I meant what I said last night. Something's going on inside me as well as outside, something I don't even pretend to understand, but right now my memories of being Marty are becoming more and more foggy and, to tell the truth, I don't care a bit.

"Okay, if I can ever get myself out of this lot and everything returns to normal, then I may possibly - probably even - feel guilty as hell, but right now I am what I am, which appears to be a blonde bimbo who's as horny as she is desirable. And this time, mister, whoever wins and decides the belt has to come off, you'd better make sure you've got those handcuffs on me first, otherwise you may just not survive the experience!"

Kerri's head cleared slowly, but still her eyes refused to penetrate the darkness that continued to surround her. Experimentally, she tried to move, but something - several somethings, more like - were holding her pinioned firmly in a sitting position.

She was still wearing the rubber catsuit and the squeak of leather, when she shifted her buttocks as far as her bonds would allow, seemed to suggest she still retained the skirt. Also, to judge from the angle at which her feet were arched, the boots were still in place, but the leather bomber jacket seemed to be missing. However, her outfit seemed to have been added to, for the persistent all round pressure on her features suggested nothing less than some sort of discipline mask, rubber rather than leather, to judge from the aroma that filled her nostrils.

Heavy, unyielding straps seemed to be securing her at wrist, elbow, neck, waist, thigh and ankle. Someone, she realised, had done a very thorough job.

"Hello!" she called into the black void, thankful that she had been at least spared a gag of any description. Presumably, whoever had kidnapped her, or been responsible for whatever that gas was that had overpowered her, had not wanted to risk her choking whilst she was unconscious, hence the sitting position, likewise. "Hello?" she repeated, her voice sounding curious to her. "Anyone there?"

Nothing. Silence.

"Please!" she almost wailed. "Please, someone, anyone!" She concentrated, trying to focus her hearing, conscious of the fact that the rubber stretched over her ears would dull that sense considerably, even if it was not so effective as the rubber over her eyes, doubtless the cause of her sightlessness

"I'm afraid that there's only me, at least for the moment." The speaker sounded very close to her right ear and Kerri jumped in her straps. Despite her terror, she recognised the woman's voice immediately.

"What do you want with me?" she demanded, between sobs of terror. "Please, let me go." She heard the woman from the shop laugh, the same woman who had sold her the outfit for Marty.

"Perhaps I should be the one to ask what you want with me?" the woman chuckled. "After all, you came to me, not the other way around." Kerri fought to keep her thoughts into some sort of order.

"Listen," she said, "I'm really sorry. I mean, I know I broke in here and I'll pay for the window, but I couldn't think of anything else to do. I've been trying to get in contact with you for two days now."

"Yes, I thought you might," the woman purred. "They always do. I presume Marty - it was Marty, wasn't it? - is no longer as impressed with your little present as he was at first? What do you call him - sorry, her - now? Martine, I suppose."

"Yes. Yes, that's right. Martine."

"How very original," the woman drawled, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "And I suppose she's now throwing herself at everything in trousers and trying to get it out of them?"

"No," Kerri said, without pausing to consider her reply. "No, we've managed to solve that aspect, at least for the moment, but I can't keep her locked up in a bloody chastity belt forever." As Martine finished speaking, the woman let out a loud guffaw.

"Oh, very good, Kerri!" she exclaimed. "Very good indeed. Full marks for initiative. But of course, locks can be picked and any good hardware shop will sell her a hacksaw for five or six pounds. Not that I can think why you'd be worried about poor Martine's chastity. I thought part of the idea was to educate her and show her what it really means to be a female?"

"A female, yes," Kerri blurted out. "But not a raving slut of a nymphomaniac. And anyway, I never had any idea that outfit would work the way it has. I just thought Marty'd be stuck in a corset and boots for a few days and have to stay indoors until the timer on the locks, or whatever, finally ran out.

"You never told me what it would really do to him!" she added, accusingly.

"Would you have believed me if I had?" the voice mocked. Kerri sighed, hopelessly and shook her head, about the only part of her body she could move, if one didn't count her fingers ...

 

 To be continued ...

 

 

 

© 2000
The above work is copyrighted material. Anyone wishing to copy, archive, or re-post this story must contact the author for permission.