Veronica Carter is an amoral young gold digger who wants it all, but when she breaks into the safe of her fiance's elderly grandmother she finds an item that might make her rich but will exact a terrible price. A female to female transformation.
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, Talons of the Hawk by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
1
Veronica Carter didn’t see herself as “evil,” or as resting on any part of the moral gradient if Neutral was in the middle and Good and Evil were at opposite ends. In fact she rejected that the gradient even existed.
In her observation, people who claimed to be good had selfish intentions at their core just the same as a junkie or a rapist did. They might try their best to hide it – try hard enough that they actually believed it themselves – but they did their laughably “good” deeds to justify their own existence. Nothing more.
Veronica wasn’t like that. She wasn’t a hypocrite. She studiously kept herself well clear of the moral graph. As far as she was concerned, identifying oneself with any part of the moralistic spectrum was weak and unimaginative.
She didn’t believe in God, nor, by extension, heaven and hell. Beyond that, north on the so-called moral compass was a human invention from centuries, probably millenia, earlier. Outmoded by definition, and certainly far outside their original context.
Could those ancient forefathers predict the world of today when they scratched out their commandments on stone and tried to pass them off as divine ruling? Could they have comprehended the internet? Or international travel in a matter of hours? Or governmental policy that could dictate economical impact the world over?
Of course they couldn’t.
The way Veronica saw it, an entirely new code was required with each successive generation, or better yet, no code.
She was wealthy – not as wealthy as her fiancé’s family, but well off – and she wasn’t exposed to the same limitations as the masses. Morality had only ever been an invention to keep those masses in line. Why should she impose limitations on her own life if she didn’t have to?
She smiled to herself to think of that as she opened the door to the study in her fiancé’s grandmother’s mansion and walked over to the safe.
She liked the idea of having no code at all; true freedom to take any action without the need for guilt. Guilt was just another lower middle class soporific designed to pin them, squirming, to the moral gradient. She preferred to fly free.
Veronica had seen the safe by chance a few days earlier, when Brandon’s doddering old gran had shuffled unsteadily up to it to retrieve for him the engagement ring his mother had still been wearing when they pulled her out of the wreck of the head-on collision she’d had down on the spur road one rainy day.
Veronica wasn’t supposed to see – she wasn’t supposed to know Brandon was planning to propose – but she knew people and her curiosity had not allowed her to wait patiently when she came to suspect what his plans were.
When he had asked her to wait in the summer house while he “talked to his gran,” her interest had been piqued enough to follow him and listen in. By extension, she had seen the dowager check the combination on a post-it note on the desk before turning the dials and opening up.
It was interesting. Seeing that had thrilled Veronica more than the confirmation that Brandon was going to propose.
She closed the door of the enormous study firmly. Everyone was fast asleep - it was unlikely she would be disturbed – but it paid to be careful. She turned on the desk lamp and scanned the desk for the post-it. There it was, exactly as expected. The safe was in the usual banal position, behind a painting on the wall. When she owned this house; alongside her husband obviously; she would see to it that valuables were kept far more securely.
She turned the dial on the front of the safe then smiled again when she heard the final click. Inside was a packet of cash; probably ten thousand pounds or more; and several jewellery boxes. Veronica could only imagine how these were going to look on her. She’d been hoping they would be here. That had been her chief motivation; to try them on for size. That and to flex the muscles of the potential of this upcoming marriage. It really was going to be spectacular to be elevated to such levels of wealth.
She went to pull out the top jewellery box, only now noticing a heavy object inside a cloth drawstring bag on top of it in the shadowy interior.
“Now what could that be?” she said, smirking to herself and picturing a gigantic diamond. But surely that was ludicrous.
Forgetting the jewellery boxes for a moment, she withdrew the pouch, surprised by its mass and opened it up. Inside was a block of smooth stone. Or... She took it out and examined it from all sides. Not just a block of stone.
It was a piece of old broken sculpture: the head of a bird... an eagle maybe. It didn’t seem to have any value that she could see. It might have been nice when it was made but it was so worn and chipped now that the detail was no longer clear. The stone it was made from was a dark grey but the cracks and crevices glistened in the pale light from his desk lamp.
She had no idea what made it so important that it would be locked away.
“It’s a lovely piece isn’t it?”
Veronica jumped at the sound of the voice, spinning to look behind her, and gasped when she saw Brandon’s grandmother sitting in a high-back armchair in the gloomy back of the room, watching her, gripping her cane with fingers tangled like tree roots.
“Dania,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“No,” replied the old lady, smiling coldly. “I don’t suppose you did.”
2
The two women regarded one another in the light of the desk lamp.
Dania, Brandon’s grandmother, was very frail. Her face was drawn tightly across the bones in places; a mess of wrinkles; but there were points of fat as well. The fat was pooled in places so she had an odd kind of shape, prevalent in many elderly ladies, with thin forearms but thicker upper arms, skinny legs and a round belly. She could look saintly when she smiled, but she wasn’t smiling now. She wasn’t angry or upset but there was a total absence of affection or benignity. It was startling. Veronica had never her so guilelessly hostile.
“I was just...” Veronica started the explanation, her voice light, as though it were a throwaway remark. But seeing the steadiness in the old woman’s glare she lost the momentum she had expected to carry her through a lie and out the other side. She couldn’t think of one reason why she would be slinking around in the middle of the night, sneaking a peek inside the safe she wasn’t supposed to know about.
Dania raised one eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I er...” Still she could think of nothing to say under that unrelenting and openly condemning stare. Why couldn’t she think of some easy excuse? The dowager didn’t even need to believe it. She could play along, just to avoid this uncomfortable conversation. But the old woman showed no signs of giving Veronica an easy way out. All she could do was put the broken stone bird head back in the safe and go back upstairs.
“I want you to know something important young lady,” said Dania, before she could settle on an action to take.
Veronica felt guilty then hated herself for it. There was nothing to feel guilty about. She was just looking at some objects. She was sick of people trying to make her feel bad for doing whatever she wanted. “What?” she asked, and it came out sullenly, almost accompanied by a pout.
“Only how transparent you are Veronica, and how transparent your relationship to my grandson is; on both sides.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Veronica, pointing her voice up into the pitch that turned a straight question into indignation.
Dania smiled. “You already know exactly what I mean, but I’ll tell you anyway; mostly because it will make me feel better to get it off my chest.” She made a slight pointing gesture with a curled index finger that was gnarled like an old tree root. “I have a feeling it will make you feel better too.”
That surprised Veronica enough to keep her mouth shut.
“I know that you don’t love Brandon,” said Dania, her voice scratchy and tremulous. She raised a palm to stop Veronica’s inevitable exclamation of disagreement. “We are both women who know how to get what we want and you want what he has: the money.”
“That just isn’t true,” replied Veronica.
“Yes it is dear; even if you don’t admit it to yourself. And I bet you do. I bet you know exactly how ruthless you can be. I bet you’re proud of the fact. Am I right?”
Again, the accuracy of the old woman’s analysis surprised Veronica into silence.
“I thought so,” said Dania. “And perhaps you know in that merciless head of yours that Brandon doesn’t love you either.”
“Of course he does.” That came out like it was rehearsed but she did think it was true. Of course he loved her.
Dania just shook her head. “Neither one of you is suited for the other. You see a handsome prince willing to carry you off to a life of luxury. He sees a beautiful face and a beautiful body. Neither one of you is thinking about your long term happiness.”
Veronica started to speak but caught herself; not wanting to say how she really felt for fear it would confirm her dark intentions.
“Go on,” said Dania. “You don’t have to edit your words. I know exactly what kind of woman you are. There’s nothing you could say that would shock me.”
Veronica’s lip trembled with the words waiting on her tongue, then she gave a mental shrug and said, “You’re rich. You’re happy.”
“And you think the money made that happen?”
“Of course.”
Dania gave a brief cackle of mirth. “Oh my dear; how little you know. But I don’t want you to misunderstand me. I don’t hate you and I’m not angry. I don’t intend to support your marriage to my grandson – I intend to block it in any way that I can – but I actually like you.”
Veronica frowned, perplexed and caught completely off balance by this trail of the conversation.
“My father was shot and killed by Nazi soldiers when I was a girl in Germany. I was very nearly sent to one of the death camps. It was hell keeping away from patrols; making my way out of the country with no money. But I did it. I came to England. I survived. I was wounded by what had happened to me but I never stopped yearning for a better life; fighting for it. I saw England as a place of new opportunities. It wasn’t a place that invited women to assume positions of great potential; not then; but I didn’t let that stop me because I had that same fire in me that I can see could just as easily burn inside of you.”
Veronica was rapt by this entire situation. It was so unexpected, all she found herself wanting to do was listen.
“I started a business,” said Dania. “I built on it.” She chuckled. “I practically invented women’s lib, carrying it by the shirt tails until it caught on, and then riding the wave of business development alongside the man I married; building the empire that made it possible for us to retire here to Nockton Heights.
“When my son and his wife were killed in the accident I went on, like I always did; like I had to; because there was nothing else I could do.” She smiled then at Veronica and showed the first warmth she had since the conversation started. “It was only age that stopped me. I could have gone on doing and living until the end of the world quite happily.” She gave a little bob of her head that functioned to point in Veronica’s direction. “You have so much potential child and you don’t even know it. So much potential. You’re young and beautiful. You’re extremely intelligent; that’s plain. You could do anything. Go anywhere. If you marry my Brandon then all that glorious potential would be wasted. I mean it.”
Dania’s brow furrowed in a vein of sadness. “If I were in your shoes I would finish it with Brandon before you could say Jack Robinson. Then I’d get out there into the world. I'd find out all about this incredible new technology that’s everywhere nowadays. I’d start from scratch. I wouldn’t need any previous wealth. I could make it all again and more. I could see everywhere; do everything.”
Veronica sneered, unable to contain herself any longer. “It’s easy for you to sit there and say that. You’re a millionaire. You got your lucky breaks and now you think you actually earned it.” She knew she shouldn’t be saying these things but Dania’s words had cut her more keenly that she had expected; perhaps because there was no redundant talk of morals. The old woman had spoken only of potential and Veronica felt the pinch of that. She always had.
“All you have to do is lounge about here in your mansion all day,” she continued. “You can imagine what you want about what you’d do if you had another chance. It’ll never be tested. It’s only because you’re so wealthy that you can afford to be blasé about your money. If I were in your shoes I wouldn’t stay cooped up in here, wasting away. I'd get out there and spend all the money. I’d travel. I’d wear the finest outfits. I’d act like a queen.”
She thrust out the broken statue piece. “Look at this. It’s worthless but you cling onto it in here like you cling onto the dust and your bank book. You’re the one who is wasting her life. I wish I was in your shoes. Then I’d show you that money is meant for spending!”
But the moment the words came out of her mouth, Veronica lost all the breath in her lungs, She felt a tightness in her chest and a dizziness that ran right through her.
“Are you alright dear?” asked Dania. “You don’t look at all well.”
“I don’t feel... right,” she replied. “I don’t...” She gripped her stomach, looking down. Then she frowned; a deep frown that creased up the centre of her forehead. “Huh?”
She wasn’t wearing her own shoes.
She’d been wearing some lilac two inch heels. But they were gone.
Her frown deepened still further.
Those weren’t the shoes on her feet anymore. She was wearing a pair of very old-looking slippers with a fluffy covering for the toes and an open heel, flat to the floor; just like the pair that Dania was—
Veronica looked up and across the room, at the old lady in her armchair looking back; at the wrinkled and swollen feet now squeezed into a pair of pretty lilac heels.
3
“What the hell?” said Veronica.
There was simply no way that the switch of shoes could have happened; no way that the old lady would have chosen those shoes with the silk nightgown she had on underneath her long dressing gown. Similarly, Veronica hadn’t yet got ready for bed. She was still wearing the same skirt and sleeveless blouse she’d worn all evening. Why would she ever have coupled that ensemble with a pair of worn slippers that didn’t belong to her?
“What is it?” asked Dania.
“My shoes,” she replied. “You’re wearing them. I have on your...”
“Your...?”
Veronica didn’t reply. She was, instead, staring at her wrist; at the thin gold watch that was on it. Not hers. She didn’t wear one. She never had. Had never liked the feel of the tightness. And it was an old fashioned timepiece; the kind of thing “... an old lady would wear.” She muttered the words then gaped at Dania. “Something’s happening to us,” she said urgently. “Your watch. Your slippers. Look.” She held up her wrist.
Dania checked her own feet and hand. Veronica looked across to watch her, incredulous, then saw something that jarred her heart, her trembling finger reaching out to point in the old lady’s direction.
Underneath her dressing gown, Dania was suddenly wearing the same lilac blouse as...
Veronica clutched at her top, taking two handfuls of the silk nightie she was now wearing over her skirt.
“Oh God,” she said. “Oh my God, what’s happening?”
Dania looked just as perplexed. “I don’t know.” She opened the flaps of her dressing gown, revealing more of the sleeveless blouse, showing that her skin wrinkled legs were now bare and exposed. Veronica gaped at them; up at the jowls and rheumy eyes of the old lady before her, having an awful preternatural sense of dread; even of doom.
Then as she was watching there was a streaking shift and a matching skirt appeared, closing round Dania’s thighs, leaving her frail lower legs exposed.
Veronica clutched down at her own skirt but it was already gone. The nightie fell to below her knees, and though her own smooth and shapely legs were visible beneath, that sense of imminent catastrophe was swelling in the back of her neck.
She looked up into the eyes of the old woman in her seat, seeing her own fear and wonder reflected back, then flinched as the dressing gown vanished off Dalia’s arms and shoulders and appeared with a flourish of air on her.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh God, no. Please. I don’t want this to happen. I don’t want this to happen.”
She looked at the old woman’s wattled neck; her chubby upper arms. She looked at her white curly hair and sunken cheeks; her sagging breasts and pot belly.
“I don’t want it,” she muttered; but the words didn’t come out smoothly. Not at all. Her voice sounded cracked and weak. She gripped her throat, desperately; hopelessly; for she knew now without doubt what was coming.
Her voice sounded exactly like Dania’s. She sounded just like an old woman!
4
“No. This can’t be,” croaked Veronica. “My beautiful voice.” She clawed at her neck and her chin; touched her lips.
“Why are you talking like—” Dania stopped mid question, her eyes as wide as Veronica’s, and her own quivering palsied hand rose to touch the hanging wrinkled skin below her chin. When she looked back at Veronica, her eyes were lit up like an evening sun. “I sound exactly like you!”
It was true, and hearing the velvety tones was like a vice clamping tightly on both sides of the younger woman’s head.
There was a small mirror on the same wall as the door. She discarded the little stone bird head, forgotten on the desk and rushed anxiously over to it, feeling the swish of the dressing gown; the flap of the old lady slippers she was suddenly wearing. But there was nothing wrong with her. Her face was her own. The worst hadn’t happened.
“Why is this happening to me?” she asked, hating the scrawny fragility of her voice now. She touched her cheek. “What could be doing this to—”
The words caught again in her mouth as she stared at the back of her hand in the reflection then darted her eyes down to it, lifting its partner up to clarify. “No. No. No. No!” There were liver spots on the once unblemished skin and even as she watched, the skin there became looser, the joints swollen.
Veronica looked back at Dania but the other woman had started to laugh and when she heard how pure and musical the sound was she laughed even more.
There was something different now in the way she looked and moved. Her hair was darker; streaks of yellow breaking up from her crown.
Veronica looked back at the mirror in alarm and saw her own beautiful full hair with streaks of grey in it; saw it withdrawing a little from her brow giving her a great semi-circle of pale skin on her forehead. She clutched at her hair but it had lost its shine; its body. It felt brittle and dry beneath her increasingly arthritic fingers.
She ran to Dania desperately and took her arms, hating the encroaching ache in her legs that almost made her hobble. “Help me! For God’s sake, stop this! It isn’t fair! I’m young. I’m not old. I’m not old!”
But Dania couldn’t take the smile off her face. She felt light for the first time years. She felt a new energy and strength as the aches in her body receded.
Tears pooled in Veronica’s eyes as Dania’s arms shifted under her fingers becoming slimmer and more athletic, then she gaped down in dismay at her own arms as the skin got looser; as her upper arms bulged; as all definition sagged away.
She staggered back, grasping at her chest. Her bountiful breasts were deflating; losing all their pertness; sagging down horribly. Her trim stomach swelled out and beyond she saw her legs shrivel, becoming almost bone thin, the skin loose there too and wrinkled.
“This isn’t happening,” she croaked. “It can’t be happening.”
Dania’s form was filling out; her arms becoming toned and athletic. Her chest filled out as her waist narrowed. Her thighs took on a young and well-exercised shape as she laughed all the more.
Veronica couldn’t laugh. She could hardly breathe. She shambled back across to the mirror, her legs and back aching terribly, and stared in horror at her face, at the old twisted hands that came up to touch the new crop of wrinkles; the sunken cheeks; the sagging jowls and wattled neck. Her hair was curly now and pure white and the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
She looked back at Dania, but it wasn’t Dania standing there anymore. The woman looked exactly like she had: the same well-tailored clothes; the thick blond hair; the athletic body; even her beautiful face.
She turned back to the mirror and her jaw dropped to show false teeth. There was nothing different now in the way she looked to the way Dania had looked only a minute or so before.
She had become Dania.
She had turned into an old lady.
She really was just a wrinkled and haggard old woman.
5
“It’s remarkable,” said Dania, marvelling at her smooth arms, feeling her firm body. “Truly remarkable.”
Veronica slumped into a chair below the mirror, her entire frame aching. She no longer had the strength to hold herself up. “Change us back; please. I don’t want to be like this.”
“That isn’t what you said a minute ago,” replied Dania.
“What?” The old woman looked up.
“You said you would love to be in my shoes so that you could show me the correct way to spend my money. It looks like you got your wish.”
“No. No. No. I wish I were young again,” she said rapidly. “I wish I was myself again.”
But there was no response. She remained exactly as she was: a withered old crone with receding hair and a bulbous ugly frame.
“I wish I were a young woman again. Please,” she said, but her voice cracked and tailed off as she slumped against the arm of her chair, quietly weeping.
Dania watched her for a moment then went back to enjoying the new sensations. She had actually forgotten how good it could feel to be young. Being old was such a long-enveloping sensation. To have that malady removed suddenly was euphoric.
She didn’t know what had caused this but she was glad of it; the universe acting out a path of rebalancing; rewarding the faithful and punishing those who didn’t appreciate what they had.
She felt sorry for the weeping old woman in front of her but it was hard to feel it too keenly. She had wished it on herself. Literally. And she was not a nice person; she really wasn’t.
Dania regarded her levelly for another full minute, then she made a decision and in a low voice said, “I’m going to leave here now.”
The old woman jerked her head up. “What? No! You can’t! That’s my body; my clothes! You have to stay and help me work out a way to change us back.”
Dania shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I really am. But if my life has taught me anything it’s that you have to take an opportunity if it presents itself to you.” She shrugged. “You’ll get to keep my money. And I won’t be seeing Brandon again. Not like this. You can have him all to yourself.”
Veronica wailed with sorrow, burying her face in her sleeve, and Dania almost relented. But what could she do? She had no clue as to how this had happened. And no force on Earth could make her seek to climb back into that frail old form. She was young again! She could really do the things she had spoken of!
Veronica looked up at the beautiful young woman before her, her vision blurred by the tears and by her new short-sightedness. “I’m begging you,” she said. “Please don’t go. Please help me make this end.”
“I can’t,” replied Dania. “You wished you were in my shoes. Your wish came true. That’s all there is to it.”
Veronica couldn’t believe what she was hearing or feeling. The aches in her misshapen body were crippling. What did all the money in the world matter if she had lost her youth and her beauty? Oh how she wished she had not been so careless in her words. But how could she possibly have known? What had happened was impossible!
Dania went to the desk. “You can have everything that was mine,” she said. “I’ll start from the beginning. But I want this. I’ll take it with me.” She lifted the broken stone head of the hawk. “It’s the only thing I have left of my father’s.”
Veronica slumped down again, weeping and wailing.
She was a fat old woman. She was ugly and wizened. Her voice was ruined. Her limbs were scrawny and palsied and ghastly to look at. And there was no way back. She didn’t even know what had caused it. How could she possibly find a way to reverse it.
“I wish I was young,” she muttered. “I wish I was young.”
But whatever power had made the change was no longer listening.
Dania went to the door and looked back at her, but Veronica was consumed by her own despair and the acknowledgement of her own doom.
6
Dania slipped the stone hawk head back into its pouch as she climbed the stairs, marvelling still by how light and strong she felt. It was magnificent.
She still felt guilty about the fate of the former beauty, but it was all too splendid to be ruined by that. Besides, she reasoned, morality was a human invention and she had far more interesting things now to consider.
She entered her... former grandson’s bedroom. Brandon was fast asleep and snoring lightly. She went to the side of the bed, kissed the ends of her first and second finger, then touched them to his head. She watched him for several minutes then picked up Veronica’s handbag and left the room, leaving all her other belongings.
She descended the stairs and saw that Veronica had made her way through to the hall. “Please don’t go,” she said, her breathing laboured. “I don’t want to be an old woman.”
“I’m sorry,” replied Dania. “But that’s what you are.”
She gave the elderly lady a sympathetic smile and then went to the door, opened it and let herself out.
If you liked this then read the complete compilation of stories in Talons of the Hawk on Amazon.
You can also follow my serials every other day on http://transformation-stories.blogspot.co.uk/
FEED ME
by Emma Finn
An attractive woman finds a comforting love in her new boyfriend, Adam, but Adam has... ideas about the way he would like her to look and soon his influence starts to put pressure on her to gain weight. And gain weight. And gain weight. Female to female transformation without an identity change.
1
Meeting Adam changed my life.
I’d been burned by love before – badly burned – and I wasn’t really on the lookout for somebody new. I missed the companionship and, God help me, I missed the affection (not that I’d ever had enough of that), but I was also very wary about trusting again.
I’d been in a long term relationship for nine years with a guy called Jonathan and really, looking back, it had been nine years in prison. He’d treated me badly; made me feel worthless; and I'd rushed into the next thing in a bid to escape. Of course the next thing, fairly brief though it was, was no better. Whether I was more vulnerable because of the damage the first one had done, or whether my own neediness was its downfall, I’ll never know, but there were scars now on my heart. I told myself I was avoiding men because I liked having my own space and being my own boss. In reality, I was just plain terrified of letting someone else in.
Adam was the one to finally break through that barrier I had constructed.
During the dark days with Jonathan and his successor, I had struggled with my weight from time to time because of comfort eating. This had given Jonathan another reason to belittle me of course, making fun of my love handles. My weight had never gone that far out of control but it had become a thing of the past. I went to the gym every day straight from work now, keeping toned and healthy, and it was there that I met Adam.
He had an amazing body but he was also really personable. We got chatting while we were doing the cross trainer and I just kept seeing him around. We got on so well that I sought him out to talk to if he was around. We were able to talk freely about just about anything; it was great! He was as into exercise as I was.
After a few weeks he started hinting about meeting up away from the gym but I guess he could tell from my tales about my past beaus that I was reluctant to rush into anything. He was so sensitive, he didn’t push it. He just went on being really nice and kind and interested in what I had to say.
It was so refreshing to be able to talk to someone who made me feel better about myself. For years and years all I’d had was people who did the opposite. Adam thought my hobbies were amazing. He really encouraged me with them. We liked the same kinds of films and often talked for ages about intricate details in some of my favourites. It was awesome.
Two months after we became friends I suggested we go for a coffee after gym was finished, thinking the week after we could go for drinks; the week after that a meal out, etc. In fact we went straight on from the cafe to a pub and had a meal, all on that first day.
I had a wonderful time but I kept telling myself to slow down; reminding myself about the disasters before. I knew in my heart that it was different with Adam, but I still managed to resist going all the way.
He did kiss me though; just something sweet and brief that I could treasure.
I let him all the way in a week later and after that it seemed silly to keep holding back.
At no point did Adam disappoint. He was attentive and caring. He went on encouraging my pursuits and boosting my confidence. He persuaded me to go for a promotion at work and I got it! I felt so good about myself nowadays. The interview was a cakewalk.
Everything was falling into place.
When I found out I got the job I called Adam and invited him round to celebrate. He was so happy for me. He came with a bottle of wine and two pizzas.
I figured we’d watch a film and cuddle up on the sofa and took the food through, but when I checked the pizzas I found that the flavour I normally had was extra large. His was only medium.
“What’s going on with this pizza?” I said, taking a seat beside him. “It’s huge!”
Adam gave a nervous smile and flushed, looking sweet and endearing. “It’s silly,” he said “Really silly. And I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while, but...”
“What?”
“It’s dumb,” he said.
“No,” I replied, touching his hand. “Tell me.”
He looked at me earnestly. “What would you say if I told you that... that I find it kind of sexy... to watch you eat.”
“Really?”
He shrugged, clearly embarrassed, and my heart went out to him. I knew how it felt to have feelings and to be afraid that others would make fun of them, even if it was surprising that he would like that. Keen to reassure him, I said, “There’s nothing wrong with that. Here, look.” I took out a large section of my pizza and dangled it high up, smiling as I took a bite. “How’s this?”
He chuckled and I kissed him.
“You don’t have to be shy to tell me anything,” I said. “I won’t judge you. You’ve seen me in bed. I’m not exactly straight-laced myself.”
We both had a good laugh at that.
“Eat some more,” said Adam, his eyes flashing.
I grew more serious and took another bite. I went on eating it until the slice was gone, keeping my eyes on his the whole time.
It was strange. It had never been something that I’d considered but Adam clearly enjoyed watching me and it was lovely to share such an off-beat and intimate connection.
I picked up a second piece and handed it to him then I squeezed his balls gently. “Now you feed me,” I said seductively. I glanced at the huge disc of pizza and smiled, happy to fan his flames a little. “Feed me all of it if you like.”
2
We didn’t have another night like that as the days went on and I semi-forgot about it. As I’d told him, I wasn’t going to judge him; he was so nice in every way. And it was harmless enough. He wasn’t into child pornography or anything creepy.
Adam liked to eat out, which was something I had never done that much of before. It was really nice to try out different restaurants and pubs around Nockton each night, tasting different things on the menu. Because we went out so often I started being more experimental; trying all sorts of things I hadn’t before. It was great fun.
Adam liked to eat early so I tended to zip home after work to get ready. It meant I couldn’t fit in my daily gym visit but I didn’t mind too much. I was in good shape. Adam switched to going in his lunch breaks which I was jealous of. With my higher workload in the new job there was no chance of that for me but it was good to have the higher wage, if only to be able to keep up with our nights out!
It was so nice to be seeing somebody so gentle and affectionate and to start to develop the little traditions that could last for years. One of ours was to go home after the meal and share a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream before making love. Adam had a wicked sense of humour and he’d spoon it into my mouth then drop some into my cleavage and scoop it out with his tongue. The love making was explosive but it was also tender and increasingly loving.
About three months in, all the meals out and lack of exercise started to catch up with me though.
My clothes were getting tight in the arms and around my hips and buttocks and my tummy was getting rather soft. I stood naked in front of the wardrobe mirror in my bedroom after another long love-bout, giving my developing flab the pinch test.
“I need to get back to the gym and go on a diet,” I said. “Look at me.”
Adam was lying on the bed, still naked. He was as muscular as ever. He didn’t say anything but he quietly got up and approached behind as I went on dourly examining what was probably half a stone of extra weight. He slipped his arms round my middle and rested his chin on my shoulder. “You look beautiful Wendy. Really beautiful.”
“Really?” I never got tired of him saying that. I’d managed to rebuild my self-esteem somewhat after Jonathan and the other guy but it was still on the fragile side.
“Sure. You look better actually,” he said. “More feminine. Softer in the face.”
I laughed. “I’m not sure I want to be softer in the face.”
Adam turned me round to face him and stroked my cheek. “Honestly. You look so much better with a bit of meat on you. You looked pretty before but with all that exercise you were a little bit... mannish.”
“Mannish?”
“Just a little bit.” He smiled. “But still pretty.”
I looked at myself again; the slight roundness of my cheeks. “You really think I look better?”
“Yes. You look spectacular. You might look even better with a few more curves.”
I frowned, trying to imagine that. During my long lost binge eating days I had been a stone or two heavier than this. I tried to remember what that had been like. I couldn’t quite picture it now but I remembered Jonathan’s belittling remarks. I was aware that people who lost weight were liable to let it creep back up as life went on and I also knew it was harder to keep it off as you got older. It was actually nice to be reassured that I would still look pretty even if that happened. I had no intention of letting my weight slip too far but it would be a relief to be with a man who cared about me enough not to mind if it did. Or even one who thought I looked better that way!
It gave me a wonderful feeling of warmth and security.
3
About a month later there was a team-building day at work for members of the middle management framework. We took a trip out to Nockton Forest Wildlife Centre. It was a popular weekend destination for families of Nockton Vale with woods filled with climbing frames built in the shape of animals, but we were visiting the Go Ape section where there were walkways and rope slides built high in the trees. It was just a bit of fun but the experience highlighted some home truths about my growing weight. I’d had so much going on in my life I hadn’t managed to make any time for dieting or exercise and with the amount I was eating I had carried on piling on pounds.
We had to wear helmets and harnesses with clips that could attach to the safety ropes on the upper walkways. The members of the team giggled like children while we fiddled with these, trying to get them attached securely. I found a harness that looked like it would fit and went to chat to my friends, Rebecca and Darren, but as I went to do up the straps I realised I couldn’t get the buckle clips to meet round my middle. As it was, the shoulder straps were digging into my back.
“I think you’re being a bit optimistic with that size,” chuckled Darren.
Blushing, I went back and got the next size up, squeezing into it. I didn’t go back to my friends. I was too embarrassed.
We started the exercise, climbing the rope ladders to the upper levels, as high as the leaves, but my heart wasn’t in it so much. I felt a bit down about my weight. It was quite a strenuous activity, doing all the climbing and balancing, and I was noticeably out of shape. It was a strain to keep up and at times I found myself being slow enough to form a queue of other managers behind me.
The more this happened, the more tense I got, and that slowed me down even more as I fumbled with the safety clips and squeezed through the narrow gaps to many a sigh from the following men. People were in high spirits and there was plenty of chuckling, but more and more, I started to feel as though they were laughing at me.
I hadn’t put that much weight on – my hips and bum were more padded, my face was fuller and my arms and stomach were softer – but this was the first time I’d been made to feel as though it was a problem. Knowing that Adam didn’t mind if I got heavier had made me relax somewhat but he wasn’t here now and I felt people’s impatience as proof of me letting myself go.
I kept my head down for the rest of the day, planning to get right back to the gym as soon as I could. I didn’t feel chatty anymore. I kept mostly to myself during the lunch provided, reading a magazine I had folded up in my handbag on a bench out under the trees.
Of course getting back into my gym routine was harder than I’d thought it would be. Now I was settled in my post my workload had increased and I tended not to get out of work until after six; sometimes as late as seven. Adam and I didn’t go out for quite so many meals now but he often got takeout in or cooked a meal when I called to let him know I was leaving work.
With all the change in my life, I thanked God that I had Adam. He was so loving and supportive, massaging my shoulders and feet of an evening while I tucked into the Ben & Jerry’s in front of the TV.
Our evenings were so pleasant I looked forward to them all day. All I wanted was to be around him. He was such a boon to me and until I got my weight under control I was reluctant to do too much socialising. The last thing I wanted was to be told I was getting fat by friend after friend.
I told Adam about what had happened on the work trip and he was as kind as ever about it.
“You aren’t fat darling,” he said, “you’re just nice and curvy, and you look gorgeous.” He caressed my round arm with his fingertip. “These days the average weight is much higher than it used to be. You’re just a normal size. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You look really, really nice. I like you a lot better this way. I don’t think you should worry about it.”
“Really?” I asked nervously.
“Really,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned I’d be just as happy if you stayed this way as if you lost weight; happier really. I love a girl with a bit of extra flesh on her.”
He tickled my soft belly and I giggled, kissing him.
Losing weight was such a hassle, especially with the pressures of work. What did it matter if I was a bit chubby as long as Adam still liked me? I got the feeling that he would have preferred me to be even bigger and part of me wanted to make his fantasy come true – enough to justify not worrying too much for now if I put on a pound or two more.
Basically I couldn’t fit the exercise in and I didn’t want to cut back on food for now – aside from Adam’s love, it was the one comfort I had to look forward to after a long day at the office. There would always be time to lose weight in the future. I’d done it before. It just wasn’t a priority for now.
4
On our six month anniversary, Adam and I moved in together.
He owned a nice flat and I was renting so his place was the logical place for a first nook to hang our hats. I was delighted when he suggested the idea. I was conscious of how quickly we were moving things forward but there hadn’t been a single danger sign. Looking back on my previous relationships, I could see now that the early days were rampant with omens of foreboding. If only I’d listened to them! Though on the other hand, I wouldn’t have dared change any of my past for fear that I wouldn’t have ended up with this new and wonderful man.
Work was going well, though it was still very high pressure. Since I’d cut back on socialising I was no longer getting on that well with my former friend Rebecca and she had a terrible reputation round the business for her ruthless culls of staff. Her methods were brutal and very much approved of by the managing director. All of us middle managers were having to work very hard to avoid the threat of redundancy. I tended to have to take work home with me to keep up, but Adam didn’t mind. He was very supportive.
Now we lived together we didn’t need to eat out at all but he was a good cook and he did all the cooking, making extravagant meals and sumptuous desserts that I found impossible to refuse. If he didn’t feel like cooking then he ordered in. I always broke off from my work to sit down to eat and we had wonderful times, chatting and joking. Adam was on a diet so he didn’t eat that much but I had more important things to worry about and I knew how much he loved to watch me chomp away. I liked the attention and my appetite was so much bigger than it used to be.
In the evening, as I worked, Adam would pop his head round the door to give me support and kisses. He liked to prepare me snacks and drinks and he kept up a steady stream of encouragement throughout my travails. He was always ready with my Ben & Jerry’s when I was finally able to knock off and join him in the lounge.
I wasn’t doing the slightest bit of exercise nowadays. Each day I walked out to the car, drove to work and walked into the building. In the evening I repeated that in reverse. Beyond that there was nothing. With all the extra delicious food I was eating I was really starting to put on weight.
My stomach bulged substantially and my breasts had grown bigger and rounder. My arms and thighs were getting chunky and my face looked quite different with the extra fat; the double chin that framed it.
It was funny, but I didn’t find the gain in weight that distressing. I guess I was just so happy. I didn’t have any reason apart from habit to second guess it. I had so much to fill my time with now that it really was the least of my concerns. Adam never exactly told me that he preferred me being fatter but I could tell that he found me sexier by the way he looked at me; the way he acted around me; his encouragement to eat; the energised way he watched me as I stuffed my face day after day.
Society tells us to hate fat and aspire toward skeletal thinness, but I was seeing life a different way now. I was actually enjoying being fat. I liked my pudgy flesh, my round face. I enjoyed looking in the mirror and seeing how much I’d changed when I noticed I’d put on yet another half stone. I was probably two stone over the weight I’d started now and it really didn’t upset me. It made me happy.
And I was starting to find something else surprising.
Adam had told me all that time ago, that he found it sexy to watch me eat.
Well I was starting to kind of see what he meant. I was starting to enjoy doing it for him.
There was something delightful about having him watch me as I put chunk after chunk of fatty food into my mouth, night after night. It was almost titillating. I really liked it. It was so nice to be looked at with such hungry desire after the years of unpleasantness with Jonathan and the other one. It was so nice to be able to share a developing passion like this.
And obviously it was something else to be able to eat without guilt; with encouragement even. I loved shovelling whatever I wanted into my mouth without having to question myself. Adam had told me about numerous studies he’d heard of, showing that being overweight didn’t cause the health risks people thought.
I spent my days looking forward to our nights together, sitting at my desk, eating the snacks he had prepared for me the night before.
I’d never known I could be so happy.
5
An opportunity came up in my job to work from home and I decided to take it. They were trying to maximise office space by reducing the number of staff who came in and I was more than happy to be one of the ones to stay home. It eliminated my commuting time (the Nockton ring road could be hell in rush hour traffic) and reduced costs all round. In addition to that I wasn’t enjoying the atmosphere in the office so much anymore.
What with the constant lean process reviews and ever-present threat of cutbacks, the mood wasn’t as jovial as it used to be; it could be quite cutthroat. Without that friendliness I was overhearing one too many remarks about my weight gain. With Adam being so nice about it, it made it even more awful when other people made me feel small for getting fat. Why couldn’t they just mind their own business? It was up to me if I wanted to let myself go a bit. What did they have to do with it?
Working from home was much better. I could relax far more, stopping regularly for fortifying snack breaks. I could keep my own time. It was great. I revelled in the peace and quiet away from judgmental eyes.
One weekend afternoon, however, I was out by myself doing a bit of shopping and something happened that threatened to upset everything.
In the past I had tended to go round the shops with my friend Clare. I hadn’t seen much of her since meeting Adam, but that didn’t matter. I enjoyed my own company if he wasn’t available.
I was outside on Nockton high street, walking along toward Evans to buy a new skirt, when two men started laughing at me. “Look at the size of her,” muttered one. “She’s so fat, I bet her baby pictures had to be taken by satellite.” The other bawled with laughter and they walked on, but my face went beetroot red.
Other people had heard them and all the onlookers were smirking. I’d never felt so humiliated. It made me want to curl up and die.
I suddenly became hyperaware of my body shape; the way my chubby thighs made me waddle from side to side, lumbering along heavily, my fat jiggling with each footfall. I stopped in front of Evans, a shop I would never have entered in my slim days, and looked at my reflection in the front mirror. In the eight months since I had stopped going to the gym I had put on three and a half stone. I was really, really fat now, my entire shape bloated and round. I looked like a different person. I was carrying additional mass equivalent to over twenty bags of sugar spread across my entire body. I really was obese.
I felt real shame at what I’d become; the change I’d allowed my body to make. I didn’t even know this chubby woman looking back at me. She was a stranger.
Something had to change in my life and it had to change now. I couldn’t keep on like this. I’d been kidding myself it was okay.
I went home without buying anything from Evans and waited for Adam to return from work. I felt ravenous. I would have eaten a couple of snacks in the time since I’d been in town on a normal day. Resisting was next to impossible. I ended up eating a bag of crisps and then hated myself even more for it.
When Adam came in he could tell I was upset. My eyes were red from crying.
His first thought was to make me feel looked after and he offered to cook up some bacon and eggs to make me feel better. I told him no.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I said, “eating so much. It’s got out of hand. Look how fat I am. I look awful. I can’t do it anymore. I have to lose weight as soon as possible.”
The smile fell from Adam’s face. He looked crestfallen and I felt a stab of regret for being so blunt.
“I know you... like me better when I’m, you know... large,” I said. “but some men made fun of me in town today and people are always saying nasty things. I just can’t go on like this anymore.”
Adam turned away from me. He went and sat down and I looked after him, feeling guilty.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He didn’t reply.
“Adam, I’m sorry. It doesn’t mean I don’t like your food. I love it. It doesn’t mean I want you to stop, you know, feeding me.”
Adam said nothing. I’d obviously upset him. It was just like me to do that. I was always thinking of myself while he did nothing but look after me.
“Did I say anything to make you feel bad about your weight?” he said quietly at last.
“No. Not at all.” I replied.
“Did I make you feel anything but beautiful?”
“No. You’ve always made me feel desirable.” I wished I hadn’t said anything. I wished I’d kept my big trap shut.
“I do find you more attractive like this,” said Adam. “That may be weird by some people’s standards but I love you and I don’t want you to have to feel constrained to meet some impossible Hollywood ideal. You should be free to be any shape you want.”
“I’m sorry Adam,” I said. “I shouldn’t care what other people think of me.”
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “You’re a wonderful person; a lovely, big, cuddly woman.”
“I smiled hesitantly. “Forget I said anything; really,” I said. “I was just being silly. It doesn’t matter what some stupid men I don’t even know think.”
“Of course not.”
“You’re the only one that matters.”
He smiled at me and stroked my cheek with his bent first finger. “I love you Wendy.”
“Let me order some pizza,” I said, eager to eradicate the atmosphere that had developed. “We’ll kick back and watch some TV... and you can feed me if you like.”
6
By December I realised that I had put on enough weight to be classed as morbidly obese.
The inactivity and overeating had gone unchecked for months and I’d become more and more severely obese until I’d reached the point where I was just very, very, very fat.
My body was extremely bloated, with two great rolls of fat on my belly, the sides of my stomach folding out to alter my silhouette, making my shape edge toward an oval rather than a rectangle. My upper arms were huge and round, as were my legs. There was little definition to my face, set as it was upon this big round circle of fat. My breasts were like compressed balloons.
Adam had been feeding me avidly for a while now and there were no longer any illusions about what we were doing. We both knew that our unstated goal was to make me fatter and fatter; to see how far we could take it.
Adam was pleased that we’d reached this landmark weight. He loved the new fatter me. He openly told me now that he hadn’t found me that attractive physically when he met, though he’d quickly fallen in love with my personality. It was like there was a beautiful chubby woman inside me, waiting to be let free, he told me. He often told me how pretty I was; how much more desirable.
And he was as attentive and affectionate as ever; more so if anything since we’d stopped pretending we weren’t proactively fattening me up. He was the kindest man I’d ever known. I loved him more than I’d ever loved anyone. I wanted to be with him forever.
But though his enthusiasm was infectious, I couldn’t be quite as happy at the title I had achieved as he was.
I stood in the bedroom, looking at myself in the mirror, noticing that my sides on longer fit in the frame of the reflection unless I stepped back. I roved my eyes up and down my bulging form, looking at the way even the tent-like clothes I wore to hide the curves were strained to bursting.
I put my hands to my cheeks, feeling the yielding flesh; looking at my bloated forearms, my prominent chest, my round stomach.
It seemed like no time at all since I had been fit and slim, but those had been the dark days before Adam. Shocking though the transformation was, I couldn’t entertain the notion of wishing I could be back in that old life.
My career was on a better path and I’d never been happier. Why did I have to always question things? Why couldn’t I just accept that this was me now: this bulging gargantuan woman looking back at me with confusion in her face?
I’d looked up the definition of morbid obesity online earlier. It had been frightening reading. But on the other hand I was happy. Why try to change things? Why risk ruining everything?
Adam was in the kitchen, serving out the dessert: cheesecake and ice-cream. I could hear him humming to himself happily as I stood dourly staring at myself.
It was so clear to me where my priorities lay. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind.
“Are you coming through darling?” he called. “The food’s almost ready. I’m going to give you extra cream to help celebrate your amazing achievement.”
I took one last look at my huge body and bulging face. Then I went through and joined my man in front of the TV.
7
In February I got invited to my friend Clare’s hen party.
I hadn’t seen her (or any of my other friends for that matter) for the better part of a year, but I felt I couldn’t say no, despite my reservations about attending.
I was well aware of how fat I was now; how much I’d gained since we last met; but Clare had been my friend since middle school. I couldn’t say no to attending such a momentous event.
I shared my anxieties with Adam. He was very understanding. He knew all about my struggles with coming to terms with my weight gain and was incredibly supportive. He told me over and over again how much better I looked now; how much happier I was. He told me that my friends would accept that if they really cared about me. They wouldn’t condemn me for my choices.
I got dressed up as nicely as I could in an expensive outfit that was crafted specifically to disguise the bulges of my new body. I spent a lot of time on my make-up and hair, getting it just right. Adam told me I had never looked so beautiful. I left the flat feeling mostly confident but still a little bit nervous.
The hen party was starting off at a hotel bar in Breton called the Old Squire. The intention was to crawl down the hill toward the town centre, getting drunker and drunker, before vomiting unceremoniously into one of the bins in Hurley Park. Clare had always been something of a dedicated piss-head.
I arrived half an hour later than the start time and stood nervously in the doorway, looking for my friends. It was a Saturday night and the place was quite busy. I saw Clare and caught her eye but when she saw me her mouth fell open. Our other friend, Liz, was standing next to her at the bar. Clare tapped her arm and gestured to me. Both of them gaped at me in disbelief. My cheeks coloured red under the thick foundation.
“Oh my God Wendy,” said Clare as I approached. “What the hell’s happened to you? You look awful!”
My cheeks grew redder and hotter. I didn’t know what to say. All I could think was that I wished I hadn’t come out. I wished I’d stayed home with my boyfriend.
Clare pulled me to a darker corner of the bar and sat me down. “I can’t believe how much fatter you are,” she said. “How did you put on so much weight so quickly?”
I squirmed in my seat, trying to divert the conversation, but Clare was insatiable. She kept on questioning me, trying to get to the bottom of things, and before I knew what I was doing I had told her everything; gone over all the history between Adam and me; all the changes at work and in my life in general.
Clare listened to my story attentively but I could see her struggling to comprehend it from my perspective; to understand how the woman she knew would choose to do the things I had done. I just kept emphasising how much better my life was now, just as Adam had told me before I left; how much happier I was; but Clare was stony faced as I finished painting the picture.
“You’re my oldest friend Wendy, and my dearest,” she said. “You know that.”
“I know you are,” I replied.
“But it fills me with horror to see what you’ve done to yourself.”
“I’m happy,” I said. “Really.”
“I know you think you are,” she replied, “but you’re too caught up in it to see. Objectively it’s just so obvious that you’re making a terrible mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“Being with Adam.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “What?”
“This isn’t a healthy relationship,” she said. “You do know that, don’t you? He’s abusing you.”
I laughed. “Of course he isn’t.”
“He is Wendy. It’s obvious. He doesn’t care about you at all. Not really. How could he and let you get like this; actively encourage it? It’s unhealthy. You could get really, really ill if you keep going.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not true. Adam tells me a lot of stuff people believe about fat-related illnesses aren’t accurate.”
Clare just stared at me. “That’s crap,” she said. “He just doesn’t want you to think that it is. He wants you to keep going.”
I glared back at her, suddenly angry, then went to stand up.
Clare grabbed my wrist to stop me. “I’m not saying these things to upset you Wendy,” she said. “I care about you. I want you to be happy and healthy.”
“I am happy,” I said. “I am healthy. Can’t you see that? So I’m fat; yes! So what? I’m more contented now than I’ve ever been in my life. Why can’t you be happy for me?”
I pulled my hand free and walked away. Clare kept calling after me but I went on walking. I left the bar and walked to the nearest taxi rank then asked the first driver I found to take me home.
8
I got the taxi to drop me off a couple of hundred yards away from Adam’s and my place. There was a bench on a little patch of grass under a tree and I sat stewing, rolling over in my mind what Clare had said.
I’d been furious at her to her face but now I was away from there with time to think to myself, I was filled only with confusion. I looked back over my time with Adam with new eyes, feeling awful that she’d used the word abuse; awful because she had used the exact same word to describe my relationship with Jonathan years before.
Had I really allowed myself to fall into another situation like that? Was I prone to submit to the overbearing authority of men? Was it really abusive, what Adam was doing to me?
He was so nice. He was just so incredibly nice. It couldn’t be abuse. But Clare had been my friend for so long and though she could be irritating in her bluntness, I knew she was wise and observant, and I knew she had my best interests at heart.
When I stood up from the bench I was angry: at Clare; at myself; at Adam. I didn’t know where to place that anger really and there was more than enough to go around.
I marched home and with each step I felt my bloated form lumbering, the fat jiggling. I’d worked so hard at the gym for so long and then I’d allowed myself to get like this. It was pathetic. It was disgusting. It had to stop now.
Adam was reading when I entered. He jumped up, surprised I was home so early, and came through to the hall with a smile and an affectionate touch, but he sensed immediately that there was a distance between us.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I said nothing and went through to the kitchen.
“Baby, what’s the matter?”
“Look at me,” I said. “Look how fat I am. This isn’t what I want.”
He went quiet. My back was to him and I felt guilty for saying it like that. I looked back at him. He looked startled and sad. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to come on so strong, but...”
“What is it darling?”
I had lost my momentum. I said nothing back right away and he came to me and stroked my cheek. “It’s just... I was talking to Clare, and...”
“What is it?”
“She told me that... she thought... It’s silly I guess.”
“No. Tell me.” Adam took my hand and squeezed.
“She said she thought that your encouragement... for me to eat so much... that it was abusive.”
He smiled a smile of relief and mirth. “Really? She said that?”
I shrugged.
“And you believed her?”
I shrugged again.
He took both my hands in his. “Darling, I love you. You know that, right?”
I nodded hesitantly.
“I really love you... and I love being with you. I think you’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. I think the things you’ve achieved at work are amazing. You’ve got so much potential there. I’ve got nothing but respect for you.” He rubbed my hands with his thumbs. “Yes, I find you a lot more attractive now that you’re more voluptuous and feminine. I told you when we first started going out that it turned me on to feed you. I didn’t make any secret of that, did I?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Yes, I like you being big. I’d love it if you were even bigger. I’d love seeing how big you could get if we really went for it. But I don’t want any of that unless you want it too. Of course I don’t.”
“Really?”
“Of course I don’t.” He looked thoughtful. “But have you noticed how much happier you are like this?”
I frowned.
“When we met there was something – I don’t know – desperate about you; about your desire to get slim and stay that way. Since you started eating more you’ve felt so much better; don’t you think?”
I shrugged. My time with Adam had been the happiest in my life. I knew that as a fact. Now that I was talking to him, the idea that he was abusing me in any way seemed preposterous.
“I wasn’t sure you liked it at first,” said Adam. “The feeding. I wasn’t planning to push it. But you seemed to really get into it. You seemed to love eating; love me feeding you; even love getting fatter and fatter.” He stroked my arm. “Did I read that wrong?”
I shrugged and then shook my head. “No. I... I have enjoyed it.”
“I love you Wendy,” he said. “I want nothing more than to make you happy. It must be confusing going against the grain; doing something that society, with its limited views, thinks is weird. But I can see how happy you’ve been since we got together. I know you love it when I feed you as much as I love doing it.”
I nodded. I felt guilty and kind of sordid but it was true. I did love it.
“I want to make you the happiest woman on earth,” he said. “If that means you end up being the biggest woman on earth then so be it. I will only find you more and more beautiful. Who cares what anybody else thinks? You don’t need them. You have me.”
“Oh Adam,” I said. “I need you. I need you so much.” I pressed myself against his chest, my chubby breasts and belly squidging round him. .
“I need you too Wendy. I love you more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
We kissed, passionately and lovingly. We pulled away and I looked into his face.
Did I really mean that? Did I really love putting on weight? Did I really want it to continue?
All I knew was that I loved Adam and I couldn’t bear to risk losing him; I wanted to do anything I could to please him and I did enjoy the feeding. I liked it a lot; I was sure that I did.
“Marry me Wendy,” he said, and my heart melted.
“Yes!” I cried. “Oh yes Adam! Yes!”
We kissed again, longer this time, and I felt happier than ever.
“Screw what the world thinks,” he said. “They can’t tell us what to do. I’m going to go on making you happy every day. I don’t care what society thinks.”
I nodded, kissing him again.
“I can’t wait to see how much fatter you are by our wedding day,” he said.
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You: Volume 4 by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
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This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
1
The woman who lived opposite our house had nothing that we did but she also had the only thing of value I desired.
My husband and I lived in Mossgill, on the very edge of Nockton, right on the border with Barton, its evil twin. Between our house and hers was the dual-carriageway and then the railway track that marked the actual border of the two towns. Like most of the houses along the Nockton side, our house was very grand. It had a pillared porch, a tall front wall and grandiose gates. It was far too big for the two of us but Ken liked his ostentation. It was bigger than the price tag had warranted but then it had been built long before the dual-carriageway was and that had brought it more into our range.
The house opposite ours across the road and the tracks was a dingy old tumbledown council house with grey mottled walls and filthy windows. Our front was facing the road of course but their back was facing the tracks so we had uninterrupted views of their kitchen and back bedrooms as well as their neglected garden.
I was at home quite a lot – I worked four days a week at Chauncy C of E Primary School – and one of my favourite little time-wasters was gazing out the front window with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, spying on these neighbours I’d never met.
Our life was good – I had no complaints – but not a lot happened. Most of our money went into the mortgage and Ken’s “toys” so we engaged in a lot of TV watching, snuggled up together on the sofa and living by proxy. I was tied up in my soaps of course but I also loved to live vicariously through my friends, co-workers and family. I was forever grilling them on what they got up to – exotic holidays they took, parties they had. I could gabble away for hours on the phone, catching up on everything.
But Ken and I did have a pleasant life. We loved one another dearly and we respected one another more. There was a gentle and warm civility between us that made every day like snuggling under a nice warm blanket.
But I did like to spy on those neighbours. They were so awfully riveting.
Their house was probably about as old as ours, though terribly maintained. It was semi-detached and I could catch a glimpse of the road beyond through the narrow passage at the side.
Theirs was a huge family and there were forever odd comings and goings, often late at night. Police cars would show up, flashing their lights from time to time. I didn’t know how old the mother was but her eldest two were giants: over eighteen; probably no more than twenty two. It was hard to tell from that distance and I never got close enough to see any real detail. If I’d had to guess from her looks I would have pegged her for mid-thirties and that certainly fit the profile. There were seven kids that I’d counted and another one in the oven by the look of her belly. She was either addicted to labour pains and morning sickness or else she just couldn’t help herself. I suspected it was the latter. There were significant enough differences in the kids for me to suspect there were at least two fathers, maybe more.
The current husband/boyfriend (delete as appropriate) was always around, sitting out in the garden with the paper and a can of beer on a faded fold-up chair. I strongly doubted he was working. That was the main reason why Ken hated them. He had a potent work ethic and despised any man who didn’t pull his weight. If he caught me watching them he’d come up beside me and watch too but he always spat out something derogatory.
As a matter of fact, we’d kind of... developed the habit of making fun of them together.
It wasn’t all that understanding and inclusive of us but it did give us something to chuckle about over a glass of merlot if we were waiting for a programme to start.
But still, no matter how much we might mock them and how much I might pity them, there was still a part of me that envied that woman.
Everything we had: the house; the fancy car; the boat we almost never used... she had something that seemed to be forever out of my reach.
A fully-functioning uterus.
That was why she was richer in her way than I could ever be.
Ken and I had been trying for a baby for nine years. We’d been checked by half a dozen doctors. It was me that was the problem. Not Ken. He could have had children if he’d been with another woman. I was to blame for stopping that happen. But all the IVF treatments had led nowhere and we’d given up in every way but verbally. We didn’t even talk about it anymore. It made things too uncomfortable. The last time it had come up I’d wept inconsolably for two long hours.
I knew it was my fault and I hated myself for it, and watching that woman across the way churn out child after child made it a hell of a lot worse.
What had she done to deserve such abundance? What had that family done? All they did was sponge off the state and get in trouble. How was it that God had chosen to give them the one thing that was most important to me?
And that’s why I started to slowly and steadily obsess over that awful lady until I almost managed to kid myself that she was taunting me. Every time she went out to sit in the garden with her beer-guzzling husband I imagined she was doing it to show off her baby bump. She knew I was watching, even behind the blinds and she knew about our... problem. We might have been laughing at them but I imagined them laughing back at us. We had the money and the house but they had that most precious gift of life.
I started to think about her on the way to work, stuck in traffic, or on the way home; lying in bed while Ken pretended he’d already fallen asleep. I found myself getting suddenly angry when I was alone, demanding out loud what she had done to deserve such luck; what I had done to deserve a barren womb.
I would burst into tears sometimes, then cease abruptly, staring into space silently then sobbing again, my head hanging in shame.
And then finally, one night, while Ken lay on the sofa downstairs, dozing with a book, I stood staring from the bedroom window at the row going on between the woman and her husband in their kitchen.
Both sets of windows were open and over the empty road and train tracks I could just make out the shrill cries she made, the bellowing putdowns he levied back.
My eyes were cold and narrow and then they folded into tears, until I had to cover my face and my mouth for fear that Ken would hear and come upstairs. I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t tell him how I was feeling inside without my heart breaking.
Then I raised my head and I looked across to their house once more, and in a glass-edged whisper I murmured, “I would give anything... give... anything... to be as fertile as her.”
And with that simple collection of words on my tongue... it started.
2
I didn’t know it had started until another two weeks had gone by and that moment at the window had seeped from my mind entirely.
I was late on my period. That was the sign.
This wasn’t entirely unusual. It meant nothing concrete. But to me, a woman desperate for a child, it meant everything. It meant hope in the wilderness.
In the nine years we’d been trying, this had happened half a dozen times and every single time I’d believed – BELIEVED – that this was it. Somehow, against all the doctor’s prognoses, each time I had known that the magic had finally happened. The first three times I’d gone so far as to tell Ken about it, squealing with delight when I realised like it was an actual confirmation. But that optimism and faith followed up with a staggering knockout blow to the heart had a way of killing that kind of naive yearning.
After that I’d kept it quiet; only mentioning in passing to my husband about it; but even then on the inside I’d been clamouring for the home pregnancy kit; had taken it and waited and felt that pinching sense of despair slowly set in. The instructions said five full minutes were needed to be sure of a negative result. Those minutes were death knells on hope.
Staring at the space where the two lines were meant to appear for a confirmation was an awful thing. And there was only ever one. Test: negative.
The fourth and fifth times had been lonely moments of silent despair, locked away in the bathroom after Ken had left for work. By the time I got to the sixth occasion that belief had really been challenged but it had still been there; rewarded with the worst kind of disappointment.
This was the seventh time and I surprised myself because when I noted how late I was I didn’t entertain the impossible anymore. That faith was stone cold dead.
I waited six full days after when I’d expected the crimson visitor before I allowed myself to dream, and by that time I’d woken up nauseous. I’d woken up to a full puking fit. And as the vomit went in the toilet and on the floor and in my hair, I realised what this might actually mean and I went rigid before I puked out another aching stream into the bowl.
But even then I didn’t tell Ken.
I waited in the bathroom until he had gone to work, then I called the school and told them I couldn’t come in. I sat quietly for several minutes, gathering my thoughts and then I walked to Fairgate pharmacy in the little row of shops opposite the garage down the dual-carriageway on the way into town. It was half a mile away but that was nothing. I could have walked ten times that far if I’d had to.
It would be hard for someone who hadn’t been in this situation to really understand my state of mind by the time I got home and walked up those stairs. There aren’t enough words to grapple it and pin it down.
I opened the kit’s wrapping and did the slightly clumsy manoeuvre of peeing on the stick, then I sat there on the loo, panties round my ankles, staring.
Waiting for the lines.
Praying maybe.
Muttering to myself.
Willing both lines to appear this time.
Willing the impossible to happen – for every doctor we’d seen to be proven wrong.
And ever so slowly, in that little oval hole, first one, then two lines blurred into view.
And I stared. I gaped at them in complete disbelief. The hope in me had died at least a year earlier. All that was left in its stead was wonder.
And it was then, as the truth of what I was seeing blossomed across my mind that I suddenly recalled the dark wish I’d made at the window on that night. And just for the briefest instant I felt a shadow of dread.
3
I was pregnant.
It was impossible. But it was bloody well true! I covered my face with my hands and then burst into tears; smiling-tears that turned to laughter while my bleary eyes continued to stream. As my tears started to dry I laughed out loud, and then I started sobbing again.
It took me the better part of half an hour to get a hold of myself and when I did, I looked a mess, but I still had the goofiest grin on my face as I looked into my reflection.
A baby. My very own child to hold and cuddle and kiss; a son or daughter to love and lead through the maze of life. I couldn’t wait. I just couldn’t wait.
But then I frowned.
That was weird.
I leaned closer to the glass, peering into my own face and actually reached up to touch it. I’d heard somewhere – on a documentary I guessed – that trauma could cause it to happen but to see it...
My eyes had changed colour. Completely.
They had always been a deep dark brown but all of a sudden they were a pale icy blue instead; almost grey.
It was so startling and unexpected that it made me forget what I’d just discovered, but that was only for a second, and the moment I remembered the tiny foetus inside me even something so bizarre as that just didn’t seem important. It was a distraction from the most important thing that had ever happened to me.
I had another look – a closer one. They were definitely a different colour. The only thing I could think was that the emotional stress, relief and excitement had done it. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care. I was going to have a baby!
I went straight through to the phone and dialled all but the last digit of Ken’s office number. He worked in town in the business park overlooking the river, easily close enough to be home within fifteen minutes without the rush hour to contend with, and I knew he would be if I called him. I could imagine his rosy cheeks and smiling face. There was a bottle of champagne in the back of the pantry. He’d insist on cracking that open. Just a sip for me of course. He’d call his mother. He’d chatter gaily about names. I could see it playing out in my mind’s eye.
Instead I put the phone on its hook, closing down that imagined scene.
It was too soon. I needed time to digest this first myself before it left my control. And one test didn’t guarantee anything. It could be wrong. Or I might, heaven forbid, miscarry. Any number of things could go badly and ruin everything.
I decided to keep it to myself. For now.
I’d tell him about my eyes and we’d ponder about it, but I wouldn’t tell him about the baby. Not yet. Not until a little more time had passed. Until I was sure I was ready.
I stroked my stomach, longing for the bump to start growing, to reach the point when I could begin to feel safe; that it was real; that my dream was going to come true.
Time passed but my eager and frightened excitement didn’t. I couldn’t settle. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Eventually I stood at the window; my old spying post; and I looked across at the grey house over the way. The husband wasn’t in sight today but I could make out movement in the kitchen: nothing clear but I knew it was her.
“There,” I murmured. “That shows you. You aren’t the only one who deserves this. It’s mine now too.” I looked down at my stomach and its secret inhabitant. “The magic is mine.”
4
I woke up with a dry mouth and a fuzzy feeling in my head. It was still daytime but the light had changed. It must have been about six. I’d fallen asleep diagonally across the covers of the bed, mouth open. I didn’t even remember lying down.
I sat up, rubbing my head, unsure what had woken me but feeling as though something had. Then the car door slam came from outside and I realised Ken was back. I quickly straightened my hair and clothes then tried to rub my headache away through my forehead. It didn’t work.
I touched my belly again, smiling to myself and getting another spark of excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell Ken.
But then I remembered my decision not to do so and felt a clammy cover of regret and self-doubt. It... just wasn’t time. Not yet. Later when I was sure. Then we’d celebrate.
He called up, “Camilla!”
“Up here!” I frowned and cleared my throat. “I’m up—” I cleared it again. “I’m up in the bedroom!” That was better. I wondered if I was coming down with something.
Ken’s feet sounded on the stairs then he opened the door. “What are you doing sitting in here?” He grinned. “You should be down in that kitchen slaving for my supper.” The smile faltered. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat again. “Just a cold coming on I think. Maybe some laryngitis. I’ve been asleep.”
“Didn’t you go to work?”
“No.” I tensed up from the lie of it. “I didn’t feel too well this morning.”
“It’s going round at my work too. You probably caught it from some of those grubby kids you have to deal with.”
I gave out a social chuckle and smiled.
“There’s something different about you,” said Ken.
“Sleepiness.”
“No. Something else.”
I thought he was going to mention my eyes – I remembered them suddenly – but he didn’t.
“Your skin,” he said. “Did you buy some new make-up or something?”
“No.”
“Moisturiser?”
“No. Nothing.”
He shrugged. “It’s probably just the light. Or maybe because you are ill.” He loosened then took off his tie, breaking away like the conversation was done with, shrugging out of his suit jacket.
I went through to the bathroom, pinching the bridge of my nose, clearing my throat but unable to dislodge whatever was in there. The pull chord activated the over-bright ceiling light and I took a look at myself to see what he was talking about. It was strikingly obvious that something was different about me because of my eyes. He was blind if he hadn’t noticed them, though he didn’t seem to have. Maybe that was it – what he noticed.
But...
I held my arms out in front of me, hands pointing down, elbows raised. I did look paler than normal. I touched my face. I saw what he meant now. I was a lot more pallid, my skin shinier. Because of our frequent breaks abroad I tended to have some tan even in the darker months. I must either have been coming down with something or the pregnancy was throwing my body for a loop. My skin was a pale greyish hue and there were dark circles under my eyes.
I stood, looking at myself, hands on both cheeks, for the better part of a minute then I lowered them and shook my head. I just needed rest. My body was going through some important changes ready for that baby. I had to give nature a chance to take its course.
“When’s dinner going to be ready?” called Ken from the bedroom.
“Not long,” I replied, swallowing and then clearing my throat. I had to be coming down with something. My voice didn’t sound right at all.
I decided to put tea on then make myself a steaming mug of hot chocolate. I’d eat with Ken then pour myself a nice hot bath; have a really long soak with some bath salts. Then I’d go to bed early.
Sleep was what I needed. Lots of sleep.
5
I followed my plan to the letter and was in bed by eight thirty, fast asleep no later than quarter to. Ken coming to bed didn’t wake me and I slept through deeply. He left me fast asleep when he went out in the morning. Fridays were my day off anyway. I was like a log.
When I eventually came to my senses I felt like I’d had the sleep of the century. I didn’t remember them but just outside the field of my mind’s eye’s view I could sense closed off memories of especially vivid dreams. I felt as though I’d run a marathon and had slept the sleep of the just after it. I didn’t remember ever waking up so relaxed or as lethargic.
I rubbed my eyes, yawning, then the surprise from yesterday came back to me and I grinned in delight. I was so excited! I wished I’d shared it with Ken now but that couldn’t be helped. Perhaps I’d spill it over a meal out at the weekend. We could do something really lavish and special to celebrate: maybe stay overnight somewhere.
I rolled onto my side then frowned, perplexed. I put my hand to my belly. Then I gasped and threw the covers clear, rolling onto my back.
My stomach was swollen! It was round, bulging out, the weave of my nightie describing the contours of this impossible shape. I pushed myself up to a sitting position with some difficulty, gaping down at what I was seeing. It was impossible but somehow, in the night...
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered.
I touched the baby bump. I stroked it, exploring the shape of it. It couldn’t have grown this fast. It couldn’t have. But I was looking at it. I was feeling it. I would have had to sleep for about six months for it to get this big. I had to be dreaming.
But I wasn’t dreaming.
“Oh my gosh,”
I struggled to the edge of the bed and set my feet down on the carpet. I had to see what I looked like. I pushed up, having to strain a little. It felt totally different. My balance was wrong. I got upright, swaying, then staggered to the bedroom door, went down the corridor, gripping the banister desperately. I leant against the bathroom doorframe to catch my breath. My whole body was weak, like every muscle had been overstrained. I rested my hand on my chest, took a deep breath, then went into the bathroom and stared at my stomach in the mirror.
It was huge! It looked like the belly of a fully pregnant woman! My nightie was really straining to fit round it.
It couldn’t be happening. How could it be?
I had the sense something else was wrong with my image but I didn’t know what it was. I was too absorbed by my stomach to care. Then I did glance up at my face in the mirror and back down to the impossible bump. My mouth fell open. I raised my head again and looked myself in the eye and my lips dropped even wider.
That wasn’t me. In the mirror. That wasn’t my face! Or my hair!
I stepped toward myself, touching the top of my head with one hand, the side of my face with the other.
I was looking at someone else gaping back at me in astonishment.
My hair was much shorter, totally absent lower than my ears but quite bushy on top; spiky. And it was white-blond. I’d been a brunette with shoulder length curls! It looked awful! It felt strange to run my fingers through. It was drier than my hair normally was. It wasn’t my hair!
And my face! It was completely different from my usual features; far narrower. My nose was bigger and longer. My chin was smaller, set further back so that it looked weaker, blending into my neck. The pale greyish skin I’d seen the night before had gone a step further. I looked pallid; almost ill. The skin around my eyes was dark. The way my cheekbones fell now gave a slight sunkenness to my cheeks before they merged into my neck.
Even my lips had changed. They had always been full and red before, almost rose-shaped. Now there was very little colour visible. They were straight and small and narrow. My mouth looked mean suddenly rather than warm.
I shook my head, closed my eyes, opened them again. I felt my cheeks and forehead, my nose, my mouth; my weak chin. The touch-sensation was real, confirming everything my eyes were telling me.
I had gone to sleep myself, newly pregnant, and I’d woken up at the end of my second trimester with another woman’s body!
6
I don’t know how long it took until I fully understood that this was really happening, but when that moment came I just stared at myself. Then I touched my hair and face again. I touched my baby-stomach.
I lifted the hem of my nightie and looked amazed at the pale white skinny legs going down to entirely different feet. My feet had always been particularly dainty and well formed. These new feet weren’t as pretty. They were bigger. The second and third toes were longer than the big toe. I raised one foot off the floor. It was a subtle difference in a way. They were still ordinary women’s feet, but to me it was a massive alteration.
I checked the front and back of my hands. They were different too. The hands and fingers were longer and narrower. And my nails weren’t as long. Most were stubby ovals but a couple were shorter as though they’d recently broken or been cut.
“This can’t be possible,” I said, but my eyes flicked up to my reflection the moment I heard myself. That wasn’t my voice. It was half an octave higher and even then was different. It vibrated differently somewhere at the back of my throat.
“Blah,” I said, testing it. “Blah blah blah blah.”
I gave my head just the tiniest shake of negation and disbelief.
But then I was drawn back to the baby bump. I touched it, smoothing my hands over it, and abruptly I felt something, simultaneously on the inside and the outside. A kick!
Despite all of this aberration I grinned, tears forming in both eyes. I stroked round to the front of my belly, hoping to feel it again but I didn’t.
There was really a baby in there. I really was pregnant!
I looked up at myself again then down at my stomach.
It was a miracle. It was my most precious lifelong dream come true.
What did it matter if it came with this other weird side effect? That didn’t matter. I was going to have a baby. I was going to have a little child! I didn’t care about anything else. That was all that mattered.
7
It was the cold that made me leave the bathroom in the end.
I walked through to the bedroom and stood there, just inside the doorway. It was oddly surprising how mundane it all was. I’d woken up six months pregnant looking like someone else but I was still just standing in my bedroom feeling cold. I still had to do something about that. Then I was hungry. I still had to eat. I’d always imagined something magical happening when I was a little girl as something profoundly life-changing. Obviously this was going to have a huge impact on my life – I would have a child in my arms in only about three months if nothing else – but I didn’t feel that different. Nothing... dramatic was happening next.
The problem was going to be what to wear. My waist was substantially bigger now and I obviously hadn’t had time to buy any maternity wear. Maybe some tracksuit bottoms of Ken’s...
I opened my wardrobe first to see if there was anything that would fit me. I might have had a baggy top I could use somewhere. There wasn’t anything immediately visible. I half-heartedly browsed through the different outfits then pursed my lips as I spotted something I didn’t recognise.
I pushed the other garments away from the hanger and lifted it out.
It was a scoop-necked sleeveless dress made of polyester that I was sure I had never bought. I definitely wouldn’t have. It had a leopard skin pattern; really not my style.
But it was a maternity dress.
I checked the label. Yes. Definitely. Maternity.
Which meant that I hadn’t put it there. And Ken wouldn’t have. So it must have just appeared. Like my bump appeared.
I thought about the frog in my throat the day before; the pallid skin; the ice-blue eyes; the pregnancy test.
I didn’t get pregnant. I turned into a pregnant woman. Totally different thing. I’d become this pregnant woman and the same higher power that had done it had provided me with an outfit to get me started.
I shrugged and laid it on the bed, taking off my nightie.
As it fell to the floor I got my first look at my naked body and like my face, hands and feet, the differences were remarkable.
Up until today I’d had a relatively well-proportioned body, not quite athletic but rounded in all the right places. My new body was not quite as well honed. My thighs were quite skinny but I had love handles and a bulge around my hips. My round breasts were shaped oddly now, more pointed. They were still normal breasts but I missed my old ones.
I felt my belly again though, reassuring myself that nothing mattered as long as I had that.
“God, what’s Ken going to think when I show him?”
The mind boggled. I really looked entirely different and I was nowhere near as attractive, but he was as desperate for a child as I was. He would understand. He’d have to. If it was my old body and no baby or this one and a baby, the choice was a no-brainer.
I thought of my friends and my mother. What would they say when I reintroduced myself to them?
I put on a bra that was close enough to be a fit and some clean panties, then I climbed into the dress, enjoying pulling it over my new bump. I looked at myself in the mirror.
It really was another woman looking back at me now.
I tried on a smile for size and instantly frowned when I saw what it looked like. I tried it again.
Smiling made my weak chin recede even further. Crinkles appeared round my eyes. My skin was shinier than it had been. My taut cheeks caught the light. I jutted my head forward to get a closer look at my teeth. They weren’t as straight as they should have been and were a bit larger. I explored them with my tongue and then my fingers. I looked into my cold blue eyes.
“This is the weirdest thing ever,” I said to myself and it had never felt more true than when I checked in the wardrobe again and found a pair of flats that not only went with the dress but fit these larger feet of mine.
8
It was strange walking down the stairs with this new swollen stomach and the other slight differences in my frame. I was a little bit taller now. That threw off my centre of balance. The baby just made it worse. But I didn’t mind. I clung onto the banister and worked my way down carefully.
In the kitchen I made up a coffee and some cream cheese on toast then sat at the breakfast table. I was starting to feel a bit more normal but only a bit. The coffee was far too bitter. Wondering if my taste buds were different now, I tried a teaspoonful of sugar. It still wasn’t enough. Three spoons in and I could just stomach it but really it tasted kind of gross now. I pushed it away, frowning and bit into my toast.
“Urgh!”
I spat it onto the plate then fished out the remains with my fingers. It was disgusting!
“Shit it.”
I pushed the plate away angrily. I was starving! This was stupid!
I touched my face, feeling the unusually big nose, the little mouth, the non-existent chin, reminding myself that I had changed into a different person. I couldn’t expect to like all the same things.
I looked in the fridge. Nothing caught my eye. The first two cupboards were the same. In the third I found a bumper bag of beef flavour crisps someone had brought to a dinner party. Neither Ken nor I ate crisps as a rule and I hated beef. But they did look appealing. I cracked them open and took a couple into my mouth. Then smiled. They were delicious.
Tucked behind where they were was a bottle of whisky. I took it down and poured myself half a tumbler-full then went back to the table and sat down. I had a bigger handful of crisps and washed them down with a slug of whisky.
“That hits the spot.”
I grinned, crunching some more crisps, then lifted the tumbler to my lips for another slug.
“Hang on a second.”
I held it away from my face, looking into the murky liquid then I looked across at the open bottle on the side.
I almost never drank. And never in the morning. And I would never have had any if I was pregnant! But I’d poured myself a glass like it was the most natural thing in the world!
I banged the glass down on the table and shoved it away as though it were poison. Which it was. There was no way I was drinking any more of that. I didn’t care what this new body of mine liked.
I wasn’t enjoying this. I had no idea how or why it had happened. Why did I have to change shape? Why couldn’t I have just become pregnant?
“I need to get a hold of myself.” I half-folded my arms and pinched the bridge of my nose. “This is good. This is what I wanted. Even if it isn’t how I would have expected. I’m going to be a mother. That’s the only thing that matters.”
What I needed was some normalcy for a while. I just needed to get my mind off things and relax.
I went into the lounge and put the TV on, slumping onto the sofa. I enjoyed daytime TV on Fridays. That would do. I put it on my regular channel and crossed my legs. The presenters were interviewing a man who had climbed the Himalayas to raise money for Ethiopian children. I got myself comfortable but five minutes in I started to get bored. It was awful.
I changed the channel.
Next was Murder She Wrote. Jessica Fletcher was discussing the hardest crime to get away with.
I changed the channel.
A reality show came on. Celebrities were being made up to look like foreign people to trick other celebrities. I giggled and settled back to enjoy it. This was more like it.
The first celebrity was an old Page 3 girl who was being made up to look like a black woman. They spent a long time getting the look right then she had to practice with the voice. She was pretty crap at first but got better as it went on.
Next time I checked the clock it was lunchtime. I’d watched several more reality shows and then a cooking programme.
I wandered into the kitchen and searched for something to eat. There wasn’t anything that caught my fancy.
The strangest thing about the day was that it didn’t feel odd that I looked like someone else. It actually slipped my mind and when I remembered I recalled the baby first.
Maybe this wasn’t so bad as a price I had to pay. It was largely cosmetic. Once I’d explained everything to Ken and my family, life could just go on. Work might be a bit funny about it I supposed, but we had enough money to manage on Ken’s wages for a while. I could get another job when the baby was old enough and they wouldn’t know what I looked like. Camilla Blaine could be blond for all they would know.
What I needed to do now was tread carefully. Ken was fairly laid back but if anything was going to make him flip out it was me waiting for him when he got home, wearing these trashy clothes, looking and sounding like someone else and six months pregnant. He was as straight as they came and magical transformations were going to be a hard sell.
I decided to pop into town in the car and buy some new clothes that fit. At least I could look half presentable when he first saw me like this. The leopard skin dress was comfortable over my baby bump but it made me look like a resident of Barton. I had to—
“Wait...”
I went to the hall mirror and looked at my homely features. Then I went back through to the front window in the lounge and looked across the road; across the railway tracks at the grey house opposite.
“Frickin eck,” I murmured. “Why didn’t I realise it before?”
I hadn’t turned into any old pregnant woman. I’d turned into a very specific one.
I’d never seen her up close. That was why I hadn’t recognised her in the mirror. But I was sure of it now in my gut.
I’d turned into the woman from the grey house.
I really had become a resident of Barton!
9
I had another look at myself in the mirror but this time I knew what I was looking at.
The short white-blond spiky hair; the dark eyes and bigger nose; the thin lips and little chin; the skinny but fleshy arms and legs; the bulging pregnant stomach: I’d become an exact copy of her. I had to have.
“I would give anything...”
That was what I’d said. I’d wanted to be as fertile as the woman across the tracks in Sudwell who had already popped out at least half a dozen. Whatever power had answered that prayer had done it quite literally. I was exactly as fertile as she was now. I was her twin!
Back at the window I peered across, squinting. My eyesight wasn’t as good anymore. Inside the house was fine but across that distance things got a little vague. There was no one visible.
“No, wait...”
Her partner was in the garden again, hands gripped on his stomach, head down. As near as I could tell he was asleep. The woman was nowhere to be seen.
What would she say if she knew the lady across the road had become a carbon copy of her? She’d probably flip her lid. Best not let her see me, at least until I’d explained things to Ken.
But I still wanted to go into town.
I drummed my fingers on the window, chewing my lip, then I went into the hall and opened the cloakroom. I rooted through the coats and pulled out an old raincoat that might even have belonged to Ken and put it on. That was better. It covered up the distinctive dress. There was a pair of sunglasses in the pocket. They completed the disguise.
It didn’t have to be perfect. She wouldn’t be getting close to me and I had it on good authority that her distance vision was terrible. I got my handbag and went to the door but hesitated.
This was my first time outside since I'd become pregnant. I was worried something bad might happen. And people were going to see me looking like this ugly woman. It was embarrassing. I normally only went out looking my best. In this scrappy old raincoat and scuffed shoes; with my hair like this and my new ordinary face I certainly didn’t look that.
“Well...”
That was what I was going to sort out. I would buy some nice clothes and some make-up and get myself looking special for Ken’s return. That was the plan. It was going to be a big enough shock for him already without me looking ghastly.
I opened the door, peeped to see if the coast was clear, and slipped out. Nobody was visible in or outside the grey house now. I didn’t wait though. I went as quick as I could to the car and let myself in.
The front of the house was easily expansive enough to turn the car around to be pointing outwards. I checked right for traffic and then turned into the flow of the dual-carriageway, eying the grey house to check if I was going to be seen. The front windows were reflecting the sky and the hillside. No one was in sight. I approached Fairgate roundabout and considered signalling right to go into Barton. I wanted to buy a range of outfits to fit my increasingly pregnant body. The high street prices in Barton were cheaper. I could get two or even three items there for each one at the name brand stores in the Tower Gates centre. Maybe I should...
“Nah.”
I deactivated the indicator and drove straight on instead. I’d rather have one quality outfit than three cheap ones.
But then...
I came to the Barton Mills roundabout and signalled right again. Because Ken worked in town he sometimes went into the centre on his lunch break. I didn’t want to risk running into him until I was ready.
It couldn’t hurt to go into Barton. And things were certainly cheaper there.
10
Barton Mills was the most heavily industrialised area of Nockton Vale and it had been since the town had its biggest growth spurt near the start of the twentieth century. Most of the old Victorian factories had long since been knocked down and rebuilt but some of them still stood, most famously, Cooper’s Textiles that was old enough to have its own museum taking up part of the building. I weaved through the convoluted streets looking for the way through to the centre of Barton.
The assumption most visitors to Nockton Vale made was that Barton was just a suburb of that larger town. No resident of Nockton or Barton would let that by without correcting it. Barton was a separate town with its own mayor and town hall; its own town centre. It was split up into a dozen dingy suburbs of its own. I did go there occasionally – a friend of mine loved the bargains that could be found – but it wasn’t common. The twin towns liked to keep themselves to themselves largely. There was an unspoken hostility that could sometimes be detected, even in the shopkeepers.
I regretted choosing to go there really, but what did it matter? I was almost at the centre.
Barton car parks were open air. I found a space and parked but I sat in the silent car for several minutes trying to find the courage. I told myself I was being silly. I might not be pretty anymore but I wasn’t monstrous. I just looked like an ordinary woman. No one would think ill of me. They wouldn’t even know me.
I got out of the car, pulled my collar up and walked through the alley leading to the shops. It was a dark and dirty day and the environs of Barton made it fouler. The high street was a curving road littered with charity shops and discount stores but there was a little maze of narrow pedestrianised streets off of that on both sides. The alley from the car park spat me out into one of them.
It took me a while to get my bearings. I didn’t come here often enough and it was my friend who always knew the way. Despite it being the middle of a working day, the claustrophobic passages and shops were packed with people. The distinction between the shoppers here and in Nockton was stark. There were a few who were fairly well-dressed and some ordinary people who might have been from anywhere. The majority though were very clearly Bartonites born and bred: shiny shell-suits, Lycra print tops, stilettos, short skirts; obese woman grabbing angrily at toddlers spewing profanity. I didn’t like it. I didn’t know why I’d come. Anything I bought here would be as bad as what I already had on.
I stopped in my tracks and considered changing my mind – going into Nockton instead. But there wasn’t time. Ken finished work early on Fridays; sometimes very early. I wanted to be sure I was back and ready for him. If I didn’t play it delicately it might take half the night to persuade him I was still his wife underneath this platinum blond mop of hair.
It crossed my mind to have my hair done actually. I could dye it to the same shade as my old hair to help to smooth the transition. But that would take far too long as well. I could do that anytime.
I went into a couple of shops and tried on some dresses. The wares weren’t as bad as I thought they would be actually. There was a plethora of brightly coloured1 skimpy outfits for clubbing and daywear and loads of really funky costume jewellery. Normally I tended to shy away from that kind of accessory but they really caught my eye today. I gazed for a while at what was on offer, thinking that something nice like that could help compensate for my new looks when Ken first saw me and resolved to come back once I’d got the clothes.
I found something nice quite quickly in one of the discount clothes stores, a place unique to Barton called Mirror Images. It was a shorter dress than the one I was wearing; sleeveless again. It was made from a shiny red synthetic material I liked the look of and on the front were the words “SPUD IN THE OVEN!” and an arrow pointing down to the belly where there was a picture of a potato. I giggled, imagining Ken chuckling when he saw me in it.
I held it up to my body, looking in the tall mirror on one of the pillars supporting the ceiling, and got a shiver of dismay. The woman looked back at me was a stranger to me but with her cheap hairstyle and trashy looks she seemed perfectly at home against this gaudy backdrop. She gaped back at me vacantly; mouth half open, eyes dull. Other shoppers moved behind me in the reflection and I didn’t look out of place among them. I was just another Bartonite out on a shopping spree.
The dress suited this body and the environment perfectly, accentuating the pallor of my skin. It wouldn’t leave much to the imagination, showing off more leg and chest than my leopard-skin patterned dress did. Disliking the vacant expression I closed my mouth and swallowed, not particularly noticing when my lower lip dropped open again.
It wasn’t anything like what I normally wore... but... I would look sexier in it. Maybe if I got some new shoes to match...
Shrugging, I took it up to the till then crossed the street and went into Shoe Mart. Inside I marvelled at the low prices. I really had to shop here in Barton more often. There were plenty of sexy shoes like wot I was after. I found a pair of red stilettos and paid for them, wishing I could wear them right away. I didn’t dare though. With my baby bump it would be agony trudging round in them.
I popped back to the jewellery shop and bought some big dangly earrings, hesitated at the till, then got a few chunky bangles as well. The more I could dress this body up, the better.
There was an off-licence two doors down. I went inside and approached the counter. “Hiya,” I said. “Gimme a bottle of vodka and twenty Benson & Hedges.”
“Alright luv.” He put them on the counter.
“And a lighter.”
He rang it up and I handed over the money. When he gave me my change I said, “Thanks. Tara luv,” and headed back outside.
It was starting to spot with rain. I frowned up at the sky, undoing the lid on the vodka bottle and knocked back a quick shot. I peered to see if anyone was looking then had a second.
That was better.
I went to put it in the carrier bag with the dress in and thought better of it, slipping it into my handbag. I didn’t wasn’t to have to delve around searching for it later.
Shredding the plastic covering of my fag packet, I dropped it on the floor, shoving a ciggy in my mouth and lighting it. I took a long drag, sucking in my cheeks, let it settle into my lungs pleasantly then took a second. I sighed.
Now that really was better.
I just stood for a while in the doorway, enjoying it, feeling glad this had happened to me, despite the side-effects. Having a baby was the most important thing in the world to me.
“Hey Trace!” I turned to see who was calling and saw a heavyset woman with badly dyed red hair approaching, grinning at me. “Trace, I thought that was you!”
I took a step back, realising instantly that she thought I really was the woman from the grey house. Trace? I didn’t know how to respond but she got closer and kissed my cheek before I could react to it.
“I wouldn’t have recognised you without that coat and sunglasses of yours,” she said.
“What?” The coat belonged to that woman too?
“You out shopping, eh?”
I nodded dumbly, realising I could only go along with this and hope to get away quickly.
“What you bought?”
I opened my bag. “A new dress.”
“Mmmm. Nice. And the shoes. Wicked.”
“I...” I didn’t know what to say to her so I said the first thing that came into mind. “I wanted to look sexy for me ‘usband. He still likes givin it to me when I’m preggars. More so if anything, the kinky buggar.”
The woman laughed but I was struck with fear at what was coming so easily to my lips. I’d known my voice sounded different in this body of course, but even so, I didn’t talk like that. Or I hadn’t.
“You had lunch yet?”
I started to stammer a reply but she cut in.
“Good. Me neither. Let’s do KFC. You can tell me all about how the baby’s doing.” She took my arm and started to pull me.
“Actually I was just on my way home.”
“Nonsense. We never get to chat at work and you’ll be off on maternity before you know it.”
Without another word she pulled me into the crowds and I didn’t get chance to make any more excuses.
11
The fat woman, whose name I still didn’t know, ushered me to the doors of Kentucky Fried Chicken and opened one.
“Hang on,” I said. “I ave to finish my fag before I go inside.”
She sighed, folding her arms. “Hurry up.”
I took another long needy drag then tapped the ash.
“Just chuck it,” she said. “I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“Wait a sec,” I snapped. There were at least a couple more inhales left of it. I put it to my lips again, then realised what I was doing. It had come so naturally to me I hadn’t even noticed. I looked at the cigarette in my hand in wonder and repulsion. I’d never taken one in my life but I’d bought a pack without thinking and smoked one too.
And the vodka. I’d had two glugs already, again as though it were the most normal thing in the world. I never drank like that. It was an awful thing to do to an unborn baby! Why was I doing these things?
“Come on Trace,” said the woman. “I’m starvin. Smoke the stupid thing and let’s get inside. It looks like it’s going to tip it down.”
I looked again at the cigarette and tossed it away as though it might burn me.
The woman took my arm again but I resisted this time. “No,” I said. “I haveta go. I haveta get back ‘ome.”
Oh God, what was happening to me? This was appalling!
“Really? Well make up yer mind. I’m not gonna have enough time now.”
“Sorry Debs,” I said. “I really can’t fit it in.”
She scowled semi-good-naturedly. “Well I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
“Uh yeah,” I replied.
And then she was gone.
But I went on staring after her for several moments, trying to comprehend what was occurring.
“Debs?”
How had I known that? How had I known her name?
I didn’t like this at all anymore. For a brief time it had felt natural walking these narrow streets, shopping for clothes for this new me but I could only blot out the danger signs for so long and they were coming thick and fast now.
I might have gained a baby but a lot of things had come with it and I needed to face up to them.
The way I looked wasn’t the only thing that had changed. It was more than that. I was starting to worry it was way more than that.
The clothes I’d bought; the whisky, the vodka; the cigarettes; my choice of words; knowing that woman’s name...
I had to get home. Quickly. I didn’t like this. It was frightening. I needed to talk to Ken; get him to help me make sense of it.
I didn’t just look like the woman from the grey house. If I wasn’t careful I was going to become an exact copy of her inside and out.
12
The heavens opened on the way back to the car.
The sky was a filthy dark grey and the rain came down like water pouring from a trough. It battered down on me as I squealed, running, trying to cover my head. All the shoppers were fleeing. It was actually painful, it was so hard.
I stopped at the edge of the car park. The alleyway was giving me a modicum of shelter. Out there I wouldn’t have any. I set my brow and ran as fast as I could. The rain sheeted down all around me forming deep puddles already.
I bashed up against the door of my car and fumbled for the keys, shoving them too quickly into the lock. I turned the key angrily.
Nothing happened.
I stared off in a daze, trying to work out why.
I tried again. Still it wouldn’t turn.
I checked the key, then cursed when I saw I’d used the wrong one. That was for my husband’s car. I put the correct one in and opened the door, scrambling inside, pushing water out of my mouth with my tongue; swiping at my hair and face. The sound on the rooftop and bonnet was tremendous but I was safe now. I started her up and pulled out carefully.
The roads were hellish. The number of cars had doubled out of nowhere. It was slow going with jams at every junction.
I thought about what had happened so far as I waited for the traffic to shift, my stress levels spiking. I knew exactly what was happening to me now and it was constricting like nothing I’d ever felt.
I just needed to get home; that was all. Home.
I was going out of Barton the other way this time but it was a route I wasn’t as familiar with and the warren of roads was haphazard; almost unnavigable. I tried to get off the main road to avoid the jams but that was even harder to plot. I considered stopping and asking for directions but the Barton residents were notoriously surly and occasionally criminal. It was better to fend for myself.
The water was coming down so hard on the windscreen that the wipers were barely clearing it. I had to keep it slow and peer, hunched, over the steering wheel.
I didn’t recognise anything and the increasing sense of being lost was scratching at my mood.
What was I going to do? How was I going to get out of this? Why had I made that wish? Why had this happened to me?
But I stroked my enlarged belly, telling myself like a mantra, I wanted this. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baby. That’s all that matters.
I made another turn and spotted a house I recognised.
“Thank Christ.”
Yes. I recognised the road. I knew where I was.
I accelerated, feeling more confident, vowing to stay in for the rest of the day; to just wait for Ken.
I saw my house and grinned with relief.
I pulled to the curb in front, not bothering to park in the drive and opened the door, getting ready to brave it.
Then I looked at the house and the bottom dropped out of my world.
Because it wasn’t my house. Not at all.
It was the grey house from the other side of the tracks.
It was the grey house the she lived in. But I had driven here thinking it was home. In my mind it had felt like it was my home.
13
Part of me wanted to get out of the car and run up to the front door of the grey house.
I was soaked. It would be great to get inside, put the bath on and get changed into some dry clothes. It was right there. All I had to do was get out of the car.
But the other part of me was shaken to the core.
This wasn’t my home. This was where she lived. This never would be my home. I had a far nicer house than this and a husband who loved me dearly. I had to get back to him now.
I wavered though and that was just long enough for me to catch sight of a silhouette in the front window. Standing there; watching me. Seeing me. Recognising me surely.
I slammed the door and restarted the engine. I had to get back. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know the way. I would find it if I drove on long enough.
I put the car in gear and punched the accelerator, lurching off, but not before I saw the front door to the grey house open up and saw the same rain-blurred silhouette emerge.
Then it was gone in the rear-view mirror, lost behind the smeared glass of the back window.
I drove on, refusing to slow even a little for fear that I'd want to circle back. I had to keep going; that was all. Keep going.
It didn’t matter that the woman in Barton had recognised me as this other woman. I wasn’t her. I was just a copy. She still had her life and I had mine. It was her who would lurch into work with that woman the following morning; not me; whatever menial gaudy occupation they had. I would be with my husband, being cared for. I would be planning a room for the baby; my sweetest dream finally a reality.
Think about that baby. Just think about the baby.
I got back onto the main road, such as it was, that I’d been following before. The traffic wasn’t so bad now but it was still slow going. I shook another fag out of the packet and plucked at it with my lips, lighting the end and taking a welcome puff of pure relaxation. I opened the window a crack, blowing smoke from the side of my mouth in the general direction.
I wondered if I might be able to get away with having another swig of that vodka; then I remembered myself and swore at my lack of concentration.
“I’m not ‘er. I’m not a bloody soak. I can control this. I’ve finally got a baby comin. That’s all that matters.”
I went over the level crossing and turned left at Fairgate roundabout. It wasn’t far now. At least I was out of Barton, and getting free of that place had removed the pall that was hanging over me. As long as I wasn’t in there I could be myself; keep my thoughts in order.
I took another drag of the fag and then flicked it out of the window.
There wasn’t a way across to my house. I had to wait until I reached the big Asda roundabout just before Dairystoke and the edge of town. I made a U-turn and headed back up the Banbury Way until I got there, jerking up on the curb too soon and parking badly on the forecourt.
I was sweating profusely as I clambered out, grabbing my shopping bags as an afterthought. I waddled as fast as my belly would let me to the front door then pushed inside in a panic, slamming the door after me.
Not realising I was being observed from across the way.
14
It felt better to be back inside my own home... intellectually.
But something felt off. I didn’t feel as comfortable or relaxed as I should have. It was as if... It was as if I was in someone else’s house. Yes. Walking in there, there was a sense of the unfamiliar, that I might be caught out as an intruder at any second.
Normally I would have come in and hung my coat up in the cloakroom then gone straight through to put the kettle on. This time I took my coat off tentatively but kept hold of it, folded over my arm. It didn’t feel... right to hang it up in there like I owned the place. It was pure impulse because obviously conscious thought told me that I did own the place. Still, I loitered, peering round the lounge doorway and creeping in as though at any moment someone might challenge my presence.
I laid my raincoat over the back of a chair and stood feeling awkward. I knew I should change into the clothes I'd bought; get out of the wet things I had on, but it felt odd to think of undressing here in this house.
Nevertheless, I forced myself. I went upstairs, creeping again, continuing to feel uncomfortable amid surroundings I knew well that still somehow felt unfamiliar.
I went into the bathroom and listened intently to check no one else was in, even though I knew they couldn’t be; then I got out of the damp leopard-print dress and shoes. I regarded myself in the mirror: the vacant expression on the homely weak-chinned features. I stripped out of my underwear and just stood staring at myself; taking it all in: my swollen belly and love handles, my skinny legs, my pointed boobs, my odd feet, my spiky bush of short blond hair.
It was remarkable and otherworldly but I had to admit that this was me in the mirror. It didn’t jar anymore as much as I thought it still would have. It seemed that my self-image had already altered sufficiently that this was just who I was.
“Weird.”
I put the new maternity dress on that I’d bought. It slipped tightly over my curves leaving my arms bare and showing off more of my boobs than the other one. The words “SPUD IN THE OVEN!” on the front brought a smirk to my thin lips. I didn’t bother with bra and panties. My chilled nipples showed through the cheap fabric but that didn’t matter. It looked sexy. I felt bold to know that I wasn’t wearing anything down below either; naughty. It was fun.
I’d brought through the matching red stilettos and I put them on, gaining a couple of inches of height, then I posed, turning this way and that, admiring what they did for my legs and stroking the baby bump with a perfect sense of contentment.
I was pregnant. That was all that mattered. And looking like this wasn’t so bad. I still looked sexy enough.
I tapped out another fag from the pack in my handbag and lit up, taking a desperate draught of smoke that made me just a little bit dizzy.
I left the wet clothes and shoes on the floor and went back downstairs. I went into the kitchen, boiled the kettle then made myself a nice mug of Irish coffee using the whisky in the cupboard. I slumped into one of the lounge armchairs and sipped it, smiling broadly and lighting another fag. I didn’t feel quite so much like an intruder now, which was good. I settled in, crossing my legs and began to work my way down the coffee.
The TV remote was right there so I put it on, sifting through the channels until I found an old rerun of Blind Date. That was good. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but found that when I laughed now I gave out a raucous really dirty sounding laugh, totally different to the pert little giggles I used to make. I’d belt out the laugh then make it even louder if something else funny happened. But what did it matter? I was having a whale of a time.
It was just finishing when I heard Ken’s car in the drive and I suddenly got pelted with adrenaline.
This was it. This was when he saw what had happened. I was scared to death. I knew I'd be able to convince him who I was but I didn’t want to see the look of disappointment that my looks had gone. At least I’d got this dress and high heels. It really made me look slutty which was exactly what was needed. I wanted him to see what I could still give him now in addition to the baby we had always wanted.
I straightened my clothes and took several steps toward the hall, then stopped, nervous.
I’d never felt so excited and so happy. He was going to be over the moon when he realised what we had to look forward to.
15
Ken took his time getting out of the car. The downside to leaving early on a Friday was that he frequently brought work home with him to do over the weekend.
I waited in the hall, wringing my hands, peering through the distorting patterned glass of the front door at his figure as he opened the back door of his car and put his head and arms in, taking on a strange bulbous silhouette.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the wall mirror, startled for a second at a figure I thought was a stranger. There was nothing of my old face in this new one. Even my expression seemed altered by the new shape of my mouth and eyes, the sallow cheeks and receding chin. Seeing that face scratched at my confidence. I started to worry. But surely everything would be okay. It had to be.
Ken’s silhouette climbed the front steps and filled the pane of glass in the door. He fumbled the lock, almost enough for me to step forward and let him in, but it clicked, stalling my initial movement.
A crack formed in the door but for a moment there was no further motion, then it pushed back sharply and Ken rushed in, kicking it closed behind him.
He could only have seen me peripherally. He went straight to the little post table and dumped his briefcase and a couple of extra rain-spotted files then stood with his back to me, shaking off his coat.
“Hell of a day out there I can tell you,” he said.
“Mmm,” I said, then cleared my throat twice throatily, all too aware of how different my voice was now. “Mmm.”
He turned to face me. “How’s your day—” The movement and speech died simultaneously as he looked at me full on for the first time. There was an instant of shock; maybe a smidgeon of repulsion that I tried to discount; then simple surprise and a finally a perplexed curiosity. “Er, hi. I’m Ken.”
I tried to smile but I knew how it looked and my face coloured hotly. The discomfort I’d felt entering the house earlier was magnified now that I stood exposed looking like this in front of what my gut was telling me was the rightful owner.
“You must be a friend of Camilla’s,” he said, extending his hand to shake. “What’s your name?”
“It’s me,” I said shyly; “Trace.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He took my hand and it was only then that I realised what I'd said. I’d used her name! He’d asked me what my name was and I’d meant to say Camilla. I’d answered without thinking.
Ken gave me a warm but still entirely false smile – the smile he reserved for strangers – and released my hand. I started to stammer but I was so thrown by the situation and shock of identifying myself as her that I couldn’t gather my thoughts.
Ken glanced down at my baby bump and then at my chest. He lingered on the nubs of my nipples and I was startled to feel moisture develop in my crotch. Then he seemed to catch himself and coloured with embarrassment.
He went to step past me. “Where is she?” He called out. “Camilla!”
I’m right here. That was what I wanted to say but I couldn’t quite form the words. I’m right here.
He looked back at me and gave me another down and up scan, lingering this time on my legs and ankles. His demeanour didn’t seem quite so friendly now when he said, “Is she in?”
“I...” Now it was happening I didn’t know how to phrase it. How could I explain something so mind-blowing in a way that he would understand? “I was just...”
He went fully into the lounge out of sight toward the dining room doorway and then a sound in my left ear told me he was already moving rapidly round the circle of the house into the kitchen. “Camilla? Are you here?”
“I... Ken?”
He appeared from the kitchen doorway. “She’s not here. Where is she?”
I opened my mouth to reply but he cut me off with another call upstairs. “Camilla!”
There was no answer of course. I didn’t know why I didn’t just tell him but it was like there was a social barrier between us. He was my husband of eleven years, but he didn’t feel like that anymore. He felt like just another man. And his demeanour toward me reinforced that. The only openness he’d shown to me so far was that initial polite civility. Now that he was suspicious about this unknown woman in his house and his wife’s absence the wall had come down. There was a coolness toward me; maybe even some passive hostility. As much as anything, that was throwing me for a loop. I had never felt so alone outside that normally welcoming bubble of affection.
But then I was fixed to the spot suddenly because he turned to face me, fully sure that his wife wasn’t present. His expression retained some curt politeness but there was distrust in his eyes and a breeze of anger.
“Where’s my wife?” he said, folding his arms. “Did she let you in here? Where do you know her from?”
I tried another strangled smile, feeling tense, uncomfortable and slightly ashamed, then I said, “It’s me Ken. My name ain’t Trace. I dunno why I said it was. Me name’s Camilla.”
16
“Camilla?”
“Yeah.” I grinned awkwardly.
Ken glanced to each side and behind him at the patterned glass in the front door. “Not Trace?”
I shook my head.
“Why... Why did you lie before?”
I shrugged. “I dunno why. It just came out before I could stop it. But it don’t matter. It just threw me; you comin in ere and finding me.”
His expression was completely closed. I didn’t understand why unless he didn’t realise it was me. But he should have; I’d told him.
“What’s your real name?” He gave another look at my boobs.
“Eh?”
“I doubt your name’s really Camilla. Who are you? How did you get in here? Did my wife let you in or did you break in? Are you alone?”
“What? ‘Ang on a minute luv. You’re getting it all wrong. I’m not sayin it right.”
“I’m going to call the police.” He broke away from me and strode into the lounge.
“Eh? Wait! Don’t!” I tottered after him in my heels. He was half way to the phone already. “Stop! Ken, please! Let me explain meself. Gimme a chance.”
He stopped mid-stride and looked back warily. He hovered, unsure what to do, then he turned back to face me fully. “Go on then,” he commanded.
My eyes moistened. I’d never been spoken to like this before. To hear it from Ken was heartbreaking.
I cleared my throat, started to speak and then cleared it again, hating my new screechy voice; hating the way I couldn’t talk proper no more. I just couldn’t help it. It was getting worse and worse. I didn’t sound anything like I used to!
Ken’s face was a blank mask of mistrust.
“It’s like this see,” I said, painfully unsure of myself and embarrassed at the situation. “I made a sorta wish like; a week or two ago. I kept lookin across the railway tracks and thinkin, I’d give anythin to ‘ave what she’s got.”
“Across the railway tracks?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re talking about that filthy house on the edge of Barton?”
“Yeah! Exactly!” I grinned, excited that I was getting through to him.
“I thought I recognised you from somewhere.”
“Yeah! That’s it! The grey house across the way. I kept thinkin that I’d give anythin to have what she ‘ad; and then this morning I woke up an it was true!”
He just went on glaring. My confidence wilted in the heat of it but I went on anyway. I made myself.
“I couldn’t believe it at first. It’s incredible, ain’t it? But it was true. All I could think was that I ‘ad to show you how sexy I was and then it’d all work out. If you thought I was sexy, you’d see past me looks and see this baby and wot I could still give ye and you’d come to accept it. You get to like me like this even.”
He went on glaring.
“Ye see wot I mean?”
Ken unfolded his arms and lowered them to his sides but his hand curled into fists. Seeing them drove the blood from my face.
“So what you’re telling me is that you sat over there in that house, watching my wife and me and you had some sick fantasy about taking her place? Is that it? So you broke in here and waited for me?”
I started shaking my head back and forth. How could he have misunderstood so completely? How could he be thinking that of me? Couldn’t he tell who I was?
“Where is my wife?” he demanded. “What have you— Have you done something to her? By God, if you have I will strangle you with my own hands!”
He came toward me and I staggered back. “No! Ken! Please listen to me! You’ve got it wrong. That ain’t how it is; I swear! I haven’t done anything to your wife! I am ‘er!”
He sneered at me.
“I’m ‘er!” I cried. “It’s true! Really! I’m Camilla. I changed shape! I’m really your wife!”
17
Ken had started to turn back to the phone. He froze in mid-turn and slowly twisted his head back to look at me. “What did you say to me?”
My confidence was scorched completely away now. My voice was tremulous and weak. “I said... It’s me Ken. I ain’t that ovver woman. I’m me. Camilla.” He didn’t respond right away and I found myself gabbling out more words, desperate for him to believe me, when before I had known that he would. “I didn’t think nothin would come of it; I really didn’t. I always thought magic was bollocks, you know? But I woke up like this – turned into a copy of that ovver woman. I didn’t know what to do at first but then I ‘ad me a brainwave ye see. I went inta Barton and I got me some sexy clothes ta put on. I was so worried you’d fink I was ugly. Blimey Ken. I’ve been so scared all day, wishin you was ‘ome. Terrified somethin chronic, I tell ya. But it’s all good. It don’t matter about me face or this voice. I’m pregnant, see? We can ‘ave a baby together and be ‘appy.”
I reached for my fags and put one nervously to my lips. Ken’s regarded me sternly as I lit up and took a series of rapid and desperate drags.
“You believe me?” I said. “Right?”
He looked at my face, my baby bump, my chest, the cigarette; back to my face.
I tried again to smile but it was like a flickering candle and nothing more.
“I have never heard so much drivel in all my life,” said Ken.
“What?”
“You break into my house. You lie about who you are. You keep changing your story. How stupid do you think I am?”
“But it’s true,” I whimpered. “Really.”
“True?” He sneered: the most awful expression I'd ever seen on his face; and then he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. People don’t change into other people. You must think I’m an idiot.”
“No. I wasn’t saying that. Please. You gotta listen!”
“To what? More of your lies?”
“No! It’s true! Ask me anything. Ask me something only I – only your wife would know.”
“Get out of here.”
“No, please! Ken! Just ask me something secret. Ask me something that will prove who I am!”
He thrust his pointing hand toward the hall. “Go on! Get out of here!”
“Please! Just ask me!”
“I’m not going to play your sick little games.”
“But—”
“Get out of here before I call the police!” He jostled me, forcing me toward the hall.
“Please Ken. It’s really me!”
“You think I don’t know my own wife? She doesn’t look like you. She doesn’t talk like you. And she sure as hell doesn’t smoke!”
“But it’s really me!” I cried, panicking now. “I can’t ‘elp talkin like this! It’s part of the magic! I can’t ‘elp smokin!”
He forced me into the hallway and I pulled ahead, turning to face him.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please Ken. I’m not lyin. I really am Camilla.”
He glared back at me. “You really expect me to believe that?”
I gaped back at him forlornly and nodded.
“Then tell me who that is,” he said, pointing toward the door.
And I looked. And I saw.
And I recognised the silhouette that was climbing the steps; taking out a bunch of keys; putting them in the lock.
My whole world was disintegrating around me.
He wouldn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed myself.
And now here at the door was the one person who could prove beyond doubt that I was nothing but a liar.
Here at the door was myself. Camilla. Ken’s real wife.
18
For an achingly long minute I just stood, gaping in horror at the smeared figure, knowing exactly who it was. But the greatest horror was that I questioned myself. For that length of time I actually questioned whether she really was the real Camilla; whether I was and always had been the chavvy slag from Barton who had lived a dissolute life with her legs spread, pumping in seed and pumping out babies.
I wondered if somehow I’d got confused, just as Ken seemed to think; that I’d come here with some crazy scheme to insinuate myself into his life, even though I’d always been her: the other woman. Trace.
But no. Surely. I knew that wasn’t true. I had my mind and my memories. I was Camilla, no matter what I looked or sounded like. No matter that I smoked like a chimney and guzzled liquor at every opportunity.
I had honestly thought it was only I that was affected – that I’d been transformed into a copy of her. I’d really thought we might be able to live like this: two identical women in two houses with different husbands.
But that wasn’t how it had been – clearly.
Just as I had changed into her; she had changed into me. All that day she must have been over there in that other house, wondering what was happening; wondering what to do. She might even have seen me pull up outside her house. She might have realised what had happened and decided to come here to claim her new life.
The key clicked in the lock, just as it had for Ken, and the door swung open. I knew what I was going to see but actually seeing it grabbed my brain and shook it rigid.
The door opened fully and the imposter stepped into the threshold, wearing my clothes and my shoes; carrying my handbag. She looked, startled, at me then at Ken; then back to me. She said nothing at first, then finally uttered a single word.
“Darling?”
“Camilla...”
She kept her eyes on me and I saw in them the guile of the intruder. I saw her measuring the scene and coming to a decision. “Who’s this?”
My mouth flapped open, flabbergasted.
“She’s just leaving,” said Ken, taking my bare upper arm in his strong grip. “I caught her in here. She broke in. She’s been trying to lie her way out of it ever since; said she knew you.”
“Tell him,” I said urgently. “Tell him who I am. Tell him who you are?”
“Excuse me?” she asked. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“You’re ‘er!” I said. “You’re the woman from the grey ‘ouse! Tell im who I am!”
She looked back at Ken, a perfect simulacrum of concerned query. “Ken? What’s this about? I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.”
“That ain’t true! You’re lyin! You’re from over the tracks. You’re tryin to steal my life!”
“I wouldn’t want your life, I assure you,” she replied curtly. “I’m quite happy here with my husband.”
“No! Ken; don’t listen to ‘er! She ain’t me!”
But I could see in his face he didn’t believe me. And why would he? I showed no trace of my old persona and she had the looks and voice down perfectly.
Ken squeezed my arm, guiding me forcefully toward the door. “I’m not having any more of this. Get out or I’ll call the police.” He shoved me hard outside onto the top step.
It was still raining and the air was instantly cold on my bare arms, legs and chest.
I twirled back to look in, feeling closed outside as if by an invisible force field, even though the door was still open – as though I really were the intruder.
Ken was nowhere to be seen but I caught the imposter’s eye and saw there a glint of amusement before he returned, thrusting my cheap raincoat and bag into my arms.
“Ken, please,” I whined. “I’m really your wife. I swear. Don’t believe ‘er. She ain’t me. She’s ‘er what lives over there.” I pointed.
“Get off our property right now or I will call the police,” he said firmly. “I mean it. Don’t test me. I know where you live. If I call them and tell them what happened here today you will be in big trouble. I have a friend who works in the police. He’ll see to it that you get punished severely.”
“But Ken—”
“Just go.”
I looked past him at the smirking face of the woman who looked like me and then back at him.
He wasn’t going to believe me. He was never going to believe me. I was trapped in a situation of my own making.
I lowered my head and then raised only my tear-smeared eyes to his. “Please,” I whimpered.
But he stepped back, his face barren of affection and he closed the door in my face.
19
The rain was thick and fine, almost invisible but cloying and all-encompassing. It slithered over my shoulders and arms, my circle of bare chest and cleavage, into my hair and onto my face. And though I had the coat in my hands I didn’t want to put it on.
It wasn’t my coat; it was hers; and I’d already dressed myself in clothes that suited her: one step after another into a state where my own husband didn’t know me. And putting it on meant I was resigned to staying outside. I didn’t want that. All I wanted was in there. I wanted nothing but to be in the warm and enfolded in my husband’s comforting arms.
Through the blur of the patterned glass, their silhouettes loitered in the hallway.
I didn’t know what I should do.
I wanted to hammer on the glass and demand entry. I raised my hand to do it. But I hesitated, inches from the surface. I looked down at myself.
He was never going to believe me.
The figures shifted. The silhouette of Ken came closer to the door. Through the glass came a muffled bellow. “Get out of here! I’ll call the police!”
I staggered backwards and down the steps fearfully. I could only imagine the horror of them coming here and arresting me for breaking and entering: being put in the back of a police car, trying to explain the reality of this unbelievable situation; then being thrust into a cell at Nockton police station.
I moved away from the steps to the centre of the front drive patio. Still I didn’t put the coat on but I was getting drenched.
Ken appeared at the lounge window, the phone in his hand, finger poised threateningly over the keypad, face a cloud of distrust and anger. To his side but just behind him holding his arm, was the imposter – the woman who looked like me. She was still smirking, out of his field of view; mocking me with her bright eyes and curled lips.
I wanted to shake my fist at her; scream obscenities; but I didn’t. My arms closed in around me. My face crumpled into tears. I moved further back toward the open gate. Cars streaked past behind me on the Banbury Way, spurting up spray that wet my legs and my dress.
I stepped off the front drive onto the pavement, gazing forlornly at the impassive face of my husband and as I did so he lowered his hands and the phone. But he stayed watching me.
The fine mist of rain was making me blink to clear my eyes of the water. I was freezing. With no other option open to me, I struggled into the cheap-looking raincoat. I opened my fag packet and put another one to my lips, only then realising what I was doing and hating myself for it. I went to remove it and throw it down but I caught another sight of the imposter in the window and instead I brought up my lighter and lit it, taking a refreshing puff. I needed this now. If I couldn’t go back in there then this was the only comfort I had.
Ken lost interest as soon as I was clear of the property. He said something to the woman and then turned away, receding into the gloom of the unlit room.
But she stayed watching. She gazed at me and I glared forlornly back at her.
She’d stolen my life and what could I ever say to persuade Ken differently? I’d been so sure at first that he would believe me but I realised now that he never would. We lived in a world where magic simply didn’t exist. He would rationalise a million other justifications before he would accept that I’d changed into an entirely different person, no matter what stories I dredged up to persuade him.
And worse, I was afraid that in time I would remember no such stories. I’d already called myself Trace; already driven to her house when I'd made the decision to go home; already taken on her exact patterns of speech.
And he wouldn’t brook conversation if he saw me again. He would be completely closed to it. He would call the police. I knew him.
There was no going back.
The acknowledgement of that chilled me to my heart more than the rain ever could have; but I knew it to be so.
There was only one place I could go now. One place I would be welcome.
I turned and looked out over the dual carriageway; over the twin railway tracks. The thick rain made it hard to see – my newly dim eyesight made it harder – but I could still make it out.
The grey house.
It stood there against the black clouds that hung over Barton beyond it.
Waiting for me.
20
I had one final look at my house.
The imposter was watching me from the window still and her smile broadened as I started to move off.
Ken appeared behind her, scowling at me. He wrapped his arms round her, his head at her shoulder, and my face fell further. I turned my back on them and trudged along the pavement, tears mingling with the rain on my face as I gave out noisy sobs that merged with the grind of the traffic. It was rush hour now and the cars were moving slowly as they always did, queuing at one roundabout after another to get through or out of town.
I put one foot in front of the other. It was all I could do. The baby bump made it harder. My back ached. My ankles ached. I just wanted to be inside.
I looked back at the house. It was hard to see it in focus now between the rain and my short-sightedness. The sky over Barton was reflecting off the windows. I couldn’t tell if they were watching me anymore. Probably they weren’t. Probably they were settling down for a warm and quiet evening as that imposter insinuated herself into my wonderful life.
I trudged on, taking a swig from the vodka bottle in my handbag.
What life did I have to look forward to now? What sordid dirty existence awaited me across those tracks?
Barton. I had always loathed the place; vowed never to live there. But I had no choice now. I was one of them: a Bartonite. It was where I belonged.
There was an underpass ahead. I followed the steps down and loitered at the mouth of the dark passage. Of the five overhead strip lights down its length, only two were lit. Long stretches of grim odorous shadow ran between. I didn’t want to go through. It felt irreversible. If I passed under the road and tracks and came out in Barton I would never ever leave.
But again, I had no choice.
I walked through, disliking the pitch dark alcoves in the side walls where anyone could have lurked. The graffiti was an unbroken field of indecent obscenities but I kept on going. It was a long way through.
I emerged into the muggy lowering daylight at the other side, the rain striking me harder now in the face like a hand slap.
This was Sudwell now, the area of Barton that stood opposite my— my old house. It was mostly shabby council houses; built to house the factory workforce of Barton Mills over a hundred years earlier. It was loathsome. Dirty rain-beaten gardens filled with clutter; rust-streaked cars, none newer than a decade old. Black windows looking down on me as I shambled on through the storm, my arms wrapped round my chest, wishing I had never seen the grey house across the way; longing to be home with my husband.
But I had a new husband now, didn’t I? The man from the garden I had seen dozens of times, reading his paper. I was his wife now. There was nowhere else to go. I tried to imagine what it would be like, climbing into bed with this uncouth stranger, his dirty great arms closing round me from behind; the stinking breath on the back of my neck.
This was my life now. I was the woman from the grey house. I was Trace. I would live there in squalor and decay, surrounded by squealing unruly kids, constantly in trouble with the police. I would go to work the next morning in Barton centre. I would spend the rest of my days wishing for a different life, now forever lost to me.
I got my first sight of the grey house ahead and slowed, dreading the approach, knowing that once I was inside I would have given up all hope.
It looked even worse now; a frightful abode of filth and degradation. It was everything I had hated all my life and I knew that it would suck me in entirely.
I would never escape. Never.
No lights were on inside. The windows were blank. The front garden had an old Corvette on blocks, the tyre-less wheel hubs rusted brown, the windscreen black with years-old grease and tree-fall. A straggly beech stood hanging over it.
This was my house now. This was where I lived.
I sighed heavily, reluctant to make this final approach, but I made myself. I was freezing. I had to get inside and nowhere else would have me.
No one opened the door to greet me. I was alone.
The porch overhang provided a smidgeon of protection from the rain. I stopped there before the door, understanding fully what this meant for my future. Then I reached, dejected, for the handle.
But before I could touch it I felt something odd and unexpected, in my belly. Just a tiny sensation. A nudge against the interior.
A kick.
It was something I had only felt once before but I knew it for what it was again instantly and tears came to my eyes again, this time not of fear or sorrow but of excitement and joy.
I’d been so focused on the horror of my situation, the trap I'd crafted for myself; I’d forgotten the most crucial thing.
The baby. The real baby in my stomach; slowly developing; growing; getting ready for the world.
My words came back to me from that night as I gazed jealously across at the grey house from my old window.
I would give anything... give... anything... to be as fertile as her.
I would give anything.
The culmination of that declaration stunned me with its completeness, for surely I had given everything I had: my body; my mind; my husband; my wealth; my life.
But in return I had this new life growing inside me. I had the fruition of my dearest and most heartfelt dream.
I was going to be a mother. I was going to hold that little baby in my arms and see its smile; hear its laugh. I was going to experience the greatest miracle that any life could yield.
I looked down at my cheap clothes; this strange homely body. I looked at the rusting wreck on the garden; the broken toys littered beneath and around it. I looked at this grey house that was about to engulf me.
And just the smallest part of me felt a fearful gladness. That my dream was going to come true; even enveloped as it was within a nightmare.
I was going to become a mother. That was all I had ever wanted.
Perhaps I didn’t need anything else.
I told hold of the front door handle and turned it, finding it unlocked.
There was a shudder of panic deep in my soul but I pushed it away, stroking my bump.
Then I opened the door and stepped into the blackness within.
If you liked this then read the complete compilation of stories in A New You on Amazon.
You can also follow my serialised transformation stories every other day on http://transformation-stories.blogspot.co.uk/
In which...wishing to avoid a dull visit to her grandmother, Lady Ann Neville takes drastic steps; giving her a holiday from herself and getting a little too much information on how the lower orders live.
Chapter One
Lady & Servant
1
England 1908.
It seemed to Burt that his life was always spent with his face pressed against the glass.
He worshipped Lady Ann Neville more than he did god in church, but Burt was only the stable hand at her father's vast estate, Griply Hall. His job was to muck out and groom the horses and perform manual labour around the estate. He was forbidden even from entering the manor house. He scraped an existence in the reflected light from this affluent and powerful family but he could never be one of them.
Still, he had his dreams – dreams that one day she would smile at him and say that - no it was too stupid for words. The distance between them was greater than it was to China. He might as well howl at the moon like a dumb animal. Lady Ann had hardly noticed him while they were growing up. Why would she notice him now? He was dirty and coarse; a big hairy man who couldn’t even talk in a gentile way. She would never consider him as a friend, let alone a husband. He had no money, no education and no prospects. He could barely read or write. He had no proper manners and didn’t know the first thing about how to be a gentleman.
Worst of all was the fact that he knew deep down in his heart that he really wasn’t good enough for her. She was quality. He was a dirty great country bumpkin, not even fit to clean her shoes. He was thick as two short planks – enough people had told him so over the years – and she was a cultured lady, a distant part of the royal family. She could do anything and go anywhere. She had a life of riches and luxury before her. All he had was a drafty old hayloft he paid rent for and two suits of clothes.
Burt hurried away from the window of the manor. He couldn’t see Lady Ann anyway and he might lose his place if he was caught. That would mean a life of destitution or worse: a job in the pit like his uncle, hammering at a coal face hundreds of feet below the ground, barely seeing sunlight and dying young. No. He couldn’t possibly risk his position here. He was little more than a slave but anything was better than being down the mine. He didn’t care about having to work some fourteen hours a day for only a pittance. At least he had a position and at least he was close enough to watch his beautiful Lady Ann from afar.
Burt went back to the stables and took care of the horses and cleaned the stalls. It was mucky smelly work but his strength made it easy. He was tall and very muscular, his shoulders broad and his arms thick. He took extra care of Lady Ann's fine filly, fondly imagining her taking the horse out next day while he stroked her down.
As he went to leave, he spotted a note that the groundkeeper, Harry, had left for him. He sighed, wishing he’d paid more attention in school and squinted at the letters on the scrap of soiled paper, sounding out the words.
“… Burt…” He paused. That word was easy. The rest weren’t quite so simple. “Make… sh… make sure… that the…” He paused again, wishing the older man had simply told him what to do, looked round to see if anyone who could read was in sight, then sighed and went on.
“… pigs are… Make… sure… that the pigs… are… fed and… wartered.”
Burt lowered the note and sighed again. He bet that Harry was already down the Dog & Pony getting the bevies in while he went on slaving! But he had to do as he was told so he went round to the back of the stables where the pig pen was and got to work. By the time he was done he was covered up to his knees and elbows in pig shit but that was nothing new. He only had one set of working clothes so he decided to let it dry on and then brush it clean in the morning. Likely as not he’d end up leaving it. He knew he smelled bad and there was no point in putting on airs like some pansy.
When Burt got up to the hay barn his busty girlfriend Mavis was already there, over from the pub where she lived and worked to play fun and games with him. She was showing off her legs and her cleavage and her smooth round shoulders and Burt felt his cock get suddenly erect. Mavis really enjoyed his virility and it helped him to forget for a moment his hopeless love for Lady Ann.
"Ey up Burt but you are you well endowed! Just like the stallions in the stables!" She giggled and then snorted like a pig, only illustrating how different she was from the refined lady of the manor in her voice, accent and ways.
Burt was pleased with the complement – he did feel proud to be her well hung man – and enjoyed himself as the night wore on, but Mavis was so common and crass – nothing like Lady Ann. He found himself imaging it was that beautiful gentlewoman underneath him instead of this uncouth girl, kissing him as he pumped into her; even loving him!
And he imagined what it would be like if she allowed him to love her back.
2
Next morning in the castle, Lady Ann was seething!
"Father you are impossible! You actually expect me to spend two boring weeks with dull old grandmama in London! There would be nothing to do there! No riding. No balls. Nothing worthwhile at all! She’s an impossible old crone who does nothing but talk down to me and she’s still in mourning for grandpapa!”
The Earl tried to keep calm. "Rail all you want, Ann, but you are going and that's that! I don't think a two week visit with your grandmother an unreasonable duty."
“That’s because you don’t have to go! Please father, it will be torture!”
“I’ve said my piece. I don’t want to have a debate over it.”
“I don’t know why you don’t just go and enjoy it,” said Hattie, Ann’s younger sister, from where she slouched on the chez longue. “I’d love to get away from here and go to London for a fortnight.”
“Oh shut up you stupid girl,” snapped Ann. “You’re only saying that because they won’t make you go.” Hattie smiled to show Ann she was right. “We all know why they aren’t sending you!”
Hattie started to speak.
“And don’t think it’s because you only twenty,” cut in Ann. “It’s not. It’s because you don’t have my interest in the arts. I’m actually being punished for my love of culture! Mother, can’t you talk some sense into him?”
The countess smiled serenely from where she sat perfectly poised on the antique sofa and Ann’s anger turned to a simmer. Her mother had always had a calming effect and never failed in her kindness and gentility. However angry and frustrated Ann could get (which was a lot), the countess was always able to still her tearing thoughts with her gentle love and patience. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go Ann,” she said. “Grandmama is getting awfully old now and she needs someone near her who will understand her plays and will attend her high teas.”
Feeling like she was coming to a dead end, Ann turned her anger on the earl again. “Damn it all, Father, you don't even like the old fossil! You are being most unreasonable!"
“I’m sorry Ann,” he said. “You are going to London the day after tomorrow first thing and that is final.”
Lady Ann huffed and stormed out of the room, irritated by the tightness of her long skirt which impeded the impact of her exit.
In the corridor, her maid, Gladys, was waiting. “Is everything alright m’lady?”
“Oh get out of my way you ignorant heffer!”
Ann stomped past to her room, ignoring the bewildered butler as she passed him too, becoming increasingly incensed on the way by her restraining garments and high heeled slippers slowed her progress. As soon as she slammed the door, shaking the house, she pulled off her shoes and hurled them at a vase, shattering it; then she snatched at her dress in a fury, trying to free herself. After several minutes of impotent but increasing rage she gave an angry cry and gave up, crashing onto the bed.
Life was so impossible! Constraints were all around her! She was so bored with being a lady! Why, if she’d been a man then her father could never have insisted on anything! She would have far more power than she had now! And anyway, if she wasn’t a lady then grandmamma wouldn’t be demanding she visit – the silly old harridan!
"God! I wish I could just cut loose and be slutty or vulgar!" she said with vehemence. "Being a lady – even being a woman is as confining as my corsets! Life is appallingly unfair! My entire summer is going to be ruined by having to do this! I’d do anything to get out of this ridiculous trip!"
For several minutes she seethed with anger, then she got to her feet and went to the door. “Gladys!” The maid didn’t appear quite quickly enough. “Gladys!” she screeched.
The buxom maid came round the corridor looking harried “Sorry m’lady,” she said in her idiot Yorkshire accent. “What can I do t’help?”
“You can do what you always do,” snapped Ann. “Work half as hard as you should and do shoddy work.” The attractive girl looked crestfallen, which made Ann feel slightly better at least. “Now get yourself in here and pack my things. I’ve been commanded to go to the capital and I will need all of my fanciest clothes.”
“Yes m’lady,” muttered Gladys. “Right away m’lady.”
“Not that I’ll get the chance to wear them!” cried Ann as she strode out, slamming the door behind her.
Thirty seconds later she strode imperiously back in. “I’ve decided to go riding. Perhaps that will cool me off; and for the next two weeks I’ll be forbidden from enjoying the pursuit of it! Help me on with my riding habit!”
“Yes m’lady.” Gladys said as she clumsily rushed to help.
“You idiot girl! Hurry up! You may not have anything better to do with your life but I do!”
“Sorry m’lady. I didn’t mean nowt by it.”
“And keep your mouth shut! Your crass dialect offends my ears. You need to mind your place. You’re far beneath me on the social ladder for a reason. Just get on with your work and then get out of my sight!”
3
At the stables, Harry, the middle-aged groundkeeper, was looking over his record book making some notes, leaning on the edge of a cart. When he saw Ann coming he quickly stood upright and lowered the book, dipping his head in greeting. “Good morning m’lady,” he said.
“Barely,” she snapped. “It’s almost time for luncheon.”
“Can I ‘elp you at all?”
“Well what do you think?”
“Er…” the balding white haired man stuttered.
“This are jodpers I’m wearing aren’t they?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then I want to go riding, don’t I, you twit!”
“Sorry m’lady. Quite right. I’ll ‘ave yer ‘orse brought round.”
“Don’t bother you old fool, just get out of my way and do something useful. We don’t pay you to sit around. We pay you to work!”
“Right you are m’lady.” He leaned back and bellowed. “Burt! Get out ‘ere you great wazock! ‘Er ladyship wants to ride ‘er ‘orse!”
Burt appeared almost instantly from inside, flushing red from neck to ears. He took one look at Lady Ann and said, “Just a minute m’lady. I’ll ‘ave Rosebud out ‘ere right quick and no mistake.”
Ann turned her nose up at him as he disappeared back inside. Burt was dressed as always in his coarse threadbare clothes, striding through the muck without care. He probably didn’t even notice. He spent his whole life in muck, just like one of the pigs in the field.
She was well aware of his hopeless love and worship for her. It amused her but there was no chance on God’s green Earth that she would ever give him what he wanted. A man of his class was infinitely far beneath her; and if it wasn’t for the filth she still wouldn’t let him get close. He was clearly a simpleton with no decorum and little wit. Imagine the dinner conversation with such a dullard! Why, he could hardly discuss the finer points of Shakespeare; the subtleties of Madam Butterfly! Where she’d had an Oxford education, that dimwit probably hadn’t finished even his first year of organized schooling – if he ever even attended any classes!
She had to admit though that there was something attractive about his huge muscular frame and broad shoulders. In her… very darkest fantasies she might wonder how it would feel to be taken up in those hard rough hands, to feel his thick moustache tickling her face as he kissed her… But only in a fantasy.
It was laughable really. The stink alone would negate all possibility of romance. He was nothing but a caveman compared to her and a far cry from the foppish and dull, but well-moneyed suitors who called on her from time to time.
Still it was nice to fantasize occasionally. Though if anything, it illustrated more the limitations of her position. She couldn’t make love with anyone she chose, whenever she chose. She had to remain chaste until such time as a husband was chosen for her. It was oftentimes frustrating.
Even an ignoramus like Burt with less than a farthing to her name was far richer than she’d ever be in terms of personal freedom. An oaf like that had nothing to lose – he had so little already. He could sleep with anyone he chose, act anyway he liked, say whatever came into his head. Why, he could get falling-down drunk every night if he had the monies to do it. Lack of money was the only thing holding him back. If he had that then the sky would be the limit!
Yes, she enjoyed teasing Burt. It was gratifying to have men – especially burly strong men like Burt – so ruled by her. It was the only power and freedom she had, ultimately, in her frustrating cosseted life, where she couldn’t even make a decision as simple as to whether to visit her grandmamma!
Burt bought her filly out and held the rein as she climbed up. “Hold her steady you philistine!” snapped Ann. “Come on you idiot, pip pip!” She sank into place on Rosebud’s back and turned the horse to trot away, putting her back to the muscular young man. Then on an afterthought she looked back and smiled at Burt, toying with him. “Thank you Burt. That was wonderful. You’re so strong and masculine… and sweet. A real treasure. I couldn’t have held him steady myself.”
Burt coloured from the attention, immediately ill at ease and confused, and Ann rode away grinning to herself at how diverting it was to have him and every other man she met so controlled by her whim.
As the dust settled behind her, Burt looked on giddily, then the mood broke as Harry rapped him round the back of the head with his pocketbook. “Stop gorping at what you can’t ‘ave you dozy twonk! She’s quality. She wouldn’t look twice at someone like you. You’re beneath her.” He sighed. “We all are.”
4
Ann came off the lane as soon as she could and set off over the fields. It was wonderful to be riding but going sidesaddle was such a bore and she quickly became irritated! She would have ridden astride if she could. But no - a lady never did anything comfortable! That would be too easy! A lady had to act with decorum at all times! She was sick of the rigid control her life was under, forced to act the lady without a second’s break!
And she wouldn’t even be allowed this simple pleasure in the capital. It made her blood boil to think of how unfair it was that she was being exiled to the dreariest house in Richmond.
She cantered as fast as she dared without sitting astride, heading to her favorite quiet spot by the stream. When she got there she dismounted and took a delicate seat on a grassy verge in the sunshine. She continued to fume about her predicament for several minutes… and then something caught her eye; a gleam at the stream’s bank, just under the water line.
Curious, Ann crept down and saw that it was an amulet about the size of her palm, upon which was a faded engraving in the shape of an angel. She picked it up, turning it in the light, feeling its weight and staring at the odd design. As she did so, queer thoughts came into her mind that weren’t her own.
She saw far off places and people in a rush of images and then obscure feelings rippled through her body and soul as she felt knowledge settle into her brain about what this trinket was and what it could do.
Lady Ann gaped at it incredulously. She had never believed that magic really existed but here in her hand she KNEW was an artifact of incredible power. She believed now in it utterly and somehow it had communicated to her exactly what its strange power was.
It could allow one person to exchange their very identity with another. All she had to do was wear it and embrace another human being and she would take on their body and life as they took on hers.
It was incredible! It was astounding! And it had to be fate!
The possibilities ran through her mind in an instant. With this trinket she could switch places with anyone she chose! It was her way out of this whole tedious trip she was to be forced into! She could trade lives with someone else for the fortnight and send them to London in her place! At the end of the tedious visit she could simply swap back using the same arcane device!
Was it really possible? It seemed unbelievable but she still knew without doubt that it was so.
The real question was who could she become?
Her father? That would be gratifying certainly. The thought of bullying him as she had been bullied was an exciting possibility, but she didn't want to be old and wrinkled and he would return the bullying with interest when she changed back! She shuddered at the thought of that.
For the same reason her mother was out. Though Ann was devoted to the elderly countess she couldn’t rely on her keeping this a secret – especially if she had to suffer through the worst end of the deal – a tedious holiday at Grandmamma’s! No, that was no good.
The third person who sprung to mind was her sister, Hattie, but again that would cause problems. The little sneak knew full well what an awful fright it would be going to visit the old dowager, and she certainly couldn’t be relied upon to follow Ann’s instructions. Even telling her about the amulet would invite disaster.
Ann started to feel frustrated. What had seemed a brilliant idea was quickly turning out to be untenable.
She needed someone who would follow her instructions without fault – do what she ordered them to from beginning to end. She needed someone so under her control or devoted to her that they would not only go through with the preposterous plan but put up with the down sides.
What about her maid? That was an idea… but Ann shook her head crossly. Hardly. The girl was almost as constrained as she was and not nearly as beautiful. Gladys was forever trying to fit into Ann’s cultured household but never able to. And she was going to London as well anyway!
No. Swapping places with her would be the worst of all worlds.
Then suddenly Ann’s lovely blue eyes gleamed. Of course!
Burt!
The clodhopper would do anything she asked and would keep his mouth shut. He was so servile and obsequious he wouldn’t dare to not do exactly what he was told. He had no willpower of his own and his feeble uneducated brain would be incapable of doing anything but what she commanded him to. Why, he barely had the confidence in his own decisions to know when to eat or sleep and he really was moronic. If, in her place, he did something frightful at her grandmother’s then it didn’t matter! It would serve the old harpy right!
Ann's lovely mouth grinned full of mischief.
And Burt had a slutty girlfriend – Mavis; the barmaid in the village – attractive in a vulgar sort of way with prestigious breasts and a crude mouth. A good time was had by both according to Ann's maid who whispered how virile Burt was. Ann got the impression she’d been ridden by him herself in her earlier years.
Ann felt a rise of sexual excitement at the thought of really going through with it. She could have sex without fear of pregnancy or social status. She could ride astride, be vulgar, drink too much – even spit! It was too delightful – what a holiday she would have! It would be the most enjoyable two weeks of her cosseted life!
She thought of her grandmother and her stuffy friends dealing with the new 'Lady' Ann and actually giggled. Then she thought of herself: free and deliciously lower class and having sex whenever she wanted.
Sex as a man would be interesting, certainly. Just the thought of it almost made her faint.
Ann frowned. She was to leave first thing in the morning and it was already afternoon. It didn't give her much time.
She remounted her filly and rode back to Griply Hall as fast as she could.
5
Ann got changed in her bedroom, giggling to herself about how hilarious it was all going to be. She was on fire with excitement, her whole body buzzing at the idea of it! She hadn’t felt this charged up and focused in a long time about anything. Finally! Something to make her relatively dull life interesting!
She couldn’t get over how liberating it was going to be not having to mince round being cultivated, sipping delicately from teacups with her legs tightly together. Why, she’d be able to gulp from a pint glass instead! And get drunk! Why, she hadn’t thought of that. She could get absolutely— What did the yokels call it? Squiffy? No. That wasn’t lower class enough. It wasn’t liquored up. Definitely not inebriated… She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She was sure she’d hear all the colourful gauche language in the world soon enough. She laughed to think of it. Imagine! She’d never spoken an uncouth phrase in her life! Once she was Burt she’d be able to enunciate in as gutter a tone as she felt disposed to.
But that line of thinking made her pause for a moment.
Once she was Burt… That was an amply chilling thought. She shuddered. Then told herself not to be silly. She wasn’t going to BECOME Burt. She’d still be herself. She’d just look like him. And it was only for a fortnight. That was all. Nothing could possibly go awry.
Still, she felt chilled for a moment.
But she shook her head and refused to lose her excitement. There were no down sides to this adventure! It was going to be fabulous!
She quickly got out of her riding clothes and contemplated for a moment what she wanted to wear while the swap took place.
She grinned and pulled out one of her most feminine outfits, a long sleeveless dress that showed off all her feminine charms… demurely of course. That was a given in her hideously restrained life! As she put it on she thought about how this would be the last time before her “holiday” that she would be a beautiful lady. She ran her slim fingers down her smooth arms and cupped her lovely face in her palms. What would it feel like to have stubble on her cheeks. She touched the yielding skin on her upper lip. To have a bushy moustache!
Why, surely it would tickle! She frowned good-naturedly. Perhaps that would have to go! She wanted to experience life as a man for a week or two but that was perhaps taking things too far!
Ann fingered her lovely soft hair. Burt had close cropped hair, barely more than fuzz at the sides and back. It was going to be hilarious! The silky material of her dress caressed her beautiful body… but it was still uncomfortable. Ann longed for the freedom of movement men’s clothes were going to give her. Why, she’d be able to climbs trees if she so desired!
She took out some savings she’d secreted long ago from her hiding place and put them in a pouch ready to take with her and went to leave. Just before she did so, she took one last look at her lovely face in the mirror.
She was an elegant beauty.
A trapped and cosseted beauty forced to live the life her overbearing parents chose for her!
Well she was well and truly sick of it! For the next two weeks she’d have no one to tell her what to do! For the next two weeks she’d be a free man!
The Exchange
1
Burt was shoveling dirty hay from the floor of one of the stable stalls when Ann approached him, a mischievous expression on her face.
His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows as he worked. She watched him for several minutes, staring at his rippling muscles; the careless attitude he had in his body language, entirely devoid of decorum. He obviously didn’t care one whit about the way he carried himself or looked with his scruffy clothes and deliciously masculine posture. He was the exact opposite of her. Ann had to be standing or sitting with perfect composure at all times. She couldn’t dare relax for a minute for fear of being thought uncouth. Every single second of her day she had to act the refined lady in case she was reprimanded by her mother. The countess was a gentle compassionate soul but Ann had always felt awful at the whispered scoldings; kind hearted though she knew they were.
To be able to act however she pleased was going to be fantastic!
"Burt I wanted to ask a special favor of you," she cooed, startling him.
Burt stumbled all over himself with eagerness, dropping the fork and flushing again. "Blimey! ‘Ow do m’lady. You freet’ned me to death,” he stammered in his lower class Yorkshire brogue. “Anything you want, your ladyship! I’ll do it!"
Her lovely blue eyes gleamed with amusement and she thought, I wonder how he will like being a female?
"Burt, what I’m about to tell you will sound impossible. But it isn’t; I can assure you of that.” She paused. “It is hard to believe but for the next two weeks I want you to exchange roles… with me. I will be transformed into you and you will be transformed into me."
“I don’t rightly understand.”
“I have a magical necklace,” said Ann, speaking slowly so the dullard could follow. “A real magical necklace. Like you might find in a fairy tale.”
Burt gaped at her.
“It has an enchantment that will allow us to swap places. I will become Burt… and you will become Ann.”
He stared. “But m’ady—”
Lady Ann grimaced impatiently. "Listen you fool!” she snapped. “You’ll do what you are told!” Burt quieted instantly, cowed by her authority and the imperious command in her voice, but she softened her tone and touched his arm, feeling only slight revulsion at his filthy garments. “If you do as I ask and tell no one about it then I will also pay you ten pounds when it is over.”
"Ten pounds?" said Burt. “That’s more than six months’ wages or I’m a monkey’s uncle!”
Ann nodded. “Ten pounds Burt. And all you have to do is come with me now to the holiday cottage and do what I tell you.”
Burt was bewildered, not sure if her ladyship was playing a trick on him or not. He believed it if she told him it was so, but… Was she having a laugh?
Ann started walking away, leading him. "Come with me."
Burt stood for a moment, unsure, then staggered after his beautiful goddess.
2
At the holiday cottage, Ann commanded Burt to wait for her in the main room while she went into the bedroom to put on a dressing gown. When they transformed her womanly clothes would be far too tight for her new manly body.
Her new manly body…
The thought of it made her ripple with anticipation.
She wrapped the dressing gown round her curvaceous form that she’d put there before she fetched Burt. This was it: her last chance to change her mind. By God she was brimming with mirth and excitement. It was going to be such a riot!
In the other room, Burt didn’t know what to do with himself. He was confused by the tale Lady Ann had told him and though he was inclined to believe anything she told him it all seemed too fantastical. Did she really mean for it to work?
Obviously he’d do what she asked of him. It was only right and proper to do as he was told. He’d learned that from his father. There were those of good breeding as were in charge and those who needed telling what to do. He knew which one of those he was and didn’t mind it one whit. If it wasn’t for the good lady and her family he wouldn’t have a livelihood. He owed them everything and God himself had given them the right to tell the lower orders what needed doing. The vicar in church was always saying so.
Ann emerged from the other room wearing the dressing gown she’d just put on and Burt’s heart almost stopped as he saw her beauty attired in this way. The amulet hung from her lovely neck and Burt stared. It was like a dream come true. He almost fainted when she said, "Embrace me Burt."
He didn’t move.
“Do it you idiot! Now!”
Trembling Burt moved forward, opening his arms. He only prayed she wouldn't feel the swelling in his trousers.
Ann felt a sudden lump in her throat as the huge burly man wrapped his muscular arms around her. For a second she wondered one final time if she was doing the right thing but immediately dismissed her fears. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Burt would do anything she commanded. He’d been bred as a bootlicking and submissive servant his whole life. His brain was trained to be servile through and through. His very biology had cultured both ignorance and obsequiousness down through his family line.
And the idea of possessing this potent man’s physical attributes thrilled her more than anything else ever had.
Both felt a tingle run through them as their chests joined to touch the amulet. It was going to work, thought Ann exultingly.
Burt gaped like a fish. Lady Ann's aristocratic, beautiful face was changing - her creamy complexion roughening as fine stubble broke out on her cheeks. On her upper lip long hairs were poking out and growing… thickening! She was getting taller as she stepped away from him, and he— Yes. He was shrinking!
It just wasn’t possible! But it was still happening!
Ann felt her form swelling, her height increasing, her muscles firming, her shoulders broadening. She looked down as her soft slender arms became muscular, as the dainty fingers became thick and callused. She felt the strength flow through her as she flexed them into fists; the muscles hardening. She reached for her hair, only to find that it had already vanished; touching only the bristles of a close-cut man’s hairstyle. Her cheeks had always been soft and smooth. Now they were chiseled and covered in five o’clock shadow. She fingered the thick moustache that had sprouted on her upper lip, recognizing it as a symbol of the manhood she had taken on. She felt overwhelmed by the changes suddenly; momentarily terrified by the completeness of it; then she felt exultant again.
Meanwhile, Burt felt his own muscles softening, his height falling away. He touched hands that were becoming softer and finer to his smooth cheeks. His arms looked so soft and slender, the sleeves of his work shirt hanging off them. There was no hint of muscle definition there at all now; and why would there be? Lady Ann had never had to do manual work of any kind her whole life.
Burt couldn’t believe what was happening to him. He was really changing into her!
He felt the tickle of hair on his slender neck and the push of breasts beneath his tunic. Never in his life had he imagined feeling something like this!
Ann looked at the backs of her hands were thick black hair had sprouted and turned them over to see roughly bitten nails where once had been only manicured ones. She parted the dressing gown, pausing only a moment to worry about – and dismiss any concerns of - decency, and looked at the broad hairy chest she now sported, the hard stomach, the hairy muscular legs. And the penis… the man’s sex organ; something she’d never once seen before in her life and now stood firm and erect before her.
She felt a sense of power to look at it that she’d never never felt before.
She was a man! She was a dominant potent man!
In less than a minute it was over.
A man who looked like Burt stood dressed in Lady Ann's dressing gown and Burt’s own clothes hung on him like a filthy sock on a chicken, his dainty wrists and hands extending from the dirty rough-hewn sleeves. He felt tender breasts rubbing against his scratchy wool shirt making them itch and, involuntarily, his hand went to his crotch. His manhood, the organ that Mavis and the other girls loved so much – the part of him than imbued him with confidence – was gone! He felt faint.
"What ‘appened?" he asked and his hand flew to his throat. His voice was a woman’s voice. “Ee by gum m’lady! What did ye do to me?”
"The Amulet has affected a metamorphosis you ignorant fool!" said Lady Ann in Burt's deep voice. But she didn’t sound like him. She sounded like one of the posh gentlemen that visited the house from time to time; or like one of his mates from the Dog & Pony doing an impression of one of the toffs. "You're making me look ridiculous in your clothes." She shuddered. "Take them off at once!"
“But m’lady—”
"Don't be an imbecile Burt. You now have my body. I look at it every day."
He started to disrobe, his new face flushing. “I ain’t never seen nowt like this before,” grumbled Burt and Ann frowned. Burt looked like her and he had her vocal chords but his dialect was every bit as common and crass as it had ever been. It made her realise that her own speaking voice might need a little dumbing down for her to not be noticed. She wondered if this would cause problems but shrugged it away. At worst they would think that “Lady Ann” was playing an extended joke by imitating the lower orders. They would never imagine “she” was really a bumbling stable hand. And she had always been good at imitating the bumpkin way of speaking. It would be a terrific hoot to try and pass as one of them.
Ann chuckled, vastly amused by the ungainly motions of the “woman” in front of her as Burt finally managed to strip the last of his garments off. She looked critically at what had latterly been her body, seeing it from an objective angle for the first time then she smiled and nodded. Everyone was right. She was certainly the most beautiful woman in the county.
Looking at her naked hips, legs and stomach actually made her feel strange. Pleasant. A sensation grew and spread from her crotch that she quickly sidestepped by gathering up her dress and thrusting it at him.
“Hurry now Burt,” she said. “Don’t procrastinate. Get dressed. Tout suite.”
Burt stared, dazed, at the beautiful garment and then did as he was told, feeling like this had to be a dream. Ann helped to dress him as he grunted and moaned in a most unladylike fashion when she tightened the stays. Lady Ann frowned behind Burt's rough face and gruffly snapped, "For goodness sakes, don't do that again. It is frightfully unladylike!"
Burt nodded weakly. He felt like he was losing his wits. He stood before a mirror dressed like her ladyship, the dress long, his arms and shoulders bare. He stared at the Lady Ann in the glass and when he touched a smooth cheek with an elegant hand, the beautiful woman looking back at him did the same. The silk and satins felt at home on his smooth new body but the sensations were completely unlike anything he had ever felt before. He had really changed into a woman! He had really become Lady Ann!
He turned and saw 'himself' hurriedly dressing, feeling a flush of nerves, his new body trembling before the large male. He suddenly felt very vulnerable, fully aware how much more powerful this big hairy man was next to his new female body.
Ann found the clothes musty and scratchy; stiff from ingrained dirt and far too few washes. It was only now, putting these on that she felt the fact of her transformation close around her. She pulled on the trousers, loving the freedom they gave her legs then pulled the shirt on over her head. For a moment she was washed over by the smell of them – the stink of sweaty hard work and dung and mud. With the odor filling her nostrils she felt an overwhelming claustrophobia and panic. Then she pulled her head through and the clothes fell into place.
Now she was Burt, from his big feet and hairy strong legs to his ribbed torso, muscular arms and shorn head. Now she was really a man! And the woman in front of her REALLY looked like Lady Ann. She knew it was Burt and his posture was inelegant but if a passerby saw them then they would see Lady Ann and Burt Harper, not Burt and Lady Ann.
For several moments they both simply stood, staggered by the completeness of the transformation. Then Ann took the initiative and hurriedly explained what Burt was to do and how he should behave as he nodded submissively.
“Remember Burt. You are now me; Lady Ann Neville; and you must act like it. You must pretend to be the gentlewoman you appear to be. You ought to know how I and the ‘quality’ behave – you’ve been watching me all my life!” She made her voice threatening. The deep timbre added an extra frightening edge when backed by her imperious tone. “If you don’t do it properly then you will get in terrible trouble. Do you understand? If you are found out you will let me down and… and you’ll get a sound thrashing from the earl himself! If you aren’t careful he might even throw you in the stocks!”
She smirked at the terrified expression on the dimwits face. "I'll do me best not to disgrace you, m’lady. I won’t do owt wrong. You’ll see."
Ann cringed at the terrible Yorkshire brogue issuing from her beautiful lips but there was nothing to be done about it now and she was eager to enjoy her newfound freedom.
"Jolly good! Now run along back to the house – it’s almost time for dinner. Your maid will dress you. Tell her that you want the red gown and your mother's diamonds. In your purse I have made up a list of what you should wear at my – your grandmamma's. Study it! Keep your mouth shut and just look bored; you'll get by famously."
Despite himself Burt grinned. It was so strange to hear himself talking like a swell!
Ann hid the amulet under the seats of the couch. There was no sense taking any chances! Burt watched her do it, flabbergasted by the power of the thing to do this incredible transformation to him and still entirely on the back foot, staggering bewildered through the whole experience.
They left the building together, a big brawny man and a slim beautiful woman and paused in the sunset light. “Go on now,” said Ann. “Toodle pip. Be off with you. You don’t want to miss your dinner.”
“It’s a rum do, this, ma’am. The shoe’s on the other foot now and no mistake. I feel right strange in this get up.”
“I’m sure you do ‘Ann.’ But you’ll do as I say and go and take your place as the lady of the manor. Alright?”
“Aye. Ah-reet. I will. I’ll do it for you m’lady.”
“And you’ll be rewarded,” said Ann. “I mean that Burt. I won’t forget this favour I can assure you of that.”
Burt beamed, still hopelessly infatuated with her. Then he steeled himself, looking ridiculous, framing his bumpkin mannish expressions on her soft features. “Ta’ra then m’lady. I’ll see you in’t morning if not before.”
Burt walked in ungainly masculine steps toward the manor house while Ann, in Burt’s manly body, grinned at his departing rear, chuckling to herself at how ludicrous he looked.
Well, what did it matter? It was a hilarious trick she was playing on all of them.
3
After Burt had left in what lately had been her body, Lady Ann grinned in triumph. That would show her father and her grandmamma! She only wished she could be there to see the absolute fool Burt was going to look in her body as he stumbled through high tea with all the old ladies.
She went back into the holiday cottage and picked up the sack of coins and bills she’d secreted earlier from its hiding place behind the sofa. Twenty pounds would be more than enough pin money for 2 weeks. It was well over what Burt normally earned in a year!
Ann strode out of the cottage grinning to herself, flexing the big muscles in her arms. The sense of power was incredible! She looked at her reflection in the window outside, stroking her bushy moustache. There wasn’t a trace of a woman in the expression. She was a man now, through and through.
She’d planned to shave off the moustache as soon as she took Burt’s body – had even hidden the razor she’d stolen from her father’s room in the cottage so she could do it right away – but now that she had it; now she could smooth it down with her big manly fingers she wasn’t sure she wanted to. A proper bushy moustache like this was something a woman could never have. To her it represented everything she’d been unable to do as a lady – the freedom she had now: both socially and physically.
And besides… she thought it rather suited her.
Now, before she went out and experienced the fun of being a man, she had to write herself a note giving ‘Burt’ the fortnight off. Living as Burt wouldn’t be anywhere near as good if she had to do his work! She popped back inside the cottage and looked for pen and ink but there wasn’t any.
“Damn!”
It didn’t matter. There was plenty of time for that. She could do it before she went to sleep.
She went to move away and frowned, pausing as she noticed a slight airiness to her movements; a femininity. A flounciness. Why, that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. She shuddered to think of the reaction of the burly yokels if they saw her prancing into the village like a drag queen.
She forced herself to move in a manly way, her shoulders broad, her feet widely spaced, her stride long, practicing it back and forth in the reflection in the glass. That seemed to do the trick. It felt odd and uncomfortable but she was able to maintain it as long as she concentrated. Satisfied, she set off down the lane toward Griply village, careful to monitor her gait and keep it as masculine as she could.
4
Ann approached the Dog & Pony with some nervousness but steeled herself. There was no need to worry. As far as anyone in there knew she was just another illiterate peasant; a salt-of-the-earth commoner with crass manners and only a life of hard work and poverty before her. They would have no idea the true identity of the manor-born lady in their midst. She looked just like one of them. As long as she was in Burt’s body she actually was one of them – there were no two ways about it.
Actually that was a scary thought. She imagined for a second what might happen if the amulet went missing and she were really stuck like this for the rest of her days. She shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about. It was fun to be a man for a short while – to have the freedom she so much deserved – but she was under no illusions. The minute Burt was back from grandmamma’s he’d be back shoveling the horse dung.
When she went inside the pub the noise and stink were overpowering. Even though it was early it seemed like almost all the villagers were already if not tipsy then downright drunk! She squeezed through the crowds with some disgust to be so close to the commoners and placed some coins on the bar. “I’ll have… a pint of… ale if you would be so kind my good man.”
She winced inwardly at the sudden hush and strange looks from the barman and the closest punters at the crisp accent totally counter to the form she now wore.
“Ye wot?” grumbled the barman.
“Er… Some ale. Please.” She did her best to ape the local bumpkin dialect and blushed at how false it sounded. She’d always thought she was rather good at her clodhopper impression but now she was one of them it didn’t sound so good. The barman eyed her suspiciously as he poured her pint. She took it quietly and retired to a corner of the pub to keep out of the way. She was frightened someone might become violent with her. She had never been able to stand the sight of blood – especially her own – and couldn’t stand violence of any sort.
Burt’s girlfriend Mavis was working the pub, carrying three or four pints in each hand by the handles. She wore a frivolously slutty dress that managed to expose her creamy round shoulders, her forearms and a good deal of her cleavage. Part of Ann found the outfit grossly inappropriate… but part of her couldn’t help but be intrigued by it. The odd sensation she’d felt earlier when looking at Burt in her own naked flesh started to return and she became very interested by the question of when she’d be able to spend some time alone with the girl later. After all, sex without consequence had always been part of her plan…
Perhaps sensing her gaze, Mavis came over, grinning lasciviously at the man she thought was her bedmate. “Ahright luv!”
“Er, good evening my dear,” replied Ann, feeling awkward and embarrassed. “You look simply… divine.”
The bawdy girl pouted. “What you talkin’ like a toff fors?”
“Why, I just thought…” Ann felt ridiculous and more heads were turning her way. She couldn’t talk like this here. Now she was surrounded by lower class oikes, she was the one who, ironically, sounded stupid. “I thought it would be… diverting. Fun I mean”
“Well you sound like a mug. Stop it.” She brightened. “I’ve been thinkin’ about you all day luv. And that great big cock o’ yours!” Mavis gave Ann’s crotch a hard squeeze and she felt a bright charge of pleasure there, then the slutty woman threw her head back, exposing her neck and cleavage all the more, and laughed long and hard. Half the people in the pub who’d overheard laughed too.
For a moment Ann was furious at the public exposure but found herself chuckling. What did it matter? It wasn’t her reputation being paraded in front of the punters! After a minute she found herself laughing deeply. Then guffawing louder than she’d ever allowed herself to do in company before. This was what it was all about! She took a deep swig of her beer. “By ecky thump,” she cried loudly, “Don’t tell all the lasses darlin’ or they’ll all want a rogering!”
The whole pub erupted into laughter and Ann laughed too, turning red faced and throwing back the rest of her pint. She slammed the glass down on the table and called after Mavis. “Ere, our lass! Fetch us another one of—”
She paused, perplexed by the sudden change in her voice.
“Er, be a… a darling… and bring me another glass of beer… please.”
The sudden shift back of accent was unnoticed this time by the laughing drunkards around her but Ann settled back a little in her seat, feeling slightly uneasy as Mavis walked back to the bar.
Where in God’s name had that come from? Just for a minute she’d talked exactly the same way as the working men…
5
Burt walked into the castle shaking like a leaf, sure that someone would yell, "What do you think you're doing, impersonating Lady Ann?" But all the staff bowed and deferred to him. It was so strange. Yesterday he had tipped a pint of ale with Albert the footman and now the man was servile! Calling him “My Lady”.
He almost tripped in the skirt going up the stairs and he flushed.
Slowly, he told himself, small steps and slowly.
In Lady Ann's room, Gladys was waiting. She had always been snotty to him, considering him far beneath her in the social scale. Now she was all deference and servility! It was kind of fun. He tried to imitate Lady Ann. "’Urry up girl!"
"Yes, m’lady!"
Gladys hurried to follow his instructions but he was conscious of how poor his accent was.
"The red dress and me ma’s diamonds!"
"At once m’lady!"
Soon he was putting on silk stockings and three petticoats. Burt felt ridiculous, but said nothing. When Gladys tightened his stays he barely kept from grunting. Soon the beautiful red silk gown was on and his lovely hair was done atop his new head in a very aristocratic style. His new, slender fingers fumbled with the diamond necklace and the heavy earrings. He thought they would pull his ears off at first but soon forgot them. Again, he was able, with Gladys's help to paint his face. He stared in the mirror and his goddess, his impossible love, stared out at him.
He couldn’t believe that he was the beautiful Lady Ann! It was impossible! But it was also true! He felt light headed as he absently thanked Gladys and headed downstairs. His high heels almost sent him down them head first. The Earl stared upward from the hallway.
"Have you been drinking, Ann?" he asked.
"No m’lor— Er, no – father," he stammered. “I ain’t ‘ad nowt. I mean. I… haven’t had… none.” Burt spoke as carefully as he could, not realizing that he was making just as many mistakes.
The earl grunted doubtfully, frowning. Carefully Burt descended the rest of the way and trembled as the Earl took 'his daughter’s’ slender arm and led him into dinner.
During the meal. Lady Ann’s family and quests stared with astonishment at him. The guests were amused at her “impersonation” of a Yorkshire yokel, but the earl was not. In the past he had reproved her many times for imitating the dreadful local accent. Now he guessed “Ann” was doing it to punish him for sending her to her grandmother's. Burt ate with the wrong fork and talked with his mouth full.
"How's about some ale instead of this wine?" asked Burt. “I’ve wet me whistle with better slop down’t Dog & Pony.”
"Daughter, enough!” exclaimed the earl. “Stop that ridiculous imitation of the clod hoppers this instant!"
Fearfully Burt grew quiet. That's right, he thought, I got - need to act like Lady Ann. What would she think if I disgraced her? Burt felt tears in her blue eyes.
“I’m terribly sorry father,” he said. “You must think me an absolute heel. It was awfully gauche of me.”
The earl grumped and went back to his eating but Burt sat stunned. He’d done his best to imitate the way he’d heard Lady Ann speak and had done a much better job of it than he’d expected. He said no more, terrified to open his mouth. ‘Lady Ann’s’ silence during the rest of the meal was taken for her typical sulkiness.
Later in the evening, Burt felt terribly embarrassed after going to the bathroom three times in Lady Ann's body. He felt like a peeping tom!
He went to bed that night emotionally exhausted, but slept for the first time on soft satin sheets.
6
Four more pints of ale later and Ann was having a whale of a time. She’d never been more than tipsy before but she was edging towards being really… really rat-arsed now. She was having a wonderful time laughing at the crude jokes of the labourers and pit workers. At first they’d made her feel very uncomfortable but the longer she spent drinking, the more she relaxed into the role of being one of them.
Pretending to be one of them that was.
She found herself laughing hysterically at a dirty joke involving men’s penises! It was appallingly uncouth but also very very funny! She’d never felt such release or had as much fun in one evening! If she had stayed at home she’d have been playing bridge with her mother by now or something equally tedious. She might even have been in bed!
She hadn’t done much talking – mostly just listened to the conversations all around. She was self-conscious of how out of place her well-bred accent was and didn’t want to risk embarrassment. She’d had several tries at talking to people but each time they looked at her as though she were strange.
Jeb, a brawny lad who worked the fields owned by her family but run by a neighbouring farm manager, started railing against what he called “the quality” – her family basically. Ann sat back and chuckled, eager to witness first hand just what the common men thought. “That earl up at the house there – he’s nothing but a great fat bugger!” cried Jeb. “He’s lording it up there over us while we haveta slave away for tuppence! And he’s a right surly old gaffer!”
The crowd roared its approval and Ann found herself applauding. It was great having her father cut up.
“He gives us orders but he couldn’t do what we do. He’d bloody run crying if he ‘ad to do any real work!”
There was more laughter all round. Ann actually cheered. It was wonderful to cut loose and fabulous to make fun of her father in public – a man who had always demanded nothing but respect.
“And as for that stuck-up bint of a daughter of his, Ann” said Jeb. “She’s a scrawny bit of posh fluff is what she is! A right nasty piece of work and no mistake!”
“Hey!” cried Ann before she could stop herself.
“I’ve seen better legs on a table!” cried Jeb.
“E’ya! Shut yer gob!” shouted Ann, leaping to her feet.
There was silence all round her in the pub.
Ann felt everyone’s eyes on her and started to lose her confidence. “Don’t you dare talk about a lady that way! It simply isn’t proper.”
"Oh, sit down Burt!” bellowed Jeb. “We know you’re in love with her!”
Ann saw red and stomped forward. “Get stuffed yer gormless twit or I’ll kick in yer chuffing gonads!”
“You'd let her cut your throat with a smile on your ugly puss yer would!"
In an absolute drunken fury, Ann reached back and punched Jeb hard in the face.
Jeb tumbled back and Ann gaped at the blood that had squirted out of his nose. She looked down at her fist, amazed that she’d done that. She’d never struck someone in all her born days. Why, she detested violence in any form.
But in the instant it had happened, it had felt so… good.
She hadn’t thought about anything in that moment except punching Jeb as hard as she could. It had been incredible.
She’d loved it!
Jeb wiped the blood from his face and grinned. “Right then Burt,” he said. “Looks like ya want a good trouncin’!”
Ann looked back at him as his hands closed into fists feeling suddenly terrified. She had no idea what to do. Then Jeb charged at her and punched her back, as hard as he could in the cheek.
She span round and fell to the floor, feeling the spilt beer and dirt under her fingers. The whole side of her face smarted. It was agony. Then she gritted her teeth and looked back up at him, climbing to her feet. “That’n was for free. The next one’ll see you on yer arse with a broken nose!” she cried.
She threw an uppercut into Jeb’s stomach, then relished the feeling as she cracked her knuckles against the side of his face, grinning as she felt the bone in his nose crack. Jeb delivered a jab to her stomach but she hardly felt it with her strong six pack and in seconds they were rolling round on the floor in the filth and wet, kicking and punching as hard as they could while the crowds cheered and placed bets.
7
As Lady Ann sauntered homeward afterwards he had a real swagger in his—she had a real swagger in her step and a grin on her face. It had been hilarious from start to finish – a real blast. It had been so satisfying to smash her now large fists into the other man’s face and he’d deserved it for what he’d said about Lady—
She paused in the darkened lane and rubbed the centre of her forehead.
What he’d said about Lady Ann. She’d caught herself thinking about herself almost as a different person. As though she wasn’t Lady Ann at all anymore. Which in many ways she supposed she wasn’t.
How odd.
And what else had she thought?
The other man. What a strange thought to occur to her, though it was technically accurate at the moment as well she supposed. She was a man right now.
“I am a man.” She said it aloud, hearing her beer-slurred very male-sounding voice come back at her from the trunks of the trees. “I’m Burt Harper, stable hand and labourer up at the manor house.” She smiled to herself in the darkness; then remembering what had happened to her accent and dialect in the pub, she tried adding a bit more Yorkshire to her accent, choosing her words carefully. Now she was well and truly bladdered the turn of phrase came more naturally. “Me name’s Burt ‘Arper innit. I’m the bloke what looks after all the ‘orses for the toffs up at the ‘all. I work me knackers off shoveling shite up off the floor all chuffing day while those toffee-nosed toe rags reap the benefit!”
She found herself breathing hard, relishing the feeling of playing the part, pretending, just for a minute that she was really Burt; really just a common labourer. A man. A big, brawny muscular man. A lower class working man at the end of a rough night getting pissed with his mates on his way home to have his way with his slapper of a lass.
Feeling increasingly confident, the man strode on into the night.
When she reached the stable she ran up the outside staircase and bashed open the door. Mavis was already in there, her dress discarded, her shoulders and arms bare, her tits almost breaking out of her well-worn corset.
For a moment Ann turned up her nose at the surroundings. She was used to sleeping on a comfortable bed with satin sheets. Here in the hay barn she had only a pallet – a thin straw mattress with a blanket – that had to be cleared away every morning. She’d be sleeping almost on the floor amidst the straw and the dirt. Who knew what manner of rodents scurried round the grain sacks in the night?
But then, here before her was a woman who wasn’t beautiful by any means, but was nothing but sexy, from her bawdy lascivious movements and expressions to the soft skin of her bare legs. Ann felt the throbbing between her— No. He felt the throbbing between his legs. He was a man right now and this was a woman in front of him; a woman who wanted him to take her.
"Fighting again, Burt, ya great wazok! Honestly, men are such boys. A real man would rather be with me!" she kissed him hard on the mouth.
A surprised Ann found himself more of a male than he thought and kissed the woman back. God was a male erection strange but it made him feel powerful; in control in a way he never had before. Mavis giggled and said "At least you have the decency t’be glad to see me!" Her voice was nasal and irritating but Ann didn’t care about that now. Even Mavis’s body odour didn’t matter that much. Mavis stroked his large member and Ann lost it, crushing the curvy girl in his strong arms.
He threw the girl down on the pallet and pulled off his shirt and trousers. His gigantic cock sprung up and out, dazzling him. It was even bigger than it had been that afternoon! He’d never seen a man’s sex organ before that day. Seeing one of this proportion from his new perspective was overwhelming, especially coupled with the sensations it was giving him as he clambered over the prostrate girl.
Ann took hold of the girl’s forearms, pinning her down, and thrust deep into her eager pussy. It was like nothing else on earth!
She screamed out in passion and Ann grunted, thrusting his pelvis over and over again, loving the sense of freedom and power. Never had he imagined feeling this limitless and free.
I’m a man, he thought to himself. He repeated it in his mind over and over again with each pump.
I’m a man!
I’m a man!
I’m a man!
Mavis was gasping with pleasure.
I’m a man!
I’m a man!
I’m a man!
God it was great to be so strong and well hung!
“Call me your big man!” he demanded, his eyes lit up.
“You’re my big man!” screeched Mavis, jerking as he rammed into her over and over again. “You’re my big man!”
Ann closed his eyes, ramming his cock into the sweaty curvaceous woman and suddenly an image came into his mind that almost knocked him from the moment. It wasn’t Mavis he was imagining himself fucking like this. It was herself: Lady Ann! It both puzzled and amused him before the sensations – the animal need to dominate this woman overcame him again and he no longer cared.
In his mind it was Lady Ann underneath him and he was Burt, the stable hand; the labourer. He was pinning Lady Ann down and giving her the rogering of her chuffing life.
This is what I’d do to you if I could, Lady Ann Neville, he thought, letting herself wallow in the fantasy. You gorgeous chuffing stuck up cow! This is how I’d fuck you if I got the chance by gum!
This is how I’d fuck you Lady Ann!
The Note
1
The next morning Ann was startled to wake from a deep and satisfied sleep at the crack of dawn. With no glass in the windows it was freezing and the dawn light shone right in her eyes through the open hayloft entrance. The straw mattress underneath her was little better than sleeping on a board; not like the silk sheets and thick mattress she was used to.
It took her a moment to realise where she was. And who she was. Her head was fuzzy from the previous night’s festivities but it quickly came back to her: the pleasure of drinking and carousing and fighting of all things with her mate Je— with Jeb, the farmer’s boy. She also remembered the animal passion and the thrill of bedding the slutty barkeep’s daughter, grinning broadly to herself as she fingered her bushy moustache with one hand and fondled her half-aroused hairy cock with the other.
It came back to her how she’d fantasized making love with Lady Ann – with herself – but she shook her head ruefully. She’d also gotten a lot of pleasure from telling herself she was really a man.
It was ridiculous really. She put it down to too many jars of— pints of that awful ale and the headiness of suddenly finding herself with the freedom to do anything she desired.
"Best be up and about, Burt," said the smug woman beside him. "Old Harry will be wantin' you in the stables cleanin’ up right after breakfast."
Damn! thought Ann, I should have written that note! Mavis was annoyingly present and there was no chance right now. She’d have to do it later.
Mavis got up and made Ann breakfast on the little stove there dressed only in her corset. To Ann's amazement she ate it all! Three eggs and three huge slices of ham!
“Have we got any bread… luv?” asked Ann, trying again, fairly unsuccessfully now, to imitate the Yorkshire brogue.
Mavis laughed "What do you think we are? Quality?"
Ann wasn’t sure how she felt about that comment. This ‘holiday’ had been all about doing what she wanted. She didn’t like the idea of being restrained in a different way than she had been in her real life. Also it made her feel a little insecure that she was no longer ‘quality.’
Before she left to use the outside toilet, Mavis walked lasciviously over to Ann and edged down her trousers. She took the end of Ann’s already throbbing cock in her lips and gave it a quick suck then pulled away.
“That’s so as you remember whose man you are,” she said, slipping away.
Ann watched her go, smiling as she swelled with pride. I’m her man, she thought; then stopped herself.
What an idiotic thing to think! Mavis was gutter trash. Useful for a good rutting and not much else. But Ann did have to admit; she’d enjoyed herself with the lass.
Once she was fully alone, she hunted round until she found paper and ink. It was cheap – nothing like the water stained and scented stationery she was used to – but it would have to do.
She sat down to write the note.
Dere Hary.
She paused, looking at what she’d written. No. That wasn’t right. She crossed it out.
Deer Arrie,
Yoo av to
plees givv burt—
No.
I ordur yoo to
Yooe wil lett Burt av the fourthknite tou 2 weecks off of work an so that ee
She gaped at the paper in amazement and displeasure. No matter how hard she tried, it wasn't her own script that went down on the paper, but rough and untutored words in Burt's own handwriting, such as it was! She couldn’t understand it. It was still her mind in Burt’s body. Why should she no longer be able to write?
But for the life of her she couldn’t recall whether Harry was spelt with or without an “H.” She tried saying it out loud.
“’Arry.” She paused, wondering if that sounded right and said it again, sounding it out as carefully as she could. “’Arry.”
It sounded like it should start with an “A,” but would it then be spelled A-R-R-Y or A-R-Y-E? It completely escaped her and she couldn’t risk writing the wrong thing because Harry would know that the “real” Lady Ann wouldn’t make such a mistake.
“Why, however could this have ‘appened to me,” she murmered. Then it occurred to her that her voice showed more traits of Yorkshire brogue than it had as well. She was dropping some of her H’s. Surely that wasn’t the correct way to speak. Or was it? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure.
She said it again. “However could this have ‘appened to me.” She frowned. Only parts of what she said had the accent. It was most odd. Now it suddenly occurred to her that she was mispronouncing Harry’s name all of a sudden. Perhaps it was spelled with an H after all.
She’d noticed she’d taken on a few masculine mannerisms in her time in Burt’s body – her enjoyment of fighting for example, and how from time to time she found it easier to imitate the common way the clodhoppers had of speaking. She’d assumed that had been part of being a man. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was specifically taking on some of Burt’s ways. She supposed it made sense. Her body had transformed completely into his. Part of that body was the brain. It followed then that she now had Burt’s brain. That was why she’d been able to tap into the part of his mind that determined his language and mode of speech, however inefficiently. And how she’d known how to fight and have sex as a man.
She wondered if she’d know how to groom horses, and whether Burt in her body would know how to apply makeup.
She looked at the rough bumpkin handwriting on the paper in front of her. The part of her brain that had been educated to write beautiful English had obviously transformed along with the rest of her body. She didn’t just have Burt’s body; she had his education as well.
The horror of that struck her for a moment. She really had become Burt in every physical way. She was still herself – her core personality wasn’t influenced and her voice was only slightly affected – but she wondered about the longer term effects if she remained Burt over days and weeks.
She wondered if she shouldn’t just run and get the amulet now and—
“Burt!”
She jerked up. It was Harry – the groundskeeper and Burt’s superior.
“Burt! Get down ‘ere and muck out these horses ye great dozy twonk!”
Ann got to her feet and frowned. How was she going to get out of this?
She could run she supposed but what choice did she have? As far as the world saw her, she was Burt Harper; nothing but a common stable hand. The earl, her father, had every right to flog her if she shirked ‘her’ duties. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than that! Her only option was to do what she was told until she could get up to the house and order Burt, in her body, to do the note instead. Her one hope was that Burt had gained the education that she’d lost – though that was a frightening thought.
“Burt!!” bellowed Harry. “Get down her double quick or I’ll tan yer ruddy ‘ide!”
“Very well,” mumbled Ann sourly, “I’m coming. There’s no need to get agitated about it.” Her accent sounded exactly like it always had now without a trace of colloquialism but she didn’t care.
Outside Harry was waiting with a stern look on his face and his arms folded. “Get in those stalls and shovel the shit you lazy bugger!” he bellowed. “I want all of it cleared in ten minutes!”
Ann gaped back at him. She couldn’t believe how the repellantly man was speaking to her. How dare he? Didn’t he realize who she— But of course he realized exactly who he was talking to: Burt!
“Go on then!” snapped Harry. “Don’t just chuffing stand there like a big ape!”
“I’m really not in the mood for moving… dung this morning Harry,” replied Ann. “I just need to go and speak to… I need to speak to Lady Ann up at t’manor ‘ouse.” She cleared her throat. “Up at the manor house.” She smiled. “Would you mind awfully if I popped her there and came straight back?”
Harry strode toward her and brandished his fist in her face. “”You’ll get to work right now my lad or you’ll really feel my anger!”
Ann blanched, terrified by the vulgar show of force and wishing for a moment that she could regain the same bawdy violent side she’d managed to generate the night before. For now it was non-existent. She might have looked like Burt but she felt exactly like she always had and the ugly threat made her want to weep.
Instead she hurried into the stable and looked round for the shovel. For now she had no other choice. She just had to slip away as soon as she could to get Burt to write the note, and pray that he knew how to! Or have another go herself when she was feeling less sleepy.
She took the shovel into one of the stalls and looked at the steaming pile of horse dung that had been freshly deposited. Wincing to herself she lifted it gingerly on her spade and carried it to the cart outside. Then she went to do the rest, hating the stink and the grime of it.
This hadn’t been what she had in mind for her holiday at all! It occurred to her that visiting her grandmamma might not have been so bad after all!
2
Burt woke up feeling wonderfully rested to the delicious scent of fried bacon. He didn’t remember ever sleeping so well in his life. When he opened his eyes he couldn’t, for a moment, believe where he was. He was lying wrapped in silk sheets in a gigantic four poster bed in an opulently decorated chamber. He sat up, immediately feeling the jiggle of breasts on his chest and the swish of long hair against his neck. That was when it all came back to him: the incredible fact of this astounding favour his darling Lady Ann had asked of him. Looking down as he turned back the covers at his slender arms and long graceful legs was heart-stopping. Burt had longed for so many years to be close to Lady Ann and now he was, in the most shocking way imaginable.
Gladys was in the doorway with a tray of breakfast things, her eyes lowered, waiting. It made Burt giggle to see her look so fawning after all the years of making out she was superior to him. “Beggin’ your pardon m’lady but you’d best be up and about. The coach will be ready shortly to take you down to the railway station.”
Burt waited for her to go on or to tell him what to do but she just waited. He realised that she was waiting for instructions from him! He was the one in charge now!
“Er, right you are Gladys,” he said in his absurdly thick Yorkshire accent. “Give us that grub there. That’ll do me the world of good, will that.”
Gladys placed the tray across Burt’s lap, looking confused and stared openly when Burt said, “Thanks duck.”
Burt polished most of it off, though his appetite wasn’t what it had once been, and then got up. After taking a bath. he dressed for the journey with Gladys’s assistance. With a little help he applied makeup to his now lovely face. He guessed she had a knack for it because it didn’t seem too hard to do.
It confounded Burt why Lady Ann would be so desperate to escape a trip to her nan’s that she would swap her own life of luxury for his life of poverty and hard work, but he’d never really understood the quality.
When he was all ready he stared at himself in the floor length mirror. As a mere stable hand he’d never even been allowed to set foot in the manor house before. He’d never conceived of such luxury as having a mirror as tall as the wall! And he looked beautiful in it!
When Gladys left the room, Burt told her to shut the door. “Don’t come back in for a wee bit luv will ye.”
Gladys looked at her oddly again and closed the door behind her.
Burt looked at the eyes of the woman in front of him and said, “Mornin’. Me name’s—” He stopped then very slowly and carefully said, “Good morning. My name is Lady Ann Neville. I’s the daughta of— I am the daughter of the earl who owns all the land hereabouts.”
He smiled at himself and began again excitedly. “I’m a right posh lass who—” He gritted his teeth and concentrated. “I am a… cultured and… well-brought up young lady who…” Burt grinned to himself, enjoying the daydream for a moment. “Who stands to inherit all of this come time— upon my father’s demise.”
He started to gather up what things he could carry then stopped and opened the door instead, thinking better of it.
“Gladys!”
The maid came running. Burt hid a slight giggle at the misfortune of this girl who certainly deserved a little revenge for her snootiness. “Yes m’lady?”
“Carry these bags downstairs!” She went to pick them up. “Immediately!”
Gladys paused for a split second.
“Move girl! I haven’t got all day!”
Gladys hurried to pick up the bags and carry them all. Burt watched her go with a smirk on his face, then caught himself. That was really strange. As a man, Burt had always been what some might call servile, - what he’d always thought of as helpful. It wasn’t in his character to be spiteful to someone just because he had power over them. Though he hadn’t meant it as spite. He was just having a little joke at her expense. He didn’t mean it.
It didn’t occur to him, as it had to Ann, that his brain had transformed as much as his body had. The part of Burt’s brain that made him placid and helpful and been changed to the part of Lady Ann Neville’s brain that was perhaps just a little spiteful and conniving, even if it had barely affected him… as yet.
Innocent of any change he had undergone, Burt closed the door behind him and walked down to get on the coach.
3
Ann shoveled spadeful after spadeful of dung onto the cart, sweat running down between her brawny shoulder blades, her nose wrinkled in loathing and disgust.
It was easy work – her great strength ensured that – but she’d never had to do anything so loathsome in all her life. Why, she’d never even had to do any work before! Last night on the way home it had been fun to dream about really being a farm labourer but the reality was more like living a nightmare.
If Harry hadn’t been standing watching over her she’d have made a run for it already. She had no compunction about ignoring his orders. He was after all one of her father’s employers. He had a big mouth on him but he effectively worked for her no matter whose body she was in! But he still scared her a little and she didn’t want to force a physical confrontation.
On the other hand, if Burt in her body was really her only hope for getting that note written then she had to get out of there and up to the manor house soon or it would be too late. Burt would be on the train to London and Ann would really find out what it was like to be him: doing manual labour dawn until dusk every day!
Going back inside and out of Harry’s line of sight she quickly discarded the shovel and hurried to the worktop. There were various papers of Harry’s – he used it as an office – and she quickly found what she was looking for: paper and a pencil. She snatched them up and had another try at the note, convinced that if she concentrated hard enough she’d be able to write as well as she ever had.
Arry
Harri
Haree
To hoom it may concern,
Burt wonts 2 weecks olidee und eye wont you too giv him it. He wil gett—
“Burt! What the chuffin’ ‘ell are doing in there? Get out ‘ere and finish shovellin’ this shit!”
Ann stared in horror towards the doorway, terrified Harry would be standing there but he wasn’t. She looked back at the note in a panic, really not sure if it was correct English or not. It looked alright to her but she couldn’t be sure anymore.
She quickly finished and signed it off.
He wil get the tyme of from now on my say so.
Yors cincer sinseerl
Syned
Laydee Ane Nevill
She felt awfully stressed and panicky, emotions she had never experienced before, but at least it was done and she hadn’t needed to enlist that buffoon Burt’s help. That was a Godsend at least. He might have made her look like a real fool.
At that moment Harry stormed into the stable and Ann turned to present him with the note. “Er, I forgot to give you this earlier,” she said. “It’s from ‘er ladyship.”
He snatched the grubby paper off her and squinted at what it said. Ann smiled to herself but she still felt uneasy. She had an awful feeling that her writing wasn’t as good as it should have been and she regretted having to cross words out. That was something she normally wouldn’t have needed to do.
Harry chuckled. Then he guffawed. Then he threw his head back and laughed long and loud as Ann paled.
“Do you really expect me to believe that Lady Ann wrote this yer great twasock?” He slapped Ann hard round the side of her head. “You bloody idiot!” He threw it into the mud on the floor. “Now get out there and do you chuffing work before I brain you!”
Ann trembled, unsure what to do, then remembering who she was she stamped her foot and said, “No!”
“What did you say to me?”
“No,” she said. This servant couldn’t tell her what to do. She was Lady Ann Neville! “I have to go to the manor house and you can’t stop me!”
She ran out of the stable and up the path toward the hall with Harry bellowing behind her. She didn’t care how much he shouted. If she didn’t hurry then she really would be stuck living Burt’s servant life for the next two weeks!
4
When Burt went downstairs he was sent reeling yet again by the pomp and bustle as servants went this way and that, cleaning and organizing. Lady Harriet, the regal Countess, her ma, and the stony-faced earl himself had lined up ready to say goodbye to who they thought was Lady Ann.
Burt gulped and did his best to walk in a feminine way. It didn’t prove easy and the earl looked down his nose as he approached. “I trust you will behave yourself in London Ann,” he said.
Knowing that his crass dialect was going to show him up if he wasn’t careful, Burt just said the word, “Yes.”
“Good. Well be off with you then.” He strode away.
Hattie was next. She smirked and simply said, “Enjoy yourself in London Ann. You’re going to have an absolute scream!”
The smirk dropped off her face when Burt responded, “I’ll do me best yer ladyship” and she walked away looking as perplexed as Gladys had earlier.
When it came the Countess’s turn to wish him goodbye he got the surprise of his life as she took him in her arms and gave him the tenderest embrace he had ever felt. Tears came to his eyes and ran down his dewy cheeks he was so touched by the affection. “You know I love you, don’t you Ann darling,” said the stately woman.
“Of course I do mother dear,” replied Burt, startling himself at how perfectly the line popped out of his mouth. In his life he had never once had so much love and affection leveled at him and it made him feel wonderful. He went outside with a warm heart.
As he descended the steps to the waiting coach, he was startled to see himself; 'Burt;' rush up to him. It was fascinating and odd seeing this big man approach with such discomfort. Lady Ann obviously didn’t enjoy being exposed in front of the coachman, butler, maid and other staff assembled like this. When last she’d seen them she’d been lady of the manor. It must surely have rankled to have to play the part of lowly stable hand in front of them.
For a moment Burt enjoyed the turnabout before he reminded himself that it was his love for Ann that was spurring him on in this odd charade – that she would surely accept his adoration of her when they switched back.
“M’lady,” said Ann grudgingly. “Might I have a word.” Burt noticed that like him, his speech pattern still gave her away as an imposter, despite her clear attempts to overcome it. As a matter of fact, her accent wasn’t too bad.
“Aye,” replied Burt. “Er, yes.”
They huddled for a moment away from the staff and Ann whispered sharply, “Go back in the house and write a note giving me a fortnight off!”
Burt was startled and whispered back. "But I ‘ardly know my letters!"
"Just do it ya daft bint!" Ann hissed.
Obedient Burt pulled away, slightly hurt, and perplexed by Lady Ann continuing to try to ape the local dialect even in private. He went to Gladys and said, “You girl. Fetch me pen and paper immediately!”
Several paces away, Ann watched the exchange, chilled by how well Burt emulated her turn of phrase with the servants. Burt had guessed accurately how uncomfortable she felt standing now in front of her staff, flat cap clutched at her waist, head lowered. It seemed the proper thing to do and so she was doing it but it annoyed her. Why should she have to pretend to be an idiot stable hand? She was the lady of the manor!
Just not at the moment…
Which was why she had to play along; pretend to be who she looked like. Pretend to be this burly illiterate gloit. She was still superior to all of them… in her heart, even if not in reality at this moment.
She wondered then about her theory of the change in her brain. Objectively speaking, was she really their inferior now in the terms she had always believed? Was that a physical fact as long as the swap took place?
It didn’t leave her feeling too good.
Burt went inside and took a seat at an elegant corner table in the yawning hallway, taking up the pen and paper that Gladys presented to him. He felt very nervous. Despite what Ann had said, there was no way he’d be able to write anything legible. As a little boy Burt had learned precious little. He hadn’t been brainy enough to master anything complicated and both he and his teacher had known he would never have any use for writing.
Gladys standing there like a simpering fool didn’t help either. “Oh be off with you girl!” snapped Burt and she scurried away.
He concentrated as hard as he could, throwing his mind back to his classes, and tried his best to write.
My dear Mister Bramshaw,
If you would be so kind I would be most appreciative if you could give Burt a fortnight off from his daily grind and tribulations.
He looked down at what he’d written in wonder. Ann had been right. He really could somehow write as though he’d had years of schooling! And his handwriting was the elegant letters of a cultured woman!
He went on.
He has done excellent work for the past months and (he smiled mischievously) though he has no culture or breeding (he giggled to herself) and limited intelligence, he has done his best to be a gentleman and deserves a well-earned holiday.
Thank you kindly,
Lady Ann Neville
Burt stared at the letter in front of him in astonishment, especially at the signature. That was Lady Ann’s personal signature; impossible to copy, especially for a country bumpkin; yet he had written it perfectly without a second thought. In fact, he’d been so wrapped up in what he’d been writing, he’d signed the name without even thinking it. Which was strange.
He shrugged to himself and carried it outside.
5
Minutes earlier, Ann had watched Gladys, her maid, emerge from the manor’s interior, scowling as though she’d just been chastised. This made Ann smile, imagining Burt playing her part well. Being careful to simulate the Yorkshire accent, Ann said, “Ey-up Gladys luv. You look like a bulldog that’s chewing a wasp.” She didn’t know where she’d picked up that simile from but it was certainly apt.
“I dunno what you’re smirking at Burt ‘Arper ye stupid oaf!” snapped Gladys. “She may lord it over me but you’re the lowest of the low round ‘ere! You’re everyone’s whipping boy! You’re not even fit to go inside the house! You’re worth less to the family than those horses I can tell y’ve been mucking out by the stench on ye!”
The other servants laughed and Ann’s face coloured in fury and embarrassment. She may have spent years bossing and bullying Gladys as the lady of the house but as long as she was Burt, the maid really was her superior. She looked round at the chuckling faces of the coachman, butler and housekeeper and realised that she was subservient to all of them at the moment.
It was a queer feeling made up of two parts. Part of her knew that if she snapped back at them they might well flog her where she stood for being impertinent, or send her packing, thus ruining what was meant to be a relaxing break from her normal life.
Another part of her whispered that it was wrong to talk back to them. It wasn’t a conscious series of thoughts making up a decision. It was just a tiny nudge, barely even there that said they were her superiors and it wouldn’t be right to talk out of turn.
These odd conflicting feelings made Ann feel even less comfortable and far more embarrassed. Why couldn’t that chuffing toffee-nosed cow hurry up and get out there with his letter!?
At that moment “Lady Ann” emerged from the house and handed the new Burt his letter. Ann looked forlornly at the handwriting and perfect turn of phrase on the note and at the perfect signature.
She frowned at the little insults to her current station, muttering to herself at the smirk she saw on her former pretty lips. Very funny. But the joke was on Burt of course. It was him that would have to live out the rest of his life in this pathetic existence once the two weeks was up.
“Wait a minute,” whispered Ann, quietly scolding the former stable hand. “You’ll have to do this again. You’ve used a made-up word you idiot!” Burt looked at the note between Ann’s dirty big fingers at where he was pointing. “Here. That isn’t a real word.”
“Tribulations is a real word I can assure you Burt,” said the apparent Lady Ann, just loud enough so that the other servants could hear. “It means a test of one’s endurance.”
There were more chuckles all round and Ann shoved the note in her pocket testily, her face flushing beetroot red and her ears growing hot.
“Now ey up and— be a dear and help me into my coach would you.”
Feeling about ready to punch somebody, Ann stepped forward to help the elegant lady into her coach, taking her hand to steady her as she climbed up onto the step. It was an odd moment that left Ann feeling confused. For the time it took ‘Lady Ann’ to climb into the coach with ‘Burt’ helping, ‘he’ really was the servant and ‘she’ the mistress. Burt had demanded assistance and without thinking, Ann had stepped up to give it, using her man’s strength so that the beautiful aristocratic lady didn’t have to strain herself.
Feeling increasingly perturbed by the whole scene, Ann stepped back, cap in hand, to watch it pull away, growing almost angry at the fact that she’d removed her cap in the first place and still feeling reluctant to put it on while the coach was in sight for fear it might be disrespectful. Which made no sense at all!
She got slapped hard round the back of the head a moment later by the butler. “You know better than that you big ugly lump! You’ve no right to talk directly to the lady. You’re no better than the dirt beneath her slippers! Keep to your own class. Is that clear?”
Ann felt cowed before the pompous older man, even though she knew she could easily best him in a fight.
“Are you deaf boy? I said is that clear?”
“Yes,” snapped Ann.
“Yes what?”
“Yes… sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my sight and take that stink with you!”
Ann backed away as the servants dispersed; all of them laughing at her. She was furious, but reminded herself that none of it mattered now. Now she had her note, for the next two weeks, she wasn’t Burt the stable hand, she was Burt the free man! With enough cash in her pockets to get bladdered every single night!
She took it back to the stable and showed it triumphantly to Harry. The old man grumbled but he had no choice. "The whims of the quality passes all understanding!" he misquoted.
Ann grinned with Burt's lips.
“But she got this part right about you being an idiot.”
The grin dropped from her mouth and she stormed away.
6
Ann climbed up the stairs to the hayloft and found Mavis lying on the hard floor pallet, her legs spread, pleasuring herself. She started when Ann entered but didn’t cover herself up. She didn’t even stop fingering her fanny but she slowed down and gave her a saucy smile. “Ey up Burt. Wot you doin’ back so soon?”
“Ow do,” replied Ann, pleasantly surprised at how she managed to imitate the local dialect without even thinking about it. “Watching you do that is— is class, that is.” Ann floundered for a minute, on the verge of referring to how it made her penis feel, feeling suddenly awkward. Then she decided to say it anyway. What did decorum matter now? “It makes me cock want to explode does that.”
There was no point in fighting the fact that for now she really was a common man inside and out, even if it felt like a dangerous surrender allowing herself to think that. A superstitious part of her was afraid that she might be stuck this way if she REALLY admitted to herself that’s who she was. But she looked down at this half-clad strumpet and the overwhelming sense of manhood she felt made a mockery of restraint.
I really am Burt, she said to herself in the bubbling quiet of her mind. I’m really a horny commoner; a man who wants nothing but sex.
For now, she reminded herself. She couldn’t not add that, even if part of her really wanted to surrender, for the moment at least, to the full experience… Though she felt that if she didn’t fully take on this new part with all her heart then she’d never enjoy the whole masculine experience.
Suddenly, before she could stop herself she rashly thought the words in her head, further cementing her identity in her imagination.
I’m not a sissy woman, she told herself. I’m not that stuck-up Lady Ann. She’s quality. She’s better than the likes of me. I’m nothing but a man – a.. a stupid illiterate labourer about to shag his woman. And I always ‘ave been.
“By eck as like I must say,” said the new Burt, the Yorkshire accent flowing completely naturally now, “I want me some o’ that fanny! Ere, get on ye knees and suck my cock like ye promised.”
Mavis’s eyes lit up as “Burt” flopped out his big engorged member. She put her mouth round it, on her knees in front of him and he made fists with his big dirty hands as the pleasure shot through him. Before he came, he ordered her to get on her hands and knees on the pallet and rammed into her juicy minge from behind.
“Oooh aye,” groaned ‘Burt.’ “That’s reet champion that is. Reet chuffin great luv, Reet chuffin great.”
He reached forward and played with her pendulous breasts as the lazy morning stretched on. At first he’d thought the talented girl smelled awful but soon didn’t notice at all.
This was the life. It really was.
Ups & Downs
1
The real Burt meanwhile, stared out with his new eyes at the disappearing English countryside, an elegant shawl wrapped around his shapely legs. In no time they were at the railway station and he was helped down from the carriage.
It was a marvel to be walking through the milling people. Up until now Burt had only spent time in Griply Hall. Now he was outside in the real world, surrounded by ordinary people; either his equals or betters in his normal life. Now, instead of ignoring him as they normally would have, they stepped back out of his way as he walked as carefully as possible through the station building and onto the platform.
He didn’t have to do anything himself. Gladys fussed with the tickets and carried the baggage with the help of the coach driver. He felt like he was royalty… which he supposed (as a distant relation to King Edward) he actually was!
Standing for a moment on the platform, waiting for the train, he suddenly really saw himself as he was now. To every passerby he was an elegant lady on a trip to the capital. As long as his mouth was shut no one could tell him for the imposter he was. He was a beautiful woman, the breeze caressing the curls of his long hair, his hands neatly clasped at his waist.
Though something felt a little off… like he really wanted something, without knowing what that something was.
When the train arrived, Gladys made sure he was comfortable in a first class carriage then discreetly withdrew to third class. A posh gentleman was across the aisle from Burt. He smiled broadly and said, “Good morning madam.”
Feeling awfully unsure of himself Burt just tipped his head and smiled as demurely as he could in return.
The train pulled out in supreme comfort and as the journey began Burt was served tea in a china cup and cucumber sandwiches. He felt like he was dreaming.
The Yorkshire countryside started to fall away and soon he was being whisked through the outskirts of the Griply estate. It was wondrous to see it from this angle – he’d never been on a railway train before – and to think that he was currently the heiress of all of that land!
How peculiar life could turn out to be!
2
As Ann walked down the lane and cut onto the fields where twenty four hours earlier she had done the same on her horse as a woman she had an odd realization.
That morning she had entirely forgotten to take a bath.
It was probably the first time in her life she hadn’t done it, with Gladys preparing it and her sinking into the lovely warm water. It had been a daily tradition so ingrained that it was second nature. Even without Gladys there to wake her with breakfast she was surprised she hadn’t done it herself.
She wondered if she should walk back and have one now, but she was a good ten minutes out already and it seemed like too much effort. If she smelled bad then people wouldn’t be surprised. They thought she was Burt after all. They would just think that she was smelling like he usually did.
She ruminated on that for a few minutes, wondering if her thinking that was because she was somehow influenced from being in Burt’s body – that she wasn’t too bothered because he wouldn’t have been – but she decided that it wasn’t that. She simply didn’t want to waste time going back now that she was on her way.
It was wonderful to be out striding on these strong male legs. Burt’s body was necessarily far fitter than her own and she felt healthier than she ever had.
She was as careful as she could be to maintain a masculine walk, which felt a bit unwieldy still. She felt like she was alone out in the country but any of the farm hands might spy her and make annoying remarks in front of the men at the pub later if she flounced about like a woman.
After ten minutes of concentrating on making long strides with widely spaced feet and her hands in her pockets she didn’t find it too hard. The body was used to it. Soon she forgot all about it and it only occurred to her again after about half an hour had passed. Ann realised that she was walking like a man without even trying. She’d been so busy chuckling at what horrors Burt was up to in her body that it had entirely slipped her mind to keep it up. She was doing it automatically.
She stopped in the middle of a field and tried for a moment to walk as she normally would, in a ladylike fashion. It felt immediately uncomfortable and false; not even familiar. That was odd. But it didn’t matter. Walking like a man was necessary if she was to continue pulling off her impersonation.
It was great to just go out walking like this. It would have been regarded as odd had she still been a woman. On any normal day she’d have been pressured into sitting on the sofa doing embroidery with her mother and sister. Exploring the countryside for a change was far more diverting.
She passed the stream where she’d found the amulet and smiled to herself, thinking what a profound experience its lucky find had brought her. She was immensely grateful to whatever higher power had chosen to reward her like this.
As she walked she reflected on the clothes she was wearing. They were filthy and threadbare: a shirt, waistcoat and breeches, very tatty and ingrained with dirt. On any other day she’d have been mortified to be seen out in them but now they were just part of her disguise. And what a disguise it was! With her close-shaven hair, big muscular frame and manly stride – and these clothes, she was a dead ringer for Burt. Anyone would think she really was him.
That made her think of the letter she’d tried to write and her theory of the changes in her brain. If the part of her brain that had contained the information on how to write had transformed until it was the same as Burt’s, she wondered if there were other effects she had yet to notice. Was all of her education gone or just that relating to the written word? And was her reading affected too? She hadn’t thought to investigate.
As for her voice, although she found it easier now to say some words with a Yorkshire accent, she still for the most part spoke with good elocution. She had mixed feelings about it. Although it would be handy to be able to fit in with the “other” men more easily, the thought of sounding like a country bumpkin felt ridiculous.
Just imagine talking like that all the time!
3
When she reached Griply village Ann found it profoundly odd to walk around, passing by the ordinary folk. Every other time she’d been in the village, every passerby had stopped to look, nodding in deference, leaving no doubt in anybody’s mind that she was superior to all of them.
Now, nobody turned their head in her direction.
She was just a nobody – one of the common people – not noteworthy in the least. In fact, she noticed that if anything she was even slightly avoided! Mrs Landon, the vicar’s wife wrinkled her nose in disgust when she saw Ann approaching and crossed over the road, studiously pretending she wasn’t there. It left Ann feeling annoyed and just slightly… ashamed? She was angry to be treated that way but she also felt bad to be looked down on at the same time.
Since starting this whole sham it had been a gallop of different intense experiences leaving her a little overwhelmed… but it had surely been the most intense and exciting experience of her life to date. Even this feeling of being looked down on was stimulating in its own way.
Just ahead she saw the coach and driver from the hall and smiled, relieved. She was a lot fitter than she had been as a woman but she couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way back the way she’d come. She approached the coachman who was chatting with the blacksmith, finishing off some business.
“Ey up,” said Ann, happy that she was getting a slightly better handle on the bumpkin turn of phrase.
“Ey up Burt. What you doin’ in’t village when you should be up at t’hall working?”
“I’ve er… I’ve got the fortnight off,” replied Ann, still feeling a little unsettled to be addressed as a man.
“Oh. Good on yer. It’s easy for some. I’ve got to get back to Estate to take the countess and Lady Harriet down t’ut station.”
“I wondered if I might—” Ann cleared her throat. “How’s about giving me a ride back to the hall?”
“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“What?”
“Ain’t gonna happen Burt.”
“I’ll pay you obviously,” replied Ann crossly, reaching into her pocket.
“Keep your money Burt,” said the coachman. “It ain’t about that and you know it. You could give me an hundred pounds and I wouldn’t let you ride in there. It’s not for the likes of you. It’s only for the quality.”
“Quality?”
“If’n the earl saw you inside of there we’d both of us be out of a job.”
“But I have money,” said Ann plaintively, almost petulantly.
“Money don’t change the fact that you’re a working man Burt. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Ann stormed off without another word, her fists balled by her sides.
What did that idiot know? She didn’t actually feel like riding in the coach now anyway. She’d much rather enjoy the stroll back!
She heard giggling from the other side of the street and looked across to see Mavis and another girl looking her way, twittering between them. Mavis’s shoulders and cleavage were bare and she looked right sexy. The girl she was with was a lot chubbier but Ann found her eyes drawn over and over again to her round cleavage.
As she approached she heard Mavis whisper, “… but you should see the size of ‘is cock. It’s gigantic!”
Ann grinned broadly, feeling suddenly better. “Ey up our lass,” she said, finding again that sometimes lower class colloquialisms just appeared in her mouth – usually when she was most distracted.
“Ahright Burt,” replied Mavis. “I was just tellin’ Ethel ‘ere ‘ow strong and virile you are.”
Ann’s face coloured but she felt proud. It made her feel so powerful and confident to remember how big her erect member had been.
“I’m off t’ut pub to open up for’t evening so you’d better not let ‘er steal you away!” said Mavis. She stuck her tongue in Ann’s mouth and squeezed her crotch, giving her another jet of pleasure and waking the beast, then she walked off laughing over-loudly.
Ann looked at Ethel and sized her up. She was far fatter than Mavis but she created a real stirring in Ann’s trousers in her already throbbing penis.
“Are ye really as big as they say?” asked Ethel bawdily.
“Bigger,” bragged Ann, amazing herself at how lascivious she was prepared to be now.
Ethel looked her up and down then winked. Ann found herself grinning, having a sudden feeling at what that wink was supposed to mean.
“And I bet you got muscles on top of your muscles.”
“I certainly—” Ann cleared her throat. “That I do. I’ve got muscles like you wouldn’t believe.”
Mavis was half way to the pub now and Ann watched her for a minute, briefly considering the morality of this flirtation and discounting it.
It wasn’t her life anyway. She owed no obligation to Mavis. It was Burt who’d promised himself to her. She could do whatever she wanted. And besides, these were the lower orders. It was common knowledge that their emotions were more retarded than those in the upper class. And furthermore, this is what the commoners did all the time anyway. That was the whole point!
She shook her head to herself. None of that mattered. Not when her cock was pulsing in her trousers, telling her exactly what it wanted.
“I like a muscular man,” said Ethel, stroking Ann’s arm.
“And I like a woman who… with tits like yours.”
Ethel giggled. “Oh, you’re right forward you are, ain’t ya?”
“Do you like forward men?” asked Ann, leaning against the wall so that her face came close to Ethel’s.
“They’re the best kind,” replied Ethel. “Especially if they’re as well hung as Mavis reckons.” She stroked Ann’s cock through her trousers with her index finger where Mavis had groped her a minute earlier, making her intentions clear and establishing herself on the other girl’s ‘territory.’ “Do ya wanna slip back ‘ere and let me get a closer look?”
“Aye,” said Ann, her accent thickening by the second. “That I do. That I do and no mistake.”
Both she and Ann watched until Mavis was out of sight inside the Dog & Pony then they slipped down a side alley and Ann pinned the chubby woman against the wall, kissing her, shoving her tongue into the woman’s mouth.
Ethel fumbled with the buttons on Ann’s trousers and Ann suddenly felt an overwhelming imperative to have this girl as roughly as she could.
She snatched up the woman’s skirts, raising them high enough to show her legs as her own trousers dropped down around her ankles, exposing her hairy buttocks and legs. She had no underwear herslef. And why would she? She was only a common man now – common as muck!
She lifted Ethel up, pressing her against the wall as she rammed her erect cock into the girl. Ethel gave out an almighty cry of pleasure and Ann grinned, loving it. “Ooo Burt,” groaned the girl. “Mavis was right. You are big. Right chuffing big!”
Ann beamed with pride, ramming her cock up over and over into the girl’s minge, muzzling her chubby neck and sloppily kissing her pillowy cleavage. It made her feel so masculine; so in control and it intensified the sensation greatly to feel her moustache tickling the girl’s skin and pressing against her face as they snogged.
She rammed over and over again, feeling the intensity of the sensations spread out from the centre of her body, feeling abandoned and lewd as she never had before.
Then movement in the corner of her eye distracted her for a second and she saw Mrs Landon glance into the alley as she passed on her way back to the vicarage. There was Ann, latterly the lady of the manor, now standing with bare legs and bottom in broad daylight ramming her cock up into a slut’s fanny as though she had no shame!
Mrs Landon tutted and hurried on but Ann just grinned. She really didn’t have any shame. She didn’t care one whit about that. She was having far too grand a time thrusting over and over again into this slag’s juicy vagina as she grunted and moaned against the wall.
She was a man now and she was doing what it was a man’s right to do!
4
Ann’s walk home to Griply Hall was a very pleasant one. All she could think of was how fantastic it had been having her way with that vulgar peasant. What made it even more hilarious and “dirty” was that she wasn’t even sure of the slutty girl’s name. It began with an E – she was sure of that – but it could have been Ethel or Edith or Edna. She really didn’t care! She’d had her wicked way – used the strumpet and then chucked her aside.
This was exactly what being a man was all about!
She thought of the vicar’s wife, seeing her like that and actually got another erection! The idea of it being so shameless and vulgar added to the pleasure of it no end!
Why this was one of the best days of her life!
As she walked back up the drive she saw the coach waiting to ferry her mother and sister down to the station. They were going into York to shop for a couple of days and it looked like they were almost ready to go.
The countess was in the doorway, speaking to the housekeeper while Hattie stood looking bored.
Ann suddenly felt a little jealous. The trip to York had been the original reason she’d resented having to go to Grandmamma’s. She’d been dying to go shopping in the shambles and buy some new dresses and had resented not being allowed to go. Now, even though she was remaining in Yorkshire they were still going without her. However much spending money she’d slipped away with she still couldn’t hope to ride with her mother and sister and spend the trip with them. For now she was just a burly man – a servant and nothing more.
Hattie climbed into the coach as Ann approached. Her mother was finishing off her conversation with the housekeeper and preparing to follow her. As the countess descended the steps, Ann said, “Afternoon moth—um… your ladyship.” Her voice sounded manly and a little curled by the bumpkin accent and, embarrassed, Ann tried to straighten it out. “Are you off to go shopping in York?”
Her mother looked at her and said nothing.
“That’s a right nice get-up you’re in,” went on Ann. “Er, I mean, a lovely outfit.”
“You, boy,” said the Countess, pointing at her as though she hadn’t spoken. “Make yourself useful and carry these bags.”
Ann looked at the baggage on the step and back at her mother.
“Chop chop boy,” said the countess. “I haven’t got all day.” She walked imperiously past Ann, not even offering a please or thank you, much less making eye contact and Ann felt crestfallen. She was devoted to her mother but all the warmth and kindness had vanished from her voice and manner – the kindness that Ann had always relied upon.
She watched her mother climb into the coach with the driver’s help and realised she was going to get told off at any second for dawdling – holiday or not. If she had still been a woman she’d have shouted at any servant this slow already.
She hurried to the steps and lifted the bags, scurrying back with them to the coach where she hefted them into position on the back while the driver tied them in place. Inside the coach her mother and sister chattered away excitedly about the purchases they were going to make.
As the coach pulled away Ann was still standing there forlornly. She watched it until it was out of sight, cap once again in hand then trudged down toward the stable.
5
When he reached the station in London, Burt was surprised to see Gladys suddenly appear looking servile. The maid arranged for a porter to carry the bulk of the luggage and led him out to the street. There Gladys hailed a horse drawn cab and helped Burt into it.
Burt was whisked in this carriage through the bustling capital and he gaped out the window at the sights he never imagined in his life seeing in the flesh. After a while they pulled up outside an elegant townhouse – her ladyship’s nan’s house.
Poshly dressed servants emerged and bowed, helping Burt down from the carriage and once again it was reinforced that he was the quality now. He was the elegant lady.
It was getting dark and the evening was chilly on his soft skin as he was led inside.
There in the hallway stood Lady Ann’s nanna, a tall slender elderly lady dressed entirely in black and looking more than a little forbidding.
“Good evening Ann.”
“How do Nan,” said Burt, “Are ye’right?” He winced at the sound of his common-sounding voice and turn of phrase but it was too late. He’d already said it.
“Am I what?” asked Nanna. “And what, pray tell, did you call me?”
“Are ye… How’re ye—” Burt blushed, panicking slightly and feeling like a total dullard.
“You must be tired from your journey,” said Nanna crisply, frankly terrifying Burt as she frowned at him. He’d never met a woman quite like this. She seemed awful and he fully understood now why Lady Ann would have done anything to avoid seeing her. “Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if you were to retire. Immediately.”
“Right you are,” said Burt in broad Yorkshire, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. He was so nervous it was making it much harder to control his speech.
Nanna stared at him coldly then turned her back on him without another word, leaving him to be led upstairs by the servants.
It looked like this was going to be an awfully long two weeks.
6
Ann was having a fantastic time!
After the previous night’s escapades at the Dog & Pony she’d been excited to get back down there to have another go. Her accent still let her down (try as she might she simply couldn’t properly imitate the local clodhoppers), but she’d discovered a great way to make it so they didn’t care.
She had walked in and dropped a pile of coins on the bar, loudly announcing that she was going to buy drinks for everyone!
When they realised she wasn’t joking there had been cheers all round. Men were patting her on the back and chattering excitedly with her, grinning and laughing. It was great! It made her feel like one of the lads.
And after her experiences earlier with the coachman and her mother it was nice to be appreciated…
These bawdy men might have been simpletons but they knew enough to be grateful for free beer. Ann had never had many friends growing up. To suddenly be surrounded by so many happy people all thinking she was great was almost overwhelming emotionally. Tears actually came to her eyes it made her so happy. They really treated her like she was one of them. One of the men.
She knocked back her first pint then bought another round for everyone. That raised the celebration even more.
“What’s this in aid of Burt?” asked the Butcher. “And where did you get all this brass?”
“Lady Ann,” she replied. “She gave me a wodge of cash to thank me for a job well done… And I wanted to celebrate with me— with my… mates.”
“Well good on yer!” The butcher clapped her on the back, raising his glass. “And good on Lady Ann.” He raised his voice so that everyone could join in on the toast. “She may be a spiteful bitch from time to time…”
Ann started to open her mouth but got jostled by a laughing pit worker from behind and lost the moment.
“… but she’s paid for an almighty piss up! And for that we’re grateful! Lady Ann!”
“Lady Ann!” cried everyone in the pub.
Ann looked round at them feeling momentarily bewildered, then she raised her own glass and cried, “Lady Ann!”
She knocked that pint back and slammed it down on the bar then shouted, “Barkeep! Another round if you please!”
And everyone cheered.
7
Burt was shown up to his beautiful bedroom and after fussing round for a few minutes settling him in, Gladys disappeared to the servant’s quarters.
Burt just stood there in awe of his new surroundings.
He was in a total whirl. What had began only as half favour and half command from his precious Lady Ann had become a fantastic trip through opulence and wealth. Just imagine! Him – Burt – coming to the capital city and staying on holiday in a big mansion like this! Never once in a million years would he have expected that!
And Lady Ann had chosen not to come here – to take on his body and life instead back at Griply! It barely made sense to him.
He thought back to leaving the manor house: being helped onto the coach by the new Burt with all the servants in attendance. He’d never felt so important and esteemed.
And despite his adoration for Lady Ann, he had found it funny that she had had to help him. He actually giggled to recall ‘Burt’ telling her off for making up the word “tribulations” and ending up looking like a complete dunce in front of the people she used to command.
Burt felt guilty laughing at her beloved Ann’s expense and stopped herself, then let herself giggle away. It was Ann’s choice that she’d taken on the roll of a servant. If she acted like an idiot then she deserved to feel the fool.
He was oblivious to the subtle but important shift that had just occurred in his and the Lady Ann’s relationship but it was there. Up until then, Burt had adored her from afar as an almost mythical being, a dazzling beauty to worship and fawn over. Suddenly he saw Ann as just a person – still someone he was devoted to, but just another human being. An equal.
Or, for now, even an inferior. It was entirely subconscious.
And it wasn’t hard to do. Burt had spent his life resenting the way he was looked down on by his betters, while at the same time knowing they were his superiors. Now that he was in the role of the lady of the manor it was just such a natural perception to have that “she” was better than the “lower orders.” That was simply how everybody acted. It made it true. Ann had helped her submissively into the coach. For now ‘he’ was a servant.
“By ecky thump,” said Burt, “this is a right rum do.”
He frowned crossly, touching his slender neck in the mirror with long delicate fingers and a soft hand. He was enjoying all this luxury but felt he was letting Ann down terribly by talking like a yokel half the time. True, he’d been able to imitate the posh way the swells had of talking some of the time but he still lapsed into his typical Yorkshire brogue more often than not. He had to try harder. He tried saying it again, maintaining as feminine a pose as possible at the same time.
“Goodness gracious me. This is an awfully perplexing situation.”
The beautiful woman smiled back at him. That was much better.
“I Am Who I Am”
1
Lady Ann woke up feeling extremely grumpy.
She’d just had what had to have been the worst night’s sleep of her life. She’d staggered home pissed in the early hours of the morning, vomiting several times on the way home and then had to make her bed up when she got back to the hay barn above the stable. As a mere stable hand, Burt wasn’t given proper lodging. Now she was living his life she literally had to roll out his thin straw mattress every night and put it away in the morning. It was hardly worth the effort. She could feel the joins between the floorboards through the flimsy thing!
She’d tossed and turned for the rest of the night feeling cold, uncomfortable and queasy. Try as she might, at three o’clock in the morning, feeling like death warmed up, she’d been unable to block the draft coming in from outside in numerous places. And it was spring! Imagine how much colder it would be for the real Burt when the weather really took a turn for the worse come autumn. She thanked God she’d be back in her own warm bed long before that.
In the end she’d barely slept a wink all night and felt exhausted now – and awfully dehydrated. Like common drinking men since beer was invented, Ann vowed not to drink as much ever again!
After feeling filthy the day before she was determined to have a bath now. She actually called out Gladys’s name before she remembered she was on her own now. It was a shame Mavis hadn’t spent the night. She might have drawn a bath for her if ordered to. These servant types were all the same. Talk to them imperiously and they’d jump to it whoever you looked like.
That was her theory anyway.
Feeling increasingly irritable, Ann hunted round for the bathroom, realising quickly that there wasn’t one. Eventually she found what amounted to a bath tub hanging off a nail on the wall. It was far from the beautiful porcelain bath on dainty legs that she was used to. This was just a rusty old metal tub, barely big enough for a person.
Grumbling to herself she got it down and tried to think what came next. Gladys usually took care of everything while she was still fast asleep. She decided eventually to fill it using water from the kettle. But before she could do that she had to light the stove! Worse: there’s wasn’t any firewood to hand!
She almost gave up then and there but decided she was determined to maintain her standards. Just because she was in Burt’s body didn’t mean she couldn’t be every bit as clean and well tailored as she’s always been.
Muttering to herself she but on her boots and went out into the wood behind the stable to gather firewood, feeling all the aches of her rough night as she did so. Eventually she was ready and after cursing in a most unladylike fashion for over half an hour she got the fire lit.
Then she had to go and get water for the kettle!
This turned out to be from an open barrel outside at the back of the building! There were leaves floating on the surface and more at the bottom of the barrel but there was nowhere else to get it so she had to fill it up and tromp back upstairs.
She heated the water up then poured it into the bath with a satisfying cloud of steam as she smiled for the first time that day out of relief.
But the water barely covered the bottom of the bath!
Stamping her feet in fury, Ann went back outside and down to the barrel again and refilled the kettle. She heated it again and poured that into the tub. It barely had any effect. So she did it again. And again. And again!
When she’d filled the kettle eight times she decided that the amount of water she had would have to do. Feeling the draft from the cracks in the hay door she stripped down naked and climbed in.
The water barely covered her buttocks! And it was only lukewarm; it had taken so long to fill it! And it was so small her hairy knees were up in front of her face!
After spending a furious thirty seconds making a half-hearted attempt to clean herself, Ann clambered out of the bath and kicked it over in a fury, spilling the water all over the floor and her mattress. Just about ready to kill somebody she climbed back into her dirty clothes from the day before and sat shivering in front of the stove, regretting the entire attempt to wash herself and telling herself that being clean was highly overrated.
2
In London, Burt sank into the warm water of his bath feeling every bit the pampered woman that he looked like.
Gladys poured even more piping hot water in then tactfully withdrew as he languished in the huge bathtub – one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen! He was able to stretch out in it and it gave him the first real view of his naked female body.
He looked so beautiful and dainty. The skin on his arms and legs was so soft and smooth. He turned his tiny hands back and forth, marveling at how small they were, how soft the skin. His own man’s hands were big and callused, the fingernails bitten short but still able somehow to trap dirt. His nails now were shiny ovals, perfectly manicured and dazzlingly pretty.
It was so wonderful to slide down into the warm water and let it close round his chest and shoulders. He had always hated baths and getting clean. Now though he saw it in an entirely different light. It felt wonderful to gently cleanse his new body, running his delicate fingers along his smooth arms and legs.
He would have thought he would hate being a woman but now that he had gotten over the initial shock it was actually nice to feel so smooth and soft – and obviously it was fantastic to be so rich all of a sudden!
This really was the life!
3
Ann felt wonderful! This was why she’d made the body switch; right here!
She was galloping across the estate faster than she’d ever done before with the wind full in her face. And she was riding astride! Never had she been brave enough to spur Rosebud to such speeds and to jump the low hedges with such abandon.
Partly it was because she was riding properly for the first time in ages – like a man. Part of it was that she was a lot less timid and fearful now… more manly for want of a better word. Apart from that it was because she was a lot tougher now. If she fell off she would probably be fine in her big burly muscular body. And if she injured herself – well it wasn’t her body that was getting injured, was it?
She laughed to think of that servile bumpkin Burt dutifully taking his body back covered in scrapes and bruises and probably thanking her for it – the bootlicking cur!
It was hilarious how obsequious that little fool had always been; fawning and servile; when he could have really been enjoying life like she was! That was the difference between them though. It was her soul in this body now and that meant it had all her drive and self confidence; her willpower and her intelligence.
Once she’d had a really good ride she turned Rosebud back and set off for home happily, allowing the tired horse to go down to a trot as she went back up the drive. She dismounted in front of the stable and left Rosebud standing there as she started to wander off.
“Burt!”
Ann stopped and looked round. Harry was emerging from the stable a look of absolute fury on his whiskery face.
“What the hell do you think you’ve been doing my lad?”
“Riding,” she replied. “What does it look like?”
“And you think you can just do that whenever you damn well please; is that it?”
Ann shrugged. “Why not?”
“I’ll tell you why not you ignorant sod! Because they don’t belong to you! They belong to the earl and his family!”
“Well I can do whatever—”
“You’ll do whatever I chuffing say! I can’t believe you had the gall to take Lady Ann’s filly out! You’re barely fit to groom that horse – let alone ride it!”
“Now wait a minute—”
“Were you planning on leaving it out – saddle and all?” shouted Harry. “Well? Speak up you little turd!”
Ann couldn’t believe that Harry was speaking to her like this. It was entirely unconscionable! It was intimidating, and normally Ann might have been cowed by it as she had been the day before, but now she had the best of both worlds. She had her breeding as a lady of the manor and all the superiority that came with it and she had her newly endowed manly confidence. “As a matter of fact I was planning to leave it,” she said pompously, entirely disrupting the flow of Harry’s anger. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Lady Ann gave me two week’s off. You saw the note yourself. During that time I’ll do whatever I want!”
“You’ll unsaddle that horse and get in there and shovel the shit up as punishment for taking her out is what you’ll do!” cried Harry.
“No. I don’t think I will,” snapped Ann. “I’m on holiday and as long as I am you can do it your bloody self!”
She strode away proudly, turning her back on the ignorant man, head held high. He couldn’t tell her what to do! All it required was the proper commanding attitude and she was every bit in control as she ever was.
She really did enjoy being Burt! And she was a much better Burt than he had ever been!
4
Over brunch at the Duchess’s pristine home in the city, Burt was finding out that it wasn’t easy being a cultured woman. It wasn’t easy at all!
"Honestly Ann,” snapped the old lady. “Don't slurp your tea! You have been too long in the country and around your father.”
“Soz nan. You ain’t wrong.”
“And your accent!” she exclaimed. “You sound as if you have associating for far too long with the men from the stable!” Burt had to smile at that. “Don’t smirk girl! I’m telling you that you sound like an urchin with no breeding whatsoever! Don’t you have any shame?”
Burt looked forlornly down at his plate.
“Well? Answer me Ann! Do you want to talk like a lady or don’t you?”
“Er, well I can’t say as it’d be a bad thing.”
“Goodness gracious me! What I would have to work with! I’ve never met a lady who has gone so much to seed! You sound worse than your servant, and she has no breeding at all!”
Burt felt utterly ashamed of himself. He was letting Lady Ann down entirely by his pathetic attempt to pretend to be her.
“I see I am going to have to re-school you," said the Duchess. “There is simply nothing else for it.”
Burt gaped at her.
“I will take you while I have you young lady and mould you into the gentlewoman you should be. I will teach you to stand, sit and speak like a proper lady should, until you do it without thinking. You may not be a lady now but in two weeks time when you leave here you will be a cultured upper class woman from your head to your toes!”
5
Ann sat on her favourite clump of soft grass at the bank of her stream, there again where she’d found the magical amulet. She half expected to see something else at the water’s edge but there wasn’t anything.
She felt very very happy – more at peace than she’d felt in ages. Apart from the bath incident she was really enjoying being Burt for a change from her normal life. It was a most diverting holiday. She wouldn’t want to remain as Burt – not even a tiny part of her wanted that. Being Burt with money in her pockets and two weeks off work was one thing – when she had made the decision to become him. It would be another matter entirely actually being stuck like that – having to work while everybody and their uncle ordered her about.
No thank you.
But it was nice to pretend to be Burt. If anything it was annoying not to be able to do it perfectly. She wished she could do the voice more successfully. She found herself talking like she always had more often than not which really ruined the effect of living the Burt life to the full.
She actually wanted to pretend to be Burt for real. She remembered how much pleasure she’d had doing just that on her first night and wondered if there was a relationship between her telling herself she was really Burt and being able to talk like him.
She was planning to go out drinking again that night – and maybe see some more of Mavis. It would be much better if she could master the bumpkin accent a bit better. And also she felt she was missing out on an opportunity here if she wasn’t careful. How many people got to take a holiday this immersive – a holiday from her entire being and life. Ann was dressed in Burt’s body as she might dress in a suit of clothes, but she hadn’t become Burt. She hadn’t really taken on the whole experience at all.
And that was a real waste.
This was her only chance to fully experience life as a man and as a commoner – a member of the lower class who didn’t have to worry about pretensions and politeness but could do and take exactly what he wanted at any time.
When she was back in her own body, as a woman, she wouldn’t be able to do any of these things again. She would have missed her chance.
Sitting there on the bank, she felt like she was trying to persuade herself it wasn’t a bad idea. But it wasn’t! She was in Burt’s body for two more weeks. That was a given. Until Burt in her body returned there was absolutely no way she could change back. While she was stuck like that she should enjoy it in every way – really become Burt and live his life.
So recalling how it had worked the night before last she closed her eyes and thought, I’m Burt Harper. I’m a man. I’m a stable hand at Griply Hall, working for the Neville family.
She opened her eyes, not sure if it had had any effect. She didn’t feel too different.
I am who I am. I’m a big hairy man. I’m a servant. I’ve worked for the Neville’s my whole life. I’m nothing to them. I’m just a lowly servant. Not even that. I’m a farmhand; the lowest of the low.
She felt her penis swell suddenly and she shifted, altering her position so that her feet were more widely spaced, her pose more slovenly.
She tried saying a few phrases and smiled when she realised how much clearer her Yorkshire accent was.
“I’m Burt ‘Arper. I’m a workin’ man oop at hall. I’m not one of the Neville’s. I’m not Lady Ann. She’s a right posh lady… I’m… I’m barely fit to groom ‘er horse – let alone ride it. I could never be a woman. That’s impossible. I’m a man and I always ‘ave been. Me name’s Burt.”
She leant back against the grass, hands behind her head, feeling wonderful – incredibly relaxed and happy. She could feel the effect of this affirmation in her brain, ticking away as a slight warmth and dizziness. It felt soothing and peaceful to say it and keep saying it.
He was Burt. He was a man. He was a lower class working man who mucked out the stables and did manual labour.
Nothing more.
6
The forcible old woman started teaching Burt how to be a lady immediately.
He was told how to sit, how to eat properly, how to walk elegantly; what subjects were appropriate for dinner conversation. His new grandmother winced after every Yorkshire word
and not so gently corrected 'her granddaughter!' His head was awhirl with all this new information as he tried desperately to assimilate it – both to keep the duchess happy and to meet his side of the bargain with the real Lady Ann.
It made Burt feel like a fool trying to walk, speak and move like a woman but part of him enjoyed someone taking such an interest in improving him and making him into a better person. More and more he started to enjoy the exercise of being the best woman he could be. After admiring the quality for so long it was fantastic to pretend he was one him— or as it was, herself!
This process went on for the better part of the day as he tried his hardest to talk gentile, but it was a hopeless case. He just couldn’t lose his accent and he couldn’t stop dropping in Yorkshire colloquialisms.
“What you have to understand Ann dear,” said the duchess, is that acting and speaking like a lady has to come second. Before you can do that you have to decide that you want to be a lady.”
Burt looked back at her. Could he do that – really pretend that he wanted to be a gentlewoman?
“Once you have made that decision you have to visualize yourself as a cultured and refined lady. Stand in front of the mirror and tell yourself that’s who you are if you must but find a way to change your self-image. Only then will you stop being such an awful country bumpkin and start acting like the lady you should be.”
7
Ann walked into the Dog & Pony feeling entirely different to the way she had two nights earlier just after she’d changed. No longer did her body feel uncomfortable. She didn’t have to concentrate on moving in a masculine way. She walked with an easy masculinity that gave her a wonderful confidence.
She stroked her moustache, loving the feel of it and liking the way it complemented her manhood. Reiterating who she was now had really made a difference – as had the decision to let herself really be Burt, to wallow in the manhood in a way she had restrained herself from doing before.
“Ey oop Burt!” said the barkeep.
“Ahreet kid,” she replied. “Ow do?”
“Ah, can’t complain. You ‘ere with more brass to chuck about tonight?”
“Aye, I might be at that,” replied Ann, reveling in her improved accent. She hadn’t made one slip up yet. Telling herself she was Burt had really let his vocal patterns overtake her. “There’s some beer in ‘ere wi’ my name on I’ll tell you that much. Start linin’ em up. I want to get me some jars in afore it gets dark and get right trollied up this ev’nin!”
The barkeep raised his voice over the din. “Burt’s buying again lads! Come’n get ‘em!”
There were cheers all round and Ann grinned as she got slapped on the back some more.
They started telling saucy stories and she started laughing along with them. And the bawdier the stories got, the louder Ann laughed, hammering her fist down on the bar. And the Yorkshire accent continued to flow. If anything it got even richer as the evening went on.
At about ten o’clock, when she was well and truly bladdered once again it occurred to Ann in a moment of quiet that she’d not slipped on talking like a yokel once since that afternoon. She could talk like a working man freely now as much as she wanted.
“Ah’ve nivver seen the like o’this,” she said to nobody in general, pursuing the fantasy. “I’m a bloke now through and through.” She necked her pint and gave a deep chuckle. “I’m a salt of the earth workin’ man and no mistake. I’m Burt ‘Arper and that’s who I’ll be for the rest of me days.”
8
Exhausted from his long day of lessons, Burt allowed Gladys to help him prepare for bed and then, after the maid excused herself, spent the next few minutes rubbing cream into his smooth arms.
It felt really nice to be in such opulent surroundings and to be living the life of a swell – even if he wasn’t really one of them. Even doing something like this – pampering his new body – felt right. He had never taken care of himself before but it was a good feeling to be doing it – however silly it was to be doing women’s things.
But it made him think about what Ann’s nanna had said. He needed to think of himself as a woman if he was going to act like one. He still wasn’t sure he really wanted to act like a lady but he had given his word to Lady Ann that he would do his best.
With this in mind he went and stood in front of a looking glass and stared into his beautiful eyes, looking up and down at the beautiful woman he now was.
“Well I guess for now,” he said, “I am who I am.” He decided to tell himself who he now was, so he could set it in his mind – so he could really think of himself as a lady.
“I am Lady Ann Neville. I’m a beautiful well-bred woman and I always have been. I am the eldest daughter of the Earl Neville and have lived in the manor since I was a little girl.”
It felt odd to say that but it also seemed to help make her feel more comfortable; more at ease in that body.
“I’m Lady Ann Neville. My parents are the earl and countess. My sister’s name is Harriet… Hattie. I’m the eldest daughter. I’m a cultured and refined lady.”
The more he said it, the easier it became and he found it easier too to speak in a more refined way.
“I am a perfectly well spoken woman; and why wouldn’t I be? I have been brought up in the upper classes. I’m a lady of royal blood.
“I’m Lady Ann Neville and I always have been.”
Feeling at Home
1
Ann gasped as she was knocked from a deep sleep by a bucket of water being thrown in her face.
She floundered about on her straw mattress, gasping and spluttering as she tried to catch her breath. It was freezing and horrible and half of it had gone down her throat. She’d never been woken up in such an awful way in her life!
Harry, the groundkeeper, was standing over where she lay, laughing at the way she spluttered.
“What the chuffing ‘eck is goin’ on?” groaned Ann. “I was fast asleep.” This time she didn’t even notice that her clodhopper accent was perfect.
“That’s for talking back to me yesterday Burt,” said Harry. “And you deserve more like a good whipping so you’d best be glad of it.”
“Eh?”
“Now get your bony ass out of that bed and get downstairs and muck out those ‘orses!”
Ann didn’t move straight away, trying to clear her muggy hangover so Harry put his boot against her shoulder and knocked her off the mattress.
“Come on bucko! Up you get! There’s work to be done and shit needing shoveling!”
“But I’m on ‘oliday,” said Ann. ”I’s got a note from ‘er ladyship.”
“That was before you stole her ‘orse and took it out for a joyride! I might not be able to go against her note to put you back to work for the fortnight but I can sure as hellfire punish you for doing that!”
Ann gaped up at the burly older man in horror. “But my note…”
“Don’t mean nothing if I says so! Now get up!”
Ann got to her feet. “I ain’t doing nothing,” she snapped back, “and you can’t make me as long as I’ve got my note from Lady Ann.”
“Oh I can’t, can I?” Harry grinned, rolling up his sleeves. “Well I can go and talk to his lordship, the earl, can’t I?”
Ann blanched.
“How would you feel if the earl knew you’d taken one of his horses out without a by your leave, eh? I think you might find a note written by that stuck up daughter of his’d get you exactly nowhere.”
“You wouldn’t,” said Ann.
“Oh I would Burt me bucko! I’d do that quicker than you could say Jack Robinson.” He grinned, folding his arms. “The earl’d be down ‘ere in less than a minute to clap you in irons and pack you off to jail. Or worse!”
“No!” said Ann, truly terrified of that happening. “I’m sorry. I’ll do it. Just don’t tell the earl please!”
Harry chuckled. “Come on then boyo. There’s a right big pile of shit waiting for you. I want it sacked up for compost in ‘arf an hour!”
2
Burt dressed in yet another new outfit of elegant clothes while Gladys obsequiously helped, then applied his own make-up, for the first time without any help.
He looked at himself in the mirror, really allowing himself to take in what he was seeing: the woman’s hair, eyes, skin, lips, cheeks, earrings, neck, arms, shoulders, breasts, clothes.
He gave himself a little smile then recalled what he had done the night before and said, “I’m Lady Ann Neville. I was born into the upper class and have been brought up to be a well bred and well spoken young woman. I am refined and intelligent and I plan to spend the day with my grandmamma. First we shall go to church, then the two of us have a luncheon engagement. Later we might return home to enjoy dinner and a quiet evening.”
He continued to smile at himself then quietly got up and went down to breakfast.
3
Ann filled shovel after shovel with horse shit, tipping it into the top of an open sack.
While she did it she grumbled to herself but not loudly enough so that Harry could hear. She daren’t risk him calling her father down to deal with her. It was one thing for Lady Ann to give a stable boy the fortnight off. It was another thing entirely for the earl himself to get involved.
He was an incredibly strict taskmaster. If he heard of her stealing a horse then the absolute best that could happen to her would be an ending of her holiday and a fortnight spent tending the horses and doing manual labour around the estate. Far more likely was that she would get a whipping or be locked in the stocks overnight. Elsewhere in the country the stocks were barely used anymore but she knew how much her father liked them and she couldn’t think of a fate worse than being the subject of his wrath while she was in this body.
He might throw her out into the cold without a place to stay or even have the police cart her off to prison. It was impossible to predict how the old toff might react.
Which was why she was shoveling horse shit up off the stable floor. Again. And saying nothing about it.
The day before she’d been telling herself she really was Burt and having a lot of fun as a result. But this was other side of that. As long as she was Burt she couldn’t just take out her ladyship’s— She couldn’t just take her horse out whenever she pleased. Because there were consequences for the likes of her.
For the likes of her.
Ann reflected on that, pausing with a spade full of dung.
Although she’d enjoyed pretending, was she really one of the lower orders now? Was she really nothing more than a servant; a manual labourer?
She shook her head. No. She still had her mind. She was Burt in looks and voice but she was still Lady Ann on the inside in all the ways that mattered.
Unfortunately, being Burt on the outside right now meant that she had to pay the price for what she’d done…
“Burt!”
She jerked round. Harry was in the stable doorway with his fists on his hips. “Stop dawdling you stupid great wazzock and get back to work!”
Ann rushed, trying to put the horse shit into the open sack but the top kept flopping over. In the end she had to hold it open with one hand while tipping the dung in with the other. She tried not to get the dung on her but it was almost impossible. In the end she stopped caring, just shoveling away, not worrying if the crap got on her hand. She could wash later.
Finally she got the sack full and hefted it up against her chest. Holding it there she walked round to the back of the stable where the sacks of dung were stored.
But half way round she tripped on a rock and stumbled forward. The sack split and all the horse dung smeared down her shirt and down her trousers.
“Oh for chuff’s sake!” cried Ann.
But Harry just laughed at her. “Go and get the shovel,” he said, “and start over from scratch you clumsy idiot!”
4
Burt sat demurely beside his new grandmamma in church, listening intently to the sermon.
He had always been God fearing and it made him comfortable to be here in these surroundings – even if they were far posher than he was used to. St Paul’s Cathedral was a step up from Griply chapel and no mistake.
It was funny to be here in church in the body of a gentile lady, all dressed up in her Sunday best; a lady of the manor and heiress to a Yorkshire estate.
All his life, Burt had attended church services where the vicar waxed on about the gap between the classes. He’d been told a thousand times about God’s intentions when it came to the upper and lower classes.
The basic principle was this:
The upper classes had been chosen, by God, to be in charge. They were physically and mentally superior and had that God-given right to rule.
The lower orders, by contrast, were inferior to their betters. It was their place to work from dawn til dusk to get things done while the quality watched over them and kept them safe. The lower classes couldn’t manage without the upper classes. The lower classes were less important and generally less human than were the upper classes.
Which brought some interesting thoughts to mind.
Because of course, Burt now was part of the upper class. He was in the body of an upper class woman. He was Lady Ann now. So surely that meant that he had joined that ruling class, even though it was temporary. For the next two weeks he was one of them – one of the elite.
And by extension, his darling Ann, her ladyship… she was one of the lower orders. If he had become Ann then she must have become Burt. He was upper class and she was lower class.
He went on musing while the bible reading began.
That meant then, surely, that she was… inferior to him at the moment. He had become one of the God chosen rulers. She had become one of the ruled – one of the workers.
It was funny to think of her that way – and these were only harmless ruminations; but still… The image of his Lady Ann looking like a common stable boy was rather amusing. Burt pictured her, accurately as it turned out, shoveling horse dung up off the floor dressed in his tatty old clothes and giggled to himself, covering his mouth with a silk handkerchief.
It was so funny to think of her as a lower class working man!
5
Ann lifted her dirty trousers in front of her in the hayloft and sighed at how filthy they were.
The sodden horse manure had left stains all down the front of the thighs and onto the lower legs. And that was just the trousers. Her arms were dirty too and her hands and fingers were ingrained with it.
It occurred to her that she was standing with bare hairy legs and buttocks, her penis flopping in the breeze, thinking how to go about doing her own laundry.
“It caps owt, this does,” she said. “Only a man’d stand ‘ere three sheets to the wind, his todger hangin’ out an’ covered in shite.”
She found an old bit of rag that wasn’t much cleaner than her trousers and wet it with water from the kettle, then she dabbed at the shit on her trousers, doing as much to rub it in as to wipe it off. She did the same to her shirt, swiping half-heartedly at it with her nose crinkled. It was barely done properly but it’d have to do. She didn’t have all day to waste and she was getting cold sitting there in her birthday suit.
She sniffed her fingers and winced at the stink, eyeing the horseshit trapped under her fingernails. Really she needed a bath; her and her clothes, but after the debacle the morning before that was the last thing she wanted to waste time doing.
She settled in the end for using the dirty cloth to wipe her hands with, then she put her clothes back on and threw the cloth down on her bedspread, absently chewing her fingernail.
6
After church, Burt and the duchess had lunch with a pair of very dull old ladies.
The conversation was dreary but it gave Burt the opportunity to test his skills at emulating Lady Ann in public. It was feeling a little less strange being a woman in front of other people now. He guessed he was getting used to it. Telling himself he was really Ann had helped immensely. He made a note to keep doing it regularly.
Despite feeling more at ease in his body and in polite company, Burt was still feeling increasingly skittish for some other reason he couldn’t put his finger on. Then Grandmamma hit the nail on the head.
“Oh do stop fidgeting Ann. If you want a cigarette then just take one. You’ve been eyeing mine for long enough now.”
Surprised, Burt took one of the offered cigarettes. He had never smoked in his life but he did remember now seeing her ladyship partake of it from time to time. He supposed that as he had her body now he had her likes and dislikes as well – her cravings and her addictions.
He placed the long feminine cigarette between his lips and accepted the light offered by Grandmamma’s manservant, drawing in a long breath and immediately feeling a relief of the tension he had been feeling.
He held the cigarette between two long slim fingers and blew out the smoke in a stream before taking another satisfying drag.
“Is that what the doctor ordered Ann dear?” asked the duchess.
“Indeed it is Grandmamma,” replied Burt. “This is precisely what I needed. Thank you so very much.”
7
Ann was not happy as she stomped her way down to the village.
She’d had a simply awful morning so far, what with being woken up by a pail of water, shoveling horse shite and then having to clean her own clothes. She was sick of hanging around the hall and being treated like a servant – even when she had the time off and the money to be something better!
And she was sick of having to walk to the village too! She didn’t see why she couldn’t take the coach or one of the horses down there. She was the earl’s daughter, whatever she might look like!
It crossed her mind to tell everyone that was who she was even, so that they’d start giving her the respect she deserved. But of course no one would believe her – especially without Burt in her body to corroborate it. Maybe she should have done that in the first place: explained what she was doing to her family and staff and then sent Burt off in her body while she lounged round the manor as a man, accepted by all in her rightful role while also being able to get up to mannish activities.
Except that would never have worked out. She knew that. She couldn’t tell anyone about the amulet for fear that they would steal it. And how awful would that be – being stuck as Burt for the rest of her life!?
No. She just had to find a way to go back to enjoying herself and she already had the perfect plan.
It had been niggling away at her that she’d missed out on the shopping trip to York with her mother and sister, but there was no reason she couldn’t go on her own! She had more than enough money to pay for the train and for food and lodgings when she was there.
She stopped at the Dog & Pony on the way to the railway station to let Mavis know she was going.
She wasn’t around and neither was her father but the strumpet’s brothers were leaning on the bar, wasting the day away.
“Ow do,” said Ann. “Is Mavis in?”
“No one is,” replied Eddie, the eldest.
“Right. Well do us a favour and give ‘er a message willya.”
Eddie sneered. “Write her a note. I ain’t your social secretary.” His brother, Will, chuckled. “There’s pencil and paper over there. Help yerself.”
Grumbling to herself, Ann took up the stationery and started to write.
Deer
She wracked her brains for a minute then said, “Do you know ‘ow to spell Mavis?”
The brothers blanked her entirely, not even responding but smiling a little at their own unhelpfulness.
Deer Mayvic
… wrote Ann…
I iss gowin two yawke this afterrn today.
She frowned, becoming increasingly frustrated by her inability to write properly. If anything it seemed even more difficult now than it had been before.
I weel de bak twomor tooumorr Mundee.
She scrabbled up the note in anger and threw it on the floor then relented and picked it back up, smoothing it out. It would have to do.
She signed it:
Burt
… and set off for the station.
But when she got there she found she had a three hour wait because it was Sunday service.
When the train finally turned up Ann was in a foul mood. This got even worse when she was pointed in the direction of third class.
“But I c’n pay for first class!” she whined.
“First class isn’t for labourers and thugs,” said the train guard. “You’re going to have to sit back there with the rest of the rabble.”
“No,” said Ann. “I’s got the money! I should ruddy well be able to sit where I like!”
“Is there a problem here?”
A tall man in a suit and coat had just appeared with dark hair and a moustache. He was well dressed and obviously one of the quality and was gripping a cane as though he might at any moment strike her with it.
“No problem,” said the guard. “This… person is refusing to use the third class carriage.”
“Oh is he now?” asked the man and Ann suddenly recognized him.
“Ere, I know you don’t I?” she said.
“What?”
“Aye. That’s right. You’ve been up at Griply seein’ me… Seein me ladyship, Ann… as a suitor.”
“That’s right,” said the man, who Ann remembered now was called Richard. He’d been a bit too smarmy for her but he was very rich and a great sportsman; a boxing champion as she recalled. She suddenly felt very embarrassed standing here in front of him dressed as a working class yob.
“Look,” said Richard. “What’s your name?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say ‘Ann,’ but she managed to restrain herself. Instead, feeling humiliated she said “Burt” instead.
“And what do you do Burt?”
“I…” She didn’t want to say it. Saying it to herself was one thing. Admitting it to a man she knew, who had previously been pursuing her hand in marriage, was something far far worse. “I work up at the ‘all; mucking out the stables and such. Shovelling shite; carryin’ stuff; that sort of thing.”
“So you’re a manual labourer? Is that so?”
Ann cleared her throat. “Aye. I suppose.”
“Well Burt,” said Richard crisply, “Have you ever heard of a manual labourer whose job description is shite shoveller sitting at the front of the train in first class?”
Feeling cowed, Ann shook her head.
“Wouldn’t you say that that kind of man would be better suited to sitting in third class?”
“But I got money to pay—!”
“Look I’m sorry my good man,” said Richard, stepping closer so that he was face to face and eye to eye with her, his expression hardening. “I don’t think you understand. I’ve tried appealing to your better nature as a gentleman but now I see that you clearly don’t have any breeding at all.”
Ann flushed with embarrassment as every passerby on the station platform stopped to listen in.
“If you don’t go and get into third class where you belong then I’ll give you a bloody good thrashing,” snapped Richard, brandishing his cane threateningly. “Is that clear?”
Ann nodded, unable to reply because her throat had tightened up.
“I said is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Ann.
“Yes what, you ignorant oaf!”
“Yes… sir.”
Richard glared at her. “Well go on then boy. Be off with you!”
She turned to go, feeling utterly humiliated and he gave her a sharp crack on the buttocks to speed her up. Everyone on the platform laughed. The men and women in the train windows laughed and so did Richard and the guard.
With her eyes hot and her face steaming, Ann struggled into the crowded third class carriage, squeezing into a grossly overcrowded bench seat between some squealing urchins and some other men.
All of them were smirking at the dressing down that Richard had given her and she hunkered into her seat, glaring angrily at the shoes of the man opposite.
8
Burt had really taken to smoking, and as another activity that Lady Ann had done before and he hadn’t, it made him feel even more feminine while he was doing it.
He stood at the back door of the duchess’s house, enjoying the sunshine on his face and having yet another day of luxurious living without having to work. Since he’d been a lad he’d always had to work most every day of the week – even Sundays. Now, as Lady Ann, his entire life involved simply lounging about and doing nothing more than chat.
Yes, his new grandmamma drilled him every chance she got with better practice on being a lady but he still enjoyed that to some extent. And it certainly beat mucking out the horses!
There was a stable hand here, working in the yard, oiling the leather of the saddles, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Burt watched him working for a while as he enjoyed his cigarette then sauntered over.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Oh. Sorry m’lady,” said the stable hand. “I didn’t see you there.”
“No matter. I was just seeing what you was doing.” Burt’s voice had slipped naturally back into his Yorkshire accent but he didn’t particularly notice.
“Just oiling these down,” said the stable hand. “It’s not too bad. Should be finished soon.”
“People don’t appreciate how much ‘ard work it is what you do, I bet,” said Burt.
The stable hand looked at him oddly. “No. They don’t at that.”
“You should get more thanks,” said Burt. “You’re doing a grand job out ‘ere.”
“Er, thank you m’lady. And if I might say ma’am, it’s nice to meet a member of the upper classes who isn’t so… so stuck up as some of them round here.”
Burt froze, feeling suddenly bad, like he’d let himself down.
He’d been standing here talking with this stable hand like he was still just like him. And he’d been talking broad Yorkshire at the same time – doing the opposite of what he was meant to.
He’d let himself down and he’d let grandmamma down. Worst of all he’d let Lady Ann herself down.
“I have to go,” he murmured and hurried back inside.
9
By the time she reached the city of York, Ann was feeling a whole lot better.
It was great to be able to walk the familiar streets looking up at the beautiful old buildings. She let herself drift, enjoying the freedom of being able to explore the big city as she pleased without fear, eventually working her way through to the Shambles, the famous narrow shopping streets with their quaint timbre framed buildings.
It was here that she usually came to buy pretty dresses designed by the best seamstresses in the north. Looking down at her muscular body and grubby clothes she couldn’t help chuckling at how inappropriate it would be now to go in for a fitting.
Feeling slightly disappointed she walked on, gravitating toward the theatre district. There was a delightful restaurant there that she went to on every trip to the city with her family before taking in a play. Indeed, as she approached, she spied her mother and sister already inside, seated at their usual table, chattering happily while drinking from china teacups.
She felt a little left out that she couldn’t join them, but she could imagine their reaction if “Burt the stable hand” strolled in and took a seat beside them stinking of horse shit. Still, that didn’t stop her going in and having a nice meal.
What did stop her was the doorman: an overdressed bloke in top hat and tails who sneered menacingly when she tried to walk past him. “We don’t want any trouble friend,” he said.
Ann considered giving him some anyway but she caught another look at her mother through the glass. The last thing she wanted was for the duchess to see her shouting at, or brawling with, this idiot just to get into a restaurant. She would die of shame if that happened.
Instead she scowled and shoved her hands in her pockets, walking off.
When she got to the theatre it was the same story as it had been on the train. They didn’t care how much money she had. She wasn’t allowed to sit on the posh seats she was used to. She had to join the rabble in the stalls where they were crammed in on bare wooden benches, far further away from the stage than she’d ever sat. The uncouth peasants just chattered and shouted anyway. She didn’t know why they were even there. To cap it all she saw her mother and sister take box seats as the play started.
She tried to ignore the racket from the heathens around her. The play was Shakespeare, which she’d always loved. But whether it was the shuffling around her, the discomfort of the seats, or the low quality of the performance, Ann found this particular production tedious.
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” said one of the actors, “than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Ye don’t know the half of it and then some,” muttered Ann.
As the first act went on she found it slow and boring, the dialogue over wordy and hard to follow. In the end, bored and frustrated, she got up and left.
What did she care anyway? She hadn’t been that bothered to see it. The toffs could keep their dull ruddy plays to themselves!
10
In London, as he prepared for another good night’s sleep between silk sheets, Burt looked at himself in the mirror once more, saying the words, “I’m Lady Ann Neville. I’m a cultured and intelligent young woman – an upper class lady and daughter of the earl Neville.”
He’d been doing this whenever he got the chance and had found that it made it much easier to slip into his temporary role. The trouble was that he kept contradicting himself in his mind; part of himself reminding him that he was really Burt. That was the problem. It was all well and good telling himself he was Ann but he still felt connected to his life as a man.
Still feeling guilty for how he’d talked with the stable hand and knowing he had to do well for fear of letting his darling Ann down, Burt tried a different tack to cement that side of things and distance himself from the Burt persona.
“I’m not Burt and I never have been,” he said. “He’s just a big oafish labourer who doesn’t deserve to even look at me. He’s a pathetic commoner who’s plainly besotted with me. Like that would ever happen. I’d sooner marry a monkey than get close enough to that smelly man to let him kiss me.”
He felt guilty saying these things but they really helped him to blot out the lingering clumsiness of action and voice that had come from his old life. Each time he said it he found his accent becoming more in line with Lady Ann’s and less like idiotic bumpkin talk. He went through his reaffirmation several more times before going to sleep, reminding himself not only that he was Lady Ann, but that Burt Harper was someone entirely different – someone who deserved nothing but scorn and disgust.
11
After starting to hate the looks of scorn she got from the stuck up toffs in that end of town, Ann ended up walking until she saw more men dressed like she was. The buildings were shabbier, the streets dirtier, but she found herself feeling more at home without the withering stares. The men here didn’t disrespect her. If anything she got friendly nods and the odd leering smile from the women.
These weren’t snobs like those snooty toffee-nosed prigs she’d seen at the restaurant and in the posh end of town. These were just good honest working men you could trust – salt of the earth blokes who’d never do you harm.
There was some right lively tunes coming from a sleazy looking music hall on the corner and Ann went inside, buying herself a beer and taking a seat near the front.
The show was bloody hilarious – really bawdy like – with some rib-tickling comic sketches and silly dance routines. Every so often they broke it up with a song. It was nothing like that pretentious crap at the big theatre. These were songs you could sing along with and feel like you were joining in!
At the interval, Ann had another couple of pints and bought a round or two in for the blokes she got chatting to at the bar. They had a right laugh joking about what kind of knickers the leading lady was wearing and what it’d be like depriving them of her!
Then it was back in for the second half and more hilarity. Ann was three sheets to the wind by this time and laughed louder than anyone else in the hall, throwing her head back and applauding. She had a whale of a time!
Afterwards she went for more drinks at the pub across the road, chatting to the cast of the show and buying jars for all. That made her very popular and several of the lady dancers flirted with her.
After an hour or so, when she was really getting off her head, she managed to persuade one of the dancers to go out back with her. She was a skinny little thing dressed in little more than a sheath of glitzy fabric and Ann felt a pounding in her crotch to have her way with the girl.
With the girl snorting and giggling piggishly, Ann pushed her into the outside toilet and made her bend over, her hands on the opposite wall, the toilet bowl beneath her. Ann undid her trousers, letting them fall down round her ankles again and grunted as she forced her erect cock into the girl’s soggy minge from behind, just like an animal would do it.
Bleary-eyed drunk, Ann pumped into the girl, whacking her pelvis against her buttocks as the girl screeched with pleasure. Ann roared with passion too and they ended up climaxing together, Ann hammering her over and over again from behind until they were both gasping.
She staggered back inside, leaving the girl to recover and set her clothes right, alone out in the cold. By the time the girl came back in, Ann was already chatting up her friend and twenty minutes later took her out to the gents as well to give her a right good seeing to.
Later she found herself in on a conversation between two dock workers. They were going on about the rising problems of inflation and income tax but Ann found her mind wandering. They just kept discussing different figures and calculating the amount of earnings they’d lose because of it. Then they went on to talk about politics and the differing policies of the prime minister and the head of the opposition.
Pissed out of her skull, Ann knocked the one bloke’s beer over, just so she could see the look on his face, then pointed at him laughing as he got angrier.
Next thing she knew she was wrestling with him on the floor of the pub until she got him in a head lock and pounded him in the face until he begged to be let go.
She staggered out of the place laughing to herself.
There had been a few shit things through the day but once she’d found somewhere she felt comfortable, she’d had a great time of it!
From Head to Toe
1
Anne woke up with a stretch and a yawn. The hotel she’d slept in was the best she could find in the scummier end of the city of York. It was a bit shabby but the bed was fifty times more comfortable than her pallet back at Griply manor and there were no gaps in the walls and window. It was probably the best night’s sleep she’d had since becoming Burt.
Since becoming Burt…
Ann tossed the covers back. She’d slept naked and she looked down the length of her muscular male body; at the hair on her chest and stomach and legs and at her thick masculine cock nestled in its pubic hair.
She took it in her callused hand and gently massaged it as she thought back to night before – taking those two slappers into the toilets behind the pub and shagging them hard from behind, one after the other. The more she thought about it, the more aroused she became and the more relaxed.
I love being a man, she thought to herself. I love being Burt.
Her penis was huge now, the big vein along its lower length pressing outwards as it engorged itself on blood.
She thought about the hilarious show she’d seen and the drinks with her new mates and even the fight she’d ended up getting into. And all the time she stroked her cock, running her big hairy hand up and down the shaft.
“I am Burt,” she said, caressing her knackers with the stubby fingers of her other hand. “I’m Burt ‘Arper, the stable hand at Griply ‘all. I’m a big burly hairy man and I ‘ave been since the day I was born.”
Hearing the sound of her man’s voice, thick with its Yorkshire accent, made her even more aroused. She didn’t rush what she was doing though. She drew it out slowly, just really relaxing into the pleasure, finding it intensifying the more she visualized herself as she was now – as a salt-of-the-earth working man.
She wanted it to carry on though so she let her mind wander, continuing to intensify the identification with herself as Burt; needing it to overwhelm her.
“I don’t fit into those posh places,” she said. “Not no more. I only fit in with me own kind now – with working men like me. Me own kind ain’t stuck up like those snobs at the restaurant. Me own kind’d never let a man like me down.”
She let herself drift, loving the slow sensation – the fantasy of pretending to be Burt. And she knew that the more she kept saying it, the more her accent changed; the more she really sounded like she was Burt. And that turned her on even more.
She was getting close to a climax now and she started pumping harder, looking down her body at her cock and her hairy legs; at her muscles and her overriding masculinity. Nothing that she was seeing said woman. She was a man from head to toe.
“I’m Burt!” she gasped. “I’m Burt!
“I’m a worthless lower class oike!
“An idiot!
“A dozy twonk!
“A filthy working class pillock!”
Then she came, spurting semen up onto her chest as she rocked with the force of her orgasm.
She lay panting for several minutes, loving the complete sense of relaxation and calm.
Then she sat up and swung her bare legs onto the floor.
“Ooah,” she groaned. “That was reet chuffing greet that was. Reet champion. Reet chuffin greet.”
Her voice sounded exactly like Burt’s now. And her sloppy masculine posture was his too. There wasn’t anything in the slightest bit feminine about her. And she loved it! It was great to play the part so perfectly. She’d been right to immerse herself in it. Strutting about like a woman in a man’s body had been a waste of the whole experience. Now she was loving every second.
It made her wonder what it would be like going back into her body. Would she retain her clodhopper accent for a day or two and still walk like a man? That would be hilarious!
But it would go soon enough if she just kept telling herself she was Ann again. There was no risk of getting stuck this way. And she could still talk like a swell whenever she wanted to anyway.
“I say,” she said, doing it now. “Awfully good show, what!”
She gave a manly chuckle. This certainly was the best of both worlds.
She got to her feet, remembering her intention to maintain her standards of cleanliness while she was living Burt’s life. Here in the hotel she’d probably be able to pay for a bath to be drawn for her.
But it seemed a bit pointless to be perfectly honest. Why bother putting on airs? The whole point was that she enjoy being Burt – not pretend to be some jumped up pansy. And bathing took far too long. She wanted to get out and enjoy the city by day as a man!
So instead she pulled on her dirty trousers and shirt, and her waistcoat and boots. There was a musty smell of horse shit and stale beer on the clothes but Ann shrugged. If they wouldn’t let her into posh establishments or first class carriages anyway then what did it matter?
2
While Burt and the duchess sat at breakfast on the balcony in the sunshine overlooking the park, Gladys fussed about making sure everything was perfect – checking that they had everything they needed.
Burt watched her, smiling wryly, while grandmamma read her novel. It was very funny to see Gladys being servile around him when for years she had looked down her nose at him. She had always put on airs, making out that she was superior, just because she worked directly for the gentry inside the manor instead of doing the manual work out in the farm buildings.
This was a real turnabout and Burt relished it. He would have loved for her to know who he really was but obviously he couldn’t possible expose his secret.
Instead he settled for saying, “Go and fetch me a fresh cup of coffee Gladys. This one’s gone awfully cold.”
“Yes m’lady. Sorry m’lady.” Gladys took the cup.
“And be quick about it this time. It was your dawdling that let it go cold the first time.”
“Sorry m’lady. Right away.”
Gladys backed away from the table looking flustered and ashamed and Burt’s wry smile broadened.
3
Ann had always loved to visit York Minster as a child.
It was a beautiful old cathedral with ornate architecture and a staggeringly beautiful interior. It was there, as a girl, she’d longed one day to be married. For many an hour she’d whiled away the time, imagining a handsome and wealthy lord coming to whisk her away from the tedium of Griply Hall to a life of great opulence. It was always here that she envisioned the wedding, filled to bursting with only the most highly appointed guests. She would be wearing a gorgeous white wedding dress with a train that ran back down the aisle thirty feet or more, carried by a whole cluster of pretty bridesmaids. It was the perfect place of her dearest childhood dreams.
Now though she was finding it boring as shite.
It had seemed a good idea to walk over here and wander round as she’d always loved to do but it really did seem pointless now she was here. What was the point of looking at a few spiky bits on an old church. Church was dull enough at the best of times. Wasting a perfectly good day in York looking round one was just plain stupid.
Ann got away from there as quickly as possible, hands in her pockets, cap firmly on, eyes wandering for something else to fill the time that wasn’t so pretentious and dull. She sneered at the rich folk strolling round gazing up at the place like it was important. They were all just wasting their time while trying to make out they was cultured or something.
As she strolled on she mused over how she was seeing life differently now. She supposed the obvious thought was that spending time inside Burt’s body and brain was influencing her likes and dislikes but she didn’t think that was it.
Being Burt was just giving her a fresh perspective. She was seeing life how a man sees it. Having a comparison allowed her to see her former interests from a new angle. It was nothing to do with what body she was in. If she, as Lady Ann, had been able to do and see the things she had recently then she’d have reached all the same conclusions.
Shakespeare was boring and confusing. All that pretentious old fashioned language was just there to make people feel inferior if they didn’t waste hours trying to decipher it. She didn’t have hours to waste! Now she’d discovered them she’d take a good music hall show any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
Same with wandering round old buildings. Rich people only did that stuff because they didn’t know there were better things to be done. Now she’d seen life on both sides of the curtain, Ann knew there were plenty of more interesting activities she could be getting on with.
And she was heading toward one now…
4
Burt and the duchess took a turn around the park as grandmamma’s manservant and Gladys walked ten paces behind in case they required anything.
Burt was wearing a beautiful long dress and white lace gloves. He wore a delicate wide-brimmed hat and carried a pretty little sun umbrella. Grandmamma was wearing her typical black.
“I must say Ann, your English has certainly improved over the last two days. You’ve been working hard.”
“Why thank you grandmamma,” replied Burt, feeling very proud of himself. “I am doing my best.”
“Well I must be a good teacher,” said the duchess. “When you came here you were acting very much the country bumpkin. Now I think you’d pass as a lady anywhere. It’s been an incredible transformation.” She smiled thinly. “I might even suggest it to an acquaintance of mine named George. He’s been looking for the subject of a new play.”
They walked on quietly.
Burt was elated. He felt that he’d finally done something right – doing more than a passing job of impersonating his beloved Lady Ann. He would never have guessed that he could do it but he had. He felt every bit the cultured lady as he took one ladylike step after another.
It still felt startling to be out in public, not only dressed as and looking like a woman, but acting like one as well! But as everyone around him not only accepted it, but expected it, it was becoming easier to accept himslef.
And if he was this good at being a woman now after only four days, how much more womanly would he be behaving at the end of the fortnight?!
5
After another hour’s walk back to the seedier side of the city, Ann started to feel a lot more comfortable again. It was strange. After being brought up in fancy houses and well-appointed manors, now she felt out of place if there wasn’t trash on the floor and filth and rust everywhere.
It all came down, she supposed to how she had been treated lately.
Among the quality she was looked down on and sneered at. Amongst the lower orders she was just treated decently; respected even because of the cash she had and her willingness to throw it about a bit. Coupled with the freedom of speech and action she still felt, it wasn’t a contest. Being around other people of her class was definitely better.
But that made her stop and pause for a minute.
People of her class…
Did she really think of herself as lower class now?
Surely not.
But she did. Sort of. But only in a positive way. She just saw the stuck up people from the upper class more objectively now. She looked down on them! If anything she saw herself as above every class now as she had all the best of all the differing traits.
Eventually she found the kind of establishment she was looking for.
As a woman she’d never been to one of course – had never even seen one! Truth be told she hadn’t even heard about them until the night before at the pub after the show where one of the other blokes told her how good there was a time to be had there.
Well after that she had to try it out. So here she was.
The cathouse was a sleazy-looking building on a back street with shutters hanging loose and paint peeling. In her former days she’d have run screaming from a place like that but she wasn’t chicken no more. Now she wasn’t afraid of nothing.
Outside the front a couple of slags were standing to lure blokes in, dressed in skimpy dresses that showed off their legs and cleavage. They were shockingly shameless but Ann just loved to look at them, even though they were scrawny; their cheeks sunken.
“You look well ‘ung luv,” one of them said. “Fancy a bit o fun?”
Ann grinned proudly. “Aye. Don’t mind if I do. With you or some other bit of fluff inside?”
“Inside,” said the whore. “Go on in. They’re waitin’.”
Ann gave her a nod and went through the door. The interior was dark with candles the only lighting. Ann was led by a matronly madam into the back where she had the choice of a young girl with barely tits to speak of, an older wrinkle-faced bike or a chink.
She chose the chink and got led up the narrow staircase to a tiny room with barely space for a three quarter sized bed.
The Chinese girl barely spoke English but Ann didn’t mind. She liked not having to talk first. That always seemed like a waste of time.
“I suck you,” said the chink. “I suck you good.”
“No,” said Ann, pushing the skinny girl back on the bed. “Spread your legs. If I’m paying then I want to get me money’s worth.”
“I suck you rear good,” said the whore.
“No,” said Ann, forcing her legs apart and pinning her down. “I told you. If’n I’m payin’ then I wants me money’s worth.”
The girl grunted as Ann put her weight on her and let out a little sigh as she was penetrated. She smelled of cheap perfume and some other oriental foody smell she couldn’t identify.
“Oooh. That’s good mistah. That’s rear good!”
“Shut up,” said Ann. “I didn’t come here to chat.”
6
Burt had never been to see a production of Shakespeare in a theatre or anywhere else. He had never had an interest in serious theatre, though he’d always enjoyed the farces and musical productions put on in Griply square by travelling players when he got the chance.
This was something else entirely.
It was a lavishly expensive production with extraordinary sets and costumes. The actors carried themselves with such power and presence. When they had started talking in their slightly archaic language he had sighed, thinking that he’d never understand a word, but in fact he picked up the meaning very easily.
It was a greatly moving production of King Lear and he found himself responding at a deeply emotional level to the scenes played out. He wondered why he’d never bothered with real theatre before. He had missed so much from his pointless life before now. It had been a total waste. His life as Burt just seemed so shallow and pointless compared to this kind of intense experience.
And of course it was delightful to enjoy the production in the best seats in the house, a box very close to the stage, seated with grandmamma; the servants on hand, standing quietly back but ready to step forward if called for.
Being a woman – being Ann – had expanded Burt’s appreciation of life so much. He wondered how he could possibly have been happy missing out on these pleasures… and determined to continue enjoying them after he returned to his proper life.
7
At York City railway station, preparing for the return trip, Ann was starting to feel cross.
She had a timetable but for the life of her she couldn’t work out how to use the bloody thing! It was just a mass of numbers and names. She scanned through the pages trying to find Griply but she couldn’t even find that. She tried sounding out some of the words but none of it helped. She was just getting more and more frustrated.
“I know you,” said a woman’s voice.
Ann turned and looked right into the face of her little sister, Hattie, standing dressed in a brand new dress and hat. She was taken aback by the surprise but felt relief to see a familiar face.
“Yes, I do know you, don’t I? You’re the man who cleans up after the horses, aren’t you?”
Feeling embarrassed to be labeled like that Ann nodded. “Yes. Yes… m’lady.” Knowing it was expected of her she tipped her cap, then felt a flush of anger that she’d had to.
“What’s your name?” said Hattie.
“Er… Me name’s… Me name’s Burt. Burt ‘Arper.”
She found herself glancing down at Hattie’s chest and then flushed from embarrassment, knowing that her sister probably noticed, feeling humiliated that she was doing so anyway to her own flesh and blood.
“Well Burt,” said Hattie. “I don’t know what you’re doing so far from Griply but you look like a little lost puppy. What’s wrong?”
“Er…” Ann felt awful being stuck in this position, having to pretend to be Burt to the sister she’d always lorded herself over, but she did feel confused and in need of help. She found herself saying, “I’ve got a timetable but I can’t read it.”
“You can’t read?”
“I can read. I just can’t… I can’t work out ow to read that.”
Hattie took it from her. “It’s simple.” She turned back the pages. “Look. You just find the place you want to go to – it’s in alphabetical order – then cross reference here, like so. That tells you the list of times the train leaves in that direction and what platform you need to be on. See? A child could work it out.”
Ann blushed and took the timetable back.
“My mother and I are taking the train back now as a matter of fact,” said Hattie. “You can follow us if you like.”
Ann smiled, relieved. “Thank you… miss.”
“Do hurry Hattie!” Ann looked round to see her mother beckoning to her sister to come. “We’re going to miss our train! Don’t waste time talking to filthy men, please. I thought I raised you better than that.”
“Sorry mother.” Hattie walked off, leaving Ann stewing.
Ann hurried after her but realised quickly that it would be frowned upon for her to walk beside them, even though their destination was the same. Instead she walked a dozen paces behind, watching her mother and sister chatter about all their purchase and the fun they’d had at the theatre.
Both ladies were wearing the gorgeous outfits they’d bought and each also had on new jewelry that cost at least as much money per item as she’d allowed herself as pin money for the entire two weeks.
Ann looked down at her own threadbare outfit with its ingrained dirt and musty stench and felt her ears burning again. It was silly. She could afford to buy new clothes and keep clean. She didn’t know why she hadn’t done so far. She was determined to do so from now on. Then people would treat her with more respect.
When they reached the platform the train was waiting. Ann followed her family along its flank but came to an abrupt halt when a guard thrust a hand in her face.
“Third class, you,” he said and pointed far to the back of the train.
Ann looked that way then looked again at her mother and sister climbing excitedly into first class.
This time she didn’t argue. She just sullenly walked down to the cramped and noisy carriages at the rear and took a seat on the hard wooden benches inside.
8
At the interval, Burt and the duchess sipped wine while they discussed the intricacies of the production so far. It was very enjoyable to comment on the subtleties of the acting and direction. Burt had never understood how a play came together but now, with grandmamma’s help, he was really getting to grips with it.
Gladys was hanging about looking a little bored. With a little smile, Burt called her over.
“Gladys. Go and fetch me another glass of wine will you.”
“Yes m’lady. She scurried off through the crowd. Burt couldn’t get over the power he had over her now. He waited patiently for her to return.
Gladys appeared with a second glass of wine and held it out to him deferentially. “Ere you are m’lady.”
“Take it back,” replied Burt. “I’ve decided I don’t want it after all.”
“… Yes m’lady. Of course.” Gladys hurried off again, struggling to get through the milling audience members.
Burt allowed himself another little smile.
When she returned this time he said, “Gladys, where have you been?”
“Sorry m’lady. I was taking the wine back.”
“Taking it back? I’ve called after you until my voice became hoarse. I decided I want the wine after all.”
Gladys almost sighed in frustration but Burt could tell she caught herself. “Sorry m’lady. I won’t be a minute.” She set off again and this time Burt actually grinned.
“Are you tormenting that girl Ann?” asked grandmamma from where she sat.
Burt looked at her sweetly. “Me grandmamma?”
“Yes.”
“Well, perhaps just a little.”
Grandmamma smiled. “It’s quite a diverting pastime, isn’t it? I do it all the time.”
They shared a secret and absolutely delightful grin with one another.
9
Ann got off the train in Griply after trying unsuccessfully several times to nod off. The third class carriage was crammed so tight with people that she’d been jostled continuously, and being lower class oikes, they’d been unable to sit still and just enjoy the countryside. Instead they’d all just chattered and made a hell of a racket throughout the journey.
By the time she got through the squeeze and out of the train, her sister and mother were ahead of her. When she emerged onto the street they were already being helped aboard the manor’s coach, their baggage and purchases being packed safely away for them at the back.
Ann was tired but she knew there was no point asking for a ride. She’d accepted that. She wasn’t good enough for that anymore. She started up the road on foot.
The coach passed her several minutes later almost knocking her into the ditch. The coach driver threw her a wink and a grin and she tipped her cap without thinking. She was angry she’d been left behind but she reminded herself that she was trying to experience Burt’s life in its entirety. She was a working class man now. She couldn’t expect to ride with the gentry in their coach. As far as they were concerned, she was inferior to all of them.
If she was going to enjoy being Burt – and she was determined to do so – then she had to accept that part of what being Burt was all about. Burt had no right to ride in the carriage and she was Burt for now.
As long as she was, she had no right to ride in it.
Instead she decided to go and see Mavis at the Dog & Pony.
When she got inside the pub she found out it was Mavis’s night off. She went upstairs to her room and found the slutty girl naked from the waist up, brushing her long dark hair.
“Na then Burt,” she said. “I wont expectin you till tomorrow.”
“Ey up darlin,” replied Ann. “I left you a note. Dint you get it?”
“Couldn’t read the chuffin thing. Your handwritin’s terrible.”
Ann shrugged, feeling slightly irritated. “Well I ad a reet grand time in York anyways. Reet grand.”
This was the first time she’d seen Mavis since she’d really cracked the clodhopper accent and Ann noticed the contrast with pleasure. It was magical that she was able to produce the Yorkshire brogue so naturally now without even thinking about it.
Mavis went on brushing her hair and Ann maneuvered to get a better view of her tits, feeling the stirring yet again in her nether regions.
“You look like a right bewer when you sit there like that our lass,” said Ann.
“I thought you was gonna say I looked like an ‘ore,” she replied, smiling lasciviously.
“Aye,” said Ann. “That too.”
“Well get ere and climb on board. I ain’t got all night.”
Ann threw off her clothes and clambered onto the bed, stripping the strumpet’s skirt off her and nuzzling in between her breasts, feeling her arousal spike and then spike again.
“Oooah Burt,” moaned Mavis. “That’s it. Oh I like that Burt.”
Hearing her name come from Mavis’s nasal voice turned Ann on all the more.
Her name…
She closed her eyes as she pushed her cock into the girl’s minge, knowing she wasn’t quite wet enough yet but not caring; enjoying the wince of pain she gave.
Almost immediately she got a flash of the same fantasy she’d had the other night: that she wasn’t fucking Mavis; she was fucking herself – Lady Ann.
This time it didn’t surprise her and she relished it instead, remembering what it was like to see her own naked body through Burt’s eyes when they’d first switched. She replayed that scene in her mind, this time taking the tender woman in her manly arms and pressing their lips together roughly. She imagined throwing this Lady Ann down on the sofa in the cottage and she imagined climbing on top of her – having her way with her.
And all the time she pumped into Mavis; imaging it was Ann underneath her; imagining that she was taking her virginity; fucking her as she’d fucked the slags and whore in York.
She imagined she was pummeling Lady Ann over and over again with her massive cock and that Lady Ann was screaming out in pleasure; begging her for more.
... and for more of my stories, check out:
Diverting Pastimes
1
After breakfast, Burt was wandering through the duchess’s huge town house, simply enjoying yet another day off from mucking out the stables and lifting sacks of grain. He was convinced he had the better part of the deal he and his beloved Lady Ann had made, even if he had written her a note to give her the fortnight off.
It still seemed incredible to him that he’d been able to write that note – and sign it with her very own signature; but it wasn’t the only change he’d noticed in his education. He was finding it easier and easier to discuss the arts and culture with grandmamma – something he never could have done before; and he really enjoyed it. He thrived on the intellectual conversations he was having now if truth be told.
He noticed a Jane Austin novel on a bookshelf in the drawing room and idly picked it up. It was called Pride and Prejudice and as Burt folded back the cover he surprised himself by just how well he could read now. He could read every word, even the big ones: words he’d never heard spoken aloud in his life. It was as though all the knowledge her ladyship had learned when she was growing up had been taken out of her mind and deposited into his. He smiled. She’d done all the hard work now he could reap the benefit. He shouldn’t really have been so shocked after the incident with the note but it was still a marvel. He’d never so much as read the first paragraph of a novel before!
This particular book was clearly intended for women to read. Flicking through it seemed to be all about flirting with men and finding husbands but Burt found himself intrigued nonetheless.
He found a quiet spot where there was a chair under a tall window with plenty of light and started to read. He quickly realised that it was a wonderful book and it had plenty to teach him about how ladies and gentlemen were meant to behave in social situations.
He went on reading it all morning, assimilating it carefully and as time wore on, he increasingly found himself identifying with Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine.
2
After having a gigantic breakfast with Mavis, Ann strolled back up to the manor, enjoying the morning sunshine. It was spring and the weather was really bucking up, the flowers starting to peek out to look at the sun.
She whistled as she walked – one of the tunes from the show she’d seen in York, thinking about what a good time she’d had the night before with her girlfriend.
It made her wonder if she really saw Mavis as her girlfriend. She mulled on that as she walked.
She definitely had a sexual attraction to Mavis – rough though she was, with her slutty ways and awful nasal voice – and she enjoyed the girl’s company. They’d had a right laugh after bonking the night before, making fun of her dullard brothers.
And she felt… possessive of her in a way that was rather inexplicable. As a woman, Ann had never been with a man or shared her life in any way. Exploring this part of life for the first time as a man left her feeling confused at times so all she could do was go on her increasingly male instincts.
Mavis was her girlfriend. She was her lass.
The fact that she’d shagged several other women wasn’t withstanding. As far as she knew, that was just what men did; and it was certainly what her dick was telling her to do. She saw no reason to go against that.
It occurred to her then that though she’d been whistling all this time, she’d never been able to whistle in her life. She just started doing it. It could only be a further effect of the transformation her body and brain had undergone. She had Burt’s education now – his limited ability to read and write. It made sense that she would have other learned abilities that he did have over her. It made her wonder again about whether she’d be able to groom horses now.
She decided to find out.
Ann walked to the stables and went inside. It was still early and with “Burt” off work, the grooming hadn’t been done yet. Ann entered one of the stalls and looked at the horse – her horse Rosebud. Despite being devoted to the filly she’d never taken the trouble to learn to look after her. Why have a dog and bark yourself?
Without thinking about it she took up a curry comb off the shelf and, starting on the off-side, beginning to loosen dirt and grit from Rosebud’s coat. Using circular sweeps across the horse’s body she worked her way round, instinctively using a lighter touch on the bonier shoulders and round the belly. At one stage Rosebud’s tail twitched and Ann reflexively lowered the pressure, know that the horse needed a more tender touch in that area.
Next she took up a brush and worked from the bottom of the tale to loosen the tangles, moving slowly up until the entire tale was smooth and lovely. Harry clearly hadn’t been doing this properly for the last couple of days and Ann tutted to herself.
Grabbing a coarser body brush, Ann started work on the flanks of the horse again, brushing out the dirt that the curry comb had missed, enjoying the rhythmic simplicity of the task. Finally she switched to the finishing brush to really bring up a shine on Rosebud’s body.
She stepped back, marveling at her work. She had known exactly what to do. She really did have all Burt’s knowledge as he had hers. It was kind of frightening just how powerful the transformation was but there was no point panicking. It was what it was. Until Burt came back from London she was stuck that way so she might as well enjoy it.
She reflected for a minute on the significance. She could groom horses. She was a groom. She really was a stable hand. Thinking that made her penis swell again. For some reason it turned her on.
But something wasn’t quite right.
She reached for a hoof pick off the shelf and stepped forward, sliding her hand down Rosebud’s foreleg. “Up.” The horse raised its leg and Ann dug at the dirt and manure lodged inside the hoof.
“Eh up Burt,” said Harry as he walked into the stable and spotted her. “I thought miss high-and-mighty had given you the fortnight off. You back working again? Can’t keep away eh?”
Ann set the foot down and stood up feeling caught out and embarrassed. “No. I was just… Just checking on Rosebud… for er ladyship.”
“Er again?” Harry frowned. “You lovesick fool. When are you going to get it through that thick skull o yours that she’s never gonna want to be with you? She’s quality. You’re a servant. And a smelly one at that.”
Ann crossed her arms.
“If you were a proper servant oop at manor she’d still think you were dirt beneath her shoe but you ain’t. You’re a groundsman. Ain’t ya?”
Ann didn’t reply.
“Ain’t ya?” pressed Harry.
“Yes,” mumbled Ann.
“Well, if yer back to work you can get the rest of these ‘orses done and then come out to feed the sheep with me. There’s no point me luggin round sacks of grain if I’ve got you to do it.”
“I ain’t back to work,” said Ann. “I’m goin.”
“What?”
“I said I’m goin.” She put down the hoof pick and went to leave.
“Oh you leaving me to do it all meself, is that right?” asked Harry. “An old man toting grain sacks up and down the fields?”
Ann looked back at him. She did feel like she was shirking her responsibility. She was Burt – she kept telling herself that – and Burt’s job was to help Harry with the labour. That meant it was her job now because she was Burt.
Perhaps she should give up the rest of her holiday and work instead. That was only right.
But no! That was idiotic! It was Burt’s responsibility! Not hers! She was Lady Ann! She practically owned all of this! She didn’t have to do anything!
“Well?” said Harry. “You going to toss off like a selfish wank and leave me to do it by meself or are you going to be a man and help out?”
Ann faltered, confused. More than anything she wanted to be a man. She wanted to be a decent bloke who didn’t let people down. But she resisted with all her might. She wasn’t going to waste her time doing work when she could be enjoying herself.
She stormed off without another word while Harry called after her.
“Great! Thanks! You’re a real mate leaving me to do this! A real mate!”
She felt awful; truly awful; but she didn’t turn back. She just kept walking.
3
At brunch, Burt ate sparingly. He wasn't very hungry but it was so wonderful to be waited on! It made him feel in truth like he was Lady Ann. Grandmamma was reading and periodically she let out a dry chuckle.
"Whatever is it Grandmamma?" asked Burt.
"A most diverting book child. You must read it. Leave it to the yanks to be to be so silly and bold."
She passed over a novel called Perkins the Fakir but when he flicked back the cover the first story title leaped out at him. When Reginald Was Caroline!
"It’s about a married couple,” said grandmamma. “The wife switches bodies with her boorish husband to teach him a lesson! It is most diverting."
Burt shot the old woman a glance. Did she suspect?
No. It wasn’t possible. She still thought Burt was Ann, especially now he had become so much better at acting like a lady. Fascinated Burt read a little, giggling at the mistakes the man made.
He passed the book back but decided to take another peek later. Reading it might help even more to masquerade as a woman…
It made him reflect on how well he was doing already. His voice and body language now seemed exactly those of the real Lady Ann and he could also read and write as well as she could.
He supposed that close scrutiny from someone who knew Ann well might show him to be a fraud but he was spending most of the day with his new grandmamma and she didn’t seem to suspect a thing! He really was Lady Ann now.
Burt found more and more pleasure in his appearance and the lovely gowns he wore. Everyone said he was beautiful and he always flushed with gratification.
Being a lady was so enjoyable and he was doing it so well!
4
Ann was bored.
Mavis wasn’t available and she’d had enough of travelling for now. She didn’t feel like going for a walk or going down to the village. All of her new mates were working. Not too surprising since they were all working men.
Thinking that gave her a moment’s pause. She kept enjoying the fact that she was a working man but she did feel slightly disappointed that she couldn’t really call herself that if she wasn’t work. A very small part of her wished she could take on Burt’s job for the rest of the holiday and really become a working man properly.
Fortunately it was completely overshadowed by the rest of her mind that wanted nothing of the kind.
Feeling increasingly at a loose end and tired of sitting around the hay barn, Ann climbed down the outside staircase and sauntered up toward the manor. What she really fancied doing was going inside and up to her bedroom; sitting on the window seat with a good book, but she knew she couldn’t. As a mere labourer, Burt wasn’t allowed to set foot inside Griply Hall. And now she was Burt, with every downside that entailed.
It did grate on her somewhat. In a holiday that was meant to give her freedom above all else, she was growing more and more weary of butting up against restrictions that she had now she was living Burt’s life.
She ended up loitering outside the front of the manor, looking up at the window of her room, not realizing that it was a stance the old Burt had frequently taken up, gazing up in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her.
But she wasn’t there for long. After five minutes the butler came out and shooed her off, snapping that he didn’t want her “dirtying up the place.” Cowed by the much older man’s aggression, Ann slunk off, chuntering to herself about how she’d give him what for when she was back in her rightful body.
Still bored she ended up round the back of the house, watching the coming and going of the servants. She had several enjoyable minutes watching the chamber maid beating the dust off a carpet before she got snapped at by the cook.
“Oi! Burt! Go on! Be off with you!”
Ann scowled.
“You hangin round look to cadge some food again?”
Ann paused, thinking that she was actually quite hungry. “If you got some goin then yeah.”
The cook frowned, then allowed herself a tiny smile and said, “Alright. If you’re that desperate that you ‘ad to come beggin again then I’ll see what I can do.” She disappeared inside.
Ann grinned to herself at the feast to come but did wonder what she had come to that she was begging at the back of her own home for scraps.
The cook appeared a couple of minutes later but the grin fell from Ann’s face as she was handed some leftovers from the previous night’s meal – fatty pieces of meat and some dried up potatoes – in a dog bowl of all things.
“This’ll have to do,” said cook. “The food’s been out all night but the bowl’s mostly clean… and I don’t trust you with a proper plate. You’re liable to break it.”
Ann couldn’t believe what she was looking at – that she was thought so low that she couldn’t be trusted with a china plate – that the cook really thought she’d eat leftovers on a dog bowl.
“Just leave the bowel on’t floor by the back door when you’re done with it,” said cook. “I’ll get Sally to put biscuits out for the dogs later.” Then she vanished inside.
Ann should have thrown the bowl back in the cook’s face. She didn’t know why she hadn’t, except for the trouble she might have got in. She went to throw the bowl down then hesitated, noticing how enticing one of the bits of meat was.
It couldn’t hurt to have that and the dried up bits of dog food on the bowl weren’t touching it. She grabbed the greasy chunk in her ditty fingers and shoved it in her mouth, chewing clumsily. It was cold but delicious and she had a second piece. And a third. Before she knew it she’d polished off all the potatoes too then she licked the gravy residue off the bowl and tossed it down, rubbing her tummy happily.
5
In London, Burt and his new grandmother ate out at a lavish restaurant.
It was the most fabulous eating establishment Burt had ever been too but he was disgruntled and confused when he found that the menu was in French. Reading was still comparatively new to him, but in another language – no chance.
He gaped at the different columns awkwardly, feeling like a dunce, then realised suddenly that he could read it. He could read it all! He looked from the back of the menu to the front. He could understand every word! There were even words he had never known in English! Now he understood them perfectly in French!
“Bonsoir mademoiselle,” said the waiter. “May I take your order?”
Burt was in a daze. He spotted something he fancied and quickly told the waiter what it was but he didn’t even realise right away that he was doing it in fluent French – even so far as telling the man how he wanted the meat cooked and what wine he wanted.
Grandmamma did the same and Burt watched the waiter depart, satisfied. It was plain unbelievable but it was further proof that his and Lady Ann’s bodies weren’t the only things that had swapped.
He spent the rest of the meal discussing the literature the two of them were reading. Burt was well into Pride & Prejudice now and loved discussing the finer points of the narrative with the duchess. They laughed as they talked about the different tactics the women in the book could have used to snare their men and Burt found himself making comments that sounded just as informed as the old lady’s.
They discussed her book too and then went on to a much wider conversation regarding the development of literature in the latter part of the nineteenth century and how it measured against the books being published nowadays.
Again Burt found himself with many an opinion and taking great satisfaction in exploring the subject.
6
That night at the Dog & Pony, Lady Ann really cut loose.
She was there at opening time, knocking back one pint after another and by the time the place filled up she was really off her head.
Since she’d been a little girl she’d never been allowed to utter a curse. Swearing was deemed entirely inappropriate behaviour for a young lady and as a result she’d never done it. Now she was really making up for lost time. Like a naughty schoolboy she made one lewd joke after another, making up dirtier and dirtier stories as the night went on and then laughing raucously.
She got to telling folks about her trip to York later on and ended up singing some of the songs from the music hall. As Ann she’d had a lovely singing voice and has performed solos from time to time. As Burt she was tone deaf but that didn’t stop her droning on, falling over more than once and knocking drinks flying before clambering up laughing loudly and carrying on.
She saw Mavis scowling at her but that didn’t stop her carrying on. As long as her dick stayed big she knew Mavis would forgive her anything. And speaking of her dick…
Ann started bragging about how big it was to all in sundry and before you could say how’s your father, she had it out in her hand, flashing it around with her shirt off, bare chested. The ladies screeched but the men chuckled and Ann bawled with laughter, thrusting it this way and that, feeling how proud she was to be so well hung.
She fell over again, knocking a table over and sat there on the floor in the dirt, covered in beer, laughing her head off.
... and for more of my stories, check out:
Meeting the Earl
1
The next morning Ann woke up outside.
She was lying in a ditch with her legs up the bank and her head and left arm in its dank muddy bottom. She raised her head and saw the half-dried vomit down the front of her shirt and on her trousers.
She chuckled to herself and struggled over onto her hands and knees getting even wetter and muckier. She got to her feet and sidestepped, losing her balance as she realised how drunk she still was then fell through the side of a gorse bush.
She was chuckling even harder as she got upright again and staggered out onto the lane. She swayed back and forth, thinking about the night before and then started to stagger along in the direction she thought the manor was. Thirty paces on she stopped and looked round then staggered back the other way, deciding that actually it was more likely that way.
“What a night,” she mumbled. “There was nowt wrong with that. It was chuffing greet from start to finish.”
She had a fuzzy memory of pulling her cock out to all her mates at the pub and she chuckled again, then she remembered the expression on Mavis’s face and laughed aloud.
“A reet good night!”
2
“I want to ask your opinion on something Ann,” asked Grandmamma. For a change today she wasn’t wearing her customary black.
They were sitting in the morning room with sun streaming in through the French doors. Burt was wearing a sweet dress that left his arms bare, a gold necklace on his smooth chest and a matching bracelet at his wrist. “Of course grandmamma. What is it?”
“You know who I mean by the upstairs maid?”
“Yes.”
“Well I’m thinking of getting rid of her. I wanted your opinion before I did so.”
“Whatever for?” asked Burt.
“The girl’s lazy and good for nothing and she always has been. And she’s too slovenly for my taste.”
“Hmmm.” Burt pictured the girl in her maid’s outfit. “I wouldn’t say she’s that bad.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No.” He considered for a moment. “I have spent… some time around the servants at Griply Hall…”
“I can tell that from the atrocious accent and manner you had when you’ve arrived.”
“And I should say that a servant’s life… is a very difficult one. From my observations.”
“Your observations?”
“I know that servants do try their best and I’m sure that if she were to be guided by a kind hand then she would correct her behaviour as quickly as she could.”
“Do you think so?”
“If I know servants, then yes. I should say so.”
“Well,” said the duchess. “Then I’ll leave her to you.”
“Pardon?” Burt sat forward and uncrossed his legs.
“If you think the girl can be brought around then I make it your responsibility and thank you for the kind offer.”
“My what?” Burt was confused.
“If you think you can improve matters then you have my blessing. If you decide she’s beyond hope and think she needs to go… well you have my blessing for that as well.”
3
Ann sauntered back onto the grounds of the estate and headed toward the stables so she could get some kip. Sleeping in the ditch might have been funny but it had left her buggered.
But as she turned the corner in the lane and walked down into the courtyard in front of it she stopped in her tracks.
There, in front of the building, wearing his hunting jacket and deerstalker hat, was her father, the earl, looking grumpier than she’d ever seen him. She started to back up but he fixed her in his eyes.
“You! Man! Come here!”
She pointed stupidly at her own chest.
“Yes. You.” She started toward him. “Quick man! Run! I haven’t got all day.”
She ran to him and stopped short, looking up into his hard face, his metallic eyes, his silvery handlebar moustache. “Yes?” The earl’s cold eyes narrowed. “…m'lord?”
He pointed to some crates of wine. “These have been dropped off down here by some idiot. Pick them up and carry them up to the back of the house.”
“But…” She paled. “It’s me holidee… sir. I’s got a note… from your darter… Ann… er ladyship… givin me the fortnight off.”
The earl turned to face her properly, spacing his feet wide and putting his fists on his hips. “What did you say to me man?”
Ann’s throat became suddenly very narrow. She had always been wary of her father but she had no protection of blood now. He might literally do anything to her that he liked and he’d never know it was his own daughter he was punishing. “Holidee sir,” she said. “I’m not meant to be workin.”
“Well,” said the Earl, very quietly and coldly. “Shall I tell you what I think of that?”
“No sir. Er yes sir.”
“Let me ask you this,” he said. “Who is in charge of this estate? My daughter or me?”
“Er, you sir,” said Ann, increasingly terrified.
“So if I tell you to do something… you’d bloody well better do it or I’ll have you in the stocks before you can blink! Is that clear!?”
“Yes sir.”
“Is it?!”
“Yes sir!”
Then pick up those ruddy bottles and carry them up to the house! Now!”
“Yes sir,” gasped Ann, rushing over to pick up the first of the heavy crates, her mind filled with white panic.
“Then come down here and clear up this yard! There’s detritus everywhere! Do you hear me!?”
“Yes m’lord,” muttered Ann, hefting up the crate and staggering with it up toward the house.
“Then and only then can you go back to having this bloody holiday that Ann seems foolish enough to have given you!”
Ann gasped with relief. “Yes sir. Thank you sir. Much obliged sir.” She hurried on.
“But let me tell you one thing my lad,” called the earl after her.
Ann stopped, afraid to turn round.
“If you ever talk back to me again I will have your guts for garters and you’ll be shoveling up horse dung from dawn until midnight, holiday or no!”
4
Burt passed the maid that grandmamma had talked about on the stairs. She was dusting the paintings and Burt had to agree: her whole manner was rather lackluster and placid. He went on walking but tried to think of the best approach to the girl.
He had been a servant his whole life and he empathized with her but working out the kindest way of correcting her behaviour was a challenge. He had been spoken to innumerable times by his superiors and told what to do. Invariably they had left him feeling like dirt. Now he had a chance to do it himself he wanted to do it the way he would have liked to be spoken to all his life.
He went into his gigantic bedroom, loving the warmth and comfort of everything he saw. He went to the mirror and started to repeat the lines he had begun doing every day to reinforce who he was and encourage his change in behaviour.
“I’m Lady Ann Neville. I’m a beautiful woman and heir to Griply Hall where my family has lived for generations. My father is the earl Neville and I have a wonderful caring mother and a sister named Hattie. I am visiting my grandmamma and the two of us are getting along famously. I do so enjoy our long conversations about culture and the arts.”
He smiled at himself, seeing only a woman looking back at him, then switched to the other half of his daily reaffirmation.
“I am not Burt. The very idea of that is preposterous. Burt is a filthy menial with no wit to speak of and even less education. He is a dirty servile clodhopper who is completely beneath me. He’s nothing but a working class thug – a worthless servant and nothing more. He means absolutely nothing to me.”
That was better. He smiled again. Distancing himself from his old life did no end of good for strengthening his perception of being a lady and that did no end of good for living up to his side of the deal and being the best Lady Ann he could be.
5
There was nothing for it, decided Ann. She had to do something about her appearance.
She was getting tired of being looked down on because she looked like a vagabond. She had money. There was no reason she couldn’t dress smartly. As a matter of fact, with money, there was no reason she could walk round dressed and treated like a swell. With her upbringing she could act like an upper class man as well as she could an upper class woman.
She imagined herself strutting about in top hat and tails at the races in a man’s body with servant’s tipping their caps at her. That would be right ruddy grand and no mistake.
She hadn’t changed clothes all week but she decided that was going to have to if she was going for a fitting. No tailor would treat her seriously if went walked in dressed in her filthy working clothes. Burt only owned one other outfit: his “Sunday best.” It wasn’t much better than the clothes she had on – barely any difference in the cut or quality – but at least they were cleaner. Ann decided to wear them for now.
She needed to get clean as well so she got the bath down off the wall. After looking at it for several minutes while she stroked her bushy moustache she put it back on its nail and went outside to the water barrel instead. She washed her face and hands there. That would have to do. It was a chilly day and she didn’t fancy going to all that trouble again to have a lukewarm bath.
When she was changed she walked sown into the village whistling a tune she must have heard from somewhere, though she couldn’t think where.
She tried not to think about what had happened with her father as she walked. It had been the most unpleasant situation of her life and she had no desire to either dwell on it or repeat it.
It seemed like a longer walk than usual and Ann was rather irritable by the time she reached the edge of the village. It just seemed like it was going to be such a hassle having to wait around while the tailor measured her up then fannied around. And she looked much better already in her Sunday best! Was it really worth all the trouble?
She knew she’d made a resolution to look better but she’d already more than achieved that! Not only had she got all dressed up but she’d washed her face and hands!
When she got level with the Dog & Pony she saw that there was already a din of frivolity coming from inside. She weighed up her options, quickly justifying what she really felt like doing against what she thought she ought to do. With an expectant grin on her face and a weight off her shoulders she crossed the road and went inside, giving a loud cheer to announce her arrival.
Sensing free beer, the other punters cheered too and Ann went quickly to the bar to buy drinks all round.
6
Burt found the upstairs maid, Betty, smoothing the bed covers down when he entered his bedroom and stood for a moment watching the girl, his hands clasped demurely at his waist.
She wasn’t putting much effort in and she looked very bored. She left several ruckles in the covers as she turned to leave and only then did she see him standing there. She looked caught out and ashamed. “Oh! M’lady! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
“No matter,” replied Burt. I was hoping to have a word with you.”
He had planned out what he was going to say carefully but he was still a little nervous. Talking to a servant as one of the quality was still new to him and correcting one was unheard of; but he looked forward to seeing the light of realization in her eyes as she realised how easy it was to avoid being fired.
The girl looked sullen and evasive. “What about?”
Burt took a seat on the edge of the bed and patted the covers next to him. “Here. Sit down.”
The servant girl looked startled. “On the bed?”
Burt nodded. “It’s alright. Come on.”
She did so, looking entirely uncomfortable.
“I wanted to speak to you about your performance here,” said Burt.
“I’m not good enough, am I?”
“It’s not that. It’s just that it would help if you could take a little more care… to get things just right. I know that you’re an honest hard-working girl and with some positive guidance I’m sure you could be an excellent worker.”
“So you are saying I’m no good. I knew it. I knew I was terrible.”
“No. Listen,” said Burt. “If you’ll listen, I can give you a few helpful tips. If you follow my advice you’ll be doing better in no time.”
The girl looked sullen, her cheeks flushed red. She sat staring down at the floor as Burt went through several suggestions on how she could improve. She didn’t respond to anything and he started to feel as though she wasn’t even listening.
“Do you understand what you need to do?” asked Burt.
The maid shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Alright., Just to be sure, tell me what your plan is going to be.”
The girl looked at him stupidly.
Burt forced a smile. “Just tell me back what I said to you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. To try harder… and stuff.”
Burt sighed and folded his arms. “Were you even—?” He paused, calming himself. “Alright. Don’t worry. That’s enough for today. We can have another chat tomorrow. Alright?”
The girl said nothing.
“I’ll help you until you’re doing a first rate job. Hmmm?”
She shrugged, avoiding eye contact. Feeling like he was wasting his time, Burt stood up and let her go, shaking his head as she walked off down the landing.
7
Ann was glaring at Jeb across the pub, watching exactly what he was doing as he talked to some of his mates at the farm he worked. She was sure the big lummox was giving Mavis the eye, following her round with his gaze as she delivered ale to the tables.
Mavis was wearing a particularly slutty outfit this evening with both shoulders bare and a great circle of cleavage sprouting from her chest. Ann could hardly keep her eyes off the girl herself but she resented Jeb’s attentions.
“Ere Burt,” said an old man named Arvin who was sharing a table with her. He had a newspaper folded up and was puzzling over a crossword puzzle. “Chief city Christian. Six letters. Something something S; something something P.”
Ann Looked at him then turned back to Jeb.
“Any ideas Burt?”
“No,” said Ann.
“Ah,” said Arvin. “Bishop. The chief Christian in a city.”
Ann shrugged.
“Here’s one you’ll definitely get,” said Arvin. “It’s easy.”
“I’m busy,” said Ann.
“No. Listen.”
Ann snorted and turned to face the old man. “What?”
“French capital.”
Ann shrugged.
“French capital,” said Arvin. “Begins with a P.”
Ann was getting tense. “I don’t know.”
The old man chuckled. “What’s the capital city of France?”
Ann got what he meant and groaned. That was obvious. She opened her mouth to say it. Then stopped, mouth gaping.
“What’s the capital of France Burt? Come on. You must know that. Everyone knows that.”
Ann stared at him; and she went on staring. She didn’t know. She’d been there. She remembered going. She’d spoken fluent French since she’d been a little girl. But she had no idea what the answer was! She no longer remembered what that place was called!
... and for more of my stories, check out:
Imbecile
1
Burt reclined happily in the long pleasure boat with grandmamma as her manservant gently guided them across the centre of the lake in the morning sunshine.
“So you talked to that idiot maid then,” said Grandmamma.
“Yes,” replied Burt. “I did.”
“And how did she take your kind guidance?”
Burt raised an eyebrow. Grandmamma was smiling playfully. His first instinct was to be snippy, say something like, You were right. She’s nothing but an ignorant lazy girl who doesn’t deserve a kind hand.
But he remembered too well the life of a servant and the constant haranguing from the upper class over the slightest misdeed. He was determined to be better than that.
“She… wasn’t as… grateful… as I expected her to be,” he said. “But she just requires more time; and more guidance. When I see her again I’ll mention something else and so on as the days go by. By the time I leave at the end of next week she’ll have gone through as great a transformation as I have, thanks to you.”
“Well my best wishes to you Ann,” replied grandmamma, “but I fear you’ll grow weary of her laziness long before then.”
Burt smiled back, determined to prove her wrong.
2
Back at the manor, Ann was enjoying herself immensely! The first week had been just a long series of drinking binges and marathon sex sessions and she was looking forward to even more of the same!
She’d just finished yet another long morning shag with Mavis on top of her, the girl’s massive breasts swinging in her face as she chewed on them hard to her piggish squeals of delight, thrusting her pelvis up against Mavis’s crotch. She was a right bit of rough. Just the kind of woman Ann liked: a real slapper.
And she knew Mabel thought she was the best man in the village. She’d caught Mavis and the other girls more than once, tittering away about how virile she was and big her cock was. It made Ann’s pride swell to stride round the village getting admiring looks from all the slutty girls. She’d already had her dirty way with half a dozen other girls. It was great being admired for being so masculine. It made her realise how far she was from her former life.
“I’d best be off else me father and brothers’ll want to know what for,” whined Mavis nasally. “I afta work in’t bar again this afternoon. You comin’ down later?”
“Right you are,” replied Ann, lying back with her hands behind her head, her cock still sticking up onto her stomach. “I’ll be getting a few bevies in tonight, that’s for certain. I aim to get absolutely rat-arsed tonight, me. Then maybes I’ll give Jeb another trouncing. That fat bugger’s been givin’ you the eye right enough more than once. He’s gotta learn to keep ‘is eyes off of uvver men’s property!”
“Aaah Burt,” whinged Mavis, “You’re always fighting, yer great big cretin. Why do you afta act life such a simpleton all the time? We both knows you ain’t clever but you’ve been nothing but a nitwit lately; a right dunce. Everyone says so.”
Ann fell silent, stewing angrily.
“You better shape yourself up and stop acting like an idiot. I don’t want people saying I’m stepping out with some nincompoop. If you don’t stop acting the fool all the time then I might have to get me pleasurin’ someplace else” She strode out haughtily, still only half dressed, the rest of her clothes under her arm.
Ann got up off the hard pallet but didn’t bother to put any clothes on. She packed away the pallet to avoid a balling out from old Harry. As Burt, she had another week off yet but that didn’t stop the old man treating her like dirt whenever he got the chance.
But was Mavis right, pondered Ann. Was she stupid now?
There was a pamphlet Harry had left lying around on a shelf all about the Socialist Party. Ann picked it up in her dirty big hand and tried to read it but it was all beyond her. She couldn’t read more than one or two of the simpler words now! Her comprehension had declined even further than she’d realised!
She’d known all week that the part of her brain that contained her former education had changed into Burt’s less complicated grey matter but she’d had no idea it was so complete. She really was illiterate now.
But did that actually mean she was less intelligent?
She chewed her dirty fingernails absently, looking back over her actions of the past few days and the conversations she’d had in York and down’t pub. As Lady Ann she had enjoyed culture and heated discourses on political and artistic matters. Now she had to admit that she found it difficult to follow talk about anything vaguely intellectual. And it all seemed so stuck up and pointless. She recalled the conversation she was part of in York about the impact of tax on income. She hadn’t realised the significance at the time but she’d quickly grown bored, unable to understand the terms and had actually ended up starting trouble just to end the discomfort she had felt.
And the night before – she hadn’t even been able to remember the capital of France. She still couldn’t now, even though Arvin had told her then, laughing at her ignorance.
She’d wanted to experience being Burt but it was like she was really becoming him now, the more time went on. She’d already lost her intellect and education. She’d taken on his mode of speech and body language. She’d lost interest in most of her own pastimes and had developed a love for his.
The only things that stopped her going mad in a panic were that she still had her core personality – that was mostly unaffected, and it didn’t matter. She’d be back in her old life in only another week though and back to being a right posh and cultured woman.
She did feel embarrassed about what a dunce she now was though. It made her want to hide away and not see anyone. She’d always been known for her intelligence and wit. Now she had lost all of that and truly become a clodhopper.
It didn’t matter. She kept telling herself that. Once she was back in her own body all this would go away.
Still, she didn’t like the sound of what Mavis had said. She didn’t want to run the risk of losing the girl on account of being a nitwit. She really liked shagging her senseless and didn’t want to get dumped.
Which Ann told herself was ridiculous! What did she care about some silly barmaid? She could get any woman she wanted! … as long as they weren’t quality. But she did want to be a good man for Mavis… even if she was an annoying nag when she wasn’t spreading her legs.
Ann sighed angrily, then; her mind wandering; opened a drawer and found a little framed picture as though she’d know it was there.
It was a sepia portrait photograph of Lady Ann with an oval frame! She had no idea where the original Burt had got it from – probably filched it from the house when no one was looking! She
was wearing a lacy black blouse with the smooth skin of her upper arms visible through it and her chin was resting on her hand, her soft feminine forearm exposed.
She smiled alluringly out of the picture and the new Burt stared at her face, feeling resentful of Mavis and the nagging she always gave him. He wished he could be with a woman like this, even though he knew it wasn’t possible. How would it feel to kiss those rouged lips and have this wonderful cultured lady look on him as an equal? It would be—
Wait a minute, thought Ann angrily. What am I thinking? I am Lady Ann! Not some idiot country bumpkin!
It had been a wistful subconscious thought but it chilled her a little. She was enjoying herself as Burt but she’d be glad when the holiday was over. She’d had no idea how fully immersive becoming Burt would be, even for a short time!
She wasn’t about to ever forget who she really was – that would never happen – but she did find herself acting entirely as though she was a commoner. It was just disconcerting not being as fully in control of this switch as she had planned.
She decided to maintain better control from now on. Down’t pub today she’d not talk like a clodhopper so much and she’d have some proper conversations. And she wouldn’t fight! She wasn’t a caveman. She was the one in control of herself. She wasn’t defined by her body! She was Lady Ann Nevile for chuffs sake, not some block’ead twit!
And it wouldn’t hurt to keep Mavis sweet. She didn’t want to risk losing a good’un like her.
Before she left Ann tucked the picture of the gorgeous Lady Ann back in its drawer, sighing happily at the thought of her lovely smile
3
Burt and the duchess attended a delightful open air concert in the park after their boat trip. It was turning into a glorious day and it was wonderful to sit neatly on the pretty little wooden seats provided and listen to the melodies of Bach. The cellos were simply divine in their ability to carry such sweetly long notes.
When the orchestra paused to recuperate and the audience stood to take an interval, Ann and grandmamma sent the servants to buy ices while they took a stroll to the lakeside.
“I have a proposition I think you might enjoy Ann,” said the duchess.
“Oh? Do tell?”
“Simply that we leave in a day or two and spend some time in Southsea.”
“Southsea?”
“Yes. I know a hotel there that’s half decent and we can enjoy ourselves a little rather than moping about in my stuffy old house.”
Burt was overjoyed! He couldn’t conceive of any better way to spend his time! Yet again he couldn’t believe that the real Lady Ann had chosen to miss out on this opportunity! And had taken his life as a servant instead! She really was a bloody idiot!
But that didn’t matter now. For the rest of the concert Burt’s mind wandered as he imagined how exciting it would be to go to the seaside. He’d never seen the sea before in all his born days! It was yet another first!
When they got back to the duchess’s house he flew straight up the stairs and into his room and fluttered about gathering his dresses and trying to decide which would be best to wear in every conceivable situation he could visualize.
He tried on a variety of different outfits and pretended he was at the beach or walking along the promenade, or out at an expensive restaurant. It was a wonderful way to spend the afternoon!
It was only hours later that he realised what he’d done. Without any intention to play a role he had pranced about for hours doing exactly what a woman would have done in those circumstances.
Why, she was acting more and more like Lady Ann every day!
She really was a woman now!
4
At the Dog & Pony though, the burly man found it was harder than she’d thought to be more Ann than Burt.
For a start, these working men here drinking and singing were her mates. As soon as she was surrounded by them, the idea of trying to act more ladylike seemed preposterous! She couldn’t let them see her acting like a sissy!
She decided soon after entering that the best way to prove she wasn’t a peasant through and through would be to talk more gentile and avoid getting into fights. If she could get involved in some proper intellectual conversations then all to the good. The lower class thugs she palled around with in there were hardly geniuses so it couldn’t be that hard to do!
Getting pissed was part of the problem. Being totally bladdered didn’t help her to maintain decorum. She decided to lay off the raz tonight entirely.
Counter to that, Jeb slapped a pint of bitter down on the table a minute after she sat down.
“Ah, I ain’t drinkin’ tonight Jeb,” said Ann.
“Course you fucking are, you pansy,” snapped Jeb. “Get it down ya!”
Ann fumed at being called a pansy. She was more a man than Jeb any chuffing day of the week! But she kept calm, deciding to humour him with the drink rather than starting a fight over it.
Once she’d downed that, Jeb slapped her hard on the back and said. “Your round up!”
This put Ann in a difficult position.
Jeb was right. If she was going to behave like a gentlewoman – well, like a gentleman, then she had to be civil. Part of that civility was meeting her obligations – in this case buying an equal number of drinks.
She bought them both a second pint and started to chug it down, feeling the rosy warmth spread through her muscles. She didn’t know why she’d been so stuck up about it to be honest. Everyone knew that liquor didn’t turn you into somebody else it just brought out the man inside.
As they started on their sixth pint, Jeb said, “I’m sick of that chuffing lord of the manor! Ee thinks he so much better’n us! But ee’s not! Am I right?”
“Well you ain’t chuffing wrong and that’s a fact,” replied Ann in the same broad Yorkshire accent she’d been using pretty much constantly for the past four days. It was funny how difficult she’d found it at first to pretend to have the same accent as the lower classes, sounding like a toff doing a bad impression, but after spending an appreciable amount of time with her new mates she talked more and more like a Yorkshire clod! Now she sounded exactly like all the other working men.
All the other working men…
It was funny but annoying and Ann was a bit tired of it. Obviosuly she couldn’t start talking like a stuck-up twat in front of her mates suddenly but she came up with a cunning idea to prove to herself she could still talk like a swell whenever she wanted to.
“Ere,” she said, “Ow’s this for an impression of the old fart!”
Jeb chuckled, as did several other men nearby. “Come on then Burt! Show us what you think of the old ponce!”
Ann cleared her throat theatrically and said, “Ere, you lads! Get that ruddy work done else I’ll tan yer ‘ides!”
There was a sudden silence, then bawdy laughter broke out across the pub. Ann grinned, thinking they thought her impression accurate, then Jeb shouted, “Blimey Burt! That’s the worst bloody impression of the old snob that I’ve ever heard! You sound common as muck!”
Ann blushed furiously, determined to do it justice; after all, nobody there had the breeding she did. “Ahright then Jeb, ye muttonhead! Ere! Listen!” She cleared her throat again, concentrating hard. She couldn’t have forgotten how to talk gentile like. That was impossible! She was quality!
“I’m Earl Neville, me,” she cried, puffin out her chest. “I live oop in’t manor ‘ouse over yonder with me wife and darters!”
The whole pub filled with laughter. Ann stared back at them, furious with rage and humiliation. She literally couldn’t talk gentile at all no more!
Jeb snorted with laughter then put on a pretty realistic plum voice. “Shouldn’t you have talked a little more like this old chap?” He burst out laughing and everyone laughed too. “You really are a bonehead Burt me old mate!”
Ann pushed him hard in the chest, seething and was about to punch his lights out when she caught Mavis’s disapproving eye. Cowed, she lowered her head and stomped off to the corner with her pint. She couldn’t face being balled out by her girlfriend on top of everything. She wanted to be a good man for her.
She couldn’t believe how humiliated she felt though. All across the pub, the other blokes were squawking out impressions of the posh folk and all of them were better than hers. She couldn’t talk like the quality at all no more. Even these common labourers could talk posher than her if they chose to. She really had become Burt in every way!
She sulked for the better part of an hour, nursing first one pint, then another and finally the third that Jeb bought over as a peace offering. In the end she chuckled to herself. It was funny that she, Lady Ann Neville, was stuck this way, a big great oafish lout who couldn’t even talk proper. And it didn’t matter how common she’d become. One week away and she’d be back in the manor house. She would have avoided a dull trip to her grandmothers and everything would be back to normal. She could stand being an illiterate idiot man until then.
An idiot man…
Did she really think of herself as a man now? She hadn’t realised.
She thought it through for a minute.
Yes he did. He didn’t think of himself as a woman one whit no more. The idea of being a woman actually seemed weird and unpleasant – mincing about in dresses and skirts with pretty hair and make-up.
Obviously he wanted to go back to his old life – there was no doubt about that – but at this moment it seemed completely alien.
Ann caught himself daydreaming again for a minute, imagining an alternative where Lady Ann returned from her holiday a week from then and instead of switching back, he took her out walking in the woods. He imagined them strolling arm in arm and turning to the beautiful woman and saying, “I luv ye Lady Ann. I right chuffing luv ye.” And he imagined her smiling and saying back to her in cultured tones, “I’ve always loved you Burt, you big strong handsome man.”
“Burt” sighed and necked the last of his ale just as Mavis came and wrapped her legs round his waist, shoving her tongue into his mouth. His big cock had already been aroused. Now it sprung to attention painfully in his dirty trousers, even if this bawdy girl’s attention wasn’t as pleasant as his daydream had been.
“Youse a good man Burt, not fighting Jeb back then,” said Mavis, making him swell with pride. I’m going to give you some extra special attention tonight to say ‘good boy.’ How’s about that?”
Ann grinned from ear to ear. Blimey though. He was looking forward to that.
He decided he’d sulked enough.
He reached into his pocket, determined to buy drinks all round and go back to carousing, but he decided against it when he saw how much he had. He’d taken a lot of money with him when he’d made the switch but it was starting to run a bit thin. He’d have to be careful or he’d run out before the end of his second week!
5
When Burt went up for an early night to enjoy some more Pride & Prejudice by lamplight before settling into bed to go to sleep she found the upstairs maid, Betty, standing there, proud as you please in front of the mirror wearing one of her necklaces.
As soon as the girl saw Burt in the doorway she snatched off the necklace, embarrassed, but instead of placing it carefully down she threw it onto the hard surface as she backed hurriedly away.
Burt saw red.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped. “What ON EARTH do you think you’re doing with my necklace?”
“I’m sorry m’lady.”
“Sorry? SORRY!?” Burt put her hands on her hips angrily. “You’re trusted to come up here into my private room because I expect you to treat my property with respect. Who told you that you could try on my necklace?”
“Nobody miss.”
“Who?”
“Nobody. I’m sorry m’lady.”
“Oh! You’re sorry! And does that make it alright?”
“No m’lady.”
“No it doesn’t!” Burt strode over to the dressing table. “Let’s see if you’ve damaged it because, by God, if you have you’ll be straight to the police!”
“No miss, please!” The girl had tears in her eyes.
Burt examined the necklace but could see no actual damage, She turned back to the girl but seeing the tears only made her angrier. “Am I expected to take pity on you young lady? Is that it? Is that why you’re crying?”
“No miss. I don’t know miss.” Betty hung her head in shame.
“So you don’t know.” Burt glared at her then folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Well let me tell you what I know.” She paused. “You’re fired. You can clear out your things and be gone by lunchtime tomorrow. Is that clear?”
“But miss—”
“I don’t want to hear another word from you,” snapped Burt, turning her back on the ignorant girl. “Get out.”
“But—”
“Get out!”
There was a moment of silence then a shuffling and then the door closed.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
Burt glanced to her right and caught her reflection in the glass. It startled her out of the moment completely and the expression she had seen there dissolved into one of surprise.
For one moment, just for the briefest second, she had seen on that woman’s face the exact same expression she’d seen on the real Lady Ann’s a thousand times.
... and for more of my stories, check out:
PROOF OF AGE
by
Emma Finn
A teenage girl makes a bargain to increase her age in the hopes of gaining freedom for her and her boyfriend to be together but being older is not all it’s cracked up to be and she may just have made a terrible mistake.
A female to female magical weight-gain and age-progression transformation.
1
“It’s just not fair mum!” cried Trinny, feeling more and more exasperated. “I wanna go to the disco with Andy!”
“I’m sorry Trinny,” replied her mother, not even looking up from her magazine, “but you aren’t old enough.”
“I am so! I’m thirteen!”
She couldn’t believe how unfair this was and how cold her mother was being. Didn’t she understand how important this was to her? She was in love with Andy, so much, but she had to show him how much as soon as she could or he might not like her anymore. That nasty cow, Heather Dalton, was always sniffing round him and even though Trinny knew Andy hated her, it still made her worry.
Her mother sighed, folding up her magazine. “Trinny, what you have to understand is that, as your mother, I have a responsibility to bring you up right. God knows, without your father around I have my work cut out for me. Life isn’t easy. I don’t want to keep fighting you all the time.”
“I just want to go to the disco,” said Trinny. “Please mum. It’s really important to me. I have to go to it. If I don’t then… I just need to, okay?”
Trinny’s mother folded her arms. “Katrina; I understand that when you’re a teenager, everything can seem crucially important, but I am your mother. While you live under my roof you will abide by my rules. When you’re old enough you can do whatever you want – you’ll be free to make all the same mistakes that I did if that’s what you want – but for now I am telling you no.”
Trinny glared at her mother, tears slowly filling her eyes, then she turned and marched toward the door of the flat, her little hands curled tightly into fists. “I hate my life; I hate being thirteen and I hate you!”
She threw open the front door and went out onto the external walkway that ran along the block of flats on each level, slamming the door behind her. Trinny fell against the railing and burst into tears, wishing she could make her own decisions. She was furious at her mum but she also felt guilty. She shouldn’t have said those things to her. She knew she should go back in and say she was sorry but she couldn’t now. It was too late. She’d said them.
She looked over the railing down at the grassy area below and out at the dirty housing of Barton Green. She hated living here. Up the opposite hillside she could see the posh houses of Nockton. It was there she should have been living. That’s where her daddy lived. She should have been with him.
Except he didn’t want her. That was what her mum said. But Mum was probably lying. Of course he did. He was just too busy to come and get her right now. He would come soon.
She sobbed, her shoulders shaking, thinking about Andy and his dimpled smile. He was just so handsome and he was a year older than her. She was so lucky that he was even interested in her and now her mum was ruining everything.
“You look sad darlin.”
Trinny stopped crying and turned to her left, startled.
Gloria, the old lady from the flat next door was sitting out as she often did on a dirty, plastic garden chair. She was smiling and staring and Trinny blushed and then shrugged.
“I heard you and your momma arguing,” said Gloria. “Grown-ups never understand, do they darlin?”
Trinny turned the corners of her mouth up, unsure what to say. She’d seen the old lady almost every day since they moved into the flat and she was always saying hello and stuff but there was something a little… sickly about her.
“I know exactly how it is,” said Gloria. “My mother treated me the same. I was after a boy, just like you are, and she stopped me seeing him. It ruined my life. I was never happy again. All these years and I’ve been alone.” She coughed and wiped her mouth crudely.
“I just want to go to the junior disco at the working men’s club with my… with my boyfriend Andy.”
“And your momma says you ain’t old enough; am I right?”
Trinny nodded. “She’s always stopping me doing what I want to.”
“Uh huh.” Gloria nodded. “Just cause she’s older than you don’t make her right, does it?”
Trinny shook her head, surprised how understanding Gloria was.
“Moms think they know everything but often they’re just too busy making up rules to listen to reason. Am I right?”
“Why can’t she let me make my own decisions?” said Trinny. “All I want is to be with Andy and have my own life.”
“I know sweetheart; I know,” said Gloria. “But this is your lucky day cause I think I might be able to help. Would you like that?”
“Help?” asked Trinny cautiously. “Help how?”
The old lady chuckled. “Well that depends she said. On whether you believe in magic. Do you?”
Trinny shrugged, chewing her lip.
“Come on inside,” said Gloria. “I’ll fix you a cup of hot chocolate and I’ll tell you a story that will knock those pretty pink socks off.”
2
Gloria’s flat was a mirrored layout for Trinny’s and her mum’s next door but there was no further similarity. Where Trinny’s flat had white walls and plenty of light, this was dim and dingy. The walls were papered with a brown flowery design that might have been forty years old. Every window had thick nets and partially drawn curtains. Every single surface was fully cluttered with knick-knacks and keepsakes, hundreds and hundreds of little ornaments collected over many decades.
Trinny waited in the cramped little lounge while Gloria made hot drinks, feeling uncomfortable and a little scared but determined to see this through. She wasn’t sure what she believed in terms of magic, and would certainly have denied its existence to her friends, but she was willing to give anything a try if it meant that she and Andy could be together. She loved him so much.
Gloria reappeared with a tray and two mugs. She took a seat and sat watching Trinny for a while. Feeling even more uncomfortable, Trinny sipped her hot chocolate and waited.
“When you live as long as I have you learn a few things,” said Gloria. “Some things prove useful right away and some things don’t. Some things you just hang on to in case you ever need them and this is one of those times.”
Trinny waited politely for Gloria to continue.
“You may have heard stories about this town,” said the old lady. “Stories that go back further than anyone can remember. They say that Nockton Vale is an enchanted place and sometimes things happen here that don’t make sense. Have you heard the stories?”
Trinny shrugged and nodded her head tentatively. Every kid had heard the stories and she’d even believed them when she was little. She hadn’t believed them for a long time now but she was starting to wonder again.
“Some time ago I came into possession of a… well, what you might call a magic spell; an incantation. It was no use to me at the time and for reasons that may come apparent, it wasn’t something I could use. It had to wait until I got the opportunity, like I have now, to help someone in real need.” She smiled crookedly. “I can see how upset you are Trinny and it breaks my heart. It makes me want to do anything I can to make your dreams come true.”
Trinny smiled, so glad that she’d run into the old lady.
“What this incantation does is allow one person to give another person a present. You’re frustrated because you aren’t old enough to make your own decisions and be with the boy you want to be with. Well this spell will let me help you. It will let me give you some of my years so that you can get what you want.”
Trinny’s eyes went wide, her mouth becoming a smile. “Really? Can you really do that?”
Gloria nodded. “I can.”
“But that would be amazing! If I was older then my mum couldn’t tell me what to do anymore. I could go to the disco. I could even move out and have my own flat!”
Gloria chuckled and coughed. “That’s right darlin. You could do anything you want and nobody could ever tell you what to do again.”
“When can we do it?”
Gloria pursed her lips. “Well, it will take me a little while to root though my old books and find the invocation but it could be today… if you like.”
“If I like?” Trinny jumped to her feet. “That’ll be awesome! I can’t wait to tell Andy!” She threw her arms round Gloria’s neck. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! It’s so kind of you to help me!”
Gloria laughed. “Of course child. It’s my pleasure. I couldn’t let you weep out there without letting you know how I could help. It broke my heart to see you so sad. And just you wait. Being older is wonderful. You’ll be able to do so much that you can’t do now. You’ll be able to earn loads of money. You’ll be able to drive a car. You’ll be able to drink proper alcohol and smoke cigarettes.”
Trinny giggled. She thought cigarettes were gross but she had to admit that they did look cool.
“Why don’t you go and fetch your little friend Andy,” said Gloria. “Bring him back here and we’ll do it. Just don’t tell anyone else what we’ve got planned. They might not understand and could ruin everything.” She put two gnarled fingers to her lips and made a shush noise.
Trinny giggled again and danced over to the door. “I won’t be long,” she said and then ran out gaily.
Gloria watched her go and settled back into her chair, shaking her head and chuckling. “Ah,” she said. “You can always rely on the optimistic idiocy of the young.”
3
Trinny skipped and ran round to Andy’s house, she was so excited.
He lived several streets away to the east, not far from Annbury High that he already attended and she was due to start in the autumn. Trinny grinned to herself to imagine how much older she was going to become. What year would she go into at school? Or maybe she’d even be old enough to go to Barton Tech. Or perhaps skip school altogether! That would be great!
She pounded on Andy’s front door and gave him an excited smile when he came out. “Andy, you’ll never guess what! I’ve found out how to solve all our problems!”
“What happened?” he asked. Andy was taller than she was and so good looking. He could have had any girl and that made it all the more magical that he had chosen her.
“I talked to my neighbour – this old lady – and she told me she has a way that we can become older – like grown-ups. A magic spell.”
“No way,” he said. “That’s not possible.”
“It is,” said Trinny. “She told me it was. She wants us to go round there now and make it happen. She’ll make us both into adults and then we can do what we want. We’ll be allowed to go to the disco tonight. We’ll be able to go out whenever we want and be together.”
Andy looked sceptical. “Really?”
“Yeah! It can really happen! Like in the stories about the Yellow Ghost of Barton, remember?”
“I don’t know Trinny,” he said. “It sounds like a wind-up to me.”
“No. It’s real. Think how good it would be to be older. We could drink beer and smoke. You could get that sports car you’re always talking about.”
Andy chuckled. “That would be cool.”
Trinny grinned happily. “Let’s do it.”
“Nah. It can’t be true. It’s bullshit.”
“I’ll prove it to you,” said Trinny. “Just come back to the flats with me. You can meet her and see for yourself.”
“I can’t,” replied Andy. “I’ve gotta have tea.”
“Oh.” Trinny hung her head. “Well maybe it doesn’t matter. I can go and see her and get her to do it to me, then when I meet you later you’ll believe me. Then you can come and do it too. How about that? I can meet you outside the disco at seven.”
Andy shrugged. “I guess.”
Trinny giggled and hugged him. “Oh Andy, I’m so happy. I can’t wait for us to be together. We can get married and buy a house and everything and you can have your sports car on the front drive.”
He chuckled again. “Sure; sure. Sounds excellent.”
“I’ll see you at seven,” said Trinny and off she went, skipping along the pavement back toward Barton Green, looking forward to all her dreams coming true.
4
Gloria was ready and waiting when Trinny returned. She let the thirteen year old into her flat and locked the door behind her.
Trinny skipped into the lounge and took a seat; then she stood up. Then she sat down again. “When can we do it?”
“Right away,” said the crone. “But we have to do a few things first in preparation.”
On the table were several unusual items that seemed totally out of keeping with the quaint and cluttered décor. There was a metal bowl, an odd knife with a serrated blade, several candles which Gloria was busily lighting and a selection of herbs, some loose on the tablecloth, some in small plastic pouches and a couple in jars as though they’d been bought at the supermarket for cooking. Beside all this was a pestle and mortar and a small stone figurine depicting a hooded figure.
Gloria started work on grinding the herbs with the pestle and mortar. “Where’s your little friend?” she asked.
“He couldn’t come right away,” replied Trinny dejectedly, but I was planning to show him how it worked and then bring him back tonight.”
Gloria went silent, patiently crushing the herbs.
“Will that be alright?” asked Trinny.
“Well, yes and no,” replied Gloria. “What we’ll do is just work it differently.”
“Like how?”
“I’m happy to help you but it will make me… too tired to do the spell twice. Instead, I think it would be best if I gifted you with enough years for both of you. You can have enough of this mixture to transfer the years on to Andy. Alright?”
Trinny thought about that. She wasn’t sure it was a good idea or not, but she trusted Gloria – she was being so helpful. And being even older would be funny. It would certainly prove to Andy that she was telling the truth. And it would mean that he could change too before they went into the disco rather than having to come all the way back there.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s a good idea.”
Gloria smirked and went on mixing. Presently the mixture was completed and she split it in two. Half she put in the metal bowl. The other half she gave to Trinny in a small plastic bag. “Here,” she said. “That’s what you need to transfer the years to your beau. Just pay attention to what else I do and you will be able to replicate the effect.”
Gloria picked up the serrated knife and held it to her palm, blade in.
“What are you going to do?” asked Trinny fearfully.
Gloria swept the blade back, drawing blood with a wince. She looked Trinny in the eye as the blood dripped down into the bowl, not blinking. She said nothing. She wrapped a bandage round her palm carefully then handed Trinny the knife. “Your turn.”
Trinny took the blade, her hands shaking. She put the knife to her own left palm. “Do I have to?”
“If you want it to work,” replied Gloria.
Trinny looked down at the bloody knife. She did want that. She wanted it more than anything.
Closing her eyes, she drew the knife back sharply, cutting open her palm. “Ow! That hurts!”
“Life is pain dearie,” replied Gloria, guiding her hand over the bowl so that the dripping blood was caught. “Careful. That’s it.”
While Trinny nursed her sore hand, Gloria finished mixing in the blood. She heated it over one of the candles and then poured the resultant liquid into two crystal sherry glasses. “Here,” she said, handing one to the girl.
Trinny looked into the dark red liquid and then up into the bright eyes of the old lady. “What do I do next?”
“Drink it,” replied Gloria. “But before you do, you must state the number of years you wish to exchange. This is crucial for the magic to work and both people must say the same number of years or the magic will fail. Is that clear?”
Trinny nodded.
“Right then,” said Gloria, raising the glass to her lips. She gave Trinny one last glimpse then closed her eyes and with great relish muttered the words, “Forty years.”
She knocked back the bloody liquid in one and then set the glass down.
Trinny gaped at her. “Forty years?”
“Yes,” replied Gloria. “Quickly. Before the magic wears off. Say forty years and then drink it down.”
“But that will make me… fifty three years old,” said Trinny. “I didn’t think it was going to be that much.”
“But you’re forgetting that half of those years will go to Andy darlin,” said Gloria, her voice kind and coaxing. “You’ll only be that age for a little while and then you and Andy will be able to start your lives together as adults and nobody will be able to tell you what to do; ever again.”
Trinny doubtfully started to raise the glass and Gloria pushed it up to her lips.
“That’s it darlin. Say the words and drink up; that’s a good girl. I’m being kind enough to give you these years and help you out. You wouldn’t want to be rude now, would you, after I’m going to all this trouble?”
Trinny looked down into the glass at her face. This was what she wanted – she was sure of that – but part of her was yelling at her to slow down and think.
“This is a one-time only offer dearie,” pressed Gloria. “This is your last chance to be with your beau. Don’t throw it away or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
“You’re right,” said Trinny. “I have to do this.”
She closed her eyes, got ready to drink it down and whispered the words, “Forty years.”
5
The sanguine liquid was still warm as it slipped down Trinny’s throat.
Its taste was unpleasant; actually quite revolting; and as it slipped into her stomach she felt a rush of mind-crushing despair and regret, entirely counter to the chirpy optimism she’d had a moment before. She looked to Gloria who, by contrast, looked elated. For her, clearly, the potion had tasted wonderful. It was only Trinny who had tasted it as fetid and bitter; laced with decades of weariness, struggle and regret.
“Quick child,” said Gloria. “Slip out of those clothes. I’ve prepared a robe for you to wear while the change moves over you.”
Trinny gaped at her, uncomprehending.
“Get undressed girl!” snapped the old lady and she jumped to it, disrobing as fast as she could. The dressing gown she was offered belonged to Gloria. It was as ancient and worn as she was, an unattractive and bulky pale purple. It fell down to her feet and beyond. It was much too long and broad for her but at least it covered her nakedness.
“Do you feel any different?” asked Gloria.
“No, I— Yes! I feel… I feel funny.” Trinny gripped her still nauseous stomach and saw the flesh rippling there when she parted the robe. Prickles broke out down the backs of her legs and down her spine; in her hair. “Something’s happening to me.”
“Yes,” replied Gloria with triumph. “To me as well. Look.” She held up her hands. The wrinkled skin was flattening, the sag of depleted flesh tightening up. The hair on her head was thickening as her posture straightened.
Trinny looked away, distracted by her own transformation. She was becoming more erect too, growing taller and filling out. She grinned as her legs lengthened, becoming toned, as her chest and shoulders broadened. Her hair had never been thick but now it was blossoming, tumbling down around her shoulders. She squealed with delight when her chest started to expand, beautiful womanly breasts growing there.
There was a dusty mirror above the fireplace and Trinny ran across to it, her robe already fitting her new adult height. She looked amazing. Her face wasn’t a little girl’s face anymore. It was the face of a pretty young woman. This was how she was going to look when she became an adult and that day was suddenly here! She was so happy!
She looked across at Gloria who was giggling away. She didn’t look like an old woman anymore; she looked a ripe middle age, and colour was returning to her plump cheeks as she stood stronger and firmer. Her hair was losing its grey and getting blonder and blonder as it too cascaded around her face.
Still grinning, Trinny looked back to the mirror and immediately the smile dropped from her face.
The freshness her face had had moments earlier had gone. There was a sobriety to her features now and her hair wasn’t flowing free anymore; it only just reached the shoulder and was cut in a more formal grown-up shape. She still looked good but the energy that had been bursting from her was ebbing slightly.
Then as she looked, the tiny feathered lines around her eyes became more prominent. Her face thickened, her neck becoming slightly stockier. Her hair shifted again, becoming a short bob, then it grew out longer again. Trinny touched her torso. The slim waist she’d had as she passed her twenties was thickening up with the growing inactivity of age. Her thighs and buttocks were filling in. Her wonderful new breasts were rounder but they started to shift and fall, turning downwards as her stomach became more doughy.
“I don’t like this Gloria,” she said, and was startled by the mature woman’s voice that issued from her mouth. She sounded as old as her mum. She sounded like one of her teachers at school. “Oh God,” she muttered. What had she done?
The lines around her mouth were getting deeper and soft bags were forming under her eyes. She remained attractive but she was getting older and older, edging toward middle age. Her hair got shorter and shorter until it ended in a something full and dark still but ending at her ears and speckled with grey.
Her eyes were misting as her eyesight deteriorated. She could still see if she squinted but she would need glasses for general wear.
She felt tired and worn, not just from the transformation. Her body ached in ways she had never experienced before; in ways an adult wouldn’t have even noticed it was so expected.
The transformation and exchange was complete.
Trinny looked at herself; at her new fifty three year old body. She was still a handsome woman but she was forty years older than she had been. She was deep into middle age. This was not what she had imagined, but she told herself it was still okay. Andy would take half these years off her. They would both be young adults together.
Gloria, by contrast, looked amazing.
The forty years had stripped her back to her thirties. Impossibly now she was the younger of the two of them and she couldn’t stop laughing, touching her firm arms and face and chest. She looked odd in the baggy old-lady clothes she was wearing but that didn’t detract from her looks. She was almost beautiful. “Well how do you like getting your wish granted Trinny?” she said, grinning mischievously. “You’re older than me now.”
“Yeah. I guess,” replied Trinny forlornly. She felt it. The physical sensation of the extra weight and height as well as the new sound of her voice stamped her indelibly into her new identity.
I’m a middle-aged woman, she thought. I bet I’m even older than my mum.
“What should I do for clothes?” she asked.
“I have some you can wear,” replied Gloria, going out of the room and leaving her to continue examining herself.
Trinny didn’t know what to think. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a grown-up. She could do everything a grown-up could now! That was what she had to remember. However down she felt now, actually her dream had come true. All she needed to do was go and see Andy and do the same spell with him. When he had twenty of the years she had taken off Gloria, they would be the same age. He would actually be a bit older.
She smiled a little. That made her feel better.
“Here you are sweetie,” said Gloria, coming back in. “I’m going to need to pop to the shops myself. Nothing I have fits me anymore but you’re a bit stockier than I am so these should be fine.”
Trinny’s face fell to hear herself described as stocky, but looking down at her new adult body she couldn’t disagree.
She laid a skirt and blouse on the sofa. They were much bigger than Trinny was used to and looked very old fashioned but they did look like they would fit.
“I can’t wear these,” she complained. “What will Andy say when he sees me? And I’m meant to be going to the disco. I need a party frock.”
“This is the best I can do,” snapped Gloria. “Now hurry up and get dressed. I’ve got things to be getting on with and I’m going to go shopping for a start.”
Trinny regarded the clothes and shoes Gloria had presented her with.
It wasn’t exactly how she’d imagined it would be but she still had what she wanted. That was all that mattered.
She took off the dressing gown, tried not to look at her sagging bloated body, and started to get dressed in the old woman’s clothes.
6
Trinny felt awkward and tired as she made her way to Annbury working men’s club.
She had worn heels before but only in play over short periods. The ones she was wearing weren’t high but they felt strange on her feet and pinched her toes. She was also unused to wearing formal skirts and blouses like this. The blouse had capped sleeves and ruffles down the front. It was terribly unfashionable but she had to admit that it was the kind of thing a fifty year old woman might wear and that was what she was now.
She tried to compare herself to the adults she knew to understand where her new age sat. She thought her mum was thirty five. She was much younger than Trinny was now. This filled her with mixed emotions but mostly a sort of dread. She wanted to be old enough so that her mum couldn’t tell her what to do. She didn’t want to be way older than that. She pictured the way that age had affected her mother and the deeper scoring that it had done to her.
Who else did she know who was old?
Mrs Jenkins, the headmistress of Corbridge Junior School was in her fifties. God, was she really as old as that now? It seemed inconceivable that she was as old as a teacher, even if it was only going to be temporary. Imagine if she had to stay like this! She shuddered at the thought of it.
There were one or two teachers older than Mrs Jenkins; really ancient ones; but only a couple. All the other teachers looked younger. Some of them were younger than her mum. Thinking of it in these terms made her feel more and more disconcerted. There was a switch-around going on inside her mind, she realised. Her self-image had always been that of a little girl. Suddenly now she was coming to understand that she was a mature woman. She recalled the face that had looked back at her from the mirror with the short, easy to manage, hairstyle and fleshier and careworn features. That was who she was now.
“I’ve really turned into a grown-up,” she murmured, and hearing her new mature voice underscored that. It didn’t sound anything like she normally did and not just because she had different vocal chords and more resonant chambers in her throat or whatever. She was talking differently; as though she was... more tired; not in so much of a hurry.
It was weird. She didn’t like it. The sooner she could give Andy some of these years, the better.
It wasn’t too far to the club now but there was a corner shop up ahead on the right. On a whim, Trinny decided to go in. She wanted to see how differently she might be treated now.
Normally when she went into shops the shopkeeper watched her like a hawk to see if she was going to steal anything and talked down to her. Now he smiled and said, “Good evening madam. How may I help you today?”
Trinny giggled to herself and said, “I’m fine thank you. I’m just having a look.” She giggled some more. She had sounded just like one of her teachers. This was fun after all.
She walked round the shop, looking at things. She didn’t have any money so she couldn’t buy anything but it was fun to browse. She really felt the difference with the way she was dressed and the more sedate movement her taller and broader body had. She caught sight of herself in the dim reflection of a glass-fronted fridge. Seeing this middle-aged woman looking back chilled her and made it all seem so much more real.
She headed for the door and the shopkeeper said, “Did you not find what you were looking for madam?”
“No. Thank you,” she replied and left, smiling at how easily she had fooled him into thinking she really was so old.
There was a floodlit car park at the front of the working men’s club. As Trinny crossed the road and walked onto it she could already hear the music coming from inside, but it was only now that something occurred to her that sort of ruined her plans.
The junior disco was for teenagers. Even if she gave Andy twenty of the years that Gloria gave her, she would still be in her early thirties. She would be far too old to fit in at the disco.
She stopped, scowling, thinking about that. This had all been about wanting to go to that disco.
Or had it? No. Not really. The disco was just the latest thing. What she really wanted was to be able to make her own decisions without her mum bossing her about. This particular disco wasn’t important. When she and Andy were made to be the right age they would be able to go to proper adult discos whenever they wanted.
Trinny grinned and walked on, scanning the front of the building for Andy. He was supposed to be waiting for her but she couldn’t see him any—
She stopped, squinting into the shadows where there was an alcove to the right of the front door. The light was so bright that it made the shadows darker and her eyesight really wasn’t that great anymore. In the shop she’d barely been able to read the bigger lettering on all the products. But she saw someone there.
She stepped closer. “Andy?”
There was definitely somebody lurking there. It had to be him. She grinned and strode toward him.
“Andy, why are you hiding back there for? What are you...?”
She stopped and she stared.
It was Andy. But he wasn’t alone.
He was kissing another girl. He was kissing Heather Dalton. And his hands were all over her. He was snogging her like he was in love with her. Trinny couldn’t believe it.
“Andy, what are you doing?” she said, her adult voice rising in pitch. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
7
Andy broke off from snogging Heather as though he’d been physically jostled and the two of them stood there looking guilty and afraid.
It took Trinny a second or two to realise why he wasn’t reacting the way she might have expected him to. He didn’t recognise her. She was forty years older. He didn’t think she was his girlfriend who had caught him cheating; he thought she was some random adult he didn’t know – maybe one of the disco organisers – who had caught him being naughty. She might have laughed at the misunderstanding if she hadn’t been heartbroken.
“You!” she snapped, pointing at Heather. Trinny had always hated her and this just proved she had been right to. She was a boyfriend-stealing whorebag. “Get out of here, now!”
Heather didn’t move right away, sullenly trying to gauge what authority I had over her probably.
“GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!” screamed Trinny. “I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR STUPID FACE ANYMORE!”
Heather hurried away and Andy started after her.
“Not you!” snapped Trinny, knowing that he still didn’t know her. “I want to talk to you.”
Andy loitered looking extremely uncomfortable, his hands in his pockets. Trinny stood there, watching him, unable at first to gather her thoughts, then eventually, with tears coming to her eyes, she said, “How could you? How could you do this to me? I love you.”
He frowned, confused.
“It’s me,” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Trinny.”
Andy just stared, trying to comprehend what he was hearing, couple it with what she’d told him earlier when he hadn’t been able to believe it. “Trinny? Is that really...? Is that really you?”
She nodded. “Yes it’s me.”
“But you look so old.”
A tear came to her eye. “I told you,” she said. “I told you I had a spell to make us older. You were supposed to wait for me. We were meant to do it together. I brought the potion for you to take as well.”
“Me?” he said. “I don’t want to be as old as you.”
“We wouldn’t be this old,” she said. “We’re meant to end up in our thirties and then be adults and be able to do anything we want. Why were you kissing Heather Dalton?”
Andy shrugged grumpily, looking guilty and resentful. “I can kiss who I want.”
“But we’re in love! I wanted us to be married. We were going to be together. I was fixing it so that nobody could keep us apart.”
Andy sneered. “Married? You’re crazy. You’ve always been weird. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
“What!? But I love you!”
Andy shook his head. “Look at you,” he said. “You look awful. You’re so old. And fat.”
“I did this for you!” screamed Trinny, stepping forward. “We were meant to be older together. I’m not meant to stay like this. You’re supposed to take twenty of the years.”
“Me? Be twenty years older? No way!”
“But...” she was weeping freely now, her shoulders shaking with it. “I did all of this for you. You can’t leave me like this. You’re meant to do it with me. If you don’t then I’ll be stuck like this. I’ll be old.”
Andy looked her up and down and sneered. “You’re old already.”
He turned his back on her and walked up to the door of the club. Trinny stood there helplessly. Just before he went in he looked back at her.
“You should go and get your money back on that spell,” he said.
8
Trinny wept all the way back to the block of flats at the centre of Barton Green. She climbed the stairs to the third floor feeling weary and worn and stumped along to Gloria’s door. It was ajar and she pushed it open, going inside.
Gloria was in the bedroom with an open suitcase and a collection of newly purchased bags of clothes. She was dressed in cut-off jeans and a tank top, her blond hair tied high on her head. She looked radiant and healthy and carried herself with a far more youthful energy.
When she saw Trinny in the doorway, she paused in her packing and smiled sardonically. “I wondered when you’d be back. Being a grown-up not all it’s cracked up to be?” She chuckled. “I told you: life is pain dearie. It pays to remember that.”
“Andy was kissing Heather Dalton,” said Trinny and burst into tears. “He doesn’t want to – to be with me. He doesn’t want to take the years you gave me.”
“Oh dear. Well, that’s hardly surprising really,” said Gloria, lifting the mattress and retrieving some money she had stashed there. She took some more from behind a book on the bookshelf. “What did you expect really?”
“That he’d want to be with me. That we could run away together.”
Gloria chuckled. “You’ll learn darlin. Men can’t be trusted. Ever. I’ll tell you that for free and it’ll be the best thing you ever learned.” She went on packing quickly and carelessly. Trinny watched her in stunned and forlorn silence.
Eventually, as the tears started to dry, she said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving,” replied Gloria. “I’ve been stuck in this shithole for far too long. There’s some stuff I’ve been meaning to get to; some people who did me down who think they’ve got away with it. I mean to give them a wake-up call.”
“But what about me?” asked Trinny.
“What about you?”
“I want to be young again. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have agreed to take your years. I don’t want to be old.”
“You’re not that old sweetie. You’re only fifty three. That’s nothing. Come and see me in twenty more years. Then you’ll have something to complain about.”
“I am old. I’m ancient. Look at me. I wasn’t supposed to be like this. Andy and me were supposed to change together. I was only meant to be thirty and I only wanted to be about twenty. You made me take all these years.”
Gloria chuckled again. “Well I’m afraid it was a onetime deal darlin. There’s no way I’m taking those years back. You’re stuck with them.”
“But it’s not fair,” whined Trinny. “I didn’t want to be this old. It’s not my fault Andy wouldn’t take the years off me.”
“It’s your fault you were dumb enough to take them in the first place.” Gloria closed the case and carried it through to the lounge. “That’s all I need really. The rest of this crap is just junk. It wasn’t even mine.”
“Don’t leave me,” said Trinny. “What am I supposed to do now? How do I become young again?”
“Well...” Gloria put her hands on her hips. “I’m afraid you’ve got yourself a problem; the same kind of problem I had. It don’t matter that you have a potion that can trade years with someone. You need someone who will swap with you willingly and now little Andy has let you down, that’s going to be hard to find. I guess you’re stuck like that.”
“But I’m over fifty! I can’t be stuck. It isn’t fair. I’m only a girl. I’m not meant to be a grown woman.”
Gloria shrugged. “Sorry darlin. That’s just the way it is.” She lifted her case and went to the door.
“Please,” said Trinny with a whimper. “What can I do? Where can I go? I can’t go home. I don’t have any money or anywhere to live.”
“You can stay here if you like,” said Gloria. “Rent’s paid up for three more weeks. The landlord won’t care as long as you get a job before then to pay the next month.”
“A job?”
“Sure. You’re an adult now. You have to pay your way. That’s life. There’s plenty of cash-in-hand stuff round Barton.” She turned to go.
“Wait. Please,” said Trinny. “I just want to go back to how I was. I don’t want to be an adult.”
Gloria shrugged again. “I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no going back.”
9
Trinny went out onto the long balcony walkway and watched Gloria walk away, just starting to comprehend the realities of her new life.
There was no way she could become a teenager again. Nobody would ever agree to trade years with her. She had been a stupid little lovesick fool and now she was going to have to spend the rest of her life paying for that. And how much shorter would her life be? Forty years shorter! She had given up all trace of her youth in a moment of rash impulsiveness and now she was trapped as a middle-aged woman.
In no time she would be an old woman and soon after that she would be dead.
She might have started crying again but the tears all seemed drained from her now. Maybe now that she was an adult she was no longer as prone to weeping. She had too much responsibility.
The door to her own flat, next door to Gloria’s, opened abruptly and her mother stuck her head out. “Trinny! TRINNY!” Trinny watched her mother go to the balcony edge and peer down to the dark grass below. “TRINNY!
She wanted to reach out and say, Here I am, but she looked down at herself and realised her mother wouldn’t know her; would never believe she was her little girl. All she wanted was to fall into her mother’s arms and have everything be okay but she couldn’t do that ever again. She could never go home.
Her mother saw her standing there and raised her eyebrows, looking to the heavens. “Kids eh? They’re more trouble than they’re worth.” She came closer and Trinny saw a different side to her immediately; a different kind of body language when speaking as one adult to another. “She’ll be off at the working men’s club disco probably. I told her she couldn’t go but she doesn’t listen. Wilful child.” She chuckled. “Reminds me of me at that age to be perfectly honest.”
Trinny’s eyes went slightly wider but she didn’t respond beyond making a small polite smile.
“I try so hard with her, to be the best mum I can be, but it’s so difficult. She blames me for her father leaving but, well…” She shook her head. “Between you and me he was a really nasty piece of work. Trinny doesn’t remember but he used to beat us both. He broke her arm in two places when she was three years old. I did everything I could to protect my child but we ended up with precious little; living from hand to mouth; and now she hates me.” She gave a sad smile. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
Trinny shook her head unhappily. “No. It doesn’t.”
“That’s the trouble with parenting though, isn’t it? You give them all the love you can and you try to protect them from making bad choices and at the end of it all they flip a coin in their mind. Heads, they appreciate it and love you back; tails they resent everything and never speak to you again. I wish it was better.” She sighed. “Maybe one day it will be. If she ever comes home.” She chuckled, raising her eyebrows again. “Truth be told I just miss her. I’ll tell her off when she comes back because I have to but really all I want is to take her in my arms and hug her and kiss her and pretend that she’ll never grow up. Does that sound silly?”
“Not at all,” replied Trinny.
Her mother took another look over the railing. “I’ve not seen you around before,” she said. “Are you moving in to the building?”
Trinny looked through the open flat doorway behind her. “Uh, yes. I’m moving in here.”
“To Gloria’s place? Oh, that’ll be nice. You can come round for coffee sometimes if you like.”
Trinny brightened. “That would be nice. Yes please.”
“What’s your name?” asked her mother.
Trinny hesitated, getting another shuddering sense of the person she was now. “Katrina.”
“Oh, that’s my daughter’s proper name. I call her Trinny but it’s meant to be Katrina.”
“Is it?”
There was a pause. The conversation had dried up a little and Trinny’s mother was distracted by the search for her missing daughter. Trinny watched her go again to the railing and call her name and a realisation came to her that was utterly startling.
She was much older than her mother now; by almost twenty years. So, so much older than her.
“Well, I’d better go anyway,” said her mother, oblivious to the sinking feeling of dread in Trinny’s heart, “but it’s been really nice to chat. I’m glad you’re moving in next door.”
Trinny turned the corners of her mouth up again, trying her hardest not to burst into tears.
“Sometimes you just click with someone,” said Trinny’s mother, “and there’s something familiar about you.”
She frowned and had a closer look at Trinny’s face, eyes flicking from one feature to the next. Finally she smiled and Trinny’s heart leapt, that somehow, impossibly, her mother had recognised her.
“That’s it,” said her mother and laughed. “I know why you look familiar now. It’s because you remind me of my mother.”
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You: Volume 3 by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
If you liked this then check out my site. I post new story episodes every couple of days.
SPIRAL STAIR
By Emma Finn
A wealthy man finds himself lost in the dark town of Barton, but when he stops to ask directions he finds himself going down a spiral stair that changes him into a little girl. Now he really is in trouble as the mad denizens of Barton close in to trap him there forever.
Warning: This is very dark.
1
I had the awful sense that I’d forgotten something important and that made the fact I was lost even worse.
I didn’t know how long I’d been driving round Barton but it was far too long and I was getting immensely frustrated. The streets were so narrow and never ran for very long before turning and then turning again. Road after road ended as a crescent, looping back to practically where they started and the dead ends were often unmarked. I kept heading down a street in good faith only to find it ending in only another shabby series of dirty housing, gaping back at me with blank-eyed windows. Then I would have to back up, trying to get out, the tension earth-shaking because of the value of my car. I couldn’t risk scratching it.
That was the problem with owning a Lamborghini. I should never have brought it into Barton – but then I didn’t expect to get lost. I’d almost never been to Barton before and I could only guess I’d made it through in the past on fluky luck. I couldn’t for the life of me work out why I’d bothered to come today.
It was something about the new restaurant that had opened on the other side of the river but I hated to eat out alone; always had. What had possessed me to head over there by myself on a bleak and rainy night?
At least the rain had stopped now but the windscreen kept misting up. I leaned closer to the wheel to get a better look at my surroundings, trying to spot any indication of the route out – some sense of compass direction even. I couldn’t see any significant landmarks.
Again I had a niggling feeling of forgetting something important but I couldn’t think what it was. My life was pretty simple – as a long term bachelor I didn’t have the complication of a woman to mess things up. I just did what I wanted. I shrugged. How important could it really be?
I drove to the end of the next road and paused, looking left and right. It opened up here and there were two tall blocks of flats in front of a large patch of grass. I’d been here before already which was both frustrating and promising. I wondered if I should even get out of the car and climb one of those blocks; see which way Nockton was from there, so I could at least head off in the right direction; although I suspected that I’d lose myself pretty quickly again once I made a few turns. I wished the sat nav wasn’t on the fritz. It had been working yesterday.
I drove along the edge of the grass, slowing when I saw a toilet block.
I’d pulled up here before... for some reason. I couldn’t quite... I couldn’t remember why now, but it scratched at that sense of forgetfulness; as though it was linked to what I was trying to remember.
Shrugging I rolled on, but up ahead I slowed again. There was a woman standing on the side of the road and so I decided to stop and ask for help.
I pulled up and lowered the window. I smiled up at her but that smile faltered when I got a good look at her in the streetlamp light. She didn’t look that old but she was worn... by life; by drugs maybe. She looked dishevelled and hopeless; like she needed rescuing; though I could tell she was too far gone for that. Nothing could save her now.
“Er… hi,” I said. “I was wondering if you could give me directions out of Barton. I’ve been driving round for hours trying to find the way out.”
She shrugged, and just for a moment something passed over her expression that looked like confusion, then she giggled. “Don’t you know?” she said. “Once you come to Barton, there ain’t no way out.”
I chuckled, feeling uneasy. The trouble I was having, that might have even been true.
The woman leant onto the open window, pushing her prestigious cleavage into my face. “But that don’t mean to say you can’t enjoy yourself while you’re here.”
I grimaced, holding up my hands. “Er, thanks but, no offence; I’m not looking for company.”
“You sure about that luv?” she asked, tickling my cheek with a crooked index finger. “I bet I could think of a trick or two to make your night. Maybe you won’t wanna leave after I’m done with ya.”
I took an extra second or two to check her out and my lower brain asked itself the question: could I ever be with a woman like this?
She might have been attractive in her younger days, before the drugs took hold, but now she was a real skank. She smelled awful and I could practically see the grim reaper curled up like a snake inside her belly.
“Sorry. Uh, do you mind?” I said. “I have to get going.”
She looked at me for a moment longer with the off-kilter smile of false flirtation, then it dropped off her like it had never been there and, still up in my face, said, “Fuck you then you selfish prick,” and pushed off the side of the car. She drew back her foot and kicked the side panel. “Get lost you creep!”
“Hey!”
She kicked it again. I drove off as fast as I could, cursing her and cursing this nasty little town.
I should have stayed in Nockton and I was never coming back here if I ever got out that was for damn sure.
2
A few minutes later I saw someone else; a man this time; waking along beside a seedy looking apartment complex and decided to pull in to ask him for a way out of this maze.
The complex was a great rectangular block of flats, not as tall as the ones by the green but with a larger footprint. It looked like it had been built with good intentions in the seventies but the decor was horribly dated now and the formerly white walls were worn and flaking. It looked like nothing had been done to it since the grand opening and its very structure now was poised on the brink of final and irrevocable collapse. In large broken letters along part of the front wall were the words Shelby Apartments.
I stopped the car and got out. The man was about thirty yards away, walking along a tall barrier that bordered what looked like a sunken level beyond. “Excuse me!” I called. He didn’t answer and was nearing a tall gate in the barrier. I started to hurry. “Hey! Can you give me some directions?”
He didn’t respond; just kept on walking. He was wearing a raincoat, stained darker by the rainwater. He reached the gate and opened it with a key. There was a wire-enclosed staircase on the other side. He started down.
“Hey wait a minute!” I called, jogging now to catch him, but the gate was almost closed and he was disappearing out of sight. It clanged shut just as I ran up to it. “God damn it!”
I went to the barrier. It was a sunken level a storey below; very dark and dirty. It looked again like it might have been a nice place at one time but now it was dismal. There was what looked like an old fountain down there, now filled with black fetid liquid and garbage. There was detritus everywhere; shopping trolleys, rubbish, old magazines and newspapers. In various places walkways and arches covered over the level and it seemed also to spread beneath where I was standing. The spiral stair that went down from the gate was sealed in with wire mesh. The man was half way down, turning the stair, oblivious, as I shouted him again a couple of times.
I looked past the stair. There was a message board down there. I wondered if it might have a map posted up. I looked back toward my car. Where the hell were all the people? There was nobody to ask and anyone I did ask gave me crap or said nothing. Maybe nobody ever did get out of Barton alive.
I wandered over to the gate, wondering what my best plan was, and noticed that the catch hadn’t engaged when it shut after him. I pulled it open gingerly and looked in. The grilled metal stair led downwards into the darkness.
He hadn’t gone that far ahead.
With one last glance back at my car I went through and hurried down the spiral stair.
It was narrow and immediately claustrophobic and I regretted choosing to do it, especially when the clang came again of the gate shutting behind me. I paused, feeling odd suddenly; kind of nauseous. With the dense wire cage round the stair it wasn’t very light in there and the paint on the handrail was flaking, the rust underneath coming off as dust on my fingers. I was aware that I needed to hurry but a lethargy was coming over me. I stopped again, putting my hand to my forehead. It felt hot.
I went round the next bend and a dizziness started up. I stopped, squeezing my eyes tight shut. When I opened them again my head was pulsing and it was even darker. I could barely see the black metal steps below me to place my feet.
This was a mistake. I should go back. But I had to be near the bottom now. I had to ask that guy for directions; find the way out. There had to be some way out of this town.
I went round the next bend. I was feeling weaker now but my thoughts were sluggish. Maybe it was some kind of escaped gas. What if I was being poisoned? But the man had gone down ahead of me without apparent difficulty. It couldn’t be that.
I should go back – I knew that – but I just kept on going down; one foot after another.
It was almost pitch black now and it felt like strands of something were draped across my face. It must have been hanging down from the spiralling steps above but it kept flicking in my face no matter which way I dodged my head.
I carried on down and down and down. Surely I should have been at the bottom already but I wasn’t and I could barely remember why I’d gone down. That man. Yes. But all I wanted now was to get out. That was all I needed now. Get out into the fresh air.
It got marginally lighter. Maybe I was reaching the bottom. I had to be. I felt worse; more queasy and lightheaded. I groaned. There was an odd smell like damp and urine. I gagged, covering my mouth with my hand. I didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.
And then finally I saw the bottom of the stair. There was no gate there thank God and it was a bit lighter. I staggered to the bottom and out into the shadowy underpass it led onto.
I took deep cleansing breaths, leaning over onto my knees, trying to get a hold of myself. Could it have been claustrophobia? Was that why I had been so bad? I didn’t know what was wrong with me. My eyes were tightly shut.
When I opened them I didn’t understand at first what I was seeing. I was still bent over, leaning on my knees, but my clothes weren’t the same. I could see my bare lower legs and my arms... They were bare too. All around my face hung hair... long hair.
“What on Earth...”
I stood up and the dark hair swung up and back. I gaped, startled, down at myself, disbelieving what I was seeing.
“God, no, what is this?” I muttered, but it wasn’t even my voice. It was light and scratchy, no adult weight behind it.
I had changed. Somehow, while I was coming down the spiral stair.
My body had changed. My clothes had changed.
Everything about me had changed.
I wasn’t myself anymore. I was somebody else.
It was a nightmare. I had gone to sleep and this was my nightmare; that was what it had to be.
I wasn’t a man anymore.
I was a little girl.
3
I was...
I was just—
My hands were little; my arms and legs skinny. I felt my thin stomach, my blank featureless chest, the matted and greasy hair hanging from my scalp. I touched my face: my smooth cheeks, my lips.
It wasn’t a dream. It was real.
I was really just a girl; maybe... eight or nine? Younger?
“Oh fuck,” I said. “Oh fucking hell. What am I going to do?”
I had to do something! But what? How the hell was I meant to fix this? How the hell could it have even happened?
But I knew. I knew the answer to that – of course I did – and I looked now toward the foot of the blackened spiral staircase, reaching back up to street level. I traced it round and round to the top.
I didn’t know how – and it made no sense – but that had to have been what did this to me. It had to have been.
I looked down, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened, but then I started to notice another level to this; something I hadn’t immediately perceived.
There was something wrong with me. Magical transformation or not, I hadn’t become a normal little girl. My clothing was dirty and dishevelled. My skin wasn’t clean. My little hands were dirty; dirt under the nails on both hands. I was wearing a skirt that looked like it might have been part of a school uniform once upon a time and a short sleeved purple jumper made of wrinkled synthetic material. It too was filthy. On my feet was a pair of slip on shoes but they were damp and grimy, the seams splitting.
My mouth was moving of its own accord, spelling out silent words of horror. I had to get out of here. I had to get back.
I went for the bottom of the stairs but stopped short, frightened to delve back into the darkness. It was dangerous – I knew that. What more could it do to me if I went back in there?
But I had to. I couldn’t stay like this. My car was up there. The man I’d followed down was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t stay in this dismal hellhole by myself, trapped in this shape. It was like the underside of a post-apocalyptic wasteland. I had no choice.
I walked to the foot of the spiral stair and took hold of the metal railing. My hand looked tiny against it and I got my first sense of my new scale. The stair stretched up, dwarfing me. This was terrible. I had to get back to how I was.
I stepped into the darkness and started to climb.
This time, although it still became dark I didn’t get nauseous. It was difficult and I got another whiff of that awful smell but realised a second later that it was me. The odour of piss was all over my clothes.
Round I went and round again, pushing up through the blackness, feeling my way, desperate for the uncomfortable feelings to come back so that I could change back; but they weren’t coming. I could feel the long hair against my face; realised now that it was that I had thought was draping on me from above.
It started to get lighter and I could see my thin little arm working up the railing; see my bare legs in the skirt.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Please. I don’t want to be stuck like this. Please.” I sounded pitiful; exactly like a lost and lonely child.
Then I turned the final bend and saw the gate at the top. At least I could get back to my car; lock myself in; try and drive out of there; get help.
But when I pushed against the gate it wouldn’t open.
There was a catch, not a lock, on this side, but no matter how many times I hammered on it, the gate wouldn’t budge.
“Please!” I cried. “Please!”
I banged it with my fist, forcing what little weight I had against it to push it back but it didn’t budge.
Tears welled into my eyes but I swiped angrily at them. I wasn’t a girl. I wasn’t going to cry like one.
“Help!” I cried, peering through the gaps in the gate. “Help me!”
But I couldn’t see anyone; just my car standing there no close but impossibly out of reach.
I looked back down the gloomy staircase.
It was my only choice. Go back down there and work my way round a different way. And maybe; just maybe going down was what invoked the magic. Maybe if I went down once more it would turn me back.
Swallowing over and over again with anxiety, I started down and as soon as I turned the first curve I felt the insidious enchantment close in on me like a hand rummaging inside my belly.
My brain felt pinched and I lurched, trying hard to keep upright as my insides were abused by whatever forces were pressing down on me. I cried out; a girlish cry; and fell to the side, only just keeping upright. I pushed on down.
It got darker and I got more and more scared. I didn’t like the dark. I never had and my mum made me sleep in the dark. She never let me have the light on. She’d taken the bulb away.
I carried on, wishing I hadn’t lost the key to our flat. I was going to be in such trouble when my mum got home. She could be so nasty if I did wrong, especially if she hadn’t had her cigarettes. I had to—
“Wait.”
I stopped, eyes staring wildly into the darkness.
Those thoughts...
This staircase...
“Oh my God.”
It wasn’t changing me back. It was changing me more. It was trying to make me think I really was this girl.
“This can’t be happening to me.”
I had to get back to my car. I had to find some way out of this fix. But if I climbed back up then there was no way out. If I went down...
If I went down then it would change me even further. It was trying to alter my thoughts; make me think I’d been born this way; but I hadn’t. I was a man. I wasn’t this little girl.
“Oh fuck. What should I do?”
All I could do was keep going down. There was no way back and I couldn’t stay in the middle. I had to go to the bottom and hope I didn’t change too much. That was my only option.
“Oh God. Why did this happen to me?”
I had to go down.
4
I started descending into the deepening darkness and immediately I felt a constriction around my little head like the closed fist of a giant wringing out a cloth.
I let out a grating moan, pressing my hand to the side of my head, knowing now for sure what this was doing to me. I pressed my lips together, determined to hold out and stop the shifting of my brain matter, but how could I stop it if it had already totally transformed my entire body.
I staggered one way and then the other, going down two or three steps at a time; almost losing my footing. I had to remember my name; keep that at the front of my mind. My name was Kieran. I was a man. I wasn’t a little girl.
That was better; yes.
My name was Kieran. I was a man.
I shambled down further, desperate to get to the bottom intact, feeling my way now with outstretched hands.
My name was Kayleigh. I had to remember that. My name was Kayleigh.
It was starting to get lighter. “Thank God!”
My name was Kayleigh.
I ran the rest of the way down, feeling the toxic probing slough off me and I leaned against a pillar, gasping. Tears were streaming down my cheeks now and I could barely catch my breath but I had made it and I was still me on the inside. I was Kayleigh Morris. I was eight years old. I was—
“Oh no.”
I moaned and gripped two great bunches of hair on the sides of my head.
It had got to me. It had changed me too much. I hadn’t been able to stop it. I knew I wasn’t meant to be this girl I’d become. My real name was... My real name was...
“Kayleigh Morris,” I whispered.
I couldn’t remember.
But I still knew that this wasn’t right. I had that. I remembered I was meant to be a man. I remembered my car up there on the road and I remembered my business; my house. And... Did I have a wife? I squinted, trying to remember. Did I? I couldn’t picture her.
Nervous, I probed my mind, feeling my way, and I got a memory of a dirty cramped little flat with rubbish on the floor and piles and piles of old books. No light on. Never any lights on. Food going mouldy. A dirty little blanket that stank of piss and shit.
I shuddered.
I had to get out of this. Somehow.
Maybe I should try back up the stairs; try to force the gate again. Yes. I wanted to go up there and give it another try. That was the best idea.
But no. No. It wasn’t me thinking that. I’d already tried that. I couldn’t get through. And if I went up there again and came down again then surely I’d lose myself completely.
No. I had to find another way up. There had to be one.
I peered into the darkness. There were walkways overhead in places and between them the black night was showing through. Pillars and great big tubs that used perhaps to contain plants were dotted everywhere, blocking the view, but somewhere in one of the directions I would be able to find another way up onto the street and then circle round.
I looked to my right and jumped in fright when I saw a silhouetted figure a dozen yards away, standing still under the shadow of the overpass. It didn’t move at first and I started to speak, to call out to whoever it was, but I was frightened. My momma didn’t like me talking to strangers. She punished me if she found out about it.
But I was desperate. I just needed a little help.
“Hello?” I said, my voice tiny and timid. “Can you tell me if there’s a way up to the street? Apart from up these stairs?”
The figure swayed. It had to be a man. It was too bulky to be a woman. Could it be the man I’d followed down the stair? He didn’t respond to my question.
“Can you help me?” I said. “I’m sort of lost.”
He came three shambling steps toward me and then stopped. He was still a blackened featureless nothing. He swayed again then lurched another few steps. He was close now but I started to back up, little girl steps away from this towering stranger.
He came on again and now the light etched his features, drawing him in from the darkness. I saw flicks of dishevelled hair rising chaotically up from his head then I caught a lungful of the stench that came off him: mould and loneliness and decay.
Then he came on again in a rush and he was suddenly above me, reaching for me with his grasping hands, and I saw his face. It was the crazed face of a gibbering madman, palsied lips and gaping lidless eyes. He let out a moan and reached for my throat and I turned on my heel and ran screaming into the darkness.
5
I ran into the darkness away from the madman but he came after me, arms swinging in front of him, urgent groans coming from his cracked lips.
I was so small. I was tiny! How could I hope to get away from him?
It was pitch black in places but the diluted moonlight came through the rain clouds in large areas where there was open sky above. I fled toward one of those areas but as I looked back frantically he was still coming.
I was just a little girl. If he caught me he could do anything to me that he wanted. All he had to do was grab my wrist or my clothes – just one little snatch – and I would never be able to break free. He was like a giant compared to me; a monster!
I ran out into the open section, veering to the left of a stagnant fountain. The thick black water was littered with crap: a half open umbrella; a tricycle; a shopping basket. I turned, backing away. Still the man was following, lurching from one side to the other, his eyes fixed on mine.
This was no good. Out in the open he could track me – there was no way I could lose him – and I would get tired before he did surely. I had to keep to the darker areas. I had to hide.
I sprinted to my right and the man darted after me, flailing his right arm now and calling out gibberish as his left arm hung uselessly down near his waist. His matted hair swung across his face, distorting his features as he moved. I screamed and increased my speed, pitching forward.
He was twice my height at least. I was dead. He was going to get me.
Ahead there was a blockage; some benches that had been thrown over and piled up. I slid to a stop and looked right. That way led back toward the lighter areas. I turned left. But the man was there. He was upon me. He reached for me, grazing my shoulder. I squealed, contorting my body to get away from him. He lunged again and I ducked.
Just one hand on me. That was all he needed.
I ran again. He bellowed angrily; gibberish again; shaking his right fist high. I put my back to him and sprinted into the straight line of shadow, instantly vanishing in the contrasted blackness.
I turned left immediately and ran again, my hands out in front of me. I could barely see a thing. I made a diagonal path toward the right wall, hoping to feel my way along, but my shin bashed up against something rigid and sharp and I yelled in agony, pitching forward, all balance lost. I smacked hard onto the tiled floor and skidded, grunting, then finally fell still.
I lay there, the pain shooting up my leg from the shin; more pain in my shoulder and arm and on my forehead where I’d come down badly. I whimpered pathetically, winded, trying to catch a breath that proved too elusive.
I had to get up. He was coming. I had to get up and run but I was too sore. I couldn’t breathe. He was going to catch me anyway. There was no escape.
Then I went rigid. I stopped whimpering. I stopped trying to inhale.
The man was close. He was very close. I could hear him. I was lying mostly stretched out, my left cheek on the tile, facing right, tangled hair down over my nose and mouth. Somewhere below my feet and behind me, I could hear him moving, slowly now, coming nearer.
Closer he came to me. Closer and closer, his ragged breathing loud and sickening. Any second he was going to grab my little bare ankle, or my thigh. He was going to take my arm and wrench me up.
A hoarse inhale came from him and then an exhale. An inhale. An exhale. He was standing right behind me. I could feel it.
A tiny girlish sound escaped from my throat. I pinched my eyes and my lips tight shut.
Still his ugly sordid breaths came in and out; in and out.
Then he took a step that came down near the back of my head, and another: somewhere near my crown.
Could it be that he hadn’t seen me? Was that possible?
Please God, let that be possible.
I didn’t move or open my eyes – I still hadn’t let out a breath – but my lungs were burning. They were demanding it but I knew that I’d held the breath too long. It was bound to be loud; bound to draw him back.
He was still so close. I couldn’t risk it. But I couldn’t help myself!
My mouth cracked open and the air rushed in. I tried with all my heart to limit the sound of it and it was only slight.
I lay, frozen, waiting for him to pounce on me, but he didn’t. I allowed myself a slow but uneven inhale.
His footstep came down again, further away; another, still further. I opened my eyes to the darkness but remained absolutely still. I was still aching from head to foot.
But I had to get up once he was clear. I had to keep moving. If I just kept to the shadows and moved the opposite way to him, I could work my way round the perimeter of this sunken hellhole and surely... surely find a way out and back to my car.
I didn’t have any other choice. It was my only chance.
6
I waited a long, cold ten minutes or more on the dark patch of wet tiled floor, not moving; barely breathing; until I was sure that the crazy man was far enough away now not to see me. Even then when I got up I was trembling with fear.
I think at first, when I became this girl, I didn’t understand what had happened to me in a way that fully acknowledged the limitations of its reality. That wasn’t the case now. Lying there on the black floor, the stinking liquid beneath me soaking into my already filthy girlish clothes, I had come to comprehend just how real this situation was; how weak and vulnerable I was.
I had nowhere to go; no money; no adult authority or rights. And I couldn’t even rely on others to help me. The insidious false memories that had crept into my head when I climbed down the spiral stair for the second time had furnished me only with the knowledge that I had a mother; not who she was or where. I was totally alone. But maybe that was for the best. Tempting though it might have been to seek the sanctuary of this girl’s home and family, that smelled far too much like a trap. I wanted my own life back. I didn’t want to stay like this.
And what kind of parents kept a girl like this in these filthy clothes? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Looking in the direction the madman had gone I crept over to the wall and slowly; ever so slowly; started working my way along, peering ahead to look for further blockages and barriers. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been potholes even or open grates plunging down into running sewage. This place was a torture palace. I couldn’t believe it even existed in this day and age. But what use was disbelief now? Everything about this situation challenged reality but I was still here, in the body of a little girl, creeping desperately on, hoping for a way out.
I reached a corner and headed to the right. Up ahead I could hear conversation and I slowed fearfully, trying to pick out words. It wasn’t the crazy old man. His language had been pure mad nonsense. These were younger men, rowdy and jovial. I even wondered if they might help me. Laughter came to me and I picked out a female voice in it, giving me even more hope. I started to move a little faster.
Ahead there was more detritus, this time a high pile of shopping trolleys; a mountain of them that went right up to the broken ceiling. I could see light through them; a flicker of flame. It made me pause and question if I should avoid these people, but I was so cold and I was getting painfully hungry, My belly felt like it had never contained food, it was so empty. I pressed on, skirting round the mound of trolleys and slowly the figures came into view.
There were five of them: youths in their late teens or early twenties. They were smoking joints and drinking beer and one of them was playing with a Zippo lighter while another wrapped a piece of sodden cloth round the end of a metal baseball bat. I slowed down, eying the can of petrol sitting on the floor at his feet.
There was a girl sitting thigh-to-thigh with one of the blokes, her top and leggings covered in so many horizontal rips that flesh was revealed all over her body. Two of the young men were standing up, arguing. The thin one on the right smacked one fist against his chest as he made each angry point.
Beyond them I saw something that made my eyes widen in relief: stairs, leading up, well lit by streetlight, but that was maybe thirty yards from where I was and I would have to go right through the middle of this group to get there.
I looked to my right to see if I could see a better route, though I was terrified that the madman might see me if I went back out that way. What if I didn’t see him until he was close enough to get me? What if he closed that one good hand of his round my arm and never ever let go again until I was broken inside and out.
I looked back at the group ahead, and only then did I realise that their conversation had ceased. All five of them were looking right at me.
“Well lookie what we have here,” said the tall skinny one who’d been banging his chest. “A pretty little girl out past her bedtime.”
I faltered, wondering whether I should try to go past or withdraw. I was conscious of a time limit; that their voices might draw the crazy man again. Would they stop him if he dragged me off into the blackness?
I took a step toward them and then a second.
“Where are you off to darlin?” asked the skinny one. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
I said nothing, buttoning my lips but looking up at him in wild-eyed fear.
“I hope you ain’t ignorin me girl,” he said. One of his friends laughed. “I can’t fucking stand being ignored.”
“I’m just trying to go past,” I said, my voice unbearably tiny and feminine; childlike. “Leave me alone.”
He laughed. They all did except the girl. “Did you hear that boys? She wants us to leave her alone! Now if that doesn’t mean we should do the opposite then I don’t know what does.”
I stopped, only a few feet from them now, shivering from cold and alarm. “Please don’t hurt me,” I said. “I’m just trying to get out. Please let me go past.”
Two of them laughed again then all of them joined in; gabbling hysterically, except for the girl who watched me with dull eyes.
“I don’t think so gorgeous,” said the leader. He sauntered over to his friend and took the baseball bat torch then held his palm flat to the other one with the Zippo who reluctantly gave it him. “I was thinking more like we might burn you.” He grinned, flashing his tongue out as far as his chin.
“No!” I cried, curling my arms round my chest. “Please, no!”
He laughed loudly and swaggered up to me, swinging the bat down past his feet in great arcs, back and forth. I went stiff as he lifted it and placed it on my shoulder. The reek of petroleum was dreadful. It was drenched in the stuff; far more than was needed to light it up. The excess liquid seeped into my jumper, trickling down my chest underneath, stinging my skin.
“Howzabout if I do that missy, eh?” he said, jeering. “Howzabout if I smack you round a bit first, eh?” He jabbed the bat against the side of my head and I winced. He jabbed it hard again.
“Please don’t!” I said, tears welling and seeping down my cheeks. “Please. Please don’t hurt me; I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me please!” I wept openly and the thin man looked at me in alarm as though he honestly hadn’t expected it.
Then he put his other hand on my opposite shoulder, the Zippo in it, and I shut up instantly. The tears kept running but silently now, like narrow ribbons of acid that scorched my skin.
He ground the wheel of the Zippo, making a spark, his face close to mine, then ground it again.
“Please,” I whispered.
The third time he ground it I saw the burst of light in my peripheral vision that meant it had caught.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I whimpered. “Please. I’ll do anything.”
He cocked his head, leering. “Anything?”
I nodded.
He looked back at his friends. “You hear that guys? She says she’ll do anything we want if we don’t set her hair on fire. Isn’t that public-spirited of her?”
All but the girl laughed.
“What do you guys think I should do to her?” he called back. “Burn her, let her go or fucking rape her?”
Two of the guys burst out laughing, extending their tongues just the way the thin one had. The other bloke only chuckled and sneered and said, “Fucking strip her down and do her man. She’s beggin for it!”
“No, burn her!” called the other two. “Burn her now!”
The thin man looked back at me, grinning broadly. “Now it gets tricky,” he said. “Cause I wanna have my wicked way with ya; I surely do. But that makes it a split vote; two for two. What to do now?” He bashed me again on the side of the head with the baseball bat. The petrol was seeping more and more into my jumper. The lit Zippo was swinging in front of my eyes, the flame dancing above the tiny metal grill guard on top of it. “You decide,” he called back to the girl and for the first time I felt hope.
She looked at him dopily, then at the others and then at me. She smacked her lips three times slowly. Then she gave a long blink, looked back at him and said, “Burn her.”
7
My urge was to scream; to run; but I didn’t. There was some broken connection between my brain and my reedy little-girl muscles.
All five of them were laughing now, including the girl, and the tall thin leader grabbed me by the back of my jumper and swung me round in front of him. He clenched so much of the fabric and so high between my shoulder blades that the entirety of my lower back was exposed. I yelped, both feet actually leaving the ground, then he barged me forward toward his friends.
The four of them started to chant, “BURN HER! BURN HER! BURN HER! BURN HER!” and the thin one laughed uncontrollably, shaking me this way and that.
They had a pile of pizza boxes and six packs in the centre of their little gathering with a battery lamp lying on its side casting a dim glow over their jeering faces. The leader pushed me out of his grasp towards the pile, making me think I might have a chance to escape, then he bashed me so hard in the centre of the back with the end of his bat that my legs crumpled and I fell forward onto my knees.
“BURN HER! BURN HER! BURN HER! BURN HER!”
I wept wildly. I couldn’t see anything through the blur of tears. I wanted my momma! I wanted her to come and get me. Why couldn’t they leave me alone?
“BURN HER! BURN HER! BURN HER! BURN HER!”
“Alright!” cried the leader. “Enough already! I’ll do it, don’t worry.”
I tried to get up onto my hands and knees but his boot rammed into my right buttock, hurling me onto my face and knocking over the pile of beer.
I raised my elbows so I could push myself up but I was so tired. I just wanted to be left alone.
Then I heard the scrape of metal on tile and I saw the petrol canister being lifted out of my field of vision.
“God no,” I whimpered.
But before I could stop it the liquid splashed down on me. It hit my shoulder and my hair; my flank and my bare legs. It sloshed noisily over and over me as the other four giggled and nudged one another.
“Don’t do this,” I whimpered. “Please don’t do this,” and suddenly the stinking petrol stopped raining down. I thought for a second that meant I was safe, then the empty canister clanged onto the tiles in front of my face and I screamed.
There was a sudden silence from all of them, then in that quiet I heard the scratching grind of the Zippo wheel, trying to build up a spark.
Great silent sobs wracked my body. I was powerless to stop this. I couldn’t even lift my body, the despair was so grave. I couldn't get away from them. I couldn't get out of this nightmare. It was never going to end.
I managed to turn my head to look up and behind me just as the Zippo flame caught again. I gave a whimper. He played with it, twirling it so fast in the gloom that his hand blurred indistinct, only the light itself visible. He and his friends chuckled all the more and he did the same thing with his tongue again, a signature of their gang. Then this time he did put the Zippo to the baseball bat torch and the petrol-sodden fabric burst into high flames that put his face in stark contrast, yin and yang, one of his eyes black, the other shining with lust and delight.
“Get ready little missy,” he said. “It’s gonna burn so hot that you’ll feel like you’ve jumped into ice water at first. Then the heat’ll set in and you’ll scream until your hair is gone and the skin’s dripping off your skeleton.”
“For God’s sake, let me alone!” I screamed in abject terror, curling into a foetal ball, my hands clasped, palms flat, against my cheeks.
I wept and wept, begging for them to let me go; waiting for the fire. My eyes were shut. I couldn’t move. I was in agony all over my body from the bumps and bruises. But still the fire didn’t come.
My tears subsided, my energy spent, all air drained from my chest, and I heard laughter of a different pitch. I opened my eyes a crack, unclenching my arms by an inch or two. Still the fire hadn’t come.
All five of them were laughing at me but it was totally different now. There was an entirely different phase to it. I unbound my little body more, daring to look up at the thin one.
He was laughing his head off, pointing at me, and it wasn’t the sinister laughter of a psychopath anymore; it was the open trill of a naughty schoolboy. All of them were giggling unguardedly as though a hilarious joke had been pulled and the girl turned to her boyfriend and said, “Did you see her face? She really thought we was gonna do it?”
This sent them into even deeper hysterics as I looked round in wonder and disbelief.
They’d been joking. They’d let me think they were really going to set me on fire and it had been nothing but a joke to them.
“Well go on then,” cried the thin one. “Get the fuck out of here you little bitch.”
Warily, expecting him to change his mind at any second, I uncurled myself and struggled achingly up.
He had the burning torch in his hand still but there was no active intent there. It hung safely away to the side. The Zippo was out of sight in his pocket. I glared at him angrily.
“Ooo, look at this!” he said. “Look at that dirty fucking look she’s giving me! You better watch it girl. There’s still time for me to do it to you. Now get lost before I really do.”
I shambled several steps away toward the stairs, to the edge of their rough ring. None of them made a move to stop me. I gave them all a fearful glare and looked one last time back at the thin one.
He winked at me and leered and then I ran on into the darkness, the steps now waiting with nothing left to stop me reaching them.
8
I ran as fast as I could to the bottom of the steps, my heart in my mouth for yet another unexpected attack. There was blackness on either side of it – more flats were built over the top of the underpass – and the steps themselves were in bright contrast because of the streetlamp light shining down on them. They looked to my eyes like stairs leading to heaven and if they could get me out of this dismal place then they were as good as that.
At the top I could see open sky and I started crying again, my little girl heart overwhelmed with relief. I knew I was losing myself in this identity but I still had my determination. This wasn’t going to beat me. I was going to get away. I was going to reverse what had happened somehow.
I went to the handrail and took hold of it then climbed as fast as I could. The additional stretching my legs had to do to climb exacerbated my injuries, bringing on a flood of fatigue, making me climb slower and slower until as I came close to the top I was having to rest between steps. I didn’t stop though; I carried on; but it was so hard. Each movement now elicited a moan of pained effort.
Step by step by step, and then finally I was on the top, staggering out onto the pavement, weeping again in relief.
But though in my mind I had perceived this as the end-goal; freedom from that bower below; I realised now that I was still little better off. I was a little girl stuck, lost in the centre of Barton. I hadn’t been able to find my way out when I was a man in a car. What hope did I have now?
The car was somewhere over to the left. I set my mind that way and started moving. That was a touchstone at least. If I got to that familiar sight then at least I would feel like I had some respite.
It was freezing cold. The wind was up but the sky was spotting with rain and my filthy clothes were still drenched from my lying on the wet floor down there and from my bath in stinking petrol. My new little body was skinny; no fat or muscle to hold on to the scant heat I had started with. I wrapped myself in my arms but it didn’t help. I wanted to cry again but my throat and my eyes were too sore. I just went on walking.
Up ahead there was a T junction coming in from the right and I brightened because coming to the corner was a woman with one full carrier bag. I had a flash of relief. I craved the protection of a grownup, especially a woman so I diverted my route toward her. Coming into sight to the left was the stair gate in the barrier and my parked car.
I crossed the street and said, “Excuse me; sorry.” She saw me. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you don’t know me and I look a terrible mess, but I’m trying to get out of Barton and I need directions. Please can you tell me which way Nockton is from here?”
She slowed and stopped a few feet away. She was an overweight kindly-looking lady in her mid-forties with tightly curled hair. “What did you say?”
I went closer. “Directions,” I said. “I live in Nockton but I got lost here. I’m trying to get back out. I’ve been going round for hours.”
She looked down at me and I felt suddenly disconcerted. There was an odd shift in her benevolent eyes; a blackening of the irises; then her kind expression hardened, becoming an almost theatrical scowl. “What did you say to me?”
Disarmed, I stepped back. Her voice was harsh and malevolent. I couldn’t explain it, but I stammered the words, “I just want to get out of Barton. Please help me.”
She glared at me an instant longer, then her face turned an even darker shade of wrathful and she said something that chilled my insides. “What the hell are you talking about Kayleigh?”
I took another step back. “Uh, what?” She’d used my name – my new girl name. It sent my mind cascading, trying to understand what this could mean.
“What kind of lies are you trying to tell now?” she snapped. “Living in Nockton... What nonsense is that?”
“Sorry,” I said stuttered. “Do I know you?”
She drew back her hand and slapped the back of it hard against my face, hurling me to the floor. I thumped down hard, bashing the side of my forehead on the tarmac and dazing me. “I’m your mother you wicked girl!” she cried. “Are you mad?”
I turned my head and looked up at her in alarm, shaking my head. “No. You can’t be.” This wasn’t me. It couldn’t be real. I was meant to be a grown man. “You can’t be my mother.”
If it was feasible, her face turned an even darker shade, the whites of her eyes blazing, and she darted forward, grasping for my arm. “Why you little piece of trash.” She snatched my wrist, wrenching me up off the floor with a squeak. “How dare you speak to me like that?”
She whacked me as hard as she could on the back of my thigh and I yelped, pushing back at her and trying to block her next strike with my free hand.
“You nasty little troll!” she snapped, hitting me again. “Just wait until your poppa hears about this!”
She yanked me, pulling me almost over again, then yanked me back the other way. I started to cry.
“Don’t give me that insipid crap now,” she sneered. “I’m sick of your bawling. Now come here!”
She grabbed me by a chunk of my hair and started marching toward the big block of flats. “I’m taking you home my girl and I won’t hear another peep out of you!”
“What? No!” I cried. “No! I have to go to my car. Please. I have to get out of here! I can’t stay in Barton!”
She yanked on my hair again and I squealed. “Shut up you ignorant little trollop! I’m sick of your lies. I’m sick of you skiving off school. I’m sick of you shop lifting! I wish you’d never been born sometimes, I really do!”
“Please,” I stammered, wincing as I reached for her hold on my hair. “I don’t know you – I swear I don’t! This is a terrible mistake! I shouldn’t be here. I’m not who I look like. This is all wrong!”
My car was so close now. If only I could get to it. But with a sickening feeling I realised I didn’t even have the keys anymore. They had vanished when I changed. I was locked out of it and even if I could get back in I wouldn’t be able to drive it.
The woman swung me round, stabbing agony into the roots of my hair, then she whipped me backwards and let go so I stumbled and then lost my footing as I hit the pavement, falling onto my back. “Not another word young lady,” she snapped. “Not another word! I’m taking you back up to the flat and then you’re going to get a sound thrashing and it’ll be bed without any food. And no food tomorrow either unless you mind your Ps and Qs!”
I looked up at her dazedly, trying to comprehend how bad this had got.
“Now get up,” she said, pointing. “And don’t make me drag you.”
I looked where she was pointing to and saw the same looming dreadful apartment complex, and before it, only yards away, I saw the locked metal gate and beyond it the spiral stair.
“No,” I muttered desperately.
Because I remembered what had already happened to me when I went down it again – how close I'd come to losing my mind; losing my very identity to this nightmare until I couldn’t now even remember my real name.
If I went down there again – if she forced me to – then surely it would be all over for me. I would never get out of this torment. I would be trapped here forever, not even remembering anymore that it was a mistake.
I looked back up at the merciless hag, tears streaming down my cheeks, but before I could say or do anything else she charged toward me and grabbed my wrist.
9
“No!” I whimpered. “I don’t want to go there, please. I can’t go down there. I’ll lose myself. You’ll kill me. I’ll cease to exist.”
“Oh don’t be such a drama queen you silly girl,” snapped the woman, jolting my arm hard enough to hurt up at the shoulder socket. “I’m so sick of your stupid games and now you’re going to start learning a lesson that will last until you’re thirty!”
She pulled me up onto the curb, only a few yards away from the gate now. I tugged back, trying to dislodge her grip, prising at her big hard-skinned fingers with my other hand. “Please! I know you think I’m your daughter but I’m not. I can’t be! An hour ago I was a man. I’ve lived my whole life as a man. Look!” I pointed. “My car’s still there! That must mean that... It must mean that you never had a little girl before. She hasn’t become me; don’t you understand? She hasn’t become me and driven off.”
She grumbled under her breath and tugged at me again.
“I don’t think this girl you see – the person I look like... I don’t think she even existed before today!”
The woman whirled round and her movement flicked me back; the reverse of my own, spinning me to face her. I gasped, going rigid in panic, then she smashed me across the face with her palm so hard that it cracked the flesh and pounded my head away from her. The breath went out of me along with all the resolve I’d managed to maintain. When I turned back to face her I was shivering, my teeth chattering. My eyes were wide and glazed, my mind a blank welter of horror.
The woman raised her finger to my face and her voice became husky, low and venomous. “You listen here my girl. You won’t say another word until we’re up at the flat; is that clear?”
“But—”
SLAP
“Is that... clear?”
I nodded quickly, my cheek throbbing. I started to open my mouth again, despite that but she raised her finger close to my eye and tightened her glare. I nodded again obediently. She held that glare for several more seconds then she lowered her hand and took up my wrist again. In a voice as sweet as madness she said, “There now. If you’re good like that I might even give you a sweetie when we get in. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
She was crazy; as crazy as the madman down below who had chased me; but all I could do was nod.
She led me docilely to the gate, set her carrier bag down for a second and unlocked it. I jerked, trying to get free and she slapped me again. I ducked, raising my arm to protect myself and she hit me several more times on the forearm and on the back of my head until I was sobbing in fatalistic terror.
Then she yanked me through the gate and I heard it slam shut behind us.
It was dark down the spiral stair before us still. The densely caged sides blocked out much of the dim night light but it did little for the rain that was falling more heavily now and dripping through the little gaps.
I couldn’t get back through the gate by myself and I couldn’t stop her taking me down. This was really going to happen. I was really going to lose myself to this abyssal horror. I was never ever going to escape from this awful abusive life in this appalling den of hostility. The acceptance of that drained all the strength out of me; all the determination. Entirely passively, I let her guide me to the top of the stair and start down.
I didn’t even try to resist this time. I knew there was no hope of that. If anything I welcomed it because I knew there was no way out of this place now: the body I was trapped in, the apartment complex, or Barton itself. Even if I managed to escape from her I would never be myself again. I would be lost and alone until the end of my days. At least with her I had a home; someone to... to look after me; to keep me safe.
As soon as the descent began I felt the nausea and a grinding headache that worked its way from the back of my head to the front with excruciating slowness. The woman gave one little jerk on my wrist after another, leading me like an unruly dog. She was singing to herself. She wasn’t affected by the stair in the least.
And each step I went down I felt the bludgeoning force of the curse stripping away my sense of manhood; raking out my memories and messily stitching in new ones: a short life of cruelty and neglect; beatings and starvation and petty crime.
I was Kayleigh Morris. Of course I was. I was eight years old. I was a little girl. I always had been. This was my momma. She loved me very much. I knew that because she always told me so after she hit me, popping a sweetie in my mouth from her private stash if I was a very good girl. And I loved her too.
Down we went; screwing into the darkness around the spiral; turning and turning into the deeper blackness as my past was torn out of me and my future thrust back into the grisly open wound left behind.
Round and round, down and down, and I was sorry I’d told lies to my momma. I was sorry I was so bad. I knew I deserved my punishment but I wanted it to be over soon. I wanted that more than anything. When I was back in my room I'd be okay. It was filthy and there was no light or heating in there but if I burrowed into the nest I’d made out of newspapers then it was cosy enough and Momma seldom came in there unless she was very, very drunk.
It started to get lighter. We were nearing the bottom. I smiled, relieved. The headache and sickness were dying down. I didn’t know why they had come on so fast.
Momma led me off the foot of the spiral stair into the dark underpass and started tugging me toward the distant underground entrance to Shelby Apartments. She was still singing and it was such a pretty sound. I wished I didn’t have to get punished. I wished she would sit me on her lap and stroke my hair like she used to do when I was really little. But she never did that no more. Not ever.
Half way to the dimly lit entrance she stopped and I gave a yelp, seeing a silhouette of a man shambling closer. I hid behind my momma but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t scared of anything.
The man came up to us and I saw his frizzy hair, his one dead arm, his lurching palsied gait and his crazed staring eyes; his demented expression. I shivered in fright and gave off a moan but Momma pushed me toward him.
I shook my head in fear but she jabbed me in the back, knocking me even closer.
The man was almost to me. He reached for my face with his hand.
“Give you poppa a kiss child,” said Momma in one of her rare kind voices. “Look at him. He’s missed you.”
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You Volume 2 by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
If you liked this then check out my site. I post new story episodes every couple of days.
This story has been retooled from its original incarnation and is now part of A New You by Emma Finn, a compilation of transformation stories available on Amazon.
STUCK
By
EMMA FINN
1
Now I had found out what the magic stone did, another thought materialised in my head.
What if I used it and then got stuck? What if I let it transform me and then something happened – I lost it or… or someone stole it? I’d be trapped in that other form forever.
A grin flashed up on my face then vanished as fear crept into my eyes. Then the grin came back. Just to imagine that…
I turned the pebble over in my open palm. The runes on its surface were black grooves but something glistened in the crevices as I flipped it. I put it down on the dressing table, sat down and looked at it. The full-length mirror was standing to the left. I put my elbow on my knee, propped my head on my hand and looked at myself in the reflection.
I was successful and good looking. There were always friends to call and my lover was attentive and passionate. There was every reason to hold onto this life of mine – to do anything I could to prevent risking it. But the idea of putting it at jeopardy was tantalising.
I picked up the pebble and rested my hand on my knee, fingers open, barely keeping it in place. I closed my fingers around it and looked at myself again in the mirror, flipping the mental switch that I’d discovered activated the change.
The initial alterations were subtle. It would have been possible to miss them if I hadn’t known it was happening. Then the rush came as it had all the other times and I gasped.
My height dwindled, my arms and legs shooting in closer to my body, my feet going from flat on the floor to dangling above it from the edge of the chair.
My hair shifted, a dark brown fringe appearing over my eyes as the eyes themselves became bigger. My cheeks and arms took on a soft, slightly chubby shape and my clothes rippled, flapping around me as though filled with a hurricane wind. When the wind subsided they had changed. I had changed. My jeans and sweater had become a cute little short-sleeved dress. My face and body had become a little girl’s face and body – from my sandaled feet up to the ribbon tying back my hair.
I smiled at myself then laughed. I’d gone through this change a dozen times now and still hadn’t become used to it.
I dropped down to the floor and tossed the pebble onto the bed as I moved toward the mirror. It bounced off and thudded to the carpet, making me stop in mid-stride.
What if it had bounced under the bed? What if I hadn’t seen it fall and lost it? Even if it was just for a couple of days? It gave me a tingle to imagine that happening.
But it hadn’t done that and I found myself being disappointed.
I looked at my reflection and beamed. The change was so utterly complete. I was a little girl of no more than four years old. Every time the change happened it shocked me how complete it was – how small I felt – how helpless next to my normal adult self.
But I wanted more.
I’d started to think about it all the time now.
It wasn’t enough that I could change myself into a little girl whenever I wanted to. I wanted to really feel trapped – as though I couldn’t change back. I wanted to be stuck like this – or feel that I could be.
I shook my head. It was so dumb. Obviously I didn’t want it to really happen. I didn’t really want to lose my identity and be trapped in this little girl’s body. Just to imagine the difficulty I would have ahead of me if that happened…
My parents had made sure that my upbringing was a terrific one. They had paid for every advantage imaginable and the investments and contacts they had given me had ensured a wealth that would last me all my days. I would be a fool to give all that up for the uncertainty of being this little girl.
I looked into my big brown eyes and imagined how my life would progress if I really were trapped – if I really did lose the pebble.
As this little girl I had no legal identity – no family. The name I had made up for myself, Tina Tomkins, was a complete fiction. I would be taken into care if I was lucky and would wind up with some average family somewhere. True, I would gain in years but I would never be able to accrue the same kind of lifestyle.
No. Being trapped like this was only a fantasy. That was all it could be. But what a fantasy it was!
I wandered round the house, half-concentrating where I was going, imagining what it would be like to be trapped as a little girl.
Simple things like not being able to reach the cooker to make a meal or the kettle to boil water came straight to mind, but there was so much else. I wouldn’t be able to drive. Nobody would take me seriously. It would look odd if I walked into a shop and produced a lot of money to buy something and odder still if I tried to buy something a little girl wouldn’t want, so I would be restricted even on that.
So many things to consider.
But what I really wanted to consider was how far I could push the fantasy into reality.
How close could I really come to being trapped in this body and still be able to pull back?
2
I picked up the pebble off my bedroom floor and clutched it tightly, willing myself to return to my real body. First came the initial subtle shift then the rush of height and weight as I returned to my true form. My legs quivered as my balance shifted. I reached for the wall to support me.
I had an idea. This was going to work. It was a good idea. I kept the pebble in my hand and ran downstairs.
There was a high shelf that displayed ornaments running along the wall in the dining room just below the ceiling. If I stood on a chair I could just about reach it. I pulled one of the dining chairs underneath it and got up into place.
This was going to be tricky but all I could do was give it a go.
I clutched the pebble tightly, holding my hand just over the shelf and gave the mental command to the pebble again.
I felt the initial subtle shift of the change, starting to work on me and jerked my hand open.
The pebble clattered down onto the shelf.
A second later the change took hold of me completely.
The wind came, blowing through my clothes and hair, transforming them. I looked up at my hand, hovering at shelf level. For a split second the pebble was still within reach. Then my hand shot away from it, getting shorter and shorter as my body shrank, the age falling away.
After a moment the wind vanished and it was done.
I was little Tina Tomkins again. And way up above me, higher than I could possibly reach, hidden away, was the only thing that could change me back.
3
I felt exhilarated! My whole body was tingling!
It had worked! I was really stuck in that body – stuck as a little girl!
There was no way I could get that pebble back easily!
I hopped down off the chair and pushed it under the table, grinning when I realised how heavy it was and how hard to move with my little chubby arms.
Stuck like this – at least until I could figure out a way to get up to the height of my pebble.
I felt so charged. So naughty. My whole body quivered with electricity.
The shelf was impossibly high now. Even with a ladder I would have trouble getting it. And how could a four-year-old girl possibly drag a ladder in here and erect it against the wall? Was that even feasible? I didn’t know. Certainly it would be difficult.
And the ladder was out in the garage. If I went out to get it I could get locked out of the house or somebody might spot me! I’d only ever changed inside before. How would it feel to be trapped outside and have to interact with people as a child?
All these possibilities! I was so excited and energised!
I decided to wait for a while before seeing if I could get the ladder. I had my doubts and for now, that was enough.
I went through into the kitchen to make myself a drink. I fancied a coffee. But when I got there I immediately saw my difficulty. I couldn’t reach the cupboard where the coffee was stored. I started to get a chair and drag it over to stand on but stopped mid-drag. It was silly for me to be drinking a grown-up drink. I should be having something more in line with what I now was.
The fridge was more my height. I took out a carton of orange juice and placed it on the side. I reached for a glass and then stopped.
The glasses were in one of the high cupboards too.
I cursed to myself and went back to drag my chair across. It took me longer than I thought it was going to and I found myself getting irritable by the time it was in place.
I climbed up, careful not to lose balance – I didn’t want to hurt myself on the hard ceramic tiles – and took out my glass. When I’d poured myself some and gulped it down I felt a lot better but I was still a little frustrated by my limitations. I was tempted to go right out to the garage and bring the ladder in, get the stone and change back, but I tried to resist.
Part of my frustration was that I didn’t really feel stuck. The ladder seemed too accessible. It was my choice whether to get it or not. Apart from the difficulty of getting it inside, I wasn’t really stuck at all. I was still in control.
I still didn’t want to REALLY lose control but I did want to feel as though I had. It seemed like a contradiction.
I made myself some lunch, but though it was a struggle, the feeling of incapability was more constricting than satisfying. As I sat at the kitchen table eating, my mind started to wander as I tried to work out how I could do this – how I could establish a feeling of being trapped.
It didn’t take me long to think of something.
4
It took me an hour to struggle in with the ladder.
My little limbs were not built for it. For a grown man it would have been a challenge. For me it was almost impossible.
After a lot of wheezing though, and straining, I got it as far as the dining room. My limbs were aching terribly. My hands felt raw. I had to rest before propping it up to the shelf where the stone was. I felt so bad that I started crying. I hadn’t cried in years but the little body was having its way with my emotions and I couldn’t help myself.
When the pain started to subside I pulled myself up off the floor and took hold of the end of the ladder near to the wall. I worked it slowly up, using the wall as a prop, hurting my tender little muscles with every movement.
Finally I got it into place and trudged up the steps to the top.
The stone was exactly where I’d left it. I would have felt exulted if I weren’t so utterly exhausted. I picked it up and climbed down.
I’d planned to go straight through with my new plan – I had two weeks off from my job as the head teacher at Chauncy Primary School and my partner was away on business for the bulk of that time – but I couldn’t face it now. My fatigue had blunted the blade of my eagerness.
I gripped the stone tightly and gave it the command to turn me back to normal. The halting rush came but I took no pleasure from it as I had before. I trudged upstairs, still tired, and fell into bed.
5
I dreamed.
I dreamed that I was being arrested.
I was an adult and two policemen were shoving me in the back of their car.
Shouting.
Hurting me.
The door slammed shut.
I kept shouting - demanding that they let me go.
But they wouldn’t.
The door shut and I couldn’t get out. There was no handle on the inside.
And then I saw it.
I saw the pebble on the pavement outside the car.
I’d dropped it.
I’d dropped it somehow.
And someone else was going to pick it up.
They were going to take it away and I would never be able to make the change again.
I pounded on the glass but it wouldn’t break.
I screamed for them to let me out, but they ignored me.
Then the police car pulled away and I saw the stone get smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see it anymore.
And then I woke up.
6
I transformed before I’d even had breakfast.
Now, as a little girl, I felt fine. The carry-over aches that had kept me sleeping fitfully vanished as the wind swept through my clothes and changed them into a little flowery dress. I mused for a moment how powerful the magic was that it could do these things, even changing the formula and the clothes from time to time. It was amazing. It wasn’t what I was concerned with now though and I dropped it out of my head almost immediately.
I ran downstairs and got an envelope, a pen and some stamps from the stationery drawer in my desk. I sat at the table and carefully wrote out my own address. Presumably because of my new little podgy hands, I had trouble writing. The letters came out malformed. I had to concentrate very hard to get them right and even then they seemed crude and babyish.
It didn’t matter though. After a couple of tries I got it good enough then I slipped the stone inside. I got a fresh buzz of excitement as I sealed it closed. This was going to be amazing. It was going to be the kinkiest thing I had ever done.
I went through into the hall and opened the front door. Before I went out I took a glance in the floor length mirror to my right. I couldn’t believe I was really doing this. I’d never been outside transformed before. I’d never interacted with anybody in this form. There were so many things that could go wrong. If I stepped outside that door then events were going to go out of my area of control very fast.
On the other hand, it was going to be an amazing rush.
Without letting myself think too much about it I walked out and closed the door behind me.
7
Outside, I felt tiny.
Behind me the house was huge. The front garden was huge. Even my car, parked in the drive towered over me.
I felt very small and nervous but I made myself walk to the pavement and turn left.
Each time a car passed I jumped out of fright. Four doors down a dog ran onto its front lawn as though it were going to attack me. I screamed, lifting my hands to ward it off, knowing I didn’t have a chance. Then the rope attached to its collar pulled taut and it stopped, barking.
I shuddered, pressing on.
At least the district I lived in was a pleasant one. Howekirk wasn’t as old as Chauncy or as upmarket as Nockton Heights but its gently sloping streets were wide and quiet, the lawns broad and well-clipped.
The postbox wasn’t much farther. I could see it: a red column on the corner of the road. My little legs weren’t getting me there very fast but they were getting me there. I held the envelope tightly in both hands, looking down at it. The writing did seem childish. Could it be that my skills were altered when I was a little girl? Would they change further the longer I stayed like that?
I was about to find out.
A group of schoolboys came round the corner and passed the post box coming toward me. I gulped. I recognised them as pupils from my school. I had even taught some of them! I cringed, feeling even smaller than I was in my shame.
They were laughing amongst themselves. They didn’t notice me at first. They almost trampled right over me. I gripped my envelope to my chest and whimpered.
One of them sullenly said, “Watch where you’re going.”
I kept my mouth shut and my eyes down. These were children I had had complete power over a few days earlier. Now they could do anything to me they wanted. They had another good laugh at my expense and then thankfully walked on.
When I got to the post box I realised I had another problem.
I couldn’t reach the slot to post the envelope.
I jumped up toward it over and over again but I couldn’t get close. At one level it made me angry but at another it was exactly the kind of difficulty I wanted to face.
After a few minutes an old man appeared. He smiled down at me and said, “Do you need a hand young lady?”
I nodded. “Yes please.”
His face was a crease of indulgent smiles as he put his big hands round my middle and lifted me up. “There you go!” It felt so weird to be carried by this giant. While I was in his arms I had absolutely no control over what happened to me.
With the letter slot in front of me I suddenly realised what I was doing. If I pushed the envelope inside then I wouldn’t be able to change back until it returned to me in the post. That was going to be twenty-four hours minimum, maybe longer depending on the postal service. My hands started to shake.
“Come on young lady,” said the man. “Put it in.”
I stuck it in the slot. He popped me back down.
“Well done.” He patted the top of my head then wandered off.
I watched him go, realising what this now meant.
There was no ladder I could fetch, absolutely no way I could change back until that envelope returned to me.
I was stuck.
And what if it got lost in the post?
Thinking about that absolutely terrified me to the bone.
But it was exciting too.
I’d never felt this good.
8
I walked home on a cloud.
Now my initial trepidation had passed I felt more ready for the surprises all around me. I felt happy and confident. The school kids seemed to have disappeared. Even the dog was gone. I started to skip, swinging my little arms, covering the distance quicker than walking would have done.
When I got home I ran up the front path, eager to get inside and start to plan what I was going to do for the rest of the day.
But as soon as I touched the door I realised something that dropped the bottom out of my stomach – something I couldn’t get my head round immediately it was so utterly horrifying.
I hadn’t brought the door key out with me.
I couldn’t get back inside.
Even when the envelope was delivered the next day, I wouldn’t be able to reach it.
I really was stuck!
9
I immediately started to cry.
I couldn’t help myself. Whatever in me that had altered when I became a little girl had wrought changes throughout my mind and heart as well. I cried and cried and cried and cried.
I couldn’t see anything through the blurry sheen of tears trapped between my half-closed eyelids. I staggered. I put my hands to my little pudgy face.
This couldn’t have happened. It couldn’t have.
I hadn’t meant to really be stuck. Being trapped as a little girl for real was the worst thing that could have happened to me. I didn’t have anywhere to go – anywhere to sleep. There was no money to buy food. What was I going to do?
Totally oblivious to anything else, I plopped down, cross-legged, my face in my hands, sobbing.
Then I heard a kindly woman’s voice say, “Are you alright?” I looked up. Little more than silhouette, a figure was standing over me. A warm hand touched my head, stroking my hair. “It’s okay. Surely it can’t be that bad.”
I got to my feet and threw my arms round her legs, filled with such relief that she was there to look after me. She put her hands under my shoulders and lifted me off the ground then she rocked me back and forth saying, “There, there, don’t cry. It’s alright now. There, there.”
I continued to whimper but the wracking sobs tailed off. It felt so good to be held and rocked. The lady smelled wonderful – like flowers. She stroked my hair. “Yes. Don’t worry. It’s fine. That’s right. You’re fine now.” She was smiling at me. She looked very nice. Her face was round. Her hair was straight but only fell to the middle of her neck. It lay very close to her skin. “What’s your name?”
I suddenly remembered who I really was and what trouble I was in. The tears stopped instantly. “Tina Tomkins,” I said nervously in my little girl voice. Because I’d been crying it sounded strangled and pitiful.
“That’s a pretty name. My name’s Mrs Johnson. Harriet Johnson. I live just up the street. Across the road – there, see?” She pointed. “The one with the red door. Can you see it?” I nodded. “Why were you crying Tina? Where’s your mummy?”
I froze. What could I tell her? She must have seen the stricken look on my face because she frowned and said, “Don’t you know?”
I shook my head haltingly. I was concerned that she might act on anything I told her, and she might not act the way I wanted her to.
“Well where do you live? Can you tell me that?”
Again, I was trapped. If I said my house then she would knock on the door. Nobody would be home. If I ever got back to being myself I would have answers to give. I lowered my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Does it have a coloured door? What colour is it?”
I buried my face in her chest. “I don’t know.” I started to cry again.
“Hmmm.” She looked both ways up the street. There was nobody about. She seemed to come to a decision. “Alright Tina. This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to take you back to my house and make a few calls – see if we can’t find your mummy. Alright? I bet she’s as worried about you as you are about her. We’ll find her in no time.”
I nodded, terrified that it was all flying far out of my control.
“And don’t worry,” said Mrs Johnson, “I’m used to this sort of thing happening. I’m a social worker. Do you know what that is?”
I shook my head but I did know. I knew full well and I realised now what a terrible mistake I had made.
“A social worker is a lady who helps children just like you who’ve lost their mummies. I help children find new families.” She laughed, trying to allay my fears. “Don’t worry. That’s not going to happen to you. When we find your mummy you can go back to be with her. I won’t need to give you to another family.”
She was trying to make me feel better but I was feeling worse and worse by the second. Because there was no mummy to find.
As she carried me up the street toward her house I realised that I was never going to be able to get away and before I knew it I would be just another lost child being placed with a foster family, miles away.
10
Mrs Johnson put me in her lounge while she made phone calls from the kitchen.
She popped me down on the settee and switched on the TV then stood so that she could see me through the wide hatchway while she was making her calls.
There were cartoons on but I wasn’t interested in them obviously. My mind was whirling round and round in wider and more erratic circles. What was going to happen to me? How could I possibly get out of it?
There was no way.
There was no way.
Mrs Johnson was talking to the police. “Her name is Tina Tomkins. She says she’s four years old. Straight brown hair and a fringe. A pretty yellow short-sleeved dress. Yes. She’s a cutie pie.”
I cringed, sinking further into the sofa. That was how people saw me now. Nothing but a little girl – a cutie pie.
I tried to shut the sound of her voice off, focusing on the television instead. The bright colours, rapid movements and funny sounds were soothing. They really helped me to relax. The more I watched, the more I started to understand the flow of the story. It was nice. A princess had been kidnapped by a black knight but she had escaped. She was wandering in the woods and was being helped by a friendly family of fairies. I brought my legs up onto the sofa folded sideways so my feet were behind my bum. Then I propped my head on my hand, elbow on the arm of the sofa and stuck my thumb in my mouth. Mrs Johnson’s chatter became a soothing melody in the back of my mind. I just drifted along with my little princess, wondering when she would find her prince.
11
Sometime later, Mrs Johnson interrupted my TV shows, crouching down in front of me.
I squirmed in my seat, trying to see past her to the screen. The Gummy Bears were in trouble. They needed to find the magic amulet or their home would be destroyed.
“Tina, I have something to tell you and I’ve brought you some lunch. Do you like ham sandwiches?”
I nodded.
“Here you go then.” She put a plate of sandwich triangles next to me on a tray with a glass of squash. “What’s your favourite flavour of crisps?”
Normally I would have said plain but I felt like something more interesting. “Salt and vinegar.”
“Well I’ll get you some of those in a moment. Are you enjoying the cartoons?”
I nodded, taking a bite of one of the triangles.
“I’m having a little trouble finding your mummy so far sweetie,” said Mrs Johnson, “but I’m going to keep trying so don’t worry. Alright?”
I nodded.
“Good girl.” She ruffled my hair. “You just enjoy your cartoons for a another hour or so and later I might take you out for an ice cream. Would you like that?”
I nodded.
12
That night I lay in the enormous double bed in Mrs Johnson’s spare room, the covers pinning me in place, listening to her talking on the phone in the other room.
It sounded like she was talking to her boss and her voice had turned from being soothing and kind to dead serious.
“It irritates the hell out of me when people do this to their children Frank,” she said. “To be perfectly honest I’d like to string up the women that can just abandon their children on the side of the road. It’s disgusting.”
She paused while he answered.
“The thing is Frank, she’s a sweet little girl and I hate to see this happen. If nobody claims her—I can’t keep her here with me indefinitely. It just burns me. I have a bad feeling about this one. I tried to find out about her family this afternoon and either she doesn’t remember anything or she’s blanking it out because it disturbs her so much. I don’t think we’re going to find the mother and even if we do she won’t be worth a damn.”
Another pause.
“You’re right. I know. And that burns me too. She’ll end up being fostered out to one of the Barton council house families we’ve got on the list and that will be that.”
Tears started to stream down my cheeks.
If only I hadn’t been so stupid.
I just couldn’t resist, could I, and now I was stuck like this and I had absolutely no control over what was going to happen to me.
13
When I was wolfing down my cereal at the breakfast table Mrs Johnson laid her hand on my shoulder and I knew it was about to come.
She crouched down to my level and I saw that her eyes were red-rimmed.
“We’re going to go on a trip today Tina,” she said, “and you’re going to meet a nice family.”
I stared down at my cereal. The crunchy corn circles were going to go soft if I didn’t eat quickly.
“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t been able to find your mummy yet. I’m sure she’s… I’m sure she’s out looking for you right now and we’ll find her in no time, but until we do, you need to go and stay with this nice family.”
If she took me there I would never be able to get back to my house and get the stone. “I want to stay here.”
She smiled and her eyes teared up. “I know you do honey but that isn’t possible. I’ll come and visit you though, would you like that? And I’ll bring you some ice cream.”
I started to cry and then pitched into full-blown sobbing.
I was stuck. I was stuck.
There was nothing I could do to escape.
My tears stopped.
Unless I went now. Unless I escaped.
Mrs Johnson got to her feet and went to her coffee on the counter, turning her back to me.
I looked into the hallway at the front door.
If I could just get to my house. The post had to have come by now. All I had to do was get inside.
“I’m just going to pop to the loo dear,” said Mrs Johnson. You sit tight and finish up your breakfast alright? Then we’ll be off.”
I nodded and watched her go upstairs.
Then I started to run.
I ran out into the hall and up to the front door.
The handle was high but I reached it on tiptoe and pulled it open.
Mrs Johnson’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “Tina!”
I didn’t look back.
I shot out onto the lawn, little legs pumping. A car roared past, blaring its horn as I veered short of running straight out across the road.
Behind me in the doorway, Mrs Johnson screamed my name and put her hands up to cover her mouth and nose in horror.
I darted into the road. She ran after me, waving her arms and calling. I only had a tiny body but she was overweight and her shoes weren’t meant for running. I pulled away, reaching the front garden of my house. I didn’t go to the front door., I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in that way. I sprinted for the corner of the house, jumped over the flowerbed and disappeared down the side passage.
I flew into the back garden, desperately looking at the windows to check if they were open.
There weren’t.
I got to the back door and tried it. I was hoping against hope that I might have left it unlocked but I hadn’t.
I couldn’t get in!
I pounded on the glass but my fists had no chance of breaking through. It was useless and Mrs Johnson was going to come round that corner after me any second.
I could hear her calling my name. She was close and she was getting closer. The fence round the back garden was high. There was no way I was getting over it in my tiny body.
I glared down at my useless little pudgy arms in their puffy little sleeves.
In the glass I glared at the child looking back at me, hating her.
Then I saw the spade in the reflection behind me on the grass.
I turned round.
I could do it.
It was possible. It really was possible.
I ran to it and picked it up. In my little arms it was huge – taller than I was.
“Tina! Tina!”
She was close but still not in sight.
I looked at the glass door, gauging it, testing the weight of the spade. I wasn’t sure I would be able to build up the necessary force.
But I charged at the door anyway, leaning forward, putting all the pressure and momentum into it that I could, pointing the spade directly forward, yelling.
Mrs Johnson came round the corner and shrieked.
I hit the glass.
It shattered.
My momentum carried me through.
I struck the interior varnished floor on my side and slid, crying out in pain. There were tiny glass fragments stuck in my bare arms and legs. I was bleeding.
But I had to get up. I had to get up now!
Mrs Johnson appeared in the frame of the door, cutting out the dazzle of morning sunlight. “Tina! Are you alright!?”
I struggled to my feet and ran out of her sight.
Behind me I could hear the chink of glass falling. She was trying to come through after me. I had to be quick.
I got to the hall. There were the letters on the inside doormat. I almost cried out in relief.
I dropped to my knees, skidding the last couple of feet, ignoring the pain from the cuts on my chubby arms and legs.
“Tina! Tina! Where are you!?”
I grabbed up the pile of envelopes, throwing them to the side one by one, looking for the childish writing on the one I needed.
But I got to the last envelope and I realised with absolute horror that it wasn’t there. It hadn’t come.
That was it. I was stuck.
Nothing was going to save me now.
By the time the next post arrived the following day I would be far from here and unable to make it back.
Then I saw the envelope.
It was hanging half through the letter slot in the door. It just hadn’t dropped onto the floor!
I grabbed it, looking desperately behind me. She hadn’t yet come through but I only had seconds. I tore it open.
Total relief poured through me as the pebble toppled out onto my lap. I couldn’t believe I had made it!
I grasped it in my soft little hand and gave it the mental command.
The subtle shift began, then in a flurry of wind my body grew, my clothes rippled and changed and I was left gasping on the hall floor, back in my rightful body as Mrs Johnson came into view.
14
She looked startled.
I must have looked a sight.
My jeans and long sleeves covered any sign of blood from the broken window, but my breath was coming in and out of me as though I’d just been beaten up and my hair was all over the place.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m terribly terribly sorry.” She blushed as I got to my feet, dropping the pebble into my pocket. It was weird to stand at the same level as her instead of looking up from a child’s perspective. I had never spent so long in that form before and I felt the repercussions of it in a lack of proper balance and a general all-over-body weakness. “I’m looking for a little girl.”
I improvised. “She just ran out through the front door. Where did she come from? How did you get in?”
“I’m really sorry,” she said, completely unaware that I was lying to her. She rapidly told me the story of what had happened.
I nodded repeatedly as she spoke, feeling my pulse rate slow, letting her get it off her chest. We went out together and I helped her search the streets for little Tina Tomkins for over an hour. I kept calling the name “Tina” at the top of my voice.
And every time I called it I said to myself: You got off lucky that time. You got off lucky. You can’t ever do it again. You might not be so lucky next again.
And I really meant it. When I got home, apologising to the tearful Mrs Johnson that I couldn’t help her anymore, I got that pebble and locked it away in my floor safe. I didn’t want to see it again. I didn’t want to use it to change and most of all, I didn’t want to risk getting stuck for a second time.
It was over. I told myself that again and again.
But deep down I knew I was lying to myself.
It was only just beginning.
15
To my credit, I kept away from the pebble for three whole days.
For the first day I broke into a sweat whenever I thought about how close I had come to being stuck forever in that little body. I flashed back all the time, reliving the terror of being so tiny and out of control, feeling the emotions again as though they were still happening.
During the second day I thought a lot about how it could have been worse – about how lucky I had been to be found by a woman prepared to look after me rather than by some creep who might have exploited my vulnerability.
On the third day I caught myself smiling when I thought about it, daydreaming of how powerful the experience had been – how all-encompassing. I considered how resourceful I had been to get back to my real self.
I started to think that I could get out of it again if it started to go out of control.
And that was when it had me.
On the morning of the fourth day I carefully twisted the combination of the lock into my safe and took the pebble out.
It was warm to the touch. It had been waiting for me. I realised then that I had been waiting for it too.
I wondered if I had been destined to find it on that little market stall in the Narrows – whether it had always been waiting.
I put it in my pocket and went outside to the car. I got in and drove to a children’s play park a mile or two away, close to where Howekirk merged with the edges of Mossgill. For a while I watched the children playing carelessly: boys and girls running back and forth, screaming; girls queuing patiently to go on the slide; boys pushing past them brusquely.
Twisting the rear-view mirror I looked at my reflection. Then I looked at the children again. I chewed my lip.
The pebble was hot now.
When I willed the change it pulsed. My grown-up hand was shaking as the fingers grew shorter, becoming stubby. When the rush of wind came in the car I gasped as it shook my system to the guts. It was more powerful than it had ever been before. My arms and legs quaked and shrunk, quaked and shrunk. And then it was over.
This time I was wearing a Sunday best outfit – a navy blue dress with multiple layers of underskirt, white tights and shiny sandals. I had to undo the safety belt and stand on the seat to see my reflection now. My hair was in ringlets, tied up at the back of my little head with a blue bow.
I took the car keys out of the ignition and hid them under the seat, then with trembling fingers, opened the car door and climbed out.
I crossed the street, mindful of traffic, the pebble still in my hand.
I wanted to run and skip – my pulse was racing, adrenaline coursing through me – but I didn’t let that happen.
As soon as I got to the park and stepped over the low barrier onto the woodchip ground I was surrounded by a whirl of children running in every direction, shouting. They didn’t pay me any attention particularly but I felt very intimidated. Most of them were older than me and a lot bigger. They were dressed in jeans or dungarees or scrappy clothes. They didn’t care whether they fell over and got messy. For some reason I did. I felt that it was terribly important that I not ruin my nice dress and clean white tights.
Apart from doing my best to avoid them, I didn’t pay too much attention. I was focused solely on a wooden table I saw in the centre of the play park. It had a bench attached on both sides but nobody was sitting at it. I walked up to it and placed the pebble down on one corner.
As I stepped away, the runes on its surface gave a wink of reflected sunlight.
I looked left and right. Nobody was paying attention.
I took another step back. And another.
I walked to the edge of the playground, keeping my eyes on the pebble, then sat down on the rail barrier, feet together primly, hands in my lap.
To onlookers I probably seemed to be a perfectly ordinary little girl but inside I was aflame. Fireworks were going off.
I felt supercharged; turned on fully.
At any moment somebody could see my pebble, pick it up and walk away. At any moment I could be trapped in this body again but this time for good.
I’d end up in care. I’d end up living with the dismal family I overheard the social worker talking about to her boss – growing up on a council estate over in Barton, never again glimpsing the wealth that I had once possessed.
It was like before, when the pebble had been in the post except this time, anything really could happen. If somebody took that pebble away I would never be able to find it again in a million years. There would be no prospect.
This wasn’t suicidal. There was also a chance – a huge chance – that nobody would pick it up or that I would be able to follow them or ask them for it back.
But the excitement of the possibility of disaster was orgasmic. I had never felt like this. Never never never.
A woman passed near the table with her little boy in hand. She saw the pebble. I could tell she saw it.
She detoured, going closer to look then reached out and actually touched it with her fingers.
I tensed. Every instinct told me to run over and snatch it away but a morbid desperation kept me in place. I had to let it happen. I couldn’t interfere. I needed to really feel like I could be stuck like this forever.
The woman frowned. She looked behind her to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was. She didn’t spot the little girl in the dark blue dress staring at her with crazed eyes.
She turned it over, inspecting it.
Then her son pulled on her arm and she released the pebble, turning away.
I sighed.
It had come so close.
I still felt incredibly charged.
Then a hand came down on my shoulder and I almost jumped out of my skin.
“Tina! There you are!”
I looked up and behind me with wide eyes. It was Mrs Johnson, the social worker. I couldn’t speak suddenly. I couldn’t breathe. There was a pocket of air trapped in my throat that I couldn’t dislodge.
“I’ve been so worried,” said Mrs Johnson. “I searched everywhere the other day. Where did you go? Why did you break that window? I was so scared.”
I couldn’t speak. I glanced across at the pebble.
It was only twenty feet away but it seemed so far suddenly.
“Did your mother find you?” she asked. “Is that where you’ve been?” She stood up and looked round the playground at the adults sitting at the edges and her voice became stern. “Is she here now? I’d very much like to talk to her.”
There was nothing I could say except “No.”
“Are you here by yourself again?”
I nodded, tearing up.
“This just isn’t good enough,” said Mrs Johnson, “I can’t believe how irresponsible your parents are.” She grabbed my arm. “Well don’t you worry Tina. I’m going to stop this happening. It’ll be okay. I deal with this kind of thing all the time. It’s my job.”
“No,” I said. “Let me go.” “Not this time Tina,” she snapped, “I know you’re a lovely girl but you showed the other day that you couldn’t be trusted to be left alone.” Her grip tightened on my arm. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.” She pulled me up off the bar and over onto the pavement. “Come on young lady.”
I craned back at the wooden table. “I have to get something,” I said. “Please! I have to get something!”
Mrs Johnson stopped, her patience wearing thin. “What do you need to get?”
The air pocket in my throat shifted. “My pebble. I have to get my pebble.” I was crying fully now, tears flowing down both cheeks.
“Don’t be silly Tina,” she said. “You’re coming now.”
“No please! Just let me get the pebble!”
“I’m doing this for your own good my girl. You’ll thank me in the long run.”
“No!”
We got to her car and she bundled me inside. There were child-proof locks on the back and as much as I banged on the padded interior I couldn’t get out.
My tears had become shrieks. I was getting hysterical.
I saw the pebble on the table in the playground.
Someone was going to pick it up.
They were going to take it away and I would never be able to change into my real self again.
I pounded on the glass but it wouldn’t break.
I screamed for her to let me out, but she wouldn’t.
Then the car pulled away and I saw the stone get smaller and smaller until I couldn’t see it anymore.
Until I couldn’t see it at all.
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1
It was an odd looking pebble; odd enough to cause Abigail to pause as she led her four year old son Sammie by the hand across the play park. Someone had left it on a picnic table at the centre of the little park and she found herself detouring slightly to get a better look.
It had odd carvings on it and in the dark grooves something glistened that seemed almost like liquid. Abigail frowned, looking round to see if the owner was close at hand. She didn’t notice the intense gaze of the pretty girl at the edge of the playground, staring at her. It was a particularly pretty ornamental piece. She flipped it over, looking at the way the sigils worked round the outside of the stone. She had a thing for items like this. There was a stall in the Narrows that produced similar pieces and she’d often considered buying something from there. She wondered if she should slip it into her handbag, but before she could, Sammie pulled on her hand.
“I wanna go on the slide mummy,” he said. “Can I?”
She walked on with him, forgetting about the pebble. “Of course you can sweetheart. You can go on whatever you want. You’ve been a good boy this morning.”
She released his hand and watched as he scampered off, folding her arms and smiling. Sammie was such a sweet child and he looked adorable in his little denim dungarees. He could be wilful at times but he was a sucker for chocolate and could be made to do just about anything for the promise of that. He climbed fearlessly up onto the climbing frame that was built like a house on stilts and ran along the platform toward the top of the slide. Abigail kept one eye on him and found a bench near the edge of the park where she could see what he was doing. The wind was up and part of her wished she’d brought a cardigan. The blouse and skirt she’d worn for work were perfect for the office but the weather wasn’t yet quite warm enough for them to be enough outdoors. It was okay for Sammie. He could run around to keep warm.
She glanced back at the pebble she’d seen – it was still there – but she was immediately distracted by a commotion going on at the road at side of the play park. An overdressed little girl was crying and screaming while a middle-aged woman, presumably her mother, wrestled with her. Abigail couldn’t hear exactly what was being said but the girl was desperate to get free. She was no match for the woman though and she got bundled into a car that was waiting.
Abigail watched the exchange blandly, ruminating on the fact that for all she knew, the woman wasn’t the girl’s mother at all. She gave an invisible mental shrug and put it out of her mind as soon as the car pulled away and disappeared. She was sure the girl would be alright and it was nothing to do with her.
Sammie was still playing happily. He was on a little rocking horse now that was shaped like a ladybird. Abigail looked back at the pebble on the central table. Nobody had claimed it. Nobody was even nearby. She decided to go and take a closer look.
When she picked it up the stone felt oddly warm. She turned it over and over in her palm, conscious of the fact that nobody in her peripheral vision seemed interested. No one was rushing over to lay claim to it.
Feeling mildly guilty, she closed it into her hand and sauntered back to her little bench, sat down and fiddled with it, still keeping one eye on Sammie. She decided to keep it. It really was a pretty piece. She had a nice spot on her dressing table where she thought she might keep it. It could bring her luck.
Sammie was off the rocker now. He charged over to the roundabout and leapt on. Abigail chuckled to herself. She had always been so fearful as a little girl. She didn’t know where he got it from. Her husband Ted wasn’t exactly the physical type. He worked in marketing. Abigail herself had never been athletic and working part time in the admin office at Nockton Marsh high school hadn’t changed things there. She managed to keep slim though and she still looked pretty good – at least Ted seemed to think so.
She admired Sammie for his energy. He seemed to think himself immortal. He threw himself into his pint-sized adventures with such incredible verve that he—
Abigail lost her train of thought and looked down. She’d put the pebble out of her mind but the heat she’d felt in it earlier had spiked much higher. It was almost too hot to hold.
She frowned, starting to bring it closer to her face to look at – her glasses were about two years past the time they should have been upgraded – but stopped when an intense wind suddenly swept up her body.
Abigail made a sharp and strangled intake of breath as her clothes and hair flapped wildly. The heat in the pebble swept up her arm and dove into her heart, making her gasp. Then no more than two seconds after she’d registered it, the wind vanished and she was left trying to catch her breath and staring down at herself as she realised that something unbelievable and startling had occurred.
She wasn’t herself anymore. She wasn’t a woman.
Somehow, impossibly, the pebble had changed her.
She was suddenly a small child. She was a little boy. And as she recognised the dungarees and stripy t-shirt she was wearing she had a barely credible realisation of who she had turned into.
2
Abigail did a double take down at her diminutive body.
She had become her son. She had become Sammie.
There was a long moment of utter disbelief and panic and then it subsided completely, to be replaced instead with a profound curiosity. She’d actually turned into a little boy – into her own son!
Realising something, she looked across to where she’d seen him last, wondering if he had somehow changed into her, but no; he was still playing happily. She checked herself again, feeling her chubby little arms and her dumpy body through the perfect replica of her son’s clothes. Working her way by touch across her round face and into her tousled hair flabbergasted her but it showed the reality of what had happened and brought her attention back to the cooling pebble in her hand.
She stared at it – almost a glare of accusation. The certainty of its power was like granite, overlarge though the understanding was to fit inside her brain.
Was it the runes on its surface that made it magical? Was it the stone itself? She recalled the market stall of similar items in the Narrows. Were all the pieces there enchanted? Did they all do the same thing? Did the person running the stall know about it?
Surely not.
No one else in the park seemed to have noticed her transformation. There wasn’t anybody close and there weren’t that many people at all, but even so, she would have thought that someone would. No one paid her any mind. All they saw was a little boy sitting on a bench.
“God...” she whispered.
Sammie was on the roundabout now. He hadn’t noticed her. What if he did? What would he think? And was she stuck this way? Would she ever be a woman again?
She started to hyperventilate, her little chest pumping in and out rapidly. In a panic she gripped the pebble with both hands and drilled her eyes into it. If a casual thought about envying her son’s verve and energy had changed her in the first place. Maybe wishing herself back to normal would reverse it.
She pictured her correct body and tried to put into thought forms the virtues of her proper life. She was happy as a woman. She didn’t want to be a little boy. She pictured her slim body and slender arms, her shapely legs, her open almost peculiarly innocent-looking face behind her librarian glasses, and almost immediately she felt a shudder run through her, accompanied by relief. It was going to work again. It was going to change her back.
The wind came along with the heat and a wrenching squeeze of her head and chest. Her clothes and hair caught the wind and then in something that was less flash and more ripple, she was standing there as herself again, panting as though she’d run to the far side of the playground and back, even though she hadn’t gone more than a step.
To say she was relieved barely came close to the intensity of her feelings.
It had been incredible to change into her son, even as briefly as that, but she didn’t want to be stuck that way. God, just to imagine that... Two Sammies and no Abigail to look after them. She smirked, despite the surreality of the situation. She didn’t want to be a boy and a little boy: no way! Having to go all the way through school again: imagine! She shuddered and found herself laughing, out of relief mostly. The tension she’d felt when she’d thought herself trapped now made her giddy.
She sat back down and examined the pebble and realised straight away how abnormal life had suddenly become. Three minutes ago she had just been an average woman at the play park with her son. Now, only that brief time later, she’d discovered the flooring impact that magic really worked – that she had the power to change into a child and back whenever she wanted. She’d actually done it!
What on earth was she supposed to do next? What should she do with the stone?
Sell it? Tell the authorities? Put it back where she’d found it?
Or...
She smiled a mischievous smile and looked back across at Sammie.
“No.”
No. That was a stupid idea. What if something went wrong? What if she got stuck like it? What if she dropped and lost the pebble while she was a little boy? It was ridiculous and irresponsible. She was here to look after Sammie. She couldn’t risk anything else.
But it was tempting.
Her smile became a grin. What if she did do it? Just became Sammie again for half an hour? Played with him on the climbing frame and had a whale of a time? It would be hilarious and it might bring them closer together. She’d certainly understand him better than she ever had before.
But then, what if she did get stuck?
That would truly be awful – for her and for little Sammie. He needed his mother more than he needed an identical twin brother.
Abigail set the pebble down on the bench next to her.
No. Better not to risk it. That was the safer option.
She looked back at Sammie. He was laughing with one of the other little boys and throwing his head back as the roundabout span faster. He looked so happy.
She picked up the pebble and closed it into her palm.
Turn me into Sammie again pebble, she thought, directing her intention at the stone in her hand. I want to be a little boy.
3
The transformation came quicker and easier this time but as she passed the point of no return; as her toes tingled in her shoes and the ends of her hair started to rise; Abigail felt one last stab of dread: that this was an awful mistake; that she would never be a woman again; that she had just turned her back on her husband and her life forever.
And then there was no longer any room for those bleak thoughts because the magic took her and squeezed her and hurled her onto her hands and knees in the body of a little boy.
She remained there for several moments, catching up with her breath, then she grinned with excitement and scrambled up; ran several steps toward where Sammie was playing; stopped; looked behind her to where she had dropped the pebble in her exuberance.
It was lying there, discarded, and she realised how easy it would be to lose contact with it and really, truly be stuck like this. Shaking her head and feeling just one last quiver of that dread, she went back, retrieved the stone and slipped it into the front pocket of her cute little dark red dungarees.
Then she did run across the playground, little legs pumping with a remarkable burst of ready energy. She’d observed her son. She knew the theory that small children had more energy than adults was a myth – they tired out completely after relatively little exercise – but there was no denying they had energy explosions ready to go at a moment’s notice. Adult energy was slow burn and could sustain action for long periods. Child energy was all and then nothing. And it was a surprising delight to experience that now. She had no real memory of it first hand from her own childhood – that close memory had long since been dulled. Running across the soft play surface in this light body was like having super powers!
Abigail spotted Sammie climbing off the roundabout with a single lurching stagger of dizziness and altered her path to intersect him, coming to a stop right in front of him.
He stared at her, dazed by what he was seeing and she stared back. Never had she seen her son from this reduced perspective; from such equal footing. It was mind-altering.
“Hi,” she said, and for the first time heard her new voice – a little piping thing that sounded, with some subtle alteration, almost exactly like Sammie’s.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She grinned. “It’s me: Mummy. I used magic to make myself look like you.”
Sammie’s eyes widened and tightened into a frown at the same time and with a shimmer of delight, Abigail realised how easy this was going to be, simply because children wanted to believe in magic. At four, Sammie was on the verge of making the disappointing realisation that there was no real enchantment in the world but he wasn’t there yet. He believed her. Why wouldn’t he? He could see the evidence of magic in her duplication of his features.
“Really? Mummy?”
She nodded.
“Wow! Awesome!” He took her hand. “Come and go down the slide with me!”
And it was as easy as that; as brief and simple; and she was suddenly running along behind him, laughing, trying to keep up.
They clambered up onto the climbing frame and ran along the walkway toward the top of the slide. Abigail was frightened – it seemed awfully high to her tiny new body – but Sammie had her hand again and he didn’t have a shred of fear in him. At the head of the slide (which looked perilously steep and smooth), Sammie dropped onto his bum and looked back up at her. “Come on!”
Abigail hesitated and then mentally shrugged and sat down next to him. In for a penny; in for a pound! Sammie clenched her hand and down they went, Abigail giving a shriek of fear and delight. At the bottom they shot off the metal and tumbled onto the wood chippings, laughing and hugging one another. A woman nearby turned to her friend and said, “Ah, look at those cute little twins. Aren’t they adorable?”
Abigail had to smile.
Then she was getting dragged back toward the climbing frame steps except this time she was pushing to be the first up. Now she’d done the slide once she had an overpowering impulse to do it again; to relive the intensity of the fun. She and Sammie ran along the walkway, giggling. This time Sammie got down on his knees to go head first. Again, Abigail paused, fearful, then she gave another mental shrug and did the same thing. If Sammie could do it then she could too.
They whizzed down with another cry of joy and tumbled onto the wood chippings. Abigail didn’t remember ever having so much fun. She scrambled up and Sammie cried, “Let’s go on the roundabout!” He ran off and Abigail looked after him, smiling. She was so glad she’d done this. It was lovely to be able to share this pleasure with her son in a way she had never been able to before; so lovely. She was amazingly lucky that she’d found the pebble.
She checked the outside of her dungaree pocket to check it was still there then sprinted after Sammie, laughing jubilantly.
4
The two little boys played like that for another hour and Abigail enjoyed herself as never before. It was so wonderful to meet Sammie on his own terms and it was an awful lot of fun cutting loose as a child again.
She didn’t feel self-conscious in the least that she had become a little boy. On the contrary, the longer she stayed like that the more normal it felt. She was only pretending to be a child but she didn’t have any problem in doing so. She laughed and ran just like a child would and shouted without restraint if she felt like it. It was marvellous.
But she didn’t lose sight of her own concerns entirely. As time pushed on she started to feel that they’d tarried long enough and she needed to start thinking about getting them back. It was a concern but not a strong impulse and she didn’t hurry to change back and move them on.
She and Sammie ended up sitting on the edge of the stationary roundabout, resting, and Abigail just enjoyed the moment of quiet and reflection.
“Are you really my mummy?” asked Sammie after a moment.
“Uh huh.” She nodded.
“How come you changed into me?”
Abigail wondered how much to tell him but decided it would be fine for him to hear a little bit about it and she was dying to share what had happened with somebody. “I found a magic pebble,” she said, “and I just sort of wished to be you.”
“Lemme see it.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I don’t believe there is a pebble,” said Sammie.
“There is too,” she replied, affronted that he didn’t believe her.
“Prove it.”
Determined suddenly to do so, she pulled it out and showed it him on her open palm. “Here.”
“Let’s see.” Sammie snatched it off her.
Abigail’s eyes went wide with alarm and she reached after it. “Give it back!”
Sammie squirmed, keeping it out of her reach. “I’m only looking at it.”
As they were the same size she couldn’t just force him to give it her and Abigail realised that she had to allow him to look at it for a minute or two. He could be very stubborn if she pushed him into a corner. The last thing she wanted was for him to run off with it or to throw it into the bushes because she pressed the point. He was only sitting there. It was perfectly safe. Or so she told herself.
Sammie examined the pebble in his little stunted hands for a minute then he said, “I want to try being the mummy.”
“No,” replied Abigail. “Absolutely not.”
“Just for a minute. I won’t stay like that.”
“No,” she said again, trying to be firm. “Give me the pebble back.”
“I’m looking at it,” he snapped.
Abigail sighed. She’d let him play too long. She could see him getting fractious. When he got this way he could be very difficult to handle. She wasn’t sure the best way to play this. The minute she got the pebble back she could wish herself into her normal body but as long as he had it she had to tread very, very carefully.
“Sammie... You’ve been a very good boy today but I’d really like it if you gave me the pebble back now please. Okay?”
“No. I want to try being mummy.”
“You can’t.”
“Pleeeeease. Just for a minute.”
Abigail sighed and rubbed the centre of her forehead. Sammie was fully in stubborn mode now. He needed a sleep and he needed some food, then he would be reasonable again. Unfortunately she couldn’t organise either of those in her current predicament.
“I’ll give you some chocolate if you give me back the pebble,” she tried.
“Gimme the chocolate first.”
She sighed heavily and snapped, “Just give me the pebble young man; now!”
“No!” cried Sammie. “I want to be Mummy!”
And as he said that, jumping to his feet in petulant anger, the wind came, ripping at his little clothes and whipping his hair.
“Oh God,” muttered Abigail, as Sammie span round, getting taller and taller, his diminutive body doubling in height as his dungarees transformed into a white blouse and knee-length skirt; as his hair grew long and swung free and his body became slim and feminine. Abigail was still a little boy and suddenly she was looking up at herself with both wonder and a slow constricting horror.
Sammie looked down at himself, examining his hands and arms, front and back, touching the different shape of his extended trunk and chest. “Wow,” he said. “I’ve really turned into you Mummy!”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah you have Sammie. That’s, er... That’s amazing.” She eyed the stone closed in his womanly hand. “Can I have the stone back now?” Sammie’s hand clenched tighter. “Just for a minute, to look at?”
“I’m looking at it,” replied Sammie stubbornly then he took several steps. He was wearing heels but he didn’t stumble in them as much as she would have expected him to. He grinned at her. “I’m the mummy! Look at me! You’re the little boy. You’re Sammie!”
Abigail gave a weak smile. “Yes. That’s right. You’re pretending to be Mummy.” She was well aware of how precipitous her situation was but more than ever, she couldn’t push too hard. The only option she could see with potential was to humour him for a little while and then guide him to changing back. “What’s it like being so tall?” she said. “Is it nice?”
“Yeah. I’m much bigger than you now. You’re tiny!”
Abigail chuckled. She couldn’t really be angry with him. He was just enjoying himself. He didn’t have any kind of body stealing agenda. He was just being a four year old.
“I’m all grown up now,” said Sammie.
“You certainly are. That’s amazing.” Abigail went on eyeing what glimpses she could of the concealed pebble as Sammie ignored her, walking up and down, pretending to be her and making an uncannily accurate job of it. The disguise, as it were, was creepily complete. It wasn’t a costume in any way. Sammie really had become a grown woman; had become her; from the skirt and shoes to the hairstyle and glasses; even her handbag. She let him enjoy the experience, then as the scratch of impatience overcame her she said, “Okay Sammie. It’s time to change back now; there’s a good boy.”
He pouted. “I don’t wanna change back yet. I like pretending to be Mummy.”
“I know sweetheart, but we need to get home to Daddy and have tea, don’t we? You can’t stay like that on the way home. Maybe if you’re a good boy I’ll let you have another turn at being Mummy later or another day.”
“But I want to be Mummy now!” he whined, in an odd mixture of childishness and adulthood.
“I know you do Sammie but you can’t. You aren’t allowed.”
“I want to stay Mummy longer!” Sammie folded his arms crossly, his brow furled.
“Sammie, for God’s sake, stop being silly!” snapped Abigail. “You’ll do as I say right now! Give me that pebble!”
“No!” Sammie thrust it into the top of the handbag. “It’s mine! I’m not finished!”
Abigail gaped at the handbag then up at her son, feeling powerless and frustrated. Normally she could always have just forced him to give up the pebble but there was no chance of that now and she was terrified that if she tried that Sammie would realise how little power she did have. At the moment he still saw her as his mother and recognised her authority, even if he was stubbornly ignoring her right now. If he got too good an idea how much stronger he was than her now then literally anything could happen. He could wander out into traffic or get into any other kind of trouble. She sighed heavily, disconcerted by how much she sounded like a stroppy child herself. She had to keep control of her emotions and play this very carefully.
“Okay, look Sammie. I’ll tell you what. You can stay Mummy for a little while but only if you give me the pebble.”
“No. I want to keep it.”
“Okay, okay. You can keep hold of it and you can stay Mummy for five more minutes.”
“Until we get home.”
“What? No.” It was a ten minute walk back to the house with more than one road that needed crossing.
“Yes,” snapped Sammie, folding his arms again.
Abigail rubbed her aching forehead again. This was untenable but she knew her son and how he was likely to react in any circumstance. Without the usual physical advantage, her best hope was to go along with him and coax him.
“Okay,” she said. “Until we get home. But only if you promise to hold my hand when we cross the road and only cross when I tell you to. Okay?”
“Yes Mummy,” replied Sammie sweetly, his sing-song woman’s voice sounding extra sweet. He grinned, excited to be getting his way. “I promise.”
“And when we get home we’ll swap straight back, okay?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Good boy.” She fretted for a moment then said, “And if you do as you’re told I’ll give you some chocolate, alright?”
“Yes Mummy.”
“Good boy. Now hold my hand and let’s go.”
Sammie stepped closer and took hold of her hand. They started toward the edge of the playground but Sammie’s stride was longer and almost immediately Abigail had to hurry to keep up.
The action chilled her to the bone because she realised how much it felt like she was a little boy being led home by the hand by her mother. She felt very much the child in this situation; as though Sammie were the adult.
5
The walk home was a profoundly disturbing experience.
Abigail tried to walk normally beside her gigantic female son but her little legs couldn’t manage it and she had to run every few steps to keep up. Sammie’s stride meanwhile was sure and regular, heels tapping on the pavement one after the other, after the other.
Still hand in hand, Abigail looked up at her son worriedly. The woman above her was smiling gaily, looking about. He had no conception of how distorted their situation was; he was simply enjoying it.
Abigail knew. She felt utterly helpless and horrified by her predicament. She was so scared that something would happen and they’d lose track of the pebble before she managed to get it back. How awful would it be to be trapped in her son’s body for the rest of her life; to actually become him? And how could he ever cope trapped as an adult woman? He was four years old. He couldn’t drive or do her job or interact with other adults on equal terms. It would ruin them both.
They came to one of the road crossings. An old couple were waiting ready to cross. The lady looked down at Abigail as she held Sammie’s hand and smiled. “What a cute little boy,” she said. “How old is he?”
“His name’s Sammie and he’s four and a half years old,” said Sammie and giggled.
Abigail’s face fell. She just wanted to get home quickly and make everything right. It had been so irresponsible to get in this position when she was meant to be in charge.
They walked on with Abigail struggling to keep up and becoming increasingly weary. She had played for so long and her little body didn’t have the strength to keep going. The stress of the situation wasn’t helping, nor was the crackling emotions of her little body. She felt tearful but she didn’t want to cry. She was afraid that if she did she would sound just like a child. Instead she ended up giving little grizzling moans, whimpering and muttering about her predicament.
Sammie stopped walking and looked down at her. “What’s the matter Mummy?”
“I’m just tired she said. I want to get home and change back. Please can we change back now?”
“I don’t want to change back yet,” said Sammie, “and you said we could wait until we got home; but if you’re tired I bet I could carry you like you carry me.”
Abigail’s shoulders sagged at the very thought of it but the road stretched on so far and she felt like she was about to drop. She didn’t want to act like a child or be seen as one but she was so exhausted.
Without any conscious thought her arms slowly rose, pointing up, and Sammie smiled down at her, lifting her up and putting her on his hip. “There. Is that better?”
She nodded, wiping her eye.
“Come on then,” said Sammie, and on they walked.
Abigail felt humiliated as they passed people walking, but the gentle undulation was pleasant, as was the feel of the strong hands holding her in place and the warm soft body she was pressed up against. As they went on she relaxed, telling herself that everything was going to be fine. It was okay to enjoy this. And she found herself snuggling up against Sammie’s body, closing her eyes and smiling to herself.
6
When they reached the house, Abigail opened her mouth to tell Sammie to find the front door keys in her handbag but he was already reaching in there for them. She was so relieved that they’d made it back without incident. Inside the house the environment was so much more limited. A lot less could go wrong.
“Put me down now,” she said.
Sammie did so, the feeling of weightlessness and powerlessness again creeping her out. “Here you go,” he said and Abigail shuddered. That was what she often said when she popped him down somewhere. It was uncanny how similar to her he sounded when he said it.
“Now give me the pebble,” she said. “We need to change back.”
Sammie went into the kitchen and put the handbag down on the side. Disgruntled at being ignored, Abigail followed him through, feeling awed by her new perspective on the familiar family home. She was so tiny now; everything looked huge. She tried to reach up to the handbag but it was too far back on the counter to reach.
“Sammie, give me the pebble back,” she said, feeling increasingly frustrated.
Sammie said nothing, opening the fridge and pouring himself a tall glass of orange juice. Abigail glowered at the glass as it filled up. That was her juice. Sammie wasn’t allowed to drink it. He certainly wasn’t allowed anywhere near that much. She considered chastising him for it but she was terrified he might react badly and really, what authority did she reasonably have now? Again, if she tried to exert her power and he rejected it he might realise exactly how much more superior his position was. Sammie wasn’t a bad boy but he had the mind of a little child and could be quite unintentionally selfish.
“Sammie,” said Abigail firmly, choosing to ignore the juice infraction, “you’ve had a really good long go pretending to be Mummy but now it’s time to change back. Alright? You promised. Didn’t you?”
He looked guiltily down at her but his jaw was set. She could tell he didn’t want to do it. “I just want a little bit longer. I like being tall and being allowed to drink juice.”
“I know pumpkin, but you did promise, didn’t you? It’s not good to break a promise. You want to be a good boy, don’t you?”
He pouted, an odd expression on her grown-up features, then his face suddenly broke into a grin. “I’m not a boy at the moment. I’m a girl!” He laughed. “You’re a little boy!”
Abigail’s face flushed. She tried a chuckle too, to humour him. “That’s right. I’m a little boy.”
“I’m the mummy. You’re the baby.”
She forced a smile. “Yes. At the moment.”
“You’re Sammie,” he said, giggling. “That’s what I should call you.”
Abigail’s face turned sour. “Sammie, do as I say and pass me the pebble.”
“You have to call me Mummy.”
She sighed. “I’m not going to call you Mummy.”
“You have to Sammie. Call me Mummy.”
“Sammie, I’m not going to call you Mummy. Give me the pebble... now.”
“Not until you call me Mummy,” he said, and his glare bore down on her with the petulant anger of a four year old with the strength of an adult.
Abigail hung her head in exasperation. “Alright; Mummy; please can you hand me the pebble so we can change back.”
“No,” said Sammie, giggling. I want to stay the mummy for longer. Just until teatime.”
“Sammie, no. You can’t!”
“Call me Mummy. You’re Sammie.”
“Alright! Mummy! Give me the pebble right now! I want to change back!”
“No! You can’t tell me what to do. You’re the little boy. I’m the mummy. I get to decide.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, trying to coax him, fearful again. “Just calm down Sa— Mummy, please.”
“I’m going to stay the mummy until teatime,” he said, folding his arms. “You have to pretend to be me.”
Abigail felt like screaming hysterically but she controlled herself. “Alright Mummy,” she said, hating the sound of her little boy voice forming those terrible words. “Just until teatime and then you promise to change back. Agreed?”
Sammie opened the cupboard, ignoring her.
“Do you promise?” said Abigail.
“Go and play with your toys Sammie,” he said, reaching the chocolate down and breaking off a chunk. He popped it in his mouth – another gross misdemeanour – then offered her a chunk. “Here. Have a bit of chocolate for being a good boy,” he said; another one of her sayings.
Abigail looked at it. She didn’t like the idea of accepting it on those terms – she wanted to demand that he do what she said – but it was clear how little power she now had. She had to go on playing this carefully.
She took the chocolate and put it in her mouth, loving the sensation even more than usual. In fact the taste was incredible; far nicer than it normally was. She turned to go.
“What do you say young man?” asked Sammie.
She froze.
“Hmmm?”
This was an established routine for them but it was reversed now and Abigail found herself giving the prescribed reply, “Thank you Mummy.”
“That’s a good boy. Now run along and play. And be sure you do. If I come up and find that you haven’t been pretending properly then I might not give you the pebble. Alright?”
Abigail walked out the room and started climbing the stairs feeling hopeless and lost and afraid.
7
In her son’s bedroom, Abigail stood looking unhappily down at the toys strewn over the floor.
She felt intensely frustrated that Sammie had put her in this position but was also acutely aware of how mercurial he was being. Had the change altered him somehow? The sense of power must have been affecting him but it was possible the different physiology was as well. She felt very different as a child and a boy. As a suddenly grown woman, he was bound to as well.
He had told her to play with his toys and he had sounded like he meant it. If he came upstairs and found her not doing it, would he really extend their exchange? She had a bad feeling he would.
She gritted her teeth. He was going to be in so much trouble when they changed back. His feet wouldn’t touch!
She plopped down on the carpet. There was a play mat down with streets and buildings laid out on it. Sammie was really into toy cars of all kinds. She dejectedly reached for a yellow digger and put it on one of the streets, pushing it along. Embarrassed, she glanced at the open door to see if anyone was watching. No one was and so she made an engine noise, her tongue resting between her lips, cheeks vibrating. There was a part of the mat that was drawn as a park. She moved the digger into that, imagining there was work needing doing there; a new building to be built.
She lowered the shovel, making another suitable noise and scooped up an imaginary shovelful of earth then backed up the digger and moved it to another part of the park. A sense of peace came over her as she went back for another shovelful with the digger, making all the right noises as she did so. She had played with cars a couple of times as a girl but had mostly been into dolls and teddies. This was surprisingly fun. It was actually kind of nice to “have to” play like a child. It was relaxing.
It occurred to her to switch to playing with some of Sammie’s more gender-neutral teddies, but when she glanced over at them she had no particular impetus. She was happy where she was.
She played with the digger for a while, digging up most of the park, imagining the workmen doing jobs. There were some Playmobil figures on the floor and she used these for the workmen, mumbling their different voices as the foreman gave orders to his men. Soon she forgot that she was being forced to do this and was just playing happily. She didn’t give it any deep thought, nor did she notice that the engine noises she used were identical to those that Sammie normally did. In fact to any observer she played exactly as her son did, favouring the same toys and continuing the building operation he had done the day before.
When she got tired of doing the building in the park she reached for a long green bus and started driving round the streets, moving round the mat on her hands and knees as she did so, picking up and dropping off passengers. She chirped away, doing the voices of the people saying hellos and thank yous to the driver and made a particularly deep sound for the bus engine. She got a truck involved, driving that round too with a suitably thunderous engine noise and then enacted a car wreck as bus and truck ran into one another, creating an imagined explosion. It was great.
Abigail didn’t even notice when Sammie climbed the stairs and stood on the landing watching her, smiling in approval. Nor did she notice when he popped into the bathroom and emerged carrying an armful of washing that needed doing.
8
Abigail lost all track of time playing upstairs and was in the middle of a car chase between some robbers and a police car when she heard the front door go and her husband come home.
“Hello! Anybody in?”
She leapt to her feet and ran toward her bedroom door. ”Daddy!”
At the doorway she stopped dead, realising what she’d said; how she’d felt when she heard his arrival.
She covered her mouth with her hand.
“Oh God.” What was happening to her?
She looked down at the play mat; the cars, the bus, the digger, the truck; at the top of the stairwell.
It was her husband, Ted, who had returned home from work, but for the second or two it took her to get from the mat to the door, she had really thought of him as her father. For the last hour or so she’d been playing exactly as Sammie would; just like a little boy.
She had to get that pebble right away! She was afraid how much worse this could get.
Abigail went cautiously to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was no one in the hall. Feeling humiliated that Ted was going to see her like this she followed the stairs down and went looking for him. He would support her. He would make sure she got to change back. She was sure of that. Just as soon as she explained what had happened.
There was a pleasant scent in the air that she couldn’t identify but it made her tummy rumble and there was a murmur of voices up ahead. She went round the corner into the kitchen and stopped short, gaping up at the two figures in front of her: Sammie, looking exactly like she normally did, and Ted; both of them kissing passionately.
She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t absorb it really at all. How could this be happening? How could her little Sammie even comprehend that action, let alone be compelled to do it?
But then she remembered the toys upstairs and getting lost in it. She remembered how she had thought of Ted at that first instinctive level.
Ted and Sammie pulled apart and both of them were smiling saucily. There was nothing of the child in Sammie’s expression. This was an adult interaction she was seeing without doubt.
Sammie saw her and then so did Ted. There was a moment of embarrassment on Sammie’s features and then Ted stepped in front of him, blocking the view. “Hey Squirt! How’s my little man?” He came forward and whipped Abigail off her feet up into his strong arms and a bright giggle came from her lips. “Have you been a good boy for Mummy today?”
Abigail looked over Ted’s shoulder at Sammie’s tense face. She wanted to tell him what had really happened but how could she now? How would Ted feel to know that he’d just snogged his four year old son? How could he understand the mental changes that had come over them both? She was so confused and more than anything she wanted to just snuggle up against his big body and be comforted.
“Hmmm?” said Ted. “Have you been a good boy?”
Not knowing what else to do, Abigail nodded her head and said, “Yes Daddy.”
She hadn’t meant to call him that – it had just come out on its own – but that was undeniably how she saw him now suddenly, no matter how much she tried to resist. He wasn’t Ted anymore. He was her dad. Her brain was such a welter of conflicting impressions. She could barely control her thinking. She wanted to cry and she hugged up closer to him.
“Are you alright Squirt?” he asked. She sniffled and he pressed her tighter against his chest. “It’s alright Sammie. Daddy’s home now. Everything’s going to be alright.”
Her sniffles became a cry and she started to weep quietly against him.
Ted and Sammie exchanged a look.
“What’s the matter son?” asked Ted. “What’s wrong?”
Abigail’s voice was doused in phlegm. “I want my pebble back,” she moaned, her voice thin and tremulous.
“What pebble?”
“My magic pebble,” she said.
“Well who’s got your pebble?” asked Ted.
“I have,” said Sammie, stepping forward. “It’s in my handbag. I confiscated it.” He paused. “Sammie’s been very naughty today.”
Abigail stared at him, her vision almost entirely blurred by the tears.
“Naughty in what way?” asked Ted.
“He’s been telling tales; making up stories about being able to change shape. It’s really got out of hand. I had to send him to his room.”
“Oh dear,” said Ted, his voice becoming darker and more threatening.
Abigail shook her head, fear coursing through her little body.
“Oh dearie me,” said Ted, setting her down. “Have you been lying Sammie?” he asked. Lying was something that Ted had a thing about. He could be as easy going as anything on other matters but always came down hard on that.
Abigail looked up at him, unsure. What could she say? If she told him that she was really the mummy then he would never believe her now. He might punish her or even smack her. But if she didn’t say anything she might stay stuck like this and with the way hers and Sammie’s minds were being altered it might not be long before she forgot who she was supposed to be.
“Tell me the truth young man,” said Ted, his arms folded menacingly. “Have you been telling lies?”
Abigail glanced at Sammie then back at him. “I’m sorry Daddy,” she whimpered. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“What did you lie about?”
Abigail chewed her lip. She didn’t want to say it. She’s already admitted to lying. If she told him about the transformation now he would never believe her at a later date.
“He said that he used to be me of all things,” said Sammie, stepping forward again.
Ted glanced at her and chuckled. She chuckled too, raising her eyebrows.
“Is that true?” asked Ted, his voice darkening again.
Abigail nodded. “I’m sorry Daddy.”
What else could she say? She couldn’t believe that Sammie had put her in this position – that he was forcing this on her. Did he not care about her at all, or had he somehow managed to justify this to himself?
Ted pointed to the door. “Go to your room,” he said. “Now. And if I calm down enough then I may let you have some supper.”
Abigail lowered her head, desperate to appeal to him but terrified to do so. He was implacable and was in no mood to listen to such a preposterous story.
She recognised the scent in the air now. It was a moussaka cooking. Sammie had somehow managed to whip it up while she had been playing – just more evidence of the mental changes – more proof to Ted, if it came to that, that he really was who he looked like.
There was no hope; at least for now.
Head hung low, Abigail trudged out of the room and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the closest teddy, hugging it to her chest and putting her thumb in her mouth.
How could her Sammie treat her like this? How could Sammie and Daddy punish her so unjustly? It wasn’t fair.
9
Half an hour later Abigail was summoned to dinner by a very angry-sounding Daddy. Full of trepidation, she went downstairs and saw that Sammie and Daddy were already seated in their normal chairs. At one level she knew that Sammie shouldn’t be at the end of the table but at another it felt completely natural to climb awkwardly up into the middle seat where Sammie always sat. She was, after all, him now.
“I hope you’ve been thinking about how wrong it is to lie young man,” said Daddy.
Abigail stared down at her plate.
“Hmmm? Speak up?”
“Yes Daddy,” she mumbled.
“Good boy. Eat up then.”
She picked up her knife and fork clumsily and started on the food. Moussaka was one of the more challenging meals she had cooked as a woman but this was made to perfection. The former Sammie had been able to complete it without any trouble and she started to wonder if maybe he could do everything she could now. Could he drive a car? Could he do her job?
And did that mean she couldn’t do those things anymore?
She tried to recall the recipe for moussaka but it was nothing but a blur. She tried to remember what happened at her job but she couldn’t even picture the inside of her work. She couldn’t... No. She wasn’t exactly sure what she did anymore. Something at the school. Was she a teacher? Maybe. Or not? She couldn’t remember.
Did she have her education anymore? Did she have her adult general knowledge? Had she retained her language skills? Or was she really just a little boy now and nothing more?
She tuned into the conversation. Sammie and Daddy were discussing issues at his work and Sammie was fully engaged; asking questions; passing comments. He was talking like a grown-up. He was a grown-up now.
The conversation seemed so dull. It was boring with them droning on about complicated humdrum things. She wished they would talk about something interesting, like cartoons. She thought about the game she’d been playing upstairs and wished she could just go back up to that. She felt much more comfortable doing that than spending time with these two… adults.
Abigail looked at the woman sitting in her place and then to the man who she knew was meant to be her husband. Her train of thought became clear to her and she reflected on it. She really couldn’t follow what they were talking about anymore and she didn’t want to. All she wanted were her childish things. They were adults. She wasn’t an adult anymore. She was a child.
I’m not a woman, she realised. I used to be one but I’m not anymore. I used to be Abigail but now I’m not. I’m a little boy. I’m Sammie.
The fact of that came into her brain as a bloated and festering thought, squeezing every other thought out of its way, crushing any sense she had of wrongness under its impossible weight.
She wasn’t Ted’s wife... Daddy’s wife. She wasn’t Sammie’s mother. She was Sammie now.
He… was Sammie.
The little boy let go of his knife and fork and looked down at his pudgy little hands. He looked at the feminine hands of the woman to his left then slowly up her slender arms to her shoulders and then to her face.
She’s my mummy, he thought to himself. I’m her son. I’m four and a half years old. My birthday’s in August. I’ve asked Daddy to get me a big fire engine with working sirens and he says he will. He grinned to imagine how great it was going to be.
“Eat up Sammie,” said Mummy. “It’s an early night for you tonight.”
“Yes Mummy,” he replied, but he toyed with his food, reluctant to eat the circular vegetables that looked like cucumber. He hated cucumber. He picked out the meat and the cheese, making a pile of the yucky stuff.
“All of it please Sammie,” she said, frowning.
Sammie pouted and tried one of the vegetables, wincing. He didn’t want to get into any more trouble than he already was.
He thought about the pebble in Mummy’s handbag. There was an odd detachment to it now, like the urgency he had previously felt to retrieve it was gone. He knew he wasn’t allowed to go into Mummy’s handbag and he knew she didn’t want him to have the pebble. He remembered what it could do, but though he liked the idea of seeing what it would be like to turn into Mummy it seemed a bit odd. Would he still be allowed to go to the park and go on the climbing frame?
They ate the rest of their evening meal and then Daddy carried Sammie upstairs and ran a bath. Sammie played with his digger again while he waited, making all the noises. He groaned in displeasure when Daddy called him through. He hated baths. Why did he have to have them anyway?
Daddy helped him get undressed and lifted him in and he immediately started having fun, playing with his bath toys. He had a set of cups that fit into one another and he delighted in pouring water from one cup to the next, splashing and giggling.
After a while Daddy came in and made him wash himself and helped with his hair. Sammie whined and spluttered as his face got sponged and behind his ears then Daddy lifted him out and got him dry and into his jim-jams. Daddy did his teeth and carried him through to bed.
All of this seemed natural now; just part of his nightly routine. He obeyed his daddy and respected his authority; craved his love and attention.
Sammie gave his daddy a hug and then got tucked into bed. He settled down and looked up at the man he had once been married to. There was no sense of romantic connection at all there anymore. This man was just his daddy; nothing more.
“I don’t want to hear anymore about you lying son; is that clear?” he said.
“Yes Daddy,” replied Sammie.
“Good boy.” He kissed him good night and then withdrew.
Sammie lay there in the dim glow from his night light, thinking. He knew he used to be the mummy and he knew he had wanted to change back but now he felt very confused. He didn’t know anymore how he felt about it.
Then he heard a sound and looked up and saw that Mummy was right there in the doorway; come to kiss him goodnight.
10
“Hello Sammie,” she said, coming in and sitting on the side of his bed.
He hesitated then said, “Hello Mummy.”
She smiled a delighted and pretty smile to hear him call her that when no one else was present and stroked his hair with the backs of her fingers. “You’ve been a good boy for Mummy today Sammie,” she said. “A very good boy. You were right not to tell Daddy about what happened.”
Sammie said nothing.
“I had no idea how it would feel to become a woman,” she said, “but it feels wonderful to be a wife and a mother. It feels right. And I know the magic has altered our thinking – that’s clear – but I don’t want anything else but to go on like this; to stay the way I am now.”
Sammie frowned. Some of the words she had used were words he didn’t understand.
“I appreciate that that has an impact on you,” she said, “but you seemed so happy when you were playing with your toys and I heard you having fun in the bath. You did have fun. Didn’t you?”
Sammie nodded. He loved having baths. He hated it when he had to get out.
Mummy opened her hand. The pebble was in her palm. She placed it on the bed next to him.
Beside it she laid a big unopened chocolate bar.
“It wouldn’t feel right taking your life without giving you the choice to have it back,” she said. “It was wrong of me to be so stubborn about it earlier. I do love you and I understand that you didn’t mean for us to remain stuck this way when you originally changed. If you want to, you can take up the pebble now and swap back.”
Sammie reached for the pebble.
“But...”
He stopped.
“If you do turn back then you won’t be able to play with your toys anymore. You won’t be able to go to the play park and play on the swings and the climbing frame. You won’t have me and Daddy to look after you anymore.”
Sammie looked up at his mummy with soulful eyes and a pouting mouth. He wanted those things more than anything.
Mummy smiled at him and curled a lock of hair behind his ear. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll make you a deal. Okay?”
Sammie nodded tentatively.
“If you decide to stay as you are and be a good little boy then I promise I will take you to the park as often as I can. Not only that but to prove how grateful I am I’ll give you a chocolate bar like this every day for a whole month.”
Sammie grinned, eyes shining at the prospect of that.
“What do you think?” asked Mummy.
Sammie eyed the pebble and its glistening runes. He eyed the chocolate bar and looked to his play mat on the floor; at his cars and the digger. He thought about the fire engine Daddy had promised to get him on his fifth birthday.
He looked up at his mother. She was smiling down at him with such love and concern.
“Please can I have the chocolate and toys?” he said.
Mummy’s smile broke into a grin. She stroked his cheek and kissed him on the forehead. “Of course you can Sammie. That’s a good boy. You can have all the chocolate you want for a whole month.”
He grinned. “Please can I open this now?”
She nodded and he tore at the wrapper eagerly as she picked up the pebble and put it away.
“You’re going to be happy Sammie; I promise,” she said.
“Thank you Mummy,” he said, enjoying the tight cuddle she gave him and the taste of the chocolate melting in his mouth.
A part of him felt it was a mistake to stay like this but he loved chocolate so much. He couldn’t get enough of it. He’d do just about anything to get more. And he really was looking forward to going to the park next day and playing with his cars.
“Night night sweetie,” said the former Sammie as she stood and went to the door. “Sleep tight tonight.”
“Night night Mummy,” the little boy replied. “I love you.”
If you liked this then check out my site. I post new story episodes every couple of days.
When two friends have the same dream that tells them how to swap bodies, homely and insecure Pam asks beautiful vivacious Rose if she will swap for one day - just to help her sort her life out. But when Rose agrees and turns into Pam, becoming short and ugly, her friend doesn't seem all that keen to change back.
A dark tale of female to female transformation.
THE FAVOUR
By Emma Finn
1
On Friday night, while we were working down our second glass of wine in her pokey little flat, my friend Pam and I realised that we had both had the same dream.
Exactly the same dream.
Pam and I had planned a night out drinking but when it turned out that her nasty little boyfriend Jimmy was out we’d decided to stay in. The flat was pretty shabby but it was quiet and we only wanted to drink and chat. A quick trip out to the off-licence had made a cheap night of it. We hadn’t been friends that long but we got on pretty well. After we talked about what happened in the dreams through it became clear that there couldn’t be a mistake. Our dreams had been identical.
And it was a weird dream. It was about the secret of swapping bodies.
Neither one of us recalled the imagery but we both clearly remembered the mechanism for doing it. And we both believed it could be done. For real. Maybe that was part of the magic: that belief.
“Swap with me, just for a bit,” said Pam.
She saw the hesitation on my face.
We really weren’t that alike. I tended to be quite glamorous, putting a lot of effort into my clothes and make-up. My eyesight wasn’t perfect but I wore contacts. She had huge round glasses, much too big for her face and very dated. She didn’t wear much if any make-up. Her dress sense was a mismatch of out-of-fashion items. I’d put on a figure-hugging dress for the evening and made myself look as nice as I could. She was wearing a tank top and a pair of pleated navy culottes with flats that didn’t match. And her hair was pretty dire: a short, uneven fringe and a mullet in back. My expression must have shown the reservation I had to become her, even for a short period.
“Please,” she said. “As a really big favour. It isn’t just so I could try out being you, though that would be amazing. You’re so much better with people than I am. You don’t let anybody give you crap. You’d still be like that if we swapped. My boss has been bullying me for months. You could stand up to her for me. You could tell her to stop doing it and she’d listen; I know she would.”
I shook my head. It sounded like a terrible idea. But then there was this other thing: the deep compulsion I had in me since I’d had the dream to give it a try. Just a try.
I couldn’t believe we were talking about this, not only as though it were real but as though we might actually go through with it.
“I know it’s a massive thing to ask,” said Pam, “but it would really mean a lot to me. And it would be incredible being somebody else for a day. Don’t you think?”
I looked at Pam’s homely face and little, pointy boobs. I looked at her bitten fingernails and big feet.
I couldn’t believe I was considering this. But for some reason I really wanted to do it – to experience life as somebody else. Before I could change my mind I said, “Yes.”
It was when we began preparing ourselves that I started to get a bad feeling.
It wasn’t about standing up to Pam’s boss. I had always been good at that kind of thing and I’d told her to do it hundreds of times. She was too damn passive for her own good.
It wasn’t about being worse off financially or losing my looks – the swap would only be for a night and a day. It would be just like wearing a Halloween costume.
It was the actual details of the trade that creeped me out.
The dream memories were very specific. It wasn’t just our bodies we would be swapping. It was the threads of our destiny; our current and future lives.
That sounded dangerous and I said as much to Pam but she laughed it off.
“I know what you mean but it’ll be over in no time. We can switch back at lunch tomorrow,” she said. “You’ll get your destiny or whatever back then.”
I tried to visualise what my “destiny” was; what it would mean to swap it for somebody else’s: my looks, my career prospects, my future love life, any children I might conceive. Pam’s future was not going to be as smooth; not with her limited skills and dead end job, nor with her semi-abusive boyfriend and credit card debt.
“I’m really not sure about this Pam,” I said.
“Oh please Rose,” she replied. “I’d owe you such a big favour in return and you would really make my life better if you could stand up to my boss.”
I made myself chew it over some more, then against my better judgement, I agreed.
It was only until the following lunchtime and it would really help her out with her boss. If that stopped Pam bitching about her all the time then all the better. Pam wasn’t the most assertive person and I did take pity on her situation. And I was also powerfully curious.
“Let’s do it,” I said and we both laughed excitedly at the prospect.
2
The magic required us to both recite five complex words while holding hands. It was as simple as that. No candles. No magic potions. No virgin sacrifices.
Still it was hard to countenance that we believed this enough to try it out and maybe that was contributing to my decision to go through with it. The knowledge had been inserted so deeply into our minds during the dream. It was hard not to believe it. How else could we have both had the same dream?
But here we were, holding hands, looking into one another’s face.
“I’m not sure about this,” I said. I really didn’t want to be Pam, even for a little while. I liked being me too much. But she did have a shitty life. I wanted to help her if I could.
“I’m so grateful Rose,” she replied. “You’re going to make things so much better.”
That made me a little more sure of myself but I still didn’t feel ready.
We started incanting the words, tentatively but surely. Inside my head they seemed impossible to pronounce but they came from our lips easily.
As soon as we started I felt incredibly strange, the unpleasant intensity of it centred on my belly button. It got stronger and stronger as we carried on. I wanted to stop but I couldn’t. The words kept coming. And then suddenly I shuddered and I lost my sight and senses. At the same moment I felt the most dreadful sensation of my life, as though a crucial part of me were being ripped away – or more that I was being ripped away from it. I was weightless and in darkness but I felt horrifically diminished, no longer whole. Then I was thrust into some new and unfamiliar place and the something that was missing was improperly replaced.
I could only imagine it as my soul being torn from my body and thrown into Pam’s, but it clearly wasn’t just my body I was leaving behind. The essence that was gone; the essence that now replaced it; was my very future: all the rest of my life as Rose. It didn’t matter that we’d only agreed to a temporary change. Right now it felt like I could never get that future back; that I was trapped now instead inside of Pam’s destiny. Her future had become mine.
I opened my eyes, blinking, and realised I was looking through her big round glasses. I had to look up at her; she was a good six inches taller than me.
We broke our grip and stared at one another. The dream really had been true. We had swapped places. I had become Pam and she had become Rose.
“God, look at me!” she giggled, smoothing her hands down her new body. “I’m gorgeous! And so much taller!” She went out to the hall mirror. “It’s even better than I imagined. I feel great!”
I didn’t feel great. The fact that it was a good deed was helping but I felt small and ugly. I hated the mismatched clothes I was wearing. I hated the idea of having to stay in this little flat overnight.
The transfer had obviously flooded the new Rose’s body with endorphins, and why wouldn’t it? Her soul had been put into a better body with a better future. It probably felt like winning the lottery. I couldn’t get comfortable in my new flesh. The destiny I had temporarily assumed cloyed round me like thick swamp water, dampening any sense of wonder. I wasn’t happy at all.
“I’m so grateful,” she said. “Really Pam. If you can sort my boss out for me then it will change my life. And it’s awesome being you for a night.”
“Pam?” I said.
“Well you are Pam now, aren’t you?” she said.
“I guess,” I replied dourly.
“It’s weird,” she said, chattering on. “I don’t feel like myself at all anymore. I feel like you must. It’s odd; like I have all this potential.”
“Well don’t get used to it,” I replied. “We’re swapping back at lunchtime tomorrow.”
“Yes of course. Of course. No doubt about it. Oh, you’re such a good friend Pam.” She leaned down and hugged me. It felt unfamiliar and off-putting. “Anyway, I must fly.”
“Really?”
“Well, yes. You don’t mind do you? It’s just that if I only have tonight in your body I want to make the most of it.” She headed toward the door.
I stepped after her, feeling rather put out. “What are you going to do?”
She grinned. “Nothing you wouldn’t do in my place I’m sure!”
Then she was gone and I was left looking at the inside of her front door.
I looked around me at the cramped little poorly decorated flat. It was a bit damp and quite messy. It needed a good tidy and an even better clean but I didn’t see why I should be the one to do that.
I looked in the mirror and my face fell. I had Pam’s features now. I had her ugly, home-cut, short fringe. I had to wear her oversized glasses and I had her skinny arms and legs, her strange outward-pointing boobs.
You are Pam now, aren’t you? she’d said, and that was how it felt.
I didn’t feel like myself at all. All the sensations were wrong. I was seeing the world through glasses and from a different height. My body moved and was balanced differently. And I couldn’t escape that other thing: that it wasn’t just our bodies that had swapped; that our future lives had been swapped too.
I went through to the bedroom. I hadn’t seen it before. It was even messier than the lounge and hallway, the bedspread a tangled mess. Pam’s boyfriend Jimmy wasn’t back for hours yet. He was out drinking with his mates. I didn’t want to be awake when he returned. I didn’t particularly want to be awake now. The sooner this favour was done with, the better.
I took off my clothes, trying not to look at my ugly new body, and crawled under the covers, hoping I could sleep quickly and that tomorrow lunchtime would arrive soon.
3
I didn’t see much of Jimmy in the morning and he didn’t wake me when he came home.
When I opened my eyes I heard him clattering about in the little shower room toilet but when he popped back into the bedroom I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I could barely focus on him. He grumbled something about being late then came in for a kiss. I was too surprised to react. His face was bristly with stubble and the kiss was too hard. He pinched my tit roughly. Then he left.
I groused to myself and got up, wishing I’d never agreed to this. Pam wasn’t even a long term friend. I didn’t know her that well. I should have said no. It almost made me wonder if something in the dream had made me do it.
I still felt horrible in my new body. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was lessened somehow. It wasn’t just the loss of height. I felt inferior. And that wasn’t snobbery. It was hard to wrap my head around. Could it be that being inside Pam’s body was making me different? It was only my soul that passed across. I was inside her brain now. Surely that could have all kinds of effects.
Pam wore a uniform to work at Poundland. I found it in the wardrobe. It wasn’t very flattering. I looked like a frightened mouse when I put it on. Pam normally wore oddly contrasting shoes with it but at least here I could make this body look a little better. I put on some plain black flats. I’d ironed the uniform first so I looked a little better than she normally did. That was something.
Pam didn’t have a car. That meant I didn’t have a car. I had to bus it into town which was a real drag. I was in a bad mood the whole way there. It was a Saturday so “Rose” didn’t have to work. She was probably having a great time while I went in to do her minimum wage job.
I walked down through Tower Gates shopping centre and got let into Poundland. Pam’s boss – my boss – was looking at her watch and frowning. “I’m getting really tired of your tardiness Pam. You know what time you’re meant to be here.”
I checked my own watch. “But I’m still five minutes before time.”
“Are you forgetting I told everyone to always be here ten minutes early so they’re ready to be productive exactly on the dot.”
I frowned. That sounded like being made to work without pay. That wasn’t right.
“Hurry up and dump that crap of yours in your locker. There’s been a shipment of cleaning products. I want it out on the shop floor ASAP.”
I nodded, conscious of the fact that the whole point of this swap was so that I could stand up to her and establish a different level of respect for Pam’s future. I didn’t want to let Pam down and I definitely didn’t want to feel beholden to stay in this form for longer than our arranged lunchtime appointment.
I got started on stacking the shelves. It was dull and repetitive but a welcome break from the pressure of my normal job. I couldn’t imagine doing it long term though. On the other hand, my mind kept flitting back to the concept of traded destiny. I knew this was only a short term swap but for now it still felt that this sort of lifestyle was exactly what was waiting for me in my future. I tried to picture my true future as Rose but it felt strangely impossible and out of reach, like it really did belong to somebody else.
The boss came to see how I was doing half an hour in. “Well you could have done better than that,” she huffed. “The rows aren’t even.”
My blood boiled at the condescending tone and thinking of the promise I’d made to the real Pam I said, “Sorry. I’m happy to correct that. It’s my mistake. But would you mind speaking to me properly. I’m happy to do my best. I don’t appreciate being talked down to.”
She looked like she’d been slapped in the face. Clearly Pam had never said boo to her before. There was a moment of indecision, then she rephrased it more politely.
I smiled and said, “Of course. My pleasure. Thank you for the feedback.”
She walked away looking nonplussed. I snickered to myself, feeling glad suddenly that I had done this switch after all. I did want to help Pam out and my assertiveness certainly had been transferred across with my spirit.
Throughout the morning the boss lady popped by where I was working to check on me or give me new jobs to do. I did a bit of till work but mostly it was shelf stacking. I was surprised by how easy it was to operate the till but I’d seen shop girls doing it my whole life. I guessed I’d picked up a trick or two.
If the boss made snide comments then I gently and firmly corrected her and before too long she was getting the idea. She was treating me with more respect. It was great. I actually felt quite happy by the time my lunch break came around. I’d done everything I’d promised to Pam and could go back to my own body with a clear conscience.
It had been fun trying on a new life but this really wasn’t one I wanted to stay in. I couldn’t wait to meet up with Ro— with Pam and swap back.
4
We had arranged to meet on the riverbank. I was very nervous as I made my way there. I was just so aware of how I looked now: the bad hair and glasses; the shop uniform; the homely face and skinny body.
Rose was waiting for me at the riverside. I say Rose because that was simply who she was. She looked like Rose. She stood and smiled like Rose. And I didn’t feel like Rose at all anymore. The image of myself I kept in my mind had altered already. I was Pam, at least physically.
“There you are!” she said, greeting me. “I’ve got baguettes for us. There aren’t any tables free here but I spotted a bench just down there.” She pointed along the river path going west.
“Uh, sure,” I said and followed her down there, conscious of the contrast between us. That was a better location anyway for us to swap back and I was eager to do so as soon as possible.
“So tell me what happened,” she said as we sat.
I’d been planning to suggest swapping right away but I guessed it couldn’t hurt staying this way a little while longer. We tucked into our food as I recounted what had happened that morning. Rose thought it was hilarious and was really pleased.
“I’m so grateful you did that. I could never have stood up to that cow. People always walk over me. Thank you.”
“What have you been doing?” I asked.
“Everything!” She laughed. “I went out on the town last night and hooked up with some of your other friends.”
“Really?” I felt put out. “Why didn’t you take me?”
“Er… because…” She wasn’t sure how to phrase it but I knew exactly why. When I was myself I didn’t tend to invite her out with other people. She just didn’t fit and her clothes and personality were generally a bit of a dampener. Nevertheless, it wasn’t nice to be the one that applied to now.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I understand.”
“You don’t have to worry,” she went on. “I didn’t do anything naughty, though I did get rather tipsy!” She laughed loudly.
I gave her a weak smile.
“This morning I went to the spa and then had a manicure at that new hair and beauty parlour in town. It was wonderful.”
“Great,” I said testily. “Well I’m glad you enjoyed it but let’s switch back now.”
“Ah, yes; about that…” She smiled. “You did such an amazing job with my boss this morning; I was wondering if you could do me just one more small favour.”
“This doesn’t mean staying you for longer does it?” I asked, getting a sinking feeling that it did.
“Just until this evening,” she said. “Say nine o’clock tonight?”
I sighed. “What do you want me to do now?”
“Well it’s just Jimmy,” she said. “My boyfriend. You did such a great job with my boss. I was hoping you could tell him off for me too. Just get him to treat me better.”
“I don’t know…”
“Please. It would mean so much to me. I don’t have a hope of standing up to him but you could. Please Pam. Please.”
“I’m not Pam,” I said grumpily. “I don’t like it when you call me that.” But it felt odd to say that. Pam felt like it was my name. And she certainly wasn’t Pam anymore. She wasn’t fully me but she definitely wasn’t her old self.
“Okay. Rose,” she said, though that name jarred even more. “Please do me this one more favour and I’ll be grateful to you forever. Please?”
I looked down at my uniform and skinny arms and legs. I really didn’t want to stay like this anymore, but it was just a few more hours and it would be a help to her. “Okay. I guess,” I said. “But as long as you promise to swap back tonight.”
“Of course,” she replied, grinning. “We can meet here and do it.”
I frowned deeply, resenting the situation and aware that there had been a slight shift in power. When we started this, it had been a choice we both made. I didn’t like the way I’d had to extract a promise from her, as though it was she who would decide when we got our real bodies back.
“I’m so grateful for this Pam,” she said and this time I didn’t correct her on the name. I told myself it didn’t matter. It was only for another few hours and it did make more sense to call ourselves the names we had now.
I wasn’t Rose anymore.
5
The rest of the day at Poundland went quickly, which was good, but by the end of it I was feeling more and more as though I really was Pam. It was hard not to. I was doing things that only she would have done. People were calling me by her name. I spoke with her voice. If I caught sight of my reflection it was her face looking back.
And another thing… I was becoming more and more sure that I knew things that only she should have. Like the way I could use the till. And the way I knew my way around the stockroom. And I knew the names of the other girls who worked there.
It was really freaky and it made me ruminate over what had actually occurred when we switched.
My soul had gone into her body and maybe that soul was imprinted with a lot of my immediate knowledge. But now it was in Pam’s brain and it could tap into the memories and information there. I had to question how much of my original imprinted self would remain if I stayed this way. It had felt as though the most important parts of me had been ripped away when I made the transfer. I already knew my future was currently Pam’s future. If that was true then it didn’t make sense that I would be just like my Rose-self in her body – not long term. In order for me to truly inherit the path of her fate I would have to make the same choices she would make. I would have to effectively be her. That seemed to prove that I would become more and more like her over time.
All the more reason to finish of this favour and get back into my own shape again; put this behind me with a shiver of relief.
I took the bus home to Pam’s flat, wishing I could instead go back to my own far nicer house. No such luck. And truth be told, I was looking forward to getting back in there. It did felt like home to me now. Rose’s house, in my memory, seemed like… somebody’s else’s place. It was weird. And disconcerting.
Jimmy wasn’t home when I got there. I let myself in, threw my clothes on the floor and had a shower. There was no bath in the narrow room; just a shower with intermittent hot water and a grubby toilet with a loose seat. I couldn’t wear my round glasses in the shower. It made me realise how much worse my eyesight was than it had been.
I came out and blow dried my hair, trying to do something with it. Pam had cut it herself though and the mullet back and short fringe were impossible to work with. By the time I had finished it looked exactly like it always did. I did manage to find a roughly matching outfit after twenty minutes of scrabbling through the piles of creased, musty clothes in the wardrobe. I considered ironing them but I couldn’t be bothered. I put them on as they were, straightening them as much as I could with my hands.
Jimmy arrived a couple of minutes later.
He was chubby round his middle but very muscular in his chest and shoulders. He’d spent his youth in various foster homes and hadn’t had an easy time of it. Sadly that made him aggressive and domineering which cowed Pam. He dominated her, making her life a misery and he came in with the same plan for me.
“What are you looking at? I’ve had a crappy day. When’s the food ready?” He went right by me and slumped into the armchair in the lounge.
I shook my head to myself and followed.
“Tell me you’ve started cooking already,” he said grumpily. “I’m starved.”
I sat on the sofa and put my hands in my lap. “Jimmy,” I said. We need to talk.”
He looked suspicious but I went on.
“I appreciate you’ve had a long day today but I’ve been working too and I’d rather you didn’t talk down to me.”
He got the same expression on his face that the boss had got in Poundland.
“I love you a lot and I want to stay together. I want to cook for you and make you happy. But I also want you to treat me with respect and gratitude.”
I let that sink in for a minute then I continued.
“I’m not going to leave you. But I will if you keep on treating me badly. I promise to make you the happiest man that I can if you do your part. I know you aren’t used to me saying this kind of thing but it’s come to the point that you need to make a decision. Either you treat me well and we stay together… or I leave.”
I held my breath. The last thing I wanted was to end Pam’s relationship, but Jimmy needed to know that I (and she) meant business.
He sat quietly for a long time. Then he looked me in the eye. Then he looked away and sat quietly again.
“I’ll put dinner on,” I said. “What would you like?”
That was a good enough start. Pam could continue where I left off. A favour was one thing but this was her life, not mine. It was her who was going to be stuck living it. She had to put some effort in to sort it out.
And maybe being me for a day would give her a bit of my strength.
6
It didn’t seem as strange catching the bus now I did it again. In fact when I thought about driving the idea of it made me nervous. I wondered why.
As Rose I’d been driving for my whole adult life. But then, I wasn’t Rose anymore. I knew Pam couldn’t drive. She’d had a couple of lessons as a teenager and given up after pranging her dad’s car badly. And I was Pam now. The way I felt about the very idea of driving couldn’t have been far off from the way she did. It almost brought me out in a sweat. It actually made me nervous about becoming myself again because then I’d have to drive home. I wondered if I could persuade Rose to drive me home, just until I got my confidence back.
It was strange walking from the bus station to the riverbank. Normally, as Rose, I would have been getting a fair bit of attention from men; some flirtation. Not now. Now that I was Pam I didn’t get a second look. And I didn’t have my usual confidence. I was so aware of my homeliness and awful clothes and hair that I knew people would look down on me. I was Pam at the moment and those unfriendly opinions really were levelled at me.
I kept my head down and walked quickly. I was wearing the outfit I’d picked out earlier but I was starting to question if it matched as well as I’d thought it did. I was becoming less sure of my fashion knowhow. I’d chosen some tartan three quarter length trousers and a pink and white striped baggy T-shirt. They were both heavily creased which probably didn’t help but I really wasn’t sure if they made me look good. But then, with my looks, I couldn’t work miracles. There wasn’t much point in trying too hard with a face like mine.
When I got to the bench on the riverbank Rose wasn’t there. I sighed and checked my watch. It was just after the time when we were supposed to meet. I fretted that she’d come and gone and wondered if I should call her.
I didn’t. I sat down and waited, pushing my glasses up my nose and then crossing my legs and arms. It was dark but the moon was out. The lights from the houses across the river up the hill of Pinecrest reflected on the water’s surface.
Fifteen minutes later Rose still hadn’t turned up. I was starting to get ratty and questioned whether I’d got the time or place wrong. I was such an idiot. It would have been just like me to do that.
Ten minutes after that I decided to ring Rose and see what she was doing.
I dialled the number and rang through. She didn’t pick up right away. Eventually she did and said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry Pam. I forgot all about you!”
I grumbled to myself and said, “It doesn’t matter. When are you getting here?”
There was a pause on the other end. “Er, look, Pam? Listen… I was wondering how you’d feel about extending our swap. Just for a little bit longer.”
“What? We were meant to swap back at lunchtime!”
“I know. I know. And I’m really grateful for you staying like that for longer. It’s just that I’m having such a fabulous time being me; you know, you; that I’d really, really like to stay like this just for maybe… one more day?”
I sighed heavily. “I’m not really comfortable with that Rose,” I said, sort of hating myself for calling her that. “I’ve already done you a massive favour by staying you for so long.”
“I know. And I’m ever so grateful. You’ll never know how grateful. How did it go with Jimmy tonight?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I replied testily. “He was a bit shocked but he sort of responded. You’ll need to follow it up when you change back. You’ll need to go on standing up to him.”
She laughed. “That shouldn’t be too hard. I feel so much more confident now. I feel like I could stand up to anybody.”
“Good. That’s great. But listen—”
“I’m going to have to go,” she cut in. “It’s actually good you’re going to stay me for longer. It means you can be the one to follow up with Jimmy.”
“Rose, I—”
“Sorry Pam. I really have to go. I’m at the cinema and the film’s starting in a minute. I’ll give you a call in the morning to set up the exchange back.”
“Hang on,” I said. “I didn’t agree yet.”
“You’re a real star for doing this Pam. Really. Talk soon.”
She hung up.
I sat there, looking at the phone dumbly. I didn’t lower it for a good two minutes.
I couldn’t believe she’d done that to me. I was happy to do her a favour but she was taking the piss now, she really was.
I considered ringing her back and demanding we meet up but the idea of doing that made me feel anxious. Still, I made myself do it. This wasn’t on. We had to switch back right away. I was feeling far too much like the real Pam for my liking.
The phone went straight to voicemail. She must have turned it off because she was going into the cinema. I sighed, wondering if I should go round there and try to find her, but I didn’t like the idea of hunting through loads of darkened auditoriums. The people inside might shout at me for causing a disturbance.
Instead I sighed heavily and started walking back toward the bus station, reconciled to staying like this for one more night.
It wasn’t all bad though. At least I didn’t have to drive. I’d only had two lessons from my dad as a teenager and they had been a disaster.
7
When I got back to the flat, Jimmy had his music on painfully loudly. I could hear the neighbours hammering on the wall from outside the door but as soon as I went in it was impossible to hear.
I’d tried calling Rose again on the way home but still got no answer. I texted her to ask her to call me before she went home. I wanted her to come round here instead.
Jimmy was in the lounge, his top off, a bottle of beer in his hand. His face looked like thunder. I smiled weakly and gave him a wave. He curled his lip and glared back at me. I backed out the room and went into the little bedroom. It was almost as loud in there and only became slightly muffled when I shut the door.
Jimmy banged it open seconds later and came in. I had just sat down on the bed. He glared at me threateningly, took a swig of his beer and glared at me again.
I didn’t know how to react. I wished I hadn’t talked to him on the real Pam’s behalf now. I hadn’t realised I would be the one to suffer the consequences and it had seemed like such an easy idea to have a chat.
“Where the fuck do you get off telling me what to do?” he bellowed.
“What? I… Sorry. I just thought—”
“You thought you’d start laying out demands; telling me how to act; telling me I’m not good enough for high and mighty you. Is that about right?”
“No! I’m sorry, I was only trying to—”
“Don’t make excuses Pam. I’m fucking sick of you and I’m sick of your lies.”
He turned his back on me. I sat there feeling despondent. Then he whipped back round to face me, even more furious.
“You should pray I don’t dump you for this, you ugly fuck. You couldn’t hope to get a place as good as this if we broke up, especially with all your debt. You’d be fucked. So don’t come in here making demands or you’ll find out what life without Jimmy is like.”
“I’m sorry Jimmy,” I said, holding my hands up to ward off any blow.
“What are you doing that for?”
I looked at my hands. “I...”
“I’m not going to hit you, am I? What the fuck do you think I am? You stupid cow.” He slapped my hand out the way painfully hard then clipped me round the head. “Eh? Answer me!”
“No Jimmy. I’m sorry,” I wailed.
He slapped my cheek, what was probably playfully from his perspective, but still nasty enough to sting. “If it wasn’t for me you’d have nothing. Don’t you forget that.” He went out the bedroom but I stayed where I was feeling stunned. Moments later the loud music went off.
I’d had no idea how awful he was. I pitied the real Pam, having to put up with him, but it sounded like the alternative was no better.
I felt anxious and regretful, like I’d made things worse. I was already so used to being Pam and the fact that her destiny was currently mine was scratching at me. Maybe Jimmy was right. If he did support me – Pam – then it wasn’t right for me to come in and make demands; to insist he act differently. He had a right to act the way that came naturally. If I didn’t like that – well, if Pam didn’t like that then she could always leave.
I was expecting Rose to take her life back but I’d just almost ruined it. I felt terrible about that. And I felt terrible about the disapproval coming out of Jimmy. I didn’t want to let him down. He did do a lot for me – for Pam.
I decided to go and talk to him.
I went back to the lounge and hovered in the doorway. He was watching TV. When he saw me he gave me a glare and said, “What are you loitering about for?”
“I just wanted to say I was sorry,” I said. I took a tentative step into the room.
He just glared at me. I thought about the way I’d always thought the real Pam should stand up to him; the way I had before.
“I shouldn’t have told you what to do,” I said. “That was wrong of me.”
“Damn right it was. You can fucking move out if that’s the way you feel.”
I felt panic at that. As long as I was in this body the future path of this life was mine and I couldn’t help feeling emotionally attached to that. I knew I was acting more like Pam herself now but it was because I now understood what it was really like for her. If I had her body and brain; if I lived with her boyfriend and did her job; of course I’d act like her.
I was her.
I went into the room fully and kneeled beside Jimmy, looking up at him with tear-rimmed eyes, clutching his leg. “Can you forgive me? I’m so sorry.”
He sneered and then shrugged. “Just don’t fucking do it again or it really will be over.”
“Oh thank you,” I said, hugging his thigh, feeling a flood of relief that I hadn’t ruined everything. “Thank you Jimmy. I’m so sorry.”
He stroked my hair and I felt such gratitude for that and a rush of affection. I looked up at him again, my expression like that of a puppy, desperate for love. He kissed me. I closed my eyes, drifting into it, and his kiss became increasingly rough; increasingly passionate. He grasped my tit again, pinching it hard enough to incite another wince. I moaned with surprising arousal and then let him lead me into the bedroom.
He was rough with me, stripping me out of my bottoms and pushing me onto the bed. He didn’t bother with my T-shirt, just snatched at my knickers until they came off. I lay on my back, looking up at him.
I wasn’t Rose anymore. I realised that. I didn’t feel like her at all. She was beautiful and intelligent and confident. She had a great life ahead of her. I was Pam. I knew how plain I was and how good it was of Jimmy to put up with me. And I knew that I couldn’t dare rock the boat for fear of losing him. I wanted him to treat me badly; I deserved it. I liked it.
He batted my legs apart, staring hungrily at my minge. He didn’t bother looking at my face as he worked his way in and he pinned me down as he forced himself inside. I felt a pinpoint of pain and then gave out a long sigh and breathed his name.
“Jimmy. Oooooh Jimmy.”
There was no affection really; just the rhythmic pumping, his muscular arms trapping me on the bed; but I felt at peace. I felt fabulous. And a deep affection came to me suddenly and the irresistible desire to whisper the words, “I love you Jimmy Dobson.”
And I did. I wanted him to come louder than ever before. I didn’t care if I did. All that mattered to me was pleasing him.
And maybe then he’d treat me better for a little bit. Maybe then he wouldn’t hit me.
8
Rose didn’t call me back that night and her phone was switched off in the morning.
I had another shift at Poundland.
I considered not bothering to go in or to call in sick, but I didn’t want to cause trouble for Rose – for Pam when she became herself again. I was feeling paranoid and insecure, fretting that she wouldn’t want to swap back; that she was avoiding me. It wasn’t like we’d been friends for that long. We’d met at a dance class and hit it off; that was all. What if she decided my life – my old life – was better? Well of course it was better!
I got the bus into town, not even considering it as unusual anymore. I couldn’t drive for the life of me so what else would I do?
I trudged through the shopping centre and looked furtively at my boss as she let me in. I’d been worrying about talking back to her the day before. It had gone so badly with Jimmy, I worried that I might have ruined things here.
“Pam,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I want a word with you. My office. Now.”
I followed her meekly back there and took the proffered seat opposite. She glared at me in a way that was reminiscent of Jimmy.
“Are you happy working here?” she asked.
I paused to ask myself that. This life felt like it really was mine at the moment. It felt like I would always be Pam. Did I like it here? Or was it the best I could get? “Yes,” I replied.
“Well I wouldn’t have thought so from the way you were spouting off yesterday,” she said harshly.
“Oh. Uh, sorry,” I said.
“I was thinking about it all afternoon and last night and as your employer I expect a certain amount of respect. Is that clear?”
I shrank into my seat. “Yes.”
“I don’t expect you to question my methods.”
“No.”
“There are plenty more girls who would kill to have your job. If you aren’t satisfied with your position then say so now and I’ll give someone else a chance.”
I hung my head. “Sorry. No. I’m very happy here.”
She smiled smugly. “Good. Now get out on that shop floor and get to work. What are you doing wasting my time in here?”
I got up and hurried out, feeling awful.
Every attempt I’d made to stand up to the people in Pam’s life had got me nowhere. I was useless. I couldn’t stand up to anybody. Maybe when I was still Rose I could have but I just didn’t have those skills anymore. She was so much better than I was. I was pathetic.
I deserved getting stuck in her life for an extra day, the mess up I’d made of trying to improve things. I don’t know why I kept nagging at her to swap back. She’d swap when she was good and ready.
Nevertheless, while I stacked shelves all morning I couldn’t stop agonising over when our trade would happen. The change just felt so complete. I’d lost all my self-confidence. I couldn’t remember what it was like to feel like that anymore. I knew I was taking on more and more of the real— the original Pam’s memories and forgetting the Rose ones. Already the Rose memories I did retain had an odd air to them as though they belonged to somebody else. I could remember being Rose just about but I knew I wasn’t her and that clash of emotions made it disconcerting to focus on them. I was glad that it was getting harder and harder to remember things about my former life.
On the other hand, since spending a second night in this body I was remembering more and more things about my new life – Pam’s life. I could remember going to school in Barton; my family life as a child; meeting Jimmy. It would have been weird but it wasn’t. In the memories I was myself, Pam; not like in the Rose ones. It felt normal. As the day went on I was able to recall more and more and I enjoyed reminiscing. I wasn’t just recalling details of somebody else’s life; I was remembering events that had happened to me with all the nostalgic connection that came naturally with them.
Every hour or so I slipped away to try calling Rose but she never picked up and I received no calls back. I texted her message after message, barely noticing when the tenor of my communication changed from “Let me have my body back Pam,” to “Please give me your body Rose.” Still no answer came.
I wondered about going round to her house in my lunch break but it was right over in Lockwood somewhere and I wasn’t sure where. She’d driven me round there once but I’d never had to find it on my own.
No. That was my Pam memories taking over. Obviously it was my house – it had been – but I barely had any memory of it now.
Instead I wandered round the rundown end of the shopping centre, looking in discount clothes shops. I had the idea of buying something sexy for Jimmy – for if I ended up staying like this longer than I wanted to. I bought a red mini-skirt and a lime green boob tube. It didn’t do much for me – It accentuated my skinny arms and legs and showed my ribs and sunken chest – but I knew Jimmy liked a bit of flesh. He was always looking at pictures of girls dressed like that on the internet.
All afternoon I became more and more fretful. I wanted to swap places with Rose but I was becoming certain now that she was avoiding me; trying to hold onto her life – my former life. By four o’clock when the shop closed I still hadn’t heard. My boss had been horrible to me all day, giving me all the worst jobs. I had tried to work harder, hoping that by being more subservient she would accept that I did respect her authority after all. It had been such a mistake to stand up to her. I didn’t know what had possessed me. I vowed never to do anything like that again.
I worked an extra half hour for free before leaving to curry favour but she wasn’t grateful. She used that time to tell me at length how poor my performance was. I solemnly nodded at each point she made, feeling wretched.
When I left I walked back through the mall, thinking about what to do next; thinking about my life. And I realised something.
I realised that I only had the scantest memory of ever being Rose now. I didn’t recall a single thing from her life. I knew intellectually that I had been her but at the same time that didn’t make any sense because I had a head full of real memories of my life as Pam.
Worse, I was having trouble recalling the detail of the body-swap dream. I knew there were five words to say to effect a transference but I couldn’t quite remember what they were.
That filled me with a blunt-edged despair.
I could only hope that Rose remembered them, but at the same time I couldn’t believe that she would ever give up her beauty and prospects to become me. I was so plain and unfashionable. I owed thousands of pounds in credit card bills. I had an abusive boyfriend – though I knew that Jimmy couldn’t help it and he could sometimes be really kind, especially round my birthday.
I wandered toward the bus station, wondering if I should just wait until Rose called me in a week or two for our usual drinks together. I could bring it up then but I didn’t expect her to say yes.
Then suddenly I caught sight of her – in the window of a bar whose back faced onto the mall. She was sitting inside with somebody, right there in my line of sight.
My body was flooded with anxiety. I didn’t know how to approach her. I’d never known why she bothered to be my friend. We didn’t have anything in common. I always felt she was going to drop me. If I went in there demanding she give up her life then she might stop wanting to hang out with me. My nights out with Rose were one of the highlights of my life. I didn’t want to risk losing them.
But I steeled myself. I reminded myself that she had stolen my life. She wasn’t Rose. I… I was. Sort of. Or I had been once, even though I was Pam now.
I paused, thinking back over my life as a child in Barton and as an adult living with Jimmy. Then I got a hold of myself.
“I’m going in there,” I said. Then I marched inside.
9
Inside the pub it was gloomy and fairly crowded considering it was a Sunday. I looped round to the bay window where Rose had been sitting and stopped, staring.
It was a booth seat and she was sat very close to a tremendously dishy man. I was stunned by how attractive he was actually and recognising that was followed with a sour acknowledgment that I could never hope to net such a man with my looks. He was way out of my league.
As I stood there she laughed and then leaned in to kiss him on the lips. They broke and he whispered something in her ear, grinning. She shrieked with laughter and then gave his balls a squeeze.
I cleared my throat. Rose didn’t jerk away in shame. She turned to face me, did a slight double take, and then removed her hand casually as though it didn’t matter that I’d seen her.
“Oh, Pam,” she said. “What are you doing here?” She had a realisation. “Oh. Of course. You just finished work down at Poundland. Did you have a good day?”
I stared at her, flummoxed.
“Have you and Jimmy got any special plans for this evening?”
I got hot in my cheeks and stepped forward. “Can I talk to you for a minute Rose? Alone?”
She sighed and apologised to the man then stood and led me over to the bar. “What is it?”
“What is it!? I’ve been trying to call you all day! You said you’d ring me this morning about swapping back. We were supposed to have traded bodies by now.”
She looked me up and down and I saw her damning expression. “Yes, well… I’m sorry. I should have called. I’ve been busy.”
I couldn’t believe how she was being with me but I was wary about being too forceful. I knew full well where that had gotten me with Jimmy and my boss. Despite my initial anger with her, that had drained away to leave me feeling insecure and timid. “I’m sorry to hassle you,” I said, “but you did say we could swap bodies again today. I did you this as a favour. I didn’t say you could have my life forever.”
It felt odd saying that. She didn’t have my life; she had her life. It was weirdly contradictory. I knew I used to be Rose but having no memory of it made demanding it back an odd prospect. For a start, I was nowhere near confident enough to be somebody like her. She was so much cleverer than me. I didn’t have a hope of being able to do her job or act like her. I wondered if I should even withdraw my demand.
“I understand you’re upset Pam,” she said. “You really did me a favour letting me become you. Seriously.”
I nodded, feeling glad about that.
“I’ve really enjoyed being Rose. I don’t even remember being you anymore. It’s uncanny. But look, I’ve been thinking about it and the idea of becoming you is… well it’s a bit peculiar. I don’t think I’d like it. No offence.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just that… Look, how about we just stay this way for now; not necessarily forever – though I’d prefer that – but maybe for a month or two? Possibly longer.”
“A month?” My way of thinking had changed so much already. I might not even remember being Rose twenty four hours from now.
“It would be a real favour to me,” she said. “You’d be such a good friend.”
I hesitated. I wanted to swap back but I really valued Rose’s friendship. That was so important to me. I didn’t want to let her down and a month or two wouldn’t make too big a difference. I’d been like this all my life. What would two more months hurt? Or longer? There wasn’t any real hurry and there was also the fact that I didn’t think I would be able to cope being her. She was too larger than life; too vivacious. I just wasn’t like that. I was shy and retiring.
The truth was that I didn’t think I’d want to swap back after all that time. I wasn’t sure I wanted it now.
“Do you still remember how to do it?” I asked. “The swap?”
She looked off, mystified for a minute, then nodded. “Yeah. Just about.”
Though how long the dream memories would last was anybody’s guess. Dreams had a way of fading from the mind. Either way, she was the only one who recalled the words. She had full control.
“I would rather change back now Rose,” I said.
The smile melted from her face and her eyes hardened. The pleasantness disappeared.
“Uh, you know, if you don’t mind,” I added.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work right now Pam,” she replied, turning to go. “Sorry but I’m enjoying myself too much. I asked you a favour. I’m a bit pissed off you can’t be bothered to do it. It isn’t as though it would cost you anything.”
Cost me anything? I felt as though it had already cost me everything! But I didn’t say that.
“Rose, please can we just talk about it?”
She stepped away and looked back. “I’m with someone right now Pam. I don’t have time. I’ll call you sometime, alright?”
“Oh. Okay. Fine. I understand. I’ll ring you tonight,” I said. “We can talk about it then.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she replied. “I’m sorry to be a cow about it but I’m just so disappointed in you. I thought we were better friends than this but you don’t even want to do me this favour.”
“What? Wait. Please.”
“I might call you in a week or two,” she said. She maintained eye contact for a moment longer and then walked away.
I stood there watching her return to her table, staggered by what she had said.
I looked down at myself; at my uniform; then I looked back up at her. She was already seated again, laughing with her man. She’d forgotten I was even there.
I didn’t think she would call me. She was really angry at me. I thought I’d probably blown our friendship.
I shouldn’t have pressed her. I’d been really wrong to do that. Of course she wouldn’t want to become me. Who would? And I shouldn’t have been so selfish. She had so many friends. She didn’t need one who would let her down so badly.
I sighed heavily and left the pub through the front door out onto the street.
I had a feeling that I wouldn’t see Rose again and maybe that was for the best. I couldn’t very well expect her to swap her good life for my shit one. Nobody would choose to do that unless it was for a very short period. Even then it would be too risky. I had to reconcile with the fact it wasn’t going to happen.
But that wasn’t too hard to do. My life wasn’t that bad. True, I wasn’t great looking but my hair was a nice style and I had a pretty good fashion sense. My glasses really suited me. And I had Jimmy. He was great. I couldn’t wait to get home and make his tea for him.
I started walking toward the bus station.
Sometimes I wished my boss was nicer to me and I that I wasn’t in so much debt, but considering how little potential they’d said I had at school, I’d done alright for myself. My flat with Jimmy was way better than anywhere I could get on my own, even if it was a bit messy.
I hummed to myself as I walked, starting to feel a bit better. I had the day off tomorrow. Maybe I’d have a lie in and then walk round the market. That would be nice.
I had my whole life stretching out ahead of me. It was stupid to be grumpy. It was like that proverb my mum always used to say before the cancer got her: God, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
This was my life. I’d lived it since I was born. I was going to live it until I died.
Nothing could change that. I just had to get used to it.
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You: Volume 4 by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
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The Master Race
By Emma Finn
This story is one of six new stories in the compilation, Talons of the Hawk by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
1
The Nazi soldier grabbed Dania by the collar of her coat and pulled her back, almost off her feet.
Her foot came down in the broad rain-splattered puddle beneath her, landing unevenly, and her ankle twisted, making her wince and open her mouth to cry out. But before she could release the scream, he spun her in a wide circle. The coat slipped off her shoulder and then her left arm and she twisted out of it, going down hard into the water and churning mud. Beneath the coat she had on only a short sleeved blouse over her skirt and both were instantly drenched in the water on the ground and coming down from the sky.
Her suitcase fell from her hand and now she did scream, pushing herself up to her hands and knees and reaching for it, scrabbling toward it. Another soldier kicked it out of the way and all eight of them laughed.
“No, please!” she begged. “I need that! It’s important!”
The soldier who had grabbed her, dropped her coat into the mud and caught her by her shoulders, pulling her up. Dania screamed.
“Let me go! Please!”
“Release her!” cried Gregor, her father. “She has done nothing.”
“She does not need to have done anything,” said the German kapitan. “She is a Jew. That is more than enough.”
Dania was weeping now, eliciting more chuckling from the Nazi squad, but it was only the stifled sound of it that showed she was crying. At night and with the rain streaking down her face, there was no visible sign beyond her stricken features.
“Silence her,” said the officer. “Her mewling is going to give me a headache.
“Shut up!” snapped the soldier holding her. He shook her hard. “Be quiet!” He roughly shook her again and when she stopped, dazed, he dropped her and she slumped on her knees into the mud.
Kapitan Schiffer took his eyes from her pitiful form and looked out across the darkened square of the little town. There was activity everywhere – soldiers searching houses, pulling Jews out to line them up. It wasn’t a big town and like the dozens he’d seen before, it was only noteworthy for its filthy degenerate inhabitants.
“Jews,” he said, sneering; sick of the lot of them. “The sooner the Fuehrer gives us permission to gun them down on sight, the better. I’m sick of the stench of them.”
He cleared his throat then spat at the girl on the floor where she was crumpled over her knees, hair falling on her face and into the water.
“Please,” said Gregor. “She is my child. She has done nothing to harm you or your soldiers. You do not need to be cruel. We will follow your instructions.”
“Done no harm to me?” replied Schiffer. “She fouls the earth I walk on. She taints the air I have to breathe.” He turned his metallic eyes on the old man. “Just like you.” He slid his sidearm from its holster, hanging it at his hip.
“We are doing what you ask,” stuttered Gregor. “We will do everything you say. We will line up with the others. We will get on the train. Please do not do this.”
Kapitan Schiffer turned to his men. “Did you hear that? This old fool is resisting.”
Gregor shook his head.
“He is inciting others to resist the decrees of the Reich.”
The soldiers chuckled again. The one that had manhandled Dania stretched his tongue down to his chin, grinning as he laughed, his eyes blazing. He had a series of three scars that sliced diagonally down his right cheek towards his mouth and as his cheeks warped, it took on a demoniacal caste.
Schiffer smiled coldly at Gregor. “Do you know the punishment for resisting us Jew?”
“Please... sir... We are not resisting you. We will do exactly as you say. You do not need to harm us.”
Dania lifted her heard, the water from the puddle and the rain washing down her face. Her lower lip was quivering. She looked from her father to the officer, opening her mouth to speak but accomplishing nothing more than a vague flapping of her lips.
“The punishment for resisting is death Jew,” said Schiffer, raising his arm to point the pistol at Gregor’s face.
“Please,” muttered Gregor. “We are not resisting.”
Schiffer smiled and pulled the trigger.
The muzzle flash lit up Dania’s gaping face.
The retort went out and then came back, reflected from the buildings of the square.
Gregor dropped vertically onto his knees.
There he remained for a second and then another.
Then he fell forward, arms at his sides, and dropped on his face in the mud.
2
Dania let out a scream of awful pitch and volume, gaping down at the corpse of her father. The scream went on and on and when the breath was drained from her she took in another agonising breath and screamed again.
He did not move. His face was in the water. His arms were still at his side. His buttocks pointed upwards, his knees too close to where his face had gone down.
In the instant after the gunshot, the air had been full of the stink of gunpowder, but the rain had drenched that away almost immediately.
Dania’s second scream died with her breath and she took in another long rasping intake of air. Then the gun butt of the scar-faced soldier, Ecker, smacked her in the cheek, spinning her round and knocking her down.
She landed on her back in water that reached up her sides, all sense and intent knocked out of her. She stared up at Ecker like a toddler, totally stunned, then the pain settled and the thought of her loss returned and she started to weep, touching her face where he’d struck it.
Ecker glowered down at her but the other privates laughed and Schiffer carefully reholstered his pistol, indifferent.
Dania was weeping again and she rolled over onto her side, oblivious to the water and the cold, staring at the back of her father’s head. There had still been no movement from him – of course there hadn’t; he had been shot in the face – but Dania couldn’t take her eyes off him, desperately hoping for it.
“Stop crying,” snapped Kapitan Schiffer.
But she didn’t stop. She went on weeping and weeping, bringing her soaked hands up to cover her mouth.
“Stop... crying,” said Schiffer, extending his pistol again, down toward her head.
Dania sobbed and sobbed, not removing her eyes from Gregor’s body for even a second, even to blink.
Then a second gunshot came.
It impacted the water in front of Dania’s face, throwing splatters up against her cheeks, and her head snapped up to look at the kapitan’s sneering expression in terror, her tears forgotten.
“Pick her up,” said Schiffer.
Ecker and another soldier roughly snatched her to her feet, though her legs bowed, unable, anymore, to carry her weight.
“Can I trust that you will not resist us as your father did?”
She stared back at him, eyes crazed.
“Hmmm?”
She said nothing.
Ecker grabbed her chin, squeezing his dirty fingers into her cheeks. “Answer him!”
“I won’t resist,” she whispered. “I won’t resist.”
“Good,” snapped Schiffer. “Take her away.”
Ecker manhandled her backwards as she reached behind him toward her father. “Papa!” Then her face darted left to the rain-drenched suitcase and she struggled to get free. The sudden movement from her unresisting form startled Ecker and she broke free.
He snatched after her, grabbing the loose bottom of the back of her blouse, but her momentum carried her forward and the fabric ripped. Still, the jerk twisted her and she lost balance, coming down on her side several feet from her quarry.
The rain was slowing but she had no sense of that. She had only one desire now in all the world. She pushed herself up and crawled and the soldiers simply watched, impressed perhaps by her temerity. On hands and knees she went forward until she was almost within reach of the suitcase, then Ecker snatched her up with his arms round her waist and chest. Dania squealed in panic and rage but Ecker snarled, cupping his hand over her mouth, pinning her body to his diagonally with his other arm.
“Stop wriggling you little devil,” he snapped, jerking her hard until she fell still.
Kapitan Schiffer chuckled, delighted by the display. “I have to admire your spirit Jew,” he said. “It makes one wonder why you fight so hard.” He looked back at her father’s dead body. “Though I suppose the most worthless of heirlooms might become priceless if it is all that remains of the past.” He smiled coldly, walking to the case. “Shall we see what is so important to you that you would show such disdain for the Reich?”
He tapped the case with the side of his foot then glanced at one of the soldiers. “Open it.”
The soldier wrenched it up, water pouring from a hole in one corner. He pulled at the catches, grimacing, then winced and broke the seal, letting the contents tip out all over the muddy ground.
The rain had now stopped entirely and the dampening effect it had had on the sound diminished. From all about them, cries and shouts came as townsfolk were pushed and threatened into orderly lines.
Schiffer stooped, prodding at the soaking items, flicking them clear to sink into the deep puddles. “Let me see...” He went on sifting. “Pretty dresses. Photos.” He lifted and glanced through the few they had saved then tossed them into the mud, eliciting a groan of despair from the girl’s throat. “Nothing of value. See?” He smiled affably and entirely falsely. “Apart from this perhaps.”
He pushed back the last of her clothes to reveal an old and timeworn piece of sculpture; a clearly worthless piece, too scratched and tattered to be entirely discernible. A bird of some kind obviously, but no lucid sign to its type.
Dania tensed, quivering, understanding the futility now of any form of resistance but unable to stop herself murmuring, “Please. Please.”
“You want this?” Schiffer smiled pleasantly again, holding it up. He turned his back on her, walking closer to the nearest building to take advantage of the light from its windows. He brushed at its surface, trying to make out the details. It was made of no stone he was aware of.
“It was my...”
Schiffer looked back quizzically.
“... my father’s. From his grandfather. It’s been in... in the family for...”
“Speak child,” said Schiffer. “Ecker. Release her. Her tears have appealed to my heart. Who could refuse such abject misery?”
There were chuckles all round but Ecker released her, a leer passing over his scarred face. Dania staggered toward Schiffer, her hand out to reach for the statuette. Schiffer went on examining it as the last of the rain’s moisture dripped from the roofline near him. In the darkness, the light above him was almost dazzling.
“You want this back?” he said.
Dania nodded eagerly.
“But you do understand that it doesn’t belong to you.”
She frowned, cocking her head, her mind almost shattered.
“It belongs to the Master Race.” He laughed. “Well of course it does. Everybody knows that Jews are inhuman. As such, how can they possibly own anything?”
The soldiers sniggered. Dania glanced at them and reached out again. “Please. Sir. I’m begging you. It is all I have left. It is worthless to you. Please.”
“How dare you ask this of me when you know it isn’t yours?” asked Schiffer, his voice saccharine. “You wish to steal this off those who rightfully own it?”
“No. Please. It is mine.”
Schiffer grinned maniacally. “No my dear. I think you’ll find it is nobody’s”
Then he struck it against the wall of the house as hard as he could, even as Dania darted forward and screamed, and the statuette shattered in a great cloud of dust.
3
Dania cried out in anguish and fell to her knees, utterly broken, as fragments of the statuette fell to the muddy ground.
The soldiers were laughing hysterically but Kapitan Schiffer only sneered down at the girl as she reached for the broken parts. The dust from the thing still hung in the still air about them both, settling on their damp clothes and scenting the air as it entered their mouths and noses.
“The Reich owns you now girl,” said the officer, “and it owns all your possessions. You would do well to remember that.”
She raised her head slowly until she was glaring at him with smouldering coals for eyes. “I wish you could feel how I feel,” she spat. “I wish you could know exactly what it’s like to lose everything; to be vilified for your race; to be abused and hurt by brutal men who should know better. I wish you could die feeling hopeless and frightened and lost.”
Schiffer stared at the trembling girl, momentarily awestruck, then he laughed long and loudly at her.
“Such generosity,” he said, his voice full of mirth. “You do me a kindness. And that kindness should be rewarded.” He turned his face into an exaggeration of pondering thought. “In return,” he said, “I wish you and your heirs great happiness, fortune and prosperity; hereafter and forever.” He glanced up at his soldiers. “Take her away and throw her in the train with the others. She can get her first taste of that at Dachau.”
Two of the soldiers grabbed her up, carrying her away. She didn’t resist this time, only clutching the head of the shattered statuette unnoticed against her breast.
Kapitan Schiffer turned his back on her, still chuckling, surveying the damage his commands had wrought.
Never in the wildest dreams of his childhood had he considered a time when he might possess such casual power. It was Godlike almost; his whim deciding the life or death of these cattle.
“Clear away this refuse,” he said, “and hurry up getting the Jews out of these buildings. I’m going to go and dry off.”
He didn’t bother watching them scoop up the remains of the old man and carry him toward the pyre they were building. It was all about making a statement. That was how Schiffer saw it. The people had to understand how powerless they were.
They had commandeered a shop to function as a command post. Schiffer went inside and took off his greatcoat.
The soldier inside saluted. “Heil Hitler.”
“Yes yes. Heil Hitler,” replied Schiffer carelessly, walking through into the back office. “See that I am not disturbed,” he said, shutting the door.
He discarded his coat and slumped into the cushioned chair behind the desk. He coughed, blocking his mouth with a closed fist, then coughed again. The dust from that damn old relic had settled on his lungs. Even that didn’t dislodge the tickle. He paused, waiting to see if he would cough again, then frowned.
The light dimmed in the little room, taking on a flickering hellish shade as though from firelight, though there was no source like that.
It brightened, then it dimmed again. Schiffer coughed and went on coughing. There was a tightness in his chest and stomach. He pitched forward, throwing out wracking coughs as the light almost dimmed to black, then he went backwards, rocking in the chair as the light flashed a bright yellow then returned to normal.
Schiffer gave out one more cough, raising his hand to his mouth, then went rigid.
It wasn’t his hand.
It was small and slender; the hand of a girl. And the sleeves of his jacket were gone. The forearm was bare.
He pitched his head forward to look down at himself and let out a squeal of dismay as curly brown hair swung into his field of view and he saw the skirt he was wearing; the short sleeved blouse and the slight womanly frame he now possessed.
And immediately the Jewish girl’s curse came back to him and he realised just what it might mean.
4
Schiffer could barely comprehend what had happened to him but he also had no doubt in his mind that it had.
He had become a young woman.
He... She was wearing a pleated skirt that fell to just below her knees. Below that her legs were bare and slender down to laced up shoes with a low heel. She examined herself frantically: her tiny hands, slim wrists; the curly brown hair that fell about her face and down to her shoulders. She touched her new face gingerly, the alien sensations of smooth cheeks chilling her in the centre of her chest.
She jumped up as that encroaching cold froze her veins. The skirt caught the air at the swift movement. She looked behind her at the backs of those thin legs. She checked her slender stomach and modest bosom.
“Mein Gott,” she murmured. “This cannot be.”
But it was. And it was no dream; only a waking nightmare.
The curse from the Jew girl – it had to be that – but the certain realisation did not reassure Schiffer in the least, for she recalled it in detail. That fact of that chilled her still further for it went far beyond this simple transformation, horrifying though that alone was.
She had to find a mirror to see the complete aberration, but though she searched the office, Schiffer could find nothing of the sort. She moved slowly; carefully, anxious that any abrupt noise might bring in the guard.
How could she possibly explain who she really was in a way he or anyone else would believe? She couldn’t.
Something caught her eye: the coat she had left on the back of the chair.
That had changed too. It wasn’t her long military overcoat anymore. It was a dull blue woman’s coat, cinched at the waist to flare out somewhat around the hips. Schiffer stared at it morosely, the full implications sinking in deeply. Then she moved rapidly, pulling up the coat and searching through its pockets. She found what she was looking for on the second try: papers.
She flipped them open and immediately her heart fell yet further as her worst fears were confirmed.
The name listed was Amalia Dalheimer. Aged seventeen. Jewish.
Her eyes clouded as she mouthed the syllables of the name then came into focus again.
The papers had a photograph and Schiffer scanned the wan, sad-looking face; the round eyes; the curly shoulder-length hair. She glanced down at herself. This was her now.
A Jew.
And a girl.
Her lip curled in disgust and then turned down in self-pity.
As a boy, Schiffer had been brought up in a superstitious household. Even as a man he had not shown the scorn that others did toward belief in the black arts. And there was no disbelieving the cool air on her legs and forearms, the sensation of diminution. But, even as a girl, Schiffer possessed the same cunning and ability to flex that had taken him to his post as kapitan. Her mind was churning; measuring options; reconciling with this impossible horror simply because there was no other choice.
What did she know?
That it was the Jew girl’s curse that had caused this.
That there was no way of reversing it if she hid away.
That perhaps only the girl herself could dispel its power.
That she had only her wits now.
Her men would not believe anything she told them.
And that she was in grave danger staying where she was.
This was a military command post. She was suddenly a civilian woman. A Jew.
They were there to arrest all Jews on sight.
Schiffer’s eyes grew wider with panic. She couldn’t possibly let that happen. She had had her suspicions for some time about what happened to the Jews who were sent to the camps. She had to avoid that at all costs.
At all costs.
But what could she do? Seek out the Jew girl and demand she reverse her enchantment? How could she find the girl now? She had already been arrested. She might be on the train – locked away; ready to depart.
And how could the girl be persuaded to reverse it? Schiffer had murdered her father. She would laugh in her face sooner than break the charm.
But what other choice did she have? To flee? And to what?
Even if she managed to avoid capture here in the town, she would have no one to turn to; no money. She might be arrested at any time and sent to the camps. And even if she eluded that, what life would she have as a lone Jewish girl with no prospects and no home? Her only hope would be to try to flee the country, but where could she go that was outside the growing sphere of Nazi influence? And what would she do if she reached there?
The very idea of living the rest of her days as a woman filled her with dread. And surely she wouldn’t survive that long. The Reich was set to last a thousand years. The Fuehrer would not stop until he had crushed all enemies before him. In time there would be nowhere free of his influence.
Schiffer’s teeth started chattering. She closed her thin arms about her, shaking all over, unable to take her eyes off the forlorn face in the photograph; off the name and details of this pitiful creature she had become.
Amalia Dalheimer. Seventeen years old.
A Jew.
Her only choice was no choice at all. She had to find the Jew girl, wherever she was, and demand that she reverse the foul enchantment. She had to beg if necessary.
And there was some hope, for surely the Jew girl did have something to gain if the spell were broken.
If Schiffer became himself again then he could order her release. He could release all the Jews. And what matter the consequences of that from his commanding officer? It was worth any risk to get his true form back.
And once he was a man again she would no longer have power over him. He could always reconsider his generous offer.
5
Schiffer had never been through the little door at the back of the office. It opened without a key into total darkness.
Her best hope was finding the Jew girl and her destination was clear. The train. It was unlikely an opportunity would present itself before there but her foremost objective had to be scouting out the situation from a safe distance.
She might look like a simple-minded female but she retained the keen tactical mind of a career military officer. She could think her way through this situation, surely.
On the other side of the doorway was some kind of other room but with no light source it was pitch black. She stepped over the threshold, her arms out in front of her, treading carefully with tiny testing steps out in an arc.
It was some kind of storeroom but there was no indication of egress, even as her eyes became more accustomed to the inky gloom. She searched as cautiously and quickly as she dared but it was useless. There was only one tiny window high up with no catch, too small even for her lithe new form. There was no door.
She cursed, fretting at her dwindled options and looked back the way she’d come.
In the main shop front there was the guard she’d posted on entry. How could she hope to get past him?
Capture was one way of reaching the Jew girl quickly but what if it went awry? The girl might not grant her demand or worse; she could end up in a different carriage on the way to Dachau. Even once at the camp they might not be held within easy reach of one another.
And she knew the stories of the camps. There was no worse fate than that, surely.
The words of the curse were foremost in Schiffer’s mind and surely some of the words had already come true; but there had to be some leeway to divert that fate. She had to believe that.
Becoming this girl had illustrated perfectly the horror of being a young Jewish woman with no family in these times. Could that not be lesson enough if only she could work to break it?
Schiffer didn’t know, but she had to believe there was yet hope.
She left the storeroom and went to the door to the main shop, listening intently but to no avail. There was the noise of shouting still from out in the square and the occasional retort of gunfire, but nothing from beyond that door.
She had to risk it. What other choice did she have? But how to play it to avoid immediate capture.
Schiffer narrowed her eyes.
She played it out in her mind as she put on the woman’s coat on the chair, buttoning it up tightly and fastening the belt, all the while feeling uncomfortable in this delicate new frame. With it on she looked appallingly similar to the Jew girl herself – just another Jew to be rounded up and loaded into the transports. Schiffer shuddered.
She went back to and carefully opened the door a peep. The guard was there in the shop doorway. There was no way past without being seen. She considered her plan a moment more then opened the door quite widely and stepped into it, facing the room she was coming from, her body and the door itself blocking the view inside.
“Yes. Thank you Herr Kapitan,” she said, as though addressing herself inside. “I am only glad that you enjoyed my services.”
In the corner of her eye, Schiffer saw the guard glance back with interest but she didn’t react to that. Instead she went on addressing the empty chair in the back office. “Of course. I can come back later if you’d like. It’s an honour to be called to... service the needs of such a handsome officer. I’ll come back in an hour?” She paused. “Alright. Thank you Herr Kapitan. I am so very grateful for your generosity.”
She shut the door, still not turning round, straightened her coat then walked as carelessly as she could toward the door and the guard as though she might walk right past him.
His expression muddied as, presumably, he struggled to reconcile her presence there when he hadn’t seen her enter. But his mind obviously shrugged it off. How could it not. She was there. Her presence defied the illogic of it.
He stepped toward her as though to block her way and Schiffer’s heart trembled, but instead he stepped aside, letting her walk level and then past him.
Schiffer almost gasped in relief to be clear but she trapped it in. She was literally a hair’s breadth away from doom now and would remain so until she found the Jew girl.
But at least she was outside. At least now she had a chance.
6
The square was still full of people: Jews pulled from their homes; soldiers jabbing them to move them onwards; weeping women; neutered men. There were snarls and bellows from the troopers, violence as necessary, Many of the people had been brutalised, wounds visible on their faces.
And Schiffer was seeing it all with new eyes. It wasn’t just a foot of height she’d lost. The perilousness of her new predicament made her empathise more keenly with these herded and doomed cattle. It was only chance really so far that kept her outside of that fate; the focus the soldiers had on the square and its denizens.
She crept along the front of the shops, pushing away from the street light. It was taking her further from the train and the Jew girl but there was no direct route unless she were caught up with the rest of the pitiful peasants.
At the next corner she slipped into the darkness of an alley and moved as fast as she could into the street at the back, keeping cautious as every new field of view opened out. If she was careful then surely she could close the gap to the train; find out which carriage the Jew girl was on; speak to her through the gaps; persuade her to undo what she had done, offer her freedom in return.
There seemed to be no soldiers in that area but she didn’t quicken foolishly. She kept her attention needle sharp and slowed as much as she dared when she had to.
A door opened thirty yards away and she shrank into the shade of a doorway as one of her former platoon shoved an elderly man and woman out onto the street. Frightened as she never had been before, she cowered in the shade, painfully aware of how slight she was now; of the girlish clothes and slender diminutive form that marked her weaker gender. Every sensation, from the breeze in her hair to the chill around her ankles reminded her of how low she had fallen; how desperate she was now; but she reminded herself who she was inside. She was a German officer, not some puny girl child. She had the strength of will to overcome this or any challenge.
She waited until the soldier had shunted the aged couple out of sight into the bright lights of the square then crept on. It wasn’t too far to the station now by her reckoning but the hardest part of this was still before her. As she sneaked, she tried to run through approaches she could use but none were certain and how long might she have before, in the worst case, the Jew girl might even alert the soldiers to her presence?
Schiffer moved up to the corner where moments earlier the soldier had passed and had a peep round, showing only her eyes and pinning back her long hair with a whispered curse of frustration. This thoroughfare was wider and gave a clear view into the square... and out of it. No one was looking her way but if she crossed then, for several moments she would be in clear view.
The soldiers seemed close now to the end of their night’s work. The Jews had been rounded up and were being marched toward the station and the train. There wasn’t long now before the chance was lost forever. What use was staying clear and free of capture if she was doomed to imprisonment in this woman’s flesh, destitute and alone, one of the unclean?
She considered circling wider to limit the chances of her being spotted, but the risk of being late was too great.
Schiffer cursed again to herself and then set out across the street, instantly coming into potential sight of the soldiers.
Her nerves were high but she went on walking steadily. She couldn’t run for fear the rapid movement would draw the eye even more. One step after another, she kept moving, wishing the darkness on the other side of the street could swallow her up that little bit faster.
At any second she might hear the call of a trooper, but none came. She was past half way now. Still none came. Three quarters. Only yards away. She kept walking.
And then the shadows swallowed her and she fell forward in relief, resting her hands on her knees, the thick hair masking her face, breathing raggedly as though her throat now was too narrow to allow air through.
“Shouldn’t you be out in there with the others?”
Schiffer tensed, eyes becoming wild again, almost crazed. The voice had come from her right, the opposite side from the town square; a man’s voice, low and uneven. There was something familiar about the voice but nothing she could place because it was pitched unusually low. It wasn’t the man’s normal speaking voice.
“I...” What could she say? “The kapitan has requested my presence in his private quarters.”
“Oh did he now?” The voice rose a little, becoming closer to a normalcy that she might be able to place. “Well he’s back the way you came. Why are you walking away from him? And why are you sneaking around?”
He stepped out of the darkness of an overhang; not into the direct light but so that enough illumination filled in his features from the gloom. And Schiffer’s heart fell as she not only recognised the Nazi uniform but the parallel scars down his cheek, the twinkle of suggested leer in his eyes.
It was Ecker.
And suddenly her predicament had become a thousand times worse.
7
Ecker gave Schiffer a leer, walking slowly toward her, and the nascent girl got her first real sense of her new scale. This wasn’t just the man she remembered. From her new reference frame, he was something monstrous, far taller than she was and broader as well.
It underscored her narrow frame and thin, weak limbs. This was a man far superior to her now in strength and durability. Whatever he chose to do, she would have no power to resist. He was tougher than her; stronger than her. He would be able to run faster and for longer than her. She might as well have been a pretty doll for all the power she had.
And he kept coming, getting closer and closer until he stopped right in front of her, requiring her to bend back her neck to look up to his face.
“Well answer me,” he said.
“Er, sorry,” whimpered Schiffer, surprising himself at the tremulous voice that issued from his constricted throat.
“You lied to me before. Did you really think I was that stupid?”
“No. I’m sorry. Please. Don’t hurt me.”
All her training as a soldier and an officer and it meant nothing now, the instincts of her physical form overwhelming any hope she had of maintaining self-control.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” replied Ecker with a leer. “I had something else entirely in mind.” He extended his tongue to make a point and waggled it, grinning around its circumference.
Schiffer realised what the soldier meant and the fear bristled in every limb of her tiny frame, to her fingertips and toes.
Her eyes darted left and right, looking for some way to get out of this; but she knew her chances with morbid finality. She’d seen Ecker have his wicked way before. As an officer she’d chosen to let it happen on occasion, knowing how useful the man’s brutality and unflinching amorality could be.
“Please... sir,” she stammered, feeling the shift in authority keenly; the reversal of their statuses, “I have to go to the train now. I need to hurry.”
“Oh there’s no real hurry liebchen,” he said, stroking her arm with the gliding scrape of the fingernails of his first and second finger. “I’m sure it’ll wait for you if you’re in that much of a hurry to get to the gas chambers.”
Schiffer flinched at his touch but was too petrified to pull fully away, sure that if she did so he would grab her and the assault would really start in earnest. A sheaf of different responses fell through her mind’s eye; options she had; desperate moves she could make. But no training or discipline could prepare her for this situation and her body’s biochemical releases were cracking any train of thought into splinters. Every action she could think of could be countered. Knowing the man as she did, there was no way out of this.
And in that instant, as the realisation of fell doom settled into place, her desperation and fear made her dart to the side and run for it.
She jerked right then left, cutting behind him, in her panic, hoping his size would act against him.
Ecker snarled and lunged for her. His big clumsy fingers snagged at her hair but didn’t catch hold and Schiffer had an instant of white relief and hope.
She ran away from the square, into the darkening street, then as she sensed Ecker’s bellowing pursuit approaching, she jinked left and then right, altering her trajectory.
Again he missed her and that hope pulsed brighter in her.
She jinked again, right then left, then right, then right, then left.
Ecker swiped forward with both arms but she ran clear of his closing trap.
A corner came up to the left. If she could just get out of his line of sight, she could lay low; circle back; get away from him.
She ran to the corner and turned.
And then his fist closed on her hair and her legs went from under her.
The momentum twirled her round, almost horizontally as Ecker continued to move into the space where she had been, then she bashed up against the wall with her legs and then tumbled down.
A second sharp pain bit into her scalp when she came down and then a third as Ecker yanked her back the way they’d come. “Come here you little vixen!”
Schiffer squealed, snatching at her hair but Ecker dragged her by it another fifteen or twenty feet then used it to swing her round. He released her and she tumbled away, rolling side over side until she crashed into the brick wall on the other side of the street.
She was aching all over and dizzy but she tried to lift her torso from the floor, her head lolling.
Ecker was suddenly there again and his boot swept underneath her, pummelling her in the stomach and throwing her back against the wall.
Schiffer winced and dropped onto her chest, curled arms crumpled underneath her.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.
Then Ecker’s paw came down on her coat, dragging her up to standing.
Her legs wouldn’t support her alone. It was only Ecker’s hands that gave her the extra strength to remain upright. She looked up into his face, her eyes half-closed, stunned by the pain and the fear, but what she saw in his gaze chilled her more completely than anything that had come before.
He was grinning. He was excited. This was fun to him and nothing more. He no more identified her as another human being as he would an animal at his feet.
“Naughty naughty,” he said. He gripped the lapels of her coat and wrenched them out and down, tearing the stitching and pulling it off her shoulders. He wrenched again and it tore clear, coming open at the back. He released her sufficiently to drop it clear and Schiffer sagged, falling back against the building, the brick rough against her bare forearm.
Ecker grabbed her again in the same place, this time on her blouse, and leered down into the slit front where several buttons had already given way, chuckling to himself. She looked up with pleading eyes and then he wrenched down on the fabric, tearing it open and down from one shoulder leaving her upper arm and one side of her chest exposed.
Schiffer let out a squeal of dismay and panic. She felt so powerless. How could she possibly combat this monster? She couldn’t!
Then Ecker took her by the upper arms, lifting her onto her toes and pushed his face into hers, smiling viciously. “Give me a kiss fraulein,” he said. “You’re a pretty little thing. Even if you are a Jew.”
8
Schiffer gaped into Ecker’s smirking face inches from her own and realised with senseless panic that there was something worse than being sent to the camps; worse perhaps even than being herded into one of the gas chambers.
Ecker pulled her closer and forced his face against hers, pursing his lips. Schiffer’s face became a grimace of revulsion but Ecker seemed not to care or notice. His thick leathery tongue probed inside her screaming mouth, blocking off her air and he laid smooching kiss after kiss on her taut cheeks and neck.
Schiffer struggled to bring her arms between her chest and his, to push him away, but it was like pushing at an elephant. There was the slightest give but not even a slim chance that she could move him.
“Please!” she stammered, between engulfing passionless kisses. “Don’t do this! Let me go!”
Ecker pulled away abruptly and glanced toward the square, heeding the nearness of people that might hear. “Keep it down,” he snapped. “Think what you want. This is happening.”
But Schiffer realised the significance here.
Ecker didn’t care if he was seen brutalising a Jew but there was a subtle line between doing it to get the job done and doing it purely for pleasure. And he was shirking his duties out here while the other soldiers got to work driving the remaining Jews toward the station. He wouldn’t get in trouble if he was spotted, but he might be embarrassed into letting her go and putting her with the rest.
She opened her mouth and feeling every bit the desperate panicking girl that she now was, she unleashed the loudest scream she could.
But Ecker was fast and he had expected it from the get go. He covered her mouth with his hands, shoving his dirty big fingers inside and onto her tongue, stifling much of the power. Schiffer went into a frenzy of dread, struggling to get free with every part of her slender body.
In response, Ecker shook her left, taking her back out to a crooked arm’s distance, then he bashed her hard against the wall, cracking her head against the brickwork, instantly stilling her.
Schiffer’s entire body crumpled as consciousness left her. Surprised, Ecker held onto her for a moment longer as he realised what he’d done, then he let her slump to the ground. Her legs folded beneath her as she went down then she fell to the side, her head slumping into the mud; hair splayed out and away, exposing her slender neck and smooth cheeks.
Ecker frowned, looking down at her. He looked back toward the square, conscious of the time this was taking, but not too perturbed unless the kapitan saw him.
He returned his gaze to the unconscious girl. Her shoulder and chest were still exposed, the hand of her right arm curled in on her stomach. Her face was almost beautiful, despite the cracked skin about her lip and the dirt; and despite her race. Her pleated skirt had not flapped up entirely but it had slid a little way to show a tantalising glimpse of thigh.
Ecker squatted close to her feet and looked at that section of thigh, quietly and unconsciously salivating. He reached forward with a crooked first finger and gave it a further nudge, sliding it up. More pale skin came into view and Ecker shifted to release some of the pressure in his trousers.
He looked again toward the square. There was a cluster of barrels against the wall in that direction. Now that he was lower there was little fear of being spotted. And what if he was? In these times he couldn’t predict any more than a reprimand. Nobody cared what happened to these Jews. That was what made life in the military so fantastic. It reminded him of ancient days he had heard tell of, when warriors would slaughter and raze and take whatever they wanted in spoils and women.
To be able to do this kind of thing freely, practically endorsed by the higher ranks, was the most wonderful element of his life thus far.
He got onto his knees, separating the crossed ankles of this girl, then he looked up her body, letting the anticipation build.
9
Within the broken tangle of semi-conscious thoughts in Schiffer’s head she was detached from this place; this impending assault.
She was a man again, in Berlin, and a woman was screaming.
As Ecker traced his finger up the yielding flesh of her inner thigh on the darkened street, the dream memory was carrying her away from the foulness of it, to a time when Schiffer still had control over his life.
The woman was screaming. That was the central theme. And he was standing in his uniform, his arms folded, as she was dragged out of his apartment doorway and to the top of the stairs.
The memory wasn’t perfect in the dream. It wasn’t a blow by blow retelling of the scene as it had occurred. But the sense of finality and release was there as it had been in real life. Release from personal connection and the pinch of anachronistic morality.
The woman was screaming as she was dragged away by the soldiers; cursing his name; and he knew she was his wife. He knew that turning her in for her anti-Nazi views had been the proper thing to do.
And yes; if he could do that in service to his Fuehrer then there was no limit to his loyalty. He knew that.
In the dream the woman was drawn out of sight round the staircase and Schiffer turned to his commanding officer.
“We won’t forget this Schiffer,” the officer said. “Loyalty of this calibre will be rewarded.”
And his promotion came within the month, exactly as promised.
And the screaming woman was long gone. Dead probably. So she didn’t matter anymore. And he didn’t have to remember that screaming.
Schiffer’s eyes opened.
She felt the hand squirming up her inner thigh, almost at her crotch.
She knew where she was, lying in the mud at the foot of a wall.
The sky was black above her.
It was starting to spit rain again.
She was dazed, unable to move yet beyond a slight tilt to her head, but she got her eyes open enough to see the determined expression on Ecker’s face, gazing in rapture down at her nether regions.
The movement of her head caught Ecker’s eye and he flicked up to look at her and grinned broadly. Then he tossed back the flap of her skirt, exposing the full length of both legs.
Schiffer shuffled, trying to gather her strength to move but her body wouldn’t follow her commands. The concussion against the wall might have really damaged her. She might be paralysed. She might be dying. But Ecker didn’t care.
He gripped her knee with a tight pinch and yanked her legs further apart. Schiffer gave a shrill but pitifully breathless yelp. Ecker reached into her crotch and scrabbled for her panties, wrenching them down, the movement pulling her legs together at the knees, ankles still splayed.
She tried to reach up with her arm but she was so dizzy. The arm swayed, her view of it blurring. Her head was pounding.
Ecker grabbed at the panties and tore them in two with a snarl then prodded at the remains, pushing them part way down each leg, still as intact, frayed circles.
“Are you ready to serve your country liebchen?” snarled Ecker.
She tried to say “No,” but no breath came. Her throat hurt. Her eyes kept closing in a tight wince. Then Ecker slammed her legs apart again and her eyes popped open. He was unbuttoning his trousers.
She struggled, finding some small strength in her arms, but she couldn’t find purchase around her to pull away. Despite that, she managed to pull a few inches along the ground.
Ecker grabbed her thighs, lifted them and slammed her buttocks back down. “Keep still!”
“No,” she whimpered at last. “Please.”
Her strength was coming back but nowhere near fast enough. Her vision was pulsing in and out of focus with her thundering heart. She felt broken inside.
Ecker laughed, long and loudly, his chin rising, the laughter like the barking of an angry dog.
Schiffer pushed herself up and flailed, slapping his face as hard as she could. Then she raised her knee to her face and lashed out, ramming it into his chest.
He roared in anger, tipping back, and she scrambled round onto her hands and knees and tried to scrabble away.
Her strength wasn’t great enough to get up and she was totally disoriented. She had no idea which way the square was or the station. There was no thought anymore of finding the Jew girl and breaking the curse. That goal was entirely gone from her reach. All she wanted was to be free of this moment; this brutal attack. She wanted to be away from there in any direction her legs could take her.
But those same legs betrayed her. They were too weak. And then Ecker’s hand slapped down on her ankle and then the calf of her other leg.
She screamed pitiably but he wrenched her backwards, her face in the mud. She tried to scream again but his fist came down hard on the side of her face, wiping out all intent and energy, then it came down again.
All she could do now was lie there, the mud cloying her cheeks and in her long hair.
Ecker opened the front of his trousers and grabbed her by the knees, lifting her up to meet his crotch.
He fumbled, grumbling throatily, then there was pain and violation more deep and penetrating than anything she had faced so far.
Gripping her exposed legs, Ecker yanked her forward and back against his pelvis, grunting in animalistic pleasure.
Schiffer couldn’t move anymore, but she could feel the slam of her pelvis against his; the pinching grip of his hands on her legs; the awful insertion inside her hated private place, over and over and over again.
Her body shuddered with each pounding ram. The mud of the road was in her mouth and blocking her nose. She spluttered; tried to move her arms; failed.
Ecker’s agitation increased. His moans raised in pitch. The violent affectionless snatching increased in intensity.
Then Ecker stopped as though paralysed. His groaning ceased in one final grunt and then nothing and the hot seed entered into her and Schiffer quietly started to sob.
A long almost silent wheeze came from Ecker and he gave several more spasmodic but gentle pumps, and then he released her, pushing her bare buttocks clear of him and resting back on his heels. He let out a long sigh.
Schiffer didn’t move. She lay where she was in the mud, chest down, eyes to the side, hair tangled and soaking about her face; her skirt still in disarray, legs and buttocks exposed, her blouse torn down still to reveal her shoulder and part of her back.
10
Ecker got up to his feet. He straightened his dirty uniform and brushed at it with his hands.
Still Schiffer didn’t move.
Ecker circled to her waist and prodded her side with his boot. She let out a light groan. He pushed his toe underneath and flipped her onto her side.
Schiffer’s eyes naturally went to his face but she averted them immediately, cowed by his authority and violence.
“Get up,” he snapped.
She just lay there.
Ecker gave her a sharp kick. “Get up Jew!”
From somewhere she found an ounce of strength and curled in her limbs as best she could. The movement was agonising and exhausting. She bent into a foetal shape and then pushed down on the mud, straining to lift her own weight.
“Hurry up Jew. The train is waiting.”
She managed to get, swaying, to her feet; still dizzy and bewildered.
Ecker gave off one single throaty chuckle. “You look a sight. You should take better care of yourself.”
She lowered her head and nodded, fearful of how he might react if she showed anything but total obeisance.
She knew she couldn’t get away from him now. She knew there was no path before her except the train and the camp and the gas chamber.
All hope was gone.
Ecker prodded her cruelly in the shoulder, then prodded her again until she was up against the wall. “You won’t tell no one about this; understand?” he said.
She tried to nod.
“Did you hear me?” He put his hand round her throat and started to squeeze.
Schiffer raised her own hands feebly to pry at it but he batted them away with his free hand.
“Did you hear me?” he demanded, squeezing harder, cutting off all chance she had to breathe, making her eyes bulge as all resistance ebbed away from her.
He jammed his hand against her throat once, then twice, as she gargled desperately, then he released her and she crumpled again to the floor.
Only one hope remained to her; that she might find the Jew girl on the train or in the camp and beg her to release the enchantment. But there was slim chance of that.
This was her life now – a Jew and a prisoner – the curse enacted in terrifying detail.
She realised in her pitiful acceptance that if she couldn’t find the Jew girl then only one element yet remained before her, as inescapable as the rising tide.
That was to die.
Hopeless.
Frightened.
And lost.
11
Half a mile away, as Ecker roughly pulled Schiffer to her feet once more, Dania van Cleef trudged on in the procession amidst the dozens of other Jews being herded toward the station.
She could see it ahead now; see the cargo train with its open sliding doors. Two of the cars were already full. She saw a pair of Nazi soldiers pulling the door to the second one closed and locking it with chains.
They had heard rumours of this scourge but the reality was a thousand times worse.
The fact of her father’s death was like a scorching wound; one, she knew, she might never be able to accept. Compared to that, the loss of her home and belongings was immaterial. But still, she couldn’t fathom the hurt she’d felt when the officer had shattered the statuette. In a painful new reality of constant danger and insecurity, that had truly been the last piece of her former life stolen away.
She had secreted the stone head deep in the folds of her clothes, desperate to cling on to at least that little broken keepsake, and she knew she would fight to the death now if she had to, to keep hold of it. It was all she had left.
The procession came to a stop for a moment. There was a delay. Soldiers were shouting orders. One was asking where the kapitan had gone. Nobody had seen him.
Dania ignored them and looked morosely to her left.
There was a narrow passage between two outbuildings. At the end of the passage was the entrance to a coal chute.
She looked to her right; ahead; behind. Her view to the soldiers was blocked in every direction.
But that meant their view of her was blocked too.
She frowned, thinking, then she darted into the little passage, unnoticed, and went to the coal chute.
Behind her no one had noticed her departure.
She hesitated once more.
The words of her curse to the Nazi officer came back to her suddenly, but then so did his words in reply.
“I wish you and your heirs great happiness, fortune and prosperity; hereafter and forever.”
In a first faltering way, that sardonic response had come true. This was fortune here if it was anything. It was a chance at escape.
And she wasn’t about to let it pass her by.
Dania took the hawk’s head from her inside pocket and gripped it tightly, then she jumped into the chute and passed out of sight.
If you liked this then read the complete compilation of stories in Talons of the Hawk on Amazon to find out what other transformations the hawk has perpetrated throughout history.
You can also follow my serials every other day on http://transformation-stories.blogspot.co.uk/
The Pattern
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories
available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords. A New You: Volume 1 (Dark Tales of Transformation) on Amazon US.
1
“I didn’t used to be an old lady,” she said, and then the light faltered in her eyes, dimming as she focused somewhere inside her memory. “At least... I don’t think I did.”
She went deeper into her trance and I took the chance to examine her more closely. She wasn’t long for the world. Her hands were thin, the joints swollen. Her face was deeply scored with wrinkles. Inside her mouth, she had no teeth or dentures. And she quaked. Shivers of infirmity vibrated her hands; made her lips quiver. The spectacles on her nose were decades out of fashion, as was her dress. One lens was thinner, the other finger thick, distorting the eye beyond.
Her eyes flicked back onto mine and I started a little, smiling to cover it. “You don’t remember?”
“No, I do,” she replied. “I think I do. It comes and goes. Sometimes... Sometimes I dream that I am a man; young and strong. I dream I’m jogging. I think... I think I used to do that... every morning.”
I allowed her to continue but she didn’t. “Do you think that’s all it is? A dream? Nothing more?”
“No,” she said. “It happened. I was a man. I’m sure of it. I was a man in my forties.”
I almost dropped into a chuckle but I stopped myself. That would have been unforgivably rude and I shouldn’t have been surprised by this.
“I had a wife; and a family. I had a job. Yes. And a car.” She shuddered. “A ghastly big monstrous thing.”
I narrowed my eyes, surprised that she should describe it that way. “Do you remember your name?”
“When I was a man?”
“Yes.”
She stared off again. “Mmmm...” After almost a full minute she gave a tiny shake to her head and chewed her gums. “You know it’s completely slipped my mind.”
I sighed quietly to myself and set my pen down on the pad I’d brought with me for the interview. “There’s no hurry. Just try and cast your mind back. Let the memories come.”
“I’m doing my best young man, but it isn’t easy you know.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel under pressure.” I glanced at the door. The lady who let me into the nursing home was likely to be back any minute to check in and the story I'd given her was a total lie. “You remember your life... as a woman, yes?”
“Well of course I do. I’m not senile you know.”
“Uh...”
“It hasn’t been the same since Harold died. He was a good man, though a tad grumpy if he put his mind to it.”
“How long ago did he die?”
“Well...” She stared off again. “Twenty three years ago this March 17th.”
“Really?”
“I’ll never forget the date. It was the anniversary of the day I had my appendix out when I was a little girl.”
“Oh.” I scrutinised my notes. “I thought you said you only... became a woman six months ago?”
“Eh?” She looked at me oddly, then I saw her eyes unfocus. “No... I... Yes. I was a man. I’m certain I was a man. Ben. That was it. That was my name.”
“Ben?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it. At least I think I am.”
I sat back in my seat, examining her again, then I leaned forward and said, “What other details do you remember? Things I could verify. A surname? Your wife’s name? Your address? What you did for a living?”
“Empire,” she said.
“Sorry, what?”
“The... The Empire building. Down by the river. That new estate that was all just marshland when I was a girl.”
“Meadside?”
“It was there,” she said.
I frowned. “What was?”
“That was where I worked,” she said.
“Hang on a minute. The Empire building? Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”
“Good God,” I said. “That’s... The Empire building?”
“Yes.”
“It can’t just be a coincidence,” I said, incredulously.
“What can’t? What are you talking about?”
I looked back at her and grinned, marvelling as I realised it. “I think I’ve discovered a pattern.”
2
“What do you mean, a pattern?” she asked.
I ignored her for a moment, my mind sprinting from one fact to another, piecing it together.
“Young man.”
“Huh?”
“What pattern? What do you mean?”
“Er... Let me just ask you a few more questions first.”
She looked hesitant then let her shoulders settle. “Alright. But it’s going to be lunch soon and there’s an awfully dishy man about your age who brings the food around. I’d hate to miss that.”
“Okay... Yeah. Sure.” The shifts in her memories and perspective were fascinating and despite my own scepticism I was half inclined to believe this crazy tale. With this latest revelation I was half inclined to believe all of them. And that scared me not a little.
I took up my notepad and pen again. She watched me placidly.
“When you were a man, you worked in the Empire Building in town?”
“I just said so.”
“Doing what?”
“I...”
“There’s no hurry. Just give it some thought.”
“I was... No. I don’t recall.”
“Do you... remember what floor you were on? I could track it back that way.”
“Planning.”
“Sorry?”
“Town planning. The ground floor.”
I frowned. That didn’t fit my theory at all.
“I was... hmmm. I was a team leader. Yes. I’m sure of it.” She smiled toothlessly then that faltered on her lips. “You don’t seem very pleased.”
“Huh? Sorry. I was just... just thinking.”
“About what?”
I considered telling her, wondering what harm it could do. I hadn’t even told my editor about this story. It was too wild to give credence to, especially with this new direction I might have stumbled on; at least until I’d gathered all the stories together.
“Can you keep a secret?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“I’m not a historian. I’m a journalist. I’m researching a story for the Nockton Crier.”
“Hmmm. I see.”
“It started off as just a puff piece; nothing particularly exciting; about the local legends. Magical transformations? Going back hundreds of years? People swapping bodies? Just crap basically.”
“Language.”
“Sorry. You must have heard the stories. Somebody knows somebody who knows someone that it happened to. It’s generally assumed it’s just an urban legend, propagated by high school kids as the generations go on. Have you heard the stories?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Have you heard of something called the Golden Gloom?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. Basically I started asking round. I was going to gather a few stories; take a few pictures; nothing major. It didn’t occur to me that I’d actually talk to anyone who said it happened to them directly. I really thought it was just stories and nothing more.”
“And then you found me?”
“Not first, no. I’ve talked to half a dozen people who claim that they used to be someone else. All sorts of people. A checkout girl in G&Ts. A pneumatic drill operator. A secretary. A businessman. A nightclub bouncer. Then you.
“I really thought it was just fantasy, but I’ve met too many people now that verify it really happens. I’ve cross-checked their information; verified everything I could. This isn’t just some silly puff piece anymore. We’re talking about a national story. Maybe international.” I grinned, imagining that.
“It sounds like a lot of old hokum to me.”
“But... it happened to you. You used to be a man.”
“Pardon?”
I frowned, feeling frustrated. “You used to be a man,” I said. “But the change affected your mind. It makes you forget that. It tricks you into thinking you’ve always been Vera Dickenson; that you were never this Ben bloke working in town planning.”
“Well I don’t know about that. That doesn’t sound right. How do you know?”
I shrugged. “I’m just going by what happened to the others. Generally people don’t remember much, if anything. Certainly their sense of identity is totally altered. The secretary I mentioned. I only found her because she was the other half of the businessman’s swap; and she had no recollection at all of whom she used to be.”
I looked at my notes, scrolling back several pages in the notepad.
“You mentioned a pattern...”
“Huh? Yeah.” I went on reading.
“What pattern?”
I set the notepad down, considering again whether to share what I'd found. She was harmless enough and it actually helped to vocalise it. It wasn’t likely she’d do any harm. She was just an old lady.
“I looked for a pattern at first,” I said. “After I started to think it might be real. But there wasn’t one. I’d heard stories about the Golden Gloom when I was at school but none of the people I spoke to reported anything like that. Each one was totally different. Sometimes there was a device involved – like an artefact of some kind. Sometimes it just happened. Sometimes there was a body...swap. Sometimes there didn’t seem to be. There wasn’t any kind of... rule set that I could identify. You know what I mean?”
The old lady just looked back at me. For all I knew she had entirely lost the thread of the conversation.
“What made you change?” I asked. “Was there an... enchanted item; like a necklace or a ring or something?”
She didn’t react. She might not have even heard me.
“Was it maybe a—”
“Stress,” she said.
“Sorry, what?”
“I was stressed. Too much work. People left and they weren’t replaced.”
“When you were a man? When you were that team leader?”
She gazed off wistfully and her voice became distant. “All I... could think about... was getting out of there. Of retiring. I was looking forward to that so much.”
She said nothing more and then a clutter of words came to my lips without me even sending them that nevertheless made some sense of it. “And your wish came true.”
Tears came to her eyes and started to trickle down her cheeks and her shoulders shook with silent emotion, her face crinkling into the most awful look of despair.
I sat, watching her helplessly for several moments, then caring nothing for decorum or professionalism, I placed my hand on top of hers and gently squeezed.
3
I had planned to quietly leave when she started crying but as I was putting my notepad away she said something else and I found myself setting my briefcase aside.
“I’m still happier now,” she said. “You wouldn’t have thought it. But I am.”
I nodded. I think I'd expected her to say that.
“I have my jigsaw puzzles and the crossword. There’s a dayroom here. It has a wonderful view down the valley. The nurse pushes me through there in the afternoons and I watch the trains coming and going.” Her face broke into a heart breaking smile, the tears still moistening her eyes. “And my children come. They bring my grandchildren. I’m so lucky to have such a lovely family.”
I hesitated, deciding not to ask about her former family. She had to mean the family of the woman she’d become.
She chattered on about the children; their names; their temperaments. I nodded, smiling, but my mind was onto other things; to this pattern of mine I was starting to see.
She went on chattering and there was a subtle but noticeable shift in the way she was talking. It was clear to me that she’d forgotten again. She was just Vera Dickenson now, talking about her life and her fond memories. It almost seemed that this change had been a good thing for her, if it had really happened. And I’d heard and seen enough now to be pretty certain it had.
It was almost funny how readily I believed this stuff now. I’d been a sceptic all my life. But then again, I think most sceptics are people who want to believe. They just need more proof. When that proof starts showing up they’re liable to become true believers.
I listened to Vera’s tales for a while longer, deciding not to broach the subject of her former life again. It only upset her. I had enough information now to crosscheck at the planning office.
She gave me a kind smile as I shook her quivering hand and said goodbye.
Yes. She had a good life, of a sort.
4
I thanked the nurse and made my way out to my Vauxhall.
The Willows was probably the grandest old folks’ home in Nockton. It had fairly extensive, well-tended grounds right at the western edge of town. If you had to end your life in a home, this was the place to do it.
I got in the car but didn’t start the engine. I just sat, running it all back through my head. I wished I’d recorded the meeting now like I'd done with the others. It had just seemed a little too intrusive for the old dear though. She might not have opened up as much if I had.
To think that her life had been transformed like that, as I was sure that it had. And why? Because she’d wished she was retired? Was it as simple as that? Why did it need a device of some kind sometimes and not others?
It was kind of creepy: the idea that any errant thought might toss someone into another life like that. It made me question myself. Did I have any thoughts like that? Did I wish I was someone else?
I guess everybody does that from time to time. I didn’t remember any particular instance.
I chuckled. I wouldn’t say no to being the richest person in town.
“You out there listening?” I murmured. “You can make me the richest person in town whenever you like.”
I had a good laugh, then felt a chill akin to presentiment and stopped.
I actually couldn’t imagine anything worse than that loss of identity. It was horrifying: the idea of becoming another person so thoroughly that I forgot who I was now. I actually gave a full body shiver.
It was better to put my mind off it and I concentrated instead on the realisation I’d had whilst with Vera; that there was a pattern.
I took out my voice recorder and pressed it to my lips, gathered my thoughts, then hit RECORD.
“Following interview with Vera Dickenson at the Willows in Wilder’s Pool. I’m finally seeing a pattern. Not sure exactly what it is yet. Vera said she used to be a man, working at the Empire Building in Meadside. That’s three different people now, all connected to that building in some way. Surely that isn’t a coincidence. Though the secretary and her boss were in a consulting firm. As far as I know there’s no direct connection here beyond the building. Vera used to be a man named Ben who worked in town planning. I’ll check that later. Whether this Ben disappeared one day or whether the... former Vera took his place...”
I hit PAUSE and looked out at the great old trees. They had to have been hundreds of years old. I wondered if the Willows had been built as a home. Did it used to be a house? Did someone live here with all that space?
I took it off pause.
“I’m starting to wonder now if there is some kind of... intent behind all this. I mean, what is making them happen? Is there a – I don’t know – conscious... being that’s... causing these changes?
“The idea of that is... staggering. Surely it can’t be as neat as that. What would that force or whatever want? Why would it be doing it? And if there is some link between the different people who change; what is it?
“The Empire building...”
I drummed my hands on the steering wheel.
I had a feeling that...
“It might be bigger than that.” I thought again for a while, almost pressed PAUSE but didn’t; let the timer run on instead.
“What if... What if it is just a coincidence that the secretary and manager work in the same building as this Ben character? What if that was connection enough to get me thinking, but actually it’s much bigger than that? I mean, these stories go back forever. It isn’t a recent thing. If there is some force that’s making them happen then it can’t be just one little thing. That building wasn’t even there ten years ago.
“I need to think about this.”
I started the engine. It growled like a tiger then purred quietly, full of potential.
“Jesus Christ, this is huge!”
I grinned, hitting STOP and dumping the recorder into the top of my briefcase.
I needed to lay out all the clues I had; maybe even pin them to the wall in my study back home in Howekirk. And I had to start going back through the old stories; gather as many as I could find; start to look for parallels and direct links.
I reversed out of my slot and powered down the long drive toward the road.
“God damn, this is going to be incredible!”
5
I drove through the suburbs of Wilder’s Pool and Redbush then got to the ring road.
It occurred to me that I should pop down to the Crier offices and talk this over with my editor, but it wasn’t quite time for that yet. It was all too circumstantial. I'd seen more than enough to convince me there was some overarching... conspiracy for want of a better word. I couldn’t see him buying it as it stood.
I was getting pretty sure myself though. I wondered about even...
Yeah.
I went left to take the clockwise route down toward town and got onto the Banbury Way, skimming the town centre and taking the Meadside exit.
The Empire Building overlooked the river. I worked my way through to it and took a space in the car park, showing my press ID first to the attendant. This close to town parking was at a premium but he let me take one of the visitor spaces.
Looking up at the building I got another little quiver of presentiment and the compulsion to get back into my car.
I ignored it, quickening my pace.
The first two floors were leased by the local government. County Hall in Nockton Marsh had been purpose built in the fifties but it was too small for everything. They’d had to find overflow offices about eight years ago and this was where they’d gone for. I went in and made my way to the planning office reception then flashed my ID and said, “Hi, I’m looking for Ben.”
The receptionist was a little guarded. “Ben Watts?”
I hedged a guess. “That’s him. Is he in today?”
She clearly thought about confidentiality issues then I saw the mental shrug I’d grown to recognise and she picked up the phone, dialling through.
“Hello Ben?” she said. “There’s a reporter here to see you; from the Nockton Crier.” She stopped to listen. “He didn’t say.” She paused again then addressed me. “May I ask what it’s in connection with?”
Which was a tricky question. I was half surprised there still was someone working there called Ben. There might not have been. Obviously I couldn’t spill the beans to her. I decided to say, “It’s on a confidential matter.”
She told him that and then put the phone down and asked me to wait.
Ben Watts appeared several minutes later. I was still standing in reception, scan reading the covers of the magazines laid out for visitors.
“Can I help you?”
“Ben Watts?”
“Yes.” He looked slightly harried; a portly man with receding hair and wire-frame spectacles.
“Do you have somewhere we can talk in private?”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s a confidential matter.”
He glanced round then guided me to one of several interview rooms off reception, presumably where members of the public met with planning officers to discuss cases. He didn’t appear comfortable in the least and seemed about as stressed as the old lady in The Willows had described. He closed us in and we both took a seat.
“How can I help you?”
“Thank you for meeting me.” This was the moment of truth. His reaction was going to tell me everything. “I wanted to talk to you about Vera Dickenson.”
There. A flicker of panic on his features – just the briefest flash that told me he knew the name – or his subconscious did at least.
“Er... who?”
“Vera Dickenson.” I let it hang on that, gauging his response. It was impossible to be sure if it was real or feigned but he was giving off the air of ignorance.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know that name. Is she someone who put in a planning application here? I could look her up... though there is the matter of confidentiality.”
“She’s a sweet old lady, living out her time in a home over in Wilder’s Pool. She was married to a man named Harold.”
Another little flinch, but I was getting the sense that it was subconscious. Once the flinch was done, Ben relaxed back into general curiosity. In my profession it paid to be able to spot liars. I wasn’t catching the usual signs here.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That name doesn’t mean anything to me. Vera Dickson?”
“Dickenson.”
He shook his head and I believed him. But I was also sure that he was one of them. The brain scramble had just settled in more tightly. He had no idea he used to be someone else.
That still left me without answers though, to my greater conspiracy. If I could look back over his case files... But I couldn’t see that happening.
Instead I gave him a smile and said, “I’m sorry to waste your time. I must have made a mistake.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure.”
We shook hands and I left.
He couldn’t tell me anymore but he’d confirmed what I already knew.
The question was: what did it all mean?
6
Rather than going straight back to my car I wandered round to the other side of the building. There were several benches overlooking the river as it slowly curved and then curved again to go on down the river. I sat on one and went back over everything I’d learned so far.
I believed now without doubt that these body exchanges and one way transformations were occurring.
There was generally a mental change that went along with it, sometimes but not always causing the subject to forget who they used to be.
There were various different causes of the change but surely they all had to be connected by some common root.
Just because I didn’t know what governed these changes, didn’t mean there were no rules. With a broad enough set of examples it would surely be possible to pick out a pattern and start to deduce what was really going on.
There had to be some... force causing these transformations to occur. But was it a sentient force and did it have some kind of agenda?
I thought about that.
The obvious answer was that it was kind of like karma... or God... punishing the wicked or rewarding the good. But that didn’t seem to gel that much with the facts as I knew them.
“Damn it.” There were simply too many questions without answers. But on the other hand it had got my attention now. All I had to do was keep probing; ask around until I heard more of these crazy stories; look for connections; try to see some overarching pattern. It was only a matter of time before I was going to start putting it together.
I stared at the gently rippling water, my mind wandering where it willed for a while.
“What if...”
What if Ben Watts was in a position to take a certain action?
And what if this force – whatever it was – didn’t want him to take that action?
He worked in town planning. Maybe there was a decision he was going to make... and he didn’t make it that way because he swapped lives with Vera Dickenson... and she made a different decision...
“Jesus Christ!”
Could that really be it?
My mind crackled for half a minute.
And everyone else involved in a change; directly or indirectly... Maybe they were going to do a certain thing at a certain time.
“And because they changed...”
... they didn’t.
“Bloody hell. This is huge.”
I had to get more information; fast. And I needed to start keeping copious notes, starting now. I went to take out my voice recorder but it wasn’t in my pocket. There were just some empty sweet wrappers and an old lottery ticket. I remembered putting it back in my briefcase now.
“Damn.”
I dumped the rubbish in the waste bin next to the bench and hurried back toward the car.
I had to investigate every link; no matter how tenuous; between the subjects of the stories I’d uncovered so far. Then I had to spread the net wider; track down more people who knew people who knew people who had changed.
I had a huge grin on my face by the time I got back to my little Mini. This was going to make me, it really was. I got in and turned the key. The engine sputtered and gave up the ghost. I tried a couple more times, giving it some choke and eventually it caught. It was such a piece of crap; but there was no way I could afford better right now.
I pulled out of the car park and got back on the Banbury Way. Next stop: home; to lay all this out and see if I couldn’t start piecing together exactly what the pattern was.
7
I got off at the next roundabout and drove through Barton Mills, continuing to mull things over. However unbelievable it sounded, if I could gather enough evidence then I could still prove it. I imagined how well-regarded I would be if I actually managed to break this story in full. It was mind-blowing; absolutely mind-blowing. It could change the way people thought about everything.
If I could prove it.
“I mean, it may not be limited to Nockton and Barton. It could have substantially larger reach.”
What if it could reach anywhere? Affect anyone?
The potential impact was staggering and I ran through all the different ways I could imagine it manifesting itself as I worked my way through the maze of narrow streets in Barton centre. People were known to get lost, the streets were so labyrinthine, but I knew the layout like the back of my hand – I'd lived there all my life.
I passed the blocks of flats at the centre of Barton Green and drove on as the Green slowly became Corbridge. The houses there were old, maybe the oldest in Barton, and the lack of renewal money had allowed most of them to fall into disrepair. On every street there were half a dozen houses that were just stinking empty shells. Where we lived wasn’t much better. It was draughty as hell with damp throughout and barely any heating. But it was home and it was all we could afford for now, especially with me not working. My little dream was to get on the council house list and get somewhere nice over in Sudwell or Pondgate, one of the posh areas.
I pulled up outside my house in the Mini. The engine complained bitterly when I stopped it. There was a screeching noise coming from under the hood that probably meant the fan belt was going.
I grabbed my handbag and did my best to climb out decorously in my heels and short skirt. It wasn’t easy. I tottered up the uneven front path and climbed the steps to the left hand door. We had the upstairs flat. Some students lived downstairs – a pack of noisy kids who played the drums late into the evening. They were real bastards about it.
I lifted the keys to the lock but stopped there, poised, looking at myself in the reflection: the ruffled tank top; the mini skirt; my skinny legs; the stilettos. I looked into my face; at the muddled expression looking back at me framed by the curtains of curly brown hair.
I had a feeling that there was something wrong with what I was seeing but I couldn’t tell what it was for the life of me. I was sure there was something I was forgetting; something important. I tried to cast my mind back over the day to work out what it was.
I hadn’t done much; just gone shopping for new shoes; I’d had my hair done. I’d stopped by the river for... to just chill out for a bit. There wasn’t anything I could think of that I was meant to do.
I shrugged and let myself in.
“Kev? You in?”
His gruff voice came from the top of the flight of sour-smelling stairs. “Angie? That you?”
“Yeah!” I went up.
The flat was squalid; a festering pit of damp and mould. Nothing was untouched by it. I passed the tiny kitchen, floor, cabinets and walls, all covered in grease.
“I’m in ere,” called Kevin. “Did you gerrit?”
I went to the lounge doorway. Kevin was slumped on the sofa in his favourite football shirt and a pair of soiled Y-fronts. He had his usual surly expression on his face but seeing it there jarred me a little, almost as if I were seeing him for the first time, and I got that same sense of dread; as though I’d forgotten something absolutely crucial.
“Hiya,” I said, chucking my handbag down on a pile of dirty dishes on the floor. “You get that job at Cooper’s Textiles you was goin for?”
“What you talkin about you stupid slag? I don’t need that no more, do I?”
“Eh?” I put my hands on my hips and peered at him, wrinkling my nose.
Kev looked back at me blankly, then his face shifted into suspicion and then bubbling anger. “You did get it didn’t you?”
“Wot?”
He sprang up to his feet, towering over me. “You didn’t get it? Ow stupid can you get? What do ya mean you didn’t get it? Are you trying to be thick?”
I winced, holding up my arm to block the blow that was likely to follow. “I’m sorry Kev. Really; I’m sorry.”
“All you had to do was one thing. One thing and you can’t even do that! You stupid skinny little turd!” He slapped me hard.
“I’m sorry Kev! I’m sorry!”
“I’ll give you sorry you ugly tart!” He hit me again and again, driving me back until I was against the wall. “Now give me the fucking thing. I’ll haveta go and do it meself! Where is it?”
I looked at him blankly.
“Where is it? SPEAK!”
“I’m sorry Kev! I’m sorry I forgot!”
He grabbed me by the shoulders, wrenching me off my feet then threw me down so that I struck the sofa and then the floor. I lay there sobbing while he snatched up my handbag and started riffling through.
This all felt wrong, like it shouldn’t be happening, but I knew I shouldn’t have been surprised. Kev slapped me around most nights, sometimes almost enough to make me think I should break up with him.
“It ain’t in ere,” he said angrily. “You got it down your cleavage or somethin?”
I lifted my head. “Eh?”
He snatched me up off the floor and shook me hard. “I said where is it, you stupid fucking idiot!” He shoved his hands in between my breasts, grabbing the front of my top and tearing it; pushing his big clumsy fingers into the front of my bra. Then he shook me again, bellowing into my face. “Where is it Angie? What ‘ave you done with it?”
“Done with what?” I stammered, confused.
“With the fricking lottery ticket you daft bitch! With the lottery ticket that’s gonna make us the richest people in Nockton Vale!”
8
As soon as he said those words it all came crashing back to me.
My life as a man.
My job as a reporter for the Crier.
The story I’d been working on; the urban legends of Nockton Vale.
The transformations.
The body swaps.
And the pattern.
I put my hand to my mouth. “Oh my Lord.”
It had got me too!
My voice was a woman’s voice.
My body was a scrawny woman’s body; all chest and legs and arms and ass.
It had turned me into a woman. Into Angie Pane; some unemployed slag living in the arse-end of Barton.
And it had thrown me into this squalid little flat with this overbearing man who towered over me.
“Well?” he boomed. “Where is it?”
I raised my hands up in front of my face to ward off the expected blow but instead of hitting me he grabbed my wrist, wrenching me forward. He twisted his grip, sending pain right up my arm and forcing my entire body to twist, bending at the waist.
“Agh! Kev! Leave off! I ain’t got it!”
“What do you mean you ain’t got it?” He whipped my arm up into a lock behind my back. I was already on my toes in these awful stilettos, but he raised me still higher so that the heels of my feet popped out of the ill-fitting shoes.
“Aargh, Kev, please!” I begged. “You’re ‘urtin me!”
Oh God. Oh God. It had got me too. It had changed me.
“You stupid slag!” He pulled my wrist up higher, biting pain into my arm and shoulder and down my back. “That ticket was gonna get us out of this hovel! All you had to do was cash it in! I knew I shouldn’t ‘ave trusted you with it! I knew it!”
“I’m sorry Kev! I’m sorry, really!” I was sorry. I felt so sorry. I always messed up. I always got things wrong. I’d been thick my whole life. I was always letting people down. He shouldn’t have trusted me with it. I couldn’t do nothing right.
“You idiot! I should break your frickin arm! Then maybe you’d do as you’re told next time!”
“I’m sorry Kev! I swear! I’m sorry!”
He snarled and hurled me down, face first. I hit the table and fell hard to the dirty carpet, breathing heavily and sobbing again.
This wasn’t right. None of it was right. I was a reporter. I was a man. This couldn’t be my life now.
But I remembered something now, in all the stories I'd heard; something that almost never ever happened.
I was never going back. I was never going to go back to being myself. And I’d already forgotten myself once. It would happen again.
And that was when I realised why this had happened.
It wasn’t random. I didn’t think any of the changes were random.
Whatever force it was had changed me on purpose. To shut me up.
It had known I had spotted the pattern. It had known I was going to find out the truth.
It was protecting itself. It was getting me out of the way; turning me into a brainless loser who would remember nothing; who’d live out the rest of her life destitute and abused.
Kev snarled again and pulled me back up. He slapped me hard across the face then slapped me hard the other way. Then he shook me again and I stopped crying, gaping back at him in shock and fear. When he spoke now, his voice was low but laced with the same threat of physical violence; of mental abuse.
“You think my girl. You think hard. You left ere with that ticket. Somewhere between goin out that door an comin back you let go of it somewhere.”
This was my life. It was all I had now. There was never going to be any way back. My destiny had been irredeemably altered.
I would never learn what the pattern really was. I would never get to reveal its secrets.
I looked into the crazed eyes of this vicious overbearing man, and I realised that the only thing I could do was anything he asked. I had to do exactly what he demanded, when he demanded it.
And I had to try to retrieve that lottery ticket. Somehow.
Kev shook me hard again, rocking my head back and forth painfully. “Where is it?”
I hated when he got like this – when he treated me like this – but I needed him. And he could be so gentle too when he wanted to be. That was why I loved him. That was why I loved him so much that it hurt.
But then a little light went off in my eyes and I smiled. I smiled at him as blood ran down from the side of my mouth and my body ached; as my memories clouded over; as my IQ drained away to almost nothing.
“The riverside,” I said; hopelessly; desperately. “The bin!”
“Eh?”
“I must ave thrown it in there!”
“The lottery ticket?”
“Yeah!” I cried, feeling a flicker of hope for a second at least. “It might still be there!”
If you liked this then read the complete compilation of stories in
A New You on Amazon.
You can also follow my serials every other day on http://transformation-
stories.blogspot.co.uk/
This story is one of six new stories in the compilation, Talons of the Hawk by Emma Finn, a book of transformation stories available on Amazon.
THE PRINCESS AND THE SLAVE
by
EMMA FINN
1
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, in an exotic land very far from here, there lived a princess who was very spoiled.
She was the most beautiful woman in the land with dark skin, long black hair and bright eyes, but she was also the meanest. She and her parents, the king and queen, were served by a thousand slaves but the princess was nasty to every one of them that crossed her path. She didn’t care about their feelings. All she cared about was getting her own way.
And Princess Saffie always got her own way. From morning to night she did whatever she liked and slaves by the dozen were there to see to her every whim.
The king and queen had not always been so wealthy. Theirs was a new kingdom, founded with magic. It was said that the king had started life as the humble servant of a great explorer. They travelled far and wide, exploring the world until one day, in a distant rain-drenched land; he found a precious statuette made of stone that granted the holder anything he desired.
It wasn’t long before the servant became a king and took himself a queen, and when they had a daughter, the king said that she would never want for anything. She would have the childhood he wished he had himself.
He didn’t realise how spoiled and self-important this would make her, but spoiled and self-important Princess Saffie became.
The princess always wondered how it was that her father, the king, amassed his power and on her eighteenth birthday he told her the tale and he showed her the statuette, taking it from the locked stone box in his bed chamber.
It was the image of a hawk with folded wings and a proud stance and within the dark grooves and crevices that marked its body the rock glistened. It had two glistening jewels for eyes that drew the attention hypnotically. Saffie looked on the hawk with wonder when the king told her of its powers and she lusted for it herself. All one had to do, he said, was to hold the hawk tightly and state what was wanted. The magic would make it come true.
She was jealous of the king’s power and thought him selfish to keep it to himself, but when she asked to have it, the king told her no.
Upon his death it would be hers when she was queen but until then she must respect his wishes and never touch it. He said the power to achieve any desire was very dangerous.
Left alone, the princess was furious. How dare the king keep this treasure to himself? She wanted it and she decided she had every right to have it.
From that day on, the princess grew restless and angry, taking pleasure from nothing. She might have power over a thousand slaves but that was as nothing compared to the power of the stone hawk.
After a week had passed she resolved to take it. She didn’t want to risk the wrath of the king but she was prepared to do anything to hold the statuette in her hands.
That night, well after her mother and father had fallen asleep, Princess Saffie crept into their bed chamber and stole the key to the big stone box. Using the key, she opened the box and took the hawk out, holding it up with excitement.
But at that moment, the king woke up and drowsily said, “Saffie, is that you?”
The princess closed her eyes, gripped the hawk tightly and said, “Would that my father would fall asleep and forget that he saw me.”
The king looked shocked and angry for a second, then right away, he lay back down and closed his eyes in slumber.
The princess was so excited to find that it worked but she was still afraid he would punish her. So gripping it tightly again, she said, “I would have it that the king forgets he ever owned this hawk and forgets what powers it holds.”
She crept from the bed chamber and hid the hawk in her room.
When morning came she sought out her father and asked him what he kept in his locked stone box. Sure enough he told her the box was empty and always had been.
Princess Saffie grinned with delight because now she knew the power of the hawk was hers and hers alone.
2
Over the next few weeks, Princess Saffie experimented with the powers of the stone hawk and found it to be a wonderful toy.
Its powers weren’t limitless but it was still a potent artefact. It couldn’t create something from nothing but it could work its sorcery on living things as much as she desired, altering them in body or mind. While the hawk was in her hand, she could change the shape of man or beast and then make them think they had always been that way.
She delighted in using her new powers on the slaves. She made one an old man; one a child. One man she turned into a big fat woman and his wife into a reedy moustached man then she altered their ways so that the new woman was bombastic and bossy; the new man fawning and snivelling.
She turned one lazy slave girl and her entire family into swine to teach her a lesson! That was hilarious! And more hilarious still; she’d planned to return them to human form but they became mingled with the common herd until she couldn’t tell one from another. Oh, how she laughed at that! But what did it matter? They were only slaves.
Changing the thoughts of men was her favourite pastime and she became quite good at it. She made one slave fall desperately in love with her and another consumed by jealousy. One murdered the other and was beheaded for his troubles.
It was all so delightful to play with these people as though they were dolls. It was much more diverting than the straw dolls she’d had as a child. And she could make them forget what had happened afterwards so easily!
The one slave she never touched with the magic was Raul. He never left her side when they were outside the palace and functioned as a bodyguard as well as a servant. She had a gaggle of servant girls always on hand to take care of her every whim but she often preferred Raul to do such duties. He was a mountain of a man with a bald head and darkly gleaming skin and he was doggedly loyal. That was why Princess Saffie never changed him. He was perfect already – just as subservient as she would have liked and nice to look at too if she were bored.
Raul knew about the statuette of course but he knew better than to judge her exploits. He watched impassively as she altered the age, hair colour, race, creed and desires of the people all around her, eyes dull and face impassive.
Saffie gained comfort from his stolid unwavering presence and trusted him implicitly.
One day, the palace was visited by a prince and his family from across the sea. The prince was near to Saffie’s age and was very handsome, but though their parents had hoped a match might be made to join the two kingdoms, the prince took an instant dislike to Saffie’s petulance and self-centred demands for attention.
The princess had never met a man who showed such dislike for her (openly) but seeing that made her want him all the more. She resolved immediately to use the power of the hawk to make him love her desperately. Then she would decide if she would have him. In all likelihood she would refuse him and leave him to pine for her for the rest of his days. The audacity of the man to reject her advances!
But try as she might, she couldn’t persuade Prince Kalide to meet with her alone so she could affect the change. He spent every waking moment talking politics and reform with the two kings – wasting precious time he could have used to court her!
Well, she’d deprive him of any interest in politics soon enough. When she was finished with him he would show interest in nothing but her. She would drain his will and make of him a simpering idiot obsessed with love.
But still she didn’t get her chance and didn’t want to risk exposing her power in front of the two sets of parents for fear they might snatch the statuette before she could make them all forget.
Before she knew it, the prince and his family were leaving and the chance was gone. They took to their ship and set sail across the sea to their home port.
But Princes Saffie was not so easily deterred. One month later she announced her intent to visit the kingdom of Prince Kalide.
Her father and mother were not optimistic about the match. Though they doted on their daughter, they understood how difficult she could be. Nevertheless, they did not refuse her and the princess gathered together fifty of her favourite slaves to tend to her needs on the journey. She took with her countless beautiful dresses and fantastic jewellery and set sail across the sea.
3
As the journey began, Princess Saffie amused herself as she always had done, enjoying the excesses of her rank and toying, if she would, with the servant girls attending her.
But the longer the ship spent at sea, the more the princess was overcome with sickness. She had never travelled far by boat before and such an enduring trip took a heavy toll on her equilibrium. She felt awful and no matter what remedies her slaves fetched for her, she didn’t feel any better.
Most irritating of all was her slave Raul, who showed no signs of sea sickness and seemed almost to think himself better than her because of it. He showed no overt signs of that of course, but she sensed it nevertheless.
She had a good mind to turn him into an animal. There was a pen on the ship with gifts for the prince’s family. Another goat or cow in there wouldn’t be noticed and it would serve him right. Though long favoured, the princess was rapidly tiring of the towering slave and there were always more where he came from.
But then another idea occurred to her that would both make her feel better and teach him a lesson.
The deck of the boat where she languished was already screened off by silk curtains and shaded by a great silk canopy. She ordered the other servants to leave them alone and declared that she did not want to be disturbed under any circumstances until she called for it.
Once she was sure they were alone, Princess Saffie took up the hawk statuette and gripping it tightly, said, “Would that I had the body of Raul and he had the body I wear.
Raul had witnessed the power of the hawk a hundred times but never directed at himself and he was terrified as he began to shrink and change, glowing with a dark and golden light. But Saffie thought it was hilarious and laughed long and loudly as her form swelled and became muscular until her laugh was a great booming man’s laugh.
Their clothes altered to match their new forms and Saffie looked down at himself in astoundment, loving his broad chest and thick arms. It felt funny to have a smooth bald head and such a deep voice but it was also very amusing.
Now looking every bit a little woman, Raul quailed in fear and begged to be restored to her normal form.
“Silence!” declared Saffie with his new resounding voice. “You will do as I command or face life as an animal!”
The new woman became instantly cowed and the male Saffie reclined on his cushions, demanding that Raul take up the ostrich feather fan she was using before.
Saffie no longer felt queasy in the least but Raul clearly did. The new woman took up the fan and laboured to keep her master cool, despite her terrible sickness, all the while sweating profusely.
Greatly enjoying the turnabout, Saffie set the hawk down and reclined back, sipping wine from a goblet.
And so it went for a good long hour as Raul struggled to serve her tyrannical master in her tiny feminine body while he lauded it over her with delight.
Soon, Saffie was dropping off, it was so warm and he was so happy. As Raul went on fanning him, he let himself drift into sleep with happy dreams of the terrors he would inflict on Prince Kalide for his impudence.
4
Princess Saffie woke up unpleasantly to harsh words and a forceful prodding in his shoulder. He couldn’t believe the effrontery of a servant to do that to him.
However when he opened his eyes he remembered what he looked like now and saw that the slave master, Asim, was standing over where he lay.
“Get up Raul,” snapped Asim. “How dare you fall asleep in her highness’s presence!”
Both Saffie and the real Raul, who looked on from near the railing, became frozen in surprise at this turn of events. Princess Saffie was angry that this man had ignored his orders to stay away and decided to teach him a lesson, but before he could reach for the hawk, Asim upended the cushions, tipping him away from it onto the floor.
“Get up you dog!” he cried. “I won’t have you disrespecting the princess!” He stepped between Saffie and the hawk. “Get down below with the other slaves. I will deal with you later.”
“I will do no such thing,” declared Saffie. “Now hand me that hawk and be off with you.”
Asim batted away Saffie’s hand and unravelled the whip from his belt. “With your permission you highness,” he said, “I will teach this slave a lesson for his impertinence.”
Saffie looked with alarm at Raul, still wearing her own beautiful face and his blood ran cold in his veins when the apparent princess said, “Yes. Punish him severely then put him with the rest of the slaves.”
Saffie gaped in horror at these words but before he could say anything else, the slave master cracked his whip, driving him onto the main part of the deck and toward the hold.
“Hyah!” he cried, “Hyah!” just as if he were driving an animal. Still a feint-hearted girl inside and unused to such treatment, Saffie was terrified and went where he was driven, wincing at the lick of the whip against his bare skin. This was horrible. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He was meant to be the one in control!
But he wasn’t in control now. He was forced into the hold and there his hands were tied to a roof beam and he was flogged. Again and again the whip bit into his back and he cried out in horror and pain.
Finally, when he thought he could take no more pain, the former princess was cut down from the rope and driven into a great caged holding pen for the slaves.
There were dozens of slaves in there kept only for her former enjoyment but the conditions were awful. They only had that single space for living, eating, sleeping and defecating. The stench was unbearable and the closeness to others was something he couldn’t bear.
The worst thing of all was the anonymity. Locked away in here, no one would have been able to tell him apart from the others. He was just one of fifty slaves, as ordinary as the rest of them.
And the others were mean to him. Because Raul was favoured by “the princess,” the other slaves resented him. They whispered nasty things and jabbed him with sharp objects.
The former princess put his bald head in his big rough hands and wept... until he was bullied and scorned because of it. Then he just sat, staring into the darkness, furious over what had happened and vowing to take a terrible revenge when he got his hands on the hawk again.
The irony that he was no longer seasick in the least was not lost on him.
5
By morning, the former Princess Saffie was no longer furious. That anger had burned itself out in the small hours of the morning when the cold, discomfort and misery had overcome him.
The Saffie that opened his eyes on the dank dingy environs of the slave cage was nowhere near as imperious or as self-righteous. He had been exposed to some of the worst treatment a slave could face and understood fully how low he had fallen and how unfairly he had treated his servants when he’d still been royalty.
It was remarkable how well he felt he’d learned his lesson. Thoroughly cowed now, all he wanted was to sheepishly go back and say how sorry he was. He wanted to go back to his body then do his best to make amends. He wouldn’t even punish Raul for this treatment. He understood too well now what life was like for a slave.
He felt sure the newly minted princess would call for him first thing in the morning; but she didn’t. The hulking man who had once been a beautiful lady spent the rest of that day waiting and all of the following night, each hour that went by making him feel more and more wretched.
Finally, on the third day near noon he was called for, and he came very forlornly from the hold when the slave master called. All he wanted was to go back to his old life and forget that the hawk ever existed. He understood now why the king had said it was dangerous. Who knew better than he now just how dangerous it was?
The former Raul, now a beautiful pampered princess, reclined on her cushions under the silk awning on deck. She sneered with her pretty lips at Saffie as she was led into view then clicked her fingers. “Leave us,” she said to Asim, and he bowed and withdrew.
Saffie shuffled, noticing the hawk was nowhere to be seen and feeling painfully uncomfortable in the shape of a slave. He wanted to demand his body back but he was terrified the new princess would refuse and then call for her guards. Without the hawk in view to snatch he couldn’t risk it. If she chose to, she could have him killed for insubordination. The hawk could be anywhere. Until it was in view he didn’t dare try to force anything. He might never get close to her again if she wished it.
She was obviously angry for her mistreatment over the years. He understood that. His only option was to apologise so as not to make things worse.
“Well,” said the new princess imperiously. “What have you got to say for yourself? How have you been enjoying life as a slave?”
“It’s horrible,” replied Saffie, hating the sound of his deep man’s voice. “I’m sorry I treated you so badly for all those years. It was wrong of me. Turn me back and I will treat you well. I will make you a rich man.”
The princess laughed in his face. “Why should I change you back so soon? I don’t think you’ve been punished for your behaviour anywhere near enough.”
Despite his better judgment and resolve, Saffie saw red. “You dare to speak to me like that?” he cried. I am your princess! You will do as I command and change me back immediately!”
“My, my!” said the former slave. “Such words to address your princess. We can’t have you using such a tone when addressing royalty now can we?”
She moved a cushion out of the way to reveal the hawk statuette and Saffie blanched. “No please,” he said. “I’m sorry. You can punish me more before you change me back but please don’t use the hawk on me.”
The new princess smirked and, gripping the hawk tightly, said, “Would that this slave only spoke to me with the proper deference befitting a princess.”
Saffie’s eyes widened with fear as the magic washed over him then he froze, afraid to open his mouth.
“Well?” said the princess. “Speak!”
“A thousand apologies your highness,” said Saffie. “It was wrong of me to address you in that way. I beg your forgiveness.” He shook his head to hear the words emerge. He wanted nothing but to condemn these actions from his former slave but instead he went on to say, “Please accept my humble apologies your highness.”
She smiled to hear his obsequious tone. “I do accept such a heartfelt and grovelling apology. Now tell me, what is your name?”
Saffie was furious at this game the former Raul was playing with him but he couldn’t show it. “Begging your pardon your highness but you know very well that my name is Princess Saffie.”
“Well that won’t do at all. We can’t have a slave walking round with a name like that, can we?”
Saffie shook his head desperately, hating the fawning way he had to speak to her now. “Please your highness. I beg of your kindness. Please do not do this to me.”
The beautiful woman before him gripped tightly on the statuette and said, “It is my will that this man accept that his name is Raul.” She smiled cruelly. “And that he accepts that he is my slave.”
The moment Saffie heard those words he became stricken with panic and realised this was his last opportunity to escape this awful situation. He darted forward to snatch the hawk but before he was even half way there the magic flowed around him and he grew still, after all, the princess was his mistress. It would be wrong to challenge her in any way.
The princess glared at him in triumph and he averted his gaze as was right.
“You, man!” She cried. “Tell me your name now.”
The tall muscular man’s eyes quivered with horror then he lowered his head and replied, “As it pleases your highness. My name is Raul.” And as he said it he knew that it was true. He knew he used to be Princess Saffie but there was no doubt in his mind that now he had become Raul.
“What is your purpose here?”
“Only to serve you as your humble slave my lady,” replied Raul.
“And who am I?” she said.
The new Raul looked up at her. There had been no magical proclamation here. He could speak freely, as long as it was with proper deference as befitted his mistress, but he also understood how little power he had.
“You are the magnificent and beautiful Princess Saffie,” he said, “daughter of the king.”
The new Princess Saffie smiled again and nodded. “Well done. It seems you finally understand the way things are now.”
6
For the rest of the day, Princess Saffie ordered Raul to fetch and carry for her. She ordered him to fan her with the ostrich feather fan. Everything she commanded, he obeyed, for he had no other choice and after all, he was only her slave. He had to do her bidding.
The new princess found his willingness to follow orders delightful and took great pleasure in giving him endless belittling tasks. The big lumbering slave grew wet with sweat as he toiled in the sun, wishing he had never even seen the hawk statuette.
“Would you like to hear something amusing slave?” asked the princess.
“Yes your highness; if it pleases you,” replied Raul.
“Have you noticed that I don’t feel sick anymore?”
He looked at her, perplexed.
“I simply told the statue I did not wish to feel that way anymore.” She laughed. “Do you see? You need never have swapped places with me in the first place!”
The princess laughed and laughed and laughed and Raul’s face coloured purple in frustration and trapped rage. He saw the truth of it and cursed his own foolishness. It was that one rash command that had doomed him to this life.
“I see your anger Raul,” said the princess, quieting. “Don’t think that I don’t.” She folded her arms. “But it isn’t becoming of a slave.” She picked up the hawk once again. “Would that this slave man Raul loves his life and loves to be a slave. Would that he wants nothing more but to serve me, his princess.”
And as she said this, Raul felt his anger dissipate to be replaced by the almost urgent need to please this beautiful lady. It mattered not that she had stolen his life. He was much happier as a slave than he had ever been as a princess. All he wanted to do was serve her as best he could until the end of his days.
And the one-time princess did just that. He did her bidding to the letter, bowing submissively at each command, toadying up to her in the hope of some sign of kindness or gratitude but willing to follow her commands nonetheless.
For the rest of that day he worked ceaselessly and overnight he was locked back up in the slave cage below decks amid the filth. This time he didn’t resent this captivity. He expected and accepted it. It was only his due as a slave. He was lucky to be able to pass this close to royalty. Sleeping in the filth surrounded by other slaves as low as he was the best he could hope for from now on.
The next day he slaved again for the new Princess Saffie. The following day he slaved for her, answering her every whim. The next day he slaved again. But finally toward the end of yet another day, Princess Saffie called to the huge bald slave man and summoned him before her.
“It gives me great pleasure,” she said, “to see the once mighty princess reduced to being a pathetic slave man.”
“Whatever pleases you pleases me your highness,” replied Raul clumsily.
“And that is really the problem,” she said. “Because you take altogether too much pleasure from being a slave now when you should be suffering as you made others suffer.”
Raul hung his head in shame, hating to have displeased his mistress.
“What of the people whose lives you have ruined?” went on the princess. “What of the girl and her family, turned to swine and then lost amongst the real pigs? Why should you live a life you love while those others’ lives are despoiled?”
“If it pleases your highness,” said Raul. “I will happily be punished in any way you see fit.”
The princess smirked. “In any way I see fit?”
Raul nodded hesitantly, feeling sudden fear.
“Very well,” said the princess, taking up the hawk once more. “First of all, I would have it that you speak your mind again at last. It would please me for your true feelings about being a slave to return.”
The magic did its work and those true emotions crashed back into Raul’s heart with a physical agony. No longer did he love his life as a slave. He hated it! He was meant to be the princess himself and she had made him slave dawn until dusk day after day, bowing in servility.
“How could you do this to me?” he spat.
“I do as I will,” she replied, “for you still know that you are my slave do you not?”
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am your slave.”
“And what is your name slave?”
“My name is Raul.”
Even now he was trapped in that identity he had so foolishly taken.
“Well I would have it now that you had no name,” said the princess, and instantly all sense of identity went from the big man’s mind. He knew he was a slave and he knew he used to be the princess but he no longer had any knowledge of being named.
“Why do you do this to me?” he asked. “Why take my name from me?”
“Well it’s obvious isn’t it?” she said coyly. “Whoever heard of a pig with a name?”
“No,” whispered the slave. “No, please. You can’t. I’m begging you.”
“Like the servant girl begged when you transformed her and her family?”
All blood was gone from his face. He desperately wished to rush at her and take the hawk; stop her from doing this; but he had no right to act in such a way to his mistress. He was only her slave. If she chose to do this to him then it was her right.
“Please your highness,” he stammered. “Let me serve you in any way you wish but do not do this to me.”
“It’s done,” she said and grasped the hawk in both hands. “It is my wish that this servant man become a common bloated sow in form and in deed.”
7
The former princess heard those words and knew immediately that all the humiliation she had felt over the past days had been as nothing compared to what was to come.
“No,” he whispered. “No your highness,” please I’m begging wheeeee!”
His eyes popped in surprise to hear the animal squeal that came from his mouth.
“Please mistress,” he gasped. “Please don’t turn me into a wheeeeee! A wheeeee!” He coughed, grasping his throat. “I don’t wheeeeeee! I don’t want to be a wheeeeee! Wheeeeee!” The pig-like squealing overcame him as he panicked, then it was replaced by snuffling and snorting, the base oinking of a pig.
It was too late. It was happening and he gaped in terror as the princess pointed at his face, her head rocking back with laughter.
He felt for where she pointed and was horrified to find a protuberant snout where his nose had been. He grunted frantically, trying to form human words but unable to, then a tickling on his head made him reach up to grasp the flaps of the wide pig ears extending from the upper sides of his head.
His torso was thickening, his belly and chest expanding to form a huge tubular girth, then he looked down at his hands and saw trotters instead of fingers.
“Wheeeee!” he cried desperately. “Wheeeeee!” and still the princess laughed, even as his clothes fell off him and his legs bowed. No more did he have human feet. Both arms and legs ended in trotters and as soon as he realised this he fell upon them on all fours oinking in alarm.
And still the princess laughed.
His head extended forward until it was pointing front and the shape of it changed, the snout taking on the true size and shape of a pig’s snout. He got fatter and fatter as this occurred, running back and forth on all fours, squealing in dread realisation until the transformation was complete and he was a she, a bloated fattened sow; an animal and nothing more, oinking and snorting like any pig in the field.
The bulbous sow knew that it had once been human but it snuffled round for food exactly as a normal pig would. It was a normal pig in every way.
But still it had hope, for surely the princess could change her mind. Surely this punishment was enough and it would at least be allowed to become a slave again.
But the princess called for another slave to come and the pig heard these words, struggling now to understand them with its animal brain. Already the subtlety of the human tongue was lost on it and in moments it might even lose what vague understanding it had. But understand it did when the princess gave her next command to the harried slave that appeared to her call.
“This filthy animal has got free from the pen. Have it locked away with the others of its kind immediately.”
No, thought the pig with its last vestige of human thought. If I’m put with the other pigs you won’t know which one is me! You’ll never be able to change me back!
“Hurry!” said the princess. “This disgusting animal smells awful! It revolts me! Get it out of my sight and put it with the others.”
And the pig was herded away from the princess to the pen and it never once looked on her again. It was locked in the pen with the other swine, just one of the many pigs now, and there it remained.
It was nothing but a pig with a pig’s desires and disgusting actions; with the brain and thoughts of a base animal. It would snuffle and snort and root in the dirt for food. It would wallow in mud and cover its bloated form in filth.
And one day, when it had lived out its years as nothing but an animal, it would be dragged squealing to the abattoir to be slaughtered under the axe and would be nothing but bacon and ham; food on the table of Prince Kalide.
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WHORE
By Emma Finn
Updated and streamlined from its original online publication, Whore is now part of the short story compilation AN New You by Emma Finn, available on Amazon and Smashwords…
1
I was almost certain she was a whore and that tantalised me – that I was spying on her without her knowledge. It thrilled me almost as much as fingering the slip of paper in my pocket, knowing about the power the unnatural words on it contained.
I asked myself, just for a moment, what it would be like to read out those words and summon the enchantment of the Golden Gloom, to let it transform my life into hers?
She was in Asda, wearing a trashy sleeveless top with a deep v-neck. Her slightly rounded midriff was exposed above and below her navel. She wore leggings and a pair of block heeled open-toed shoes. She had an unlit cigarette in her mouth. In the fingers of her right hand, as she pushed her trolley, she played with a cheap disposable lighter, turning the wheel over and over, not making enough spark to form a flame.
She was in her early thirties, her body fairly slim but untoned. She didn’t go to the gym. She didn’t go jogging. Her chin was starting to take on a slight sag.
I walked along behind her, keeping close, already captivated, as she moved through the aisles. She didn’t walk like a model, one foot directly in front of the other, but her movements were feminine. She ran her index finger along items on the shelf, tapping a dark red nail on each product she wanted when she found it.
I watched as she dropped two microwave dinners into her trolley and then made her way down the toiletries aisle. I nodded to myself when she picked up two six-packs of condoms.
Nothing but a whore.
It gave me a thrill to be stalking her like this; to know what she was and for her to be unaware that I was watching. It felt dirty. Illegal dirty – like I was a kidnapper or something worse.
She picked up a family bag of Doritos then I followed her into the alcohol aisle. She stopped and picked up a ten pound bottle of vodka. Then she glanced at me.
I didn’t instantly avert my gaze; I was so surprised.
We held eye contact for almost five seconds.
Then she looked away.
She didn’t know me. All she saw was another anonymous shopper. There was nothing strange about me at all.
Before she looked off I caught a flicker of something in her face. What was it?
Envy?
Probably.
To look at me she would plainly see that I had more than she would ever possess.
Her handbag was splitting at the seams. Her clothes needed washing. I could see her dismal future in every element of her body and motion.
I let her move away and then gradually went after her, pulling into the checkout queue just behind, quickly grabbing some chocolates and a magazine to put in my basket so nobody would notice I hadn’t picked anything up.
The whore was right in front of me.
I stepped close to her, my face only inches from the shiny artificial fabric of her shoulder straps. I looked at her pale skin, at the loose blond hair gathered on her shoulders and breathed in slowly, smelling her scent. I didn’t recognise the perfume but it was cheap. Beneath it I could sense wisps of body odour, not completely masked.
The checkout lady put the microwave dinners through.
I imagined this whore, sitting alone at her kitchen table, eating them. I imagined being her, seeing her hands in front of me, lifting the food to my mouth.
The checkout beeped as the Doritos and vodka went through.
Later she might be sitting in front of the TV, vegetating, drinking alone and stuffing Doritos into her mouth, alternating puffs of her cigarette and swigs of vodka from the bottle. In my mind it was me sitting there, feet out in front of me, ankles crossed, chipped nail polish on my exposed toes, bottle in hand.
Finally, the checkout lady put the condoms through and I let my mind wander onto what the whore would do with them.
It aroused me, standing there, smelling her; picturing being her, having some huge man pin me down and—
She looked at me, her face sneering. Her voice sneered too. “Wot you lookin’ at? You got a problem?”
I flushed. “Sorry, no. Just daydreaming.”
She turned away, dropping a handful of creased five-pound notes on the conveyor belt.
I watched her walk away then quickly paid for my own items.
In the ground floor car park under the store my teenage son was waiting where I’d left him, slumped in the passenger seat of our BMW, the Times weekend supplement so close to his face he heard me rather than saw me get in. “You took your time.”
“Shut up.”
I started the engine.
My whore was near the edge of the car park, one bag of shopping dangling from each hand. I pulled out and followed from a discrete distance. Still buried in the paper, my son didn’t even notice.
2
Life at home was dreadfully dull. There was no sex life to speak of; nothing to capture my spirit or imagination. I’d been fantasising about undergoing a transformation all my life; from the first time I heard about the Golden Gloom as a child as part of a silly ghost story.
It was so odd to have a fantasy – to lie awake thinking about it amid the snores coming from the bed beside me – then to stumble upon enough “evidence” from local legends to convince me that it was true. I had heard more anecdotes than could be easily explained away and certainly enough to prompt some further research on my part.
I didn’t know what the Golden Gloom really was. Nobody did. What little information I had managed to glean about it on the internet and at the library suggested quirky mystical limitations on knowledge and questions better left unasked. Ridiculous – obviously. Any kind of magic had to have science at its root if the deepest secrets were known. This was no different. There were no unfathomable powers here. The mystery was an illusion. On the other hand, that didn’t make it any more understandable to me.
The Golden Gloom seemed to be a random force, choosing subjects without logical reason... though it could be invoked with the right knowledge. If there were patterns to be seen, none of the sources I could find revealed much. The only positive link was envy – more often than not the filthy masochistic attraction to something vulgar but enticing.
A man might become the stripper he gapes at night after night, wondering how it would feel to be so tawdry.
A duchess might become the immigrant maid who struggles on hands and knees to clean the filthy tiles under the toilet; the maid whose life is so perfectly simple.
An abused child might become its violent alcoholic father, meting out brutal punishment just as he did, as those instincts became its own.
And I might become a trashy illiterate prostitute, selling my cheap body to big hairy men whose social skills can’t get them gratification elsewhere.
The Golden Gloom chose it subjects, latched onto their secret envies and transformed all reality around them, thrusting them into this new life they had lusted after completely, blanketing their own thoughts and feelings with those of their target.
I longed to experience this immersion too. I longed to give up everything that made me who I was and wallow in that loose and flagrant life for a while.
I wanted to be that whore.
And I had the means to do it: to summon the power, rather than waiting for its random turning to choose me.
And I could do it now.
I had possessed the incantation necessary to summon the Golden Gloom for three weeks; found in an old coverless book in Barton library. Day after day I had looked around for a person I might want to try becoming. None had grown to obsess me. In the last week though, I had started to fantasise all the time about leaving behind my respectable persona, just for a night, and becoming a whore. Just for a night, but how fantastic would that experience be? It would be more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced before – a profound departure from the dullness of my luxurious normal life.
It was the most absorbing thing I’d ever considered.
And to actually stumble upon a real whore? To have this opportunity? It was unreal. But here she was: the woman I was going to become.
It wasn’t a fantasy anymore. My future lay before me.
3
The whore crossed under the railway along the road through the underpass into Barton as I kept my distance. She walked up the ramp on the other side and turned right into the outskirts of Pondgate.
Her house wasn’t far down that first road. My idiot son was still reading, blissfully ignorant. I watched her go into her house and then pulled up outside.
It was a tall decaying building, vegetation eating into the plasterwork façade, just one of hundreds like it all over the district, aching to give in to time and collapse. The whole suburb was settling into obscene degradation, both the buildings and the carnal, lower class inhabitants. Alongside the otherwise beautiful Nockton, the twin town of Barton was a bruise of alcoholism, drug abuse and unemployment, though it did have some nicer parts. It was the home of the oily factory workforce and their slutty checkout-operator wives. I normally stayed well clear of it. It was almost horrifying to consider becoming one of its inhabitants, even temporarily.
“Wait here,” I said, “I’ll be right back.”
My son grunted as I got out and walked up the steps to the front door. I don’t think he’d once looked me in the eye all day.
The whore had left the front door open. The hallway was obviously shared. Every door I saw had a number on it. It was as squalid and dirty on the inside as it had been on the exterior. The dust was like a thin black liquid, spreading like inverted roots into the grain of the white panelling and the banisters. I kept my arms close to my body.
She was nowhere to be seen but I heard footsteps on the stair and followed her up two flights. I rounded the corner onto the second floor in time to see a door close. That was it.
My head became light. My stomach gurgled, making me suddenly nauseous.
This was the moment.
I reached into the pocket of my jeans and took out the rectangular scrap of paper with the incantation on. Just five words, each one cut into difficult to pronounce fleshy sounds by multiple apostrophes. I hadn’t dared read more than a single word before now and even that had had queer effects on the pressure and heat of the room I was in.
It was impossible to tell if the twisting constriction in my belly was fear or excitement. I knew how powerful the forces I was about to invoke were. If one word of the spell could have such a potent effect, what would be the result of all five?
Just read it out and then put myself in a position where my lust for becoming this woman could guide the enchantment – that was all I had to do now. Just read it out.
In my shaking outstretched hand, the already jumbled letters blurred. I had to concentrate to keep the paper still.
To become that whore for a night. To experience everything that she did. To possess that slutty body as though it were my own. To do the things that she did as though I were really her.
That was why I was doing this. That was why I had to focus.
I steadied the paper with my other hand then started to read.
As the first word came out of my mouth I grimaced, terrified of some terrible blow; but it didn’t come. I paused.
Then I felt the flush of heat build up on my face like a summer breeze and the raising pressure in my ears and at the top of my throat. I swallowed, trying to clear the close sensation, then swallowed again.
I read the second and third words quickly, flecks of spittle jumping from my lips as I struggled to get my tongue round the odd syllables.
A shudder passed through the house. It was visible – a physical wave travelling through the walls and bare floorboards. The wood creaked, straining. What dust there was that wasn’t moist rose into the air.
The forth word was brief. It came easily to my lips. I waited for some kind of effect on my surroundings but there was none.
I looked at the last word on the paper in front of me. Only that one more and then I wouldn’t be able to go back on myself. I couldn’t even be sure if the effect of the Golden Gloom, once manifested, would focus itself on this location or on me. The words on the paper that I had already read were starting to glow a bright yellow. Narrow tendrils of smoke rose from the paper close to my fingers.
If I stopped now, what would happen?
I was scared.
I wanted to go on but… This was too much.
I read the final word – the fifth word.
The letters of it flashed yellow and then white. Then the paper caught on fire.
I cried out, letting go, but the burning paper didn’t drop. It rose up in front of me to eye level, turning.
Turning.
Burning.
Then it was gone in a flutter of smoke.
The house became silent and still.
It was done.
There was no reversing it now.
The Golden Gloom was coming.
It was already here.
4
I stared at the back of my fist, poised close to the flaking white wood of the door.
Each thing I did took me closer to becoming her; to being sucked into that body and life. Each step was a step I couldn’t take back.
My brain was shaking, telling me over and over to walk back out to my car, but my body ignored it, consumed by the arousal that was building between my legs and spreading down my thighs.
I knocked.
A woman’s voice swore on the other side of the door and then grumbled. Footsteps came closer.
It crossed my mind suddenly that she might think I was a customer. I didn’t have that much money on me but that made me chuckle. She looked cheap. In all likelihood I had more than enough.
When the door opened, the whore gaped, her round painted mouth hanging open, her hair and top forming a frame around the oval of pale flesh her face, neck and bosom made. She recognised me straight away.
“Wot the fuck is this?”
“Er, excuse me,” I said, blurting, wishing I’d planned what I was going to say. “I’m sorry to bother you. Can I come in?”
“Who are you? Wot do you want? You followin’ me? I saw you in Asda.”
“I’m really sorry about this. It must look terrible. Here,” I took out a couple of twenties, “I just want to talk.” She eyed the money as I handed it to her. “Just talk.”
She looked me up and down, took the money and shrugged. “What the fuck.” She walked back inside and I followed her in. She placed the cash open and flat on the kitchenette counter, left her fingertips on it for a moment then looked back at me.
It was an attic room with no carpet and no shade on the overhead lamp. What amounted to a kitchen was arranged in a cavity at one end of the room: off-white fridge and cooker with rusty hinges. There was a bare wooden table and a mattress on the floor under the window. What would it be like to live here?
I couldn’t wait to find out.
“It’s very nice.”
“Don’t be sarky. What the fuck d’ya want?” She looked at me suspiciously, arms folded, ankles crossed, bum on the edge of the table.
All I had to do was keep this going until the power had the chance to take effect. I felt terrified for a moment. My fantasies had got me in trouble before but I was fired up. This was very rash and stupid of me; I knew; but my life was so boring. I needed a release of some kind.
“I want to sit and look at you. Nothing more.”
“Wot?”
“Just look at you. Is the money I gave you enough or do you want more?”
Her eyes flicked to the side then back at me, deliberating. “Just look at me?” She shrugged. “Wot you gave me’ll do for now.”
I took a chair and sat opposite her. She looked uncomfortable, not used to this kind of procedure, but didn’t object enough to lose the money I’d given her.
There was no trace of the darkening room my research had told me had accompanied the effects of this strange force yet, but I knew I had to dwell on what I found attractive about being here. That would somehow invoke it.
I looked at her, at her large, slightly saggy breasts, at the sallow sides of her face. She wore too much eye make-up. She didn’t care that her clothes were gaudy and far too revealing. How good would it feel to be able to strut around like that without caring?
The only light in the room came from the curtainless window. It grew a shade dimmer as though a cloud had passed over the sun.
She frowned glancing toward it.
As her neck twisted I looked at the smooth contour of her face, following the moulding of her skin over bone. I looked at her sleeveless top, at the exposed upper bulge of her breasts, her round shiny shoulders. Her entire attitude drooped listlessly; carelessly. Her hands rested palm up, fingers curled on her thighs. I could see her scarlet nail varnish, the nails irregular.
So different from me. So different from who I was.
The room darkened again.
“Looks like rain,” she said.
The flat was so squalid. My home was perfectly neat; perfectly clean. To not care about that. To leave dirty pots in the sink. To ignore the black spots of damp spreading up the walls.
The room took on a dim golden sunset glow. The air became heavy, thick; difficult to see through beyond the blur. Strange black shadows crept around the edges of the whore’s face and arms that she didn’t seem to see.
A jet of panic and arousal fed into my system. It was really happening! It was really true!
I lifted my own hands in front of me. My sleeves were rippling like sand in an earthquake. The blackness was spreading in both directions from my elbows.
As it passed it left my arms bare and pale. It crept into my hands and fingers, narrowing them. My nails shifted into facsimiles of hers.
It was happening! But I was terrified! It was too much!
I didn’t want to be this whore. I wanted to be myself. I didn’t want to live in this garret room amid the filth and the cockroaches.
The black rippling subsided. The room brightened. I pushed up from my chair, trying to clear my mind of any image of being her.
I didn’t want it anymore. I didn’t want to get sucked in.
The light in the room returned to normal, leaving me on my feet, hand on my chest, panting.
Panting.
It was my hand I was looking at. Not hers. Mine.
Thank God.
“Wot the fuck’s goin’ on with you?” sneered the whore. “Why don’t ya relax?”
I felt totally detached. My body had instantly formed a sweat. I could feel the droplets on my forehead.
This was too much. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to be her. I didn’t want to be a prostitute. Why would I? I wouldn’t.
I pressed my hands to my forehead.
Was it possible that I was being influenced somehow? Maybe I’d misinterpreted the power of the Golden Gloom all along. Maybe all the sources I had read had.
What if it didn’t respond to unnatural desires to assume new lives? What if it inspired those sinister feelings in the first place?
I sat down.
The whore was looking at me, perplexed. She took a chair and set it down right in front of me and sat so that her legs overlapped mine, one knee to the outside of my left leg, the other knee between my thighs, close to my groin. She put her hand on my knee. “Relax. It’s alright. You need t’relax. Here, let me help ya.”
She moved her hand further up my leg then stroked down again.
I felt better immediately. It was calming, no matter how strange and absurd it might have seemed if I’d been given time to think. My pulse slowed but the sweat didn’t dry. I was on edge but that disassociation opened a window to the arousal that started to spread out again from my crotch. I shuddered and sighed.
It did feel good. It felt really good.
She licked her lips and her hand moved up to her breast. “Ya like t’watch me don’t ya? You was watchin’ me in Asda.”
I nodded.
“You wanna see me better don’t ya? You wanna see me play with meself.” She touched her breast through her top and moaned. “Oh yeah, that’s good.”
My arousal was building. Her hand stroked closer and closer to my groin. I couldn’t take my eyes off the pale skin on the back of her hand and of her fingers as she kneaded her tit.
I was getting more and more turned on, losing myself in this experience that I hadn’t planned on.
Then from the back of my head, like settling damp, the thought closed round my mind. It seeped in and wrapped its tendrils around my conscious thoughts so subtly that I barely felt it.
I wondered how it would feel to be playing with her tits as though they were mine – moaning in melodramatic sordid pleasure.
I watched her fingers, kneading, at her tongue, moistening her open lips, at her half-closed eyes, make-up overdone and garish.
I tried to push this impulse aside – to disown it. I knew that the Golden Gloom was influencing my thoughts. But I couldn’t stop it rising – taking over. I didn’t want this desire to go away. I wanted her so badly. I wanted to be her – to do these repulsive things that she was doing – to live the life that she was living. Just for one night.
I couldn’t help myself.
The room darkened but I didn’t care.
Her hand moved from my leg to her crotch. She rubbed at her clitoris through the fabric of her leggings then she plunged her hand under her waistband and let out another moan. Mirroring her movement I thrust my own hand down into the front of my jeans. My other hand went to my chest and in my mind’s eye I had her plump breasts in my fingers, I was feeling the same arousal that she was.
The room became darker still. The golden half-light rose, covering everything. I closed my eyes and moaned.
I didn’t care if it did it to me. I wanted it to. I wanted to be this slag – this whore. I wanted the Golden Gloom to take away everything that was mine and give me everything that was hers – her slutty body and clothes, her cramped and dirty flat, and most of all, her occupation. I wanted to sell myself for money. I wanted to let go to every lustful impulse I had and expose myself to the control of every man with enough money to pay.
Through my closed lids I saw the blackness slither over my face.
I was getting close to the edge. My orgasm was going to crest.
My moans were building, louder and louder and so were the whore’s. Louder and louder. Louder and louder.
Then in a quiet explosion, her cries vanished and mine took over. I screamed as I came, and my scream was her scream. It was a whore’s scream.
I opened my eyes, the orgasm still coursing through me. I could hardly breathe.
I was her. I was the whore. Her tit was in my hand. It was my tit. My hand was down the front of her leggings. They were my leggings. My legs. My body.
I’d become her.
I was gasping.
The orgasm was shifting in waves.
I felt so totally alive.
And then as completely as it consumed me, the feelings passed.
And I realised I was alone.
The chair opposite me was empty.
The door to the flat snapped closed. I looked toward the noise, startled.
The room was empty.
I was completely alone.
I got up and started to run to the window and stumbled immediately, almost falling. I was suddenly wearing blocky open-toed heels. My centre of balance was thrown off. I looked down at the chipped red nail polish, the bare toes, the bare ankles. I could only just see them beyond these huge breasts.
But I put those things out of my mind. I staggered to the window, lurching in the unorthodox shoes and grabbed the window sill to avoid falling.
Outside I saw my car – the car I’d followed the whore home in. Through the front windscreen I could see a blur of white – my son’s newspaper.
Then I heard the front door of the house slam and gaped down at the figure that emerged and walked out to the car.
The figure didn’t rush or stagger and it didn’t turn back or look up to where I stood, but I knew it was me.
The figure got into the car and I watched it pull away. I watched it until it was out of sight and it was only really then that it hit me – that I was left here in this squalid little room by myself. I was left here because I didn’t belong in that car with a teenage son and a nice big house in Wilder’s Pool. I belonged here amid the grime and damp. I belonged in this cramped little prostitute’s den.
Because I was a prostitute now.
I had become the whore that lived here.
5
It felt so good.
In her filthy little shower room I looked at my reflection – at her reflection.
I had dark blond hair now and big tits. I cupped them in my slender fingers, closing my eyes, imagining it was a man doing it. I squeezed hard, like a big man would, clumsy and insensitive, and gasped a little at the jerk of pain. I had the whore’s gaudy face and sagging neck. I was wearing her horribly revealing clothes. This was me now. It was MY body. MY face.
As I brought my arms up in front of me I marvelled at the differences I could see: the gaudy nail varnish; the exposed cleavage. My arms weren’t fat, but there was no muscle definition. My skin wasn’t firm at all. I could press my fingers into it. It felt so soft and smooth.
“I’m an ‘ore,” I said, grinning at the tawdry slag in the mirror that winked suggestively back at me. “I’m a slag. I’m nothing but a cheap fuckin’ prossie.”
Oh, this was good. It was really bloody good.
My voice had adapted. It wasn’t just the pitch and sound of it that I’d adopted: the physical effects of using her vocal chords. I had inherited her turn of phrase too.
That was the beauty of the Golden Gloom. The physical transformation was only the first step – the first barrier to cross. My mind had been altered too in ways that were ethereal and invisible, ways I couldn’t detect fully yet.
But I felt at ease, here in her flat. I knew my way around. I wasn’t a visitor here in any sense. I really had taken it on.
“I’m a tart,” I said. “I only charge thirty quid for a shag. Just enough t’keep me in liquor and food. And fags.”
I laughed.
There was a wall now between me and my old persona. Everything about me had changed. It was as though I had temporarily unclipped the string of my destiny and replaced it with hers.
I shuddered, loving the wave of claustrophobia that came when I thought about that. Her destiny: mine.
If I never changed back then it would be me living this life forever, prostituting myself for businessmen and labourers, caught up so tightly in her mind that I wouldn’t have the ability to get out.
But I knew the secret of the Golden Gloom. I knew how to return to my true life.
All I had to do was reverse the process – concentrate on the virtues of my old life over this one. As long as I didn’t lose myself in this new sinister role then I would always be able to go back.
As long as I didn’t lose myself…
6
In the kitchenette, I unwrapped one of the microwave dinners I’d watched her buy earlier and stuck it in to cook on full power. I tingled to think about how I was living out that fantasy now; that in minutes the image I had seen would be a real picture before my eyes. When it was ready I sat at the table, crossed one leg over the other and forked it into my mouth. I was bloody starved. I flicked the portable TV on with the remote control and watched a chat show.
What a tawdry fantasy it was – living the solitary life of a whore – but I was experiencing it fully in that squalid little flat. It was like a masochistic dream come true.
When I finished the food I opened the vodka and filled a large plastic tumbler from the cupboard. Then I plopped down again and carried on watching. There was nothing much on; nothing that would have satisfied me before. There were no current affairs programs or news shows. Not that I seemed to be interested anymore. Entertainment television was all I wanted now. I watched a TV show from start to finish about ordinary people trying to become professional singers. It was great! This whole thing was great! It was awe-inspiring to realise how total the change was but I lapped it up, glorying in every minute as I got drunker and drunker, smoking fag after fag.
At about nine o’clock I reached for my cigarettes and found the packet empty. I groaned. I hadn’t planned to go out again. Now I was going to have to. I couldn’t make it through till dawn with no fags.
I went to the counter where the whore had laid the twenty pounds I‘d given her. It wasn’t there. I frowned and searched nearby and on the floor. It had gone. She must have taken it with her; the bitch.
I looked round for the whore’s handbag – for my handbag. It took me a minute of drunken fumbling to get hold of it. When I opened it and grabbed my purse I got a sinking feeling. It was horribly light. I unzipped the top. There was only thirty pence inside. No more.
I searched the rest of the flat. There was nothing else.
“Fuck a duck.” That put paid to that. There wasn’t even a cash card. Didn’t this whore even have a bank account?
I sat back down and tried to concentrate on what was on but I couldn’t focus. Two channels had news programs. One had a documentary about World War Two or some shit and the other channel was nothing but static. On top of that I was desperate for a smoke. It made me fidgety. In the end I snapped the TV off.
I had to have some more cigarettes. I wouldn’t even be able to sleep without one to calm me down.
There was nothing else for it. I had to go out. I had to find some bloke to shag me so I had enough money.
Was this what I really wanted though? Had it really come to this: that I was prepared to prostitute my body to get a packet of cigarettes? Had I taken the whore’s addictions and lack of pride that I could consider doing that?
I thought about it for a minute.
Yes I had.
I was desperate. I was desperate enough to fucking blow someone off to get a single smoke.
And after all, wasn’t this what I wanted? Ultimately? Wasn’t this the reason why I became a whore? To fuck some fat hairy bastard because if I didn’t I’d be penniless?
Yes it was.
And I was going to do it. I was going to go out there and find me someone to fuck.
7
The wardrobe amounted to a curtained recess in the wall – nothing more than that.
There were shoes piled up on the floor. Half of them looked old and scuffed. There didn’t seem to be any sensible shoes at all. I picked out a pair of black stilettos. They were the least scuffed and I wanted to show off my legs as much as I could.
I took out a black leather mini-skirt and a strappy top and put them on. The heels fit like a dream. They raised me right up and I had no trouble walking in them. Why would I? I was used to this. I went out almost every night walking the streets in them.
I strutted up the room and back again. Then I touched up my make-up in the toilet mirror.
I looked like a real tart. I was irresistible. It was a shame I was starting to sag a bit. I remembered the old days when I first started turning tricks. I had the looks then. Oh yes. There wasn’t any man that could resist me.
No. Wait. Was that right?
No it wasn’t. It wasn’t right. I hadn’t always been like this. I was a respectable middle class person. I wasn’t a mangy slag – not normally. This was just temporary.
I put my hands on my cheeks and looked at myself in the mirror. “Stay focused,” I said to myself. “I’m not really an ‘ore. It’s only tempr’y. It’s just the Golden Gloom, readjustin’ me memries. Me name’s really Susie Smith.”
I stared at myself then murmured the word, “No.”
“That’s ‘er name, not mine. My name’s not Susie Smith. It’s Veronica Simpson. I changed it ta Susie cause Veronica wasn’t sexy enough and I didn’t want me mam or someone findin’ out I was a prossie.”
I shut my eyes. That wasn’t right either. I was sure it wasn’t.
It was so hard to focus looking at that face in the mirror. How could I concentrate on my real identity if I could see another person staring back at me?
I wasn’t a prostitute. I was an office worker. I focused hard, making myself remember my co-workers; my partner; my teenage son. This was working. It was going to be okay.
The need for a cigarette was making it hard. My whole body was buzzing. The liquor wasn’t helping me either. At this rate I was never going to be able to focus my mind enough to change back to my real body in the morning.
I wiped my eyes and turned so I could rest my bum on the edge of the sink.
What I needed was to get a new pack of fags. When I was relaxed I’d be able to concentrate more. That was what I had to do.
This had shaken me. I had known it was going to happen but the total immersion was far more frightening than I had expected. It made me realise how dangerous my situation was. I should call this off. I should call this off as soon as I could.
Get the fags then turn back to normal the minute I could concentrate properly. That was what I had to do.
But of course to get the fags I had to find someone to fuck me for money. That scared me too. What if I lost myself in the experience? What if I couldn’t find my way back?
But I had to. After I had done it I could buy the cigarettes and get my brain in order. By that time I would have sobered up some.
And, I reminded myself, it was foolish to give this experience up before I had fully explored it. If I did this – had sex before I went back – at least I could feel that I had explored it properly.
But I looked at my new face in the mirror again. I looked at the big tits and the smooth round shoulders. I looked down at the exposed fleshy midriff, long bare legs and high heels.
I didn’t know who I was kidding. My entire being wanted to get out there and fuck some big hairy man.
Nothing else mattered.
8
The wind was cold on my legs and shoulders and on my chest. My hair whipped up around my face and then down on my back. I crossed my arms.
I hadn’t wanted to wear a coat. The sexier I was, the quicker I could get it done. The more flesh I revealed, the sexier I was. That was how it worked.
Having said that, it gave me a buzzing thrill to be walking the streets of Barton, looking for a man to have sex with. Sitting in the whore’s flat, eating her food, had been one thing; looking at her face in the mirror. This was real though now. I was really a prostitute. More than anything – more than the act itself – this night time wandering was as close as I could get to living the dream.
I passed houses with lights on inside. Families were eating their dinners or watching television. Through open windows I could hear laughter and talk. My former abode had been far more upmarket than these terraced hovels, but even so, the interactions playing out inside were similar to my old life. I sneered at them. I wasn’t one of them anymore. I didn’t give a shit about anything they thought of. I didn’t have to look after anyone but myself. I was free. And I wasn’t one of those fucking prudish housewives frigidly refusing to put out on demand. I wasn’t repressed. Sex was just another way of making money for me. That was all.
I crossed over and headed down the next road. It was more of a major byway, though still fairly quiet, and I was hoping for more traffic. I hadn’t seen a single car yet.
A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. I struck a sultry pose and waited.
They got closer. My nerves started grating. I wished I had a cigarette, but I didn’t.
I made my gritted teeth into a smile.
The car was no more than twenty yards away now.
It slowed down.
I put my hands on my hips.
The car pulled up at the curb and stopped. It was a Mercedes.
The electronic window whirred as it dropped down. The driver leaned toward me. He was in his forties probably, but good looking with curly black hair and half moon spectacles. It was my lucky night.
“You looking for a good time?” I said.
“Step closer. I can’t see you properly in the dark.”
I did. As I stepped into the light, my smile broadened. I was looking forward to getting fucked by this man. He looked nice and he was clearly loaded. He might leave me a massive tip.
But when he saw my face in the light, the smile faltered on his face. He looked down at my boobs and my pot belly and withdrew quickly. “Sorry,” he said, “I made a mistake.”
He revved the powerful engine and pulled away.
“Fucking cunt!” I shouted after him, shaking my fist.
He wouldn’t look much better if he’d been walking the streets for the past fifteen years like I had.
“Fucking cunt!” I screamed.
The car turned the corner and disappeared. Some woman opened her curtains to look at what was going on. I stuck my fingers up at her then trudged off.
9
It wasn’t until an hour and a half more had passed that I found someone to shag me and I was bloody freezing.
I was a short way up a side street, leaning against the low wall of a churchyard, rubbing the backs of my arms to keep warm, when I heard the choking grumble of an engine on the main road. Feeling desperate, I dashed as fast as I could in my heels back to the junction. My run was ungainly and careless, all sense of poise forgotten. A middle-aged woman walking her dog tutted at me but I didn’t give a shit. She was a stuck-up bitch by the look of her. She didn’t have any fucking clue what it was like for a woman like me.
There was a Transit van chugging down the street toward me. I did my best to look alluring. He slowed down as he got closer. My earlier rejections had taken the shine off my confidence but I forced myself to look ready for a good fucking.
The van stopped. The window ran down with an undulating squeak. It was manually operated. The driver shuffled over onto the nearside seat. “’Ello darlin’.” He was a big fat man with lank receding hair and an unshaven double chin.
I did my best to maintain my pleasant expression, even though he disgusted me. I had to get some money; had to get those fags. “Lookin’ for some company?” I said and winked.
“Yeah. You offering?”
I looked at his bloated stomach and his hairy face then I nodded. “If you’ve got the cash, yeah.”
“You live round here?”
I pointed. “Just up there.”
“I’ll park up. Hold on.”
He slid back into the driver’s seat and swung the van into a parking position while I stood on the curb, waiting; asking myself if this was really what I wanted. Was I really so desperate for a fag?
Trouble was that I WAS desperate. I’d tried quitting a hundred times and it never took. I’d never had a period of not smoking more than three days since I was twelve years old. It was as much a part of me now as whoring was. I’d never known anything different.
I didn’t know what I was worried about. I’d had men far fatter and hairier than him fuck me before. This was just business as usual. Once I got some cash I’d be able to buy in some nice stuff – maybe enough to keep me going til the end of the week.
I walked over to the van as the bloke got out. He grinned at me. “Which way?”
I put my arm through his. “This way darlin’. Come with me.”
10
I led him up to my flat and let him go through the door first.
His clothes were unwashed. They stunk of grease and B.O. It turned my nose up, especially now we were indoors. His trousers were straining round his arse, the upper curve of each buttock visible. It was the price I had to pay to do my job though wasn’t it? And I knew I couldn’t get anything else. I’d tried enough times. They didn’t even want me in fast food restaurants and the way I talked, I couldn’t get anything in a shop. No. It was this or nothing.
But... That wasn’t right. I was losing myself! How long had I gone now, believing I really was this whore? How deeply had her memories and thoughts overwritten mine? Did I have time to have sex and get to the shop and back to buy the cigarettes I needed to calm my nerves before the process became permanent? Maybe I should get rid of him – try again to change myself back.
I looked at him. He was taking his sweaty shirt off. He dropped it on the floor at the foot of my mattress. “Hurry up. Me wife’s gonna want to know what’s happened to me if we’re not quick.”
“Er… Would you mind if we didn’t do this after all?” I said timidly.
“Wot did you say?” The pleasant expression dropped off his face.
I suddenly felt very nervous. “Er… I changed my mind. I don’t wanna do this.”
He snarled, continuing to undo his jeans. “You’re not fucking backing out now you stupid bitch. I’m paying good money for this.”
“Please.”
He dropped his jeans round his ankles and stepped out of them. “You are a whore ain’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Wot? Speak up?”
“Yeah. I’m an ‘ore.”
“Then fuckin’ get over here and put out.”
I lifted my hands in front of me. “Please. I don’t want to do this.”
He charged up to me and grabbed my wrist. “You fuckin’ will.”
I cried out as he pulled me forward. I toppled, losing my balance, and fell down onto the mattress on my hands and knees.
The man came up behind me. I craned round to look what he was doing, terrified. This wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want to be a prostitute anymore. He reached into his pants and pulled his thick cock out. Then he came right up behind me, reached under my skirt and pulled my knickers roughly down around my thighs.
I cried out, suddenly aroused, startling myself. Despite everything, I wanted this.
Ooo yeah. I wanted him to fuck me.
No! That wasn’t right! I wasn’t a whore.
He grabbed my buttocks painfully. Yeah. That was how I liked it.
“Do it to me,” I said.
“I’m fuckin’ gonna,” he snarled and shoved his cock into me.
I gasped as he thrust in and out and with each pump I felt myself fall deeper and deeper into these new, unnatural urges.
The Golden Gloom was taking over, wiping out my old memories – wiping out my original desires.
I’d made a mistake. I’d been foolish to think I could control this.
I was losing sight of who I was. I was forgetting that I wasn’t a whore.
Suddenly I knew that this was it. If I didn’t break off now then I never would be able to. I’d be stuck in this squalid little flat for the rest of my sordid life. I’d never get away. I’d be a prostitute forever.
I tried to pull free but the man kept me in place with his massive arms. He slapped my ass hard and I gasped from the pleasure mingled with pain.
All these years and most kinds of sex didn’t do much for me. It was just a job. But being fucked from behind by a big ogre like this still turned me on. It got me so hot. I loved it.
He kneaded my bum with his massive hairy hands. With each thrust he let out a deep animal grunt. With each thrust I cried out in ever-increasing pleasure.
“Oh yeah. Do it to me you big man! Yeah!”
“You fuckin’ little whore! You’re nothing but a whore!”
“Yeah. I like that. Do it to me! Fuck me!”
“You fuckin’ tramp! You whore! You worthless slag!”
He pulled out and span me round, pinning me down, my bare knees pointing up next to his waist. Then he thrust in again.
I couldn’t move. His stinking heavy body had me completely pinned. I couldn’t get away.
It was too late. Too late.
I was never going to get away.
I was never going to be able to return to my old life.
I should never have invoked the Golden Gloom.
There was no way to beat it. No way to escape it.
It had obliterated my old life and trapped me in this gaudy new one.
The man thrust one final time, roaring with pleasure and I screamed.
I was so hot.
I loved it so much. The degradation. The loss of power.
This was what I wanted.
This was who I was.
There was nothing else.
And I loved it.
I did it well and it gave me all the money I needed for vodka and fags.
I was a whore. That was all I was. Nothing but a stupid worthless whore!
And I always would be.
WISHING WELL
Lionel makes a wish to become one of the senior managers at work. Unfortunately he didn't specify what sex he wanted to be.
This story is one of six stories in the compilation, A New You by Emma Finn, a book of transformation and body swap stories available on Amazon, iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.
1
The well was ancient; easily as old as many of the oldest houses in Bycastle, the original village from which Nockton and its twin-town Barton spread.
It had been restored somewhat in recent years by the Friends of Nockton conservation group. Loose stones had been mortared more securely and a new peaked roof and been built over it. There was a crank handle, rope and bucket but they didn’t work. The crank wasn’t built to turn.
The wishing well overlooked the River Mead at the eastern end of Bycastle. Open fields had spread away from that point along the river bank in ancient times but now there lay the parking structures of Nockton centre, Tower Gates mall, the business park: Meadside, and the expansive towns of Nockton and Barton.
Though inaccessible, the well’s water was kept fresh not only by the river, but by the stream than ran close by and under the footbridge there on the riverside. The stream wound down through the conurbation, streaking through Hurley Park in the centre of town and originating from the crevices in the ravine up on the southern ridgeline of the long valley just beneath the edifice of Crackshaw, the town’s venerable estate.
I looked up to the ridgeline then followed the stream’s concealed trickle down through Nockton Heights and into Deerbarrow before it vanished underground for a while to cross the Ockham trading estate.
I sighed and turned back to the well, leaning on its edge and looked in, wishing that my problems could be solved as easily as dropping a coin down into it.
Wouldn’t that be great?
Perhaps then I'd be able to resolve the mess I’d made of my life.
It wasn’t all bad. I had my girlfriend, Jenny. We had our little ground floor flat in Ashfield; even if it was a bit too small for us and very damp. We loved each other and had been together four years until now, in our late twenties, people were starting to assume we would be thinking about marriage and kids soon.
Fat chance of that. We couldn’t afford a holiday; let alone a wedding or the accoutrements of babies.
That was where most of my problems lay; around my career.
I didn’t really have one.
I had grown up in Nockton and I hadn’t done brilliantly in my schoolwork. Despite pushes from my mum, I'd failed the entrance exams for Lockwood Grammar and ended up going into a steady decline at Nockton Marsh instead. She wanted me to do A Levels at the sixth form next door but I chose Barton Tech to rebel. Much good it did me. I barely scraped through on the Btech in Business Technology I did. A university degree was out of the question.
Fast forward ten years and I was already about as high as I was ever going to get at Wilton Danborough Business Consultancy or anywhere else. I wasn’t motivated to go back to my studies or driven enough to push myself through work experience alone. I felt underappreciated at work and semi-bullied by my micro-managing supervisor, Roland.
The worst part though, was seeing the contrast in my lifestyle to the consultants and senior managers in the firm. They had the flash cars and fancy houses, the expense accounts. What did I have?
Nothing.
Except for Jenny.
And I did appreciate her; I really did. It wasn’t always perfect between us but it was good enough. We made the most of what cash we had left after the bills had been paid, going out clubbing or on the razz. It wasn’t a terrible life, but I did wish it was better.
My lunchtime walks were one of the highlights of the day. I had various routes I loved but my favourite was along the Mead to Bycastle. I could just get far enough along for a glimpse of the old castle itself before I had to turn back. The hump-backed footbridge and well were my turning point but I loitered today instead of hurrying back.
I’d had an email from my supervisor before I left saying he wanted to see me after lunch and I was dreading it. He was bound to run me down about something.
I stared moodily down into the pit of the well, the twin circles, one within the other, of dark water and reflected sky.
I checked my watch. I was going to be late back. But I didn’t turn away. Instead I reached into my pocket and withdrew a fifty pence piece. It was more than I would normally ever have considered throwing away but I didn’t consider that deeply enough to put it back.
I rested it on my crooked first finger and focused past it again at the water twenty feet below. Then as I gave my thumb a flick and watched it tumble over and over, down and down toward the water’s surface, I gave a little cynical chuckle and murmured, “I wish I could be one of the senior managers at work.”
2
As near as damn it, the second my coin hit the water I felt an onrush of heartburn that made me immediately forget the silly wish I’d made. I gripped my stomach and winced, wishing I hadn’t wolfed down the sandwiches I'd eaten at my desk before my walk.
Scowling at my rotten luck, I started to hurry back, over the little hump-backed footbridge and along the river path at the back of the multi-storey car parks. There was a little gateway that cut into the outside dining areas at the back of the shopping centre then another one on the far side that led to Meadside Business Park.
Wilton Danborough had offices on the fifth, sixth and seventh floors of the Empire Building overlooking the river. The open plan office that I occupied was, not surprisingly in the centre of the building with only overhead fluorescents to provide any light.
I didn’t feel much better by the time I got round to the front of the building and I was a full five minutes late. Cursing my own dawdling, I finally turned out of the lift sweating and damp and ran right into my supervisor, Roland.
“Well what the hell time do you call this Lionel?” he snapped.
“Sorry. I lost track of the time.” I went to hurry past to my desk.
“Again? Well there’s a surprise.”
“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Where do you think you’re going now?”
I hesitated. “To my desk?”
“We have a meeting? Have you forgotten that too?”
“No. Sorry. Er, where would you like to...?”
“My office.” He turned his back on me and marched toward it.
I started after him, rubbing the point where my chest met the top of my belly, wondering how my day could get any worse.
Roland was waiting with his arms folded and his face a mask of irritation when I got to his office. “Shut the door.”
I did so and took a seat.
“Did I ask you to sit?”
“Er, no. Sorry.” I got up.
“I’m kidding, Take a seat.”
“Oh.” I floundered, unsure of myself.
“Anytime you’re ready Lionel. I don't have all day.”
“Right. Sorry.”
He dressed me down for my tardiness at lunch and then started on about my low productivity compared to other workers.
The data he was looking at was run from a report that I knew had been run incorrectly but when I tried to point it out he sighed heavily and said, “What planet are you on Lionel?”
“Er... sorry? What?”
“Are you telling me I don’t know how to do my job?”
“Uh, no; not at all.”
“How do you think I feel when you tell me I don’t know how to run my reports? Hm?”
I cleared my throat. “Uh, well...”
“Maybe if you spent the time you seem to waste questioning me on doing your own job right then the data in the report wouldn’t show you out to be a bad worker.”
I winced again. My chest and stomach were turning over horribly.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“I don't know why I waste my time on you.”
I sat uncomfortably, unsure what he wanted me to say and worried that whatever I said would spark off more hostility.
“Well go on then,” he said. “I told you to leave.”
“Er...” I frowned, sure he hadn’t.
“Just try to do a better job than you have been doing,” he said.
I left his office and leant against the wall outside, breathing heavily. I staggered several steps then leaned against the wall again. I needed to sit down but my desk was still a long way off. It might have been a heart attack. It didn’t feel like any indigestion I’d had before.
The next door along was a meeting room. I lurched to it and pushed inside then leaned against the desk, trying to catch my breath. I felt awful and the feeling was growing, spreading up my back.
I was in serious trouble. I needed an ambulance, now! But when I reached for the door again and tried to call for help, all that came out was a hoarse scratching; not even words.
I retched, a lump filling my oesophagus, then I retched again. I bent over, clutching my abdomen with both hands.
Then suddenly there was a blinding flicker flash of white light and I flew back upright and staggered backwards as what felt like a hurricane wind took hold of me, filling my clothes and my hair.
In the next instant it vanished – the wind and the light – and I realised that the pain was gone too. The awful constriction in my stomach and chest was gone. I felt absolutely fine. There was nothing wrong with me at all. I was panting to catch my breath but everything else was normal.
Then I looked down as I reached to feel my stomach and my eyes went round with alarm as shoulder-length blond hair swung into view at the sides of my face.
And then I saw my bare legs from the knees down, smooth and hairless, and the low-heeled women’s shoes I was wearing suddenly.
I blinked, and blinked again; looked to the closed door; the glass wall to the rest of the office.
I was wearing a skirt! A blue skirt and matching jacket! And my body was an entirely different shape to what it should have been!
My mouth fell gaping open.
I had breasts. My body was bulging in all the wrong places!
Whatever had happened a minute ago had changed me.
It had transformed me into a woman!
3
My rapid breathing started to subside but my system was flooded with the static charge of adrenaline.
I grasped at the different parts of me to see if it was real; raising my arms out; turning them over; twisting at the waist to look behind me; feeling at this new hair; touching my face and my chest; my stomach, thighs, legs and hands.
I had turned into a woman. Entirely and completely. And not a young slim woman. I couldn’t be sure without looking at my new face but from the clothes and the shape and the hands... I was middle aged!
This new body was very full-figured but not morbidly obese. My thighs and calves were rounded, my hips and stomach forming the approximate silhouette of a pear. I had pillowy breasts that gave a surprisingly immediate sensation when I dared to touch them. And my hands... They weren’t tiny but were undeniably feminine, the nails polished to a gleam; the fingers narrow.
My hair was long now, dropping to the base of my neck and curling in, a flick of it coming down diagonally to overlap my right eye.
As for my clothes...! I was wearing a blue woman’s business suit: skirt to the knee, a jacket with sleeves that only just passed the elbows; shoes that matched. Under the jacket was a white blouse with a wide enough neck to show a circle of smooth chest but no hint of cleavage.
Gone from my cheeks was any sign of stubble. The skin yielded to my touch in an entirely different way than it normally did.
The whole thing was flabbergasting.
How could it possibly have happened?
But of course, the second I asked that, the answer thunked so heavily into place that I knew with absolute certainty that it was true.
There was no room at all for scepticism. How could there be?
In a mundane world with only one bright point of the unreal, there was only one possible source.
The wishing well.
My wish.
My memory-mind leapt back to that moment: the fifty pence piece balanced on my finger; watching it begin to fall, spinning end on end all the way down until it splashed into the black liquid.
I had wished I was a senior manager at my firm.
And it hadn’t just fixed reality to change my job role, it had fixed me to suit it.
There was no blond female manager currently working here. It hadn’t changed me into a copy of someone else. But surely it had done the next best thing.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, laying my hand on my breast. “It came true. But I hadn’t meant it to be like this. I didn’t want to be a woman!”
And at that precise instant the meeting room door opened and two people I knew from around the office came in.
4
They were both senior managers; a man and a woman. They did no more than glance at me as they entered and started circling the oval meeting table. There was no strong reaction at all. The woman gave a slight smile and my mouth smiled back falteringly of its own accord.
“Are you sitting here Marjorie?” asked the man; Ken Blaine, Sales Manager, if I remembered correctly. I turned to face him and he was looking right at me.
My lips flapped a little as I looked down at the neat pile of papers and the iPad marking somebody’s place on the far side of the table. “Er... Yes?”
He gave a polite smile and sat in the next seat along. “Good. If the old man drones on we can write notes to one another.”
He and the lady chuckled and I gave a half smile. This was crazy, but they knew me. And he’d called me... Marjorie? I looked down my very feminine body again.
They were both getting settled; laying out their papers; but I just stood staring from one to the other of them then back down at myself.
Another woman came in behind me and started to sit as well. I knew her vaguely. She was the administration manager, Zoe Kellerman. “Oh hi Marjorie. How was your lunch? Did you get that dress you were after from Dorothy Perkins in the end?”
“Er, no,” I replied, marvelling at the mature woman’s voice that was coming from my lips; at the way these people were treating me; as though I really was one of them. “I... decided not to.”
“Oh. Shame. When does the sale end?”
“I uh... I don’t know.”
She started laying out her papers and more people filed into the room. They were all taking their seats but I remained where I was, unsure what I should do and entirely confused by the situation. I felt like running, screaming from the room but I also... sort of didn’t. It felt kind of normal.”
Then my pulse went up a notch as I heard the voice of the company president, Richard Wilton, talking and chuckling with the VP.
I gaped at them as they entered, continuing to joke, and took their seats round the now almost full table.
Mr. Wilton caught my eye. “Are you joining us Marjorie?”
I stared at the empty seat with the iPad and papers then back at him. Everyone was looking at me. “Er... Yes. Of course,” I said, and circled warily round to my seat, expecting at any moment for there to be some gigantic response or even another magical flash. But people were just sitting there getting ready for the meeting. No one was looking at me strangely. It seemed absurd to go along with all this but what else should I do? I was absolutely flummoxed by the whole thing.
Mr. Wilton’s PA came in to record the minutes then he started the meeting, starting with the minutes from the previous week.
I had always wanted to be important enough to be invited to this kind of review meeting, but my wish had come true in the most bizarrely unexpected way possible.
The president prompted the Accounts Manager to give his report on the upcoming budget and he went into the results of some recent analyses and his projections for the coming months. When that was done with, the focus moved to the next manager who went through his department’s output and issues. I shook my head in wonder, trying to accept that this was really happening to me.
Then as the focus travelled round the table I started to get the sinking feeling where it was going to end. I was at the end of that trail. They were going to want to hear my report and I didn’t even know what my job was!
By the time I realised what this meant and how exposed I was going to be, the creep of doom was already at the end of the table, starting to curve round toward me.
I looked through the papers in front of me desperately, trying to get some clue on what to say. There were a lot of figures and employee names. They looked like wages or job grades. Beneath that were a couple of employee files, one of which was my supervisor’s, Roland. It had his photo from the employee board in reception and his original application form; various other subsequent documents; his contract. A post-it note was affixed to the front marked with the word possible in steeply angled handwriting.
The creep of doom went on a notch. There were two people and then me to go: the man and woman who entered first after me.
I flipped open the iPad and swiped the screen to activate it then stared at the spreadsheet it was open on. More figures and names.
I shuffled in my seat, noticing my dangling hair again; the feminine hands; the breasts; the business suit. I couldn’t do this. How could I? I just had to get out of there!
The woman who had first called me Marjorie finished her round-up and the Sales Manager beside me started to go through some challenges his team had faced to bring in new business.
Should I get up? Say I didn’t feel well?
And then what? I was a woman! I was a middle aged woman!
The Sales Manager was starting to wind down. I could tell by his tone of voice. I started to panic, desperately looking back through the papers in front of me; then something startling happened.
I understood it. Suddenly.
I flicked the papers back and forth, looking between them.
Yes. Definitely. I knew exactly what they were and I understood their relevance. I went back to the iPad spreadsheet. It tied into what the papers were. I understood it! I understood it all!
“Marjorie?”
I froze. The president had said my new name. My woman’s name.
He was looking at me. The room was silent. They were all looking at me.
Mr. Wilton, the head of the entire company, smiled. “Do you have your report?”
“Uh...” I looked back down at the things in front of me. I understood them. I could do this. It was insane but I could really do it if I just got a hold of myself. “Yes,” I said. “My pleasure.” I got a quiver of fear and then a calm came over me that was counter to the absurd situation I was in. I knew what I was talking about and it was almost as if... It was like there were even memories, almost, to substantiate it; just beneath my perception but still able to provide support to what I needed to say. Then I started talking and this confident velvety voice came out of me and kept on coming, laced with feminine inflection.
“We’re doing well on our proposed cuts,” I said. “Total salary output is falling toward the projected targets. I anticipate being able to meet or even exceed our necessary cuts while continuing to maintain optimal service across the company. Most departments are approaching the new agreed levels though I need to speak with you about your department later Ned,” I said, addressing the manager of Consulting across the table.
He chuckled. “I wondered when you’d catch me.” He held his hands up. “Guilty as charged.” A laugh went round the table and I found myself smiling, then I turned back to Mr. Wilton.
“There have been a number of minor staffing issues,” I continued, “but nothing to concern you with. Although...” I glanced down at the file of my former supervisor and then felt surprise settle in once again as I realised the significance of it being here. “One of the middle managers, Roland Lake, has had yet another grievance filed against him. If we’re looking to make cuts in middle management then he’s a logical choice, though don’t quote me on that.”
There was another chuckle.
“Alright. Good,” said Wilton. “Thanks Marjorie. Keep up the good work.”
I smiled back at him, stunned by how well I'd done, but stunned also by how easily it had all come out.
When I thought about those issues now there was even more detail in my mind about them. I just knew about things. It was crazy!
Mr. Wilton went on talking, raising some ideas he had to improve communication across the firm and I found myself relaxing into my chair, looking round me with satisfaction.
I had never wanted to be a woman – not in a million years – but there was no denying how good it felt sitting here being one of the upper management for a change, respected and admired. And being a woman didn’t even feel that odd. It just felt comfortable.
This was the weirdest day of my life.
It really was.
5
As the meeting broke up and the people started to file out, I remained seated, trying to digest everything that had just happened. But as she reached the door, Zoe, the Administration Manager who had asked me about the dress, stopped and said, “We still on for lunch tomorrow?”
“Uh, sure,” I replied. What else could I say? I had no idea if I’d even still be a woman then. She smiled and left and moments later the room emptied and I was all alone again.
I gave my body another check over, still finding this transformation impossible to comprehend. The oddest thing about it was that although I recognised the different sensations I was getting from my shorter but wider body; my long hair and bare lower legs; it didn’t feel as odd as it should have. I didn’t feel pried into it or like an intruder. It was just... my body.
But I had to see it properly.
I got to my feet, but hesitated when I thought of the iPad and my papers. Should I take them? And where? Did I have my own office now? Where was it? How could I find out?
With no better ideas, I decided to leave my things there for now and went to the doorway.
Standing up and walking across to it brought back everything different about my body and clothes. I moved differently now. I was significantly fatter. That had an effect. And then there was the skirt and heels; the swish of my swinging hair, the slight quiver of my breasts.
“This is really messed up,” I muttered.
Opposite the meeting room door was a screen that blocked the view to the open plan office beyond. No one was directly in view but I felt very strange in this get-up; embarrassed. I wondered if—
A young woman came round the corner and started walking toward me. I recognised her immediately: Gail; the girl who had the desk next to mine. I’d worked with her for a year and a half. As Lionel.
I stood rock still as she came closer and closer, unable to take my eyes off her. When she saw me she averted her eyes instantly and walked a little straighter. As she came close she glanced up again and gave a very polite and guarded smile and then she was gone.
I watched after her in amazement. She had acted totally differently in front of this new me to how she normally would. It was remarkable! Expected I guessed; but remarkable still.
I had to find a mirror!
I left the meeting room doorway and walked to the end of the screen; glanced toward my desk. There was no chair in place. Boxes of files were being stored on and under it. There was no computer. Roland was nowhere to be seen.
I shook my head in wonder.
There were some toilets near the exit to the lift lobby. I started across to them self-consciously, noticing every differing sensation; my face colouring at being seen like this. But no one reacted strangely. Most people obviously tried to look busy when they saw me but a couple of braver ones said, “Good afternoon” as I passed. It was said deferentially and possibly even fearfully. It was odd to have such power over these people, but it was also kind of fantastic after all my years of feeling insignificant.
There were two toilets: male and female. I hesitated, unsure, but only for a moment. The choice was as obvious as the skirt I was wearing.
I pushed inside and went to the sink and gazed in wonder at the face looking back at me.
She... I looked like a woman in my mid-forties, plump and mature. And the blue skirt-suit and formal hairstyle very clearly identified me as a middle aged businesswoman. It was incredible. I couldn’t believe that was really me, but the reflected woman mimicked my every action.
I had a... nice face. It was the face of an older woman and one I wouldn’t have looked twice at as a sexual partner in my former body; but I had quite pretty features for my new age. Angled cheek bones. Big eyes. Nicely shaped lips.
It was odd to be carrying so much weight. I shrugged the jacket off my shoulders and let it fall to my elbows, showing the short sleeved blouse I had on underneath, then turned left and right to see my plump upper arms.
I put the jacket back on.
I was a middle-aged businesswoman. It was undeniable.
I glanced to check that the stalls were empty, then to myself in the reflection I said, “I’m Marjorie... Ferguson; the HR Manager at Wilton Danborough Business Consultancy.”
It was chilling.
But... Ferguson? That hadn’t been my surname before. Was that really it now? And how had I known that if it was? The same way I’d known all that stuff about the report I'd given?
I didn’t know why I was taking this so well. Where was the terror of identity death? Why wasn’t I going loony right now?
Unless it was because...
I nodded.
I had been resenting my position in the company for a couple of years now and suddenly I really was one of the senior managers. I never would have wished to be a woman but I had to admit my wish had come true.
And that made me... intrigued. It didn’t mean I was ecstatic that I was a forty-odd year old blond businesswoman... but I wasn’t quite ready to run screaming from this either. I wanted to... explore it a little more.
And so I took one more look at this plump older female looking back at me and went to look for my new office, a smile of conflicted anticipation curling my lip.
6
I decided that the easiest way to find my new office would be to wander around, looking like I was inspecting things while keeping an eye out for my new name on the door. There was only space for four to six offices on each floor, the rest being open plan, so I knew it wouldn’t take too long.
My level was the easiest as I already knew who owned the offices and there were none vacant. Still, I couldn’t resist taking a little turn about the floor.
I still had the odd juxtaposition of feeling extremely at ease in this new body with feeling the contrast starkly. But I was getting used to the fact that people saw me differently. I guessed it was like putting on a fancy dress costume as a cow or something. The minute you have it on you’re totally aware that people see you that way and this is quickly followed by a kind of delightful freedom of anonymity. You walk round the fancy dress party and nobody knows who you really are. That releases you to act how you want somewhat.
This new body of mine was exactly like that – except this costume came with the added bonus of being immediately recognisable as a person of seniority.
It might be freaking me out still that I’d been turned into a woman fifteen or twenty years older, possibly permanently, but it was also wickedly exciting.
At first I feared the abruptness of my masculine movements might give me away, but I moved with a serene understated femininity that creeped me out until I decided to let myself ride with it. I didn’t have the flounce of a sixteen year old flaunting her newfound girlishness, but my arms swung freely as I walked the floor.
Normally I would have been nodding to friends and co-workers or making jokes; saying “hi.” Not this time. The reception I was getting; the deference and discomfort; influenced the way I responded, as did the growing instincts; the changes my brain seemed to be undergoing. I found that my expression leaned toward aloof professional curiosity or sternness. That then fed into the guilty looks that came from the low level staff I passed.
The idea that my brain was changing made my mind wander for a minute; made me question the mechanism that had changed me.
Undoubtedly, my body was now that of a mature senior manageress. As part of that body was the brain, it pointed to several related hypotheticals.
My brain hadn’t been removed from my body and put into this one. It made sense that it had transformed into a mature woman’s brain. And if my clothes and possessions had changed too; if I had a job here now and a history; then likely this brain contained the knowledge of that new identity.
It made me wonder if my male spirit was still here inside this body but it was slowly getting used to its new container; attaching to the brain stem and settling in. That could be why I was slowly coming to an understanding of my new knowledge. My soul was acclimatising and soon it would connect completely. At that point, I might have complete access to the stored information in this new head of mine. Her memories and thought-shapes might become my own in their entirety.
But again this didn’t frighten me, curiously. It was all just a theory for a start; but this new form felt too natural to fear it. It was oddly contradictory, but why should I fear being a woman when I already was one?
I got to the end of the floor and walked back to the lifts and went up a flight.
I didn’t know anybody on that floor so I didn’t tarry as much, but I did continue to enjoy the new way I was perceived as well as my sudden autonomy. Nobody was checking up on me. No one was telling me off for not working. When I got to the offices on that floor I could see they were all occupied, but Ken Blaine came out of his as I approached and gave me a smile.
“I’m just off,” he said. “My wife’s a bit under the weather. She’s been looking very pale. I’m worried about her.”
“I hope she starts to feel like herself again soon,” I replied and circled back toward the lifts.
It was on the seventh floor that I found my office and it was fabulous.
It was on the corner and had views of Tower Gates on one side and the river on the other. I knew that old man Wilton had the end corner with river views on two sides, but this came very close to that. It had an astounding amount of room compared to my old desk on the fifth floor. It was great!
I sat on the cushioned chair, grinning to myself, delighted to have such a prestigious position at last after such a disastrous life to date. This brought back a shudder of uneasiness about my female form but I tried to suppress it. This was everything I'd ever wanted from my life: a proper position of authority; the respect and the pay check that went with it. With my education and lack of drive I could never have achieved what I had managed in one day with a careless wish.
On the wall were framed education certificates for my newfound MA in Management and Human Resources and numerous other professional accreditations. If I stayed this way then they really would become mine!
But the fire went out of my eyes as I considered that.
Because surely I couldn't stay like this. The very idea was preposterous.
What about Jenny? I’d barely given her any thought since this ride began, but what was she going to say when I turned up back at our flat looking almost as old as her mother? How could we continue together as a couple?
We couldn’t.
And surely I didn’t want to lose the better part of twenty years off my life. And become a woman. A fat, middle-aged woman.
Thinking about this new body got me standing up to get a better look again.
I slipped off the jacket and examined my chubby arms in the short sleeved blouse. I hung the jacket on a coat stand near a cupboard against the wall and noticed there was a carefully concealed full-length mirror in the alcove.
I looked at my overripe body, my smooth hairless legs; the low heels on my feet. I checked out my nails. I felt my pretty round face and my soft hair.
This was real. It was completely real. It wasn’t going to wear off. This was really who I was now.
I could maybe go back to the wishing well and hope it somehow worked again but pending an act of God, it seemed that I was going to remain this middle aged woman; Marjorie Ferguson.
The question now, was what was I going to do about it?
7
I sat back at the desk and made myself at home, then I noticed a young woman sitting close to the glass office door and saw the intercom on the desk. There was a button on it. I pushed that and the woman rushed in.
“Yes Marjorie?”
“Er... Ellen,” I said, the name coming to me as I searched for it. “Run downstairs to fifth floor meeting room A and bring up my notes and iPad please.”
“Alright. I’ll be right back.”
“And ask Roland Lake to come and see me while you’re down there.”
“Of course.” She nodded respectfully and withdrew.
I fired up the computer, smiling contentedly. This was going to be good.
Ellen returned with my things a few minutes before Roland showed his face which gave me time to run through his file. The details inside were familiar to me, though I’d never known them as Lionel. It was as if seeing things in the file jogged my memory and as I skim read it I recalled a remarkably clear picture of this man’s career at Wilton Danborough from an HR perspective. I didn’t yet remember actual scenes from a fictional life as Marjorie – though I suspected I might quite soon – but the direct knowledge that came with that continuity of background was all there as long as I looked for it.
He looked nervous when he knocked which made me smile. Seeing my smile that must have looked rather predatory to him seemed to rattle him even more.
I gestured for him to come in.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Come in Roland.”
He shuffled inside looking the opposite of his normal swaggering, patronising self. I didn’t offer him a seat and he didn’t presume to take one, hovering nervously instead.
“As you know,” I said, “the company is going through a number of changes at the moment as we continue to divert our resources into the most profitable areas.”
“Yes. I have been working hard to—”
“It can be a challenge to strike the right balance when directing this change,” I continued. “Hence our consultation period where we asked the members of every team to feed into the process of change.”
I knew for a fact that every idea raised in that consultation period was dismissed by the upper management but I was on the other side of the fence now and the idea of letting suggestions from the ill-educated workforce direct company policy and profit was kind of ridiculous. Still, the directives of change-management did recommend giving staff the illusion of influence to maintain morale.
As I paused, Roland looked increasingly uncomfortable.
“Let me get to the point,” I said. “We are in the process of consolidating our middle management positions. Analysis shows that with a redistribution of team leaders we will be able to free up much needed funds to improve other areas. The executive lounge is in a deplorable state for a start. It hasn’t been refurbished for almost eighteen months now.”
“Er yes, I see,” said Roland.
“I have brought you up here today to talk to you about a very generous voluntary severance package we have been developing. I’d like you to consider it.”
“Voluntary... severance?”
“Yes. You will be compensated sufficiently to cover a couple of months’ breathing space on finding a new branch to your career and we can then move forward on improving conditions for the workers here.”
“Er...” He gave a strangled smile and then cleared his throat. “But it’s voluntary, right? You’re offering this to all the middle managers?”
“The offer will go out to the others in due course if necessary,” I said, “but you are the first person I’ve spoken to.”
“And if I... If I choose not to take it...”
“You’re free to remain in post if you wish, of course,” I replied. “However...”
I let the word hang for a moment. Roland was sweating. I let him.
“I’ve been reviewing your file,” I said, straightening it on my desk. “Due to the high number of complaints from members of your team, if you do choose to remain in post then we will most certainly be starting the grievance procedure. This may or may not rule in your favour but it is worth considering how much easier you will find it to get a new job if you leave here with your references good and on a voluntary basis. Being sacked for gross misconduct could easily dog your career for many a year.”
I smiled.
It was unbelievable, the flow that was coming from my lips and the clinical coldness of it was sending me reeling too. But on the other hand, this man had made my life hell ever since I met him and it was immensely gratifying to be able to mete out some juicy revenge.
“Well I’ll... I’ll give it some thought,” he said.
“You do that,” I replied. “But if I could have your decision by close of play Monday I'd be very grateful.”
8
After Roland left the office I sat looking down at the river, practically beaming.
It had felt incredible to do that to him after all the bullying; to have the power to do it. I felt astonishingly good. And the longer I stayed like this, the more comfortable I felt.
If I was right about my spirit theory then my soul was getting more and more used to this new shell of mine and I was continuing to assimilate the knowledge as well.
I went back to the computer. I was able to find my way around my data files and folders easily. I already sort of knew where things were. I glanced into my Outlook calendar and saw meetings from earlier that day and throughout the week. Marjorie Ferguson hadn’t existed in the company before that lunchtime – the position had been vacant – but now, that reality had been tweaked. Although I couldn’t picture these meetings I could still bring up the knowledge of what was discussed and what decisions were made.
This wasn’t a life I would have to sneak around in like a spy, trying to pretend as an imposter. I really was an HR Manager now and I knew that the intricacies of the female condition would not be a mystery to me either. Feminine hygiene; hair; make-up; the ongoing beauty routine: none of this held trepidation for me. It was all going to come as naturally as being a manager was.
I pushed back my chair and gripped my bare knees, lifting my lower legs so I could look down the length of them.
Surely I wasn’t considering really staying this way?
I didn’t want to be a woman. I didn’t want to be... forty six next birthday.
Did I?
What about the lost years? Death would be significantly closer.
But then, women did live longer than men. And I was forever eating junk food in my normal life. Maybe this was my route to more advanced years overall.
And I knew without doubt that I would never advance to this kind of position as Lionel. Never in a million years. I'd just get older and older in that same shitty job role, hitting the top of my grade and then festering until I died early of general and total despair.
It was almost too big to decide.
Instead, for now, I got to work, going through the emails that were in my new inbox and responding to them; delegating tasks to various members of the HR team whose names and roles now came to mind with little thought.
I got a call from Zoe Kellerman and met her for coffee in the executive lounge. We chatted about women’s fashion and make-up for half an hour as I sat with my legs crossed at the knee, completely comfortable. Knowledge of these things seemed second nature to me now and I found myself with strong opinions on what combinations worked and which didn’t.
Zoe was a lot of fun and I found it much easier to identify with her than I did with, say, my new PA, Ellen. Ellen was on an entirely different level. Her view of the world was so limited from being so close to the bottom of the pecking order.
I was thriving on this as I never had before. I’d never felt so happy or so confident.
After our chat I returned to my office and got to work, reviewing some new job descriptions that one of my minions had written for a couple of new posts downstairs on eighth. I tutted to myself as I made corrections in red at the poor grasp this person had of employment law.
When I looked at the clock it was six thirty and most of the floor was in darkness. It had been raining on and off through the day. It was only luck that I'd made it to the well and back without getting drenched at lunchtime.
Only luck...
With the rain clouds and the hour it was really starting to get dark.
I shut down the computer and then, with a moment’s thought decided to pack my briefcase with some files to go through over the weekend so I could hit the ground running on Monday morning.
That made me pause for thought and look into my pale reflection in the darkening floor-length windows, my chubby arms wrapped round my generous chest.
Being this woman from minute to minute was one thing. It was kind of mad and exciting all at the same time. I was just living this twisted version of my fondest dream. But to plan for a new day? A new week? That was something else.
What about my proper life? What about Jenny?
I pursed my lips, frowning, looking down the reflection to the legs and skirt again, up to the wide hips and swollen pear-shaped stomach, the round shoulders and blond hair, the troubled woman’s face.
Of course I couldn't stay this way.
Of course I couldn’t. It was ridiculous.
I had to go back to the wishing well and try to fix it; turn my life back to what it was meant to be.
Feeling melancholy and conflicted, I put the blue suit jacket on, straightened the three-quarter-length sleeves, then picked up the handbag I knew would contain my car keys and went to the door.
I paused there in the open doorframe and looked back.
I just couldn’t decide, however obvious the decision seemed to be.
Before I could offer any resistance I walked back to the desk and took up the briefcase full of files.
“Just in case,” I said to myself; then I left my office and headed for the lifts.
9
I decided to drive round to the well. It was getting late and Jenny was sure to be worrying.
And it was too far to walk in these heels. Not to mention the fact that this new body of mine wasn’t built for taking too much exercise. Leaving the building and walking outside made me acutely aware again of the femininity of my new shape and clothing: the click of my heels on the tarmac, the very slight waddle to my gait, the chill around my calves, the flutter of my hair in the breeze. My strength wasn’t what it was. Carrying the briefcase full of files was making my arm ache, but that, strangely, made me feel more content.
It was weird. And it was all uncharted territory.
The car park was mostly empty but when I got to my space I frowned to see it empty. My car was gone. I looked round for it until it occurred to me that my new persona might own a different car.
I rooted through my handbag until I found a thick electronic car key and pressed the button. Twin peeps came from somewhere behind and to my right. I turned and saw the last of the indicator flash. My new car was parked in one of the reserved slots close to the building. It was a sporty but feminine little convertible in red.
I smiled and shook my head ruefully. The surprises just kept on coming and this new life was feeling more seductive by the minute.
I dumped my briefcase and handbag on the passenger seat then let her rip. This wasn’t a cheap knock-off sports car. It had real power under the bonnet. I could never have afforded it in my former life.
I drove it out of the car park and joined the feeder road back down to the Banbury Way. I took the third exit from the roundabout artfully and speeded down the dual carriageway toward the next junction.
The town centre was lit up on either side, Tower Gates to the right, the pedestrianised areas to the left. I queued in the post-rush hour traffic and turned right when I got to the roundabout. Bycastle hadn’t changed much in centuries. The listed buildings had prevented much, if any modernisation. As a result it took me a while to snake through to the riverbank and even then I wasn’t right beside the well.
I parked on the street and took the path at the end of the road that led up onto the bank. Down to the left, the castle was a silhouette against the darkening sky. I was glad the rain had stopped again. I followed the path to the right, looking out for the wishing well and saw it as I rounded some bushes, stopping dead.
Now I was back here, the immediacy of my dreaded decision hit me hard; though I didn’t know if it would even work again. I couldn’t be... entirely sure it was the wishing well that changed me; though what else could have, I couldn’t imagine. Nockton didn’t have some secret force dolling out free wishes willy-nilly.
I shrugged. All I could do was try it again and see what came of it. It was the only fair thing to do by Jenny. She didn’t want to lose me, did she?
I walked slowly on this final approach, thinking back to the different pleasures of the afternoon; the look on Roland’s face when I told him what for; the respect I’d had as a senior manager, and perhaps most importantly... the feeling that in this life I hadn’t pissed my education down the toilet. I actually had a career that was going places; a role that really influenced things.
The interior of the well was total blackness now under the coming evening and the glowering clouds. I couldn’t see the difference between the old brick walls and the circle of water somewhere down below.
I pursed my lips again and then reluctantly opened my handbag and then my purse. It had been so natural to bring it with me. I hadn’t even noticed the automaticity.
There was a bright shiny fifty pence piece sitting waiting for me in there.
I took it out and held it up so that it glinted in the light from the town centre.
Would it really work? Was it true that all I had to do to strip myself of this new strangely perfect life was make a counter-wish and let it fall?
And what wish should I make?
To be Lionel Humber again? Boring old Lionel Humber? With nothing going for him but a pretty young girlfriend that he didn’t deserve?
I sighed heavily.
I didn’t mind going back to Jenny again, but returning to my old job filled me with dread, especially with the knowledge I now had regarding the likely wave of redundancies in that department. I couldn’t bear to be so low after being so much more important for a day.
I sighed again.
What if... I just stayed this way for a little bit longer? What could that hurt?
I considered that for a moment.
I liked the sound of it, very much.
Being a woman just felt so natural to me now. It would seem weird to go back to being a man. And I could make a decision at any time. A month in the future. A year!
I’d longed my whole life to be in this kind of position, and even twisted as it was, I still wanted it. I didn’t know why the fact of it didn’t repulse me. But it didn’t.
What if I just stayed this way for now... until I'd got that out of my system? The wishing well had stood here for centuries. It would still be there long after I was gone. There really was no hurry to make a decision and make that wish. It would be kind of stupid to rush back now that I had this unique opportunity.
I closed the fifty pence piece into my fist and nodded to myself.
Yes. That was it. The decision was made.
I popped it back in my purse and zipped that safely into my handbag.
I would remain as I was for a while longer. Just a while longer. Until I’d had enough. That was all.
I turned my mouth up at the corners, questioning my decision just once more.
No. This felt right. It was what I wanted.
I looked down at my woman’s body again: the blue skirt and jacket; the matching heels.
Then I tucked my handbag under my arm and started walking back toward my new sports car.
10
I worked my way back to the Banbury Way and crossed straight over it at the roundabout, joining the upper ring road. The road skirted round Breton Hill and then climbed up to pass over it at the foot of Chauncy and then plummeted back down to the back of Ockham trading estate. I passed it and got off at the next exit, driving through the streets of Ashfield.
A lot of the housing here was multiple occupancy, houses converted into flats. It was the only place south of Barton where Jenny and I could afford to live that still had a little garden. Breton was cheaper but it was too noisy.
As I approached our street I started to feel anxious.
How could I roll up looking like I did? What on Earth would she say when I told her I was her boyfriend in the most convincing drag the world had ever seen?
Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe I should stay clear; send her an email saying I had to go away for a week or two.
Or, more likely; what if she didn’t even know me anymore? My former identity seemed to have been erased from existence at work. That was the most likely situation at home too.
I pulled up at the front and peered up at the windows. The lights were out.
I pursed my lips and then got out.
There was a FOR LET sign in the front garden. On a little square at the top of it were the words, GROUND FLOOR FLAT.
My shoulders sagged a little. My home was gone. Jenny was gone – presumably off living the life she would have led if she had never met me.
She was probably happier as a result. I should let well enough alone.
I sighed. Maybe that was how it was meant to be. I had always felt out of my league with her. She was just so beautiful. She could have been a model easily.
I got back in the car. Then I sat there trying to decide what to do.
In the end I had the idea of rooting through my new womanly handbag. If I had a job in this new life then surely I had a place to live as well.
I searched through the contents until I found a folded up envelope containing a utility bill – kept, I guessed, to prove identity for some reason or other. I opened it out and raised my eyebrows when I saw the address. Nunnery Lane, Wilder’s Pool, Nockton. Not bad. Not bad at all.
I started the engine and pulled off.
It was back around the ring road, the way I’d come; back up over the hill and down the other side. Wilder’s Pool was one of the nicest areas of Nockton. Not all of it, but most was made up of big family homes with fair sized gardens. It was a pleasant suburb for the reasonably well to do. I got off at the Redbush roundabout and drove through the suburbs until I got to the fancier houses of Wilder’s Pool. It wasn’t a road name I was familiar with – I’d rarely if ever been down that way – so I drove round slowly, keeping my eyes peeled.
My mind was chuntering along, trying to predict what I'd find. For all I knew I had a husband and a family in this new life. Realising that made me check my hand and I noticed for the first time the pair of rings on the third finger of my left hand. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t spotted them before.
But the reality of that hit me hard.
A husband? Really?
Becoming a woman myself was one thing; taking on such a lucrative and powerful post at work. But sharing my life with a man? That was something that left me cold.
My train of thought was disrupted when I spotted a road sign with the right name.
I indicated and turned in, scooted along until I saw the right number and parked.
Now I was here my nerves jangled noisily.
Anything could be waiting for me in there.
The house was very big and well-tended. It had a large front garden, off-road parking and a garage. There was a wide dormer window in the attic room and plenty of space inside to look at it.
It really was everything I'd always wanted for my life.
And yes, I had never intended for it to be like this; but there was an itch in me to see this through. To find out what it would be like to go in there and check it out. Even to see this husband and try living with him.
I held my breath and climbed out of the car.
The lights were on in the house. It looked so welcoming. I couldn’t wait to see inside.
I opened the gate and walked up the path; hesitated at the door. I would have a key after all, wouldn’t I? I hunted for it in my bag then lifted it with a shaking hand and inserted it in the lock. It turned easily and the door sprang open.
I stepped nervously into the spacious hall. It was all wood panelling and tasteful decor. It was like paradise.
No one was in sight. I couldn’t hear anything.
“Hello?” I said, my voice faint and tremulous. I cleared my throat and said it again, louder this time. “Hello?”
Somewhere in the back of the house I heard something.
“Is anyone in?” I called.
I heard footsteps coming. My heart leapt to my throat.
Then a man came into view wearing a suit and tie. He had a moustache, a rapidly balding head and enough lines on his face to put him in his late forties at least, especially considering his pot belly.
He stared at me for a second and I stared back at him.
Was this really the man I was going to have to live with? Sleep with? Maybe have sex with? And how did I feel about that?
Then in his gravelly voice he said something that stopped my heart.
“Lionel? Is that you?”
I gaped at him, unsure I was hearing right. How could he know who I really was?
And then the penny dropped and I mouthed in wonder, “Jenny?”
“I knew it!” cried the man. “I bloody well knew it!”
“Jenny? Is that really you?”
Really the beautiful slender girl with the long legs and beautiful breasts?
“You did this to me somehow, didn’t you?” he snarled.
“What?”
“Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your face!”
“But Jenny? Is that really you?”
“Yes it’s me!” shouted the balding businessman. “I turned into this, this afternoon! And you had something to do with it, didn’t you?”
“Jenny... Wait. Just wait and listen to me,” I stammered. I didn’t know what to think.
“I know you did it!” he cried. “Somehow!” He grabbed the front of my jacket, pulling me forward and thrust his face into mine. “Now bloody well turn us back!”
If you liked this then read the complete compilation of stories in A New You on Amazon.
There are also two further episodes to Wishing Well available in A New You volumes two and three.
You can also follow my serialised transformation stories every other day on http://transformation-stories.blogspot.co.uk/