Consequences II: Male Privilege free porn video

This is the second story in the "Consequences" series. What happens when a woman uses some power of wishes to forcibly trade places with her best friend because she believes he has it easier just because he's a man? A couple of snippets of song lyrics appear in this story. They are, in order of appearance, from the following songs and artists - "The World I know" - Collective Soul "Galileo" - Indigo Girls "All Fired Up" - Pat Benatar The song lyrics are copyright various by their respective artists and/or labels. The rest of the story, of course, is copyright 2000 by Christina Myria Kenyon. All rights reserved, No-deposit/No-return. This story does contain harsh language and some sexual situations, persons bothered by either are hereby advised to hit the delete key. Persons looking for a happy ending... Well, that all depends on your definition of a happy ending and a happy ending for whom. As is usual for me, this story did not come out anything like what I had originally imagined. It's definitely not my best work by any stretch of the imagination, and there's some question in my own mind as to how well the result fits into the "Consequences" theme. But as it does fit the basic parameters I originally envisioned, I present it here for your consideration. Consequences II: Male Privilege By Myria "Do you ever think about how you've gotten to where you are, Michael?" Michael shrugged, and, setting his beer on the end table, sat back in the couch as he eyed his friend speculatively. "Sometimes, why?" He was almost afraid to ask, he knew that look. Tasha had drank just a little too much and was about to launch into one of her philosophical rants. "I've been thinking about it a lot," Tasha said, lighting a cigarette and then taking a sip off of her white russian. "I didn't get the buyer's job." "I'm sorry, hun," he said, "why didn't you tell me?" "It doesn't matter," she said, shaking her head and angrily flinging back a stray lock of long mahogany hair, "I didn't think I would get it, they gave it to Manucso." "Oh geeze, that asshole?" "Yeah. That white male asshole." Michael felt his mental defenses go up through the slight haze of too much beer. Here it comes, he thought. "What does that have to do with it?" "Nothing... Maybe everything. I've just been thinking. Look at you and me. We're the same age, we went to the same schools, we work at the same company, but look at us." She paused, taking a puff off of her cigarette. "I'm a pissant distributor, not making squat and you're a middle manager with a nice office and a great salary. Why is that?" "Maybe because I stayed in school and got my MBA and you dropped out after only two years?" Michael said, feeling a bit angry. "I couldn't afford to stay in school, you know that." "I know it was hard for you after your parents died. I tried to help, remember? You could have stayed in school, but you just gave up. Do you think I could afford to stay in school? Have you looked at my student loan payments lately?" "It's always so easy with you, isn't it? Always so cut and dried." "Easy for me? It hasn't been easy for me, you know that. I don't have any perfect life and I don't like my job much more than you do. But at least I've tried! What about you, Tasha? You always just give up." "I do not give up, dammit." "Oh please. You gave up on school, you've given up on almost ever relationship you've ever had, you even gave up on that promotion. You told me you weren't going to even try because you knew you wouldn't get it. Well guess what? If you didn't try it's no surprise you didn't get it." "That's not fair." "Isn't it? You wouldn't even have the job you do if I hadn't pushed you into it. The only reason you have this house is because you inherited it. You never try, and then you tell me how I'm the one who has it easy? I've worked my ass off to get to where I am." He took a deep breath. "Jesus Christ, Tasha, we're supposed to be friends. I don't deserve to be attacked like this." "We are friends, Michael, you're my best friend in the world and I love you dearly, but you've blinded yourself to why it is you've gotten ahead. You don't want to see it." "What have I supposedly blinded myself to?" "Two words - male privilege." "What is that supposed to mean?" "It means that things are a lot easier for you because you're a guy. You get the benefit of the doubt, people listen to you. When a woman talks people ignore her, when a guy talks people take notice. When it comes time for promotions, who's the first one who gets considered, a man or a woman? Even in school it was the same. Look at you, you dominated every class you were ever in." "You're saying that I've had it easy because I'm a guy?" "Basically, yes," Tasha said with a nod. "And you've had it hard because you're a woman?" "Exactly." "Bullshit. I haven't had it easy at all. No one has handed me anything just because I'm a man or for any other reason. I wish you could be in my shoes, Tasha, and see just how hard I've had to work. How hard I work every day just to try and get ahead. Tasha smiled, a self-satisfied smile that made Michael wonder just what was going on in her head. "I hoped you would say something like that." "Why?" "Because," she said, "just because. I wish you could be in my shoes, Michael, so you could see just how different things are on my side of the fence and how the cards are stacked against me. Stacked against any woman." "Well that's just fine. Too bad we can't be in each other's shoes, isn't it?" "Maybe we can't. Or, maybe we can." Tasha said, that enigmatic smile still on her face. "You're drunk, Tasha," Michael said, shaking his head. She laughed. "Yeah, more than a little. I think maybe I should go to bed." He helped her up the stairs, she was clearly more drunk than he'd thought, and to her bedroom. She turned at the door to face him, "Look, I'm sorry we fought, but I'm not sorry for what I said." "I'm sorry we fought too," he said, smiling a little as the tension between them drained. She pulled him down a little and kissed him on the cheek. "Still friends?" "Of course, always. But I still think you're full of it." "Silly boy," she said, poking him lightly in the ribs. "Lock up when you leave." He nodded. "Sweet dreams," he said as she closed the door. He went back downstairs and sat on the couch to finish his beer. She could be so maddening sometimes, apt to come at anything from an odd angle. But he did love her dearly. They'd known each other since kindergarten, been best friends since the fifth grade. They'd gone through so much together, if things had been different they might have been married by now and starting a family. They had dated briefly in college, but fortunately they'd both realized what a mistake that was before any real damage had been done to their friendship. In many ways they were like siblings, that was to precious to them both to be worth risking on the often dangerous shoals of love. He just wished she could see how stupid she was being, how useless it was to blame your problems on anything and everything else. If she'd just try she could do so well. She was an incredibly bright woman, she could be focused and driven when she wanted something badly enough, but she just gave up far too easily. The first time the smallest thing went wrong, she quit trying. Somehow she'd gotten it into her head that things should just be handed to her, and that just wasn't the way the world worked. He finished his beer and set it down, trying to decide if he wanted another or not. He decided not, it was time to get home. As he locked up the house and left he resolved to talk to her about this more when she was in a more receptive state. She really could do so much better if she would just try harder, he had to find a way to make her see that. Not when they were both half in the bag, though. He'd have to come back in the morning anyway, he decided, he'd had a few too many beers to risk driving even the short distance between her house and his condo. +++ It was still dark when he woke up. The sun hadn't even begun to rise, the only light was the reflection of street lamps. He had a raging headache, a hangover way out of proportion with the relatively small, at least for a Friday night, amount of beer he'd drank. Something felt... Off. He quickly scanned the room, even in the dark it was obvious what it was. He wasn't in his condo, his bedroom. He was in the house, Tasha's bedroom. He shook his head. But that didn't make any sense, he distinctly remembered having walked home, undressed, and gone to sleep in his own bed. He tried to focus through the headache-induced haze, but no answer was forthcoming. Oh no, they hadn't... Had they? He reached over and felt the other side of the bed. No Tasha, she wasn't in bed with him, thank god. Sitting up in the bed, moaning slightly as he discovered that his muscles were almost as sore as his head, he reached over and grabbed his glasses, quickly putting them on. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong with that. He didn't wear glasses, his vision was better than 20/20. These were Tasha's, what she wore when she didn't have contacts in. Why had he put them on automatically like that? He had no clue. He took the glasses off and set them back on the nightstand. Things seemed a little blurry without them, but that was just because it was dark. Tossing the sheet and covers aside, he sat up on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. This headache was killer, maybe some Ibus would help? Something, anything, then maybe he could get back to sleep and worry about figuring out all of this weirdness in the morning. Standing up he lost his balance and almost fell. The bed seemed like it was way too high. What the hell had she done, put it on stilts? Regaining his balance, he walked quickly to the master bathroom. He knew Tasha's house as well as he knew his own place, it took him mere seconds to get there but, as weird as everything was, it felt like it took much longer. Shielding his eyes as he turned on the bathroom light, he was surprised to note that didn't help with the blurry vision much. A side-effect of the hangover? That didn't make much sense, it had never happened before. Slowly taking his hand from his eyes, he felt the light stab into his already pained skull. So focused was he on the matter of his vision being off that it took him a moment to notice that it wasn't just his eyesight that was wrong. The person looking back at him was not who it should be. Quickly, almost comically, he spun around, nearly losing his balance again in the process. There was no one behind him, no one else in the bathroom. He turned back to the mirror, the image was the same. Though he couldn't discern details overly well, it wasn't him. The most obvious thing was the hair, the person in the mirror had long dark brown-red hair. He reached up, the image in the mirror tracking his movements exactly and putting lie to his first thought, that it was some sort of trick. A poster or something made to look like a mirror and put there as a joke. He could feel the hair, so different from his own short-cropped coarse sandy-brown hair. It was long and pulled back in a ponytail. He reached back and pulled the long pony-tail in front of him. This close to his face things were more in focus and clearer, oddly enough, and he recognized the colour and texture of that hair. His focus shifted to his hand as he released his hair, this close he could see the fine blue veins beneath the milk-white skin, fine lines crisscrossing across the back of his hand, the long fingers, the medium-length pink-painted shiny manicured nails. It was all wrong. He leaned against the counter, putting his face closer to the mirror until things were in focus, or as close to focus as he could manage. The heart shaped face, the thin brows, the gray-green eyes, the high prominent cheekbones, the too-perky nose, the tight lips, it was all so familiar, if so different when seen from this angle. This is impossible! He thought, even knowing how real it had to be. Standing up straight again, he looked down, knowing from the mirror what he would see and yet having to look anyway. A prominent bustline, her bustline, seeming somehow smaller when viewed from above. Ample cleavage embarrassingly on display in the low-cut spaghetti-strapped black lace and satin negligee. He turned and walked back into the bedroom. All thoughts of getting a pain-reliever had vanished, if he'd thought about it he would have realized that the headache and muscle aches were fading anyway. The notion of going back to bed seemed somehow comforting, yet he knew sleep would be impossible. Mostly he just wanted to get away from that mirror, he'd seen too much already. He was shaking so hard that he almost knocked the glasses off of the end table, but finally managed to grab them and put them on. So this is what it's like to need glasses, some idle part of his mind mused as his world suddenly came into focus. He had to laugh at the absurdity of that thought, hysterical giggles that were abruptly murdered by the too-wrong pitch of his own laughter. Without really giving it much consideration, he headed downstairs to the kitchen. Filling the coffee machine with water and grinding the beans was automatic, requiring no thought. He sat at the kitchen table as the coffee brewed, staring at the coffee maker as he tried to will himself into his own kitchen instead of Tasha's. Nothing changed, and when the coffee was ready he filled a cup and went out to the living room. Setting the cup on the coffee table, he sat on the couch, curling his legs beneath him. It was a motion that was at once familiar and yet alien, something he'd seen Tasha do a thousand times but not a way he himself sat. Having to adjust the hemline of the negligee as he sat annoyingly brought the absurdity of the situation crashing back down upon him, as if he'd needed any reminders. He should change, if for no other reason than to put on something warmer in the cold morning air. But no, that would require... It would require acknowledging things he would rather not deal with right now. He took the afghan of the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself. Picking the coffee cup up, he took a sip. Warm and comforting, at least some things hadn't changed. It was only then that it occurred to him that he didn't drink coffee, couldn't stand the stuff. Coffee was one of Tasha's vices. He set the coffee cup down, ignoring it as the liquid slowly cooled. He sat there for a long time, hours at least. The only indicator of how long being the rising sun, it's light slowly marching into the room like an unwelcome invading army. There were only so many possibilities that could explain what had happened, and none of them were very comforting. This could all be a dream, but that didn't seem very likely. There is a quality to dreams distinct from the quality of reality and this definitely had the feel of reality. He could have somehow gone insane and this was some sort of psychosis playing out in his mind. Or he could be drugged, perhaps he was laying in a hospital with an IV dripping into him and somehow his mind had created this seeming reality to comfort him. Not very comforting, and either way - insane or sick or drugged - he couldn't test it and he couldn't do anything about it if that was the case. Best for now to assume it wasn't. That left only one real possibility. Somehow, insane as it sounded, he really was in his best friend's body. As much as he didn't like the idea, for now he would have to assume that was the case. That left two other interrelated questions. First, what had happened to Tasha? And second, what about his own body? Tasha could be inside with him somehow, perhaps dormant or perhaps not able to communicate with him. It would certainly explain some of the things he'd done, like reaching for the glasses before he knew that he needed them, or the thing with the coffee. But it was also possible that however he had come to be in her body, she had simply ceased to exist - not a happy thought. Or she could be in another body, having switched the way he apparently had. Perhaps she was in his body, or perhaps in someone else. And as for his own body? The options were somewhat similar. It could be that he was still in his own body, that the person inhabiting Tasha's body and thinking these thoughts was a copy or a replica. Or perhaps his body had simply ceased to exist when whatever happened that caused him to be in Tasha's body. Perhaps he had never even been? Or Tasha, or even someone else, could be in his body. Maybe even they, whoever they might be, were sitting in his living room right now and thinking similar thoughts? He knew he wouldn't find the answers, couldn't find the answers, just sitting there on Tasha's couch. But he couldn't bring himself to do anything, instead being stuck in an endless loop as his mind went over and over and over the possibilities. +++ "That can't be very comfortable," an unfamiliar male voice said. She woke up with a start, she must have fallen asleep and hadn't heard anyone come in. There he was, big as daylight, standing by the closed front door, a silly grin on his face. Him, he, her old body. It was odd to see him from this vantage point, almost as shocking as it had been to see herself in Tasha's body. He seemed too tall somehow, gangly, and thinner than he'd seemed when she had been in that body less than twelve hours before. His voice sounded wrong, too, it was all wrong. "Who are you and how did you get in?" She asked, the questions sounding stupid seconds after they were past her lips. "I'm your best friend, silly. I'm Michael, and I got in using my key." He held up his key ring then put it in his pocket and sat down in an overstuffed chair beside the couch. "Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" She shook her head. "No, someone woke up in the wrong bed." Where to even start? A lot depended on who it was in that body. "I know who you are, it's who you maybe were that's the question." She took a deep breath. "The oddest thing has happened..." "Yes, I know. When you went home last night you were Michael and everything was normal. You woke up this morning and you were Tasha. Does that about cover it?" "It barely starts to cover it, but it will do for now. I'm guessing that you're Tasha in there?" "Uh-uh. I used to be Tasha, now I'm Michael. You're Tasha, have you looked in a mirror lately?" "I have, and got the biggest shock of my life. I'm not exactly in the mood for semantic games." "Oh? That's too bad. Well, I just came over to see how you were getting along. Since you're in such a pissy mood I guess I'll get going." He started to rise. "No, wait! Do you have any idea how this happened?" He settled back down into the chair. "Sure, you made a wish. Or, more accurately, we made a wish together." "A wish? What are you talking about?" "Don't you remember? How did it go? 'I wish that you could be in my shoes so you could know what it's like'? Something like that, anyway. Well, we both got our wish." The light was slowly starting to dawn in Tasha's mind. "You knew this was going to happen?" "Let's just say I hoped it would." "What did you do?" Tasha demanded, anger starting to come to the fore. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Trust me, it was complicated and more than a bit expensive. But it was worth it!" "Well whatever you did, we have to undo it. Now!" "You think so?" Michael considered for a moment, and then smiled. "Nah." "You're kidding me? You want to stay this way?" "Sure, why not enjoy?" "I'm not enjoying, dammit." "Well you'd better start." "No thank you, I want my old body back." Tasha thought for a moment, then closed her eyes. "I wish I was back in my old body." If it had worked once, maybe it would work again. "Nope, won't work," Michael said, smiling gleefully. Tasha frowned, then tried again. "I wish I was back in my own shoes." "Nope, that won't work either. Besides, these shoes would be way too big on you and I don't think they're you're style." "Why won't it work?" Tasha growled. "Because we both have to want to go back, and I don't want to." "You're insane." "Perhaps." "Why don't you want to go back?" "Because, I'm making a point. I want you to see what it's like to go through life without your male privilege. Besides, I figure I deserve to enjoy a little myself. And I must say, you've got a nice body here, I always did think you were sexy. And you," he looked her over appreciatively, "it's funny how different things are looking from the outside in from how they were being on the inside looking you, isn't it? I never really appreciated it when I was in that body, but you're a real hottie." In a blinding rage she was on her feet and standing in front of him before it had really registered in her conscious mind that she was moving. Flailing at him with clinched fists, she pounded his shoulders and chest. He let her for a moment, his laughter feeding her anger, and then snatched her arms out of the air and held them back effortlessly. "You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to," he said, still laughing. "What a rush!" "Let me get a baseball bat," she said through clenched teeth, "and then we'll see if I can hurt you." He squeezed her forearms hard enough to make her wince, and then shoved her backwards. She hit the corner of the coffee table and fell over backwards on the plush gold carpeting. "Learn some manners, bitch," he said, clearly no longer amused, "or someone is going to end up backhanding you into next Wednesday." "You're insane," she said, collecting herself and rising to return to the couch. "How do you expect to pull this off? You don't know the first thing about being a man, and I don't know the first thing about being a woman." "Sure you do." He stood and adjusted his tie. "How do you think I got this tie tied? Before this morning I'd never done it. I may not have known how, but my body did. Muscular memory, it's all still there. Just don't think about it, do it, your body knows how." He walked over to the door. "Well, that's enough fun for today, I'll be busy all weekend so don't bother to call. I expect to see you Monday at work bright and early, and if you're smart you'll come in exactly like I would have and not fuck this up." "Why should I? Why shouldn't I fuck your little game up?" "Because if you want your old life back you'll play by my rules. Otherwise..." "Bastard!" She yelled, picking a book up off the coffee table and heaving it at him. "Temper, temper," He said, easily swatting the book out of the air before it could hit him. He opened the door and started to leave, then paused. "Oh, and by the way, you throw like a girl." He was out the door before she could throw another book at him. +++ Tasha watched the door close and felt the tears starting to well up. A small moan escaped her lips, a sad, almost pathetic, sound of helplessness and fear. Her fists slammed into the soft cushions of the couch in frustration, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. She didn't even notice as she cried, the tears forming rivulets of hurt down her cheeks till there seemed no end. She cried so hard it hurt, her arms crossed under her bust as she rocked back and forth on the couch. He abdominal muscles cramping from the sobs, her lungs gasping for air in between the moans. Finally she started to regain some modicum of composure, the crying slowly becoming a quiet moan again and then it was gone. The hurt, anger, and frustration were still there, but the crying had seemed to somehow help. She'd never cried like that in her life, as Michael she'd not cried since the fourth grade, and she was surprised at how cathartic it had been. She wiped her tears away as best she could on the back of the afghan, hoping they wouldn't stain it. God, he had been such an asshole! How could her best friend have done this to her? In that moment she hated him, and in doing so in a way hated herself. Had she been like that when she'd been Michael just a few hours before? That arrogant, that smug, that unfeeling for others? No, she hadn't, she never would have done this to her worst enemy, let alone her best friend. And she never would have treated anyone so callously. How had all of this happened? It didn't make any sense. You just didn't make a stupid wish and have it come true, not like that. He had done something to make it this happen, but what? Tasha - the old Tasha - had been a lot worse off than she'd known. Somewhere along the line she must have blown some major circuit breakers upstairs, it was the only explanation. The only thing she could think of that could cause her old friend to have done something like this. To have abused her and her trust like this. That was a scary thought, as it made her wonder just what the now-Michael was capable of. Clearly he was enjoying this, not distressed in the least, and had some sort of plan for this, as he seemed to see it, game. The question was, should she go along and hope that he grew bored of it and let her have her old life back? Or should she try and fight him? She tentatively decided on both. Not to openly fight him, she was sure she would lose if she did that, but not to exactly go along either. She rose and went into the kitchen. After blowing her nose on a paper towel, she splashed her face with water in the sink and then made another cup of coffee. Screw whether she used to like it or not, right now she wanted it. She grabbed her purse from the kitchen table and took that and the coffee back into the front room and sat back on the couch. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one after wrapping herself back in the afghan. It occurred to her that at some point she was going to have to change, she was going to have to shower, she was going to have to deal with this new body of hers, but she didn't even want think about that. She could already feel herself starting to need to go to the bathroom, and she didn't want to think about that, either, let alone deal with it. But unless she was willing to let things get really messy, she was going to have to. She took another puff off of the cigarette and only then realized what she was doing. She quickly put the cigarette out, feeling as if she had somehow betrayed something. She didn't smoke, she didn't drink coffee, those were Tasha's vices, not hers. And yet there had been the desire and the virtually automatic actions to fulfill it. Muscular memory? It went well beyond that. Like her temper. God, how stupid she had been to attack Michael like that. He was at least twice her size and probably four times as strong, what had she expected would happen? And yet it had been automatic, the fury and the action. That wasn't like her at all. Or, at least, it wasn't like the old her, anymore than lighting a cigarette was. It seemed like she had inherited the emotions and habits of the old Tasha, not just the muscular memory Michael had described. All of those things that we don't even really think about most of the time that make up a goodly part of who and what we are. The higher functions, her thoughts, her personality, and how she dealt with things, were the same, but what was below the surface had radically changed. She wondered how much that would change her and if things would go back to the way they were once she was back in her own body. One thing she was sure would not change, the hurt and anger she felt at the person who was now Michael. It never occurred to her to wonder why it was that she now thought of herself as Tasha, had since waking up. Why she thought of herself as female, and that other person, the person who was now Michael, as male. It was just as well that Michael-cum-Tasha retained her pragmatism, it didn't need examining as it just was, because not to far down that mental path lay potential madness and she was close enough to the edge as it was. +++ She spent much of the rest of the weekend on that couch, thinking, even sleeping on the couch Saturday night. She did, of course, have to go to the bathroom many times, in fact it seemed like she had to go pee every two seconds sometimes. She dealt with that in a time honored fashion, by not dealing with it. Things weren't that different, if she told herself that enough times she might believe it. In a sense it was even true, even if the things that were different were the real problem. She didn't change or shower the entire weekend, even though she knew she was grody long before Sunday night came along. She just wasn't willing to deal with what those actions would entail, her skills of repression weren't quite up to that task. She didn't eat a lot, fortunately it turned out that she didn't need to. A quick salad was generally enough to satisfy her. She didn't even get drunk, tempting as the idea was. She did sleep a lot, that was the only thing that seemed to help. Watching TV was a waste, her thoughts were too chaotic to allow her to concentrate on anything for very long and the blather of the TV merely annoyed her. Her resolve not to smoke dissolved less than an hour after she put out that first cigarette, and, if she'd thought of it she would have realized that her occasional frequent need to urinate could be traced right back to the copious amounts of coffee she drank whenever the mood struck her. Periodically through the weekend she tried wishing herself back to her old life. She tried willing herself back, praying herself back, everything she could think of. Nothing worked or seemed to have any effect at all. She could almost hear Michael's laughter each time she tried. She had made a brief stab at finding anything in the house that might tell her what Tasha-cum-Michael had done to cause this, but there was nothing. Nothing she recognized, anyway. Monday morning came far too quickly. As she'd gotten quite a lot of sleep that weekend, despite the large amount of caffeine she'd ingested at points, she woke up long before the alarm went off. It was four AM and she had three hours before she had to leave for work. She sat at the kitchen table waking up, having a cigarette, and drinking coffee. What to do? She could just say screw it, maybe call in sick or just ignore work entirely. There were two problems with that option. First, she was sure that Michael would be pissed as all get out if she didn't show up at work and God only knew what kind of pay-back he might come up with. Secondly, she had no idea how long she might be stuck in this body, and for as long as she was in this life she needed that job to pay bills and such. She had no idea exactly how much money was in the bank accounts that were now hers, but she knew it wasn't much. Combined, those things made blowing off her job entirely a really bad idea. She could just throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and go into work. That option had some real appeal, presuming she even owned any jeans. Something she wasn't sure of, as she couldn't recall seeing Tasha in a pair of jeans since high school. Slacks and a t-shirt, then. Regardless, there were problems with that. Tasha had a rather particular work "look", whatever else you could say about her she was an excellent dresser. Coming in looking like a ragamuffin was going to create all kinds of questions and problems, even if it had been casual Friday. There was also Michael to consider again. He'd been rather specific about things and if it didn't look like she was treating things as just another day god only knew what kind of shit-fit he might throw. And, perhaps most importantly, going into work period would require taking a shower - she wasn't going anywhere as grungy as she felt now - and wearing a bra and panties - she wasn't going out the door with her breasts flopping around and she somehow doubted there were any boxers upstairs or that they would fit, let alone be flattering, if there were. All of these were things she'd been avoiding dealing with, even if she couldn't put it off forever. That left going upstairs, gritting her teeth, and doing the whole girl thing and being pragmatic about it. It ground on her nerves to know that she was basically giving in to Michael's wishes, but she didn't see that she really had any other reasonable options. She tried to tell herself that she was doing the smart thing, as she put out her cigarette and headed up stairs, but she wasn't sure she believed it. Or that she would be able to go through with it. The hardest part, it turned out, was simply taking off the negligee. She spent a long moment just standing in the bathroom, the door closed behind her, gathering her courage. A deep breath and she bunched the bottom of the negligee up in her hands, quickly pulling it off over her head and tossed it aside, unsure if she should put it in with the dirty clothes or burn it. Her panties came off as quickly, joining the negligee in a small pile. There, she'd done it. In the harsh light of the bathroom it was impossible to ignore her own reflection in the mirror. She'd seen naked women before of course, many times. She'd even seen Tasha naked back when they had briefly dated. But it was a very different thing, she discovered yet again, to see another woman naked from yourself being the naked woman. She reached up tentatively, hefting her breasts in her hands. They may have looked smaller looking from above down than they'd seemed been looking at them from the outside, but they certainly seemed big in her hands, and surprisingly heavy. Her nipples were hard in the cold air, her dark brown areola a distinct circle filled with tiny bumps. She squeezed her right nipple gently, what would it be like to have someone touch her breasts, even suck on them? That's what they were for, wasn't it? She shook her head, this was ridiculous, it would get her nowhere. She turned on the hot water, gratified as the mirror quickly steamed up. The hot water felt wonderful as it pounded into her body, relaxing her. She should have done this days before, she'd been silly to worry. She tried to let go, not worry about the still strange to her curves and contours of this body. She had a regular regimen, everyone did, and if she tried to not think about it much she could just do it. It worked, for the most part. She had a bit of trouble washing when the lathered up shower puff naturally enough ended up between her legs. That was just too weird to think about and she pulled her hand back as if she'd been bit, rinsing herself off and letting the hot water again relax her. She did manage to shave under her arms and her legs as naturally as she would have shaved her face only days before. Washing her hair was a bit more confusing, there was a surprising number of bottles in the shower. She finally decided on one that said it was "Clarifying" on the label, whatever exactly that might mean. She could use some clarity, and fortunately there was a matching conditioner. She almost regretted getting out of the shower, but the hot water was starting to run out. She quickly dried herself, then wrapped an oversized towel around her head and another around her body, and stood there wondering what to do next. The first order of business was to do something out her vision. Tasha, the old Tasha, rarely went out of the house with her glasses on, preferring instead to stick to contacts. The box of disposable contacts in the cabinet drawer had clear instructions on them, which helped. The very idea of trying to put something on her eyeball freaked her out more than a little, but people did it every day. Could it be that bad? As with the shower, she tried to relax and let her hands do with the contacts what they apparently knew how to do. Within a minute or so it was done, the contacts were in and she could finally see clearly without needed the glasses. Going back into the bedroom, she was proud of herself that she didn't give a start at the sight of herself in the large mirrored doors of her closet. She was getting used to this surprisingly quickly, it occurred to her to wonder if she should worry about that. She forced the thought out of her head and slid one of the closet doors open, contemplating the rather large and varied array of clothes contained therein. She could go with a pant's suit, something simple but still Tasha-ish. But, no, that would be copping out. If she was going to do this, do it. The only reasonable path right now was through. She picked out an outfit she'd seen Tasha wear many times, grabbed a matching pair of shoes, and set the whole thing on the still-unmade bed. She really should do something about that bed, she thought. She shook her head, what was she thinking? Not now, maybe later. Back in the bathroom she took the towel off her head and found the blow-dryer in the cabinet beneath the sink. She had quite a hard time at first, she kept tangling her hair as the hand with the brush went one way and the hand holding the blow dryer went the other way, but finally she managed to relax enough to let her hands take over and do what they apparently already knew how to do. Even so, it took almost twenty minutes to get her hair well and truly dry. She wondered briefly if it wouldn't be easier if she had her hair cut shorter. But, no, she liked it long. Besides, Michael would probably have a bloody fit. Don't rock the boat, girl, not if you want your old life back. Sitting in front of the vanity in the bedroom she wondered what to do with her hair. She could leave it loose, Tasha often had, but that seemed like it would be distracting. It seemed like every time she moved her head it fell in front of her face. Bangs would fix that, and that she would do if she got a chance, how Michael would react be damned. But what to do now? She could pin it back or she could... It took her three tries, but she was quite proud of herself when she was done. Her long hair was now braided back in a French braid that kept it nice and neat and out of her face. And looked rather flattering, if she did say so herself. That gave her the small boost she needed to have the confidence to do her make-up. Tasha was always well made up at work, but up to that moment she had thought perhaps that would be the one thing she would skip. If she could do that with her hair, though, well she would try. First, she noted as she looked at herself in the magnifying mirror, there were a couple of stray eyebrow hairs that needed to be plucked. That hurt a bit more than she'd expected, especially as she grabbed more skin than hair on the first try, but the rest of it went easily. The whole procedure so ingrained in her hands - her subconscious? - that it went more quickly and easily than she would have thought possible. Foundation, powder, mascara, liner, shadow, blush. She knew exactly what to use and how to do it, everything from using the little triangular sponge to spread her foundation to what an eyelash curler was and how to use it. She didn't know whether to be gratified or frightened by this seemingly automatic knowledge. Getting dressed was equally less problematic than she'd imagined. Once her panties were on it was almost a relief, as that part of her that she didn't want to deal with directly was now locked away and didn't require any more thought. Putting on her bra gave her pause, less the putting on part than the automatic way she bent and adjusted her breasts in the cups. And yet standing up again the bra was almost as comforting as the panties had been. Comforting, secure, not to mention that it took some of the weight of her chest, weight she hadn't even been consciously aware of until then, off of her back muscles. Stockings, red silk shell, short navy skirt with its pleat in the back, matching navy blazer and navy pumps. She checked her look in the big mirrored door of the closet, feeling more than a bit proud of herself. Jewelry! She'd forgotten about that. She went to the jewelry box on the dresser and looked through it. Junk, mostly, she'd always felt that Tasha had lousy taste in jewelry. Odd, as her fashion sense had always seemed near perfect otherwise. She took a few items that she liked out and, with them, sat back in front of the vanity. Half carat diamond studs, matching diamond drop pendant on a thin gold chain short enough to almost qualify as a choker, expensive Cartier bangle watch that she had never seen Tasha wear, a thin ring with a gorgeous emerald-cut ruby, and a serpentine chain anklet with a small heart pendant that had, ironically enough, been a gift she'd given Tasha the Christmas before. Or Michael had given Tasha, or... She shook her head, just thinking about this could give you a migraine very quickly. Finished with the jewelry, she looked back into the magnifying mirror and admired the way the diamonds sparkled. No wonder women loved them. Christ, she'd forgotten lipstick. Why hadn't she put that on when she'd done her make-up, especially as she had put on lip liner? She knew the answer, and that scared her a little as the presence of that knowledge went beyond any "muscular memory". If she'd put on her lipstick before getting dressed she would have risked smearing it on the silk shell if she hadn't been careful. Trying not to think about the implications of that sudden knowledge, she picked a lipstick that very nearly exactly matched her nail polish and painted her lips. A quick coat of lip gloss and now her make-up was done. She stood in front of the big mirrored closet doors again, checking her look yet another time. She felt surprisingly comfortable in these clothes, especially considering she'd never worn a skirt, let alone a short one, in her life. She looked nice, she thought. Long legs encased in dark stockings, her calf's nicely accented by the pumps, going up to a body that was by no means killer but was certainly better than average. Nicely braided hair, perfectly done make-up accentuated what was a pretty enough face. She was proud of herself, had every reason to be. She grabbed the lipstick and gloss, she'd need those, and decided she was as ready as she would ever be. She was glad her body knew how to walk in those pumps and how to move in that skirt or she was sure she would have broken her neck just trying to walk down the stairs. But as she'd abundantly proved to herself that wild morning, as long as she didn't try and think about it too much, just did it, she was fine. After all, who really thinks about walking? +++ The traffic was light as she pulled away from her house. She'd decided to go into work early and thus hopefully avoid running into too many people in getting to her cubicle. Once out of the house, seeing other people going about their business, driving the kids to school, going to work, whatever, the confidence she'd felt in the bedroom seemed to evaporate. How in the hell was she going to do this? People would know! No matter how easy some of this seemed to come to her, she wasn't Tasha, at least not the Tasha they knew. God, what was she thinking? She should turn right around and go back home. Fuck Michael and whatever shit-fit he would have. What was he going to do, tell people what had happened? Not hardly. She turned on the radio to try and calm her nerves and that helped a little. She started singing along with the songs and surprised herself yet again. As Michael she'd had no talent for singing, nor any interest. But now? Her voice sounded clear and pretty in her own ears. She hadn't heard Tasha sing in years, and she hadn't been very good then. Was this an unknown talent of Tasha's that had become hers? Or something new to both of them? She couldn't be sure and now wasn't the time to worry about it. She just sang along with the radio, enjoying her newfound talent and letting that help carry her worries away. And so I walk up on high, And I step to the edge, To see my world below. And I laugh at myself, While the tears roll down, 'Cause it's the world I know! Oh, it's the world I know! Tasha smiled to herself as she pulled into the employee parking lot of Dynaray Industries. "I can do this!" She said out loud, as if to scare away the demons of doubt. "I can do this." After all, what other choice did she have? +++ "G'morning, Tasha," a female voice said. Tasha's heart jumped at the sound. She'd made it into her cubicle without running into or having to talk to anyone, but she knew that wouldn't last. Tasha swiveled around in her chair and tried to smile as she recognized who it was. "Morning, Margaret," she said. She knew Margaret was her boss, but beyond that she didn't know anything much about the woman. The only reason she knew that much was because of Tasha talking about her and because of having run into her once or twice at company outings. Though as Michael she'd worked for the same company, it was a completely different division and that was going to make for some complicated situations. "How was your weekend?" Margaret asked. "Don't ask," Tasha said with a rueful smile, "don't even ask." "That bad, eh? Look, I'm really sorry, hun." "About what?" "That you didn't get the promotion, I assume that's what ruined your weekend? You were pretty upset about it Friday." "Oh, that." Tasha shook her head. "Don't worry about it, it was no biggie." Margaret cocked her head quizzically. "Oh?" She shrugged. "Alrighty then. Well I need the dist points for the SoCal node before the ten o'clock meeting, okay?" "Okay," Tasha replied, have no idea what the bloody hell that meant but hoping she could figure it out before ten o'clock. "I'll see you then," Margaret said, starting to turn away and then pausing. "You look great this morning, by the way, is that a new outfit?" "This?" Tasha said, shaking her head. "No, just some old thing I threw on this morning." "Yeah, right." Both women laughed. +++ Tasha did figure out how to get the report Margaret wanted, but only by breaking down and calling Michael to ask. He had been obviously tense, curt with her, quickly explaining how to get the report out of the computer then hanging up on her before she could say anything more. She had to close her eyes and take a deep breath to stop herself from crying, his tone had made her feel like an idiot, like he was talking to a child. The rest of the day went fairly smoothly. Her job really wasn't all that difficult once you got a handle on the lingo and verbal shortcuts that people in the office commonly used. Dynaray was a huge company, with various plants spread out all over the globe. As such, the company bought thousands of items in bulk, holding them in big warehouses, or "dist points", in various major cities. When someone in one of the various facilities wanted something that a "dist point" carried, they would fill out a requisition and her and her co-works would then route it to the proper facility. It was a bit more complicated than that, of course, with optimizations for shipments and various priorities having to be handled, but most of what she needed to know was available in the online training manual. By the end of the day she was only a little behind and everyone seemed to assume that her somewhat slowness was caused by anger over not having gotten the buyers job. She wasn't overly surprised by her ability to figure the job out, though it had been a worry. She had always been a quick study, a person with a quick mind who was very good at seeing connections and leaping to the right answer well before most people had even started thinking about it. What did surprise her was how well she got along with her co-workers. And there was a lot of contact between her and the other, mostly other women, people working in the cube-farm. Only once, really, during the day had she given much thought to the utter absurdness of her situation. Around eleven thirty she had called Michael's extension. She was still upset about how he'd treated her on the phone and that he hadn't contacted her since, but she thought maybe if she made the offer he would go to lunch with her and they could talk about it. When he didn't answer she left a message in as contrite a voice as she could manage. Nothing, he hadn't called her back. She'd ended up going to lunch with Margaret and one other girl. The restaurant was non-smoking, it figured. +++ As the week wore on two things became abundantly obvious. The first was that there was a whole lot more to this "muscular memory" thing than just being able to tie a tie, as Michael had described, or walk in a pair of high heels without breaking an ankle. While as far as she could tell her personality and thoughts were the same as they had ever been, things had seemed to have changed quite a lot too. She found that she not only easily gabbed with her co-workers, she liked it. That was quite a lot different from how things had been previously, she'd never been one for idle chatter or for opening herself up at all. Now she was down right gregarious and she gathered that wasn't exactly like the old Tasha either. Her co-workers seemed pleasantly surprised at the apparent changes in her but no one seemed to find it particularly odd. Other things had changed as well. Tuesday morning she found that she no longer dreaded the thought of going through the morning shower, dressing, and make-up regimen. By Wednesday she was almost looking forward to it, almost like a little mini-adventure. And she was no longer shocked by the sight of her own nude body. There were still parts of and facts about her new anatomy that she did her best not to think about, even knowing that if this went on long enough she would have to, but she could at least deal with going to the bathroom without being freaked out when she wiped herself. She found that she was starting to like the way she looked, even considering some minor changes in her "look". She even briefly thought about going shopping for some decent jewelry then put the thought out of her head. That would just be too weird and, besides which, she really wasn't ready to go out and do any shopping. Though she couldn't put that off too much longer, the cupboards were getting a tad bare. The other thing that was becoming obvious was that Michael was purposefully avoiding her. She had called him several times since Monday, both at his office and at home, and left messages as she'd not been able to catch him since Monday morning. Nothing, he hadn't returned any of her calls or otherwise contacted her. She'd sent him a flurry of e-mails as well, and those too were apparently ignored. She was starting to get more than a bit upset. Yes, things were going okay, no thanks to him, but that wasn't the point. No matter how well things were going, even if some of it was turning out to actually be fun, she wanted her old life back. She wanted the bastard to at least talk to her. The longer this went on the more complicated it was going to get. Enough was enough. By Friday morning her patience was about used up. As she showered and then did her hair she went over things in her head, trying to think of ways she might convince him to end this whole thing. She decided on a floral mini-dress with a jewel neckline and a cute little pleated skirt, and a white cardigan. She didn't want to get into that whole 'look like Tasha would' thing with him and maybe she could make a point of her own. She was nervous driving into work She didn't want to confront him directly, she still had the bruise on the back of her leg where he'd pushed her over the coffee table to remind her of how she was apt to fair in a direct confrontation, but she was feeling out of options. As had become her habit, she turned on the radio and cranked the tunes. One of the oddest things of all of this - a situation where the very term odd had ceased to have any real meaning - was how singing calmed her and how much pleasure she got from it. She was virtually certain that it was something unique to her, something she hadn't had before and Tasha-cum-Michael never could do. And then you had to bring up reincarnation, Over a couple of beers the other night, And now I'm serving time for mistakes, Made by another in another lifetime. How long 'til my soul gets it right? Did any human being ever reach that kind of light? I call on the resting soul of Galileo, King of night vision, King of insight... She would talk to Michael, she would put away her fears and find some way to convince him to end all of this. +++ It was seven-thirty when she got in, likely Michael wouldn't be in for another half hour but she went up to his office anyway. Michelle Quin, his secretary, was already there, his office door was closed. "Is Michael in yet?" She asked Michelle. "No, he won't be in today," Michelle said without looking up. She sounded almost angry. "He won't be in today?" Tasha asked, feeling her heart sink after she'd steeled herself for this. "No." She hadn't looked up with that, either, something was very weird here. "Is something wrong, Michelle?" Tasha asked. "There's been some problems, Tasha," Michelle said, finally looking at her. My god, there were tears in her eyes. "What happened?" "I'd rather not talk about it right now, okay?" "But if there's been a problem..." "I'm serious, Tasha, please leave." +++ "Is something wrong, Tasha?" She didn't even have to look up; it was Margaret making her morning rounds. "I don't know," she said, turning to face her. "Have you heard anything about Michael Grisham?" "Your buddy in engineering tech? No, not a thing, but I don't get up to that floor very often. Why?" Tasha shrugged. "I don't know. I went up to see him this morning and his secretary said he wouldn't be in. She was acting very oddly." "Why don't you try calling him at home?" "I have, several times." In the last half hour she had left five messages of increasing urgency on his home machine. Nothing. "I couldn't get a hold of him." "Well if I hear anything I'll let you know, okay?" "Yeah. Thanks Margaret, you're a real sweetheart." Margaret smiled at that. "Sure, hun, any time." She paused, shifting gears. "I need the overnight stats when you get a chance, okay?" "Sure, I'll have them in your office in twenty." "Try not to worry, hun, I'm sure it's nothing." +++ Trying not to worry was pointless; it was her life he was fucking up. If he was fucking it up. Maybe it was nothing, maybe Michelle was upset about something else. Perhaps Margaret was right? It was impossible to say. She decided to go over to his place after work. It wasn't her idea of a good way or place to confront him, but she wasn't going to wait any longer. +++ She knocked on the door for fifteen minutes before finally deciding that if he was home he wasn't going to open the door. He probably wasn't, his car hadn't been in the slot in the condo garage. She considered for a moment and then, throwing caution to the wind, let herself in with her key. The living room was a disaster area; it looked like he was intent on exceeding even the worst reputation of bachelors for messy housekeeping. As she walked through the condo she marveled at the mess, everywhere it looked like a tornado had hit and it certainly hadn't been a white one. It was obvious that he not only wasn't home, but probably hadn't been for a while. She couldn't shake the queer feeling that she somehow shouldn't be there. Why should she feel that way? After all, it had been her place just a week ago. And yet it was all wrong. Michael had made it his own in a less than creative way. She wandered back into the living room and considered whether to just sit down and wait for him to come back. That didn't seem like a good idea, God only knew how he would react to finding her there. Besides, it was a Friday evening, God only knew when he might be home. What if he came home with another woman? Or a man? Tasha had quite purposefully not given any thought to how all of this might have changed her sexuality, she certainly didn't want to know what Michael may have been doing. And, on top of that and for reasons that she couldn't explain even to herself, as much as she wanted to know what the hell was going on she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear it from him. No, this wasn't a good idea, not at all. She left quickly, locking the door behind her, and headed home. +++ That evening she left more messages on his machine, so many that the machine stopped accepting messages and she had to leave it at that. Saturday morning she got up and went down to sit at the kitchen table to have her morning coffee and cigarette. She was getting sick of this. She felt like a prisoner in her own house and she was bored to tears. You know things are getting bad when you actually look forward to going to work. Well she couldn't stay cooped up forever. Besides, the fridge was virtually empty and she was almost out of both coffee beans and cigarettes. Time for some grocery shopping at the very least. She threw on a denim skirt, peasant blouse, wedge heeled open toed sandals, just a touch of make-up, and she was out the door. You also know things are getting bad, she thought to herself as she pulled out of the garage, that things have gotten bad when going grocery shopping is the highlight of your weekend. +++ The grocery store was crowded even for an early Saturday afternoon. It was nice to be among people again, to feel a part of the world. She had to marvel at how differently people treated her than when she had been Michael. Most other women, especially those around her own age, smiled in greeting as they passed her. It was automatic, almost seemingly like an acknowledgement of some shared secret knowledge. An elderly woman struck up a conversation with her in the check-out line. Men nodded to her, or said hello, more than a few were even rather obviously checking her out. She had to suppress laughter at a couple of times when guys, especially this one who wasn't much more than a teenager, did double-takes as she passed. Did they think they were being subtle? Did it matter? It felt nice. Before she had felt so cut off from other people. In a place like this she wouldn't have looked at anyone, wouldn't likely have been willing to acknowledge anyone's presence. That was just the way it had been, but this was better. Could she bring some of this back with her when she got her own body, her own life, back? Or would she just go back to the way things had been. Comfortable but keeping everyone at such a distance? She hoped not, resolved to try and make sure she didn't. After she had gotten the groceries into the back of the car and pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and down the road to the highway she had fully intended to go home. What the hell? She thought, abruptly taking the Mall Road exit and inadvertently cutting off the car behind her. It was cold enough that she wouldn't have to worry about the perishables and she really didn't want to go home. Why not have some fun window shopping? Wandering the mall was a new experience. Not that she hadn't been in a mall before, of course, but her philosophy before had been to know what you want, go to the store that had it, buy it, and get out. This was different, she didn't really have anything in particular she wanted, she just wanted to look around and spend a pleasant afternoon doing something besides sit on her couch and go through cigs faster than Carter could make liver pills. She hadn't really intended to buy anything, hadn't, that was, until she happened to walk by the jewelry counter in Macy's - she'd never even been in a Macy's before. There was a little over five thousand in her bank account, would it be so bad to spend a little on some decent jewelry? No, she decided, it wouldn't. And why shouldn't she? She browsed through their selection for twenty minutes, a nice saleslady helpfully showing her dozens of items, before finally settling on a lovely pair of pearl studs with heart shaped topaz drops. Those, and a princess cut cobalt blue topaz pendant on a medium length box chain and a ring with a round cut topaz that was an even deeper colour than the pendant. The ring was a tad loose on her finger, but she declined the saleslady's offer to have it sized. As much as there had to be a hundred other pieces she would have been happy to have, she decided to leave it be with just those pieces. At that the nearly five hundred dollar price tag for that set had given her pause. But when she was leaving, she saw it and knew that she had to have it. A powder pink silk dress that was on display. Long sleeved, scooped neckline, fitted bodice, flared almost ankle length skirt with kerchief hemline. It was absolutely gorgeous. She asked a saleslady which rack it was on and was unsurprised to see they had it in her size. She looked at the price tag, two hundred and fifty dollars? Still, she just had to try it on, and so she did. That was the end to any discussion over whether or not she would buy it. Almost seven hundred and fifty dollars poorer, but her spirits immeasurably lifted, she quickly left the mall before anything else could catch her in a siren song of consumerism. +++ After she got home and got the groceries put away she took her goodies, the jewelry and the new dress, and headed up for her bedroom to try everything on. Passing through the living room, she noticed that there was a message on the machine. Probably one of her friends, they were all worried about her. She'd been putting everyone off and not returning calls, what else could she do? Dealing with people at work, most of whom were only acquaintances, was one thing. Dealing with a friend, someone who might know her well, that was another thing all together. She set her things down on a chair and pushed the 'Play' button on the answering machine. "Hello? Are you there?" Her heart leapt into her throat, it was Michael. "Listen, there's been a problem, I need to talk to you. Meet me at Joshua's, I'll be there about four or so." The machine beeped and a computer voice read out the timestamp. Damn, he'd called less than a half hour ago. She rushed upstairs; it was only two so she had an hour and a half to get ready. What to wear? The new dress, dummy, she thought. She wanted to show him that she could get by just fine, maybe that would put a dent in his incredible arrogance. +++ She wasn't exactly sure where Joshua's Tavern was, just that it was close to the plant and that some of the Dynaray people liked to head there after work. From what she knew of the place it wasn't the kind of bar she would have been apt to go to either before or now, not that she'd ever been the bar type anyway. She had the address from the phone book, it couldn't be that hard to find. At least she hoped so as she drove in the general direction of work. There, she thought as she spotted the ugly neon sign above the bar's entrance. She pulled over and parked on the side of the divided highway. She had a bad