Altered Fates: Lyle's Story free porn video

Lyle's Story by Grendel There are two sides to every story. Most of us would prefer to see the world in black and white, but the decisions we make are never as clear- cut as that. I know that I've made some enemies in my life, and perhaps with hindsight some of the pain that I've caused could have been avoided, but I've never deliberately acted with malice. I've just made some bad choices. I grew up in the shadow of my elder brother, Ken. He was the Golden Child, the shining star of the Lincoln family. He seemed to make a success of whatever he turned his hand to, and I just wasn't in the same league. Our parents never failed to draw comparisons between us, and I always came off worst. I soon realised that there was no point in trying too hard - whatever I did, Ken had done before me, only better. I drifted through school, doing just enough to get by. When he left college, Ken started a computer software business with John Marsh, a friend from high school. My father even put up the money they needed to get the venture off the ground. John was another of the 'in crowd', and everyone knew that he and Ken were going to get to the top. Naturally, the business was a success, and the two of them began to pull in serious amounts of money. Since I had little idea of what I was going to do with my life, Ken's achievements only added to my parent's irritation at my own lack of ambition. Of course, Ken had a string of admiring girlfriends as we were growing up - a long procession of some of the most beautiful girls in the school. He never seemed to keep a girlfriend for very long, but there didn't ever seem to be a shortage of girls willing to take over from the previous favourite. My own experiences couldn't have been more different. Girls could only see me as Ken's brother, and therefore irrelevant. As a result, I lacked any confidence with the opposite sex, and I was still a virgin by the time I was nineteen years old. It wasn't out of a lack of interest; I used to hang around at the mall, watching the girls go by and inventing clever chat-up lines. Of course, I never had enough nerve to use any of them. And then one evening, one of the girls approached me. Her name was Ellie Jones, and I knew her vaguely - her father and mine were business associates of some kind - but we'd never said more than a couple of words to each other before. I still don't know why she decided to talk to me that night. Although she appeared to be about the same age as me, she had a look of assurance and self-belief that was in complete contrast to my awkwardness. We spent the evening drinking beer in the bar across from the mall, and I offered her a ride home, even though I was really in no fit state to drive. We kissed for the first time before we got into the car, and on the way to her parent's house we stopped in a secluded lane where our kissing quickly developed into something more physical, although my inexperience and the effects of the beer meant that the best we could manage was a fumbled joining which left us both unsatisfied. Afterwards, Ellie asked to be dropped out of sight of her parent's house; I got the feeling that she didn't want them to know where she had been. The following day, I woke to a hangover, and discovered that Ellie had accused me of rape. She had got home to find her parents waiting up for her and, in the argument that followed, the events of the evening had come out into the open. It wasn't too difficult to piece together, given her disheveled appearance. I'd also been wrong about her age - she was only sixteen, and her parents hadn't yet accepted that she wasn't daddy's little girl any more. Rather than face up to them, she took the easy way out and claimed I had forced myself on her. At first, I found the whole thing laughable. I was no rapist, whatever the flaws in my character. Rape was an act of violence, a disgusting physical assault against the weaker sex. I assumed that anyone who knew me would realise I just wasn't capable of such nauseating behaviour. Only, it didn't turn out that way. People I'd known for years started to avoid me, or failed to return my 'phone calls. But worst of all was the reaction of my parents. I knew I had turned out to be a major disappointment to them, but I had no idea their opinion of me was so low. They seemed to have accepted my guilt as soon as Ellie's parents broke the news, and immediately set about limiting the damage to the Lincoln family name. My father, in particular, had no intention of letting it get as far as a court of law; avoiding the shame and embarrassment of a high- profile trial was apparently far more important than letting me have my chance to clear my name. Apparently, money changed hands and Ellie withdrew her accusation. Not that it did me any good - everyone seemed to know about the allegations, and everyone assumed that I was guilty. My mother and father made a point of never mentioning Ellie after that; I guess they thought that if we didn't speak about her, we could carry on as if the whole episode had never happened. Of course, it wasn't that easy; the incident was always there, hanging over the household like some black cloud. I was desperate to talk to my parents, to explain what had happened and clear the air, but they simply refused to discuss it. Nothing I could do seemed to improve the atmosphere between us; if anything, things got worse as the weeks went by, and I began to look for any excuse to avoid going home. I moved out as soon as I could. I found a job as a sales assistant in a department store, and as soon as I had saved enough money for a deposit, I rented a small apartment on the other side of town, and tried to pick up the pieces of my life. * * * I soon settled into a quiet routine, and the next six years passed in an uneventful haze. I wouldn't claim that my life was that wonderful, but I managed to avoid any more confrontations, and started to believe that I had put my earlier troubles behind me. I had risen to assistant store manager, and was confident that I would be promoted further before too long. I was also in contact with my parents again; not a reconciliation, but at least we were talking. I'd even had a few casual girlfriends, although nothing serious, of course. I didn't intend to give any woman the chance to ruin my life the way Ellie had. One evening in early October, I was on my way back to my apartment after working the late shift when I decided to stop off for a beer at a restaurant with a licensed bar that I knew would still be open. Looking back, I guess I should've been more worried about the extent of my drinking. I'd fallen into a regular habit soon after moving out of my parent's house, and there weren't many days when I didn't find myself in a bar after work. However, I couldn't see the harm in it. I was pretty good at holding my drink, and I didn't bother anyone else, even when I'd had maybe a few too many. Anyway, on this particular occasion I had a quiet couple of beers, and decided to call it a night. As I was about to leave, I saw John Marsh's wife Mary sitting alone at a table set for two. She had evidently been stood-up, although looking at her I couldn't believe that any man could possibly find anything more important to do than being in her company. She looked absolutely stunning - the embodiment of success, of the lifestyle that was enjoyed by the 'beautiful people' like my brother Ken, but was forever beyond me. She was wearing a simple skin-tight black dress that showed every curve of her perfect figure; although the dress had long sleeves and a high neckline, there was very little left to the imagination. Nevertheless, the effect was of pure class and sophistication, and not in the least bit vulgar. I watched her for a while, until I realised I was staring, and turned to go. But as I made my out, Mary recognised me and beckoned me over. She was clearly desperate for someone to talk to, and it became obvious that she was determined to tell me the whole story. I soon learnt that she had waited for her husband at the restaurant for two hours, until finally he had called to tell her that he had worked late and had decided to find somewhere in the city to stay for the night, since he was too tired to come home. He hadn't even mentioned their dinner date - he had completely forgotten that they had arranged to meet that evening. The whole episode seemed incredible, even to an insensitive bonehead like me. I knew that John was as obsessed with business as my brother Ken, but his casual treatment of Mary was beyond me. If I'd had a lovely creature like her waiting for me after work, I would have been the first out of the door at five o'clock. I played the role of 'shoulder to cry on' for a while, and then suggested that I drove her home. She had been drinking, and she needed someone to watch out for her. I expected her to refuse - I was sure she wouldn't want to be seen leaving the restaurant with me - but to my surprise she leapt at the offer. We drove to her house in silence, and as I made to leave after escorting her inside, she kissed me on the lips. At first, the kiss was entirely platonic, but it soon grew more passionate and unreserved. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps she was trying to pay John back for the hurt he had given her; I like to think that she was also attracted to me in some small way, and the drink only served to loosen her inhibitions. I knew full well that it was wrong - she was a married woman, and in my own way I do have a certain sense of morality, despite what most people think of me. I don't believe I was taking advantage of her; she knew what she was doing, and could have stopped me at any time. Like I said, I'm no rapist. We made love, and it was better than anything I had experienced before. I kept looking down at her in wonder, not daring to believe that I was really in bed with such a woman. Mary's proficiency was awesome; she abandoned herself completely to the encounter, and made me feel more alive than I would have thought possible. But even at the height of our excitement, I knew that this would be the first and last time we would be together, and my exhilaration was tempered with sadness. Whatever the state of their marriage, Mary was not about to jeopardise it further by starting on an affair, especially with someone from outside her social clique. I left about midnight, although I phoned her the next day to see how she was. She was very kind, and did her best not to hurt me, but she made me promise not to call her again. * * * I didn't see her again until the night of my father's sixtieth birthday party. Of course, I was required to attend such a major event, even though most of the other people there would barely give me the time of day if we were to meet anywhere else. I felt completely out of place, and decided to find a quiet corner where I could drink the free beer until the time came that I could make my excuses and leave. John and Mary were there; I assumed that they had put in an appearance to stay on good terms with my father, in case John ever wanted another favour. Neither of them acknowledged my presence; Mary had already made it clear that she wanted nothing more to do with me, and John was far too busy pressing the flesh and making more business contacts. Nevertheless, I couldn't help watching Mary; she was wearing the same black dress, and looked just as exquisite as she had that night in the restaurant. Only, this time she seemed strangely nervous and ill at ease, as if she was somehow unsure how to respond to the people around her. At first, I thought she was simply worried about being in the same room as me; that I might decide to speak to her in full view of her husband, despite my promise. But as I studied her, I noticed there was also something different about the way she carried herself; she seemed to have lost the easy grace and elegance that normally made her so desirable. The longer I watched her, the more I convinced myself that something was wrong. When Mary went upstairs to use the bathroom in my mother's bedroom, I decided to follow her. I honestly didn't plan for what followed; I like to think I was genuinely concerned for her, and only intended to talk to her and set her mind at rest. I certainly wasn't under any illusion that our previous intimacy would ever be repeated. But, as usual, events were conspiring against me. As she came out of the bathroom, I switched off the bedroom light so that we wouldn't be seen together. The effect was startling; Mary's gorgeous body was left silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, with every perfect contour thrown into sharp relief and her blonde hair forming a halo around her head. She appeared infinitely desirable, a fantasy in black, and my good intentions vanished in a blaze of lust. Once again, I let my physical appetites overrule my common sense. I crossed the room to her side, slipped my arm around her waist, and whispered "I know I promised, but seeing you in that dress is driving me wild. I can't wait; I have to have to you here and now." Even as I said it, I knew I had overstepped the mark; Mary had given me no encouragement, nothing to indicate that my crude attempt at seduction might have any chance of success, and I braced myself for her inevitable angry rejection. But, to my amazement and delight, she turned and kissed me, returning my passion with interest. We fell backwards onto the bed. I quickly pulled her panties down, and we were joined in seconds. It was over in a couple of minutes; we both reached climax more as a result of the sense of danger, and the adventure of the moment. I withdrew and stood up, zipping up my pants. "I'll go out first and make sure it's clear," I said, still whispering, "then you can follow me. You are a fantastic lover." I kissed her once more, then walked to the door and opened it to look out; a shaft of light fell across my face as the door opened. It was then that I remembered why I had followed Mary to the bedroom in the first place, and I turned back to her and said "Your husband doesn't suspect, does he?" I'll never forget the look of horror and revulsion that twisted her beautiful features as she saw my face for the first time. It seemed obvious that, until that moment, she had thought I was someone else - presumably John - and her shock was unmistakable. We had both been too wrapped up in the encounter, driven by an almost animal hunger for each other, and somehow she hadn't realised it was me she was making love to. But her response was more than just disorientation; her surprise seemed out of all proportion to simply discovering I wasn't the person she expected. After all, I was hardly a stranger to her. No, it was something much worse - she looked nauseous, disgusted, as if the mere sight of me was enough to turn her stomach. Her reaction struck me with almost physical force, and I steadied myself by grabbing hold of the doorframe as Mary fell back on the bed, her mouth open in a silent scream. All I could think of was getting away from that bedroom, and I turned and slipped out the door, closing it behind me. I almost ran down the stairs to the safety of the party crowd. I was in desperate need of a drink - something stronger than beer, this time - and I grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bar before heading for my corner seat, ignoring the looks I was getting from the other guests. Finally, Mary came back downstairs, obviously upset and distressed, and made her way over to John. After a brief whispered conversation, the two of them headed straight towards me. I tensed myself for a confrontation - for one terrible moment, it seemed as if I was about to once again be accused of rape - but they only stopped and said goodnight to Ken and my parents before making for the front door. Mary passed close to me as they left, but I couldn't bring myself to look at her, and quickly turned away. * * * About eight weeks later, I was in my favourite bar, drinking my way through another pointless evening. My life had gone into a downward spiral since the night of my father's party; I'd been hitting the bottle with a vengeance, almost as if a part of me was hoping to wipe the memory. The drink was an easy escape; I knew I had to put Mary Marsh behind me and move on. But with that one look of disgust, Mary had made me feel more dirty and squalid than I had ever felt before. For the first time, I began to wonder if I really had been guilty of the rape that Ellie had accused me of. Maybe I had forced myself on her? Maybe she'd tried to make me stop, and I hadn't listened? I had somehow turned into the kind of sad, inadequate person that I had always despised, and it seemed only fitting that I should spend my time staring at the world through the bottom of a beer glass. But on this particular night, my wallow in self-pity was interrupted by a touch on my arm, and I turned to find that a woman had sat down on the barstool next to me. It took me a second or two to realise that she was asking if she could join me; although I was certainly in no mood for company, I seemed to have little option, given that she had already taken her seat. I bought her a drink, and we talked for a while. Her name was Monica, and I could see from the ring on her finger that she was married, but she said she was having problems with her husband. I had apparently run into yet another woman that wanted to cry on my shoulder. Despite my half-drunken state, Monica let me pick her up. In fact, she almost threw herself at me. With hindsight, I guess I should have realised there was something strange about the situation, but I was pretty far gone by that point. We went to a nearby hotel; as soon as we got to the room we made for the bed and began to tear our clothes off, but before I could draw her down onto the sheets, Monica pulled away from me and took a step backwards. Although I was mystified by her behaviour, the unexpected interruption gave me a chance to take a good look at the woman I was about to have sex with, and I stared at her unashamedly. And I liked what I saw. She was as naked as I was, although I noticed that she had a cheap-looking medallion in her hand, with the chain wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. Monica wasn't in Mary's league, but I could see that she took good care of her assets; she didn't appear to be carrying any extra weight, and her body looked firm and toned, as if she worked-out regularly. She was pretty without being stunning; she missed out on true beauty by having a mouth that was slightly too wide, and a chin that was a bit too square. But as far as I was concerned, her best features were her breasts; full and inviting, they were crowned by large nipples that revealed her obvious state of excitement. She smiled at me, and then reached out to grab my hand. As soon as we touched, I felt a sudden sharp tingle in the palm of my hand, as though I had been stung. It was as if a circuit had been completed, as if a switch had been thrown. I tried to snatch my hand back, but our hands were locked together in some unnatural bond that I was quite unable to break. For the first time, I began to feel afraid. I was much stronger than Monica, but I somehow knew that her grip on me was far beyond anything I could overcome. The tingling quickly spread throughout my entire body, so that every nerve seemed to be jumping. I started to scream at her, to demand that she let me go, until I noticed she was paying me no heed; her attention was directed instead to the full-length mirrors that covered the closet on the far wall of the room. I followed her gaze and saw our reflections, at which point I got really scared. The alcoholic haze behind my eyes had been burnt away by the current that was flowing between us, and I was seeing everything in a sharp focus, a terrible clarity that seemed to go beyond normal awareness. At first, I refused to accept what my heightened senses were telling me, but it soon became undeniable. Some impossible process of transformation was underway. Initially, the changes were on a small scale; it was only my strangely magnified perceptions that allowed me to see what was happening. Even so, I was sure that our eyes looked different somehow, as if the normal colours of our irises were gradually fading away. But before long the transformation appeared to pick up speed. Like some bizarre depilatory treatment, our body hair seemed to be shrinking, retreating back under the skin. At the same time, the pigmentation appeared to seep from our skins, and the blemishes and marks began to shrivel, leaving pale, translucent complexions that were as bleached and colourless as an albino's. Now the changes became more extreme; I could see that my body itself was starting to shrink, and that my loss of bulk was being balanced by a swelling in Monica, as if there were a flow of mass from my body to hers. She was clearly growing taller as I watched; our forms seemed to ripple and shift under the surface, as though my substance were being leeched away through the connection at our hands in order to feed Monica's voracious growth. With a sudden intuition, I realised that the physical differences between us were gradually disappearing. Even the outward signs of gender were vanishing; Monica's generous breasts shrank down to nothing, until she had the smooth, flat chest of a pre-pubescent schoolgirl, and my manhood withered and retreated into my groin, leaving an empty space between my legs and an aching sense of loss. Our separate transformations had converged at the same point. For an instant, the two reflections were identical - two hairless, androgynous figures without any obvious sexual characteristics, neither male nor female. But the blurred features staring back at us were somehow more than human, rather than less; they seemed to be whole beings, without the divisions of gender brought about by our eccentric reproductive system. It was as if the unnatural twins in the mirror in some way represented all our potential futures. I sensed intuitively that some strange destiny had brought us to that hotel room; we were balanced on a knife-edge between altered fates, and I was somehow certain that our future lives would be very different from what we had known before. I don't know how long the moment lasted - perhaps it was only a split second - but as it passed the changes seemed to accelerate, as if there were some mad rush to complete the transformation. And as my features began to solidify once again, I finally understood what was happening to me. The face that was resolving in my reflection wasn't the one that I saw in the mirror every morning; a new gender was beginning to assert itself with the disappearance of that strange, asexual form. My body continued to shrink as my arms and legs took on a slender, feminine shape, with delicate hands and long, manicured fingernails. My hips flared and my waist contracted as I acquired the curves and contours of the classic hourglass figure. A mane of lustrous auburn hair sprouted from my scalp and quickly grew until it reached down past my shoulders, whilst tight curls of pubic hair appeared between my legs to frame the opening that was unfolding in my groin, and I realised with horror that I now had a vagina in the place of my lost member. And then the final indignity; passing through some bizarre parody of puberty, I watched as my chest began to swell and expand, and I felt an unfamiliar weight pulling at my upper body as I quickly developed the ample breasts that I had been admiring only minutes earlier. I wanted to scream that it was impossible, but I couldn't deny the evidence in front of me. Somehow, I had changed into the woman I had picked up in the bar. I was wearing Monica's body. My hand was suddenly free of Monica's grip as the contact was broken, and I tore my eyes away from the reflected image of my new female shape to see what had become of the person next to me. Although I knew what I would find before I looked, the confirmation of my worst fears still left me reeling with shock. Standing beside me was the body that I had known for twenty-five years - a body that had been cruelly stolen away from me. Whatever had happened to us had been more than just a transformation; we had switched bodies, and Monica was now the man that I had been before. Anyone looking at us would see the same two people that had gone to the hotel that night; there was no outward sign of the exchange that had taken place. Except perhaps in our eyes. I remembered the old clich? about the eyes being the "mirror of the soul", and for the first time I understood what it meant. Monica now appeared to the world as Lyle Lincoln, but I knew that a different person was staring out from behind those eyes. Monica admired herself in the mirror for a while, running her hands over her flat, muscular chest, until she suddenly seemed to remember I was there, and turned to face me. The look that she gave me was almost predatory, and her face - my face! - broke into an evil grin as she grabbed me roughly by the arms, pulled me close to her and whispered in my ear, "Now I'm going to do to you what you did to Ellie Jones." At last it was all clear to me. Our meeting in the bar that evening hadn't been some chance encounter; the event had been carefully staged. I didn't understand her connection with Ellie, but Monica obviously knew my past history, or at least a distorted version of it, and the body swap was part of some twisted attempt at revenge. I tried to break free, but Monica was now much stronger than I was, and I quickly realised that it was pointless to struggle. I thought about shouting out and trying to get help, but though I was close to hysteria a small part of me was thinking rationally, and I kept quiet. Even if someone came to help me, what was I going to say? To anyone else, the man assaulting me would appear to be Lyle Lincoln. If I ever got my own body back, did I really want to face another allegation of rape? Monica pushed me back onto the bed, pinning me down under her. She was obviously in a state of high sexual excitement - her new equipment seemed impossibly large and distended, and I was almost paralysed at the thought of having it inside me. I guessed that Monica was bisexual, since she seemed to have no difficulty in getting aroused as a man. As she spread my legs, I tried to switch off, to divorce myself from what was happening, but the sensations were too overwhelming. Monica was violating not just my female body, but also my male soul, which was close to breaking under the assault. Nevertheless, the moment of penetration seemed to stimulate an unconscious reaction in my treacherous new body, and I screamed out as a wave of ecstasy washed through me. The feeling passed just as quickly as it had come, and I lay still while I waited for Monica to reach climax. I was filled with disgust and self- loathing at the thought that I had responded sexually, even if only momentarily. There was nothing erotic about what was happening to me - as far as I was concerned, Monica was doing little more than masturbation, simply using me as a way to relieve herself. I tried again to disassociate myself from my surroundings, to retreat inside myself and escape from reality until I got my chance to get away, but it was impossible to ignore what I was feeling. Monica was inside me, driving deep into me, and there was nowhere for me to hide. But, finally, I felt her finish; she rolled off me, and I crawled from the bed and staggered blindly to the bathroom as the residue of her act ran down the insides of my legs. Slamming the door shut, I collapsed in a heap on the floor. I felt as if I had fallen as far as it was possible for me to go. Trapped in woman's body, I had been subjected to an assault which had left me on the edge of breakdown, unable to defend myself against sensations and feelings that no man should ever experience. My pathetic life had been ripped away from me as part of some bizarre punishment for a crime that I hadn't committed; the woman who had stolen my body was convinced that I was a rapist, and only a flimsy door stood between me and another taste of her idea of justice. And, deep down, a part of me believed that I actually deserved all that had happened to me. If I had had any way of ending it there and then - of taking my own life - I really think I would have, but even that escape was denied me. In my hysterical condition, I simply wasn't able to think coherently enough to attempt suicide. And so help me, for the first time since I was a child, I started crying - softy at first, large salty tears that ran silently down my new face, but soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, my body shuddering as I gasped for breath. I cried for all that I had lost - my family, my friends, my life - but mostly I cried because there was nothing else left for me to do. Even through my grief, I heard the bathroom door open, and I realised that my tormentor had come to mete out more of my punishment. She reached down towards me, and I flinched and tried to shrink away from her, to retreat into the corner of the room, except there was nowhere to hide. But when she touched me, her hands were gentle; she lifted me almost tenderly, picking me up easily with her new-found strength, and carried me back to the bed. Still I waited for the horror to start again, but Monica simply put her arms around me and held me close. For a while I felt overwhelmed by panic, but gradually I realised that my ordeal was over, at least for the time being. And even though my mind was still racing, my thoughts filled with images of what had happened to me, I found myself beginning to relax. The sensations pouring into me from my transformed body meant that I couldn't possibly ignore my new gender - my breasts were pressing against Monica's chest, and my nipples rubbed against her every time we shifted position, sending tremors through me. And even if I was able to ignore the fact that the person holding me was wearing what had been my body, I was still acutely aware that I was being held close by a man, something that I would normally have found repulsive. But somehow it felt good, lying there on the bed in Monica's arms. I was now much smaller than she was, and her enveloping embrace made me feel secure and safe. I was still terrified of what she might do to me, but I was also suddenly very tired, as if the transformation had drained me more than I had realised. Or perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the assault. For a while, I tried to fight against it, but it was a losing battle, and I drifted off into a dreamless sleep. * * * I awoke to daylight streaming in through the window. It took me a moment to remember where I was - and who I was - but the demands of my strange new body were impossible to forget for long. In any case, I needed to pee. I slid out from Monica's arms, and made my way to the bathroom. Of course, even such a basic bodily function as going to the toilet now felt wrong. At least I remembered to sit down. I cleaned myself off and made my way over to the mirror. For the first time, I took a close look at my new face. My eyes were still red from crying the evening before, and I wasn't wearing any makeup, but it was still an amazing sight - the reflection was quite unbelievable; after so many years of waking up to a man's face in the mirror, I was suddenly staring at an attractive woman. And it was me! I guess that moment was when it finally hit home. The events of the previous evening seemed like some nightmarish fantasy, a descent into madness that had happened to some other person. But here in the cold light of day, I couldn't argue with the evidence of my own eyes. Unless I could find some way to reverse my incredible transformation, I would have to find some way of dealing with the situation. At least I was still a functioning, complete person; half of the human race coped routinely with the condition that I now found myself in. It couldn't be that hard... It didn't take me long to come to my senses and realise I was deluding myself. As soon as I looked down at my body, I knew that this wasn't just a case of dealing with it and moving on. My breasts sat heavily on my chest - huge, ridiculous, alien masses that swayed disconcertingly whenever I moved. I reached up and cupped them in my new, dainty hands; a shudder ran through me as I brushed against my nipples, which seemed astonishingly sensitive in comparison to what I had known before. I felt them grow hard under my hands, and realised with disgust that I was becoming aroused by my own body. Was this what I had to look forward to? Would I continue to turn myself on whenever I touched myself? It was an unbearable, intolerable prospect. This wasn't simply a case of gender dysfunction; after all, I had been a well-adjusted, heterosexual male. Unfortunately, I was now wearing a working, anatomically-correct female body. The list of people that I found sexually attractive now included myself. Even though a part of me was sickened at what I was doing, I couldn't stop myself. I slid my hands down to my genitals; the absence of my male equipment felt profoundly strange and discomforting, and I almost gave up on my examination, but I had to discover what my body could do to me. As my fingers brushed over my clitoris, a sharp quiver ran through me, and I could feel myself getting wet. Almost without thinking, I slipped a finger into my vagina... The sensation of something being pushed inside me was so utterly unreal, so alien to everything that I had known throughout my former life. And suddenly, the implications of what I was doing hit me with a shock as intense as if I had been slapped round the face. I was actually playing with myself! After little more than twelve hours as a woman, my male defences had crumbled so completely that I had been on the verge of masturbating my new female body. I no longer knew who I was. I had spent twenty-five years defining myself through my male gender; it controlled my attitudes, my whole outlook on life, and now it was gone, replaced by the one thing I had never come close to understanding. I felt as if I no longer had any power over my own body - I was like a puppet to this unnatural womanhood, without any choice in my actions. Once again, despair opened up in front of me. And for the second time in my short career as part of the female sex, I burst into tears, and wept uncontrollably. I heard a sound behind me, and turned to see Monica staring at me from the doorway. My vision was blurred by the tears, but she seemed to have a look of pity and concern on her face. And when she spoke, her voice was full of remorse. "I'm so sorry," she said. "This isn't the way I thought it would be. You don't deserve this. Mary told me that you were a total shit, an abuser of women who needed to be taught a lesson he wouldn't forget. Only, it feels as if I'm the one who's in the wrong. I just feel dirty." She carried on talking, but I'd stopped listening. I was too preoccupied with trying to grasp the implications of what she had just said. Mary? The only Mary that I could think of was Mary Marsh. Was she behind all this? I'd certainly done something to upset her the night of my father's party, but the idea that this was all just Mary's attempt to pay me back seemed absurd. It was so completely out of proportion - the greatest overreaction that I'd ever heard of. What had I done that was so bad? I was so bemused that a few seconds passed before I realised Monica had finished. I guess she realised from my blank look that I hadn't heard what she had said, because she sighed in exasperation and then repeated herself, saying each word slowly and carefully so that I couldn't miss her offer a second time: "If you want, I'll switch our bodies back." As her words began to sink in, I was filled with a sudden hope that the nightmare was about to end. All at once, I could see a way out of my ordeal. Was I really about to get my own body back? But as I listened to Monica's attempts to explain how she had managed to switch bodies with me, the dream faded as quickly as it had appeared. At first, she came out with a ridiculous story of a Gypsy curse, laid on her by her jealous husband, but she quickly realised that I wasn't about to accept such a stupid explanation. In any case, I was pretty sure by then that she wasn't married - the 'husband', like the wedding ring she had been wearing when we met in the bar, was part of the cover story that she and Mary had dreamed up. We spent a few tense moments glaring at each other across the room, but eventually Monica relented and agreed to give me the real story. And it was then that I realised she had very little understanding of what had happened. Monica showed me a cheap medallion, that she said had been given to her by Mary. She said it had magical powers; if two people touched the medallion at the same time, they would swap bodies. It didn't look much - it had a picture of what looked like a winged fairy on one side, although the engraving was of very poor quality, and some strange writing on the other side - and I began to think that she was giving me another run-around, but I suddenly remembered where I had seen the medallion before, and I realised that Monica actually believed what she was telling me. It was almost funny - the idea that anyone over the age of ten would be taken in by such a childish fantasy - but Monica was adamant despite my obvious disbelief, and I was almost carried along by her conviction. But then I came back to reality with a jolt - no simple medallion could have been responsible for our transformation, and of course when Monica held it against me, nothing happened. I guess that, until that moment, Monica had quite intended to change back to her own body after my 'punishment' was over. At least, from the look on her face when she realised that her 'magic' medallion didn't work, Monica was just as much a victim of Mary's manipulations as I was. And as I watched it dawn on her just how gullible she had been to accept the nonsense that Mary had fed her, I was surprised to feel a strange sense of sympathy for her. Even though Monica was the direct cause of my ordeal, I suddenly realised that she was only a tool, a dupe taken in by Mary's desire for revenge against me. Somehow, we had crossed a line - we were both on the same side after all, two casualties of Mary's malevolence. Almost without thinking, I reached out to her, and we came together in a warm embrace that had nothing to do with lust, but was all about two lonely people in need of comfort. Something wonderful happened between us in that hotel room. Even though we were trapped in each other's bodies, we were still unknown to each other, strangers who had met only hours earlier. And yet, there was a connection between us. We spent most of the day talking, finding out about each other. We didn't even leave the hotel room - we used room service to order food. As we talked, we discovered that our lives had not been so different after all; Monica's bisexuality had left her an outsider, unable to find fulfilment in either camp. She had eventually given up on finding her own soul mate, and as her friends all seemed to be in happy, stable relationships, and she had come to prefer her own company. We stayed one more night in the hotel - sharing the bed without making love, just holding each other. In the morning we showered and dressed. I wasn't very happy about wearing Monica's clothes - she had been dressed to attract my attention that night in the bar, and the skimpy frock and sexy underwear were hardly what I would have chosen for my first appearance in public as a woman. I struggled for several minutes trying to get the clothes on, especially the underwear; eventually, Monica had to show me how it was done. But the result still made me flinch when I looked in the mirror; I had a body that would turn men's heads, and my appearance left little to the imagination. It took plenty of support and encouragement from Monica before I felt able to face the world, and even then I had to cling onto her arm until we got to my car, which we had left in the hotel's parking lot. * * * We decided that we would live in my apartment, which was bigger than Monica's, and more conveniently located. We spent a couple of days carting her things over, although the first items to be moved were her clothes, so that I would have something to wear. Monica had to do most of the carrying - at first, I was frustrated to discover that I was able to lift much less than I could before the transformation, but Monica seemed so happy playing the big, strong man that I hid my irritation and let her get on with it. Of course, to the outside world it appeared that Lyle Lincoln's new girlfriend Monica had moved in with him, and that seemed to make both of us suddenly more acceptable. We started to get phone calls and visits from people we had not spoken to in months; Monica soon learned to play the role of Lyle Lincoln, but I found it incredibly difficult talking to women that I didn't know, who seemed to expect me to pass on every intimate detail about my new 'boyfriend'. It also took me some time to get used to wearing Monica's clothes. It wasn't just the strange feel of women's clothing; after all, I had the body to go with the clothes, although I did have moments when I felt more like a man in drag. The problem was, Monica's taste as a woman had been more daring than I would have preferred, and she obviously knew what made her old body look good. The first few times we went out, I let Monica help me choose what I should wear, and then had to put up with blatant stares from every man that we passed. I had to quickly develop my own clothes sense, if only out of self-preservation; Monica complained that my selections were boring, but I think she understood. I don't think I'll ever really feel comfortable in my body, but at least I've learnt to cope with the everyday problems of life as a woman. Funnily enough, I've got Monica to thank most for my sanity; without her support, I think I would have gone completely over the edge. It's more than just her understanding, although she obviously has a unique insight into my situation. Since that first day in the hotel, a real bond has developed between us. I've never been in love, and I don't know if that's what I feel for her. Maybe it's just a dependency that grew out of the circumstances that threw us together - something like that 'Stockholm syndrome', where hostages become emotionally attached to their captors. But I do care for her. I can even look at her without seeing myself; whatever my eyes tell me, I know that I'm Lyle Lincoln, and that Monica's the person I share my life with. The bodies we wear aren't really that important. Nevertheless, I'm still no nearer to understanding how we come to switch bodies. As a rational person, I can't accept fantasies about magic and spells - a world where such things are possible would be madness. We need a firm foundation to underpin our lives, and if the very laws of nature could be broken by muttered incantations and fairground sorcery, we would have nothing left to cling on to. And Monica has no more idea than I do - the story about a magic medallion was obviously a nasty trick played on her by Mary, to hide the real secret. I can only guess that John Marsh got access to some weird secret research through his work - maybe some government 'black' project. Body swapping is the kind of thing the CIA would be very interested in. Whatever it was, it's obvious that we're not going back to our old lives. I've had to accept that this is my fate. And anyway, I don't think I would want to return to my old body, even if it were possible. Something's happened that's forced me to reassess my priorities. Two weeks after the transformation, I discovered that I was pregnant. It must have happened during that first night in the hotel. It's easy to be sure of the exact moment, because we haven't had sex since Monica raped me. I know she desperately wants to make love to me, but I'm just not yet ready to take that final step. To be fair to Monica, she hasn't pressurised me - she's given me the space I need to adjust. And there are times when I think it might not be so bad; giving myself to her willingly would at least show her the way I feel about her. Maybe I'll feel different after the baby comes. The prospect of motherhood should fill me with terror; after all, I've only been a woman for a few weeks. But strangely, it's almost as if this was always what I was meant to do. I feel complete in a way that I could never have imagined as a man. For the first time in my life, I'm involved in something truly wonderful. It's supposed to be a man's world, but even the most powerful and wealthy of men counts for nothing when the Reaper calls. The one chance at immortality that we have in this life is through our children, and that's the one thing that a man can do nothing about. It's the female of the species that's the source, the root from which we all grow; having been born as a man, this astonishing feeling of a new life quickening inside me is one that I never dreamed I'd be allowed to experience. It puts everything into perspective; a lifetime's disappointments and setbacks seem trivial compared to this overwhelming act of creation. And I know it sounds childish, but I get a certain satisfaction from the knowledge that I'm finally doing something that my perfect brother could never do, for all his money and success. My parents are never going to know, but Ken is finally going to come off second best. * * * So, that's my story. I still don't understand what I did to Mary Marsh to make her hate me with such vindictiveness and spite. I keep thinking back to the two times that we made love, and as far as I can recall she was a willing participant on both occasions. Maybe she remembers things differently. But whatever her reasons, I really should be grateful to her for what she did to me. My life was in pieces before her perverted act of revenge, and now I have someone to share my life with, and the promise of a new life growing inside me. Maybe the punishment does fit the crime, after all. The End