Bikini Beach: The Activist free porn video

Bikini Beach: The Activist By Elrod W It was a quiet afternoon. So far, business had been quite good, but this late in the afternoon, it always slowed down. Still, a few people liked to slip in a little late swim and waterplay, so the ticket booth had to stay open. To divert herself from the obvious boredom, Anya wore headphones over her long dark hair; her choice of music didn't quite agree with her grandmother's, so the headphones were a compromise. She was really enjoying the tunes, too. Then it hit her. The feeling. Anya's eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head. Slowly, like a radar searching, she scanned the parking lot. There. Anya's eyes focused on the silvery-colored Lexus, and more specifically, on the gentleman sitting behind the wheel. She studied him as carefully as he was studying the gate. Early thirties? Trim. Not the kind of face that drove women crazy. Small dark lenses in oval wire-rimmed frames. And what of the eyes behind the sunglasses? Anya reached out with her mind, probing delicately. No reason to be blunt; in fact, there was every reason to be subtle. Some people were magic-sensitive. And if this guy were a user... Anya sighed, as she sensed no magical aura; even a powerful wizard had difficulty disguising his or her aura. But there was something. Intelligence. Very strong intelligence. The man - a name floated to her - Nelson Davis - possessed a powerful intellect. And more - a very real sense of purpose. Nelson Davis was not sitting in his Lexus, idling so the air conditioner would fend off the stifling summer heat, to watch girls. There was some other purpose. Anya swallowed and took a deep breath. As she slowly let it out, she closed her eyes and let her mind reach out even more. Without warning, Nelson put his car in gear and pulled slowly from his parking spot. Anya gasped - had she given herself away? - and reached out in desperation. As the Lexus turned onto the main road, she got a fading glimpse. There was no alarm. Just as sense of - determination. About what, though, Anya had no idea. *** Vicky had the early shift, and business was quite brisk this morning. She saw the Harwins - Mike and Cindy and little Jimmy and his sister Nichole. Obviously, they were here for another day of fun. As Mike led his family through the turnstile, Vicky stole a glance out toward the parking lot, scanning to see if there were more customers for her. And she spotted it. The silver Lexus - just like Anya had described. She checked; sure enough, a man wearing sunglasses was seated behind the wheel. Vicky felt a chill; despite that, she pasted on a smile. "Excuse me for a moment," she said to a young lady inquiring about membership. Vicky picked up the phone and punched a few numbers in quick succession. "Boss, the guy Anya was talking about - he's back." She spoke in a hushed tone, away from the window; no sense worrying the customers. After a moment, Vicky hung up the phone and turned back to her customer. "I'm sorry for the interruption. Now, what kind of membership would you be interested in?" she asked politely. The old woman didn't feel like any subtlety. As she pushed open the door of her office building, she pulled a pair of sunglasses down over her eyes. With a deliberate stride, she crossed her parking lot toward the car. Nelson Davis glanced up, and saw the old woman walking toward him. A frown started to form; he was still observing, and wasn't ready. On the other hand, he had never in his life backed down from a confrontation. He shut off the key and crawled out of his car. The old woman marched right up to him. She looked intimidating, despite being considerably shorter than Nelson's six feet. He took careful measure of the woman; she was old - perhaps nearing sixty - but seemed to be in remarkable shape. Her figure was imposing of itself; she was large, but definitely not fat. There was not a trace of fear in her walk, or her stance. "May I help you?" she demanded. Nelson was, for the first time in a very long time, almost at a loss for words. Almost. He hadn't gotten to his station in life by being intimidated often. "I'm just doing some observing," he said lightly, trying to sound charming and non-threatening. The old woman didn't buy it. "This is the second day you've watched my park. Why?" Nelson smiled. He had to admire the brutal honesty of this woman. "Third, actually." He was hoping she'd be thrown off by his candid admission, and that she hadn't noticed him sooner. "I'm just kind of curious about your clientele," he finally admitted. The old woman nodded slowly. "Well, you needn't bother. This is a private park, for ladies only. I respect the privacy of my patrons." Nelson felt a brief surge of triumph. "Yes, that agrees with what I've observed," he said. "I think I've seen all I need to see." The old woman felt her jaw muscles tighten. "I'll have to ask you to leave," she said softly. "This is private property." If she'd expected Nelson to cower in fear and scurry off like a frightened rat, she was disappointed. Nelson carried himself with calm and poise as he climbed into his Lexus. With a polite nod of his head toward the old woman, he started the car and eased slowly and deliberately out of the parking lot toward the main road. The old woman watched him go, and then stared for several moments after his car. "Something tells me that he's trouble," she muttered to herself. *** Anya glanced out of the booth, and frowned when she saw the silver Lexus again. She began to reach for the phone, and then stopped when she saw Nelson get out of his car and walk toward the booth. Nelson was expressionless as he stepped to the booth. Anya pasted on a smile; inside, she was wary of this man. "May I help you?" she asked cheerfully. Nelson merely stared at her. "I'd like to buy a ticket," he said simply. Anya sighed. Not again... "Sir, this is a private park, and admission is limited to members only. We don't sell tickets." Nelson reached in his pocket and pulled out a notebook. He made a few scribbles, and then turned back to Anya. "How does one become a member of this park?" Anya's eyes narrowed. Mr. Davis was up to something, she could tell. Still, he asked a legitimate question. "We sell memberships. Members can purchase guest passes, and we have a few limited guest passes - depending on how many members are using the facility any given day." Nelson peered into his notebook as he scribbled furiously. Finally, he shut the notebook, and as he slid it back into his shirt pocket, he smiled up at Anya. "Thank you. You've been most helpful." He turned and walked back to his car. Within seconds, the car was a spot vanishing in the distance. Anya picked up the telephone. "Grandmother, he was here again." She paused for a brief moment. "He was asking about memberships." *** It was almost a week later; Anya had yet another shift in the booth. She wished - desperately - that the old woman would hire another worker. The booth was important, but it was very boring. Well, mostly boring, Anya conceded. A grin flitted across her features as she thought of the fraternity jock trying to pick up girls. She'd made sure he got what he wanted - a very busty blond with nothing but sex on her mind. She was so distracted by the thought of that change that Anya almost didn't sense the man approaching. With a start, she turned to see him. He was a small, wiry man, dressed in a suit and tie; it was obvious to anyone that he was not a customer. His face seemed as if cast in the dour expression he wore. "I would like to speak to the proprietor," he announced before Anya could give her greeting. Anya did a quick scan. The man was all business. She pointed to the low gray building. "My grandmother is in her office," she responded. The stern little man nodded, then marched toward the office. Anya grabbed the phone and stabbed the buttons. The little man marched through the door into the office, barely acknowledging the drastic change in light from the bright outdoors to the office interior. He noted the old woman seated behind her large desk. "May I help you?" she asked gruffly. "I don't appreciate interruptions; I have a park to run." The little man was non-plussed. He held out a manila envelope toward her. The old woman took it warily. "What is this?" she asked. The little man's face didn't change. "You are required to appear before State Judicial Court, where you will answer to the civil complaints outlined in the documents. Good day, madam." He turned and marched out the door. As Anya walked in, skirting the dour little man as he marched out, she heard some very choice epithets from her grandmother. She flinched; she hadn't heard such language in a long time. Anya slipped into a chair as the old woman fumbled through the papers. "What's this about?" she finally asked. The old woman looked up with a glare. "We've discovered what Mister Nelson Davis, Esquire, was up to. He's suing me. For discrimination." Her jaw clenched furiously, struggling in vain to confine the string of curses, some even in the old language, which emanated from the angry woman. *** Anya felt ill at ease in the office chair; she was dressed very professionally, like her grandmother beside her. She didn't want to be here, but her grandmother had insisted. Lawyers were a vital part of any business, and Anya had to learn how to deal with them. Across the table sat a pleasant-looking older gentleman; he was impeccably attired in suit pants and a starched white shirt, with a deep maroon patterned tie fastened with a simple yet dignified tie tack. Suspenders gave him a grandfatherly appearance; his suit coat hung visibly on a coat rack. Every detail was designed, crafted to make him appear ever so professional without being unapproachable. The door opened, and a younger woman stuck her head in. "Mr. Calhoun, Mr. Davis is here." She ducked out of the way, and Nelson Davis walked casually through the door. Suspicion hung about him like a thick cloud. James Calhoun, attorney for Bikini Beach and long-time friend to the old woman, rose casually from his chair and extended his hand. "Nelson, good to see you again," he said easily. Across the table, the old woman and Anya likewise rose. Decorum required it, but Anya hated having to play this game. "Mister Davis," she said very coolly, shaking his hand in turn. His firm grip startled her momentarily. Anya felt her jaw tense, and she tightened her grip. She realized that, to Nelson, the simple act of shaking hands was a contest of wills, a way to measure one's opponent. "Mister Davis," the old woman said evenly, grasping Nelson's hand with a surprising strength, matching the firmness of his grip. "I'm glad you could meet with us." "Won't you have a seat?" Calhoun asked easily as he slid gracefully back into his chair. He gestured toward an empty chair, and Nelson sat down as the old woman and Anya did the same. "Now then," Calhoun began easily, "I understand that you've filed..." The old woman frowned at her lawyer. "Cut the crap, John." She turned to Nelson. "You're suing me. Why?" Nelson seemed taken aback at her bluntness, especially with her own lawyer present. "Okay," he nodded, agreeing to talk on her terms. "Your establishment discriminates. This is a clear violation of state and federal statutes." The old woman glanced at Nelson carefully. "I discriminate... how?" Nelson wondered briefly what game she was playing. "You discriminate against men. You have no male members of your park." He frowned. "That's as wrong as it is for men's-only clubs to discriminate against women." The old woman didn't seem fazed. "The First Amendment to the Constitution guarantees the right of association." Nelson watched her walk into the trap. He let his confidence get away from him a bit. "That argument has been held as invalid in the case of public accommodations." Calhoun tilted his head, a smile on his face. "A club which is limited to members only is not a public accommodation." "Mister Davis," the old woman sounded firm, "when I established my facility, I took a number of precautions against precisely the circumstance you have filed. The club is private, and doesn't fit the definition of a public accommodation. I paid a lot of good money to make sure I was strictly above-board." Calhoun nodded his agreement. "If you'd like, I could fax you the relevant cases to justify the policies of the park." He was toying with the younger lawyer, demonstrating professional courtesy while at the same time letting it be known that he wasn't going to sit still for an uppity young punk. Nelson was unimpressed. "And I can show you all the pertinent cases arguing the other side." He leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting lightly on the leather of the armrests, his fingers steepled before his mouth. "We are dealing with a matter of discrimination, which is morally wrong. The courts have decided over and over that such discrimination is not permissible." He gazed toward the old woman, a silent challenge on his face. The old woman gazed at Nelson, studying him, staring as if she were looking into his soul. "Mister Davis, I know such things are considered old-fashioned, but men and women _are_ different. What works for men doesn't always work for women, and vice versa." Nelson snorted his contempt. "That's primitive thinking," he said, sounding contemptuous toward the old woman. "Equality demands that we tear down artificial barriers..." The old woman shook her head. "Do you know what it's like for a woman? Do you?" Anya cringed; she knew what her grandmother was thinking. "Have you ever had people gawking at you, treating you like nothing more than a sex object?" She watched Nelson squirm. "You _can't_ know. And because you can't, you pretend that it doesn't happen." She leaned into the table. "But it does happen." Her voice was soft but insistent, as if she were sharing a secret. "It happens all the time. I created my park to give women a break from that. A refuge, if you will." The force of her words, and the conviction with which she spoke momentarily stunned Nelson. "That's irrelevant to something as morally wrong as discrimination," he said quickly, trying to recover his poise. The old woman shook her head. "Until you've walked a mile..." She sat back in her chair, and her expression lightened a bit. "So, I assume you'll be suing Ronnie Harris for her all-women condos, too?" Nelson's head swam. This was not going in a direction he liked; in fact, it seemed to be getting out of his control. "It's the same thing," he muttered. "So are you going to sue her?" Nelson mustered up his courage. "I don't see how that's relevant. But no, I hadn't planned on suing Ms. Harris." He realized, too late, his tactical error. "But it's still the same thing." Calhoun leaned forward, his grandfatherly expression gone. He had the look of a hawk that had spotted prey; Nelson felt naked and vulnerable before the more-experienced old man. "So, you'd prey on my client because she's a smaller target? Because you think you can intimidate her, and get her to knuckle under? Because you're afraid Ronnie Harris' lawyers would eat you for lunch?" His eyes narrowed. "Or are you just trying to make a quick buck on the back of a legitimate business?" The old woman raised her hand, resting it gently on Calhoun's forearm. His attack ceased, and he leaned back in his chair. The old woman stared deeply into Nelson's eyes, a penetrating gaze that left Nelson trembling. "No, you're not in this for the money, are you?" Nelson was thoroughly rattled. He shook his head, staring nervously at the old woman. Anya focused on Nelson. "You really believe that there aren't any differences. That there aren't any legitimate reasons for men and women having separate associations. That any kind of discrimination is wrong." Nelson nodded again. His palms were sweating, and shivers coursed up and down his spine like express elevators. These two women had read him like a book, and he didn't like _that_ one tiny bit. The old woman turned toward Calhoun. "Please give us a minute in private, John" she asked. The old lawyer seemed surprised, but nodded and left the room. As the door clicked shut, the old woman turned back toward Nelson. "I know that, in your heart, you believe what you're doing is right. But you're wrong. You can't understand what it's like." Nelson squeezed the chills from his back. "I know I'm right," he said through pursed lips. "Discrimination is wrong. Of any kind, for any reason. It's wrong." "Where did you have lunch today?" Anya asked suddenly. Nelson turned to her, confused. "At the deli." "So you just told them - give you whatever they were giving everyone else?" Nelson shook his head. "Of course not. I ordered what I wanted." "How about your house? Just any old house? Did you just ask the realtor to pick a random house?" Anya shook her head. "Or your car? Did you just pick one at random?" Nelson's head was reeling. "I don't see what this has to do with anything." Anya smiled, a sad but knowing smile. "You chose a townhouse in a nice upscale neighborhood." She told him his address. "And you had it customized, so it had all the features you wanted. Just like your Lexus. You wanted something that suited your taste." She shook her head. "You practiced discrimination in every one of your choices." Nelson shook his head vigorously. "It's not the same. I don't discriminate against people." Anya shook her head. "Oh, but you do! Ultimately, your choices do. Would you like me to show you how choosing a sandwich for lunch affects people?" The old woman touched Anya's arm. She smiled at Nelson. "Mister Davis, my Anya is such a smart girl, isn't she?" She allowed herself the pleasure of a proud smile. "Ultimately, though, she's right. Women are discriminated against. Every day of their lives, women have an uphill battle. And this despite all the laws and ordinances and statutes, despite all the so-called social evolution. Bikini Beach is a refuge, where women can relax and play and have fun without having to worry. There is no discrimination at my park, because there are no men to discriminate against my customers." Nelson looked thoughtful, and for a moment, the old woman thought she might have gotten through to him. But then he shook his head. "I have to disagree. There are a lot of clubs that used to be men only; they've been successfully integrated, and with no detriment to their rolls." "If that's true," Anya asked innocently, "then what about fraternities and sororities?" Nelson shook his head. "They are different," he explained without explaining. Anya started to open her mouth, but the old woman touched her arm again. "We can debate this all day, and I don't think you'll ever understand a woman's viewpoint." She sighed. "I have a suggestion. Would you like to see how much discrimination a woman goes through before you proceed with your suit?" Nelson's neck hairs bristled; he smelled a trap. "There isn't any. At least, none that's legal." The old woman closed her eyes for a moment. "Would you like to see how much discrimination there is toward women?" Nelson narrowed his eyes. "You seem to be asking the impossible." The old woman didn't flinch. "Would you like to see..." Crimson shot through Nelson Davis' face. Clearly, he was wearying of this little verbal game. "Yes, if it were possible! Just to prove to you that it doesn't exist." *** The old woman stood beside the ticket booth. Beside her, alternating his gaze between the old woman, the ticket booth, and the park gate, Nelson Davis stood. He was confused. "Okay, what is this all about?" he demanded. The old woman looked surprised. "It's what you agreed to - to see what women face daily. Your chance to 'walk a mile', so to speak." The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. "Unless you're ready to admit that you are wrong." Nelson stiffened. "Not likely," he snapped. "I'm right, and you know it." His jaw clenched in frustration with the old woman's games. He'd been challenged, and now found himself backed into a corner. His convictions, however, left him no way to retreat. "But what can you prove?" Anya slid something out of the ticket booth, and the old woman picked it up. She glanced at it, then gave Anya a quick smile and offered the pass toward Nelson. "You should go on in, then, and see what my park is all about." Nelson glanced warily at the pass, and then took it gingerly. He looked at the old woman, then back at the pass. He knew - deep down - that she was up to something. But he couldn't tell. She couldn't be up to any mischief; the park was loaded with patrons. He set his jaw and decided to call her bluff. *** Nelson wondered if he could be wrong about the park; there was, after all, a men's locker room, albeit a small one. She couldn't really discriminate against men if she had a men's room, could she? It wasn't quite what he expected, though. For starters, it was much smaller than he'd expected - perhaps a tenth the size of the ladies' room, judging from the relative building sizes. Nelson set the borrowed trunks on a short bench, and began to slowly disrobe. He stashed his clothes in one of the tall lockers - no sense getting needless wrinkles in his slacks or blazer, after all - and pulled on the trunks. For a brief moment, he considered wearing the borrowed clothing, but he didn't really have a choice, and he didn't dare back down now. As Nelson reached for the door handle, he noticed the sign, reminding him to shower. The sign quoted health department regulations, but Nelson suspected that it was just the old woman's cover for helping maintain cleanliness. No matter what else he thought of the old gal, he had to admire her attention to the health and welfare of her customers. Nelson dodged around the skimpy white curtain and stepped into the shower. He stepped clear of the spray and twisted the handle, avoiding the spray that would inevitably start out cold. Within moments, he'd adjusted the temperature more to his liking, and he stepped under the fine spray. Nelson's eyes widened at the thoroughly pleasant sensation as the water seemed to massage his body to the bone, replacing any tiny hints of fatigue with a refreshing vitality. His eyes drifted shut as the droplets worked on his skin, relaxing him more than any shower he'd ever felt. If only he'd opened his eyes, Nelson might have noticed the fine pink mist rising from the spray, surrounding him in a barely- visible ethereal fog. With his wet feet slapping softly on the tile floor, Nelson walked deliberately toward the door. While his mind was racing with curiosity about the park, he didn't want to give the old woman the satisfaction of seeing him as anything other than a staid lawyer. Had he hurried, he might have noticed a gentle tugging and swaying on his chest. He might have noticed just how much his hips were swaying, and how much his balance had been thrown off. As it was, his cautious and unhurried pace masked any sensations from Nelson. Only when he reached up - up! - to tug the door open did his mind take notice that something was wrong. He glanced at the door, and wondered how it could be so heavy. And then his eyes noticed his hand grasping the handle - a fine un-masculine hand with well-manicured nails. Nelson's eyes narrowed, and he blinked twice. No, the hand was still there. It was at this point that the data his mind had been accumulating finally got through Nelson's wall of logic and focus. Suddenly, he noticed that his stance was wrong, and his sense of balance seemed a bit - off! He noticed that his chest felt different, and that something was brushing his shoulders. He noticed that the room seemed a bit smaller, as if it had grown. With a horrified thought, the facts began to assemble themselves into an explanation that Nelson couldn't accept. Nelson glanced down, his eyes confirming the data that his body had been trying to send to him - his chest felt like it was swaying and bobbing because it was! On his once masculine ribcage, a pair of round, full, and very feminine breasts hung, capped by large brown nipples and swaying with his every move. Nelson reacted in the only way someone trained so exquisitely in logic could when confronted with such an impossible change. He screamed in a voice that wasn't his own, a high-pitched shriek of disbelief and shock. Nelson staggered backward, feeling a surge of panic that he hadn't felt in a very long time. His eyes continued to gawk at the impossible feminine orbs on his chest as his feet hit the changing bench. For a brief moment, his balance teetered, and he was in danger of falling backward over the bench, and then he recovered, somehow, and allowed himself to sink onto the bench. What had been a tripping hazard suddenly became a refuge, an anchorage for Nelson as his head spun. The sheer impossibility of what was on his chest had his senses reeling, rocking him to the very core. Subconsciously, Nelson's logical mind continued to process the data, noting that his borrowed swimsuit was now a woman's bikini bottom, that his legs were shorter and more feminine looking with their smoothly-shaven skin, that his waist was narrower and flatter, that hair danced longer in his peripheral vision as it tickled his shoulders, that his breasts - his breasts! - bobbed with his every movement and breath, tugging at his chest, reminding him constantly that he was altered somehow. But the breasts weren't the only constant sensation that emphasized the change. The very feeling of sitting was different, changed, and alien. It was as though his rear end was wearing padding, further insulating him from the hardness of the bench. All these facts, and more, were neatly filed away by the logical part of Nelson's brain. At some point, he would be able to access the data consciously. Right now, however, Nelson's mind was overwhelmed by sensations more closely approaching terror. He stared at the most visible symbols of his change, his brain trying desperately to form coherent thoughts, while his mouth continued to move and make small frightened sounds in the absence of different directions from Nelson's mind. The sound of the door squeaking open provided a needed shock, startling Nelson from his helpless state. He glanced up at the door, his panic-stricken eyes now filling with fear. He was in the men's locker, and somehow, he was now a semi-nude girl. This was not a good situation. That tiny distraction allowed Nelson's logical mind to seize control. He clasped his hands over his bare breasts, then glanced around, genuinely frightened. "Mr. Davis?" The voice was familiar, Nelson realized as he frantically searched for something to cover himself. "Mr. Davis?" It was the old woman. Nelson grabbed at a towel and clutched it to his chest, covering the bare breasts as he turned to the door. Sunlight streamed through the narrow opening, interrupted twice as figures stepped into the small locker room. Nelson felt himself shrinking into a corner between lockers as his subconscious sought to hide him from this shameful transformation. Anya spotted him first; the old woman had peered first into the showers. "Mr. Davis, we were waiting for you." She stifled a giggle; at least this one had the sense to cover himself up, unlike most of their male patrons. She felt a sharp elbow in her ribs; her grandmother had read her mirth and was reprimanding her for it. "What..." Nelson's mouth and mind worked in sync for the first time since he'd noticed the changes, but the question sounded to absurd to come out on the first try, even as determined as Nelson was to prove his sanity by being rational. "What have you done to me?" The voice was soft and feminine; somehow unable to show the anger and confusion Nelson was trying to muster. The old woman smiled. She seemed to be totally comfortable with Nelson's change - as if she'd expected it. A light clicked on, even as the rational side tried to argue that such a change was impossible. And yet, the evidence was there that it had happened. Ergo, the old woman was responsible. "Yes, Mr. Davis, I was expecting this. You see, you agreed to walk in a woman's shoes, to experience the discrimination you claim doesn't exist." "But this is... impossible!" Nelson shook his head, flinching from the locks of hair dancing about his face. The old woman smiled again, almost maddeningly. "No, it's magic." Nelson felt a shudder course involuntarily down and back up his spine. If what this woman said was true, if this was truly magic, then she was more powerful than anyone Nelson had ever dealt with. He suddenly felt tiny and insignificant and powerless, completely at the mercy of this old woman. His mouth opened to say something, but his fright stilled his words. Anya furrowed her brow, and then a broad grin crept across her pretty features. "Yes, she is a lot more powerful than you could have possibly imagined." She'd just read his thoughts, and confirmed his fears. Instead of being reassured, Nelson's nervousness increased. The old woman took his arm and guided him gently to the bench, the same one he'd just so recently sat upon. "No, we wouldn't do anything to harm you just because of your lawsuit." She'd read his mind, too. "That wouldn't be... moral." She snapped her fingers, and a bikini top appeared in her outstretched hand. Nelson watched the tiny display, his nerves not reassured despite her words. "So... what are you going to do with me?" His voice was tiny and fearful. The old woman seemed surprised. "Do? Why nothing," she said, puzzled. "I've just given you the means to live as a woman for the next week. Just like you agreed." She waved off the start of his protest. "Yes, I know. You didn't realize you were honestly going to get to walk in a woman's shoes, did you?" She smiled. "But that is what you agreed to." "But..." Nelson was confused again. "So you've somehow conjured up a woman's body for me?" His mind raced at the possibilities - some of them quite frightening. "How does that..." Anya laughed. "No," she answered quickly. "Grandmother didn't just 'conjure up' a body for you. You see, the entire fabric of reality has been rewoven. To the world, Nelson Davis has never existed. Only you - Natalie Davis. To the world, you've always been a girl. In school, college, law school. Even at your law firm." Nelson stared open-mouthed at Anya, trying to comprehend the enormity of what she was telling him. He turned to the old woman, to try to gauge from her what his situation truly was. The old woman nodded slowly as Anya's explanation penetrated Nelson's confused mind. "In this reality, you were born a girl. You followed the same career path, so you're a lawyer, and you work for the same firm. There are some places where your... femininity... would have made a significant difference. So no, it's not like you're going to be dumped exactly into your old life, but as a woman. You'll discover the changes as you go along." Nelson's jaw dropped open a crack, then he shut it. For a few seconds of silence, his mind worked on what she'd said. "So any differences I see are strictly because of being a woman?" Anya raised an eyebrow at his comment; in it, she found the stated question and an unspoken doubt, a mistrust. "Mr. Davis," she said softly, "when my grandmother says that the differences are only because of your new gender, she isn't lying." A faint smile graced her features. "Any magic powerful enough to alter your gender could also be powerful enough to alter your past, and even your own perceptions. Or to even blot you from the past." She watched as Nelson's eyes widened at the implication. "Oh, yes. You could have been left as a sex-starved slut, or a total bimbo with virtually no intellect. Or worse. Think about that." Nelson's jaw flapped a few times. He hadn't truly grasped the power with which he was dealing until Anya's comment. As the lithe brunette turned and walked toward the locker room door, he - she - took the bikini top and began to effortlessly fasten it about her nude top. It was a complete shock to her mind when she realized what she had done, even as she trembled involuntarily at her precarious position. She glanced up at the old woman. "How... how did I do that?" she asked, the quiver of fear extended to her voice as well. The old woman seated herself on the bench. "To make it easier, I've given you skills at female tasks. Like doing makeup, dressing, going to the bathroom." She shrugged. "Normal, everyday tasks that a woman does without thinking about it. Like putting on your top." "But..." Natalie's head spun. This was so impossible, and yet it was so real. Even - her name. Her! When she wasn't thinking consciously, her former name seemed alien, foreign. Natalie seemed so natural. "Doesn't that change some things... in my mind?" Natalie's voice was uncertain, fearful. "Doesn't that change the whole experiment?" The old woman stared at Natalie for a second, then laughed. "If you can ask that question, I think you already have your answer." She stood, and took Natalie gently by the arm. "School's open. Time for you to start learning what a woman goes through." The old woman led Natalie across the locker room, until Natalie was standing in front of a mirror. Natalie gasped, her mouth dropping open. In the mirror, she saw herself, and the entire scope of her changes. True, she'd seen the breasts on her chest, and the difference in sex between her legs. Still, that could have all been some type of elaborate psychological illusion. But now? She was undeniably female. And pretty. Not drop-dead gorgeous, and not a model by any means, but she was still reasonably attractive. Her eyes - a lighter shade of blue, and definitely softer and bigger. Or was it that her face was smaller? That was probably it; on her smaller, more feminine face, her eyes seemed bigger. Gone were the manly features, like the rough angular chin and the Gallic schnozz; Natalie possessed a small, dainty nose with a slight upturn. Her chin was soft and smooth, like the baby-smooth skin on her cheeks. Her eyebrows were finer and more feminine. While logic told her that her mouth was smaller, Natalie knew that her lips, on her tinier body, seemed fuller and more alluring. Gone was the prominent Adam's apple, leaving a slender neck which seemed to flow smoothly from her face down onto her smaller shoulders. She lifted her hand, staring carefully at the altered flesh. It was a masterpiece of delicacy and feminine charm. Graceful and slender, it appeared devoid of the raw power that Nelson had built in his hands. Instead, this hand seemed fit for fine tasks. The fingers ended in well-manicured nails; even Nelson gave in to vanity and kept his hands neatly manicured. But these - the nails were not the inch-long claws that he saw on some ladies, but short, neatly trimmed, but nonetheless feminine fingernails. A coat of enamel, subdued and conservative in color, decorated the nails. Natalie reflected at just how much the old woman had changed. She'd seen women at work before, but had never really looked at them, not in detail. Now, she understood a few points. Her nails were feminine, but professional. Like so much of the changes she was discovering. Natalie let her gaze wander down, and involuntarily, she turned her body so she could see her bustline from a few angles. The cups of the bikini lifted her boobs a bit, enhancing the lines to display a small amount of cleavage, but Natalie was pleased to see that she had modest breasts. Pleased - and secretly a tiny bit disappointed. After all, weren't breasts what men made all the fuss over? So if she was going to be a woman, wouldn't the old woman have made her more appealing to men? But no, she wore, as she would learn, a B-cup. A large B-cup, but B's. It didn't matter; in profile, they were perky and curvy, and didn't seem to pull too hard on her bikini top. From the front, there was enough to attract attention, but not enough to be freakish. If she had to have breasts, Natalie realized, she could have done much worse than the pair adorning her chest. Natalie's eyes wandered to her waist. Gone were the well-toned muscles of Nelson's abdomen; in their place were the flat, toned and shaped muscles of a woman who wanted to keep her figure. Slender, but not absurdly so, Natalie's waist was graceful and feminine. Just like the hips below. Again, almost clinically, she noted the differences. Her waist flared out somewhat into the wider hips of a mature woman, and as she turned, she could see in the mirror that her derriere was rounder and distinctly female. Once again, however, her shape was moderate and not absurdly overdone. Her butt was not fat; nor were there any traces of fat on the legs curving down from her hips. All in all, she was an attractive, if somewhat average, woman. The old woman sensed Natalie's thoughts. "If I'd given you a sexier body, anything you learned during the coming week you'd attribute to the body. As it is, you're just average. So the changes you notice aren't because you're a sex kitten. They're because you're a woman. And that's all." She took Natalie's arm and pulled her toward the door. "Now scoot. Go and learn what women experience each and every day." Natalie took an uneasy step toward the door, and then glanced over her shoulder. The hair swirling in her face was pesky, and without thinking, she brushed it aside. "Okay, I'll prove you're wrong. There aren't any differences." She turned, regaining her pride and determination, and marched toward the door. The old woman watched her walk, and chuckled inwardly. Natalie was too blinded by her own convictions to see that even her walk had a feminine touch, and that her butt was wiggling in a way that was certain to attract male attention. *** If Natalie had expected anything unusual about the waterpark, she was disappointed. It was a very nice water park, but the patrons were all female. No secret clubs, no cloak-and-dagger discussions around the pools or tables. If anything, the talk seemed centered on men - and their many faults. The women she'd met were quite at ease talking about their men, and in quite intimate detail. Natalie suspected this was a woman's equivalent of locker-room talk. Still, despite this revelation, she was uneasy. She'd expected something to happen. And the fact that there were no men was most disturbing of all. It was discriminatory, and just plain wrong. As she slipped on her clothing, she couldn't help assessing it. Just as she had, her clothes had changed. Her new underwear, which she found herself slipping on as if she'd done it all her life, consisted of rather plain panties and bra; nothing extravagantly lacy or showy. Just white bikini-cut panties and a matching white bra. Panty hose, in a light tan shade, covered her smooth legs. A modest white skirt and a light blue knit polo shirt completed her clothing. Her feet slipped easily into a pair of white tennis shoes. Natalie recognized the outfit as a professional woman's recreation uniform. She'd seen it many times among the women in her office. In her purse, she found an emerald and diamond tennis bracelet for one wrist, and an expensive watch for the other one. It wasn't Nelson's Rolex, but it was still a fine watch, a symbol of power and status. No rings, but she found a pair of earrings, also with emeralds and a matching necklace. Without thinking, Natalie pulled her hair back into a ponytail, fastening it with an elastic band, and then brushed her bangs, imparting a bit of curl. Still pondering the impossibility of the day's events, Natalie walked gracefully out of the locker room and toward her car. Only it wasn't her car. Not her Lexus, anyway. In its place was a blue Mazda Miata. Natalie sighed. She'd loved that car, with its rich leather upholstery and elegant lines. Now - she sighed again. She tugged open the door and began to crawl in, onto the sun-warmed seat, then she flinched as her skirt rode up as she slid behind the wheel and the hot seat tried to brand her thighs. As she drove toward her townhouse, Natalie felt a rumbling in her tummy. She wasn't surprised; it was almost 7:30 when she left the parking lot, and she hadn't eaten since lunch. She quickly decided on a logical course of action, and turned toward her favorite Chinese restaurant. As she waited for a traffic light to change, she noticed a Corvette pull up beside her. She glanced toward the driver, and felt an involuntarily shudder. The guy was staring at her. At her! Directly and without any shame, he was unabashedly admiring her. Natalie snapped her head back to the front, waiting uneasily for the light to change. Feeling a bit shaken by the creep in the 'Vette, Natalie walked as quietly as she could into the restaurant. And even that was an experience that Natalie didn't enjoy. She tried not to glance around, but she couldn't help it. And whenever she glanced, she seemed to notice heads either snapping away, as if caught in the act of gawking at her, or men - strangers! - staring at her and smiling. She quickened her pace, and wished desperately that she'd have skipped dinner. It took all of a millisecond for her to decide to take the food home rather than dine in. Once Natalie ordered, she slid onto an empty barstool while she waited for her food. A glass of wine would calm the nerves. And that was all this was, Natalie tried to convince herself. Just nerves. She wasn't used to being in this body. It was natural that she felt so self-conscious, and that everyone was staring at her. It was just her imagination. If Natalie had expected a few suggestive glances and looks to be her ordeal, she was overly optimistic. As she sat, nursing her wine and waiting anxiously for her food to be done, a gentleman came up and sat on the stool next to her. At first, she tried to ignore him, even though it was obvious that he was looking at her. Then he introduced himself and tried to start a conversation. Natalie used all her old tricks, but the things which worked for Nelson didn't work now. She finally was downright rude, telling the young man that she was not interested in anything he had to say, thank you, and could he just leave her the hell alone. And as he walked off, she overheard him muttering "...gotta be PMS," to himself. The food couldn't arrive any too soon for Natalie; she took a small swig from her wineglass, then practically bolted to the cashier and paid for her food. And then, once again, she walked the gauntlet of stares and leers as she beat a hasty retreat to her car, all the while fighting back tears that she couldn't explain. *** Sunday started as a disaster. First was the splash as Natalie forgot to put down the toilet seat. Then she had to get something to wear; she settled for pulling on a robe so she wouldn't have to deal with anything feminine. She started to fix Nelson's usual breakfast - scrambled eggs, a toasted bagel, and a cup of coffee - then she realized she wasn't nearly hungry enough to eat all that. Not if she wanted to take as good care of this body as she had of Nelson's. She sighed heavily, and then got half a bagel and an orange. While the bagel toasted, she peeled the orange and poured herself a glass of juice. And then found, as she sat eating and reading the paper, that even that meager breakfast was too much; she couldn't eat the entire bagel. As Natalie turned to the sports section, she saw the pictures of a major golf tournament. It gave her an idea of what to do. Up until that fateful photo, she'd wondered - dreaded, really - what she was going to do. But a round of golf... Now that was the ticket. She picked up the phone and started to dial, and then she checked herself and slowly hung up the phone. Things were different since the change; she'd better verify that she was a member of the club before she tried to get a tee time. Ten minutes later, she was back facing her closet, having traded one dilemma for another. While she had her tee time, she now had to pick out some clothing. Natalie thought hard about what she'd seen - as Nelson - other women wearing around the club. She picked out another white skirt, and a pink and white knit top to go with it. Thankfully, given the skills the old witch had given her, she managed to dress quickly. The only difficulty she had was when she tried to control putting her visor around the ponytail into which she'd arranged her hair. Then she remembered the old woman's words, and she stopped thinking and just did it. Natalie cursed her car as she pulled up to the clubhouse. The damned thing had a tiny trunk, and without much upper-body strength, getting her clubs into the trunk had been a struggle. She sighed at the change, and the frustration it was causing her. Fortunately, she didn't have to worry about that here. She just handed her keys to the attendant, who brought her clubs into the clubhouse and then ran back out to park her car. Despite the change in gender, the convenience of being rich hadn't changed; she got the same service. Natalie stepped to the counter when it was her turn, and she opened her mouth. But she was cut off as a guy behind her interrupted. She turned to glare at him, but he seemed ignorant of what he'd done, and the pro acted as though he'd been in line ahead of her. She fumed as she waited for the boor to finish, then she checked in. There, she discovered that she was paired with three other women; he recognized the names as being wives of a few of the corporate big-shots that lived in this rather exclusive subdivision and belonged to this very exclusive golf club. For the briefest of moments, Natalie started to protest; then she remembered that demanding to be paired with some of the men would be very highly unusual, and out of place. She meekly accepted her fate and trudged to the practice range to warm up. As she bent over to place her tee in the ground, Natalie got a strange feeling, and she straightened abruptly and glanced around. There were a lot of heads snapping away from her, and she realized that she'd been the object of their recent attention. She frowned and squatted down to place the tee. She automatically started to stretch her muscles, and then stopped herself when she realized she'd been about to bend over again. This was difficult, she was beginning to think. Then she caught herself. That was exactly what that old witch wanted her to think. She wasn't going to give in to those thoughts. She squatted, placed a ball on the tee, and stood back up. Check her grip. Feet apart, tee behind the front foot. Elbows straight. Head down, back straight. Slowly, she lifted the club and eased into a graceful backswing. Up and around, coiling her body like a spring. Then the trigger. Her hips began to turn, driven by her legs uncoiling. The hips turned her body, and her shoulders began to move, pulling the arms down with them, with the clubhead following. In a rapid burst of energy, the clubhead accelerated from behind her, arcing around gracefully, now coming down, now speeding just above the grass, then it swung through the tee and began to lift. The sweet-sounding crack of a well-struck golf ball sounded even as momentum carried the club up, pulling her arms up to a classic finish. Her head lifted automatically with the follow-through, not too soon, but in perfect time to see the ball sailing through the air, fading just ever so slightly like she had planned. She heard a few claps, and turned to see that some of the men on the practice range had watched her. She blushed, and at the same time, felt a growing rage. Were they clapping because she'd just hit the ball so well, or because they'd enjoyed watching her body as she swung the club? She didn't bother to acknowledge the sparse cheering; instead, she squatted and placed another ball. This time, she imagined the ball was that damned old woman's face, smiling up at her and laughing at her predicament. The announcer called Natalie's foursome to the first tee just as she was walking from the practice green. She'd been a bit frustrated with the experience so far; while her woods and irons seemed to be okay, Natalie knew her balance was off, and that was hampering her putting stroke. This was probably not going to be one of her better days on the course. Three older women were seated on a bench, waiting for their turn. Natalie walked up, knowing that these three were her golfing partners for the day. She introduced herself, and watched as the other three seemed a little surprised that she was a working woman, even if it was as a lawyer. They, in turn, introduced themselves: Mrs. Erica Wright, who Natalie realized was the wife of the vice-president of a major computer manufacturer; Mrs. Anne Hamilton, wife of a retired investment banker; and Mrs. Patricia Hollingsworth, wife of James P. Hollingsworth III, real-estate magnate and serious old money. From her distinct Southern accent, Natalie realized that Pat (as she insisted on being called) was probably old money from Georgia. Natalie also noted, to her surprise, that the women had all identified themselves as wives of men, rather than as their own persons. And what was more, they didn't seem bothered at all by it. The foursome ahead of them were just finishing teeing off; Natalie watched as one gentleman perched his large belly over the tee and took a fast and wild swing at the ball. The results were less than spectacular, and the action was quite comical. Natalie had to stifle a laugh; the man was president of the merchant's bank, and probably thought he was quite the golfer. Out of habit, Natalie walked to the men's tees; this caused the other ladies to chuckle. Did she think she was playing on the LPGA tour? Blushing, Natalie tried to laugh with them, and moved to the ladies' tee box. As Natalie addressed the ball, she noticed the next foursome waiting their turn, and it was all men. And they were staring at her. She forced her mind to dismiss the gawking, and to concentrate on her golf swing. She also forced herself to forget her anger at the old woman; at the practice range, she'd discovered that swinging in anger produced terrible results. The drive was sweet, playing straight down the fairway. Natalie knew this course well; on the first hole, playing right-to-left as she preferred was an invitation to trouble. So she had to play this shot straight, and her drive had accomplished just that. She watched the ball sailing, and noted with disappointment that it seemed like a rather short drive - nothing like Nelson was used to. Yet another reminder that she wasn't in Nelson's body, but was stuck with this tiny female version. As she retrieved her tee, she noticed that the men were obviously checking her out, staring at her shapely young body. She felt anger pulse through her veins again; how dare they watch her and not her golf shot. Scowling, she walked from the tee box as the next woman took her turn. During the round, Natalie began to notice a few patterns. First, she was serious about her golf game, whereas the other three women were playing the round for enjoyment. Second, the other three women were talking a lot - about their kid's schools, the charity work they were doing, the socials. Natalie finally confronted them on the fifteenth green; why didn't they talk about work? Mrs. Hollingsworth just stared at her, as if she'd turned green and sprouted antennae. But Mrs. Wright laughed. Who has time for work with all the social engagements she's expected to perform for her husband's position? Besides, why would she want to put up with the nonsense and harassment at a workplace? Natalie tried to say it wasn't true; look at her career. That got a derisive chuckle. Erica Wright had once been a petrochemical engineer, and had been a pretty good one. That was, until she hit the glass ceiling. She got tired of being passed over and seeing lesser-qualified men get the job - just because they had balls and she didn't. Finally, she married one of the 'rising stars', and when his career demanded she stay home, she decided it was easier than the frustration of the workplace. It just wasn't worth the aggravation. She smiled knowingly at Natalie. Natalie would learn, soon enough. Despite all the rules and laws, it was mostly a man's world in some fields. Natalie sat in the stuffed chair sipping her glass of wine. Her head seemed like it was spinning from the day's events, or more specifically, from the round of golf. Those three women - what was wrong with them? Didn't they understand? Why did they so easily accept a lesser role? And most annoying was the condescending way they treated her - like an innocent little girl who hadn't yet learned the lessons of life. Maybe it was because they were all older. Yeah, that was it, Natalie convinced herself. They were from a time when sexual discrimination was accepted. They couldn't see the changes. The longer she told herself that, the calmer she became. It wasn't their faults; they didn't know any better. Natalie was right - she was sure of it. She took another sip of wine. The ring of the doorbell interrupted Natalie's contemplative mood. She padded softly to the door and peeped through the viewer. It was the pizza she'd ordered; despite everything she'd convinced herself of, dinner the previous evening had thoroughly rattled her, and she didn't want to repeat it. She opened the door, and gratefully took the pizza from the deliveryman. Natalie crossed back to the sofa and retrieved her purse, and then dug out some money. As she turned back, she saw the kid - maybe he was old enough to be in college? - hastily glance up. Natalie realized that he'd been staring at her. At her! At her behind as she bent over! Natalie forced herself to take a deep breath; she had to be imagining things. She gave the kid the money, and a tip, and he turned to leave. As she closed the door, she saw him give a glance over his shoulder toward her. She tensed when she realized that he was glancing down toward her bosom. The door closed with a hard slam. Natalie rolled over on her bed again as she tried to settle in for sleep. What was wrong with these people? That creep delivering pizza - she had half a mind to call the pizza place and file a complaint. Then she wondered why she was thinking such thoughts. Why was it bothering her so much that the kid had been staring at her? Was it because she found it intimidating? Or was it because she wasn't used to it? And why had those old biddies on the golf course gotten to her? She finally drifted off, to a poor, tormented, restless sleep. *** Natalie awoke when the alarm went off, and struggled to pull herself from bed. She slogged into the bathroom and flipped on the light. The face staring back from the mirror horrified Natalie. Fatigue lined her eyes and her hair was thoroughly disheveled. She did, however, avoid the splash in the toilet; in her brief time as a woman, she'd learned to leave the seat down to not repeat that particular indignity. After brushing her teeth, Natalie picked up her comb and, with trepidation, began to attack the rat's nest on her head. Once again, she found that if she thought about what she was doing, it was difficult, but if she let instincts take over, the task was manageable. Her hair now somewhat orderly, she trudged back to her bedroom, and thence into her closet. She stared wide-eyed at the dizzying array of clothes; business suits in deep blues, grays, and tans. Skirts. Blouses. Vests. Dresses in a mind- numbing variety of styles and colors. For a brief moment, Natalie felt overwhelmed. How was she supposed to choose an outfit to wear to work from this... mess? After allowing the panic to run for a moment, Natalie took a deep breath to calm herself. Her logical left-brain took control; she thought about what other women at the office wore. In a matter of moments, she'd narrowed the choice down to one of the more conservatively tailored suits; her right brain interjected for a moment and picked the blue one, and added a cream-colored blouse with fine lace trim. Though the action was automatic, the feeling of actually wearing a bra still bothered Natalie; the panty hose and pumps weren't that comfortable either. Still, she didn't have much of a choice, so she went along. Natalie knew that she still had a few tasks to complete, and she cringed at them. In front of the mirror, she glanced at herself again. Though her outfit was tastefully done, she was still incomplete. Her hair, though slightly tamed, remained to be properly fixed for work, and she needed makeup and possibly some minor jewelry. Natalie half-closed her eyes, still not completely convinced of what she was doing, and then decided to charge into the tasks. Hair first. Something in her brain told her that, although she couldn't pinpoint the source. She knew it was too long to wear completely loose; at the same time, she needed to appear professional. She knew the look she wanted, which was as unflattering as she could get. Her 'skills' took over; she automatically pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and then wrapped the tail into a tight bun. A few bobby pins later, and she looked quite prim and proper. Next came the makeup. She again let her subconscious run things, and it produced a very light base coat to cover a minor imperfection or two, then a little blush on her cheeks. Lipstick was conservative as well, and since this was the office, she passed on eye shadow. A pair of pearl studs in her ears, and she considered herself ready to go. Natalie grabbed her purse as she walked toward the kitchen. Time for a bit of breakfast - then she saw the clock. Where had the time gone? It was already much later than she'd planned on leaving, and with traffic, she was going to be at least a half-hour late into the office. She grabbed an orange from the refrigerator and ran to her car. Natalie took small comfort in having a reserved parking spot; it would save a little time walking to the office. Then she got to the lot, and saw that she _didn't_ have a spot! In the reality created by the old woman, she wasn't important enough to have her own reserved spot! Natalie fumed all the way in to the elevator. As she stepped off the elevator, Natalie relaxed. The receptionist greeted her warmly, much friendlier than she'd ever greeted Nelson. And one of the legal aides, a single mother of about 25, was all smiles. She started to walk to her office; a sudden sense of caution set in, for reasons she couldn't explain. Perhaps it was the cumulative effect of all the changes she'd noticed that morning. She walked slowly past her office - and saw that it wasn't her office. Not in this reality, anyway. It was occupied by one of the men who'd been being groomed for partnership in Nelson's old life. Natalie was unhappy with the office she finally found. It was small - just over half the size of her old office - and it had no window. In this altered life, she wasn't even a junior partner. Just another lawyer trying to make an impression so she could move up the ladder into a partnership position. She sighed to herself as she plopped into her chair. She took a quick look at her desk calendar, and sighed again. This was the work of a junior assistant. Then a frown crossed her face. That old woman must have interfered. There's no way that a simple difference in gender could be responsible for such a drastic change in her position. Fred Lawson strode confidently into Natalie's office and sat on the edge of her desk. He had a confident, affable smile, and after a warm good-morning, he asked how Natalie was doing. She knew what he meant; her planner showed her that today was going to be a busy day, but not overly so. Fred smiled at the news, then he handed her a folder. Big case, he said. Very important client. And he needs someone to run down some case histories ASAP. He patted her shoulder paternalistically, and then strode lightly from the office, whistling to himself, while Natalie stewed. She took deep breath after deep breath, trying to reassure herself that she could handle this. Finally, she dug into her collection of law books to begin finding relevant cases. It was long after noon, and without having taken a lunch break, that Natalie strode to the firm's library. She'd gotten everything she could from her books, but she knew she needed more. And from Fred's intrusions, she knew he was not patient about getting his results. After taking a few mandatory breaks for other meetings, she compiled her research and, well past five, went down to Fred's office to give him the summary. Contrary to her expectations, he barely glanced at her work, nor did he have any thanks or praise. He just dismissed her, as if dismissing a lackey. Natalie fumed all the way back to her office, to the still-incomplete tasks she had to finish before she could leave the office. After seven, Natalie finally got out of the office. It had been a long day, with nothing but frustration after frustration for her. Still, she had accomplished all the tasks laid out for her, and handled the last-minute demand well. But it was late, and she was hungry. And a bit tired. Maybe a quick dinner and then a workout at the gym? Yeah, that sounded good to Natalie. She checked and confirmed that her duffel bag was in the trunk, just as Nelson had kept. Now where to eat dinner? No greasy burgers for her, nor fast food. She settled on a quaint little seafood restaurant. Once again, the simple act of dining in a restaurant seemed odd. As a man, Nelson had dined alone many times, and thought nothing of it. As a woman, Natalie felt herself the focus of attention of every male in the establishment, as if a single woman desired or deserved to be gawked at. Fortunately, she got a corner table to minimize her presence, and ate a seafood salad in solitary silence. As her stomach gratefully digested the first major meal she'd had that day, she chewed on the events of the day. Why had her position fallen so far? Why was she not even a junior partner after the change? Was it the old woman meddling? Or was there something to what she'd said? But no matter, Natalie simply could not accept the evidence before her. The gym was another new and humiliating experience for Natalie. First, she was wearing a leotard, which she discovered, to her great dismay, accentuated every curve on her body. Next, the facilities weren't segregated, and the guys weren't shy about staring. Natalie felt a momentary surge of pride; as Nelson, she'd brought the legal action that had made this a co-ed gym; prior to Nelson's suit, it had catered to women only. Obvious, blatant discrimination. And he'd ended it. Now, as a woman, he was working out in that very gym, and he noticed that the number of women who had memberships seemed to have declined. Still, it was a good gym, and Natalie was enjoying a vigorous workout. It was easy to get wrapped up in the exercise, to the point that the leering behavior of the men faded into the background. By th