MAU: The Monroe Doctrine free porn video

Hi, everyone. This is my first story for Fictionmania following a long hiatus, and there must have been a lot of creative energy building up inside me over that time, because it's about four times as long as any of my previous TG fiction. I think I was also inspired by ambitious, talented authors like The Professor, Julia Manchester and Danielle J, whose work has done so much to raise TG fiction to a new level of sophistication and inventiveness. They gave me a lofty goal to aspire to, and while I don't know how close I came to reaching it, they made me want to try. I'd also like to express my appreciation to Elrod W for creating the Morphic Adaptation Unit, which I think is one of the all-time great TG plot devices, right up there with the Medallion of Zulo, the Great Shift and Bikini Beach. And, of course, my deepest thanks to the dedicated staff that keeps Fictionmania in operation-there's no comparable site anywhere on the Web. I hope you enjoy the story. MAU: The Monroe Doctrine by Tim Willows I knew something was wrong when I came home and found Marilyn Monroe sitting naked on my couch. "Hi, honey," she purred in that breathy, playful little-girl voice that I recognized from so many old movies. So many black-and-white movies, except here she was, reclining on my couch in full, living colour. "Tough day at the office?" She leaned back on the cushions, arching her back so as to display her magnificent breasts to the best advantage. As she leaned her head back on the headrest, her silky blonde hair spilled across it, contrasting gloriously with the green upholstery. She rubbed her thighs sensuously together, giggling a little at her own helpless sexiness as I stared at this goddess before me, every part of her open for view, even the parts no movie studio would ever let her show the public-her large, pale-pink nipples, her blonde pubic hair. "Come on, big boy," she said. "Speak up and tell me all about it." "Who-who are you?" I stuttered, trying to adjust my jacket to hide the bulge in my pants. "How did you get in here?" Marilyn stood up, her breasts swaying gently as she walked slinkily up to me, biting the corner of a thumbnail. I took a couple of steps backwards-I was afraid, but I wasn't sure of what. Where was my wife, Margaret? How did this stranger get in here? Did she want to seduce me, kill me, or both? And yet the fear was mixed with a helpless physical attraction; this woman, with her flawless skin, her voluptuous beauty, the way she conveyed innocence and the promise of every kind of physical pleasure all at the same time-it was irresistible. She was next to me now, and she stood on her tiptoes as she breathed a few sweet, perfumey words into my ear. "Peter," she said. "I live here." I looked at her in confusion as she suddenly broke into raucous laughter and ran impishly back to the couch, her ripe backside swishing naughtily back and forth as she did so. "Oh my god!" she was saying. "You should have seen the look on your face! I thought your head was going to explode!" She pointed toward my crotch. "Or something was going to explode, anyway!" The woman-Marilyn, or whoever she was-leapt back onto the couch and collapsed in another fit of laughter. "All right, all right," I said, exasperated now instead of turned-on. "What the hell is going on here? Where the hell is my wife?" "I am your wife," Marilyn said, grinning mischievously up at me. "I'm Margaret." "What do you mean, you're Margaret?" I immediately regretted the dismissive tone in my voice-as if only an idiot would suggest that this gorgeous woman had absolutely anything in common with my wife. Now, don't get me wrong-I loved my wife Margaret, loved her with all my heart, but even I never thought of her as any kind of sex bomb. Naturally, she was beautiful in my eyes, but I knew full well that, objectively speaking, she was plain at best-5'4" tall, maybe 20 or 30 pounds overweight (not that I'm judging; I'm no underwear model myself and could stand to lose about 15 pounds, and that's being generous), dull brown hair, nose a little big, chin a little weak, breasts a little undersized. I think she had always felt a little inadequate, in fact. She grew up in the shadow of three older sisters who were all fairly glamourous-looking; one of them even went to Hollywood and became an actress-nothing big, just a few minor thrillers and romantic comedies, but enough of a looker to have had photo shoots in a couple of those men's magazines. Boys tended to ignore Margaret, and while she had a sense of humour about it, her jokes always seemed to contain a pang of regret. "I'm no Marilyn Monroe," she used to quip. "I'm more like Marilyn Manson." But now, if this woman was telling the truth, she was Marilyn Monroe. "I mean just what I said," Marilyn said. "I'm Margaret." And you know what? Even though she still spoke in Marilyn Monroe's voice, something about her rhythms and her body language really did remind me of Margaret. "Don't be ridiculous," I said. "How can you be Margaret? You look like... like..." "Marilyn Monroe?" she said, striking a centrefold pose and then dissolving into another fit of giggles. "Well... yeah. I mean, you look just like her." "I should!" she said. "It took me half an hour just to get all the details right!" "What do you mean, all the details right?" It was ridiculous-all I could think of was that maybe she'd gone to some kind of plastic surgeon. But this was beyond surgery-this would take something close to... well, magic. "Here," Marilyn told me. "Follow me." She grabbed me by the hand and led me down the hallway of our apartment and into the bedroom, which was now occupied by a tall metal object that looked like a futuristic designer phone booth. One wall was open, and there was some kind of display screen on the outside of another wall with an image of a naked Marilyn Monroe displayed upon it. "I found it on the roof," Marilyn told me. "I went up there to take a look at the garden, and there was this huge piece of metal sitting there, right in the middle of it. All the petunias were ruined! I mean, it looked like it had just dropped out of the sky or something." "Wait-how do you know about Margaret's flower garden?" Marilyn gave a loud, long exhale-just like Margaret always did when she was especially impatient with me. "Because I am Margaret, you stupid idiot. Anyway, I picked up the metal thing, expecting I'd have to kind of drag it to the garbage, right? Because it was so big, right? But it barely weighed anything. And then I noticed it had these weird-looking symbols on it, like... I mean, I know this is crazy, but it looked like this thing had come from outer space or something. I mean, dropping out of the sky, this weird, weightless metal, this weird, alien-looking language-it really seemed to be the only explanation that made sense. So, anyway, I decided that, instead of throwing it into the dumpster, I'd bring it back to the apartment and take a look at it. I brought it in here, to the bedroom, and I must have hit some kind of magic button or something, because it started growing and stretching-I thought it was going to bust out through the ceiling for a second!-and turned into this phone booth-type-dealie here." Margaret-because that was who I was convinced this woman was now, no matter what she looked like-went on to explain that she started playing around with the viewscreen I'd noted. Except when she put her hand on it, it didn't show Marilyn Monroe; it showed a naked picture of her, Margaret. "It made me feel so depressed," Margaret said, "looking at myself that way. I just looked so plain and fat and ugly, I just wanted to cry." I could believe her-Margaret barely ever looked at herself in the mirror if she could help it. She just didn't like to be reminded of how she looked. "I thought about my sisters and how beautiful they are, especially Joan down there in Hollywood and I guess I must have wished I was pretty enough to be a movie star, too. I remember saying to myself, 'Hell! As long as I'm wishing for things, I might as well wish I looked like Marilyn Monroe!'" You can probably figure out the rest. It was as if the machine read her mind; the next thing Margaret knew, the viewscreen had a picture of a naked Marilyn Monroe on it. Fascinated, Margaret began experimenting with the strange alien phone booth-she pressed a purple crystal on one side of it, and a door opened up. When she stepped inside the door, it closed immediately behind her. The next thing she knew, the door was opening up again... and she had turned into Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe, at the height of her youth and glamour and beauty. "Looks like you get to be Joe DiMaggio," she laughed. It was hard to believe she could be so giddy. "But aren't you worried?" I said. "What if you're stuck like this forever?" "Well, how bad would that be?" Margaret said, shrugging her pretty shoulders and placing her hands on her curvaceous hips. "I wouldn't mind looking like Marilyn Monroe for a while. It would be nice to have men look at me the way you've been looking at me for a change." "God, honey, what do you want me to say to that? You know I've always loved you. I always will love you, no matter what you look like. I'm just worried this thing is dangerous, you know? I mean, we really don't even know how it works." I gingerly placed a hand against the machine and poked my head tentatively inside the door. "I don't know, honey," Margaret said. "The thing seems to be pretty self- explan-" Her words were cut off by the door of the machine suddenly closing shut. I must have stepped too far inside the entrance and like an automatic door on an elevator, it immediately sealed me inside like it was programmed to. I felt a slight vibration around me, as if the air inside the booth was vibrating as well as the walls of the machine, and there was a quiet whirring noise in the blackness. After what felt like about 15 seconds, the door opened again, and I stepped out. Margaret looked at me with a disbelieving grin on her Marilyn Monroe face. Then, after a few moments of awkward silence, she began guffawing even harder than she ever had before. "Oh, honey," she gasped between laughs. "I know gentlemen prefer blondes, but this is ridiculous!" I looked down at myself. My suit was now hanging off my reduced frame- I must have been eight inches shorter than my usual 6'2", and I found I could now look Margaret evenly in the eye. I kicked off my too-large shoes and pulled off my socks, marvelling at the dainty, feminine feet now at the end of my legs, each pretty little toe decorated with a flawless coating of red nail polish. My small hands had undergone the same treatment-except my fingernails were now half an inch long. I could feel my enormous breasts chafing against my dress shirt, which felt scratchier and harsher than it ever had before, and my pants now rested against my much larger hips. I could feel my curvy bottom straining against the seat and a disturbing emptiness in my crotch. I tasted lipstick on my mouth. I shook my head from side to side and felt hair tickling the back of my neck-blonde hair, judging from the wisps I could spot out of the corner of my eye. I sighed and looked soberly at Margaret. "Am I...?" I asked. "Yes," she grinned. "You're Marilyn Monroe now, too." Before I could sob, or scream, or swear in response to this news, Margaret was once again leading my by the arm-much more easily now than before-and pulling me into the bathroom. We stood side by side, looking at ourselves in the mirror, and two more perfect twins you have never seen in your life. Literally the only thing that differentiated us was that Margaret was naked, while I was wearing the remnants of an ill-fitting business suit. Also, that Margaret was grinning like the world's sexiest idiot while I wore an expression of sexy shock. In a daze, I took off my tie, my jacket and unbuttoned my shirt and gazed upon the perfect, beautiful pair of breasts I had felt hanging from my chest ever since I stepped out of that goddamned alien device. I cupped them in my hands and felt the nipples crinkle up automatically as I felt them with my newly elegant fingers. "Watch out," Margaret said. "That equipment's pretty sensitive! Of course... you're outfitted with all sorts of newly sensitive equipment now!" I caught the stunned look I gave her in the mirror as I realized what she meant. I undid my belt and let my pants and my briefs fall to the floor, stepping out of them until I was as naked as Margaret was. And every bit as female, too-I could hardly believe the sight of myself. Marilyn Monroe-in the flesh. And what flawless, caressable, agonizingly sensitive flesh it was, too! I couldn't help myself-I felt myself all over, sighing in wonder at the roundness of my new ass, the sleek hairlessness of my new legs, the delicate softness of my new face, the wetness of the new organ between my legs. "This is unreal," I said to Margaret-and, to my amazement, the sexy, breathy sound of my new female voice made me collapse into a fit of giggles all of my own. "Why am I laughing?" I asked Margaret, trying unsuccessfully to summon up a little bit of my old male anger. "I've been turned into a woman and I have no idea how to get back!" "I think there's, like, an extra dose of hormones in this body," said my new twin. "It kind of makes you act a little... I don't know, it's sort of a slugged feeling, isn't it? Besides, I know how to get you back." "How?" I asked. It was getting a little disconcerting carrying on a conversation with your mirror image-especially someone who had exactly the same voice that you did. "That machine," Margaret said. "It can change you into anything you want. I've been all sorts of things today. I just changed back into Marilyn to give you a little surprise when you got back home." Margaret cuddled up next to me, nuzzling my nose while kneading my Marilyn ass with her delicate Marilyn hands as our perfect Marilyn breasts mashed against one another's. "And then," she said, just before she kissed me, slipping her tongue between my teeth, "you surprised me." It was the strangest sexual rush of my life-I was kissing Marilyn Monroe, I was actually kissing Marilyn Monroe! And yet, at the same time, I was Marilyn Monroe. It was so exciting for all sorts of reasons-the new sensations flooding me from what seemed like every square inch of skin on my body, the thrill of entering my bedroom and collapsing onto the bed with a partner as beautiful, with a body as helplessly erotic as my transformed wife's, the sense that I was ceding control to Margaret, who had always been a passive, fairly unadventurous lover, but who now seemed so much in command, her imagination brimming with so many ways to exploit our strange new anatomies. Twin lesbian Marilyns! My libido was going off the charts! I was eating Marilyn Monroe's pussy, and Marilyn Monroe was between my legs as well, bringing me to heights of pleasure I never knew were even possible. My long blonde hair, my much smaller size, the sweat coating my hairless body and trickling between my gargantuan-seeming breasts, the knowledge that everything I was feeling was being experienced by my wife as well-every aspect of our lovemaking session was thrilling beyond words. How could I feel embarrassed at having been turned into a woman when it felt as wonderful as this-and when my body was as glorious and as responsive as this one? After about two hours spent exploring our Marilyn bodies, we collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. "I wish we had clothes," Margaret said. "We could go out in a couple of low-cut halter tops and just blow people's minds!" I laughed. I wasn't sure I was ready to go outside as a woman-especially not a woman as attention-getting as Marilyn Monroe-but it was fun to imagine the reactions of people on the street to not just one, but two Marilyn Monroes hitting the town together and groping each other on the dancefloor. I rolled over onto my side, marvelling all over again at the strange new feel of this curvaceous body, and gently stroked Margaret's thigh while looking fondly into her eyes. "I love you, you know," I told her. "Oh, I love you too," said Margaret with a mixture of fondness and impatience. "And I'd say something romantic back to you if it weren't for the fact that I'm still feeling so horny right now!" She sat up and hopped off the bed. "Hang on. I've got an idea." She walked over to the alien phone booth and began playing around once again with the viewscreen. I tried to peek over her shoulder to see what she was up to but she quickly blocked my view. "No peeking!" she said impishly. "Not until the unveiling!" After a few minutes, she seemed satisfied with her creation. She picked up a bathrobe from a hook in the bedroom closet and strode eagerly into the booth-blowing me a Marilyn-style kiss and waving a seductive goodbye as the door sealed her up inside. I sat up on the bed with my knees beneath my chin, contemplating my toes as I waited for the transformation to be complete. My God, even my toes were sexy. It was too bad the machine didn't create clothing, because I felt a sudden desire to see what this body would look like decked out in a sexy, strapless evening gown and a pair of open-toed high-heeled shoes. I imagined myself stepping out of a limousine, one long, sexy leg emerging from the car, then strolling down the red carpet at some ultra-glamourous Hollywood premiere, the paparazzi and the fans all calling out to me. I would gaze next to me at the person holding my arm-and here, the fantasy became uncertain. Would it be Margaret next to me, also looking like Marilyn Monroe? Would it be a man? Or would it- My reverie was broken by the sound of the door opening and Margaret stepping into the bedroom. "What do you think?" she asked me, and I immediately loved her new voice, a cultivated voice with an unplaceable accent-vaguely British, vaguely New England, but not quite either. And I loved the rest of her, too; she was smaller than she had been as Marilyn, dark-haired now instead of blonde and sophisticatedly slim instead of buxom and curvy, a ponytail bobbing behind her head giving her a dose of girlish charm. "Well, hello there, Audrey," I said as she turned to face me, her every move as graceful as a ballerina's. Her slim, almost boyish figure made me feel strangely maternal toward her, as if she were a delicate creature who needed protection from the world. I have to admit, I kind of looked forward to taking charge of the lovemaking once again. "You're so small!" I said as she walked over to the side of the bed. "Come here. Let me take care of you." "Not all that small," Margaret said with a knowing grin. With that, she undid the bathrobe and revealed the full extent of the changes she'd made to her body. She was still Audrey Hepburn, all right, with that impossibly slender frame and that rare combination of class, grace and ethereal wisdom that made her such an immortal Hollywood legend. But Margaret had made one key alteration-between her legs, she'd given herself an enormous penis. It must have been at least ten inches long, thick and veiny, and I looked at it with shock. "Margaret?" I asked her. "Is that... is that a black man's cock you've given yourself?" "You'd better believe it, Norma Jean," Margaret grinned, stroking it to life with one of her delicate Audrey hands. It seemed even huger on Margaret's now-petite frame, and I realized subconsciously that it was likely almost twice as big as my own penis-or at least the penis I'd had when I woke up that morning. That thought frightened me a little, but the perversity of the whole situation also gave me a small, secret thrill; I couldn't help but feel a little excited at the prospect of being so thoroughly outmanned, even by this waifish girl in front of me. To be Marilyn Monroe, about to be fucked by a cock-wielding Audrey Hepburn! Margaret told me to kneel in front of her, and I found myself eagerly obeying. God, that cock of hers seemed as big as her arm! I hesitated, a little bit unsure of myself before giving out my first blowjob, but I soon overcame my misgivings. Margaret's cock was rock-hard by now, the black skin giving it a slightly unreal appearance as I slid my lips around it. I felt Margaret's hands on the back of my head as I began sucking. "There you go, Marilyn," she murmurred in that absurdly cultivated voice of hers. "Oh yeah. You're my own sweet little cocksucker, aren't you? A mouth like velvet, that's what you've got. Come on, keep it up, keep it up. Oh, baby. Oh, baby." She kept up a steady stream of patter for a couple of minutes, until I felt her body start to stiffen and I knew she was about to cum. I tried to get her cock out of my mouth, but Margaret's hands held my head in place. My mouth filled up with what seemed like quarts of her hot, milky cum and I found I had no other choice but to swallow it. Margaret chuckled as she finally took her penis out of my mouth and watched my wipe my lips with the back of my hand. "Talk about breakfast at Tiffany's, eh, Peter?" she said with a grin. "Boy, talk about getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop! Oh my god, that was just incredible. I've never felt anything like that before in my life." "I believe you," I said. I slumped sullenly against the side of the bed as Margaret climbed over me and sat up against the headboard, her lean legs spread out in a V as she studied the thick, black penis and the thick, black forest of pubic hair sprouting between them. It was still half-erect and Margaret seemed fascinated by her ability to make it twitch without her even touching it. I couldn't believe what had just happened. I sucked off my wife's cock-I'd even swallowed her cum-and while part of me was disgusted by my actions, a much larger part of me was aroused. "Hey, you all right down there?" Margaret said. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" "No," I said. "I'm just trying to figure a few things out." "Well, come up here and sit beside me so we can figure them out together, face to face." I did as Margaret instructed me. It was strange-as Audrey Hepburn, Margaret was physically smaller than I was (except, of course, for that monster penis between her legs) but I still felt subservient to her. I rested my head on her shoulder as she put her arm around me. "So," she said. "What's the matter, Marilyn?" "I don't know, Audrey," I replied, falling into the spirit of the conversation. "I'm just feeling a little disoriented, you know? You can understand that, right? I mean, I come home from a day's work at the insurance company and two hours later, I look like Marilyn Monroe and I've got Audrey Hepburn's gigantic cock in my mouth. I mean, that's kind of a topsy-turvy day, don't you think?" "Yeah," Margaret chuckled. "I can see where it has a whiff of the unexpected. I'm sorry if I talked you into doing something you didn't want to do. But, I mean, this cock just really got the better of me, you know? It was like I didn't have any control over myself. The cock wants what it wants-you understand that, right?" "Sure," I said in that breathy Marilyn Monroe voice I was now stuck with. "I used to have a cock myself. But that's just the thing! You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do! I loved having your cock in my mouth, Margaret. I mean, I'm looking at it right now and all I can think of is what I'd like to do with it once it gets hard again." As if in direct response to my words, Margaret's cock started to grow again. "Oh, Jesus," she said. "How do you guys control these things? My God, just look at it. God, why did I give myself such a big one?" I sighed. I guess I could have tried ignoring it, but considering there was a ten-inch-long erect penis in the room, not to mention an ultra-horny Marilyn Monroe, letting the opportunity just pass us by seemed like a tremendous waste of human potential. I slid out of Margaret's embrace and lay on my back, spreading my legs provocatively before her. Margaret put a wicked expression on her Audrey Hepburn face and immediately understood what I was inviting her to do. Without another word, she climbed on top of me-her lean, limber figure felt wonderful compared to my fleshy, sexy one. My pussy was already moist and ready, and I tried not to let any of my inner panic show on my face as I felt Margaret shove herself into me. It was the strangest and yet the most natural feeling in the world-I felt full, yet vulnerable, frightened and yet safe, and unbelievably aroused on top of it all. I wrapped my legs around Margaret's slender back and savoured the sensation of my huge breasts bouncing back and forth upon my chest as she thrust her cock into me. Every nerve ending in my body felt indescribably alive as I let my once-demure wife fuck me as ferociously as she pleased. At last, I felt as though a titanic shudder passed through me and I felt what it was like for Marilyn Monroe to have an orgasm. I felt that same feeling three more times before the night was out- Margaret and I tried out every scandalous position we could think of, and neither of our thoroughbred bodies ever once let us down. At long last, we were spent. We took a shower together, and once again I marvelled at the sensuous feel of water running down my breasts and the soft feel of my arms and legs as I lathered up my body. We dried each other gently, then we each put on a thin, silky robe from Margaret's end of the closet and had a late-night champagne supper out on the balcony. The feel of the nighttime air on my barely concealed nipples and my bare legs and feet was absolutely delicious and I gave Margaret several kisses on her Audrey Hepburn lips as we looked up at the stars and listened to the intermittent sound of cars driving by on the street far below us. When we both climbed into bed to go to sleep, it was two-thirty at night, and we fell asleep with our usual positions reversed-this time with Margaret cradling my in her arms, her hand idly stroking my breast, her sweet breath on the nape of my elegantly feminine neck. I woke up the next morning feeling unusually relaxed and well-rested. As I groggily stretched my arms and legs, the bed felt absolutely enormous-and it took me a few seconds for the sense of wrongness to kick in and realize that the bed hadn't gotten any bigger. I'd gotten smaller. "Well," I said to myself as I felt my breasts underneath the sheets, "smaller overall, anyway." And wrongness was the incorrect work for what I was feeling as well-I felt so healthy, so alert, so very right. I thought about the amazing night I had just spent in this wonderful, infinitely desirable new body of mine, feeling so completely at my transformed wife's mercy, and I couldn't help but smile and laugh a secret little laugh at all the pleasures I'd experienced that were so far beyond any pleasures I'd ever felt as a man. It was like being let in on a vast secret that was being dutifully kept from half of humankind. It was then that I realized that the bed was empty-that Margaret must have gotten up before me. I initially wanted to luxuriate alone in the rumpled sheets for a few minutes longer, but I smelt coffee brewing in the kitchen, and that was enough to lure me out of bed. I slipped on my robe from the night before-but this time I didn't fasten it. I let it fall open, displaying the heavy swell of my breasts, the softness of my stomach and the blonde triangle of pubic hair between my legs to anybody who might care to gaze at it. Of course, when I entered the kitchen and spotted the handsome man sitting at the table, I immediately pulled the robe closed and wrapped my arms around me in embarrassment. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed. "Who are you? Who let you in? Who-" I stopped in mid-sentence, then suddenly felt at ease again. "And why do you look like Cary Grant?" The man rose from the table and walked toward me, a playful half-smile on his face. He was wearing one my suits, I noticed-one of those suits that would now look so comically big on me if I ever had the ridiculous notion of putting one of them on again. The suit hung handsomely off his obviously fit and muscular body. His hair was black and immaculately styled; there was an adorable dimple in the middle of his chin and just a hint of stubble on his cheeks. He was Cary Grant, pure and simple-the Cary Grant of the '40s, of His Girl Friday and Suspicion and The Philadelphia Story. And he was, I realized, also the woman I was married to. "Hello there, sweetness," he said in that sophisticated, self-assured voice of his as he chucked me affectionately under my chin. "The morning seems to suit you well." "I could say the same for you," I said, marvelling at Margaret's new height. She was tall enough to be able to wear my old clothes, so she was eight inches taller than me now. I had never realized what a profound difference such a disparity in heights makes-at least in the person who's shorter. I'd always taken my relative tallness kind of for granted, and it was only now, looking up at the commanding, completely masculine figure of my wife that it finally struck me how easy it is for a woman to feel... well, not inferior, exactly, but more willing to cede control of a situation to the taller person. "You look so handsome in that body. What happened? Did you get tired of being Audrey?" "Oh, Audrey was all right," Margaret said with a wink. "But that was more of a nighttime look, don't you think? Sort of a private, bedroom-only kind of look. Not at all suitable for going out in public." I had poured myself a coffee and was just adding the cream when she said this-and her comment took me so much by surprise that I spilled cream all over the counter. "In public?" I sputtered. "You can't be serious!" "Well, why not?" Margaret said. "Why should we coop ourselves up all day long? Look-it's a beautiful day out." It was, too. It was the first week of June and the sky was that shade of perfect, unbroken blue that you only seem to get in the weeks leading up to summer. "I have to go to the office, Margaret, you know that." "I called in sick for you." "What do you mean, you called in sick? How-? I mean... you don't even sound like me." "I sound a lot more like you than you do this morning." "Well, even so, they couldn't have been very convinced." "Maybe not, but they still gave you the day off." Margaret smiled. I could tell she was flexing her biceps and her pectoral muscles underneath her suit-the notion of being so strong must have been quite a novelty to her, especially after spending the night as the fragile Audrey Hepburn. I sighed in exasperation. "Well, what do you propose we do?" "Well," Margaret replied with the sound of someone in possession of a plan she'd been thinking through for some time now. "First of all, we need to buy you some clothes. You can wear something of mine on the ride to the mall-I think we're more or less the same size. But you're going to need a few outfits, sweetheart, if you're planning on wearing that body any time in the future. I mean, as much as I'd get a kick out of it, you can't just go around naked all day long." I let out another exasperated sigh. She was right. Eventually, I'd want to go outside like this, and I'd need a proper wardrobe to do so. Even if I went back to my old self on Monday to return to work, I'd still want to revert to this Marilyn body as often as I could-the experience was too absolutely delicious to make it a one-time thing. And as these thoughts raced through my mind, I felt a fleeting pang of regret as I contemplated the end of the weekend, when I'd have to step back into the phone booth and return to my fat, ugly, out-of-shape old body. When I'd have to be Peter again. It was such a depressing prospect that I found myself agreeing with unexpected enthusiasm to Margaret's shopping-spree idea-if I was going to have to be Pete again at the end of this experience, I wanted to experience as much girlish fun as I could while I was still in the middle of it. "You're right, Margaret," I said. "Maybe we could use some of our vacation money. I mean, this counts as one hell of a vacation from our normal lives, doesn't it?" "You're reading my mind," Margaret said. "Now, finish that coffee, take a shower and get ready. We've got a long day ahead of us." I felt a little uneasy walking across the parking lot from our car to the shopping mall. It wasn't what you'd think, either-that I felt silly about being out in public in a woman's body. In fact, it was just the opposite-I felt embarrassed that I didn't look feminine enough. I had to pull together an outfit from Margaret's closet, and truth be told, the selection wasn't exactly outstanding. Even Margaret seemed to realize how dowdy her clothing sense was as she stood behind me, watching me try to figure out what to wear for my first sortie en femme. She just wasn't the kind of woman who dressed with sex appeal in mind, and while I probably could have looked gorgeous in just about anything, Margaret's clothes didn't show me off to my best advantage. In the end, I slipped an oversized T-shirt over my breasts (I didn't wear a bra-none of Margaret's came anywhere close to fitting me), wriggled my voluptuous ass into a loose-fitting pair of jeans, put a pair of white running shoes on my feet (which were so dainty as to be a size or two smaller than Margaret's) and climbed into the passenger seat of the car, giving Margaret a nervous "Well, here we go!" look as she started the engine. As I walked clumsily in my too-big sneakers toward the mall entrance, I found that I couldn't wait to change my clothes into something that was more appropriate to this world-class female body than the drab, baggy, unisex outfit I had on. The first store we encountered when we walked inside specialized in resort wear-I yelped happily as soon as I saw the window displays and pulled Margaret inside. After a quick conference with the salesgirl (who, in truth, seemed too young to even recognize Marilyn Monroe or Cary Grant), I learned my measurements (36-26-36!) and dress size and I quickly tried on a series of sundresses, halter tops and miniskirts. Margaret seemed a little scandalized-bless her old-fashioned heart-by the fact that I was drawn to the outfits that showed as much skin as possible and kept trying to encourage me to buy a few longer dresses and more modest tops, but I wasn't hearing any of that. One of the things that appealed to me most about this Marilyn body was just how smooth and sensuous my skin was. It seemed to respond to every breeze, every ray of sunlight, every caress with an extra-keen sensitivity and I rebelled at the thought of keeping it under wraps. Maybe that was why I felt so much at ease walking around naked in our apartment-it wasn't that I was an exhibitionist (although the way I paraded around the store modelling each new outfit made me suspect that maybe I was turning into one); it was that I was a hedonist. Showing skin made me feel good-literally feel good-and so I would show as much of it as I could get away with. I left the store wearing one of my new outfits: a pair of ultra-low-cut denim shorts and a baby-blue cotton halter top that exposed my flat tummy and my perfect navel and clung to every curve of my bobbing breasts. (And if you think that sounds scandalous, you should have seen me strutting around in the minuscule neon-green thong I had tried on in the store only 10 minutes earlier and which was now resting somewhere in one of the many parcels Margaret was gallantly carrying for me.) "We make an odd-looking couple," Margaret said with amusement as we walked down the mall, she in her sober-looking suit and me in my outrageously sexy and revealing shorts and halter, my hands wrapped affectionately around her powerful arm. "You know, you can see your nipples through that thing." "I know!" I said. "Why do you think I bought it?" "But don't you feel a little embarrassed dressed that way?" she asked, looking around surreptitiously to make sure nobody was eavesdropping on our conversation. "I mean, you can see everything!" "Surprisingly, no. I mean, it feels a little weird getting used to it, showing so much of my legs, walking around with my shoulders bare. I mean, men aren't supposed to walk around with bare shoulders, you know? But it feels great. I've... I've never worn so little clothing in public before this. I don't feel embarrassed, though. I mean-well, for one thing, I feel so free dressed like this. Unencumbered, you know?" "I think so." "Plus... I mean, how can I be embarrassed? I mean, this is going to sound awful, but I know I look good!" "Well, aren't you modest?" "But I mean, I do look good! Come on, you know it." "Well..." "Right?" Margaret laughed as she gave in to me. "Of course! Of course you do! I mean... I mean, Jesus, just look at you!" "Right!" I said. "Just look at me!" I twirled around for her. "Just look at me!" I stood up on my tiptoes and gave her a peck on her slightly scratchy cheek-an odd sensation. "Who could look like this and feel embarrassed by their appearance?" Our next stop was a shoe store-there was no way, I told Margaret adamantly, that I was going to walk another yard in those old sneakers of hers. As we entered the shop, I noticed out of the corner of my eye-true to my words to Margaret just minutes earlier-a group of three twenty-year-old guys hanging around a bench watching my every move. One of them was staring at my breasts, another was transfixed by my sweet, round ass, and the third couldn't seem to make up his mind between my tits, my ass or my smooth, sexy legs and his eyes kept darting from one part of me to another. None of them was spending all that much time looking at my face, but to be honest, that didn't really bother me. Hell, I used to be a guy and I knew that, while my face was certainly pretty, I had plenty of other features a lot more spectacular than that. I'd be looking at my tits too if I were one of them. Margaret and I picked out a few styles of shoes for the clerk to fetch us and as we sat on the bench in the middle of the store and waited for him to return with the boxes, I took off Margaret's sneakers and the three layers of socks I was wearing to minimize the size difference and marvelled at my new feet. I know, I know, I'm sounding like a bona fide narcissist here, but you have to understand that this body was just as new and wondrous to me as it was to anybody else. It was less than a day since I'd first acquired it and, in a very real sense, it still felt like somebody else's. And so, even as I revelled in its incredible beauty, its youth, its amazing responsiveness to seemingly every physical stimulus in the world, I didn't feel like I was indulging in vanity-it felt more like I was admiring someone else's sublime handiwork. Take those feet, for instance. As a man, I had, quite frankly, an ugly pair of feet. I could never find shoes that fit correctly and even when I was in my twenties, I had resigned myself to a lifetime of blisters, discoloured nails and hard, yellow calluses. But now, my feet were perfectly... well, smooth. I turned them back and forth, rubbing them together and wriggling the toes (each one still coated with an immaculate layer of red nail polish) and I couldn't see a flaw or blemish anywhere on them. They were completely hairless, just like my legs, and they barely even seemed to have bones inside them, they were so pretty. Almost all the shoes I had picked out were open-toed or held together with straps-just like my skin, I wanted to show off my beautiful, sexy feet to the world. I spent about an hour in that store, trying on one pair of shoes after another-the reason it took so long was partly because I was naturally indecisive (a character trait that being turned into a woman only seemed to amplify), but also partly because I simply wanted to spend some time getting used to walking in high heels. It came more naturally to me than I had expected it would-especially when I tried maneuvering around in a pair of sky-high, five-inch stilettos that made my calves ache and my toes throb, but which forced my ass and my breasts to stick out in a manner that was so outrageously sexy that it was almost comical. (I noticed that even an hour later, those three guys were still hanging out at that bench, trying not to call attention to the fact that they were staring at me through the shop window.) I was looking at myself in the mirror, modelling a pair of four-inch-high platforms when Margaret softly nudged me and pointed out the clerk, a young, well-dressed guy wearing a form-fitting pullover that showcased his gym-trained physique, who was standing behind the counter, looking at me with a knowing expression on his face. I gave Margaret a "watch this" wink, tottered over to the clerk and leaned up against the counter in a way that showed off my cleavage to the maximum as I smiled up at him and said, simply, "What?" (Hey, you don't have to be a brilliant conversationalist to flirt in this body-the breasts alone speak volumes for you.) "Oh, nothing," the clerk said, blushing a little. "Oh, come on," I chided him. "You looked like you had something you wanted to say to me, a question you wanted to ask me." I let my fingers do the walking up his chest. "Well? What is it?" "Nothing. It's- I mean, you must get it all the time." "I must get what all the time?" "You know. People must tell you all the time that you look like... you know, that movie star." I cast a quick, impish smile over my shoulder back at Margaret, who was trying to look as nonchalant as possible. (It was funny how Margaret, in her Cary Grant body and her man's suit, suddenly looked so out of place in a quintessentially female establishment like this shoe store.) "No," I replied, as innocently as I could, to the clerk. "I swear! What movie star?" "Oh, you know," he said. "What's her name... Jayne Mansfield!" My face fell and I noticed that Margaret was having a hard time keeping A straight face. "No," I said frostily as I turned my back on the clerk and headed back to Margaret. "I can't say as I've ever heard that one before!" The clerk must have gotten the message that he'd offended me somehow because he made a point of giving me the best possible service for the rest of our visit. In the end, we left the store seven pairs of shoes richer ("Thanks everso," I chirped to the clerk on our way out, blowing him a kiss and letting him know all was forgiven)-there were the three-inch, high-heeled summery sandals I now wore on my feet and which I was happy to see helped cut down on the size difference between myself and Margaret, a pair of black knee-high boots, some sexy, strappy pumps, a pair of low-heeled, thin-soled sandals, a pair of funky orange, slip-on Skechers, a pair of pink, poufy boudoir slippers that I absolutely could not resist, and those five-inch stilettos, which were still very difficult to walk around in but which made me look so gorgeous I found it impossible to pass them up. We took a leisurely break for our exhausting shopping regimen with a quick lunch on the patio of one of the mall's sit-down restaurants. Margaret took a certain pleasure in pulling out my seat and ordering for me, and I was only too happy to let her enjoy playing the masculine role. As I nibbled at my ladylike salad-normally, two days ago, I would have pounded back a steak sandwich and maybe even a couple of beers-I stretched out my legs beside Margaret's chair, and I noticed my masculinized wife kept sneaking glances at them out of the corner of my eye. After several minutes of this, she finally saw that I'd caught her ogling me and she blushed bright crimson even as she tried laughing it off. "What's the matter?" I asked her coyly. "Jealous?" "A little bit, yes!" she said. "I mean, you're just so glamourous-looking and sexy, Peter. It's kind of discouraging for a wife to see her husband looking so... well, hot!" "Don't be silly," I said. "You looked just like this last night, too." "Yeah, but I could only make a joke of it. Cooing and wriggling and posing like a centrefold. I don't know if you realize it, Pete, but you actually make looking the way you do seem natural. You actually seem at home in that body, and that just makes everything you do seem all the more sexy! It's like you don't even really realize how amazing you look!" "But I do, Margaret! I do! How could I not realize it? These tits weigh about half a ton each, my feet are crammed into high-heeled shoes for the first time in my life, I can't walk into a store without every man in the room turning their head my way-as if I don't even notice what they're looking at, either! Even if I forgot what I look like, every man I run into seems only too happy to remind me just by the way he looks at me!" "But that's the thing-you don't seem as though it bothers you. You just kind of..." Margaret made a graceful, waving motion with her wrist. "...glide on past it all, like you're listening to your own private radio station. I mean, doesn't it bother you?" "Not really, no. I mean..." And here, despite myself, another Marilyn Monroe giggle bubbled out of me. "I mean, it's really kind of a turn-on. It's like all these men are sending out these invisible electric waves that kind of rub up against my body. It just feels good, in this invisible kind of way. They don't even have to touch me; just having them look at me this way makes me feel so wonderful." "Do you think it would be the same if you changed yourself into a good-looking man and had all the women looking at you that way?" I paused to consider her question. "No," I said, stabbing a cherry tomato with my fork. "I don't think it would. Why? Are you bored? Would you like me to try something else when we get home?" "No!" Margaret said, so sincerely that I had no trouble believing her. "No, I love you this way. It's just..." She clasped my hand within her two much larger hands and gave me a flash of Cary Grant's perfect, even white teeth as she smiled fondly at me. "Who would have thought? My beautiful, sexy husband." "My handsome, rugged wife." "Should we buy you some more clothes, darling?" "I thought you'd never ask." As we travelled from store to store and I travelled in and out of what Felt like several dozen waiting rooms, we got a good idea of what styles were most suited to this new body of mine. It was no use hiding it-tight clothes that hugged my enviable curves made me look the best. And it was what I felt most comfortable in as well. We picked up a few pairs of slacks and shorts at the Gap, for instance, but I looked a lot more attractive in miniskirts. We went to a store that catered mostly to professional women and I tried on a few suits and blouses, but they just looked wrong on this sexpot body of mine-with my carnal facial features and my exaggerated physique I looked like a centrefold trying to be taken seriously instead of a take-charge businesswoman. That didn't alarm me in the slightest, though; I regarded the time I was spending in this body precisely as a holiday from the kinds of responsibilities and worries that businesspeople like me had to deal with all week long. I felt much happier and at home in the pink-and-white minidress I tried on at the store next door than in the drab pinstripes they were selling at the Career Girl Boutique. Probably my favourite stop of the whole day, however, was at the Victoria's Secret outlet tucked away in one corner of the mall. As we walked into the shop and I stood there amid all the racks of panties, bras, teddies, slips, camisoles and all those other delicate, intimate female garments that I was struck once again by the same giddy jolt of excitement that had been coursing up and down my spine all day long. I was a beautiful, beautiful woman. A knockout blonde, an object of desire for just about every man I passed. The knowledge gave me a stimulating surge of confidence, a feeling of absolute security that no matter how I carried myself, no matter what clothes I wore, no matter how nervous or ill at ease I felt in my surroundings, I would always be so beautiful as to seem miraculous, nearly unapproachable. And yet, it was a strangely impotent kind of confidence-it wasn't as if I felt the urge to flirt with passersby, or climb to the top of some corporate ladder, or twist men around my fingertip, seduce them into bed and then cruelly abandon them. I wanted to do nothing more than... well, to just go on looking beautiful. No more, no less. Luckily, I was in the perfect store to help me accomplish that goal. Margaret and I quickly worked our way through the Victoria's Secret inventory. We knew, quite frankly, that I'd be spending a lot of my time in this body in our bedroom, so we took some extra care in picking out my wardrobe for those sessions. We decided that, for some reason, I looked much sexier in white lingerie than in black-something about the innocence of a white, lacy bra and panties seemed to suit my personality more than the more conventionally sexy black or red. But we did buy me a long, silk nightgown that fit tightly around my breasts and waist before giving way to a glamourous "skirt" that went down to my ankles, save for a generous slit up the side leading all the way up to the top of my thigh. I could see Margaret trying to hide her erection when I stepped out of the fitting room with it on-it had a mixture of glamour and pure, unadulterated sexiness to it that it made my heart sing just to wear it. The feeling of the silk next to my skin, rubbing up against my breasts, was almost more than I could bear-it took every ounce of my self-control not to grab Margaret, pull her into the fitting and have a noisy, completely mortifying quickie right there in the middle of the shopping mall. Instead, I changed back into my halter top and shorts (not like walking around in that sexy little outfit was like taking a cold shower, either), selected a few more pairs of panties and some stockings and left the store with my (and Margaret's) libido still quivering. The whole experience left us eager to get back home and, you know, give our new reproductive organs another workout, but we had two final stops to make. We went to a cosmetics store and stocked up on lipstick, mascara, eyeshadow and a whole range of bewilderingly specialized products that the girl behind the counter gave me a detailed briefing on before adding it to our basket. She seemed amused that an attractive, grown woman like myself didn't seem to have the slightest clue about even the basics of makeup and beauty, but I mumbled a quick explanation about growing up in a strict, religious household and that seemed to be enough to satisfy her. (She also seemed distracted by Margaret-she was constantly glancing over at her and fiddling with her hair whenever Margaret smiled at one of her little jokes or observations. I think she was attracted to my wife and while I can't say as I blamed her-I mean, Cary Grant! What girl could resist?-I still felt small needle-stabs of jealousy pricking me in the back of my head whenever I thought I saw Margaret turning on the charm even a little bit more than I figured the situation warranted. Luckily, Margaret seemed to notice I was getting a bit miffed and bought me a vial of expensive perfume by way of apology. "I didn't kick up any kind of a fuss when you were showing yourself off to those teenaged hooligans at the shoe store," Margaret said good-naturedly after we exited the cosmetics store. "Don't I get any kind of a bribe?" "Nope," I told her cheerfully. "I put up with plenty of this when I was a man. Now it's your turn to be the victim of a woman's prerogative for a change." "Dames!" Margaret muttered with mock exasperation, before slipping her hand inside the back of my cut-off shorts and squeezed my buttock. I immediately yelped, but she slipped her hand out again so quickly that I could barely be sure if she'd just done what I thought she'd done. Only the self-satisfied smirk now curling the corners of her handsome lip let me know that she had. Finally, I made Margaret stop at a jewelry store that had a piercing booth. (Margaret had forgotten to pierce my ears when she designed this Marilyn body, and while I suppose I could have easily just stepped back into the book when we got home, I wanted to have the experience of having it done for real.) The attendant gave me two quick piercings in each ear-the whole thing was surprisingly painless-and gave me instructions on how to insert the studs and keep the holes from becoming infected. I was just about to get up from the chair when I noticed a nearby case containing a large selection of belly rings. "Oh, look!" I exclaimed involuntarily. I couldn't help myself-they all looked so pretty and feminine. Margaret gave me a dour expression. "You're not serious." "Why not?" I said. "I've always wondered what one of those would feel like." "Always?" she asked skeptically. "Sure," I said, trying to figure out a way to phrase things properly for the attendant. "Anyway, ever since the day I looked in the mirror and saw that I'd become a woman." "You certainly have the figure for it," chimed in the attendant. She was trying to make a sale, obviously, but I was grateful for the compliment all the same. Margaret sighed. "Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. Let's get your belly button pierced, too." I clapped my hands girlishly and thanked Margaret enthusiastically. It was only days later that I realized that I had no reason to thank her-it wasn't as if I needed her permission to get my navel pierced, after all. I was a grown woman! And yet, somehow, it was as if, at least subconsciously, I don't think I would have gone through with the procedure if I didn't know that on some level Margaret didn't approve of it. This piercing hurt a little bit more than the ones in my ears but when I looked at myself in the mirror with the belly ring I picked out from the case I was so pleased with the more youthful, more "wild" appearance it gave me that I decided it was well worth it. I was positively filled with youthful energy as Margaret and I retraced our steps and found our way back to our car, almost literally bouncing around and wriggling with happiness as Margaret tried to retain her composure. "Oh, thank you, Margaret!" I kept saying, balancing on one foot and lifting the other into the air as I kissed her. "This was the most wonderful day, ever! I can't thank you enough! You don't know how happy you've made me today!" I recalled how, as a man, I had always been so undemonstrative with my emotions-barely showing my appreciation to Margaret for anything she did, maybe grunting out a weak "thank you" at Christmastime and birthdays. Being able to unleash my emotions without fear of looking silly or unmanly seemed related, somehow, to the wonderful freedom I felt to show off my skin while I was in this body. It made sense to me as I thought about it-it was all about being willing to show off as much of yourself as you liked, wasn't it? By contrast, Margaret seemed to becoming quieter and less open with her thoughts. It wasn't that she had turned sullen or emotionally distant-you just had to pay closer attention to figure out what she was feeling. What emotions she once would have expressed by bursting out laughing she now conveyed simply with a twinkle in her eye or a small, upturned smirk in one corner of her mouth. I found it tremendously appealing-it gave her an air of mystery, as if all sorts of secret thoughts and reactions were going on just behind her eyes. (Just like Cary Grant in Notorious, I thought-only, hopefully, not quite as cruel and manipulative.) Margaret held open the car door for me, and I felt very pleased with how gracefully I was able to climb into the passenger seat-even despite my high heels, revealing outfit and top-heavy torso. I giggled again despite myself as Margaret gently closed the door, entered the car and took me by surprise with a long, passionate kiss, a powerful hand clasped at the back of my head, her fingers exploring my gently curly blonde hair, another hand on my breast. Margaret completed the kiss, then started the engine with a smile on her face. "You didn't see that coming, did you?" she said. I was still gasping, overcome with passion and desire. No. I hadn't seen it coming at all. Not a single expression on Margaret's face had given me the slightest hint as to what she had been about to do. Margaret and I giggled together during the entire ride up the elevator of our apartment building, laughing at every silly, obvious joke the other person made. It was as if we were drunk-and maybe we were, drunk on the new hormones and the new sensations racing through each of our bodies. I had worried that the trip to the shopping mall hadn't been much fun for Margaret-everything we'd bought had been for me; the whole trip seemed to be exclusively for my benefit. But she laughed so heartily that I could tell she had actually enjoyed stepping back and watching me enjoy myself. She liked being the strong, silent man who the beautiful sexpot would, unquestionably, go home with at the end of the day. Margaret told me that she'd never felt quite as much pride in her entire life as she felt when she saw all those men in the shopping mall-young and old, handsome and ugly, some alone, some even in the company of their wives and girlfriends-looking at me with such naked, carnal desire in their eyes and knew that none of them could have me. That my heart belonged to her. Because it wasn't just lust that she saw in those men's eyes; it was envy. Those men were jealous, impotently jealous of her. They all knew that she must have some special kind of power-wealth? looks? charm? could it simply have been penis size?-to have a woman like me on her arm, a power they'd never, ever know, no matter how long they lived. Margaret and I fell against the doorframe of the entrance to our apartment as she fumbled for the keys and we started laughing foolishly all over again before giddily shushing each other. The plan was that we would go inside, do a quick straightening-up of our appearances, change into a couple of evening outfits (Margaret would wear one of my best dress suits-the ones I saved for the firm's Christmas parties and important meetings with our most valued corporate clients-and I would squeeze into a pair of black stockings and a daring little black dress that we'd bought earlier that afternoon) and we would spend a night out on the town, Cary Grant and Marilyn Monroe, having a fancy dinner and dancing the night away. And probably getting foolishly drunk in the process. What we didn't realize-not until we stumbled together into our apartment together-was that the TV was on in our living room. And the lights were on in the kitchen. And someone was calling our names. "Pete? Margaret? Is that you?" And coming right around the corner. I had completely forgotten-we'd agreed to let Colin, my older brother, stay with us over the weekend. His wife Eileen was taking their two daughters on a trip to Ireland to see her family, and he was taking advantage of their absence by having the house repainted from top to bottom. The house would be lonely and pretty much unlivable for the next few days, and so, in a misguided spirit of generosity, I'd given him a spare key and told him to come over whenever he wanted to. I'd told him, "Make yourself at home." "Oh my god, it's Colin," hissed Margaret. "What are we going to do?" All I could do was shake my head in a few helpless, dizzy circles before Colin appeared before us, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt and holding a bottle of Coors in one hand. Immediately, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Oh, geez!" he said. "Oh, geez! Who are you? Oh, geez! Oh my god! Am I in the wrong apartment? Oh my god, I mean, the key fit. I just didn't know. I'm so sorry-I thought this was, uh, Peter and Margaret Collins's place.... I'm... I mean, they invited me to stay for a few days.... But... but... Wait a second. I don't get it. How come the key fit?" I didn't know what to say or what to do. And part of me realized that my instincts were telling me not to do anything until Margaret did something. That was why I felt so paralyzed, I realized-I was waiting to follow Margaret's lead. Margaret was silent for a few seconds-she looked like she was weighing all her options. Finally, she seemed to choose the path of least resistance. "It is us, Colin," she said. "It's us." "What do you mean, us?" he said. His heart still looked like it was going a mile a minute. I could hear the perpetually excited voice of an announcer at a televised hockey game chattering away in the background. "Who are you?" "It's us," she said. "Peter and Margaret." I shrugged meekly at my big brother, as if to confirm what she was saying. "It's true," I said. "What are you trying to pull here?" he said, suddenly suspicious. "I've seen Peter and Margaret. He's my brother, for Christ's sake. I know you're not Peter and Margaret." "We are," Margaret said. "We just... well, had a few changes done to us, that's all." Something in Margaret's tone of voice sounded so reasonable that Colin calmed down a little, although he was still confused and suspicious. "A few changes?" he said. "More than a few, I can tell you that." He looked back and forth at the two of us before barking out another disbelieving laugh. "Come on! What do you take me for?" He looked into Margaret's eyes. "Are you telling me that's you in there, Pete?" "Pete's over there," Margaret said, and I felt my cheeks go hot as I gave him an embarrassed little wave with me fingers." "Hi, bro," I said, suddenly self-conscious all over again about my soft, high Marilyn voice. "Eileen and the kids got off okay at the airport?" "P... Pete?" We were finally getting through to him. He stared incredulously at me, from the tips of my sandal-shod feet to the top of my blonde-haired head. "What the fuck have you done to yourself?" "Don't worry," Margaret said. "It's all totally temporary. We were just having a little fun together, that's all. Trying out some new things, you know? Don't have a conniption." "M-Margaret?" Now it was Margaret's turn to get a once-over from Colin. "But... but... I mean, this is incredible! I mean, you're both... you're both... Jesus Christ, how the fuck did you do this?" "Should we show him?" I asked Margaret, depositing a huge pile of shopping bags on the floor. "Show me what?" Colin asked. "What are you going to show me? Jesus, you're not aliens, are you?" "No, we're not aliens, you asshole," I said. "Jesus Christ, how could I be an alien? I'm your brother, for Christ's sake." "Yeah? Well, not anymore, by the looks of things!" He finished off the rest of the beer in a single swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hey-do you know you look like Marilyn Monroe?" "Pretty swift fellow, this brother of yours," remarked Margaret. "Okay, follow me into the bedroom, brother-in-law, and I'll show you what we did. Step lively." Colin and I walked behind Margaret as she strode down the hallway toward the room with the phone booth. Colin couldn't help but