Like A Duck free porn video

"How can I help you?" the woman asked. "I'm not sure " I replied, and I could not disguise the uncertainty in my voice. "I've never been to a place like this.. I don't really believe in them." Probably not the best way to get this woman on side, I think to myself, but I've said it now. Her expression did not falter in response to this, and she calmly said "And yet you are here." With that she beckoned me to the chair sitting at the small table directly opposite from her. Tentatively I let go of the curtains my hands had drawn apart, and entered the room, letting them fall closed behind me, which obscured the natural light and dimmed the small, ruby velvet room. When I had seated myself before her she continued. "Your first time. What would you like ? Palmistry, Reading of the Tarot, crystal ball perhaps?" "I don't know." Could this two bit charlatan be any use to me? I am sceptical, but it is the only lead I have. Coyly I continue. " I was sent here by my girlfriend, Lisa Rogers." No reaction to the name, which leaves a forlorn feeling inside of me, but I say more. "She said you could help me" I lie " Do you know her?" "I see many people and when I read for them I read them nothing but truths, and these truths are often very personal, and it is far better for me not to remember an individual or what I see for them, so that I do not intrude upon their lives." Yeah, yeah.. blah blah.. whatever. So I guess that's a no. I regard this woman as she answers me. I'm uncertain what I was expecting - a wizened old crone I suppose. But instead she is more a middle aged hippie. All the robes and incense and dim lighting seems very stereotypical, bordering on parody, and I draw myself to the conclusion that this woman is certainly not the powerful mystical force I am searching for. But I find myself wanting to tell her my story. I seem to want to talk about these things much more freely now. "Oh well. It's not important. I'm going to tell you about myself and then you can tell me if you think you can help me in any way." I am trying to be assertive without being rude. "Very well. Tell me all you wish." So I begin. "My name is David Palen. I'm 28 years old." Finally her facial expression changes slightly as her eyebrows arch. I continue without pause for comment. "I'm a paramedic. I love my job, or I did. And I had a good life, but that's all changed. Obviously." "Tell me what happened." she says calmly. My story becomes a narrative. "Here on the coast -things are great. We hang around in the truck, me and my partner. When we are not saving lives, which I do often, and do well, we cruise the esplanade, checking out, (I search for the words I would have once used but say instead, and it comes out awkwardly) girls. We'd pull over, in our uniforms, hop out and chat to women sunbathing, playing beach volleyball, or just out walking. You'd be amazed at what a man in uniform does for women. End of shift, more often than not, I go back to my apartment, with the ocean view and Jacuzzi with a girl I'd just met and hardly knew." I feel like I'm chastising myself as I say this, which is certainly not how I felt whenever I was doing it. "They were always babes, attractive. And, well you can imagine the rest." I had lost the desire to brag about conquests or give details. We'd always flirt with the Emergency nurses when we'd drop off a patient. But sleeping with them could be hazardous as you'd have to see them again and again and that could be awkward. Anyway, I foolishly broke my own rules and ended up dating Lisa, an emergency nurse. She was attractive, had a great figure, and fun to be around. She lived on her own in a unit she was renting, and after we'd been dating for a while she was starting to give the move in signals. But like most immature males I felt I was being trapped and to an extent tamed, so I resisted her attempts. At the encouragement of my friends I returned to my old habits. I kept Lisa stringing along because it was convenient to do so and she became more and more frustrated. At first I was worried Lisa would catch me with one of these women, but after a while I was less worried and less cautious. Then, one day, she suddenly stopped harping on about moving in, and seemed much more happy in our relationship as it was. Although I did notice I was seeing her less and she never wanted sex, not that I was worried because I was getting plenty. That's when things started to turn sour. I got a bit sick. Nausea mostly. Occasional vomiting. In my line of work you often catch something off the patients you treat. Anyway I lost my appetite and over a couple of weeks lost about 15kg. I went from a toned and fit 78kg to 63kg in no time. Lost a lot of muscle mass. My six pack smoothed out and my waist dropped inches. My pants still fit fine on the bum but around the waist they were so loose that I had to buy small size belts just to pull them in to keep them up. Maybe it was the weight loss, but women weren't noticing me as much any more. My partners were still doing fine - but compared to them, I was looking weedy and at first I thought it was just the general weight loss, but I seemed to be shorter. Indeed when I finally got around to measuring my height I had dropped from 178 to 170cm. Now I was worried. I went to the hospital library and looked up all the nasty wasting diseases and dystrophies which could explain my height loss. I figured maybe my intervertebral discs had dehydrated or my back muscles weakened when I was sick. Finally, I shook off the Gastro, so I set about building myself back up. High protein drinks and lots of running and gym work. I knew I was out of shape because, even though I had lost weight, whenever I jogged I could feel the 'man-boobs" jiggling. All the gym work toned me up - but I could not gain any weight or bulk, indeed I dropped to 60kg, and the pec exercises seemed to make my man boobs bigger. My uniform now looked so ridiculous I went an ordered a new one. When I got it - instead of being a size 42 it was a size 12 - now I know I'd lost weight but not 30 sizes - that would be a kiddy size, size 12, I told myself. But as it fits (and fit quite well) it must be a labeling mistake. The guys were relieved I now had a uniform that fit properly - even though they all joked it made my bum look big. I didn't tell them the weird thing that my shoe size had dropped from a size 8.5 to a 7. Now that I could not "score" any more I started spending more time with Lisa. She was indeed receptive to this and became more interested in sex again. I on the other hand, wasn't. I guess initially I was embarrassed about my body. With no six pack, a puny waist and wobbly bits, I was very self conscious. But it occurred to me some time later that my sex drive had waned considerably, as I had gone from voracious to be abstinent, and was not missing it at all. After some too rare self inspection - I realized my testicles had atrophied considerably. I knew the problem instantly. That initial illness was obviously a hypopituitary state. Lucky I didn't die- it can be fatal if not treated. But I was now lacking testosterone which would explain the loss of muscle, of body weight, of body hair, and shrunken balls. Indeed, my man boobs were in fact gynaecomastia. All of these things were called the loss of secondary sex characteristics which happens when you are testosterone deficient. All I needed to do was see a Doctor, get the appropriate injections and I'd be back to normal in no time. I went to bed that night a very relieved man - and slept better than I had since my illness began. I was awakened by Lisa unlocking my front door and letting herself in. I had relented somewhat whilst sick, and although not letting her move in had given her a key. I decided it was time I explained why she hadn't been getting any of the great Dave Palen sex I was famous for. Meeting her in the lounge in my PJs, I had to brush my hair out of my eyes. It had grown rapidly with my illness and was near shoulder length. I'd been meaning to get it cut but I thought I might look good with the surfie hair. I sat her down. "Lisa." I began. " I haven't been honest. You know how I have been sick." she nodded. " Well I think I've got panhypopituitarism, which is why everything has shrunk - all I need is some testosterone injections and I'll be back to my old self." She was silent for a moment, I assumed stunned by my confession, but the her face changed and she had a look in her eyes I'd never seen her have before. Then she started laughing. An evil laugh. I found myself looking at her like she'd gone mad. "Yes Dave" she began harshly "you have been lying! "But not about your medical condition. "No. About all the women you have been fucking!!!" I had that sudden sick feeling you get when you've been caught out. "I'm not fucking stupid. Not like you. I know how often and how many, and I decided to put a stop to it - for all our sakes!!!" "What are you talking about?" She grabbed me forcibly then, and I realised how strong she was, or how weak I was, She dragged me into the bathroom, on the way grabbing the framed photo of myself in my footy gear when I won the best and fairest. "Look" she said. Thrusting me in front of the mirror. "Look at yourself!!!!" "You HAVEN'T got a medical condition! Look at this guy in the photo. That's not you!! Not anymore. You dumb bitch. When are you going to realise what everyone else already knows. The smooth skin, the pert nose, the delicate bone structure. When was the last time you shaved?" I was thinking of the answer to that and realise it has been weeks when she rips open my pyjama top. "That's not gynaecomastia darling," the sarcasm is thick, "That's called a B cup." I am in a state of confusion, at her behaviour, at what she is saying, and at the possibility that there could be some truth to it. "No sweetie, the only medical condition you've got is 2 X chromosomes. I've got it too!! It's called being a woman!!" "But I'm not a woman!" I exclaim "It's the testosterone.. " I begin frantically. "Take it then. Then you'll be a hairy woman. But you'll still be a woman" "What's happened to me?" " I told you. I had to stop you. So with a little mystical help I've changed you. But you know what - it's obviously not enough!!" What??" "You know the old adage- if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck... it is a duck!" "Why the hell are we talking about ducks?" "We're not - we're talking about you." "What about me?" "What about me! Well that's just it, isn't it! It's all about you......Anyway. "It's obviously not enough me changing you physically into a woman. We are going to have to do it behaviourally and emotionally as well. After all, it's no good looking if you're not walking and talking as well." "You're insane." "Gotta go. I think I'll leave you to explore yourself and your brand new vagina. I have to go and see my mystic about fixing the rest of you." And with that she ran out the door and was gone. I am standing there frozen and numb. Lisa's gone mad. How did I not see that coming. But what if...... I had got as far as the bathroom doorway when Lisa fled, so I turned and walked back in, not really focussing on myself in the mirror as I churned through what she had said. When I reached the vanity, I looked up at my unbuttoned pajama top in the mirror, which was lying closed across my chest. Slowly I pulled the two sides apart like drawing a curtain. There was no denying what she had said. They were breasts. Not huge or anything, but unmistakable, well formed breasts. I had seen gynaecomastia before, huge man boobs on the obese or the hard core alcoholic, but they'd never looked as convincingly as these. They were pert, full breasts, and when I imagined they weren't on me, as I looked at them in the mirror, they looked like they belonged on a topless woman. I found this mildly arousing, not that I tented my jammies or anything. Probably a bit small for my taste though, I decided. My nipples sure were huge though, compared to what they once had been. I studied the sight before me for a while, with my top held open, before the ramifications hit me like a train. Quickly, embarrassed, I closed my top over, subconsciously hoping that covering them would make them go away. But they didn't. They made my top lie differently, and I could feel them whenever I moved, a soft foreign weight that was now a part of me. How could this happen? Has Lisa been poisoning me? Slipping the OCP into my food or something? But she hasn't been here much. Well lately she has, but not when I first got sick. But maybe that was enough. Maybe she laced all my food with oestrogen way back, and then when I gave her the key she's been upping the dose and whammo - instant tits. That would explain why I haven't shaved in ages. Saying that was a trigger to our earlier conversation. My attention left my chest now and I was staring into my own eyes. There is nothing different about my face. It's the same face as last night when I cleaned my teeth, and brushed my hair. I notice my footy photo lying on the floor, I lean down to pick it up, and those things on my chest move again, reminding me of their presence. I study the photo. Looks like me. So, the person in the mirror, and the person in the photo are both me - should be the same- lets compare. I hold the photograph up, facing the mirror, beside my face, so that I can see it in reflection, like a before and after. Suddenly, I feel nauseated, but not like when I was sick. This is one of revulsion and horror. My stomach is churning, I feel faint. There's me, in the photo, looking pretty good if I say so myself, next to some ugly chick with messy hair and bushy eyebrows. The photo is on the ground again. I'm right up against the mirror now. Staring hard. My stupid brain. I guess if the changes are gradual enough, it just adapts. Like how you can slowly put on weight and suddenly one day realize you are fat. Or thin!!!!!! Who the hell am I? I'm not Dave Palen. I'm some freak who's only 168cm tall. Weighs 58kg. Looks completely androgynous and has tits. The way Lisa grabbed and dragged me, she's as tall as me now and seems stronger. But she hasn't changed. I have. She's shrunk me. Am I dissolving away? I'm totally out of control and in a mad panic. I rip my pyjamas off, down to my boxers, and start pulling at my skin. I grab my breasts with my opposite hands and try to pull them off. I wince in pain. At some point my boxers are off and, in the process of self flagellation, I catch sight of my genitalia, and suddenly things go black. --- When I awake on the floor, I convince myself its all just a dream, and .... well you know. But they are still there. Even before I move I can feel them. In fact they are throbbing from where I tried to pull them. But I know something is not there. I remember that from before I fainted. I sit my naked frame up on the floor . Hands outstretched behind me, so that I can look down over/between my breasts at my groin. Pubic hair looks much as it did, but no longer does a line stretch to my belly button. But below it, sits the opposed and inviting labial folds that were once my scrotum. I do not touch it, for that would be to acknowledge it. Part of my brain is reminding me of what we were taught at psych. We need to grieve for a loss, whether that be a limb or an organ (I fancied mine as both.); but I will not grieve for it is not lost. Perhaps it is hidden. Perhaps this is all some sort of mind trickery. And even if it isn't, and Lisa has somehow done the impossible to me, I have been a man for 28 years, and will be again. I'm in the bathroom again now, looking at the naked woman in the mirror. As a health professional, I know that you cannot change sex. Not without an operation. And all that operation does is convert your penis into a makeshift vagina. No operation makes you 10cm shorter either. Not one that leaves you walking at any rate. But maybe that's what's happened. Maybe the good night's sleep was not that at all. Maybe I've been drugged and sedated for weeks whilst evil scientists have done operations on me. Maybe months have passed. The only way to know I guess would be to see what the date is. There is no way I'm going out for a paper, not like this. I ring information. I guess they've had stupider questions for the man tells me "it's the 4th of November, Miss." without surprise. Even my voice is betraying my gender!! But yesterday was the 3rd, and I'd worked it, so there was no great gap in my life. But I had to be sure. Had I been castrated in my sleep? I suppose I could touch it, but what would that tell me. I had to assume there was, in fact, a vagina there. But there could not be a uterus or ovaries. That was impossible. Still Lisa claimed I had been transformed magically, and this hideous bitch in the mirror was doing nothing to refute it. A brilliant plan occurred to me. I could find out for sure. But it would mean going outside. But I had to sort this out and work out how to fix it. I went to get dressed. I whacked on some "Reg Grundy's" and looked forlornly at how they sat. Also, for what I had planned, wearing my old undies might arouse suspicion, so I slid open Lisa's drawer and reluctantly slid on a pair of her plain white cotton panties. This felt like a major defeat. They sat well and looked normal and it was a bitter pill to swallow. A means to an end I said to myself. Don't fall for the trap of thinking how much she'd gloat if she knew you were in her panties. I put on my track pants, which were big but not ridiculously so, and a T-shirt. My shoes were like clown shoes, so I slid into Lisa's old size 8 runners, which fit well (more depressing). Back in the bathroom, I pulled my hair back into a pony- tail, and tied it with a hair tie of hers. Although I knew nothing about long hair management, I made a reasonable fist of it. This turned out to be a detrimental move in the extreme. The disheveled freak in the mirror was now a young woman, unkempt, about to embark on a morning jog. I shuddered looking at her. She was becoming too real. She was becoming me. Or was I becoming her. I hate her. This thing in the mirror. I will be rid of you, I hiss at her. Then, I notice my T-shirt. My nipples are poking out in a noticeable way. It looks trashy, and the last thing I want is people looking at me or them. Back to Lisa's drawer. Now in my hand is a plain white T-shirt bra. How many of these had I removed? Now I was putting one on. On me! Guys are often portrayed as being unable to "work " a bra. It was simple enough, getting the bits in the cups, and straps over the shoulders, but fastening the thing behind my back required more dexterity than I had. I did what I had seen some of my other dates do, and fastened it around my waist before spinning it and pulling it up into position and jiggling into it. I hated that I now jiggled, although once the bra was on, I noticed the jiggling was less. There was nothing complex about bras. Not that I plan on ever wearing one again. Still, some of that feminine mystique was fading away before my eyes. (I'll have to use this to my advantage when I'm back to being me.) It felt tight across my back - not uncomfortable, but different to anything I'd worn before. I could feel the straps across my shoulders. The whole thing felt foreign and weird. T shirt back on I grab my keys and wallet and am about to head for the lift when I spot a flaw in my own plan. The solution is there, though. I forage around for last week's work overalls. In the pocket I find what I'm looking for. I grab the card, rinse the dried blood off it, and slide it into my wallet. Down the lift and into the underground car park, my eyes darting left to right as I climb into my car. Here is Dave Palen wearing his girlfriend's underwear, heading down the street. I felt like some big transvestite poof. I drove far away, right up to the North end of the coast to the big regional hospital. This was out of my work range. Sure, I would know some of the paramedics there, but not well. I have to keep reminding myself that there is no way they would recognise me. I'm in the Emergency Department and I tell the receptionist that I want to see a Doctor as I have pelvic pain. She asks for my Medicare card and I hand her the one I had extracted from my work pants. "OK Sarah. Fill out these forms, and the triage nurse will see you momentarily." I guess she figured I looked well enough for forms first, triage second . I'll have to turn it on a bit more when I see the nurse. Poor Sarah Henderson, I think to myself. She never had a chance. The mess the drunk driver made of her I was surprised she still had a pulse when we got to her. She was probably mid 20s, and I'm guessing pretty ? 'course it's hard to tell when their face is all pulped. I grabbed her Medicare card out of her purse for ID when we got her to hospital, but she was DOA and I forgot I had it and left her to the coroner. The drink driver was, of course, unhurt. I'm sure he'll get a steep fine and a firm telling off, I think to myself sarcastically - such is the pathetic nature of justice in this country. Still I'm sure dead Sarah won't mind me borrowing her name today. She doesn't need it. Date of birth. Well lets knock off a few years. 25 today lets say. I put my address as it was, and next of kin was me, My boyfriend. How weird, I'm my own boyfriend. (I shouldn't have A Boyfriend!!!) For occupation, I put nurse. Maybe they would see me sooner, and it would justify my medical knowledge and allow me to ask for the tests I want. For the triage nurse I winced a bit. Made sure the pain was left sided so that they wouldn't take my appendix out for good measure, and told her I was worried I had an ectopic pregnancy. (You stud big Dave, got her pregnant - even though she's not a real woman!!!) That got me seen quick. She had asked me why I was such a long way from home and I told her I was an emergency nurse at our local hospital and felt embarrassed going there - that got the sympathy on my side. The doctor was a young looking intern, and I knew I could manipulate him into doing what I wanted. I told him I had left pelvic pain was worried it was an ectopic. I slid my trackpants down, but not my underwear, and let him poke and prod my abdomen. He seemed put off by my hairy legs and I flushed with embarrassment. That made me mad. What the hell is wrong with you. Embarrassed coz pimply boy saw you with hairy legs? You're a guy, for god sake. But it weighed heavy on me that I had found the need to be embarrassed. As expected, he stated he wanted to do an internal exam, but I refused, and he was relieved. (Guys hate doing pelvic exams and try to avoid it - especially junior ones.) I told him if the ultrasound was not diagnostic then he could, but I said that if there was an ectopic there would be no need. I delayed giving a urine sample till I was off to US as the negative preg test would have excluded the diagnosis and they may have been more insistent on sticking their fingers up my snatch. The ultrasonographer was also a man, but this time I was hoping for a woman. I figured I'd be better able to handle a chick when she saw I had no internal girly bits. He began " There is the bladder, good , some urine in there, and behind it the uterus..." I hadn't prepared myself for this possibility, I was stunned as he continued.. "no evidence of a foetus there, lets look at the fallopian tubes and ovaries, Right side, looks OK there, Left side, fine." He continued for a while but I didn't hear any more, I felt a cold drop of water run down my cheek, and slowly released it was a tear. "All OK there. Still best do a transvaginal ultrasound to be sure." He's not shoving that thing up my cunt. Suddenly I hate that word. My vagina. (Oh God no... I really have a vagina, and a uterus and ovaries and......Holy fuck.... I really am a woman. You bitch Lisa. I'm going to fuckin' kill you. How did you do this to me? How COULD you do this to me?") Tears are streaming now and the ultrasonographer stops as he prepares to molest me with that thing. "Are you all right." "Fine" I sob. "That's all I wanted to know." I get up and despite protestations, return to the ED where I take off my gown and put my trackpants, T-shirt and Lisa's shoes back on. The pregnancy test is negative of course and the intern feels obliged to stick a cold steel speculum inside me but I discharge myself at own risk to save us both the trauma. Driving home in a dissociated state of disbelief, I keep thinking how much I hate Lisa. And I'm wearing her fucking clothes. I've got to get out of them- I can't give her the satisfaction. I stop at a department store. As I emerge I throw Lisa's underwear in the bin. That's better. I'm wearing my own bra and panties now. And they match. They're still white but they have a bit of lace trim so look much more stylish, even under the track suit. The shop assistant tried to convince me to get the matching G string but who in there right mind would want to walk around with a severe wedgie all day. I'm definitely a full brief girl. Weird thing was, I'd kind of forgotten I was wearing a bra, the initial tight feeling had faded. The shop assistant told me that was a sign that it fit properly. She said I was 12C whatever that meant. She also noticed my hairy legs, and it seemed much worse when another woman notices. So I've gone straight from the department store to the hair and beauty salon next door. Waxing. Ouch. Still. I've had worse pain. Legs, bikini line, under arms, eyebrows. Then the hair's out of the pony and they're cutting and styling. Whilst that's drying I'm convinced that a makeover is what I need - I've had bad news today. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, hair wrapped in towels, but the brow line over my eyes intrigues me most. The dowdy chick in the mirror this morning disappeared the moment those thick bushes became thin arches. Then, more and more, a gorgeous woman appears in the mirror before me. Foundation, lashes, lids, lips, suddenly my brunette bob flops down. A quick searing pain in both ears and I'm wearing sleepers. And I'm done. The girl in the mirror? Well, I want to fuck her. As I leave I realise the track pants ruin everything. In & out of the department store, and I'm wearing a short, sleeveless summery dress that shows plenty of leg and strappy sandals. I know its still spring, but the temp's in the mid 20s I slide back into my car, ensuring the dress stays smooth by running my hands over my arse as I sit. --- What the Fuck!!! I'm sitting in the car and I can feel my heart racing. I am hyperventilating. I try to calm myself but it is very hard. I don't want to faint again like this morning. Whatever Lisa had done to me initially, I could not refute the fact that I had done this latest thing to myself. She may have provided the means, but I had made it a reality. "Oh Dave, what have you done?" I ask myself. The femininity of my voice is all too apparent when I ask myself this. I hadn't noticed it before. Except when the man on the phone called me miss. Like most things Lisa had done to me, it must have been gradual and subtle and I did not pick it up. What a stupid egotistical male I was. Refusing to realise or accept my manhood was being stripped away. Remaining in denial to the very last. Now, when I was so very much no longer a male, I finally see what she has done to me. It had to be magic. Just like Lisa had said. There was no disputing the results of the ultrasound. No surgery could have done that to me. It was as if I had been born....... one.(contemptuous thought). So her mystic or whatever had cast some spell on me. But spells can be broken. Surely all I have to do is reverse it. Maybe killing Lisa will reverse it. Coz I would . Gladly. This spell had obviously changed my body. I had become a man trapped in a woman's body, but how can I explain the last few hours? I had knowingly and willingly changed my external appearance to be more in congruence with my internal anatomy. I had turned myself into a girl. Not Lisa. She had just made it possible. What happened? I thought about the events of today. I had just had some very bad news with the results of the ultrasound. The irony of a normal ultrasound being bad news was not lost on me - most women would love to have that sort of ultrasound. I wanted badly to get out of Lisa's clothes. I was embarrassed by the hairy leg incident. Something inside me told me some retail therapy and self pampering would cheer me up. Four hours later I'm a reasonable looking babe in a pink dress, and if I wanted to fuck me - chances are other guys would too. Oh God. I've got to get home, and out of this... this .... costume. Throwing the tracksuit away was not smart!! Why had I done this to myself? Was I a closet gay? Did I like it? Did I secretly want to be this? God No!! I am Dave Palen. I dig chicks. Chicks dig me. I.......I...... I am a chick!! I start to sob, (again). What the hell is this. I never even cried when we lost the grand final, although that is an acceptable occasion, and now I'm tearing up all over the place. Pull yourself together!! Pull yourself together or your mascara will run and you'll look like a racoon. It's supposed to be waterproof, but you know. No - I don't know, at least I'm not supposed to know. But now apparently I do. 4 hours in that chair and I'm like a little sponge. A completely clean slate, absorbing it all. Fucking Beauty therapist!! Not only do I look like a woman, but I nearly started to think.............. LIKE A DUCK!!!! If it looks like a duck......acts like a duck..........quacks like a duck.........it is a duck!!! That is what she had said. Physically, behaviourally, emotionally. So she has made me look the part, and retail therapy for my mood, and crying at the drop of a hat.... I'm starting to act and feel the part. I have to stop this. I suddenly feel in danger of losing myself. Succumbing.... and becoming something else. Something.... I don't know what. "I am Dave Palen.. " I say. Tentatively at first. Like I'm not convinced. "I AM Dave Palen." That's better. My resolve is steeled. "Now lets get home. Get this shit off my face. Get out of this stupid frock.... and into something more....more ....manly. I start the car and turn for home. Never taking my eyes off the road for fear I may be being checked out...... or that I might catch a glance of myself in the rear view mirror. Surreptitiously again, I pull into the underground car park, and make for the lift. They are both on upper floors. In the time I have to wait I see a man approaching through the car park. He is in his 50s, and I vaguely recognise him from another floor. I can feel my apprehension rising. Although I had encountered men today who thought I was a woman (the intern & ultrasonographer, the dept store was a virtual man free zone in the parts I was shopping on a weekday), at the time I was convinced I was masquerading and tricking them. But now I was interacting with a male as a woman, and I was decidedly uncomfortable with it. I'm sure I'd caught a lift with this man before, back when I was Dave (I still am Dave!!)... and we had just grunted at each other. Now there were pleasantries and limited small talk and for the first time I realise I am being treated differently. My floor could not come soon enough and I race out of the lift to my apartment door, quickly unlock it and race inside. I am confronted with Lisa, sitting, smiling, on the arm rest of the couch, facing backwards towards the door. She is wearing the same jeans and T shirt that she was when she visited me this morning. She sees me and instantly her eyes light up. She quickly scans me up and down, I can sense it. "Well. Hello there Sarah. Wow, don't you look nice." My plans of murder are replaced by fear and angst and before I can think I am speaking, fast and pleadingly. "Lisa, please...... Stop this. Turn me back. I'm so sorry I mistreated you. I'll be good. I love you. I......I....." somehow I'd ended up on my knees before her. She is looking down at me, she appears to be smirking. "Sarah, honey, why would I ever want to change you? I'm dying to see what happens. I can't believe how fast things are going. Part of me is disappointed that it hasn't been much more slow and painful for you. I wanted to see 'Dave' struggle hard against the compulsion to wear lingerie and make up, to watch you become more and more girly with each passing day - watch Dave Palen slowly, inexorably disappear. But I guess this is good too. Look at you all pretty in pink. And down on your knees too. I'm sorry honey - I'm not your boyfriend. "Which reminds me. Someone's been telling lies on their hospital record." I'm still on my knees looking up at her. "How.....How'd you know...." "Oh please. If I can do this to you, you'd think it wouldn't be too hard to know what you are up to. In fact, Gretel thinks that's why you are succumbing so fast. You denied your own identity, chose a name for yourself, and even wrote it down on an official document. You called yourself Sarah, so Sarah, you are becoming, and Sarah you will be." "But I didn't. It was just to find out.." "It doesn't matter why you did it, just that you did. And by ticking the box marked 'F' you even acknowledged your gender. Because of that, your compliance, you have slid into your role very quickly." "Please then.... stop it! Reverse it!" She ignores me: "It gets even better. You even gave yourself an occupation. How fantastic that we are work colleagues." "So there you are - Sarah Henderson - Emergency Department Nurse." "I'm not Sarah Henderson... she's dead." "Not that Sarah Henderson, no. You are another Sarah Henderson, who turned 25 today. You are just sharing her Medicare card number. In fact Gretel has done a little tinkering just to make sure you are real. It's present time . Here we are. Drivers licence." The photo looks like me, the current me from this afternoon, but the hair is definitely lighter. "Hospital ID badge." Similar appearance to the licence photo, but hair even lighter still. "It's hard to change a whole roster, so it turns out you and I are job sharing - 2 shifts each a week - but I'm sure you can go to full time when I decide not to work any more. After all - you might need the money with your lavish tastes. It's going to be great seeing you interact and evolve at work. I'm hoping you'll become a skanky little slut - and fuck every Doctor in the hospital." I'm mortified at the thought, and horrified that it could be even a remote possibility, as in my current state - nothing seems impossible now. "Still - back to the fibbing bit. Dave Palen is not your boyfriend darling. Everyone knows - he's mine. And you are certainly not living here with him. He's given me the key. And you definitely won't be driving around in his car any more. But don't worry - I won't throw you out on the street - you can take up the lease on my old place and I'll even lend you my car." I've left you one of my uniforms for work.... till you get your own. And a couple of grand just to get you started. You'll need to buy lots of clothes and make up, but no more raiding Dave's savings account. I've changed the PIN."Now, you've had a big day - you should go home and settle in." and she's dangling her keys in front of me." This cannot be happening. It's identity theft. I have lost all claims on being Dave Palen and all his belongings. I'm nobody. Well not quite nobody - but close enough. Some invented emergency nurse with no possessions and no past. Lisa has totally destroyed me. I'm sobbing on the floor now, and she pulls me up so that we are standing face to face. "Happy birthday Sarah. Welcome to the real world. Welcome to your living nightmare." With that she hands me a small rectangular parcel - gift wrapped. I comply when she tells me to open it. Libra Fleur Tampons. She laughs. I stare at them forlornly. This cannot be my new life. But, driving to my little flat in my borrowed Toyota Corolla, I feel defeated. I have lost everything. I have lost Dave. I really am Sarah! I hate it! --- When I awake the next morning there is no lying there hoping it's all a dream. I know what I am. It's hard to believe it was just 24 hours earlier I'd woken up feeling like all my problems were solved. Now, I'd only slept from exhaustion; not that long, and not that well. David Palen was a 28 year old playboy. A cowboy paramedic living off a big inheritance, with a luxury apartment and fast car. Sarah Henderson is some 25 year old inconsequential nurse, with no possessions but the clothes on her back. Lisa had emptied the flat of all her clothes and personal belongings, but had left her limited furniture, including electrical appliances. She had all she needed in Dave's, (MY!), apartment. The roster stuck to the fridge informed me I was working tomorrow (Friday), and given all I had to wear was what I wore yesterday, including underwear, and no toiletries (except a packet of tampons), I'm going to have to shop. Given that I have only $2,000. I had better be very sensible in what I buy. Kmart or Target for me I think - not Myers or DJs. I get dressed. Same underwear I bought, and same dark pink dress. Not hot pink I tell myself - not what a skank would wear. It has wide shoulder straps and a scooped neckline that doesn't reveal too much cleavage, and if I smooth it down, it's almost to my knees. Still, pink is pink. Why couldn't I have been a bit more conservative yesterday. I look like Reece Witherspoon in Legally Blonde 2, except I'm a brunette. How the hell would I know that? I've never seen it - way too Chick-Flick for me. God only knows....maybe it was on a poster. Speaking of hair. It's back in a ponytail for you. The hair tie from yesterday was around my wrist like a bracelet - so it's back on my head now. I thought about my ID photo. My hair colour is the same as it was all my life. Back when I was David I mean, yet the photo it was different. Why would that be? Maybe this was a joke of Lisa's, for she knows Dave (I) has (have) a thing for blondes. Anyway, I get to the shopping plaza. Firstly, I'm still wearing yesterdays underwear. I'm going to need at least 5 sets. And they have to match. I don't like it when a girl wears a bra one colour and briefs another, or different styles for that matter. Co-ordinates. That's the word I'm looking for. And lets not forget. I'm a fucking nurse. And definitely not a skanky one. So white is the order of the day. Into Kmart, and 3 plain, white cotton sets and one white satin set later I'm nearly done. I buy a couple of satin chemises to sleep in. One blue, one red. With matching briefs. Because I remember David used to like it when I wore them to bed..... Lisa!!!. David used to like it when Lisa wore them to bed. I used to like it when Lisa wore them to bed!!!!! Bloody hell - is it getting harder to remember or am I imagining it? Before I realise it I'm back in the change rooms modelling some black lacey ensemble with lots of padding. As I look in the mirror I'm thinking her tits look great, but it's a pity she's not a blonde, as they look better in black lingerie. Four hours later I emerge from the hairdressers wearing that push up bra under my pink dress, and there's plenty of cleavage now. The matching black G string makes sure there's no VPL. With my blonde, blonde hair I really do look like Elle Woods. I sashay with much more confidence now. And my next stop is to swap the sandals for some decent heels. Back to shopping though. Sensible shoes for work. Pantyhose. T-shirts, jeans, assorted tops and skirts. It's a good thing it's late night shopping - as I'm at it all day. All your basic cosmetics and toiletries and, finally, I splurge on a LBD and some shoes to match just in case. In case of WHAT? This girl sure likes to shop. I'm apprehensive the next morning as I get ready for work. I wear my new white underwear and put on Lisa's uniform, which consists of a blue skirt and white, short sleeve button up top. I hang my ID badge around my neck. And surprise, surprise my hair colour is the same as my photo. How could I not realise what this means!!! You stupid Girl! You know exactly what you are becoming. It's not enough that Lisa's made me a girl, but she's made it so that I'm becoming Dave's dream girl. My fantasy girl, I mean. A slutty blonde bimbo nurse who likes to fuck. Every ambo jokes about it. I have to do something about it, or I'll be living it. But what? Think Dave, think. I've capitulated at every turn. I'm blonde. I like to show myself off. I like to shop. I can't imagine it's a giant leap from here. But I still know I'm Dave, or at least was Dave, and I still am heterosexual.. of sorts... I still like women I mean, not guys. How transient is this though. Is it just a click of Lisa's fingers and as far as I'm concerned I've never been anyone but Sarah? All those memories lost? My old life, gone forever? What was I saying about justice? Does the punishment fit my crime? Shit. I'll be late for work. Being a nurse was not so different from being an ambo. As a MICA (also called Intensive Care) Paramedic, I could intubate, stick in IVs, initiate treatment. As a nurse though I can only give the drugs I'm told, not allowed to intubate, but can still do IVs. What I can do is change pans, fluff pillows, and get the patients sandwiches. It is a big comedown for me. Even better news is Lisa is at work today. Doing an extra shift she says, but in reality it is to watch me struggle with my new role, and gloat. I won't give her the satisfaction. I'll be the best little nurse I can be. I am proficient. All around me I see incompetence. The residents are hopeless at IV access. I spend a lot of time covering for them, inserting their IVs for them, even suggesting appropriate treatments. The female doctors are adversarial and bitchy and have to be handled. They don't like being shown up by a nurse. However, combining all the best bits of Sarah, and Dave's knowledge of their type, I win them over one by one. They see me as intelligent, dependable, and not out to one up them. A reliable nurse. They soon start approaching me surreptitiously for help. I had no idea how I would handle the males. However, it turns out just being Sarah is all it takes. Guys are so pathetic. A pretty girl can just lead them around by their penis. The nurses all knew me as their work colleague Sarah, so somehow I was inserted into their memories. This is powerful magical shit we are dealing with here. I imagine if Lisa has implanted memories of me in their minds, then no doubt it is as the bimbo that she plans on me becoming, and I quickly realise I have no friends here. The two gay male nurses don't even try to hide their loathing of me. One called me 'Fish' to my face and I started to cry. (Of course.) Not only am I going to end up a slut, but a friendless one at that... I'm even more miserable. As I sit alone on my tea break, watching the others whisper about me, I realise I can do something about it. I don't have to become this scrubber. I know what to do. Some Valium IV and 200 of sux. And it'll all be over. But is that what I really want? Would I rather be dead than be this girl? Probably? I don't know. I'm crying again now and the whispers and looks are all the more feverish. As I weep away, trying as hard as I can to stop but being totally unable, Moira, the fat sweaty associate charge nurse in charge of the shift wanders in to the tea room. She stops and watches me for a minute and then slowly approaches me. She looks stern, and I fear I'm in for a bollicking. The nurses at the other table are all busy eating now, trying not to notice. She shifts her substantial weight in the chair opposite me. "What's up Sarah?" She asks gruffly. I felt that the appropriate response was 'nothing' or 'bad day' or 'PMT'. I certainly wouldn't dare say the last one, because although I've never experienced it (I've only been a woman for 2 days) I'm sure Lisa will make it as unbearable as possible for me when it does arrive. But instead I hear myself saying " I just hate that nobody likes me. I just want to do my job. I don't want to be a slut!!" And I can't believe it. She says nothing at first. And the pause is long. I'm just about to run out, and never return, when she speaks. "You know. I don't know if this is the time and place to have this conversation, but it looks like you need it. As hard as it might be for you to believe, I was young and pretty once too. You do what you want. Be what you want." "But what if that's not in my control?" "It's always in your control- maybe you just don't see that." Anyway. I've been watching you today. I've had to. The Senior Registrar approached me about you." "What did I do?" What now? Have I been sleeping with her husband. God knows. "She told me what you've done to her residents." Oh OK. So I've slept with them. "Place has never been so organised. They're gushing about you." "You're the best nurse I've got out there Sarah. Sometimes a girl gets her reputation out of jealousy and spite. Just keep doing what your doing, and don't worry so much about what people think of you. Things have a way of taking care of themselves." And she gets up slowly and leaves. Somewhere, the tears have stopped. Later, I overhear gossip that Lisa's boyfriend Dave, has up and left. Left everything to Lisa. Who knows when he'll be back. "At least she won't have to share that flat with Sarah anymore." "Yeah. Now Sarah can fuck 24/7. Did you see her today. Flirting with the residents. She's a total scrubber!!" I'm grinning to myself. Can't really deny the accusations. Am I a slut yet? I wonder to myself. I certainly don't find any of these bitches attractive. But maybe that's coz I know how ugly they are inside. Lets see. The male residents. No. Just other guys. I'm thinking hard. I'm not really attracted to anyone. Maybe that's the first step. No, that Doctor there. With the brown hair. The nice one with the glasses. She's definitely cute. Still straight then... of sorts. I like her because of her personality, not her looks. We had had some friendly banter when we treated a patient together. Well, I am changing then I guess. It's all about the person. Won't be long before it's a male person. But if I am such a slut, wouldn't I be all about looks. Wouldn't I be after the studs. While I'm pondering that an ambulance rolls in. It's Robbo and Brad. The two guys I'm usually alternating on the road with. I'm so excited. Friends. I want to race up and say Hi. But I'm not Dave to them. Still maybe they know me as Sarah. I'll have to see. "Hi guys." I say. Brad smiles, but it is a strange smile, and Robbo looks uncomfortable. "Hi Sarah" he struggles awkwardly. Oh Fuck!! They do know me as Sarah. Too welll. Robbo must've........ Still, can't say I'm surprised... he looks great in that uniform.... Hmmm .. yummy. And there it is. Yep. I'm a slut. But I'm not............. I'm not !!!! But Dave is. That's it. It's Dave that Lisa has plans for. To end up a Bimbo slut fucking his ex workmates. That's her revenge. But I'm better than you. I'm smarter than you. But most of all I'm not David. You made me Sarah and you can't do anything to me. --- "And that's why I'm here to see you. You are Gretel the Magnificent, and I remember Lisa mentioned your name. I announced myself as Dave, but now I'm asking you as Sarah. Please help me." "What do you think I can do?" "As long as I am part David then Lisa can influence me, make me be the whore she wants me to be. I imagine that when she's done seeing me fuck all my old friends she'll engineer losing my job and I really will end up a hooker. All I want is a chance to control my own destiny." "You would give up that part of you that was precious." "To be honest with you, I don't like him that much anymore, I think he's a pratt." She laughed. "Then you are free, Sarah. When you leave here, Lisa cannot touch you. The car, the furniture, It's all yours. She can have all that is Dave's, but I tell you for free, you have left her with a hollow victory. Good luck." "You know, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, well, it's not so bad being a duck." And I walk out into the windy spring day. I can't remember what I went to see the mystic about. But that's not important. I think I'll have a walk on the beach. At least you've dressed for the weather for once Sarah, I think as I zip up my windcheater. Whatever was I thinking with that pink dress!!!! End