How Zulo Can You Go? free porn video

How Zulo Can You Go? by thomas the tame Helena set her coffee down, ran her fingers over the dusty wood, smelled the oak, and examined the craftsmanship. She turned to her friend with an enigmatic smile. "Where did you say you found it?" "In that import lot by the mall," Marissa said. "And you paid. . . " Marissa frowned. "One twenty." Helena's heels cl-clumped on the wood floor, hollow and deep. Marissa didn't know how she could stand those thick clod sandals of hers. Or how she could so easily conceal her conclusion. If you put up an antique dealer against a poker player, the card shark would lose his skin every time. "So," Marissa asked, "did I get taken?" Helena, her gray-streaked hair clutched back in a tight bun, glanced at her dearest friend. "Well, it's old. I'll say that much. Very old. But, frankly, I'm not sure if it's authentic." Marissa's face fell. She wound a lock of hair around a finger. She knew Helena had always admired her nutmeg-brown hair, and some part of her tended to show it off a little more when she was around. She'd even paid for a few auburn streaks and sandy highlights to further the jealousy. "So it's not worth anything." "It's hard to say. Some carpenters scavenge old buildings for antique wood. The smart ones use traditional techniques to build modern day pieces. Wood pegs instead of nails, old refurbished saws instead of modern ones, then sell them as antiques . . . at inflated antique prices." "So how can you tell the difference?" "Honestly," Helena confided, "sometimes we can't. As for your piece, I'll say this . . . it could either be *very* old and *very* valuable, or it could be a wonderful forgery, in which case it's worth what you paid." Marissa's blue eyes darkened. She pursed her lips and sighed heavily. "It was just . . . something about it grabbed me, spoke to me somehow." The heavy doors of the armoire creaked as Helena opened them. She hunched down, peered up at the insides, started to close the doors, but paused. "What?" Marissa asked. Helena had a puzzled expression. "That's strange." "What?" Helena reached inside, fingers brushing across an out of place block. She closed the doors, reopened them, then closed them again. "What are you--" Marissa started, but Helena shushed her. There was the barely audible sound of wood scraping wood. Closing the doors released some kind of secret compartment. "I wouldn't have noticed it if it hadn't still been on the pallet," Helena informed her. "When it sets at eye level, the compartment is hidden by the frame here. See?" Marissa nodded. "But it only releases when the doors are close. How do we get to it?" Helena wondered. "Well, it's big enough for me to crawl inside." Helena eyed her with great pride. "That's so clever of you!" Marissa blushed and smiled. "How did you figure that out?" Helena asked, sounding a little jealous. "It just came to me. I remember hearing a story of this old man who wanted to see if the light really turned off in the fridge when the door was closed so he--" "--crawled inside." Helena chuckled. With a little help, they removed the shelves and Marissa positioned herself inside. "You don't think there might actually be something valuable in it. Do you?" Helena shook her head, began to close the door. "Let's just hope this didn't once belong to a magician." In the darkness, Marissa heard the scrape of wood on wood as the secret compartment released. She felt around for it, bumped it with the backside of her hand, and something hard tumble through her fingers, landing with a light thud at her feet. Helena opened the doors, and found the object. Marissa hopped out of the cabinet. "What is it?" In Helena's fingers it twirled in the light by a chain. "It's . . . nothing. It's just some toy jewelry." "It looks old," Marissa disagreed. "Yes, but it's much too light. I think it's some kind of plastic. Probably from some festival. Put there by a child." "Are you sure?" Helena smiled at her. "Yes. Sorry." She dropped the medallion in Marissa's hand. It even felt fake. Marissa shrugged, but noticed a slight tingling in her palm. "Oh well." They laughed at themselves, each surrendering their dreams of gold coins and long lost jeweled bracelets. Marissa draped it around Helena's neck. "Here you go, Payment." Helena rolled her eyes. "Thanks so much, but it doesn't go with my sweater." She tossed the medallion on the bed. They heard the sound of the front door downstairs. "That must be Chris," Marissa said. "What good timing!" Helena joked. "Tell him I said your buy was a steal at any price." # Dressed only in a black sleeveless V-neck sweater and a black cotton thong, Marissa checked her face in the oval standup mirror in the bedroom. She glanced at the tan broomstick skirt on the bed and caught sight of the medallion. On a whim, she decided to try it on. It slipped accidentally and settled into her cleavage. She expected it to be cold against her skin, but it wasn't. It was warm. Suddenly, *she* felt warm. A hot, languid sensation began to ooze through her, starting under the medallion and spreading out slowly through her entire chest. Her nipples prickled sharply, almost painfully at first, then melted into soft pleasurable tingles. She mistook for it arousal. She'd been imagining Chris in his suit and tie, filling out the shoulders of his jacket, his little butt so square in the tight slacks, but that had never caused this kind of reaction before. Maybe she was ovulating. The straps of her bra dug suddenly into her shoulders. She started to adjust them but discovered they were much too tight. "Stupid dryer." Her breasts were being squeezed. The straps of her brassiere were straining. She cursed the pasta with the lemon cream sauce, and the donut, and the chocolate cake-- She froze when she saw herself in the mirror. Her breasts moved with a life of their own; they appeared to be expanding. She whipped off the medallion and tossed it across the room. The movement stopped, but her bra was still pinching. She shook her head and laughed. Her mind was playing tricks on her. Removing her sweater, she half-chuckled when she saw her breasts constricted and spilling out of the bra from every possible avenue. Chris would be in Heaven. How had she gotten it on without realizing? The clasp sprung loose with just a touch. She threw the bra on to the bed and shook her head. It had been her favorite. Well, not for comfort, but her favorite for formals. She dug through her drawer for another. That one was too old. That one had holes. That one was under-wired, which was fine, but a seam had come loose and one of the wires dug into her armpit. That one was for sport; that one for sex. That one was too flimsy. She felt like Goldilocks for a moment, searching for the one that was just right. She was surprised to discover that none of them fit. Had she really gained that much weight? "What in the hell is going on?" She dug through her clothes hamper and found one she'd been wearing all day. She *knew* it fit. She decided to struggle back into it, but froze at the sight of herself in the mirror. These were not her breasts. The face was hers, the belly, the legs, but the breasts were out of place. They were large and ponderous and much too white with veins appearing and disappearing like tiny bolts of blue lightning, with dark brown areolas the size of saucers, with large nipples that pointed away from the center of her body, down and out. And they hung wrong, heavy and low, not tight and firm. Hers were tan and soft with pink areolas the size of silver dollars, and small nipples that turned up, upward and forward. He breasts were tight, young, and firm. She touched them to see if they were real. She cupped them in her palms and the nipples erected slowly like soldiers wearily coming to attention. They felt fine. The sensation was there, the nipples warming smartly, slightly ticklish, awash with pleasure. Then she recognized them. They belonged to Helena. In the mirror, looking past herself, she spotted the medallion laying in the doorway. "I'll be damned." # She made it to the party, stopping on the way for an urgent bra replacement, which Chris couldn't understand. He'd never in his life heard of an underwear emergency. He made another mark in his book of peculiar female behavior and dismissed it. She'd like to say maybe she was getting her period and was experiencing a little bloating, but her period was two weeks away and she'd never ever been bloated like this, and never in just one part of her body. This was too different, and she swore they were Helena's breasts. She'd seen them more than once at the gym. Had seen even more of them the afternoon of their secret trip to the nude beach. Marissa fumbled through the party, feeling the eyes of men more so than ever before. And women. . . . There would be rumors before the night was through. Were they implants or a gel filled bra? And she was so pretty and why would Chris insist on such a thing? And it had to be him, because she was such a sensible girl. Men. They were never satisfied and so on and so on and so on. With every step, she felt the ponderous bounce of Helena's awkward breasts. They were always just a little behind and playing catch up. And they blocked her view of the hors d'oeuvres on the table. She would've broken into peels of laughter if it hadn't been so crazy. It had to be the medallion. Somehow, the medallion had sensitized itself to Helena's form and had changed Marissa. Insanity. Magical thinking. It just wasn't possible. Back home, Marissa rushed upstairs, grabbing the medallion by its chain and apologizing to Chris. She remained in the bathroom for the better part of an hour. Every touch of the medallion brought that electric buzz, the prickles, followed by the warm-gooey-honey feeling. Her bellybutton was now an outy, the color of her pubic hair was now silver not brown, freckles appeared on her shoulders, liver spots on her hands, the beginnings of a turkey's wattle sprung from her neck. She loved Helena dearly, but she didn't want to be her. She stopped toying with the medallion before it could do any more damage. Chris called through the door. "Are you all right?" Yes, fine, she thought, just turning into my dearest friend, and how would you like to sleep with her instead of me for the rest of your life? "Yes. I'm just sick." "You're not . . I mean--" "No, I'm fine." In bed, she offended her worried husband by refusing to explain and shrugging off his consoling hands. She didn't want to be touched tonight, she told him. She didn't feel well. It would be another eight hours before she figured it out. # The next morning, with Chris at work, she called in sick and studied the medallion. Naked, on the toilet, dangling it by the chain, she sat thinking. She glanced down into the pounds of flesh that was Helena's breasts weighing on her tender frame. On a hunch, Marissa touched the medallion to one of her bras, much too tight for her now, then, trembling, pressed it against her chest. At once, there was an electric prickling, which gradually warmed and spread throughout her breasts, up into her shoulders, and slipped with hot syrupy pleasure down into her belly. Her breasts began to contract, the nipples shrinking, turning up their pink noses in that delicate way again. The complexion of her skin darkened slightly, and softened. In a matter of minutes, she was herself again, and couldn't have been more pleased. She actually lifted each breast up and gave it a kiss, then wrapped her arms around them and cherished what she had, youth, health, and beauty. After awhile, however, the devil awoke in her mind. This was a pretty powerful little trinket. Magic or alchemy, she could have a lot of fun. She began to plan then. There would be a quick shopping trip, a dirty little trick, and a letter waiting for her husband when he got home. # The door whipped open from the inside, pulling the keys from Chris's hands. He smiled to greet his wife, but was stopped cold by an unfamiliar face. "Hello. You must be Mrs. Hartley's husband." She was young, very young, too young, too damn young to be so pretty, with that pert cheerleader nose, and blonde hair that hung loose over her shoulders, around her face, and only seemed to find sexier and sexier ways of messing up itself. His next glance--done before he could help himself- -shot straight down her tank top. Oh god, creamy white breasts, small and perky, nipples as upturned as that sorority girl nose of hers. Who was she and how could he get rid of her before his dick jumped out of his pants and into her-- "Where's, uh, my wife?" The girl backed away. It didn't help. Her tank top was short, and her smooth white belly peeked out and winked at him. He swore that little "inney" of hers was teasing him. Everything about this girl was a tease; she couldn't help herself; her body seemed designed for it. Her bra was black he noticed; the straps were not very well concealed. The sprinkles of freckles that ran up and down her arms (like sensual constellations) made him loose track of his thoughts. " . . . back in a few hours. She said I could hang out here until she got back. That's okay . . . isn't it?" "Uh, yeah, I guess so." He dug in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed Marissa. The girl crept closer, her small hand pushing down his wrist to view the phone screen. "How come you're calling her?" "I want to know why her car is still here." "Her friend Helena drove." He left a short message on Marissa's voice mail, hung up, and eyed the girl. "What was your name again?" "I didn't say," she grinned. Her eyes twinkled. Her nose crinkled. She looked like a little devil. He could imagine . . . well . . . . "What is your name?" His stern tone made her flinch. Her grin fell away. She wore the expression of an admonished child. Her eyes flitted up into his, noticed the disapproval, and flitted down. "Sandy." "Well, fine, Sandy. You can stay and watch TV or whatever you like, but I have some work to do upstairs." "Okay." Manipulative little--what was she thinking? He had to get a hold on himself. She was just a kid. Maybe she knew the effect she was having on him and maybe she didn't. Maybe she was doing it on purpose and maybe she wasn't. She reminded him of Sarah, his first crush, cheerleader, bouncy, sexy, and wanting nothing to do with a little twerp like him. He was none too happy with Marissa either, leaving some teenage girl alone with him in the house. He was halfway up the stairs before Sandy called out to him. And it was "Chris!" not "Mr. Hartley!" He turned and chastised her. "Excuse me?" "Your wife left this for you. She said it was urgent." He took the envelope from her and started to tear it open, but she was still standing there, a step below, peering up at him, her large soulful eyes twinkling like an eager puppy. Was it his imagination or was there just the hint of a smirk on those glossy pink lips of hers? God, her whole face, her whole body, had that healthy, vibrant flushed glow. So young. So very, very young. "Something else?" he asked. She slipped up beside him, uncomfortably close, gazed up at him. "I wanted to apologize. I shouldn't have just jumped out at you like that at the door. I just didn't want you to come in and, y'know, be startled that some strange girl was in your house." His heart was like a clutching fist in his chest. His throat felt thick, his face warm, knees weak. He knew he should back away, but the part of him that wanted her won out. "That's okay. I'm sure you didn't mean it." She wrapped her thin freckled arms around him. He timidly patted her back. She snuggled closer, squirming deliciously. He could feel her erect nipples through her bra, through her thin shirt, through his dress shirt and undershirt, rubbing against his abdomen. He hoped it was his imagination. She lifted her chin as if expecting a kiss, and locked eyes with him. He swallowed, felt his breath go shallow, felt the terrible, wonderful, aching hardness of his erection stretching, and slowly, so slowly it killed him, unwound her arms. Without a word, he went upstairs, flustered, more angry at Marissa than ever. And angry at himself, at his dick for responding, at God for designing him that way, at Sandy for--for--for being so confused and for tempting him. He ripped open the letter, thinking, This better be good. # There was an electric jolt that he put down to static shock, then the medallion began to warm his hand. He stared at it, dumbfounded. This was just bizarre. And he was in no mood either, but it was interesting, fake, of course, by the feel of it. How could Marissa think it was anything of value? It wasn't plastic, but it wasn't stone or metal or wood either. He couldn't quite identify it. One side was worn almost smooth, and he could just make out some writing. At first he thought it was runes, but then it appeared to be Arabic, then again, hieroglyphics. Hell, it could've been a parade of ducks for all he could tell. His whole arm was warm now. He moved from the bathroom to the bedroom, and blamed the skylight. There was a strange ticklish-tingly feeling too. He scratched his arm idly, thinking offhand that his skin felt too smooth. On the other side of the coin he spotted Lady Liberty. No, but close, some sort of figure, female he thought. She was holding something, not a torch though. It was, perhaps, a wand, and there was the slightest impression of wings, but they were almost entirely worn away. He scratched his arm again. The warmth had spread to his shoulder, to his neck, was unkinking a bothersome muscle. One cheek was growing hot. He touched it. By this time in the evening there was usually some stubble. Then he saw his arm. It was thin and hairless. It was the arm of a pre-pubescent teenager, not a grown man. He gasped, dropped the medallion, and backed into someone. He turned and saw Sandy. "Don't worry. It's reversible. It takes twelve hours though." The rules were coming to her. With every contact, she seemed to understand more about how it worked. "I thought I told you to stay downstairs." "Chris, relax--" "Don't tell me--" "It's me. Marissa." "I want you gone. Do you understand?" "Chris--" "Gone. Call your parents. I want you out of my house, young lady." "Ooh," Sandy gasped and pressed a hand against her chest. She touched her blushing cheeks, felt her hot forehead, felt the shame coursing through her. "God, when you use that tone--" She laughed. "I'm not kidding." "I know. I know you're not. But just relax. Okay? The medallion is magic or something. I don't know how, but it can change you." "I'm calling my wife." He found his suit jacket on the bed and dug the cell phone from his pocket. Sandy launched into a long list of facts that only Marissa could've known. Chris stared at her. "That doesn't mean anything." "Look at your hand, teddy bear." Everything about the way she said it sounded like his wife, but it wasn't. Still, his arm, his hand. . . . She found the medallion on the bed, held it by its chain, and dropped it into his hand. "Just hold it for a bit and you'll see." There was that electric shock again, followed by the hot creepy-crawlies. His skin itched a little, but not unbearably. The heat sank deeper, and he saw, actually saw his other hand changing, growing smaller. He started to throw the medallion away, but Sandy wrapped her hand around his. She whispered, "It doesn't hurt. You'll see. And you'll be amazed. It's incredible. Look at me, teddy bear. See? Now you can have your fantasy. Don't you remember telling me how much you wanted to be with that cheerleader? Well, now you can be twelve again, and I'll be her. I even have a uniform, pom-poms and all, and we can rewrite history for you, and fulfill our deepest fantasies." # "I can't believe it," Chris's small voice gasped. "I found that old baseball cap of yours in the attic," Marissa explained. "Now you look exactly like you did when you were twelve." "This is . . . unbelievable." He stared at the medallion again, almost laughing. "Where-" "It doesn't matter." "But are you sure it's safe?" he worried. She wanted to kiss him, but restrained herself. "Wait here. I'm going to change." "Change?" "Yes." "What do you mean?" She couldn't help it. She launched herself into his twelve year-old arms, feeling every bit of her sixteen year old body wriggling against him. She planted a kiss on his mouth, pressed it deeper until his lips parted and their tongues met. His arms encircled her, squeezing her almost to breathlessness. Gently, with a mind of their own, his hands began to fall. She pulled away, wet lips smirking. She gave him another quick, hot kiss. He lunged at her, but she pushed him away. "Nuh-uh! You have to wait." "What? Why? I mean, what in the hell is going on?" She scampered away. He turned to the mirror and felt an erection like he hadn't felt in years. God, it was rock hard. And it was alive and incredibly sensitive. It was like it had never been touched before. Jesus, he was probably a virgin, sort of, maybe. Could you be a virgin again? Could she? When she bounced back into the room again, she went into a cartwheel and ended with a slow descent into a split. God, just the sight of her, the blue and white pleats of her skirt draped over her white thighs, her hair in a messy ponytail, dirty blonde strands in her eyes, cheeks flushed with exertion. She was white and pink and pert and perfect and teasing him mercilessly. Her lips glistened with gloss. She'd framed her eyes with black mascara and softened and enlarged them with dark brown eye shadow. Her blonde eyebrows were plucked and highlighted with a luminous gold. Was it his imagination or had she even sprinkled glitter on her cheeks? She got to her feet and bounced--breasts up when she was down, down when she was up--ponytail bobbing, tossing her pom-poms around, banging them together with whispery crashes, swish, swish, swish-swish-swish. "Hey . . . okay . . . " She whipped her head to the side, thrust out a hip and pointed at him, leveling him with her eyes. "I want your dick today!" He laughed and glanced down at the tent in his oversized pants. They fell away easily and his penis flipped up and pointed directly at her. "Yo . . . your pole . . . " She spread her legs and leaned over to give him a good shot down her uniform blouse. "I want it in my--Home is where the heart is! Your hard-on's in your pants! I can tell you want me, but I want to see it dance!" He rushed her. His twelve year old body couldn't stand it anymore. He had to have her . . . right now. # Flat on her back and moaning, she felt his hand fumbling for her undies. She started to struggle out of the cheerleader uniform, but he stopped her. "No, leave it," he panted. "But my--they're incredible! Don't you want to see them?" He thought about it, grabbed the hem of her blouse and began to pull. She sat up slightly. "No, on the back here," she pointed. He unclasped and unzipped it. When they were revealed, he sat back and stared, speechless. She grinned from ear to ear. "They're not too small?" He shook his head. His cheeks still had some baby fat left in them, and they were flushed. His eyes were large and dreamy. She started to push down the skirt, but again he stopped her. She beamed, eyes twinkling. He wanted her like this, still in her shoes, wearing the socks with the little pom- poms on the back, spread out, hungry. He wanted her, but didn't want to move, didn't want to wake up from the dream. She rolled over, and trapped him between her strong thighs. She was bigger than he was, the older woman. She leaned down over him and he squeezed her breasts together and buried his face in them, inhaling, kissing, licking, scraping his teeth lightly across her *at attention* nipples. She positioned herself carefully, wrapping her hand around his shaft, aiming it, then slowly, so slowly their groans were drawn out and mutual, lowered herself down onto him. She fell on top of him and he reached up and released her hair. She shook her head, and it fell forward across her shoulders, tickling his face. She planted a kiss on his mouth, then whispered into his ear, "Oh God, Chris, I want you so much." He grinned, eyes closed, bucking his pelvis. They began a little bump and grind then, and a moan escaped her that surprised even her. "Do you want me, Chris?" He nodded, panting. "I saw you in class . . . and I--I thought about--about having you inside me." His body went rigid. His breath became rapid, then clutched in his throat. He let out a loud moan. She felt the first spasm, then an indiscriminate hot spurt filling her. Too quick, she thought . . . but he *was* only twelve. # Their "weekends" began. With a touch of the medallion they could change completely. They became people watchers at the mall, especially at clothes shops. Women were easy. A nice lingerie store could give Marissa a pleasant surprise. Chris spent his time in the fitness section, waiting for men with rippling abdomens, square jaws, and deep set eyes. But they only had the one medallion, which meant they usually had to buy the clothes and take them home, sometimes assuring the sales people that it was fine if the clothes didn't exactly fit right then. They would soon. Marissa became everything from a petite little fox to a full blown "woman" with back breaking endowments. Chris became a muscle head (which neither of them cared for), a sleek swimmer, even a gymnast. At least that's how they thought of them. They had one closet dedicated entirely to the different people they liked to be, with little pinned notes to remind them of who was who. It was only a matter of time before one or both of them came to the same realization, which was not only could they become different people, but different genders . . . if they had a mind to. Marissa never brought it up. She was acutely aware of Chris's feelings on the subject without having to ask. Or so she thought. After a business trip, she came home to discover little inconsistencies. For example: the sleek red dress which hung taut to her every curve and was a bitch to walk around in, was not only hung in the wrong place in her closet, but also on the wrong hanger. Her shoes were out of place, the heels, in particular. It wasn't anything major, just little things. Leftover makeup that she'd bought but didn't like and had never bothered to throw away had been moved. There was blush powder on her sink which she always left it clean. Little things that added up to one giant conclusion. She found the medallion in their jewelry box just the way she'd left it. He'd been careful with that one item, she thought, but reckless with the rest. Late Friday night, she removed it and pressed it against her red dress. Early Saturday morning, with Chris snoring gently beside her, she placed the medallion on his chest and watched the changes ripple through him. When he opened his eyes, he saw his wife grinning down at him. He rubbed his face, too sleepy to notice his abnormally smooth, strangely soft cheek right away. "What's up?" "Not much. How was your weekend?" "It was--it was--" He cleared his throat. "It was okay." He cleared his throat again. And again. He couldn't seem to get his voice unclogged, or maybe his ears were plugged. He inserted a finger into his ear and yelped when a long fingernail scratched his eardrum. He blinked his eyes, glanced at his hand, bolted upright, felt two shifts of weight on his chest, and looked startled and beautiful simultaneously. Marissa heard her own voice for the first time from an objective viewpoint. "What did you do?" he complained. "I'd think you'd be used to it, having spent the whole weekend like this." Marissa saw her own eyes widen with shock momentarily, before narrowing with anger. She'd never realized how beautiful she was. It was kind of comforting to know why Chris had been drawn to her. "What are you talking about?" Chris tried, but it wasn't convincing. Marissa presented her evidence one by one. She marveled as shame flushed the cheeks of her twin, marveled at the brown bangs that fell into Chris's face, obscuring his now soft baby blue eyes. Chris swept his new hair back like a guy, smoothing it back with the flat of his hand; it fell into his eyes twice more before he unconsciously jerked it away with a toss of his head. "Okay," he relented. "But it's not what you think. I was just curious." "What did you do?" "Nothing." Marissa gave him a look of disbelief. "I just sat around," Chris added. "I didn't go out or anything." "Sat around in my good red dress." "Yeah, well. . . . " She sat on the bed next to him, placed her hand on the back of his tender female neck and warmed it with the heat from her palm. Chris shivered once and felt himself relax involuntarily. Marissa knew her body well. All the things that Chris did to turn her on, she well remembered and could against him. "I'm not mad, you know." He rolled his eyes and Marissa watched her own pretty lashes fluttering before her. "I don't know why I did it. This is so humiliating." Marissa placed her other hand on Chris's soft, female belly, and began to draw slow circles. "Don't be. It's normal." "Normal to turn yourself into your wife's clone?" Marissa cuddled closer. She dropped her hand to the softest part of Chris's new body, the inner thigh, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Instantly, she heard his breathing change. He turned to her, his new feminine eyes puffy from sleep, lips pouty and glistening. She wondered if he realized he'd just licked them. Her whisper was quiet. "Why not?" Before he knew it her lips were on his, soft and sweet and wet and demanding. Everything was different somehow. The scents. The smell of his breath, of his armpits, of their arousal had all changed. Now it was just Marissa times two. It seemed too floral, too female, and strangely he detected a new odor wafting up from beneath the sheets. "What are you doing?" he asked her in her own curious voice. "I could change myself too. I could become you. Then we would both know what it was like." "I don't know," he breathed. Her hand dipped a little further, opening familiar folds of flesh, but from such an odd angle. Still, it all worked the same, and she knew just how to touch him. "Are you sure?" Marissa asked in a hush, giving his shoulder a quick bite, then kissing around to that sweet spot she knew and loved behind the ear. She dug her teeth into his neck and felt him shiver. "Okay," he exhaled. # Chris had felt tenderness before, but never the experience of being tender. His new female body was rounder, softer. It shifted and rolled beneath Marissa's masculine hands. He'd never had his whole being so thoroughly manipulated. Never had he felt the coarse hair of a man tickle and tease his nipples, belly, bare arms, and thighs. These different sensations transported him. He felt that his time as a man had been incomplete. It had been a mere partial existence. But not now . . . now he was so much more. He was on the other side of the mask, the other side of the ocean, the other side of the world. Every moan that left him, every pant and sigh was richer because he understood the reason for it. Because he understood which was voluntary and which was a vocal cue to his partner. Marissa was surprised by the size of her hand, how far it spread across Chris's baby-soft belly, from fingertip to heel, how neatly her fingers fell into the dip of Chris's thighs, how inexorably they were drawn there, and how they instinctively searched, finding the edges of his lips, then moisture. She was so thrilled by the first hint of wetness, because somehow that meant that what she was doing was working. It meant control. A hint of wetness was a start, but it was just threading the needle. Marissa slipped under Chris's chin and with a hot, expanding breath, bit hard on his neck where it met the shoulder, nibbling her way up behind his ear. The reward was palpable: the hint of wetness became a rush of fluid, and a quick inhale from Chris's wet mouth confirmed it. Chris felt his back arch. His thighs pressed together, squeezing the hand between them, drawing the fingers deeper, down, into himself. Marissa's fingers spread and slipped away from the opening, seeking out the soft button which grew by mere touch, like a misplaced nipple, but with so much more consequence. Chris's next moan was involuntary. Marissa breathed into his ear. What a strange sensation, feeling the hum of a male voice depart her lips, countered by a female sigh which came from outside herself. What a strange sight to see a face she'd known her entire life in tears and joy, in early morning distress and late night splendor, below her now, outside, used by someone else. So that's what I look like when he's having me, she thought, and felt an immense growing, a wonderful aching rigidity where she'd only ever felt soft and wet. What a powerful sensation. She pressed it against Chris's leg and helplessly felt her male hips begin "the motion", the back and forth, the up and down, the wanting . . . to get in, to stick it, somewhere, anywhere, but hopefully "there". Without conscious thought, Marissa was ruthlessly parting Chris's thighs with a knee. She was positioning herself because she wasn't thinking, because she was only wanting. She must stick it in, must fulfill the need, must have her. . . Yes, her, Marissa thought. I want her. I want to be inside her. I want to make her scream. I want to control her with pleasure. Chris pushed his old body away, panting, " . . . no . . . " Marissa fell upon her, enjoying the writhing of her old body, the wonderful squirm of a woman very nearly lost to pleasure. She felt also, though it didn't register at first because it was so weak, the sensation of two small hands pressing against her flat chest. "Marissa . . . don't--" "What? Why?" She felt cheated. She was close. So close. She could force him. She was stronger. What could he do really if she wanted-- "Just . . . don't!" There was an awkward moment before Marissa extricated herself. She found Chris's mound again quickly with her broad hand and whispered into her husband's new female ear. "What's wrong?" "I don't want that." "But why? It feels so good." "Can't you just get me off with your fingers?" "Well . . . yes, if you want, but--" "I don't want the other." The pleasure was waning. Chris was coming out of his trance of pleasure. Marissa could continue the conversation but it was a distraction. "How about if I use my tongue?" "No." Marissa kissed him hard on the mouth and was ecstatic when Chris responded fully. But he had to. Somehow, he felt guilty for not giving her more, more of his new female body. Hadn't she always come through for him? "Why not?" Marissa asked. "Because I don't want to have to return the favor." Marissa smiled. "Okay." One finger began to brush lightly back and forth at the top of Chris's little fleshy "V", where the folds of flesh came together, striking in the scantest way the little hood, sending tiny reverberations of pleasure into Chris's hidden clitoris. He breathed out, "God", and felt his body tense, his pelvis tilting up for more. Marissa paused only to pry Chris's thighs open, all the way open, as far as they would go, leaving Chris with the terrifying, thrilling sensation of being utterly open. Utterly vulnerable. The finger was the world now, the quick flick, flick, flick on the little bud. Chris understood now what it was to be thoroughly turned on, the porch lights on and the music blaring, completely "tuned in" to some strange erotic frequency. In the groove and digging deeper, clutching at the sheets, wet mouth open, panting, gasping, being swallowed now and then by Marissa's rough, hot mouth. Tongues swirling, finger flicking faster, wanting more, faster, harder. And then . . . it was there. At the edge of Niagra and about to plunge, and a moment where it would not come, but could not be pushed away. It would come and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he wanted to do. From his crotch, yes, but so internal, from the depths, not the belly, not the thigh, but some indiscreet place in between, and yet all over, an explosion that was like a balloon filled with hot oil bursting and spreading at lightning speed, slowing and slipping down into his inner thighs, trembling knees and curling toes, up into his breasts and neck like the scorching hot air of a furnace at full blast, making the small of his back ache and his shoulders quiver. "See?" Marissa whispered and gave his ear a little lick, "it's fun being a girl." # Chris stretched out on the bed, smiling, skin glistening with sweat, breasts taut against his ribs, knees rubbing. His moan was soft and warm, and he was surprised by the tiny squeal that left him as he relaxed. He lowered his arms to embrace himself, which only served to squeeze his breasts together. He felt invigorated, happy, loved, and well-stretched. His voice was low and croaked a little as he asked Marissa, "Mmmm, what do we do now?" Marissa's eyes were filled with hunger. The erection of her new male body had never been harder. "I want--I want--I mean--" Chris rolled over, displaying his female bottom, smooth as glass, soft as powder. He gazed up into Marissa's hard eyes, then down at her erection, pink and purple and straining uncomfortably. Chris's laugh was the best and worst of the feminine tone, teasing, mocking, all knowing. "Yes, dear?" "I never knew you felt like this," Marissa confessed. What drove her crazy wasn't so much the delectable ass before her begging to be bitten, pawed, and squeezed, but the shape of Chris's hips sloping out from his narrow waist, the saucer of his lower back, the plumpness of each cheek, the puckered cross where the thighs joined--like a bull's eye. It was a body designed to be slathered with merciless attention. Chris reached up and wound his fingers around Marissa's rapt erection, marveling at how much bigger it looked in his small girlish hand. It twitched once and leaked until its tip was glistening. On his knees before his "husband", knowing his old body as well Marissa knew hers, he rubbed the tip and spread the moisture down and around the shaft, sliding his fingers slickly down and back up. Marissa's eyes closed; her head tilted forward, her rough hands fell on Chris's tender shoulders. Chris stretched up and kissed her with his sweet open mouth. Marissa threw him back, delighted at the surprised squeal that came with it, and fell upon him, fumbling in a panic to line up her erection with the bull's eye. Chris whispered, "No, don't. I told you--" Marissa panted and nodded, unable to speak. The arousal had overwhelmed her speech circuits. Chris stroked Marissa for a few minutes, renewing the slickness of his palm with the leaking tip, and in no time felt her tensing, holding her breath, something awesome building, and finally the surge as it twitched and pumped. Chris felt it hot and sticky on his belly and felt a tremendous amount of pleasure. It was control and he'd taken it back and here was the evidence. Marissa collapsed on top of him, heavy and sweating and gasping, and smearing her excitement all over him. She kissed him softly and rolled away, leaving Chris to deal with the sticky mess. "Ew." "Now you know," Marissa replied. Chris rolled his pretty blue eyes and bounced from the bed. "Don't forget to pee," she called out. From the bathroom, Chris's response came. "What now?" Marissa thought about it. They'd been in each other's body for a total of thirty minutes and they'd already had sex. She didn't think her male body could go at it again for a long time. So what to do with the next twelve hours? "Why don't we go out?" Marissa suggested. "Oh, hey, you have to wipe front to back, okay?" "It's dribbling everywhere," Chris complained. Marissa chuckled. # Chris crossed his female legs at the knee for the umpteenth time, arranged his skirt for the umpteenth time, hoisted up his blouse for the umpteenth time, and began to shrink under the glances of the male patrons. "What's wrong?" Marissa wondered, legs spread, leaning forward on the table. "It had to be the red dress." "You love the red dress." "I love it on you." "Well. . . ." Marissa grinned. Chris's blush caused an uncomfortable twisting down below. "Uh, it seems like its moving." "Huh?" "My--your, uh, y'know. . . . " Chris nodded, bangs in his eyes. He swept them away . . . again. "Oh, well, you have to, y'know, adjust it." "Just reach down in front of the whole club?" "You can try to be discreet." Marissa glanced around the room, surprised to find no one paying her a lick of attention. She reached under the table, grabbed the lump and repositioned it. No one noticed. There were lots of fleeting eyes on Chris, however. God, what a relief. Marissa could be crude, tell a terrible joke, pick her nose, whatever, and no one would think anything was out of place. She chalked that up as a major plus of being male. "You can always go in through the pocket too," Chris suggested. "Oh, okay. Interesting. It gets in the way a lot, doesn't it?" Chris stared at her, eyes falling to his new cleavage--it was like a little flesh shelf before him. "More than these?" Marissa laughed, a boisterous, thundering laugh. This body's voice had a lot more power than she was used to. "Maybe we're even in that department?" "You can hide yours." Marissa chuckled, softer. "So, how do you like pantyhose?" Chris nodded. He was all squeezed together, tense, cold, nervous. "I like them a lot actually." "They feel nice, don't they?" "Yes. And the, uh, panties are . . . they're kind of nice too. They still creep and crawl like all undies, but these are so much thinner and . . . I don't know . . . they're cute, sexy. It's fun, knowing I have them on." "Well," Marissa explained, "that isn't always the case. They're not all sexy, some are more practical, but they're okay. Any complaints about the thong?" "I . . . I didn't like it first. Who likes something up their ass all day? But I'm kind of getting used to it, and I know what it looks like, and my, uh, your dress or whatever, kind of, y'know, flows, and I feel so naked down there . . . it's kind of a turn on, but I'm scared shitless too." Marissa opened her mouth to respond, but the lights dimmed and a young comedian hopped on stage. Chris whispered. "I feel overdressed." The comedian did a few minutes of a feeble opening act, then introduced the main event. The lights dimmed further. A strange, chiming, swirling music came on, and out stepped an odd looking fellow in a suit that was too shiny, too trim. He introduced himself as Topper the Hypnotist. Chris rolled his pretty blue eyes and shook his head, sweeping his auburn bangs away again. "You've got to be kidding me." "Don't pout, darling," Marissa teased. Topper chose a volunteer out of the audience. A pretty blonde in a tight skirt and sequined top which covered her breasts and upper belly and that was it. Her shoulders, back, and midriff were bare and making all the men in the club discreetly adjust themselves. Chris was about to comment on this when he noticed Marissa taking care of her own adjustment. He raised an eyebrow and Marissa's angular male face reddened. Topper made sure that everyone knew that he and his victim, er, subject, he corrected with a gentle laugh, had never met and were in no way 'in cahoots'. Had she ever been hypnotized before? No? Well, no worries. It's so easy. All she had to do was stand there, facing away from him, arms raised, rolling her arms around one another. For a few seconds there was a complete, devastating silence. It made time slow, turned the seconds into nervous, ticking minutes for everyone in the club. Chris couldn't imagine what it felt like for the poor girl on stage. Every time she felt a tap on her right shoulder, she was to reverse the direction of her rotating arms. Over the next few minutes he tapped her several times, and talked to her. A question here a comment there, a whisper that they couldn't hear, instructions about how she should be feeling, again and again and again repeating the same thing over and over. " . . . concentrate . . . focus. . . ." He told her again and again that when she felt him tap her left shoulder, she would let go, relax all her muscles all at once and go into a deep trance. Chris sighed, a little bored. Still, the blonde's arms were starting to move a little too automatically. There seemed to be less of a pause when he tapped her to reverse the direction of her rotating arms. Then, like a shot, he tapped her left shoulder and grabbed her and laid her back onto the stage. Everyone sat up in their chairs. Chris was no exception. It was an act. It had to be. The girl was just going along with it. But he had to admit, there was doubt now, some uncertainty. Topper had fun suggesting silly things, forgetting her name, laughing and crying on command, and so on, then turned his attention to the rest of the club. The girl remained in a trance on stage, perhaps as a reminder to the rest of them of his hypnotic power. "Ooooh, scarey," Chris chuckled. The music came on again, and Topper began to speak. "If you don't want to go under, that's okay, you can just sit and watch enjoy. And if you do, that's fine too, you can just go with it. And if you find yourself or someone else slipping, relaxing, letting go, that's okay, that's okay, just let it happen." Chris and Marissa exchanged skeptical glances. Chris imagined what it would've been like to see his wife's body fall under this strange man's spell, how hot that would've been, and Marissa grinned, imagining the very same thing, but with current conditions. Someone had changed the sound of the microphone, because gradually Topper's voice went from typical comedian-on- stage tone, to a very in-your-ear warm tone. Everything he said was crisp and had a monotone lilt. His monologue seemed to be a rotating cycle of repetition, saying the same things over and over, occasionally introducing something new then repeating that. Chris shifted in his chair, fending off the warm pull of Topper's voice, glancing periodically around, startled to see that some of the audience, male and female alike, had already closed their eyes. Marissa adjusted her male self again, not needing much discretion since everyone was too occupied to notice. After a minute or two, with Topper's banter slowing, Marissa turned to Chris to make a snide comment and was stunned to see her old face sagging, eyes unfocused, cheeks heavy and flushed, looking very, very tired. Chris looked like he might nod off at any moment. She couldn't believe it. Her husband, in her body, was starting to slip into the hypnotist's power. What should she do? Should she wake him up? Should she be enjoying this? Part of her was, there was no denying that. She went through the pocket to feel a record high erection. She couldn't resist a little stroke as she repositioned it yet again, feeling it ache with yearning. Topper circulated through the audience, leaning and whispering into the ears of the people who had succumb. Marissa could see them respond, but couldn't hear them. He seemed to be making decisions based on those responses, because every other person or so would suddenly stand, walk onto the stage, sit and bow their head, eyes closed. Marissa was too stunned to make any plans regarding her husband. By the time she decided to reach out and awaken him, Topper was already there. Chris's eyes were half-closed, his body sunk into the chair, shoulders sagging, head drooping, looking lethargic and listless and beautiful. Topper examined him closely, then with a snap in front of his eyes, whispered forcefully, "SLEEP . . . SLEEP . . . sleep." Chris's eyes dropped. His head tilted forward. If it hadn't for Topper's waiting arms, he would've spilled forward right out of the chair. Topper whispered something in his ear, leaving an astonished Marissa with nothing to do but sit and stare. Chris, softly, in Marissa's sweet, female voice responded with, " . . . yes. . . ." In another moment, Marissa found herself shifting her legs, having to adjust herself yet again, watching as her husband, trapped in her old body, stood and walked like a zombie to the stage, falling into position beside the others. Before she could warn him, Topper had moved on. And what would she say? Oh, by the way, we're in each other's bodies for the night, so you should take that into consideration. Yep, that would go over well. # They'd lucked out to some degree. Chris had an androgynous name. Marissa could just imagine the club's reaction to a girl named Ralph or Frank or something equally masculine. Marissa simply couldn't believe her eyes, watching Chris respond to all Topper's suggestions. He wasn't the star of the show, but he was close. She thought he did pretty well, considering everything. When the hypnotist asked him to imagine he was a stripper, he didn't take anything off, but he managed to buck his hips quite a bit, and shake his bottom, even flashed the audience his little black thong with a whip of that gorgeous red dress. In all, Marissa was having a hell of a time, but was dreading the ride home. She could imagine his anger, "How could you let that happen to me?" and so on. So, she might as well enjoy it while she could, because she knew she'd be getting it later. That thought struck her as a typical male reaction. Don't think about it now; deal with it later. Topper was done with all the other victims, and was just finishing up with Chris, who was last in line. One by one, he'd sent them away with instructions to give a long, deep, passionate kiss to their "significant other", if they had one, or just a hug for a friend. The politically correct phrasing was dead on, because one man had come with his boyfriend. "And now, Chris, listening carefully, still relaxed and listening carefully . . . you have no desire to strip when you hear club music anymore, and you are no longer a Canadian Mountie. You can return to being a beautiful young woman. Return to being Chris, a confident, sexy, young woman, feeling good, feeling wonderful about yourself. In fact all the suggestions up until now will be gone, gone, gone when you awaken. You will not remember anything but that you were here and having fun with hypnosis. Tell me, Chris, are you here with your significant other?" Chris nodded. "Yes." "Wonderful, and you know what you're going to do, don't you?" Chris nodded again, eyes closed, smiling softly. "Kiss him." "Yes, very good, and you'll awaken on the count of three." Topper counted off and ended with a snap, but the person opening those pretty blue eyes was not the person who had entered the club. She slipped across the room, straddled Marissa's lap, and planted her lips firmly on her "husband". Marissa responded because she didn't know what else to do. This was not Chris. Chris would never have done this. Marissa broke the kiss, still feeling the lingering sensation of her "wife's" tongue. Chris smiled happily, like a woman in love. # The ride home was interesting. Chris chatted away about shopping and what the other girls at the club were wearing while Marissa interrupted only to ask if he was feeling all right. At home, Chris rushed upstairs. Marissa figured he was getting a lesson in the wonders of the female bladder, but when he didn't return, she grew concerned. She knocked on the door, and thought about how typically male she sounded asking, "Are you okay in there?" After a moment, the toilet flushed, and the door opened. Marissa stumbled back a few steps to better take "her" all in. Chris stood in heels, stockings and a garter, wearing her silky black thong panties and a black bustier with red lacing that Marissa had only found nerve enough to wear once. His makeup was more daring than Marissa had ever worn. He'd used a dark smokey violet eyeshadow, a soft blue liner which really played up the bright blue of his eyes, and a dark red lipstick. It was powerful and exotic and it had the desired affect. "My god, you're beautiful," Marissa said before she could think. "Are you feeling okay?" Chris's heels clicked on the floor toward her "husband". "Why do you keep asking me that?" "Because . . . well--" Would it break the spell if she told him the truth? She knew she had to risk it, but something in this male body, in this male brain would not let her. Instead, she swept him up in her new male arms, carried him to the bed, and fell on top of him. He'd even had the forethought to wear his panties outside his garter for easier access. Marissa understood now why men liked the lights on. Every view of the gorgeous, soft, squirming, moaning creature below her was like a shot of adrenaline. "He" wanted "her" more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. He craved her every curve. His hands ran up and over and down the soft slopes of her body, drawing himself always closer. Chris willingly spread her thighs this time. Marissa entered slowly, pushing aside a twinge of guilt. Chris was vulnerable. She was under the influence of a hypnotic suggestion, but at the moment Marissa didn't care. As he pushed inside, he felt his penis totally enveloped by a warm, wet softness. It only made him feel that much harder and he thought, 'This is what it means to be a man'. Chris was penetrated fully, and feeling nothing but a desire to be cherished, loved, worshiped . . . filled. And fill her he did, until she was panting, laughing, grasping hungrily at his back, prodding him on with her thighs, heels bouncing merrily in the air, maneuvering her way around the bed like an inchworm. She was covered in sweat, hers and his. Marissa trapped her beneath his weight, wound his arms beneath hers, grabbed her by the shoulders and jostled her ruthlessly up and down for his own pleasure. So soon, too soon, he felt the immense pleasure of an intense burning tingle on the tip of his penis and knew there was nothing he could do to prolong it. And then the twitching, the clutching, the spurting of his fluid into her. Chris blinked her eyes and seemed to come out of her daze for a moment. "Oh my God!" But then the pleasure of being filled with him, the smell of him, the burn of him was too much and her body began to convulse with a mind of its own. She felt herself become incredibly wet until everything down there was an amalgam of slickness and heat and fluid. She felt herself squeezing that hardness inside her, milking it with familiar muscles, and that knowledge alone drove to her a higher climax. # "Are you okay?" Marissa asked her. Chris nodded, squeezing her old male body tighter. She couldn't remember ever wanting to be held so much as a man. "I came out of it, but it was too late." "I'm sorry. I should've--" But he wasn't sorry. Despite everything, Marissa had enjoyed every minute of it and would've done it again. The pleasure, the arousal had been too great. "Don't be." They lay for awhile, before Chris began to think aloud. "Y'know, the thing is, having never been, um, well, you know . . . penetrated, I didn't want it. It was like I didn't know what I was missing and I didn't like the idea because it was so contrary to everything that I'd ever felt as a man, but now . . . I want more." "You sure that's not just the hypnosis talking?" Marissa nuzzled her warmly. "No," Chris giggled, and they both took a moment to recognize the very female quality of that giggle. "So," Marissa continued, "what does this mean exactly?" Chris took a deep breath. "Well, we've been having fun being other people on the weekends. I think we should continue that, only from the other side, y'know, for awhile anyway. Until the novelty wears off." "What if it doesn't?" Chris shrugged. "I've learned more about you and how you feel and how you think in the last eight hours than I ever could've learned in a lifetime of loving you as a man." "So, you want to switch wardrobes?" Marissa smirked. He thought about all the "personalities"--the clothes with little notes pinned to them, Sandy, Valentina the Stripper, Amber the Redhead, and the rest. She thought about Chris inside them all and felt an amazing twinge down below. Already, he was working on another powerful erection. Chris thought about Marissa becoming Dunbar the Lumberjack, Biker Dude, Jim the Gymnast and thought about how it would be to feel them beside her, on top of her, inside of her. "Only on the weekends." Chris crawled from the bed and looked down at the mess that was her lingerie. Then she spotted the bed. "I get the wet spot tonight, I assume?" Marissa grinned. "It's only fair." "Okay." Chris turned and blushed her way to the bathroom, calling out, "but no more hypnosis!" # Their weekends began anew. They became new couples each time that looked into new eyes and felt new sensations. This body had lips that wanted soft kisses; that body responded better to lip-bruising. This body had breasts that longed for tenderness; that body required manhandling. They were like virgins breaking each other in to the new likes and dislikes of their new bodies. They discovered each other even as they discovered their new selves, only this time from crossed perspectives. Chris learned to accept her short stature, always looking up, always being in the shadow of men, always in their eyes and smiles. She learned to accept how quick the conditioning of the body took hold, to cross one's legs, to keep one's knees together when entering and departing vehicles, to keep one's eyes on shop windows and not on the many passing men. And to keep close to 'her' man. Marissa learned to accept his new bulk, his impatience in conversations, skipping ahead to the end, wanting to solve problems rather than listen to them. He learned when and when not to make eye contact with other men; which ones displayed a non-threatening nod and which ones were potentially hostile: he learned about territory, his and others. And there was a natural sense of protection towards the soft female creature that walked beside him. More than once they'd lost each other. This wasn't like losing your car in a busy parking lot. It was like losing a rental. You'd suddenly forgotten the make, model, even the color. Which body had he picked out this morning? They'd been in so many it was easy to forget. There had even been the occasional surprise with their own appearance. Once Chris had passed a mirror and stopped and stared for a long time, thinking she recognized this woman, but from where? After awhile, though, they found themselves settling into "favorites". Chris liked being the petite girl in her early twenties with glossy black hair and kissable lips, with smart, laughing eyes and little girl charms. It was a "Julie" body, and he began to love being inside it. Marissa had settled for Jim the Gymnast, lithe and lean and muscular, quick on his feet, easy on the balance, wide, powerful hands, and an angular jaw that was unmistakably masculine. He liked when "Julie" said his name with that sweet, exasperated tone. "Oh, James!" He liked the flick of Julie's tongue and the "s" sound of her mouth when she said the word "slick". She liked feeling his hand on the small of her back and his teeth on the nape of her neck. Neither of them liked changing back for Mondays. Immortality was at their doorsteps. They could remain young and beautiful forever. So, it was really only a matter of time before trouble found them. # Chris was in his own body for a change, and it was already late Saturday morning. Marissa had been thinking about being James all week, about how quickly they could change and go for a run. She wanted to see Julie's breasts bounce, wanted to see the glisten of her sweaty limbs as 'he' unpeeled her workout clothes from her slick body. And then, maybe dirty sex on the bathroom floor. "James" wanted to take "Julie" from behind this time. There was an element of using, an element of degradation, of having her like a dog, and Marissa wondered about that. She didn't worry exactly, just wondered how a man could have such primal feelings and still be in love, still adore his mate, still respect her. But the answer was already clear: lust. For men, for James, sex was sex, dirty, clean, whore, virgin . . . it didn't matter. Outside of sex, that's where love existed for a man. Or that was her theory anyway. Chris sat on the bed in his old male body, deep in thought. Marissa had let the auburn streaks fade from her hair, let the sandy highlights dim. There seemed to be less of an effort between them to keep up their usual appearances. Why bother when you could so easily become someone else? "What's wrong?" Marissa asked, itching to change, the medallion dangling from her fingers by its chain. "Maybe we should just be ourselves this weekend." "Well . . . if that's what you want, but what's the problem?" Chris's eyes met hers. "It's starting to affect me during the week." Marissa sat beside him on the bed. "How so?" "The other day I found myself chasing Amy Gleick down the hall." Marissa frowned. "Oh?" "No one was more surprised than me, because when I caught up to her I found myself asking where she'd gotten her top." "I see." "I covered, y'know, told her I wanted to get it for my wife." "But that wasn't true?" Chris shook his head. "You wanted it for yourself." Marissa smirked. "All I could think was how Julie would look in it, how it would drive James crazy if I got it a size too small." Marissa giggled. "Is that so bad?" "It's not good. I mean, I don't know if I'm even attracted to women anymore. What am I? Gay? A transsexual?" "No," she caressed his cheek with the back of her hand and realized suddenly it was something "James" did to "Julie". Maybe he was right. Maybe they needed to return to themselves for awhile. The only problem was she just didn't want to. "You're in the unique position of being able to understand everything about the male and female experience. We both are. This is a gift, Chris." "But I'm afraid this female thing, this changing thing is going to take over my life. How long before we don't know ourselves anymore? We alread