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MARQUIS TO MARQUISE I was born a male in 1757. That must seem like a very strange phrasing but you'll see why I use it. My name is Jean Paul Richard. I was the firstborn child of my father, the leading aristocrat of our region in the east of France at the foot of the mountains leading into Switzerland. But I have no brothers, only two sisters, so there was never any question who would succeed my father, Luc Richard, the Marquis. There was little else I could wish to do as I was growing. My father, the Marquis, was a giant figure in the region, literally in one sense. He was over six feet tall when that was very rare. But more than his simple height, my father had achieved stature in his life, had gathered about him an aura of authority for his wisdom. My father read Montaigne, Rousseau, Voltaire and Montesquieu and could quote at a moment's notice an apt saying. He held Montesquieu in great esteem but had the best command of and affinity for Voltaire, whose estate, Ferney, was also in our corner of France. My Father, the Marquis, also knew many other writers both French and foreign. He particularly liked the roman, Epictetus and the greek, Aristotle among the ancients. He knew all the sciences as well but preferred philosophy most of all. He loved to spark a fire of curiosity in my sisters and me with the flint of a seemingly simple question. What's the best way to be happy? Do men always get what they deserve in the end in life? And many more. My father, the Marquis did not forswear religion. He never acted or spoke so that he was directly challenging the local priests but his words and actions showed that he regarded them as ceremonial afterthoughts in the new world of the enlightenment. We lived on a huge estate of thousands of acres with an imposing estate house at its center like other aristocratic families. We had scores of workers and servants like other aristocratic families. But we actually had less wealth than some other families with similar estates. My father paid everyone working on the estate more than he could have gotten away with paying them. It wasn't charity. They were happier. Life with them was happier for us. And on an intellectual level, my father was convinced that the way most French aristocrats treated peasants was going to be the ruin of France. My father the Marquis openly harbored Hugenots and even Israelites on our estate species of knowledge is circulated, that those in danger of religious persecution could find refuge on our estate. We did not give alms or charity to any of these unfortunates. They paid us the same as did any others to stay for any period on the estate. Or they worked as any other workmen did on the estate. I remember, in my early teens helping hay fields alongside a poet who happened to be protestant and being tutored in mathematics by a hebrew who had been forced to flee his own home near Rheims. They were given no charity but they were treated no worse than any others. There were even two negro families on our estate, not moors but true negroes. Their skin was as dark as coal. I met other negroes whose flesh was more the hue of umber but the families on our estate were from a province of Africa where the sun beat down so consistently that the people became nearly obsidian in response. Carl, the son of one of the families was my best friend. My father preached the values of the enlightenment, of tolerance and giving others the freedom to act on their reason. He advocated changes to the governance of France to reflect these values. Once, when my sisters and I had gone up to his and my mother's bedroom to show our clothes for a New Year's Eve party, my father explained it quite simply. He pointed to me in my formal jacket and breeches and said, "You, Jean Paul are England. You have shared power as wise Montesquieu would counsel. You have flexibility," he said tugging at my somewhat stiff coat. "What if trouble arises and England is shaken?" he asked, giving me a push. I shifted on my 13 year old legs and regained my balance. "But you, Nicole, are France" he said smiling and touching the nose of my grinning, 12 year old sister, Nicole. She was accoutered in her finest shimmering ball dress, a sea of ruffles below a wide, spreading skirt, her adolescent girl's waist locked tight in the embrace of her first corset. "What happens if trouble arises and France is shaken?" asked my father and with the push of just one finger he toppled her over onto the extravagant quilt of his and my mother's bed. He pulled her back up as he noted "France is lovely but France would be stronger if not so tightly controlled." "So, you don't want me to wear my corset, Papa?" "Your mother will decide that sort of thing," said the Marquis. "Fathers should concern themselves more with the superficialities of sons than of daughters." But even with me, he let his affection for me win out over his own preferences. In one of my few rebellions against him I let my hair grow long from the time I entered puberty, going about with either my shoulder length hair flowing behind me or tied in a queue like a chinaman's. Most often, my chestnut brown hair was flowing behind me for I only spent half each day, at most, with my tutors. The rest of each day, I would be riding horses or running through the fields. I grew to be almost as tall as my father by my 18th birthday and I was the fastest boy around. When passing fairs held contests for sprinting and leaping, I always beat all the boys my age and even those a few years older. I had a long lanky frame with just enough muscle to it. Sometimes after I won a sprint at one of these fairs, a burlier competitor would look at me and shake his head looking at me, his slender conqueror. After one fair in which I won all the sprints, the man announcing the position of the finishes called me the 'Mercury of the Alps'. Don't think I didn't repeat that one to my sisters, Nicole and Jeanne. I was immensely proud in part because I was very much like my father. Though aged more than two score years by that time, he was still trim and had spring in his step. Avoirdupois was a status symbol in some aristocratic quarters, great girth being a visual symbol of one's affluence and ability to freely gorge on the products of the land unlike waifish servants. But my father thought this was silly. He also regarded immobilizing mass as feminine for it was men who were the catalytic agents of society, who acted and with the motive power of their wills and sinew changed the world. These corpulent gentry who occasionally visited our estate did little but sit their immense bottoms upon our divans and then make their way to our dinner table to further their immensity. Their bloated immobility seemed, frankly, feminine to me. These yard wide counts and dukes could not possibly live as vigorous a life as a slender athletic man such as my father. My father was not like that and neither was I. I enjoyed the abundance of my energy. Yes, I had my vanity, I was a very handsome boy, too. That wasn't my self regard. It's what I was frequently told. Visitors to our estate remarked about my striking gray eyes and sharp featured face to my parents. But my parents made sure that I never adopted airs. I was not allowed to treat even butlers or maids with arrogance. "A strong man does not need to force others down to stand tall," my father used to say. I remember visiting the estate of a count with my father and watching that man furiously berate his staff for failings both miniscule and imagined. After each such tirade he seemed to feel better. After we retired for the evening, my father explained in detail about the psychology of this particular man and how his arrogance was really a manifestation of great insecurity. My father never let me see another man treating his servants or workers badly without commenting on the mistreatment. Upon reaching my 18th year, my father sent me to Paris. The stated reason was to continue my education at the Sorbonne. The unstated reason was to continue my education in the culture of France. For this reason, I took only the minimum number of classes in my first year of study. I knew only the world of living on our estate and though the words of wise men like Montesquieu and Voltaire were brought to our lands there was so much more to experience. As my two trunks were loaded onto the coach to carry me to Paris after a stop in Lyon, my father summed it all up. "You must know of Paris, my son, to be a proper Marquis in the future. There are nearly innumerable ways that men may order their relations with their fellow man. You'll see many more of them there that you've not known on our estate. That alone does not make them good or bad but I believe that ignorance of them is bad as it will color your perception of what options are open to you and others," he said patting my shoulder. "Yes father." "Now, enjoy yourself, Jean Paul," he chuckled, "But never diminish yourself. Never act so that you prevent yourself from becoming the man you can be. And remember the counsel of Aristotle. The surest way to be a happy man is to be good." I nodded. I embarked minutes later after hugs and kisses from my mother and sisters as well as some of the servants. I was acutely aware that I was carrying the family's reputation with me as well as thousands of francs to be deposited in a Paris bank. The journey to the capital took over a week with a day's stop in Lyon. There, I followed one of my body guards into a somewhat disreputable district. Serge, my bodyguard, a very large man of typically saturnine expression pulled me along with him past darkened alleys and half lit shops selling no immediately discernible goods. Two or three times, as we worked deeper into the labyrinth of streets in the oldest part of the city I wished to turn back but Serge would not have it and tugged my shoulder to force my steps to be just behind his. At last we arrived at the gaily painted but decaying front of a 3 story building. "Another part of your education," Serge smirked. He led me inside and even in my innocence I quickly realized that the women who greeted Serge and asked who I was were courtesans. Their raiments were solely women's undergarments slightly adapted to cover more of their voluptuous bodies. With but a nod, the woman who greeted Serge directed another woman to take me as her charge. As she led me up the darkened stairway to a bedroom lit with a candle that filled the small room with a most pleasant vanilla odor, I heard Serge tell her "He will be the next Marquis. An innocent lad but one of substance." "We'll see how much substance he has to show Cecile," I heard the senior courtesan laugh. I must confess that I did not occupy Cecile for very long. She was attractive if a bit voluptuous for my taste. Cecile smiled at my long slender body as I undressed it and showered her with kisses. I undressed her and began performing the sexual act with her hands roaming over my backside before I climaxed just a minute or two into congress. I withdrew my generative organ and rolled off Cecile onto the bed with mild apologies for not having given greater pleasure. But she patted my bottom as I stood and reassured me that it had been fine with a sincere smile. "Quel cul t'as mon garcon! Aujourd'hui tu es devenu un homme" she said softly as she continued to rub my bottom and side but mostly my bottom as I stared down considering her most somberly. "I was not aware that women were so fond of men's derrieres," I said to break the silence. She laughed. "Oh, oui, mon cheri. Especially fine round ones such as yours which are almost ornaments of flesh. You may not believe this but a woman fancies you almost as much as you are interested in her." "Really?" "Oh yes!" she chuckled. "Don't believe foolish nonsense that divides women between the perfect and the worthy of only scorn. The good are not nearly so good and the bad not nearly so bad as you might imagine," she added gleefully patting my nearer buttock and then rolling lazily onto her back. "You might not believe this, but I was once in a convent and if you had appeared before me in those surroundings as you are before me right now, I would probably have done with you as we just did. And even now I could recite all the doctrines in our catechisms. And I would be sincere." "You are well spoken and you have insight. Why do you receive the affections of men whom you do not know?" She laughed and gave the bare arc of my hip one last affectionate rub. "First of all, get dressed, young aristocrat, before I am tempted to indulge without payment. I do this for the obvious reason, cheri. I choose to. What else could I be if I were not here? Washerwoman? Dressmaker, perhaps? That would be the best for which I could hope. No, this is not nearly so bad as it is supposed. With each... client I try and find the one sincere aspect of their expression of amour and focus upon that to the exclusion of other parts. You looked me in the eye and kissed me as though kissing your true love. So, I focused on your kissing of me and paid less attention to other elements of our congress, except your luscious fundament," she chuckled then settled into a soft, enigmatic smile. She looked me right in the eye. I was looking her in the eye as well, wanting to understand her but not fully grasping her explanations of herself. "Oh, cheri. I like the way you look at me." "How is that?" "You look with no pity. You did not set yourself above me to study the poor fallen woman. I am not fallen," she chuckled, "but have stretched out comfortably on my fine linens." But saying that, she sighed then sat up and started to dress herself as I gathered my own clothing. As I finished, I put three francs upon the nightstand. "Silly boy. Your friend paid for you downstairs. Madame does not trust all of us to accurately report the scope of the transaction to her and that amount would not be quite sufficient." "I was aware of that. I saw Serge give her money as we ascended the stairs. That is for you because I wish you well." With that, she stood up and embraced me. "What is your name again, young man?" "Jean Paul." "Good. Jean Paul is a name I like. Now, the next time you are with a woman, Jean Paul, pay attention that just inside the entry to her womb, she has a small nub of flesh which, if rubbed, will bring her much pleasure. It is a woman's focus of her pleasure in the same way that your sexual organ is the focus of your own. If you attend to it properly, you will make the love of your life most happy." "I-I did not even know that such attribute of woman existed," I confessed. "Few do," she sighed. "If only you knew what it was to be a woman. Alas, that cannot be. So, simply be considerate, Jean Paul, and all will resolve to your benefit." I went downstairs and waited for Serge, who took considerably longer with his courtesan and tried to fully consider the events in my mind. The act was great pleasure but ephemeral in my inexperienced state. Cecile sincerely enjoyed it yet she did not know me at all. Despite what she said, this confounded me. But as I considered it, I decided to accept Cecile's words. Perhaps a woman could enjoy sensual pleasures as ends in themselves just as I could. But, though I could, it would certainly be preferable to unify pleasures of the body with appreciation of qualities of mind and spirit. I resolved, as Serge led me back through the streets of Lyon, to next time engage in congress with a betrothed, a beloved. That would be a higher expression of a man. A week after my arrival in Paris, after setting my affairs in order and establishing residence on a quiet street in a fine neighborhood, I met Marie Suffren. Marie united every aspect of desire in me. She was beautiful, tall and slender yet with a beautiful bosom and skin that fairly glowed, made even more noticeable by the shine of her dark brown hair. Lust was immediately inspired at the sight of her. But, on approaching to speak to this beauty, I found her to also be the possessor of a sharp mind and a nimble wit. And as I courted this wonderful girl, I came to appreciate how kind and generous she was. To my great delight, there was immediately that serendipity of two souls which is a match of love. She so often guessed my thoughts in almost any setting and so often seemed to have the same reaction to a circumstance that I felt as though we had always been together. I soon came to feel as though we always would. Though we went to many events and affairs together there was no question of consummating our love. She was from a titled but not especially affluent family from the Lorraine region of mixed French and German heritage that was deeply religious. They were to visit one weekend and I resolved to learn a passage from the bible in German to repeat to her mother and her family. I mentioned this to some of my acquaintances. A couple days later, a boy I only slightly knew approached me and suggested that a certain church had a priest who spoke both French and German fluently and could help me memorize biblical passages in German. It was odd, this suggestion coming from this boy I only slightly knew but it seemed to be just what I needed. I went to the address given. It was on the edge of both good and bad neighborhoods. It was a very small church, dark both inside, and out. I walked inside and shivered a moment despite it being the middle of summer and quite warm. I crossed myself and almost immediately a man in a hooded robe like a monk approached me. I explained my circumstance and mentioned the other boy who had referred me to his church. The monk-like figure gestured for me to follow him and led me to a room off the back of the church. He handed me a strangely bound book with a very odd, tan colored leather grain that I presumed to be a German bible. He gestured inside and then said that I should first read aloud page 55 to help memorize the phonetic sounds there and that after I did so, I should knock on the door and he would come in and discuss it with me and help me. I bowed my head slightly and smiled a thank you. I stepped inside the nearly bare room, knelt at a pew and opened the book. It was clearly not a bible, but must be some sort of primer for studying the bible, I guessed. I wondered about the book's cover but hesitated to guess from what animal it came as I somehow instinctively shuddered at the sight of it. With a sigh, I opened it to page 55 and looked at the writing. It was fine gothic script but I doubted that the words were really German. I'd met enough travelers at our estate and now here in Paris who spoke German to have some idea how the language would sound but this didn't seem to be it. Where were all the G's, F's, K's and Z's? Oh well. I carefully read aloud the phonetic sounds on the page. Almost immediately, a shiver ran down the length of my spine such as I'd never felt before. I bent my back to accommodate it like a cat stretching on the floor. My teeth started chattering uncontrollably. What in hades was going on here? I staggered to the door just as my body seemed to switch from feeling frigid to being consumed by tremendous heat. The last thing I remembered was the door swinging open immediately after my faltering knock. There, grinning at me was St. Germain. I remember wondering what the hell he was doing there and then blacking out. I have no clear recollection of what transpired from that point till I remember waking up, feeling wracked with fever and sore over my entire body in the bushes outside that same church like a common vagrant unable to rise from all fours after too much drink. I groaned at my all encompassing discomfort and wondered at the oddly high sound of my voice at even this guttural expression. I had to get out of there. Was it the next morning? I had to meet with Marie and her parents! St. Germain must have been trying to get me to miss that meeting. But I felt so odd. Every muscle, every part of my flesh seemed to twitch and flutter. What were all these odd sensations? I felt heavy and yet small. Had my shirt pockets been stuffed with heavy objects? Why did my shirt sag so? My eyes seemed almost covered over with dried tears and I rubbed at them a few moments and blinked many times before I could see. I struggled to get to a seated position and felt a breeze pass straight through the seam of the seat of my pants as I did. They must've somehow split. "Why would St. Germain split my pants?" I asked out loud and froze in place. My voice was sultry and high pitched, befitting only the most coquettish female. I sat up and cleared my throat. "This is my real voice," I said trying to feel confidence about the matter, but heard not the bass I expected. Instead it was another sultry purr. What in the world has happened to me? I sound worse than Nicole or Jeanne! But I soon forgot about the odd sound of my voice for as I sat there puzzling, I soon apprehended that something was amiss with the part of me on which I sat. I seemed to be covering much too much ground, much too much ground. "What's become of my slim waist and hips?" I wondered to myself, afraid to use my voice. My buttocks felt enormous as I shifted my weight a bit from side to side, testing this odd sensation of width. I found this apparent expansion of my runner's ass so ridiculous that I chose to disregard it. It simply couldn't be. With effort, I stood up and found that my coat hung comically large about my shoulders, the sleeves extending over my hands I reluctantly gave in to my curiosity and reached back to my buttocks while noticing that my pantlegs drooped over shoes that suddenly seemed to have grown 3 sizes. Oh my god. I froze. I still remember that moment where I first began to realize what had happened to me. I ran my hands across my buttocks and was shocked at the size of my rump and not just its size but also its shape. It was real. Something was amiss. A man rendered unconscious does not awaken to find his buttocks widened twofold! I even pinched my seemingly expanded derriere hard hoping to somehow find that this enlarged flesh was not me. "Oh!" I was startled first at the sting of this pinch at what truly was me and then at my own high pitched chirp in response. I was frantic now, gasping at the implications of these discoveries. I could not bear to consider what had happened to my taut, round little ass any further. I pressed my hands further up my body and found that my already slender waist was not enlarged like my hips but somehow even further reduced. What in hades?! My shape has become like an hourglass! The reality of my situation suddenly struck me like a musket shot. "I-I'm . . a . . woman! I'm a woman!" I muttered in shock with my voice perfectly befitting such a declaration. "No. This can't be. A young man can't simply be turned into a woman. That's a fantasy of superstition and child's tales." But I continued to inspect myself. I was shorter. My shoulders were much smaller as were my hands and feet. And, hesitantly, I pressed these new little hands of mine to the bobbing spheres of flesh beneath my coat and shirt that I wished I could ignore. But it was true. I had a pair of full round breasts, large for my new size I thought. Finally, I gasped as I considered my generative organ. If all this was true... !! I pulled my breetches out from my abdomen. It was quite easy to do so. I looked down and saw nothing. "No!" I reached downward with one dainty hand and pressed its little palm to the spot where my absent penis should have been. I felt only a diminished patch of hair and then, with the tips of my little fingers, my new vertical lips. I nearly fainted. Then it's true. I... I'm a... a woman. No! This cannot be I argued one last time in my own mind. I'm Jean Paul Richard. I'm six feet tall. I weigh one hundred sixty pounds. I'm a young man. A young man, I asserted. But I pressed my hands to the seat of my pants and felt the full expanse of my new wide, fleshy rear and ran them up to my narrow waist and them up the front of my torso to cup them under my melon sized breasts. I hung my head in surrender. My femininity was undeniable. But how? How did this come about? Then I remembered the odd book and St. Germain. I felt like crying and barely suppressed a tremendous urge to sob like a girl but gathered myself and resolved to take my revenge upon him as soon as I could. First I had to get to my lodgings and send a note to Marie apologizing for not being able to meet with her and her parents this evening. God! What would they think if they found that the boy seeking their daughter's hand was a girl himself?! I tried to regain my composure by asserting my usual sense of my own dignity. But as I stepped out to the sidewalk and looked around at passersby shaking their heads at the sight of me I realized that I was a foul smelling, extremely unkempt woman dressed for some reason in tattered and ill-fitting men's clothes. As I shuffled out to the walk, my shoes seemed ridiculously oversized for my feet. I wanted to adopt my normal long, fast stride but found that I couldn't. Without the slightest intention I found myself immediately adopting a hip swaying gait. How odd. Also very odd was the absence of my penis and scrotum hanging between my legs as I strode along. I stopped myself after a half mile and consciously adopted a more masculine march. I wasn't going to give in to this ridiculous situation. But as soon as my mind wandered for a moment to notice passersby and street signs I found I immediately adopted that same derriere flaunting walk again. I gritted my teeth. Fine! I'll just have to accept that for now. I walked on, past disapproving men and woman. Well, the women were more disapproving than the men. Some of the men looked at me in a way that I didn't understand at first. But then, just a quarter mile from my rooms, I walked past a restaurant window painted black from the inside to dissuade curiosity. I looked at my reflection. Clearly, I was a woman beneath these men's clothes. But now I could look at my face. I caught my breath. I was... beautiful. Even with my shoulder length hair, unbrushed and looking feral, I was a striking girl. I was beautiful. My god. This only added to my femininity. That's why the men were looking at me like that. There was some of my young man's face there. My eyes were the same color but most of my eyebrow hairs were gone, leaving only two thin arcs. My nose was diminished and my cheekbones were even more prominent. My jaw was smaller as was my mouth but my lips were decidedly fuller, practically begging to be kissed. Oh my god. I was beautiful. I resolved to be completely honest with myself to deal with what had been done to me. The young woman in the window was striking. I found her very attractive. I could certainly make love to a woman like that. Yet, she was... me, Andre. I shook my head at this paradox and kept sashaying along the city streets. A few minutes later, I was approaching the building where I lived when I saw the jackets and vehicle of the fire department. The odor of foul smoke was in the air. I soon realized that the portion of the building including my rooms had already burned to the ground. My pretty mouth fell open and I staggered backward. All my possessions were burned. Everything. I had only the tattered and ill-fitting clothes on my back. And who would believe that I was Jean Paul Richard with my present appearance? I sat down on the masonry wall at the front of the building across the street. The very sensation of being seated left me feeling humiliated and angry at the obvious expansion of my buttocks, at how my taut runner's ass had now been made into the rump of a courtesan. I flailed about mentally. Nothing could prepare a young man for a situation such as this, suddenly being a young woman. I could not figure out what to do next when I suddenly realized that the fire department men and some other officials were talking about the tragic death of a young man in the fire. And I realized that they were saying it was me! I stepped forward and crossed the street. There was a charred body, only a foot, shoe and ankle not totally blackened. But the body, such as it was, was approximately six feet tall and slender. I edged forward anxiously, wondering how I could show them that the charred body on the ground was not Jean Paul Richard. But I realized that my tale would seem fantastic and ridiculous to the men and that my unkempt appearance would have them thinking I was simply a female drunkard. It was in this disconsolate mood that I started edging away and bumped into Louis Girard, a foppish friend of both Marie and me. He looked at me oddly, perhaps recognizing Andre's clothes. I was touched to see that he had tears in his eyes at the scene before him. "Louis!" I whispered desperately. "It's I, Jean Paul." Louis looked at me, blinked and kept walking past me. I tugged at his shoulder. Just a short time ago, I would have knocked him down with that much of an effort. With my new girlish body, I slowed his progress. "Louis! I-I ... I am Jean Paul Richard. Ignore my appearance and the pitch of my voice. Some sort of magick has been worked on me. But I'm Jean Paul. I-I need your help!" Louis looked perplexed, more by the question of how to get rid of this foul smelling insane woman. I couldn't miss this chance. I pushed with all my reduced might and thanks to Louis's acquiescence directed him into the sheltered doorway of the adjacent building. "You have to listen to me Louis. What I'm going to tell you is fantastic but it's true. I'm Jean Paul Richard. Through some inexplicable magick, Gaspard St. Germain has turned me into a woman." Louis glanced nervously from side to side. "That is insane, Madamoiselle and, frankly, disrespectful." He began in the slightly nasal delivery I knew well. "Monsieur Richard was a wonderful young man and now he's dead. Please restrict your future impersonations to those of your own gender and shy away from the recently departed." Louis brushed me aside but I latched onto his coat. "Please Louis. I can prove it! I can prove it." Louis sighed wearily. If the police officer on the scene had been closer by I think Louis might simply have called for him but instead he looked down his nose at me and sniffed contemptuously. "Allright insane girl, whoever you are. I don't know how you know me, but prove it." "First, look at my clothes, Louis. Aren't these the vestments of Jean Paul Richard?" Louis looked me up and down. "They certainly appear to be but then anyone, perhaps especially a crazy person, may have looted a burning building." "True enough, Louis, but what if that same person knows things about you that you told to Jean Paul Richard? What if that same person knows that you actually did once give your affection to a girl and not a boy, at a New Year's Eve celebration in Burgundy." Louis leaned back and stared at me with interest now. "What if that person knows that you tried to kiss Monsieur Richard a month ago when you were drunk on that awful Italian wine you like so much?" "Mademoiselle! If you're accusing me of... unnatural affection for the deceased-" "Relax, Louis. I'm not." "Well, Jean Paul Richard may have told you such a tale but-" "Louis! I didn't. I wouldn't. I have no wish to hurt you. You're my friend." He eyed me with great curiosity now. "You may know of some particular tale told to you but greater proof would be to answer questions you cannot know in advance. What did Jean Paul Richard whisper to me just before the start of the last opera he and I and his Marie attended?" "Wait, oh, um, I remember. I remember! I said 'Now begins the bellowing of the obese'." Louis was stunned. "That's right," he whispered barely audibly. But not fully convinced, he asked another. "If you're really Jean Paul, then what did I say to you last week at the Turkish bath about Marie?" "Louis, you said that her chaste ways were only making her want me more because the restrictions her parents put on her behavior so limits our contact. You then said that, even if it were not a match of true love they would be stoking her affection for me to the same fervor as if it was." Louis's mouth hung open. "Then", I added, "that brutish fellow passed by and saw you looking at him and I had to step forward and tell him to be on his way." Louis stepped forward and hugged me so hard that he squeezed my new breasts painfully against his chest. They were so sensitive! "I thought you were dead! Oh Jean Paul! What-what has happened to you, young Jean Paul?" "I know not. I am victim of some sorcery applied by St. Germain," I said and recounted what I could of the events since I went to that obscure church. Louis sputtered and stared at me and sputtered some more trying to reconcile his notions of what I had been with my new feminine appearance. "But you say that I was reported deceased?" I asked. "Yes," he said staring at me with undiminishing curiosity. "We can't let that belief spread. To have Marie and my family believe me expired...?" I almost cried, shook my pretty head in disgust then walked over to the charred ruins with Louis beside me. I looked at the horrible corpse now reputed to be me. There had to be some way to dispel this notion! And then I saw it. The only part of the remains not completely blackened was one foot and shoe. "Louis!" I whispered. "Check the shoe. My foot is, or was larger than yours. Is that such a size foot? That doesn't even look like my kind of shoe, does it? Look at that silly buckle. What sort of fool wears a shoe like that? I did not. Approach the policeman, Louis. Tell him that you know Jean Paul Richard and that you have doubt that that is the true identity of the corpse. Tell him that Richard had feet bigger than yours and ask him to let you try on the shoe. And, please, be masculine Louis!" Louis nodded and smiled. "What is it?" "Look at yourself, Jean Paul. And you advise me to be masculine?" I could not help but smile in return, even in those dire circumstances. As I watched, Louis walked directly to the inspector and introduced himself. He could play the part of a respected man very well when he modulated his voice to a deeper pitch and spoke more slowly. He naturally had the assured, almost contemptuous air of someone with the connections to make sure that the inspector did what he requested. He let the inspector walk ahead of him over to the corpse and almost disinterestedly put forth his foot next to that of the uncharred shoe on the body. From my vantage point some 50 feet away, it certainly appeared that the inspector now had some doubts about my mortality as he compared the shoe he now removed to Louis's. He wrote some things in a small notebook, spoke a few more words to Louis then thanked him. "Well," began Louis as he sidled up to me. "He certainly has some skepticism, now. They might not officially declare you dead for a while but if you don't turn up, they'll eventually disregard my recollection of your feet. Don't you think?" I nodded. "I suppose. Now, I must ask a great favor of you, Louis. All my possessions have been burned and I am the victim of a metamorphosis such as I never imagined possible. Will you please give me shelter?" Louis nodded with a most noble air. "I will help you my friend. Besides," he laughed, "it will be good for my neighbors to see a beautiful girl coming and going from my rooms rather than more Ganymedes." I smiled. I knew of Louis's interests from the moment I met him. He looked at me with such fervor that no other inclination could be possible. But I bore him no ill will for it. He was polite and immediately relented upon my parrying his subtly romantic words to me. Yet, I found him to be a clever fellow and fine company at the many boring society affairs we attended separately. I believe he felt similarly toward me despite the lack of prospect of congress. I think he also enjoyed my straightforward behavior, so unaccustomed to it as he was in Parisian society. Though he was frequently in the company of Marie serving as a sort of confidant as well as attendant, I would not complain as I knew he was no rival. I walked along with Louis the half mile to his rooms. It was difficult for me to keep up with the now taller Louis and as we walked he bombarded me with questions. "What do you notice most different in your form?" "As we walk, I notice the loss of almost a half foot of height." "What else?" "My small but round sprinter's fundament-" He smiled affectionately. "-of which I was so proud feels ridiculously expanded into this... this... courtesan's rump I now possess. Yet I feel at the same time that despite much greater size, I've lost most motive power. Its size is such that even despite these... these mammaries," I looked down at my bouncing chest, "I feel my -----weight has shifted downward to-" "The mammaries? How do they feel?" he queried breathlessly. "Do they bring you easy pleasure?" "I don't know. I-I haven't tried to stimulate myself. I only know that I'm constantly aware of their presence as they sit on my chest and even more so as we walk for they bounce so." "What of your generative organ, my friend?" "What of it? It's absent!" I grumbled as we crossed a quiet street. "Completely?!" "Yes, completely! The magick worked upon me spared no part of me in changing my sex." "How does it feel to walk with no sexual appendage hanging from the junction of your legs?" "It's hard to say. I-I simply notice the absence. When I cross one leg a bit over the other, as when we turned that corner, I wince at the expectation of squeezing my seed producers but encounter no sensation save dewy soft thighs rubbing together." "You have a female sex?" I let out a long sigh at yet another question and such an embarassing one. "Yes! I have a female sex." "What does it feel like to have a female sex?" -sigh- "Please, Louis! I scarcely know. I've only been sentient of this new shape for several hours now. I only know it's there in substitute for my former penis and scrotum. And what time is it anyway, also what day?" "It is 4:15 Thursday afternoon, my newly minted Venus." "Thursday? I went to that church on Tuesday afternoon. So perhaps my transformation took one and a half days." I pondered this and scores of other things while we continued on and at last arrived at Louis's lodging. His rooms were in a very desirable neighborhood at the top floor of a large 3 story building with a courtyard behind it. Louis's family had considerable money and the furnishings were impeccable. My feet were sore when we finally closed the door of his room and I immediately kicked off the oversized shoes. Upon our entering, Louis's servant, Charles, appeared from the adjoining room. Charles looked quite surprised at the sight of a female with Louis. "The fire is stoked and all the usual arrangements have been made, sir. Do you or..." he raised an eyebrow, "... mademoiselle require anything further?" "No, Charles. Good evening," said Louis and he put an arm around me as if I were his consort till Charles was gone. I certainly couldn't begrudge Louis the opportunity to make pretenses of behavior that was more socially acceptable than his actual practices. Quickly upon the departure of his servant, Louis and I investigated my new circumstances. I walked directly to the 3 foot wide full length mirror in his bedroom. Louis took my coat and sniffed at me. "You smell awful." "I suspect I sweated tremendously through my metamorphosis. The last I remember before blacking out was my body suddenly feeling chill and then, as I lost consciousness being hot as a roaring fire. My waking sensations were also of tremendous fever." I now faced the image of the new me in my dress shirt and pants. I looked comical. The shoulders of my shirt sagged like a becalmed sail. The sleeves extended to my fingertips but worse than that, the pointy nipples of my two melon sized breasts showed clearly against the thin white fabric. Below that, the waist of my pants looked almost fit to admit two of me, yet my hips and buttocks so filled the pants that even with the seam burst in the rear, threads stretched to their limit showed at the sides of my pants. The cuffs drooped to the floor so as to obscure from view my feet. Having put aside my coat, Louis grabbed my shoulder length hair from behind, holding it this way and that in different feminine styles. While he did so, I removed my shirt and pants and then my undershorts that had been shredded by the expansion of my little ass. I stood naked before the mirror. I did not feel self-conscious in front of Louis for I knew he was much more interested in the lanky male Jean Paul than this fleshy new feminine one. Also, my mind was still not completely adjusted to my new circumstances. It still wasn't quite real that this was me and so I could look at the nude woman in the mirror with scientific detachment. Even objective science could arrive at no other judgment but that the young woman in the mirror was beautiful. A living symphony of young womanhood. Oh, her hands and feet were dirty. Her face was too. But she had a face that would have inspired Paris to cuckold a Greek king and a fantastic, slender, hourglass shape, the recognition of which would wet the mouth of the most elderly man. Behind me, I felt Louis's fingertips at each side of my derriere. "Stupendous!" he chuckled. "Your new fundament isn't enormous, it's luscious. As full and round as any woman's. Wide, yes, compared to Jean Paul's but then every rear end suffers in comparison to your former." I turned sideways to the mirror and saw that what he said was true. A sentiment passed through my thoughts that I wanted to deny but couldn't. And as a result of it I consciously wondered if perhaps it would have been better to have been bewitched into the shape of a plain girl. It was pride. I felt a bit of pride in my new body before it was quickly washed over by my ongoing feelings of humiliation at my diminishment. Lastly, I closed to the mirror and inspected my breasts with a hand under each. Yes, they were large, but perhaps not as much so as I'd initially thought, not the udders they'd first seemed, hanging from my chest where no such appendage had been before. My reveries and inspection were interrupted by Louis's playful slap of my rear with a yardstick. "Go on to my bath before the waters cool... Jean Paul." Louis had a bath every day at this time, the waters drawn by Charles before his departure. I made my way quickly to the large brass tub set just off Louis's fireplace and realized that my gait was a ridiculously feminine prance. I stepped into the waters all at once and winced. Whether it was the heat of the waters or my newly sensitive skin, or some combination, I didn't know but I could scarcely endure the bathwaters. Sitting in Louis's special tub, the waters were up to my neck and I was softly gasping to endure the heat before I noticed my breasts floating upward from my chest to bob on the steamy surface. Each purple nipple, more than twice the size of my former superfluous ones. They pointed to the sky like active volcanoes atop two uncharted islands in a warm equatorial sea. I began scrubbing and soaping my front while Louis scrubbed my back and I noticed as well that I could prohibit or admit waters into my female sex as I chose. Amazing. Finally, at the end of these ablutions, Louis washed my hair with a special soap he had for just that purpose and applied a rather pungent solution to my tresses upon toweling all loose water out of them. I asked Louis what end the solution was to serve but he said only that it was to improve my hair. I busied myself with toweling dry and quickly realized that, though my young man's skin had been unblemished, my skin now was much finer still. From head to toe, it was dewy soft to the touch, almost lustrous in its uniformity of hue. Finishing this last inspection, a question occurred to me. "Louis? Do you have any clothes that will fit me? You saw how ill- suited for me my few items are." Louis smirked. I did not understand. "What is it Louis?" "I have no men's clothes that will fit you, Jean Paul, but..." I watched him smiling at me several moments till I suddenly understood. "Oh. I-I did not know you did that, Louis." "I create enough approbation with what is already known of me." said Louis retreating to a wardrobe and looking quite sincerely toward me over his shoulder. "You are one of the minority who accepts me as I am. I suppose I didn't want to test that even further for finding that I may lose your friendship." I laughed. "Well, I will soon share in your fetish, Louis, though from quite different motivation." Louis returned with armloads of feminine finery. First he proffered a full corset. "No, Louis! Not a corset!" I resisted. I remembered kidding my sisters about wearing corsets. Nothing represented surrender to inert femininity like wearing a corset. Louis suggested it would be necessary but I denied it, pointing out how small my waist already was. Louis smiled and let me try his two dresses, a black affair all ringed with lace of different apertures and the blue one of the shiny surface. I strained and held my breath and did all I could but could wear neither. Reluctantly, I admitted the need to be corsetted. Louis grinned as he slipped the boned corset onto my young woman's body and began lacing it up. I could see he was oddly enjoying himself and pondered this as my waist began to be painfully constricted. I wondered if, despite our friendship, he didn't relish turning his much more masculine companion into the epitome of femininity with his device. Fair enough, I judged, in return for my occasional catamite joke. But after one pass through at all the laces, I found my breaths constricted to shallow ones and it almost seemed to me that the corset was making my hips and bosom larger as much as it was diminishing my already diminished waist. Yet, Louis continued further and tugged on all laces a second time. He had me stand with both hands grasping one post of his bed and I felt his knee at my back. I begged him to reconsider. The pressure was intense but despite my gasping and pleading, Louis continued until there was no gap in the back of the corset. And then, with a chuckle, he proceeded to knot the laces in such a way as I couldn't untie them myself. "Friend Louis! Why did you do that to me?" "I suppose it was born of delight in our role reversal, Jean Paul," he said with a friendly slap to my humiliating new ass. "You protect me and show me kindness and I now make you reliant upon mine." I shrugged in acceptance and admiration of his candor. I tested out the corset and found that it had almost no give at all. I could not much bend at the waist at all. Further, my hips did feel further enlarged though Louis claimed they had not changed. What could not be denied was the way my bosom now overflowed the top of the corset like the foam heads of two just poured mugs of ale set next to each other. From that point, I essentially surrendered my dressing to Louis. First I stepped into and stretched a pair of lace women's undergarment over my hips to chuckling from Louis. "You're much... fuller than me now," he smirked as I worked to stretch them to cover my buttocks. With Louis's help I pulled on black lace stockings I hooked to my corset then I pulled on the black dress, with full skirt and petticoats and then had to sit inert on his divan while Louis painted my fingernails and toenails. My nails had become oddly long in the course of my transformation from male to female and they now extended a half inch past the ends of my digits. Louis painted them a blood red. While they dried, he brushed out my now dry hair. To my surprise, my always straight hair would not stay straight no matter what now. I realized this was due to the solution Louis had applied to it. He brushed my hair high over my head in the fashion of the day, similar to Marie's. This I protested. I didn't want to mirror my betrothed in so many ways, but Louis insisted that it must be. I acquiesced. He added just a touch of eyeliner, rouge and lipstick and finally, he strapped high heeled shoes to my feet. I rose upon them unsteadily and made my way to the full length mirror in his bedroom. I was thunderstruck. The image before me was of the most perfect example of a young woman of Parisian high society. In my mind I had prepared to overcome instinctive revulsion at my appearance but found myself reflexively smiling delightedly at my lovely attire and visage. And yet, at the same time, I felt overpowering shame. Here I was, my father's heir, the Marquis to be, with my hair piled a foot over my head, my once strong face now recast as a visage of beauty to match Helen of Troy, powdered and colored for maximum effect, my body reshaped into an hourglass of female flesh, my male equipment somehow inverted within me into a female sex. I felt limp. What had become of me? But as Louis counseled, I would have to go about attired that way until I could regain my masculinity. It was the style of the day and if I was to go about in society as necessary to exact revenge upon St. Germain, I would need to be dressed as were women. But seeing the humiliating completeness of my metamorphosis spurred me on to hours of fervent discussion with Louis of St. Germain and of how and what to communicate to Marie. Much as I wished to have a solution right then, there were none which immediately presented themselves. So, as fatigue started to set in, I reluctantly prepared to sleep in Louis's quarters. Until other arrangements could be made that's all we could do. I sighed at yet another irony as, that night, Louis and I slept like brother and sister in his, thankfully, large bed. As a boy, when one of my sisters had a bad dream, they would run, not to my parents for comfort. It seemed too much to disturb them over a dark reverie that, deep down she knew was nothing more. But she would run to my bed and jump in with me, tell me her fears, of this or that imagined monster. I would speak of how it was nonsense and pat her head and let her sleep next to me for reassurance. Only now, I was the girl and Louis was the protector but the nightmare was real and it had been visited upon me. It was quite a rude shock to me the next morning when I woke to find, again, that this bad dream was real. I think, that in my first moments of consciousness that I really expected to stretch out my six foot tall, 160 pound young man's frame and bound out of bed as always. But what was this strange bed I half queried through the haze of awakening. Why do I feel so constricted? What's this about me? A-a corset?! "Aaarrrggghhh!!!" I woke poor Louis with a start as all the recollections of my change of sex flooded into my mind. It took me a few minutes to re-adjust to my new feminine circumstances. Oh god. It's true. Another difficulty that I had was my complete lack of funds. I could not get access to my funds for I could not present myself at the bank, being ignominiously feminized. And I could not write a check upon my account as the account had been frozen by the bank upon the news of my potential demise. Louis sniffed around a bit and learned that the bank would release the money to my family but no one else. A partial solution arose after just a few days when I attended a party at the estate of a wealthy factory owner whom Louis knew. I walked with him around the amazing grounds, immense gardens redolent of flowers and marked by elaborate topiary, trying to become accustomed to this new role I had to play. As I did, I wondered also how I could approach Marie, what I would say to her and how I could take my revenge on St. Germain. I could think of nothing else. It was in this setting, staring absentmindedly at the orange bloom of a poppy and trying to devise a strategy to extricate myself from that female flesh, that Louis and I were approached by a wild haired young man walking very rapidly but with very small steps. "Louis!" "Ah, Maurice! Bonjour!" He ran a series of tiny steps up to Louis and they kissed each other's cheek. Then the wild haired young man turned to me with an expression that was positively manic. "Louis! Who is she! I must have her! I must! I must! I must! That is my young woman of the enlightenment! That is her!" Before I could speak Louis answered "She is... Nicole Richard," he said, giving me my sister's name. I frowned at him. This only further personalized my shame. Louis described my family and its estate, giving me a history much like my own, only leaving out the fact that I had been a young man until just a few days previous. I don't know that the manic, wild haired young man heard much of it anyway. He kept circling around me, staring at all perspectives of me with the most open, forward gaze possible. The other men at the party stared lecherously at me that day but this one was positively feral. It turned out that he was a sculptor with a degree of fame to his name. He had been commissioned, by an aristocrat from Burgundy, to create a pair of nude images, a young man and young woman, not lovers but perhaps brother and sister as the children and exemplars of the new enlightenment. He had been commissioned two months previously and had not yet begun. He had not found a suitable model despite constantly searching. He offered me a hundred francs to serve as his model. I looked at Louis who gave the slightest shake of his head with closed eyes. To the sculptor's exasperation I kept refusing despite his rapid fire exhortations to be reasonable and not make him a pauper. We settled on a figure that was multiples of his initial offer. Thus was begun my association with Maurice Legrand who, despite his name, was a rather diminutive man. I went to his studio the next day in my blue dress with all that I was now accustomed to wearing underneath it. But almost immediately upon my entering, Maurice starting removing my clothing, speaking rapid fire all the while and, quite honestly, showing no interest at all in my nude female body once I was disrobed. This seemed odd given his peroration on my face and body at the ball the previous evening. But, as I suspected, Maurice's amorous interests were otherwise. He was a perfectionist and was determined to make the statue he was creating for the Burgundian as beautiful as possible. He spent 15 minutes just explaining to me how stand and why that was the way that would best display my beauty. After I did so on the marble pedestal, he spent another 15 minutes explaining how the tiniest shift of my weight would accent different features and contribute to or detract from the beauty of my marble image. All the while he spoke extremely rapidly so that I often had to repeat his words in my lovely sylph's head to understand him. As I performed my simple duties and Maurice chiseled away at the block, he kept up a running monologue only occasionally assisted into becoming a dialogue by me. I welcomed his loquaciousness for it was deadly boring work to simply maintain my position and posture. He spoke of all things, not just art and of art not just sculpting. He spoke of portraiture and how strongly he disliked most of it. Remaining still, I told him of our family portrait, painted when I was 11 years old. My father had had a long argument with the painter. The painter wanted to paint my father without a small scar that he had over one eye and another mark. My father was adamant that they should not be omitted. The painter said that it would detract from my father's 'presence'. My father said that having 'presence' despite minor flaws would be more impressive. Maurice agreed and for nearly a half hour cursed portrait artists as frauds and charlatans. Each day, around 1 o'clock, we would be done for the day and Maurice would tie my corset and help me dress. Over the month that I worked for him as a model, I was naked before him for around 100 hours. At the end of it, he had created a statue in white marble that was a perfect copy of my body. I was posed with some sort of torch in my upraised right hand. Maurice said that I, actually my marble copy, was to stand at the entrance to that Duke's estate, the purpose being twofold, to put an actual flame in my marble hand as a light for visitors and to symbolize the Burgundian's antipathy to religion and preference for reason. The statue was purchased by my father and stands at the entrance to the estate alongside another but I'll speak of that later. The sole positive development of this period was that, with Louis's help I was able to communicate the truth of my identity to Marie. Louis arranged for us to meet in an empty building, a church that had been taken from Hugenots by the catholic church when some of them were driven from France and then sold by the papists to be used as a theater. There was no production that evening. As I walked inside, Louis directed me to a confession box. I waited there patiently, my heart beating like a rabbit's as I heard the scuff of Marie's high heeled shoes and then her soft steps on the floor leading to the box next to mine. "Louis Girard says you have information about... " I could hear her eyes tearing over in the flutter of her voice as she spoke, "...about Jean Paul Richard?" "Yes I do," I declared hating that I could produce no sound other than the soft feminine purr of my new high pitched voice. "What is his fate?" "His-his fate is a most fantastic one." "What is fantastic about undeserved passing?" she demanded indignantly. "It is all too common! My parents say that the almighty has a plan. Why must this plan include the expiration of a handsome young soul of joy while blackguards and brigands still abound? That is a plan which would most please the lord of the lower realm, isn't it?" "But Jean Paul did not really believe in such plans, did he?" "No," I heard her answer with a sniffle. "Jean Paul loved you very much." "Yes. I believe... well, it's not even a matter of my belief. He vowed the same." "Do you remember when he first told you, at the festival in Montmartre?" "Why... yes... that is when he first told me." "Do you remember how he held your hand and touched his nose to yours?" I heard a gasp in the adjacent box. I could roughly discern the changes in her facial expression through the separating wire. Despair became mixed with curiosity. "He-he spoke of such an event to... to you?" "No. Jean Paul Richard never spoke of your private bliss to anyone. It is much too precious." "But then how...?" "He never spoke of how he first met you at that run down book store to anyone." "But..." "He never spoke to anyone that he first kissed you on that bridge over the Seine as the revelers were setting off fireworks and felt them insubstantial compared to his own reactions to you. He never-" "Wait! How do you know these things if Jean Paul never communicated them to another soul?" "There's a fitting answer, Marie." "But there isn't! If Jean Paul told no one but you know then...!" I saw her looking at me through the wire. "Ask me any question that only he would know Marie and I will answer it." Marie asked not one, not two, but a half dozen questions of our words or actions in moments of caress together. I answered them all. Finally, I could see her staring agape at me through the wire. As simply and calmly as I could, I recounted my metamorphosis. At the end of my tale, Marie jumped from the confessional box and threw open the door to look at me. "But you are... you are as you sound!? You are a lovely, a very very lovely young woman!" "Yes," I answered and let my head fall. "As I told you, I am victim of sorcery on the part of St. Germain, but I am Jean Paul Richard." Marie hugged me and though in a sense it made my condition feel even more shameful, at the same time it felt quite good to know that she knew, that she did not think me dead. Marie asked what I planned to do and I had to confess that I did not know. Nothing prepared me to fight such circumstance. I realized that I was probably seeming to have a feminine air of helplessness at one point in describing my plight and laid out a largely fictitious plan for observation of St. Germain. But I felt I had to. I realized that my circumstance, after her initial joy that I was not dead, was heartbreaking to her. It wounded her to see me undone this way. We parted on a pledge to communicate through Louis but to remain apart publicly while I tried to figure out how to remedy this ridiculous condition. It was about two weeks later that I experienced a curse within my curse. The first sign was a bloated feeling in my abdomen and then the next morning I was surprised at how tender my breasts were. It was slightly painful to squeeze them into my corset as I dressed. But I thought no more of it. I felt especially filled with despair at my situation that day and only Louis's even keeled disposition kept wildly careening emotions in check. Then, that afternoon, I was sitting on a divan in a certain rich count's home. There were a score of us there viewing the new paintings he had purchased in Florence, Milan and Turin. I suddenly become aware of wetness beneath me. "Ohhh." I got to my feet as quickly as I could, constricted by my corset, and saw two dark red spots on the upholstery. "What is...?" The nature of Louis's smile and then glance at my crotch alerted me to the source of the stain. Louis discreetly got the ear of the countess who I saw across the room directing one of her maids over to me. "Please follow me, Milady," she said with a curtsy. I made my way with even tinier steps than normal to an upstairs room with a tub and basin. "Please, take one of the countess's," said the maid handing me an oval shaped piece of spongy material with strings affixed to both ends and both of those lines tied to another string. The maid left and after a minute I figured how to wear the sponge snugly at the appropriate spot with strings front and back to another slung around my waist at my hip bone. Oh ignominy. Once the young Marquis to be and now a coquette having her monthly sanguinations so that I can be impregnated by some young man! My days went forward in a procession of languor. Occasionally I would be able to pass a message to Marie via Louis and that would please me. But I could not approach her openly as I thought this would arouse St. Germain's suspicions. Louis tried to find out more about him and the more he learned the more disconcertingly impervious to my plots of revenge the man seemed. Through it all I went through the motions of torpid aristocratic life as Nicole Richard, the daughter of a Marquis. The near complete lack of activity on my part initially shocked me. I didn't run. I didn't hike. I never did any physical activity. None. I would have felt and looked ridiculous, lovely girl that I was, my ass jiggling and breasts bouncing as I was doing those things but it was still quite a change. Whether at some nobleman's estate, in his high ceilinged drawing room, or in a garden out back amid intricate topiary, at an opera house box or in a ballroom, I was an object to be viewed and appreciated. At first