Ovid 19 The Sleeper free porn video

Ovid 19 - The Sleeper By The Professor The call from The Judge on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon came as no great surprise, after what had happened on Saturday. I had even arranged for Myra Smithwick to come over and baby sit for me since Jerry was breaking in a new weekend manager at the store. Normally I would have asked Susan to watch them, since her Joshua and my Ashley seemed to really enjoy each other's company, but Susan and her husband were in Kansas City at a Chiefs game, having left Joshua with Martha Pearson so they could enjoy a romantic weekend. I wouldn't be surprised if this weekend marked the start of a sibling for Joshua. In any case, I didn't want to saddle Martha with another charge since I wasn't sure how long The Judge would need me. My twins were old enough to be left on their own, but Mike and Michelle both had scout outings for the weekend. When Mike and Michelle had been Steve and Carl, a couple of my fraternity brothers, they had both enjoyed camping out. That love had apparently transferred to their new identities, making me once again wonder how much of their old personalities had transferred to their new identities. Not that it really mattered. They had been Mike and Michelle, my precious twins for so long now that I seldom thought about their former identities any more than I thought about my own. Like most mothers, there weren't a lot of people I trusted with little Ashley - especially now that she was toddling around, holding onto the furniture or crawling at ninety miles an hour all over the house. There was simply too much mischief for her to get into now that she was mobile, and I didn't trust just anybody with her. Then I thought about Myra Smithwick. She had taken care of Ashley before, and like most college students, she could always use a few extra bucks. I called her at her sorority house and struck pay dirt. Myra didn't have any classes Monday since it was Labor Day, so she was glad to earn a little spending money baby sitting. It was about one when the phone finally rang. My caller ID was going nuts, unable to pin down who was calling or even if anyone was calling. The Judge's calls always did that. I suspected he wasn't really using a phone to call me. "Your Honor," I answered. "We need you in my chambers," he said brusquely. "I'll be there as soon as my babysitter gets here," I replied. Fortunately Ovid is a small town, and Myra was there in ten minutes. In her white denim shorts and pink top and her hair tied into a neat ponytail, her schoolbooks clutched to her breasts in feminine fashion, it was nearly impossible for me to think of her as ever being a burly road worker just a few short years before. "Isn't this a little unusual to be called in on a Sunday?" she asked after I had given her all the standard instructions for handling Ashley. "Very," I admitted as I searched my purse to make sure I had everything I needed. "It's nothing bad, is it?" she asked, worried. Myra, of course, remembered who she had been and knew who The Judge really was. She had plenty of reason to be concerned, although she didn't know that for certain and there wasn't much I could tell her. "Everything is fine," I assured her with a faint smile as I started for the car. I could have added the word "now", but if I had told her what had nearly happened to all of us there in Ovid, she would have had plenty to be concerned about. It was a beautiful late summer day, and I regretted having such a lovely afternoon taken from me. I couldn't even enjoy it by dressing informally, either, for The Judge, in his old-fashioned way, would expect all of us in dress fit for his courtroom, even though we would be in his chambers. It didn't bother me anymore to wear skirts and heels. I had done it for so long now that it seemed perfectly natural to me. And with my body and my trim legs, I knew I could still turn a few heads, in spite of being well into my thirties and the mother of three children. It seemed like an eternity ago that I had been male, so feminine clothing was fine by me. Still, most women would no sooner put on a skirt and heels on their day off than men would choose under like circumstances to wear a tie. I sighed as I pulled into the parking lot. Other than Officer Mercer's police car, mine was the only vehicle there. Well, at least there was a light court schedule for the week, so I'd be able to leave on time every day. And hopefully, my task today would only take an hour or so. When I entered The Judge's chambers, several others were already there. The Judge and Officer Mercer's faces were familiar to me, of course, as was the other man's face. I recognized Admiral Nepper, although we had never actually met. I had seen him before in other people's thoughts. Even in a charcoal gray suit, his military bearing exposed him as a senior officer. Given the gods' ability to live among us, I suspected he had been a military officer during other human eras as well. The only other woman in the room was a young girl, perhaps eleven or so, with long blonde pigtails and braces on her teeth. Most people who knew Diana would never have recognized this child as Diana, the powerful goddess the Greeks called Artemis, but we had been friends long enough that I could recognize her through her twinkling blue eyes (or at least today they were blue). I impulsively hugged the girl. When I had drawn back, I smiled. "I see your mission was successful." "Completely," the girl replied, nodding to Admiral Nepper. The admiral had been imprisoned by enemies of the gods. "Freda Jorgenson is no longer a problem." "But her organization lives on, Mrs. Patton," Admiral Nepper replied, offering his hand. I took it. Like all the gods, his handshake was firm and confident. "Please call me Cindy." "Delighted," he smiled formally. One thing I'll give most of the male gods. In spite of the way mythology portrays them as randy bastards, the majority of them are polite gentlemen of the old school. It's often made me wonder what else we've gotten wrong regarding them. "Cindy, I suspect you know why you're here," The Judge broke in impatiently. "Yes, Your Honor." "Then please begin," he commanded. I nodded. Given what had happened yesterday, I needn't ask whose life the gods wanted to review. Sitting myself in one of The Judge's comfortable leather chairs, I relaxed my body and slowly drifted off into a trance... *** I once thought our story began very late one late spring day as we made our way through an Oklahoma thunderstorm unlike any I had ever seen in my life, but I know now in retrospect that it began months earlier in Washington, D.C. long before winter there had ended. My wife, Hannah, and I had just arrived at a party at the stately British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. This was just before Hannah and I had drifted, for all practical purposes, completely apart, but I was already starting to feel uneasy with my wife's unbridled ambition and wondered if - or more likely, when - she would decide my complacency was a detriment to her ambition. While I tried to be supportive as best I could, I'll admit I felt very out of place in the exquisite ballroom with its Sienna marble columns and crystal chandelier. Hannah had pretty much deserted me as soon as we were greeted at the door by an imposing butler who undoubtedly was, in fact, a security man. She was drawn into a conversation with some of her colleagues from work as well as a couple of British officials I took to be part of the MI-6 delegation. It was going to be shop talk, which meant it was a conversation I'd not be welcome participating in, for while my own security clearance was every bit as stellar as hers, the National Security Agency she worked for dealt in matters we mere mortals were not even aware of. I looked wistfully at my wife, standing there in an elegant black dress that nearly reached the floor. She took to Washington power parties like a fish to water. Not me, though. That was part of the problem, too. I could at least talk about much of my work, since much of it was public record. Hannah, on the other hand, was involved in the shadowy world of intelligence - much of which was hidden from the public. Her need to keep mum about her job put additional pressures on our already fragile marriage. While Hannah shmoozed, I contented myself with eating and drinking. Don't take the stories about bad English cooking seriously; the Brits could put on a hell of a party. Of course, more eating led to more drinking, and about five or six drinks later, I was standing away from the action, feeling a little warm as I tried to pull my collar away from my neck. "Your tie a little tight?" a woman's voice called out from behind me. I turned quickly, nearly spilling the glass of neat bourbon I was nursing to see just who belonged to that sultry voice. I found myself staring at a beautiful blonde woman who was favoring me with an amused smile. "You must be Willis Perry - Hannah's husband." There were dozens of men circulating around the room in similar black tuxes, so I wondered how she knew it was me. "That would be me, ma'am," I replied with my best attempt at charm. "But how did you know?" "I'm Freda Jorgenson," she laughed. "I work with your wife." Of course, not much later, Newsweek would run a story on Freda Jorgenson, calling her "The Ice Queen." But this was before all of that. I certainly didn't realize I was standing in the presence of one of the soon-to-be most powerful women in Washington. Of course, the Ice Queen description could have been given to her that night, since her sparkling white dress shimmered like crystals of ice illuminated by a winter sun. There was nothing cold about her incredible face though, unless the blue of her eyes could be called an icy shade. Her face was warm though, and those eyes which would over time bring many powerful men to their knees showed only amusement now. "Hannah told me you hate these parties," she went on. "So I just looked for the most uncomfortable man in the room and there you are." "It shows, huh?" I muttered. "I'm afraid so." An uncomfortably silent moment later, she asked, "I understand you work for the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. What do you do there?" I shrugged. "A little bit of everything, I suppose. I'm a nuclear engineer, so I spend a lot of time making sure the commercial nuclear reactors in this country are safe." "That sounds like interesting work," she prompted. "It's a living," I allowed. "It's probably not as exciting as what you and Hannah do over at NSA." As if I had any idea what they did there. The National Security Agency wasn't in the habit of telling poor citizens like me exactly what it was up to. Well, I supposed I was playing my own cards pretty close to the chest, too. Over at the NRC we had a few secrets of our own. I sort of lost time talking to Freda, though. I think I did most of the talking, but I enjoyed myself for once since Hannah was occupied, as she was always occupied at parties, trying to meet, greet and enhance her career while leaving me to fend for myself on the sidelines. By the time we left that evening, I had formed quite a positive impression of Hannah's beautiful coworker and told Hannah so as we drove home. "She is impressive," Hannah agreed. "I'm surprised you noticed, though." "Oh?" I detected another argument coming up. "You never seem to have much confidence in the abilities of women," she elaborated, obviously trying to sting me. "And Freda is a very strong woman, She's going places - and soon." "We didn't talk about her work," I pointed out. "Exactly what does she do?" "Well, much of her work is classified," Hannah told me smugly. I had been expecting that. "All I can tell you is that she's a very powerful woman, and I'm very pleased to be working with her." "I'm sure you are," I agreed, relieved that the anticipated argument had been blunted the minute Hannah found an opportunity to once again lord it over me about how important her job was. If it sounds as if Hannah and I were having serious marital problems, all I can say is got it in one. I think it all started right after Hannah found out she was barren. Before that, our marriage had been just fine, but once she learned she could never bear children, her focus turned away from family toward her career. It was a complete change of priorities, and one that I hadn't really realized had happened until our relationship had been severely damaged. That had been two years earlier, and each day had moved us further and further apart. Until she found out she couldn't have children, we had sex often and spontaneously. That had changed to once a week at what had become an almost scheduled time. Lately, we had made love very seldom, the last time being two months before the party where I met Freda Jorgenson. By the time we found ourselves lost in Oklahoma, buffeted by a legendary Midwestern thunderstorm, it had been over five months since we had made love. There was no doubt that our marriage had come to a bitter end. We had become more like roommates than a couple, and had it not been for the sudden and unexpected death of her Uncle Fred, a man she had loved greatly and I had admired as well, we would probably have already discussed the divorce we both knew was inevitable. Why hadn't we already split the sheets in fact as well as in deed? I'm not really sure about Hannah's motives. As for my own, I was probably reluctant to let a twelve year investment in each other go up in smoke unless Hannah said that was what she wanted. Maybe she felt the same way and was waiting for me to make the first move. Although neither of us would bring up the "D" word, it didn't keep us from participating in rousing arguments, such as the one we found ourselves in after attending Uncle Fred's funeral in a little jerkwater burg in the hills of eastern Oklahoma. "You should stop and ask for directions," Hannah said firmly, peering out the windshield at the ugly-looking mass of dark clouds rising to the west of us - or at least I thought they were to the west of us. My hands gripped the wheel tighter in frustration. "And just who would I ask?" I replied caustically. "The highest life form I've seen in the last half hour is a cow." "Maybe it's because you've been doubling back." "I have not!" Although to be honest, I had lost track of the turns I had made from one dusty back road to the next. I certainly should have hit the Interstate by now, I thought to myself, although I was loathe to admit it to Hannah. If I had had the sun to help me determine which way I was going, I might have been okay. But given the gray pallor of the skies, I honestly couldn't tell where the sun was to determine my direction. "We're going to miss our plane," she sulked. "And I have an important meeting with Freda first thing tomorrow morning." "We'll get back to Washington on time," I assured her. "If we can't get in to National (I refused to call it Reagan more out of habit than politics), we'll catch a flight into Dulles or BWI." "But what about our car? It's at National." "Don't worry about the damned car," I growled. Any retort she might have planned was cut off by a sudden crack of lightning and a loud rumble of thunder right on its heels. "The storm's getting closer," she commented. Who needed Cassandra when Hannah was at hand? It was indeed closer - and more violent. We had watched the sky growing ominously darker - first at a distance and then closer and closer. Speckles of rain were dotting the windshield now, but not enough to justify turning on the wipers. A few miles ahead of us though, the horizon was lost in a dark, steady stream of rain whipped by violent winds. "Do you think it's a tornado?" Hannah asked, frightened. "No, it's just rain," I replied authoritatively. In truth, the cloud could have spawned a dozen tornadoes and we wouldn't have been able to see them. I had been born and raised in New England, but I knew enough about tornadoes from my travels to know they weren't always visible like they usually are in the movies. Often, they're hidden well within clouds - maybe even clouds like the one we were about to dive into. Then suddenly, the storm was really upon us. It was as if a curtain of water instantly closed on us, battering the top of the car like pebbles on a sheet of tin. "That's hail," Hannah observed, now beyond frightened and on to terrified. "Not quite," I countered, watching as huge drops slammed into the windshield in such profusion that the wipers were nearly worthless. The rental car's lights flashed on suddenly, but were practically useless with more of the beam reflecting off the stream of rain than off the blacktop of the road. "Pull over to the side of the road!" Hannah demanded. I might have done just that if I had been alone, but moments before, she had been goading me to hurry so we could catch our plane. If she wanted me to hurry, she was going to have to accept the consequences. I ignored her and pressed on. "You're going to get us killed!" she screamed as the storm intensified. Again I ignored her. As luck would have it, she would have been right - and nearly was anyway - if it hadn't been for the sudden image of a police car blocking the lane ahead, its red and blue flashers piercing through the downpour. In spite of the flashing lights' warning, I almost wasn't able to stop in time, the rental car's brakes being far inferior to those on my Volvo at home. I had visions of hitting the police officer, who stood motionless in the path between our car and his own, his yellow rain slicker blowing in the stiff wind. Once stopped, I managed to get my window down part way. Thankfully, the rain was blowing away from the open window. "What's the problem, Officer?" I yelled to be heard over the din of the rain and wind. The police officer leaned over, closer to the window. It was then that I noticed two very strange things about him. First - and most obvious - he was wearing those mirrored sunglasses favored by law enforcement officers everywhere. What made it unusual is that with the storm, it was almost as dim as twilight outside. How he could see through the mirrored glasses was beyond me. The other strange item was something about his rain slicker. At first, I couldn't figure out what was wrong, but at last I had it - in spite of a driving rain, his slicker looked completely dry. I passed it off quickly as some new miracle fabric that resisted moisture. "The bridge ahead is unsafe," the officer told me in a flat, emotionless voice. I looked beyond the police car stretched across the road at the metal span single truss bridge crossing a swollen river below. "It looks fine to me." "A tornado passed through here a few minutes ago," he informed me. "It weakened the bridge." As if on cue, the bridge groaned in a sudden burst of wind. A small support beam broke loose. Too heavy to fly through the air, it dived over the side of the bridge toward the river below. "I see what you mean," I allowed. "What is it?" Hannah pestered me. "Unsafe bridge," I muttered, turning back to the officer before Hannah could waste time by informing me that we were going to miss our plane. "And I'm going to have to have you follow me back into town," he added. "What for?" "You were approaching the bridge too fast. I'm going to have to issue you a citation for driving at an unsafe speed for road conditions." "What? That's ridiculous!" I knew better than to bluster, but I couldn't help it. Hannah had been pestering me since we got into the car. The storm had made driving a tense and unpleasant experience. Now a small-town cop thought he could make a little traffic fine money from an out-of-town traveler. I knew the type. We had them in small towns back in New England where I grew up, and we had them in suburban Washington as well. "Look," I began, hoping I might be able to just slip him a few dollars and get back on our way - assuming I could find an open road, "if there's going to be fine, why don't I just pay you now and save us all some time?" "Are you trying to bribe a police officer, sir?" he asked in that same flat tone. "No, of course not. I just thought - " "Then follow me please, sir." He walked away without waiting for an answer. I noticed the side of his car was emblazoned with "Police - City of Ovid." I suddenly wondered if he could make the charge stick, given that as near as I could tell, we weren't inside the city limits of any town. I quickly dismissed that idea, though. I knew some little towns annexed a lot of undeveloped land just to add it to the town tax rolls and trap wary drivers like me. "Did I hear him say we have to follow him?" Hannah asked. "Apparently he's charging me with a traffic violation," I growled. Before Hannah could open her mouth again (which she was about to do), I added, "And don't tell me about how we have to get back to Washington." Fortunately she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. As nearly as I could tell, the town of Ovid was a good two miles from the bridge. I noticed we passed a city limits sign no more than a half mile from any evidence of a developed town. I knew better than to point this out to some local judge, though. I'd probably just be told that the town limits had been changed but that they hadn't bothered to change the signs yet. My best course of action was to pay the damned fine and be done with it. I had a lot to brood about as I followed that tank-town cop into the "city" of Ovid. Hannah was pissed at me - as usual. We'd undoubtedly miss our plane, and like Hannah, I had plenty of work piling up on my desk back in DC. I was going to out probably a hundred bucks on a trumped up charge, and unless this phony-baloney legal charade ended in a hurry, we'd probably be stuck in some fleabag motel in Ovid eating greasy fried food that seemed to pass for haute cuisine in Oklahoma. At least the weather wasn't as threatening, I told myself. I had turned my wipers down to intermittent since the driving storm had miraculously changed to a gentle rain as we neared Ovid. In fact, unlike the countryside we had just driven through which was strewn with windswept branches and waterlogged plants, Ovid looked as if it had been completely spared the more violent aspects of the storm. Instead lawns and leaves glistened with abundant but gentle rainfall. And in spite of my determination to dislike Ovid on sight, I had to admit to myself it was fairly pleasant as small towns go. Since I had grown up in the small city of Portland, Maine, I was very aware of the dynamics of small towns. If things looked prosperous in a small town, it meant something besides farming or fishing was driving the economy. Ovid had that prosperous look that said there was something in town - a business or a college, perhaps, or both - which provided good jobs and a passion for livability. Ovid's oak-lined streets populated by neat and trim if modest houses screamed prosperity. I found myself wondering what there was in the town to drive the economy. When we pulled up in front of a building proclaiming itself to be "City Hall", I realized Ovid was larger than I had first imagined. Considering that I had seen no signs directing us to Ovid as we had wandered through the Oklahoma countryside, I had imagined it was a tiny, dying farm town where traffic fines were the greatest single source of town revenue. Instead, it was neat, prosperous, and showed signs of growth - a rare aspect for isolated small towns anywhere in the country. "Follow me," the police officer directed. He had taken off his rain slicker, exposing a neat, sharply-creased grayish-blue uniform shirt. I noted that in spite of the light rain, the shirt showed no sign of being wet. Whatever fabrics were being used for uniforms in this town, they seemed completely resistant to the elements. I made a mental note to find out what they were and order a dozen shirts out of it when I got back to Washington. "I know you don't want to hear it," Hannah muttered to me softly enough not to be hear by the officer, "but we're never going to make our plane now." "I'm well aware of that!" I snapped. "I told you that you were going the wrong way," she pressed, but I refused to be drawn into her potential tirade. "This way," the officer said, motioning for us to enter a courtroom. Like the rest of what I had seen of Ovid, the courtroom was rather impressive. Of course, if they hauled in many hapless drivers like me on trumped-up charges, I supposed they could easily afford impressive courtrooms. A judge was already sitting on the bench. I could see he was going to be trouble. He had a stern look about him, from his piercing blue eyes to the way he held himself, leaning imperiously over the bench to look down on a trembling girl who could have been no more than eight. "Jeez, did she forget to pay sales taxes at her lemonade stand?" I whispered to Hannah. She didn't reply but gave me a stern look as if to warn me I was in enough trouble without pissing off the judge. "Is this form more to your liking?" the judge asked sternly, his thin lips pursed amid a neatly trimmed beard. "But I - " the little girl began, tugging at her tiny skirt as if embarrassed to have anyone see her legs. "But nothing, Ms. Amstrad," the judge interrupted. "You have been warned about bullying the younger children." The little wisp of a girl didn't look big enough or old enough to bully anyone, I thought to myself, wondering what she could have possibly done to make the judge so angry. His mood seemed far out of proportion to the diminutive girl before him. "Your parents are waiting outside," he growled, motioning for our police escort to open the door we had just come through. I wondered where they could be since I had seen no one on our way into the courtroom. Imagine my surprise when a young couple burst through the very doors we had just come through. Like the little girl, they were slender and blonde, but there was something odd about them. Somehow, through some trick of the light perhaps, it seemed as if I could almost see through them. "Lisa!" the woman called, causing the girl to turn and face us. I could see her eyes were red-rimmed - presumably from crying - and the look on her face was one of pure horror. Before she could speak, the woman wrapped her arms around the little girl, crying softly. "Thank you, Your Honor," the man said as he placed his hands on his wife and daughter's shoulders. "It's not like Lisa to run off like that. We were so worried." The judge's demeanor was very different now, a smile across his face in a gesture of benevolence. "I'm sure you're right, Mr. Amstrad. I've warned Lisa not to go wandering off like that while her parents are shopping. I'm sure she won't do it again." As the little girl was led away by her strange parents, I could see the little girl turning to look at the judge with pleading eyes. But the judge had already turned his attention to Hannah and me. "Next case, Officer Mercer," he boomed from the bench. For a moment, I felt a twinge of what the accused must feel like in countries where trials were held in secret.. There were only the four of us in the courtroom - Hannah and me and the judge and the police officer he referred to as "Officer Mercer." There were no court reporters, no true bailiff, or any spectators to indicate that this was a true courtroom. Still, the presence of this judge was almost regal. His black robe might just as well have been an ermine robe draped about a powerful king. "Your Honor - " I began. "Court is still in session," Officer Mercer intoned. "The Honorable Judge presiding." His emphasis on the word "Judge" led me believe it was almost a name as well as a title. The Judge's courtroom is different nowadays from what I've been told. Cindy Patton attends all court proceedings, but she was just a shade when we met the Judge, presumably not necessary in the courtroom. And of course now, Susan Jager is there to provide some semblance of defense for poor wayfarers like Hannah and me. In those days though, things were a little less civilized. And I suspect The Judge was far less constrained by protocol then. "Willis and Hannah Perry," the Judge stated. It wasn't a question; he knew who we were. I assumed that Officer Mercer had called ahead, giving the Judge our names. "You have been charged with driving at an unsafe speed for road conditions. How do you plead?" I had walked into the courtroom determined to just pay my fine and leave. Unfortunately, I had had time to think about that as we made our way to the Judge's court. Now I wasn't so sure I wanted to plead guilty. To tell the truth, I was getting more than a little pissed off at the Judge's arrogance. "How do you plead?' he asked again. "Not guilty!" I replied at last, ignoring my wife's sudden gasp. The Judge turned to Officer Mercer. "Tell what happened." Officer Mercer faced the bench. I noted he was still wearing those mirrored sunglasses. "Mr. Perry's car approached the Lethe River Bridge at a high rate of speed..." High rate of speed my ass! "...nearly colliding with my vehicle." "It wasn't like that - " I began. "Silence!" The Judge ordered. As Hannah tugged on my sleeve, shooting darts at me with her eyes, I said no more. "In your opinion," The Judge asked, "what would have happened if your car had not been blocking the road?" "Then Mr. Perry's car would have gone onto the bridge which was severely weakened by a tornado. The results would have been the death of Mr. Perry and his wife." I almost pointed out that Officer Mercer was in no position to know that. It's just as well I saved my outburst. And, of course, as things turned out, he probably was in a position to know that we would have died since that's how things work in Ovid. We knew none of that standing there before The Judge, though. "Then I would call that driving at an unsafe speed," the Judge commented. "I find you guilty as charged." I wanted to say something, but I knew it wouldn't do me any good. I was back to my earlier plan now - just shut up and pay the fine. Oh if only things had been that simple! As I reached back for my wallet to pay the expected fine, The Judge rose and began to chant something in some language I had never heard before. It sounded a little like Latin, but I wasn't sure. Maybe it was because we don't really know what spoken Latin sounded like back when The Judge learned it - but I'm getting ahead of myself there. I felt very strange - almost as if my body had become incorporeal, my flesh replaced by a series of tingling, almost electrical, sensations. I looked down at myself as best I could, but my motions seemed to be slowed considerably. When I managed to get a view of myself, my body was shifting inside my clothing, almost as if it were melting and reforming. I supposed I should have been frightened, but I was too much in shock to feel any real fear. Or perhaps what The Judge was doing to me included some sort of calmative. Whatever the reason, I was curiously detached as I watched my chest begin to change under the polo shirt I was wearing. With each labored breath, my rib cage seemed to be growing smaller while two obviously feminine breasts began to form and expand beneath my shirt. I looked over at Hannah. She was staring back at me, her eyes conveying a wordless panic as her body seemed to shimmer and shift in the same way mine was. She seemed to be growing larger, while I, on the other hand, seemed to be growing smaller until we were eye to eye. That only lasted a moment though, as suddenly, she was taller than I was, and the changes to her body were becoming more systematic. I had seen examples of morphing programs back then, although they weren't as widespread or as seamless as they are today. Hannah looked as if her image had been captured by such a program, although a program as elaborate as the ones today, as her dark brown hair shortened, pulling back from over her shoulders until it had become a short and neatly- trimmed man's cut in a shade of dark blond. Her face was broadening, her nose growing more pronounced, and I could see a dark shadow appearing on her cheeks and chin, reminding me of a man's whiskers a few hours after shaving. My God! I realized, they actually were whiskers! Her body broadened out, her narrow waist filling in as the shape of her breasts disappeared into a broad chest. Her tee top was changing as well, to accommodate her new shape. It developed narrow stripes and became a short sleeve dress shirt. Along the front of the shirt, blue and red stripes began to form as a strip of cloth snaked down from her neck in the shape of a dark blue tie. I was so engrossed in Hannah's changes that I almost didn't notice the further changes to my own body and clothing. I say almost because as shocking as the changes happening to my wife, I could not only see but feel the ones happening to me. How can I possibly describe the sensations bombarding me in that unreal courtroom? My waist felt as if it was being squeezed into a much smaller circumference (which it was), and the excess volume of my body seemed partially at least to be pushed toward my chest and my hips. I could feel hair trickling down over my neck, and even feel its sudden weight on my shoulders. Although my eyes were riveted on my wife's increasingly masculine form, I had no doubts that my own shape was now much more feminine. I even winced slightly as the sexual equipment between my legs became suddenly conspicuous by its very absence, somehow drawing up between my legs and reshaping itself into something completely alien to me. It's difficult to describe with any detachment what it feels like to have one's sexual organs rearranged. I suppose most men are aware of having something between their legs, pressing against the insides of their thighs and pushed against their bodies by the constraints of underwear. Imagine these sensations suddenly taken away, replaced by an absence of any external organs, yet even in that absence, a sensation remains. As strange as it sounds, I could feel the slit that had formed between my legs. In that moment, I felt suddenly vulnerable, as if a doorway between my thighs had been opened, leaving me somehow vulnerable. I was at least a foot shorter than Hannah now, but suddenly, I seemed to grow slightly. I realized as I stumbled slightly to catch my balance that I was now poised on something which had raised my heels off the floor. A sudden slight cramping in my toes told me before I even could look down that I was now wearing women's shoes - high heels, no less. The rest of my clothing appeared to be changing as well. Just as Hannah was now dressed in the sort of outfit any man might be expected to wear to work, my own clothing was becoming a woman's equivalent. I felt the strange but not exactly unpleasant sensation of nylons running up my leg, and the feeling of air on my legs where my pants were rapidly disappearing. Something wrapped itself around my chest, encasing my... breasts. Yes, breasts - I now realized I had breasts. The something, I instinctively knew, was a bra. I could feel it cinching against my shoulder blades, adjusting as the new growths on my chest reached their final size. I knew from a number of years of looking at women that my new breasts weren't exactly mouth-watering in size. I was probably in the B cup range and maybe a 32 or so. Hannah had been a 34C which I knew was significantly larger. In spite of that, my new breasts felt strangely heavy on my diminished chest. At least the bra gave some relief to the tugging of my new breasts. My shirt had merged with my transformed trousers, becoming a flowery summer dress, cream in color with a neckline designed to show off my new cleavage. I watched too numb too move as long, medium brown hair crept over my partially-bare shoulders framing my new breasts. "What the hell have you done to me?" I screamed, trying to make my voice sound threatening but succeeding only in emulating the sound of a frightened female - which come to think of it, was exactly what I had become. Hannah - or rather the man Hannah had become - placed a meaty hand on my arm. "Now Martha, it's only a speeding ticket. The Judge was really pretty lenient." Martha? Who the hell was Martha? I looked at Hannah, staring into the calm, masculine face of a stranger. A good head taller than me, he wore a blue sports coat with a conservative but trendy blue tie, white shirt striped in blue and red, and khaki slacks. To my alarm, he seemed quite comfortable in them. "What's going on here?" I yelled, turning to The Judge. The Judge in response waved his hand absently, freezing my now- masculinized wife in place. "I think it should be obvious to you," he replied calmly. "You are now Martha Lee Hamilton, the wife of Kenny Hamilton." "I'm Willis Perry, and I'm nobody's wife!" I shot back. "Yes, you are," he insisted. "You are mine to do with as I please since your own lives would have ended at the Lethe River Bridge a few hours ago. It had been severely weakened by a tornado and would have collapsed as you traveled over it." "You can't know that," I protested, folding my arms over my chest in a vain effort to hide my breasts. "But I can," he replied simply. "And I do know it." As he stared at me, I could hear screams in my mind - screams from Hannah and me as water rushed into our car and tons of concrete closed in over us. I shuddered, somehow knowing that what this strange magistrate had just told me was absolute truth. "Even if that would have happened, you have no right to do... this to us!" "I won't argue that point with you," The Judge said calmly. "Simply look at this as a second chance." "Second chance at what?" The Judge shrugged. "Life, marriage, career, anything you can think of. Your life would have ended and your marriage was about to fail even if you had both lived. As for your career, were you really all that happy being just another bureaucrat in Washington?" I didn't answer. I had to admit that my career hadn't given me the satisfaction I had once expected, and as for my marriage... well, it was probably as dead as we would have been if we had crossed that bridge. Still, I wasn't tired of being a man, and I had no desire whatsoever to spend a new life as a woman. "Okay," I finally allowed. "You have a point. Just make me a man and Hannah a woman again and we'll try out these new lives you gave us." The Judge smiled thinly. "It doesn't work that way, Mrs. Hamilton. Your wife's ambition would be your undoing, as it nearly was in your previous marriage to her. As a man - even though he no longer retains his memories of his life as your wife - he will be much happier - and will make you happier in the process." "Bullshit!" I thought for a moment I had overstepped my bounds with The Judge. His face hardened and there seemed to be fire burning in his eyes. Even the stoic Officer Mercer looked alarmed at my outburst. What the hell was I thinking? I had just called a being powerful enough to change my sex as I stood there a liar. "I...I'm sorry," I said meekly. Of course, I wasn't really sorry, but I had a strange feeling any being capable of changing me into a woman could change me into something considerably more unpleasant than that. The Judge's expression softened a little. "Officer Mercer will take you and your husband to your respective places of work. Don't forget your jacket and purse." With a nod, he indicated a blue jacket designed to be worn over my dress to appear more businesslike and a navy blue purse. Both items were sitting on the chair I had been sitting in a few minutes before. "Have a good life, Mrs. Hamilton." We were trapped, I reflected as we got into the back seat of Officer Mercer's police car. I had already noted that our rental car had mysteriously disappeared from the parking lot. Hannah and I were now in new bodies - of opposite sexes, no less - and I had managed to single- handedly piss off the one person who might be able to return us to our rightful bodies. I felt as if we had been flung into a Dean Koontz novel in one of his spooky little towns where nothing was quite right. And in fact, nothing really was quite right. Oh, this Ovid was a pleasant enough town - actually more prosperous than the small towns I remembered from my time growing up in New England. But there was something unnatural about it as well. Most disturbing were the people I could almost but not quite see through. They weren't exactly ghostly, but it was as if their images had been poorly superimposed over the background. No one solid seemed to notice there was anything wrong with these people, though. Or perhaps they just chose to ignore it. Also, although there were new cars and evidence of modern devices everywhere, people dressed with a formality that gave the town an artificial look - men wore suits and ties while women wore skirts and heels. There was nothing old-fashioned about their attire. Instead, the styles they wore wouldn't be out of place in Boston or Washington. It was as if someone was making a film for the Ovid Chamber of Commerce and had asked everyone to wear their Sunday best. Hannah - or I supposed I would have to start calling my wife "Kenny" now - smiled happily, oblivious to my discomfort. Maybe she - he - was the lucky one, I thought. According to The Judge, he had no idea he had ever been anyone else. Or maybe not. As disconcerting as my changes were, I was still me at some base level. If I had lost all my memories, it would be the same as dying. At least I was still aware of who I had been and could strive to get my old body and life back. That was far better than thinking I had always been Martha Lee Hamilton. Officer Mercer dropped Kenny off first. A block east of the main street (called appropriately enough Main Street) were a collection of businesses that didn't need to be accessible to strolling shoppers - a paint store, an auto parts store, and lastly our destination: Ovid Chrysler. A small selection of new Chryslers and Dodges were displayed prominently in front of the building, with a larger selection of used vehicles off to one side. Judging from the way Kenny was dressed, I thought it likely he was a salesman. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Hannah would have died a thousand deaths rather than face the loss of prestige of becoming a car salesman. "Bye, hon," Kenny said, surprising me with a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for the ride, Officer," he added as he closed the door with a wave. It would be my turn next, I realized. Unlike my ersatz husband, I had no idea what I did for a living - or where. I thought about asking Officer Mercer, but I decided to save my breath. There was no way he would tell me anything. He seemed to revel in playing the strong, silent type. In a few moments, we had pulled up in front of a prominent (for Ovid at least) building displaying a sign that announce it to be the Farmer's and Merchant's Bank. "This is your stop," Officer Mercer informed me. "A bank?" I murmured. "I work in a bank? But I don't know anything about banking." "That doesn't really matter," he informed me in the deadpan delivery I was coming to expect. "You'll learn." It was no use arguing. I sighed, grabbed my jacket and purse, and tried to make a graceful if not entirely ladylike exit from the car. For my first time exiting a car in a skirt and heels, I didn't think I had done too badly. I managed to keep everything that wasn't supposed to show from showing, at least. I felt as if I was entering a trap as I entered the bank. What would I do once I entered? Was I a teller? God, I hoped not. I didn't have the slightest idea how to be a teller. Besides, tellers were supposed to be cheerful all day, and I didn't feel very cheerful at that moment. Was I a secretary? I might be able to handle that. I was a fairly decent typist. Since all the budget cuts at NRC after the fall of the Soviet Union, we never seemed to have enough clerical help, so in self defense, I had become a halfway decent typist. But if I was a secretary, where in the bank did I work and who did I work for? I half expected everyone in the bank to break out laughing when I entered, stupidly looking around as if I had no idea where I was supposed to be, but to my relief, no one did. In fact, no one seemed to take much notice of me at all. That probably meant I wasn't somebody really important. I scanned the main lobby of the bank. It was arranged like most small town banks I had seen before, with a line of teller stations on one side and a series of desks on the other and a small number of offices for the bank's executives at the rear. The d?cor was more modern than I had expected, denoting a successful and presumably forward-thinking bank. Nothing was ostentatious, mind you, but the desks were of polished wood and the desk chairs comfortable-looking. With some relief, I noticed an empty desk along the side wall with a wooden name plate atop it that included my name with "Home Loan Department" in smaller letters right under it. Home Loan Department? But I didn't know anything about home loans, other than as a customer. Hannah and I had owned a house back in Virginia, but like most homeowners, I had merely skimmed all the papers when we bought the house and signed where I was told to sign. I had no idea of how to put together a home loan. How was I going to handle this? Since it appeared that I had no choice except to try to play the role The Judge had saddled me with, I sighed and walked over to "my" desk, removing my jacket and draping it over the back of my chair. Nervously, I sat down with what I hoped was a friendly nod to the transparent girl at the next desk. Actually, most of the people in the bank - customers and employees alike - were semi-transparent. From where I was sitting, I could only see one other solid person. Two desks away, a cute young redhead was talking with a customer, but I noticed she looked my way once and gave me what I hoped was a knowing nod before returning to her customer. As soon as she was finished with her client, I resolved to introduce myself. Well, I suppose "introduce" wasn't quite right since she already knew me - or at least thought she did. Good Lord, this new life in Ovid was going to be confusing! Since I had no customers at my desk - thankfully - I busied myself by going through a file or two in my in basket. As I've already mentioned, as a home owner, I was only vaguely familiar with many of the documents, although I supposed they were somewhat different due to differences in real estate law between Oklahoma and Virginia where I owned - or rather had owned - a home. I was relieved to find I was at least vaguely familiar with most of the forms. Deeds, loan documents, and personal financial statements are at least somewhat familiar to anyone who has ever bought a house. I just hoped I didn't have to explain any of the details to anybody. I tried to remember back when Hannah and I had purchased our home. The girl who did what I was expected to do now hadn't seemed to get bogged down in the details. I suspected at the time that others in her organization actually did most of the technical work, leaving it to her to make the borrowers comfortable with the idea that all of the details were being handled for them. After I had studied the files for about twenty minutes, the redhead finished with her customer. Before I could go to her desk though, she came to mine. "I've got a couple of prospects for you," she told me blandly. "Can we go over them in the conference room?" The way she said it, I knew she wanted to discuss something other than loan prospects. I nodded, picking up a notepad just to make it look as if I was going to be taking down some information. When she had closed the conference room door and we were both seated, she smile, crinkling her pretty little freckles as she did. "Welcome to Ovid." "So you know?" I sighed, relieved. "The same thing happened to me about six months ago," she explained, extending her hand. "I'm Connie Delany," she added. "I guess I'm Martha Hamilton," I replied, taking her hand while noting that it was about the same size as mine. It looked as if our femininely- shaped nails had been done my the same manicurist as well. "But I guess you already knew that." She smiled again. "Sure did. You're my best friend here at the bank - or at least you were when you were a shade." "A shade?" "The people you can sort of see through," she explained. She went on to tell me something of how Ovid worked. It seemed that almost everyone who was not transparent in Ovid had been transformed by the mysterious Judge. Most of the people were shades, though. You could see them, talk to them, touch them - even smell them - but when you looked at them, there was something almost but not quite transparent about them. Eventually, some of the shades were replaced by real people who had been transformed by The Judge. "You'll get used to the shades after awhile," Connie assured me. "After a time, they just seem like normal people. I guess our minds just fill in the places where you can see through them." "Do they know they're shades?" I asked. "In Ovid, you can never be absolutely certain of anything," Connie cautioned me. "But I don't think so. They think they are just people. Most of us who remember who we are think they're just more of The Judge's magic." Time for the big question: "So who is The Judge anyhow?" Connie gave me a wistful smile. "I know, and I wish I could tell you, but you'll figure it out on your own after awhile." Before I could ask anything else, a shade who I later learned was Judy Cartwright, secretary to the president of the bank popped in. "Martha Lee, your two o'clock appointment is here." "Ask them to wait just a minute," Connie answered before I could say anything. "I'll bring them back." Judy nodded and closed the door behind her. "Martha Lee?" I asked. Calling someone by their first and middle names was so Southern. Of course, come to think about it, I and almost everyone else did seem to have just a little bit of a Southern twang when we spoke. For a native New Englander, I felt almost like a traitor to have a twang. "It's what we all call you," Connie said quickly. "Right now, we've got a customer." "But I don't know what to do!" "I do," she assured me. "Supposedly, you and I are cross-trained to take over for each other on vacations and so on. Just follow my lead." With Connie's help, I actually managed to go through a loan closing for Fred and Allison Manchester without seeming like a total idiot. I think their real estate agent was a little suspicious, but Connie managed to whisper to me that he was one of us in that he remembered his previous life as well. I later found out that he had previously been a State Patrol officer (a male officer - lucky stiff for being able to stay male) and had been in Ovid for about four months. Connie was right about the shades, though. The Manchesters were shades; yet they acted just like normal people. When I accidentally touched Allison's hand, it felt as solid as my own. And in addition to being solid to the touch, they had no problem drinking the Cokes we had brought into the conference room. I could see why Ovid residents treated them as normal people and vowed to myself to do likewise. It took an hour to go through all of the paperwork, but at last we were finished and the Manchesters were on their way to move into their new house. I guess they were so happy to get their new home that they didn't suspect that I was as new to the whole process as they were. "See?" Connie said brightly. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" "No," I admitted. Considering my previous life had been spent reviewing documents related to nuclear weapons safety (an oxymoron if even there was one - how could a nuclear weapon be "safe"?), home loan documents were a snap. "I checked your schedule when I went out to get your customers," Connie went on. "You don't have another closing for a couple of days. By that time, I'll have you completely up to speed. We can spend the time showing you how to get documents ready for the loan committee." I felt relieved at that. If I was going to be stuck in this new life, I'd need a job, and this one looked like a decent one. I didn't want to screw it up. "Right now, things are kind of quiet," Connie pointed out. "Let's take you to the ladies' room so I can teach you how to touch up your makeup." "I'm wearing makeup?" "Of course, silly," she giggled. "All girls wear it." I really hadn't noticed. I guess part of the reason was that I didn't really need much. Looking at myself in the mirror of the ladies' room for the first time, I could see that I had smooth skin with just a small number of cute little freckles around my nose, full lips, and a natural blush that highlighted my cheeks. My face was framed by long, brown hair that curled just a little near its shoulder-length ends. By my own male standards, I was cute - not a raving beauty, mind you, but downright cute. My figure was trim and my features attractive, but in a girl next door sort of way rather than anything spectacularly gorgeous. I had already sneaked a look at my driver's license to find I was twenty-two. At least I was fifteen years younger than I had been as Willis Perry. Connie showed me the basics of applying lipstick and checking my makeup. "If you just relax and let your mind drift while you're looking in the mirror, something about the magic will cause you to take care of your makeup unconsciously, but I think you'll find after a awhile that it's better to control the process yourself. It's a little spooky to let your body do it for you automatically." "I don't know if I'll ever get this right," I complained. "Sure you will," she replied brightly. "It only takes a couple of days for most people. I was a little slow, but I had it down within a week." "You used to be a man?" I asked incredulously. Connie had seemed so comfortable being a woman that I never would have guessed that she had ever been a man. "Yep," she replied with a grin and a nod. "I was a middle-aged, divorced accountant for the State of Oklahoma. I came out this way to do a little hunting last fall and found Ovid instead. Apparently, I was due to die in a hunting accident, so I was fair game for The Judge. Enough about that, though. Let's wipe off that lipstick and try again." So with Connie's assistance and guidance, I managed to make it through my first day at work. The only problem was that I had only spent part of the day in women's clothing, and yet by the end of the day, my feet felt cramped in their high heels, my legs were too warm in the clinging pantyhose, and my bra had ridden up on me a couple of times, requiring minor adjustments in the ladies' room. So by the end of the day, I was tired, hot, and cranky. All I wanted to do was find my way home - or I should say to Martha Lee's home - and crash. Connie was good enough to walk me to my car, which turned out to be a one year old white Dodge Stratus. I supposed with my "husband" selling Chrysler products, having a fairly new Dodge made sense. At least it was three years newer than the Volvo I had owned as Willis Perry - although I hadn't owned an American car in several years because I felt Volvos were a lot better. Add to that the fact that Chrysler controls are substantially different from the ones on my Volvo, so it took me half of my short trip home just to find out how to work the radio. Connie gave me directions to my house. It wasn't hard to find since Ovid was a pretty small town. The house turned out to be a modest little home - a ranch maybe ten years old, judging from the growth of the vegetation in the yard. Well, as long as it was air conditioned and had a comfortable couch for me to crash on, I'd be happy, I thought. Thankfully, the house was cool with the air conditioning humming happily along. I spent a little time looking around. It was your typical three- bedroom ranch with a living room, family room, kitchen, and a couple of bathrooms. None of the rooms could be called spacious, but I supposed it could be deemed cozy. Having grown up in a small town, I realized that while not pretentious, the house and its comfortable furnishings indicated we were doing fairly well financially. I stripped out of my work clothes after finding some khaki shorts and a pale green tank top. I didn't even stop to investigate my new body after I had stripped down into my bra and panties. Frankly, I wasn't in an exploratory mood. I couldn't help noticing though, that I had a trim, well-built body. I might have even thought of it as being sexy if I hadn't been so mind-numbingly tired. I'd save the body tour for later, though. Once dressed, I located the prerequisite comfortable couch. It was in the den, which was on the east side of the house, so it was a little darker and cooler than the living room on the west side. As I prepared to lie down, I noticed a photo album on a nearby end table. The book was white, trimmed in silver, and embossed with the words "Our Wedding." There was a date embossed on it, too... Oh shit. We were newlyweds. In spite of learning how young I was, I had thought of my forced marriage to Kenny as just a reversed continuation of my marriage with Hannah. Since Hannah and I had gone for months without sexual contact, I hadn't really considered the ramifications of relations with my "husband." Upon learning that I was, for all practical purposes, a newlywed, I thought back to the time when Hannah and I had first gotten married. Once a day was a minimum for sex in those days. What would Kenny be expecting? With trembling hands, I opened the album. I told myself it was just to learn more about the person I was supposed to be, but that failed to calm me down completely, as thoughts of sex as a woman kept intruding on my mind. The album did tell me several things about my new life. Through attached newspaper clippings, I learned my parents and younger sister lived in Muskogee, Oklahoma. There were some pictures of them, and they all looked happy and attractive. Did they really exist though, or were they just convenient pictures of people who were far enough away from Ovid not to matter in my new life? My unwanted husband looked proud and happy in a picture taken with a fifty-something couple I assumed to be his parents. I had to admit my former wife's new male body looked very handsome in his dark tuxedo. At least The Judge had made us both attractive. I could even detect hints of Hannah's expressions translated to Kenny's masculine face. It made me wonder if in spite of the radical transformation and apparent loss of memory he had experienced, something of Hannah somehow remained. There were dozens of other pictures as well - friends, groomsmen, bridesmaids, and so on. Some of the pictures were captioned while others were not. Oddly enough, none of the pictures showed any of the wedding guests to be shades. Perhaps their transparency wasn't visible in photographs. Maybe it took the human mind to tell the difference rather than a camera lens. I supposed it was possible no shades had attended the wedding, but given that they seemed to form an overwhelming percentage of Ovid's population, I suspected that was very unlikely. I was so engrossed in the album I didn't hear the car pull up in the driveway or the man enter the front door. I nearly jumped when a male voice over my shoulder asked, "Looking at our wedding pictures, honey?" "Oh!" I gasped, dropping the album on the floor as if I had been caught looking at something I shouldn't have seen. "Uh...Kenny, I didn't hear you come in." He leaned down and kissed me on the neck. It felt to weird to feel the short stubble against my soft skin. "You certainly made a beautiful bride." "Uh... thank you." Suddenly his arms were around me, his hands against my breasts. Oh God - he had come home horny. This couldn't be happening. I remembered again how it had been for Hannah and I back when we were newlyweds. Just like Kenny, I had often come home so horny I could hardly stand it. A younger, more agreeable Hannah had always smiled at me and practically raced me for the bedroom. I suddenly realized unless I came up with a good excuse, I was going to end up in bed with my smooth legs spread. That wasn't something I was ready for. I slipped out of his embrace and stood up. "Kenny, I haven't even started dinner yet." He moved toward me, his arms embracing me once more as his chest pressed against my breasts. "Who needs food?" I didn't want to do this. It was a nightmare of gargantuan proportions. My wife was now my husband, younger, bigger, and more lusty than I could ever have imagined. I wanted to run and hide. The thought of making love as a woman with a man was the most horrifying thing I could imagine. But what could I do? In his mind, I was his new wife. I suspected this was an act that had been repeated several times since the supposed marriage. Besides, he was bigger and stronger than me and didn't seem likely to be deterred if I told him I wasn't in the mood (And believe me - I really, really wasn't in the mood). Could I feign a headache? How about saying it was my time of the month? No, neither excuse seemed likely to deter him. If I had been in his shoes - something I would have given just about anything to be - I wouldn't have been deterred. And I certainly couldn't tell him the truth. With his loss of memory, he wouldn't believe me. I could scarcely believe it myself. What could I do? As far as he was concerned - as far as most people in town real or shade were concerned - I was Kenny's loving wife. Even if I resisted, I would eventually have to play the part I had been given. I was reasonably certain The Judge wouldn't have it any other way. He had changed me into a young married woman. If I didn't play the part, who knows what he might turn me into next? Trying to hide my reluctance, I had no choice but to let him lead me into the bedroom. I hoped he didn't notice my body was trembling in fear. Even if he did, he would probably assume it was just anticipation. Strangely enough, there was something akin to anticipation as well. It wasn't conscious. No, I had no rational desire to try out my new body with this man. But my body seemed to have a mind of its own. I suppose if I had been a woman before transformed into a man by The Judge, I would eventually get a hard on no matter how repulsive the idea might be to me. In the same light, I could feel my nipples tingling a little and could feel something becoming warmer and damp between my legs, almost as if my body was joyfully anticipating having the void between my legs stuffed full of my man's penis even while my mind was recoiling in sheer terror. There was nothing to do but go along with this, I realized. Some experts advise women about to be raped to do just that. After all, when a woman is being overpowered by someone much larger than she, there wasn't a lot to be accomplished by fighting. Besides, given that this man thought I was his willing wife meant complications would ensue if I refused, and at the moment, I had plenty of complications in my life without adding more. As he removed his suit, he took time to gently remove my clothing as well. His smooth motions and confident smile told me he was something of an expert at this. It was too bad, I told myself, that I hadn't been given some of the same knowledge. Of course, in Ovid, the penalty for such knowledge appeared to be the loss of all memory of a previous life. Maybe that would have been better, I thought. If I had lost all memories of being a male, I wouldn't have these terrible misgivings about being drilled by a man. Soon we were both standing there nearly naked. Well, I wa