Crescent City 2 - Irresistible free porn video

Crescent City 2 - Irresistible By The Professor "Nice ass!" I sighed. I was in no mood to be hit upon by Rodney Jackson again. It was the third time this week. Somehow, I had missed him on my walk from my car just off the Tulane campus to Dinwiddie Hall where my two o'clock Theory of Magic course met. If I had spotted the beefy linebacker instead of thinking about my readings for my class, I might have been able to dodge him. "You look fine, Mama!" his deep voice boomed, and I instinctively realized he was close enough that I needed to push my ass forward to avoid an unwanted swat on my butt. "What part of 'no' don't you understand, Rodney?" I asked, wishing my voice didn't sound like sweet Southern honey. It was hard to sound pissed with a voice like mine. "Hey, babe," he returned, scooting up next to me and flashing me a grin that had, according to current campus rumor, melted the hearts of two cheerleaders, one sociology instructor, and half of the local chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority, "I just think you need to give me a chance. What did I ever do to piss you off?" I suppose nothing, really, if I was completely honest with myself. Rodney was just a guy trying his best to get laid. Most guys fit in that category at one time or another. Hell, I had even fit in that category myself once upon a time. And that was the real problem: I used to be a guy just like Rodney. Well, not just like Rodney... I had been the scion of an old, well-heeled New Orleans family - white, of course, with dark blond hair, a socially-acceptable fianc?e, and a bright, promising future as an attorney and heir-apparent to my father's position at the Federal Bureau of Magic. That had been before my father's trusted second-in-command had conspired with Mama Juno's gang in an attempt to use me as the cat's paw to bring my father down. It hadn't worked, and my father was probably going to be the next governor of the State of Louisiana, thanks in part to me, damn it! As for me? Well, things hadn't worked out quite so well for me. I was now black, female, and looked more like an incoming college freshman than a twenty-something graduate student. While nothing could be done about my race and sex, the Bureau had taken care of my age at least legally. I still looked like jailbait, but my ID (magically encoded and verified) showed me to be twenty-one. It still caused me more than one embarrassing moment at the bars in the French Quarter, though, as diligent bartenders did everything but dissect my ID to prove it was a fake. "Rodney..." I began slowly, trying to remember that he wasn't really a bad guy, "I'm just not ready for a relationship right now - even a casual one. I'm trying to get a good start on the school year. You know how it is - new school and all." Rodney let up the pressure a little bit, trying instead to use my excuse as a way to chat me up. "Yeah, sure, girl," he said, running his hand over his freshly-shaved head as if he were straightening non-existent hair, "I understand. You went to Harvard, right?" "That's right." There was another thing the Bureau handled for me. I had been within a couple of months of graduating from Harvard, so the Bureau pulled some strings and I was awarded my degree. "Then Tulane ought to be a piece of cake for you," he reasoned. When I didn't respond, he glanced at my textbook. "You working on a Magic degree?" He looked a little nervous about that. Maybe I should tell him I was and make him think I could turn him into a frog or something. But I decided on the truth. "No, I'm working on a law degree." That surprised him a little. I realized he had me pegged for some impressionable little nineteen year old Harvard dropout instead of a graduate student. "Theory of Magic is required since so many legal defenses include magical excuses now," I elaborated. That was true: it was a required course, but I had wanted to take it anyway since I wanted to know everything I could about my own problems with magic. I was both a fairly strong Pusher, able to lift good-sized objects magically, and a victim of a designed spell that had made me the woman I now was, so Theory of Magic was quickly becoming my favorite class. Rodney relaxed a little. I began to think I should have told him I was a real mojo mama who could keep him from getting it up for a few months. All I had to do was to push a blood vessel or two shut in his penis, and he'd be reaching for the Viagra. Fortunately, we had just come to Dinwiddie Hall, so I could brush him off without subterfuge or physical threats. "Good talking with you, Rodney," I lied, smiling. "I've got to go to class now." "Yeah, sure, girl. I'll catch you later," he called after me. Not if I could avoid it, I thought, realizing he had to be watching my ass as I strolled into the old Elizabethan building. Not for the first time that day, I regretted wearing such sexy clothing. I seemed to be drawing a lot of attention. Short denim shorts, a white tank top, and wedge sandals wouldn't have been my first choice, but October in New Orleans can be pretty hot, and since the latest hot spell wasn't due to break until the weekend, I couldn't exactly walk around in a sweatshirt and jeans without baking myself. I looked forward to winter when I could cover myself a bit more comfortably. Who the hell was it who declared that to stay cool in warm weather, women's clothing had to look so damned sexy? Sexy was the last thing I wanted to look, I brooded as I found my usual seat in the classroom. Unfortunately, I most certainly did look sexy. Hell, this new body of mine would probably have looked sexy in just about anything. And it wasn't just the black guys who were looking. I had one of those Gabrielle Union looks that made me attractive to white guys, too. Okay, so maybe I was just getting back a little of what I had given when I was still male. Most young white guys of good families in New Orleans had an appreciation for black women. It wasn't the sort of thing we talked about, and most of us never acted on it - at least not in a romantic way. After all, any socially prominent white male who fell in love with a black woman would be ostracized from polite society. It was okay to treat black women as equals in the workplace or in schools or at church, but the bedroom was reserved for girls from our same food group - at least when it came to marriage. That didn't mean these same socially prominent white guys had never lusted after black women, though. A good number of black prostitutes in the Quarter had a significant white clientele. One just didn't bring these working women home to meet the family. This had gone on since the founding of New Orleans, and not even the War Between the States (read "Civil War" for the Yankees) had changed that. In fact, that was almost what had brought my father's budding political career to a screeching halt. He liked 'em black and he liked 'em young - too young as it turned out. So Mama Juno had made me both black and young to trap him literally with his pants down. Fortunately, the plot failed, or both my father and I would probably be looking at years of therapy to overcome what we nearly did with each other. "Is anybody sitting here?" a deep voice asked, bringing me out of my reverie. I looked up into the face of a young man about my age (my true age, that is). He was black like me, but light skinned - also like me. Even my mostly-male brain told me he was good looking, too. As for the part of my brain already soaked with female hormones, that chunk of gray matter was trying to tell me he looked downright sensational. "Uh...no," I managed to say, looking away. "Brett Carson," he said with a smile, offering a hand. He was dressed in the male equivalent of the outfit I wore - denim shorts (although not nearly as short or clinging), a gray pocket T-shirt, and Tevas. His hair was cut short but not too short, giving it that kinky natural look only African-American men have. And have I mentioned he was good looking? Not that I really noticed, of course. Instinctively I took his hand. It always felt odd for me to realize how small and dainty my hands were now when enfolded in a strong, masculine hand. "Cassandra Davis," I managed. Then I sort of blurted out, "I haven't seen you in this class before." Brett shrugged. "I'm one of Professor Winchell's students. You heard about him?" I nodded. Professor Winchell had suffered a near-fatal heart attack over the last weekend. In an era before magic, he would have most certainly have died, but Healers had managed to repair his heart. Still, he wouldn't be coming back for the rest of the semester. Even magical healing sometimes required lengthy rehabilitation. "How is Professor Sanderson?" Brett asked as he settled into his seat and pulled a notebook computer out of his briefcase. "Pretty good," I allowed, trying not to notice how his back muscles had rippled when he was pulling the computer out of the case. 'Act like a man, Cassandra,' I told myself, trying not to think about how stupid that statement sounded. Brett looked ready to say something else, but at that moment, Professor Sanderson stepped into the room and everyone got quiet. Professor Sanderson was sort of old fashioned. He still wore a suit to class, in spite of the heat of a Louisiana fall. Of course, given the consulting gigs he had, he could easily have just come from a meeting with some local corporation, so the suit might have been necessary. His thinning reddish hair was neatly trimmed and his slim body took on an almost military bearing. "Today, we are going to discuss faults," he announced without any preamble. "Faults?" Brett leaned over to ask me. "Yeah, just listen and you'll understand." Apparently Professor Winchell hadn't discussed faults. It wasn't surprising. It was one of Professor Sanderson's pet theories, but not everyone bought into them. The subject was pretty interesting, and the professor managed to keep the class riveted for the full lecture. Before I knew it, the class was over and we were all packing up our stuff. "Can I ask you a question?" Brett asked me as most of the class filed out. Oh-oh, here it comes, I thought. The guy is going to put the moves on me. Granted, he was a lot smoother than guys like Rodney, but he was still a guy. "Yeah?" "Do you understand this fault stuff?" I looked over at him. The poor guy looked genuinely confused. "Yeah, I think I've got it down pretty well." "Can I buy you a cup of coffee over at Rue and have you explain it to me?" Okay, so it was a move - sort of. Looking into his eyes, though, I detected that he really was sincere about not understanding faults. And a cup of coffee over at Rue de la Course did sound sort of good. "Uh...sure. When?" "How about right now?" Well, I couldn't think of any good reason to say no... Rue de la Course is something of a local institution in New Orleans. With locations all over the most cultured parts of the city, it has long been a favorite for college students. When one opened in the Willow Street Residence Hall, most of the Tulane student body thought it had died and gone to heaven. It wasn't very crowded when Brett and I got there after a pleasant walk across part of the campus. We were able to order our coffees and stake out a small table away from the rest of the patrons. On the way over, we had chatted about our personal lives. Of course most of mine was a carefully-crafted lie, but Brett had an impressive background. It turned out he was the son of a prominent doctor in Nashville, and like his father, he was studying Medicine at Tulane. However, like law school, modern medical practice involved a lot of interface with the magical community - hence, Brett's presence in my Theory of Magic class. In our short walk, I had been impressed with Brett. He hadn't called me "babe" or tried to slip his arm around me or put any more subtle moves on me (unless just being himself could be considered a subtle move). I sensed he was genuinely confused about the idea of faults, and I was prepared to help him understand them any way I could. "So let's see if I have all of this right," Brett began once we had each taken a sip of our coffees. "According to Professor Sanderson, there are parallel worlds out there, and the faults are places where some meaningful and probably catastrophic event has occurred." "That's it in a nutshell," I agreed. "So the electromagical disturbance they picked up in New York a few years ago was some sort of disaster in an alternate universe?" he asked skeptically. "Pretty much," I confirmed. "The disturbance has died off now, but in late 2001, it was one of the strongest electromagical disturbances ever recorded. It seemed to come from somewhere around the World Magic and Trade Center, but nobody has ever been able to figure out a reason for it. The idea of faults was developed by Professor Sanderson, so he refers to them a lot. I guess Professor Winchell never mentioned them?" "Oh, he mentioned them," Brett laughed. "He usually referred to them as fantasy, though. I guess he and Professor Sanderson didn't see eye to eye on that subject." "Apparently not," I laughed with him. "I guess Professor Sanderson has gotten more excited about faults since that one was detected here in New Orleans a couple of years ago. He thinks it may have been some sort of natural disaster." "Natural disaster?" "Yeah, probably a hurricane or tornado." "But Weather Control stops storms like that before they get out of control," he argued. "Sure," I agreed, really getting into the discussion, "but Weather Control is a Federal program based on magic. Imagine what might happen in a parallel world that didn't have magic." I sounded so enthusiastic about magic, but given what magic had done to me, I would have gladly given up my powers as a Pusher and lived in one of those non-magical parallel worlds where I might still be male. "A world without magic sounds pretty far-fetched," Brett pointed out. "Not really," I replied. "Until Webster and Kline released the magical virus, there wasn't much magic in this world." "What do you think of faults?" Brett asked, looking straight into my eyes. Since I had become a girl, guys didn't seem to be as interested in what I thought as they had when I had been male. It was a refreshing question. I did my best to give it a meaningful answer. "According to Professor Sanderson's theory, faults may someday give us a bridge into parallel worlds, but for right now, I think they're only interesting as a mental exercise. Even if they exist, what happens in some alternate universe hardly affects us here, does it?" "I suppose not." Gee, he was actually listening to me and looking into my eyes instead of down at my breasts. And he had such nice eyes... "So these faults can't do any damage?" he asked, filling the lull in our dialogue. Just how long had I been staring at him anyway? "Not exactly," I replied, hoping he couldn't see me flush with embarrassment. I suppose that was one good thing about being black - when I turned red, it wasn't quite so obvious. "According to Professor Sanderson, a major fault could change the whole world and split it off into two entirely different tracks. "Take the development of magic, for example. When Webster and Kline isolated the magic virus and accidentally released it on the world, the results were so overwhelming that it may have spun off our world from a non magical world." "So that would mean all these faults are nothing more than events happening in the other world that is drifting away from us," Brett offered with a sudden look of revelation. "Exactly. And we've just discovered these fault in the last few years. It's possible they've been there since our reality split off. Maybe in that other reality, magic was never isolated and, for example, Bill Clinton became President in 2000 instead of John McCain. The problem is that these faults are going to become harder and harder to detect as this other theoretical world moves away from us." "I wonder what our world would have been like if we hadn't discovered magic," Brett mused. Well, for one thing, I thought to myself, we probably wouldn't be here having coffee together. I'd be white, male and married and any thought of being black and female would have been the stuff of bad dreams. Brett smiled that winning smile again. "Cassandra..." "Call me Cassie." Woops! I was getting just a bit too chummy there, wasn't I? "Cassie, I really appreciate your help." All of a sudden, we were both quiet. Brett knew what he had to do next - and so did I. I had been male for enough years to realize that Brett had done all the right things. The only logical next step was to thank me by asking me out to dinner. It would just be a casual meal, of course - pizza or burgers or something equally simple - but it would be the potential start of a relationship. So how did I feel about all of that? Nervous as hell to be honest. I had been female for about six months, which was probably enough time to acclimate to the urges my body had been signaling to me almost continuously, but I still remembered vividly my limited sexual experiences as a female. I had been forced to suck a man's penis and nearly tricked into having sex with my own father soon after my transformation, so I was naturally suspicious of any relationship, no matter how innocuous, with any man. But I realized deep down that I was going to have to give in to those urges sooner or later, and Brett seemed to be a nice guy. "How about letting me buy you dinner Saturday?" he asked hopefully. I was suddenly disappointed - more disappointed than I thought I could be. "I can't. I'm visiting my... mom in Lafayette on Saturday." Then I added, "But I'm free Friday." It was Brett's turn to look disappointed. "Unfortunately, I'm not free Friday. One of my professors has the class lined up to observe at the Medical Center Friday evening." "Oh." Great minds think alike. Simultaneously, we said, "How about Sunday night?" and then laughed. "Sure," I grinned. "I'll pick you up at six," Brett offered. "Where do you live?" I gave him the address of my condo, and he replied, "Nice digs." It was nice to be well off. "See you Sunday," I said. I drove out to Lafayette Saturday morning. It's only a little over two hours west on I-90, and the road is pretty straight and boring. Lafayette is in the heart of Cajun Country, known for its unique food and entertainment. It's also the home of the University of Louisiana where Mama Becky taught Classical Literature. Of course Mama Becky wasn't really my mom; she was the mother of Helen Davis, who with her brother, A.J., managed to save me from a horrible fate. Along the way, I had sort of been adopted by the Davis family. I had been glad to have them. They had helped me get through those terrible weeks after my transformation into a girl, and since my own family, the high-and-mighty Deverauxs, had had my male identity declared officially dead, the Davis family was the only family I had. I supposed it was for the best. Looking as I did now, I could hardly pass myself off as the eldest son of such a proud old Southern family. And to be honest, I didn't really want to try. I wasn't terribly comfortable around white folks for any length of time now. Yes, I know that sounds odd, given that I had spent the first twenty-odd years of my life being white. But being black had made me realize that although racial equality had come a long way in Louisiana, the majority of white folks liked to associate with other whites and the majority of black folks liked to chum around with other blacks. It didn't mean we couldn't be friends with each other, but it did make it harder. Mama Becky greeted me on the porch of her neat little bungalow. She made good money as a college professor, but she insisted that since her husband had died, she didn't need a big place. And in spite of the fact that she looked like an attractive woman in her forties instead of the sixty years she really had, she had firmly decided against ever marrying again. "Cassie, you look wonderful," she called out. "A.J., come get Cassie's bag!" "I can manage, Mama," I told her, indicating the little denim duffle bag I had packed for the overnight stay. "Girl, when are you going to learn to pack like a woman?" she laughed, giving me a hug. "I brought all the essentials," I replied. Mama grinned. "I thought Helen and I had taught you there's more to the essentials than clean underwear and an extra top." "She's still fighting all this girl stuff," Helen called out from the doorway. Helen was dressed like me, in a pair of designer jeans and a sleeveless top, but she sported an attractive necklace and a matching bracelet, as well as a nice if inexpensive pair of dangling earrings. I, of course, wore no jewelry, so she had a point. "How are you ever going to catch a man with no jewelry and no makeup?" Mama asked. "I'm wearing makeup," I countered, "just not very much." "She looks fine to me," A.J. offered, looking over his sister's shoulder. Of course, A.J. always thought I looked fine. "Hi, A.J.," I called out. A.J. was a good kid, but he was that: just a kid. Of course, I looked to be his age or maybe a little younger, and since I had become, if I do say so myself, one hot mama, he had a bad case of the hots for me. I loved A.J. as a brother, but even though I was slowly warming to the sexual attraction to men, A.J. would never be anything more to me than an adopted sibling. "What time are you planning on going back tomorrow?" Helen asked me. I grinned as we went in the house. "I just got here and you want to get rid of me?" "I drove over with A.J. and he has to go back this evening," she explained. "And Brian has a new case we need to start tomorrow, so I need to be back fairly early. I need a ride." Helen had resigned from the Bureau of Magic shortly after I had been transformed, going into the private investigation business with Brian Wallace, an old colleague. Brian, another former FBM agent, had happily taken her on as a full partner. No one in the family was going to be surprised when they finally got around to announcing their engagement. "I've got to be back fairly early, too," I admitted, not ready to tell my new family that I had a date Sunday night. Mama looked a little pained. "What's this? My whole family is deserting me?" "The road runs both ways, Mama," Helen reminded her. "You could always drive into New Orleans and stay the weekend with me." "Or me," I offered, "I've got an extra bedroom." As Brett had pointed out, I had nice digs. Thanks to an inheritance from my grandfather, made more generous by my father who wanted to make sure I stayed quiet so as not to damage the revered Deveraux name, I had purchased a condo not far from campus. It was reasonably spacious and well-appointed. When I graduated from law school and sold it, it should bring a tidy profit. "And the shopping is better, too," Helen pressed. "I could take you to Maison Blanc..." "What's wrong with Dillard's and Foley's?" Mama asked, offended. "That reminds me," Helen said, changing the subject, "Brian and I could use your help on this case, Cassie..." "Me?" "It's a case involving the son of a wealthy businessman. He's in the process of being changed into a girl, and his father wants to know who spelled him and why." I shrugged. "I certainly sympathize, but why not go to the Bureau?" "Publicity," Helen replied simply. "William Pierre Lagrange III doesn't want anyone knowing about this." I nodded. I knew William Pierre Lagrange III, but I knew his son - William IV - even better. We had prepped together. "So William IV is being changed into a girl?" I asked, not able to disguise my pleasure. "No, it's his younger brother, Stephen," Helen answered, adding, "And if you don't mind my saying so, you didn't look too disappointed at the idea of his older brother being transformed." "I wasn't," I admitted, taking a seat on the living room sofa as the rest of my family found their own seats. "William IV is a Whisperer and an asshole." "That's a bad combination," Mama commented. "He got an inordinate amount of sex that way," I went on. "As you know, it's hard to pin a rape charge on a Whisperer, but he had the reputation of using his powers to get what he wanted." "Now he won't even have to leave home to get a little," A.J. said. "Achilles Jason Davis!" Mama snapped. "You watch that kind of talk!" "Sorry, Mama." Since A.J. was an Empath, he had also taken Mama's chastisement at a mental level as well. He looked as if he wanted to find a place to hide. "Okay, Helen, so what do you want me to do?" I asked Helen, successfully diverting Mama's attention away from A.J.. That was one he owed me. "You've been through a transformation similar to his - sexually at least. I want you to try to gain his confidence and see if he has any idea who did this to him. So far, he's told his father he has no idea who did this to him. That may be true, or he may just be embarrassed to admit what he knows for some reason." I nodded. It was probable that he had been changed either by a jilted lover or by one of those feminist groups that were rumored to get their jollies out of changing randy guys into sweet young things. Of course, my own transformation had been neither of those reasons, but my case was rare. For that matter, sexual transformations were such a rarity that the FBM had done its best to downplay them entirely. It had only been in the last couple of months that much had been said about them in the media. "Now, to how you need to dress tomorrow," Helen went on with a determined look in her eyes. "You need to look very professional." Uh-oh. I knew what was coming next. Since my transformation, I had tended to avoid skirts and heels. There was no doubt that Helen planned to dress me in both. "I have a nice pants suit..." I ventured, but Helen was already shaking her head. "You need to wear a business suit - with a skirt and heels," she informed me. "I don't suppose you've gotten around to getting one yet." My silence was all the answer she needed. "Well, Mama, it looks as if you'll get your chance to show us how good Dillard's and Foley's really are," Helen sighed. I suppose I could have said no to the whole thing. If I didn't go with Brian and Helen to meet their client, I could put off the whole feminine wardrobe thing for... I don't know, another few months at least. But I had to admit I was interested in the case. I had never met another person like me, who had to endure an involuntary sex change. I have to admit I was curious to say the least. And deep down, I knew that there would come a day when I'd have to give in and dress like a professional woman. Once I finished law school, I'd be held to the same dress code as other female attorneys, and it would be odd if I was late to court because I couldn't figure out how to get my pantyhose on in a timely manner. I'll spare all the gory details of the shopping trip. Mama Becky dressed well as did Helen, and I should have realized that their style hadn't come from picking the first thing off the rack that fit. But I never suspected that a college professor and her tough-as-nails former FBM agent daughter could somehow transform into a couple of super shoppers who apparently planned to use me as their personal Barbie doll. I had gritted my teeth, determined to survive an experience I had only seen in passing with my former mother and my former fianc?e. I planned on grabbing the first thing in my size off the rack and running with it. Silly me. First of all, I learned that sizes in women's clothing were just a starting point. The first three outfits Mama and Helen pulled off the rack at Dillard's were poor fits. An eight was too large and a six was too small. And where were all the sevens anyway? Apparently, a woman's size in a suit depends upon the three typical measurements (bust, waist, hips), but that's just the starting point. A six from one manufacturer may be tighter than a six from another and so on. So everything - and I do mean everything - had to be tried on, tugged, pinched, checked, and rechecked. I think I tried on more outfits that afternoon than I had in my previous several months of womanhood. At last, Mama and Becky agreed on a tasteful dark blue suit. It had a jacket that was loose enough to look right on my substantial (36C) chest, so apparently I was officially an 8. The skirt was of the Goldilocks variety - not too long and not too short, but just right, coming down to the top of my knees. "We'll take it," Helen told the clerk. "Do you need any shells or camis to go with this?" the clerk asked innocently. I didn't like the gleam in my mentors' eyes when they heard that. "Want to see what we got Cassie?" Helen called out as we hauled the loot into Mama's living room. A.J. appeared uninterested in the whole exercise, stretched out on the couch watching Alabama play a closer-than-expected game with Mississippi State. I found myself wishing I had been given the opportunity to veg out and watch the game, too. While a number of women I knew appreciated football, Helen and Mama weren't among them, and now that I was a woman, I was expected to participate in their activities whenever I came to visit. "What kept you?" A.J. asked. "I've got to go back to New Orleans in about an hour." "I'm sure if you take that girl to the party half an hour late, the world will end," Mama sighed. "What girl?" I asked A.J. The question sort of spilled out of my mouth. I guess I thought A.J. was still a little smitten with me, but now it turned out there was a girl important enough for him to cut short seeing me in favor of her company. Was I actually a little jealous? Of course not. Not me. "Samantha Brown," A.J. told me, sitting up on the couch. "I've been dating her for about a month. She's really hot." "Oh." "Then let's have a quick dinner so you can get on your way," Mama suggested. I followed Mama and Helen into the kitchen to help make dinner. After all, it was expected in the Davis family that the womenfolk make the meals, allowing the men folk to sit on their butts and watch football. I suppose that's unfair, really. I'm sure if I had really wanted to, I could have sat with A.J. and watched the rest of the game. The truth is that I didn't want to. Don't ask me why; I'm not completely sure myself, but I think it had something to do with the revelation that A.J. had something going with another girl. It wasn't that I wanted to see A.J. romantically, but given his infatuation with me right after I had been transformed, I felt almost jilted. By the time we had dinner ready (or 'supper' as Mama called it), I had convinced myself that I was being silly. It had to be the damned hormones. As a man, I would have never felt rejected by A.J.'s perfectly reasonable behavior, but as a woman, it seemed to be a different matter. I was pretty quiet over dinner, but everyone else made up for it, so my silence wasn't particularly noticed - or so I thought. Mostly, I was trying to examine what was happening to me. Every passing day seemed to bring about some little thing that indicated I was not thinking like Robert Devereaux anymore. It was nothing terribly overt, but it was obvious that I was becoming more and more Cassandra Davis every day. Of course it was only to be expected that it would happen this way. After all, sitting to pee, having periods, being addressed as "Miss" or "Cassie", and slipping on a bra every day would have to take a toll. Physically, I had accepted being a girl. It was either that or go crazy since there was no way that I could pass myself off as male now. The problem was that I wasn't sure I was ready to accept being mentally female. In the culture in which I had been raised, women were fascinated with feminine pursuits, such as shopping for clothing, bearing and tending children, and...other things. While I didn't care much for shopping, really couldn't see myself bearing or tending children, or... other things, I had perceived some cracks in my fa?ade. Taken one by one, shopping might not be something I looked forward to, but by the end of the exhausting day with Mama and Helen, I had to admit there was something entertaining about seeing how I looked in a new outfit, and the challenge of finding just the right things to go with a new outfit had not been unpleasant, and it had helped me to bond further with my new family. As for children, I had noticed that I was much more aware of children now, and much less reluctant to interact with them. As a man, I had often noted the suspicion in a child's eyes when facing an unfamiliar man. It was a sad fact in our society that there were perverts out there, so practically all children are warned from the time they are old enough to walk that they should look out for "bad men." Notice I said "men." Another sad fact: most child molesters are men. In any case, since my transformation, children had been far less reluctant to speak with me or even to ask for my help. When I spoke with them, nearby mothers would smile at me as if, being a woman, I was somehow all right, because someday, I, too would be a mother. While that had bothered me at first, now I just smiled back, often commenting on how lovely their children were. And as for the...other things, okay I was slowly but surely coming to appreciate the physical attributes of men - the big shoulders, the angular builds, the confident smiles, and the deep voices. It hadn't happened overnight, but it was happening. That was why I had agreed to see Brett Sunday evening. Going back to my feelings about A.J., I had to admit that if I hadn't known him and had met him instead of Brett earlier in the week, it would probably be A.J. that I would be seeing on Sunday evening, in spite of our actual age difference. Brett sort of reminded me of A.J. - or rather, a more mature version of A.J.. "Gotta go!" A.J. said, rising from the table and wiping the last bite of chicken off his mouth. "Drive carefully," Mama warned him, accepting a hug. "Be careful," Helen warned him when it was her turn for a hug. "Take care," I managed, receiving my own hug while trying not to think how good it felt to be held in strong arms. On Sunday, Helen and I drove back to New Orleans together after a leisurely breakfast with Mama. We had thrown our overnight bags in the trunk of my Focus, but the sacks from our shopping trip were piled into the back seat. I was frankly alarmed at how much Helen and Mama had convinced me to buy supposedly just for one meeting. There was the new suit, two shells and a blouse, several pairs of pantyhose, two pairs of shoes (one with a two and a half inch hell that had me a little worried - I wasn't accustomed to heels that high), and inexpensive jewelry - earrings, a necklace and a bracelet. Mama and Helen had even talked me into new bras and panties, maintaining that the cotton stuff I wore wasn't quite feminine enough to go under such a nice suit. So like who was going to see it besides me anyway? "We can change at my place," Helen suggested. "Brian is going to pick us up there, so we'll save some time." I suspected the real reason was that she wanted to make sure I didn't make a hash of getting dressed. I didn't argue, though. Since the escapade that had included my transformation into a girl, I had done my best to not look overtly feminine - no skirts or heels, other than the one inch block heels I often wore just to give me a little added height. Also, I didn't wear jewelry, with the exception of a small lady's watch and occasionally small earrings (I told myself a lot of men wore earrings, so I wasn't being overly feminine), and only enough makeup to not appear butch. Right after I had been transformed, I had been forced to dress like a whore - short skirts, high heels, big earrings, and lots of cleavage. I had vowed after that incident to never be dressed in such a demeaning manner again, and thus far, I had kept that promise. Yeah, I know it was silly to equate a whore's costume with the professional attire Helen had foisted on me, but it somehow seemed like a slippery slope to me, no matter how I tried to tell myself that thinking that way was unreasonable. Helen's apartment was on the other side of the river in Algiers, an area close enough to the city to be convenient and urbanized, but separated from New Orleans by the Mississippi River, allowing it to have an ambiance of its own. Brian had his offices and a condo just a short distance from Helen's apartment, so she was close to both her job and her boyfriend. "Let me get ready first and then I'll help you," Helen said. That was fine with me. It gave me a chance to catch up on a little NFL action. I stretched out on the couch and picked up an early New England game. My days at Harvard had made me into something of a Patriots fan (as long as they weren't playing the Saints), so I was able to lose myself in the game. It didn't take Helen long to get ready, though. Unlike the stereotypical woman, Helen could get herself dressed and ready for anything in record time, and she always looked good. "Let's get you ready," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me from the couch where I had plopped down to enjoy the game. She had already picked out lingerie for me, and it wasn't exactly the first time I had worn a dress. I got into the clothing quickly while she waited in the living room for me in the living room, brushed my hair and put on a little lipstick. It was all so easy that it only took me a few moments to get ready - or so I thought. I looked at my watch. "Hey, Brian isn't supposed to pick us up for another forty-five minutes. Why did you get me ready so early?" "You're just starting to get ready," she told me, grabbing a fresh towel and putting it over my white shell. "Who taught you to do makeup anyway?" "You did." "No, I tried to teach you. Obviously none of my teaching stuck or you'd look better than this." I looked in the mirror, frowning. Everything looked fine to me. "What's wrong with my makeup?" She sighed, "Where do I start? This is a business meeting. Your makeup and hair have to make a statement as much as your clothing. Right now, your makeup says you don't care how you look and aren't very professional. Is that the image you want to convey?" "I suppose not," I replied, chastened. "Here, watch what I do." She worked on my face for a few minutes, allowing me to see in the mirror how she did it. I didn't like what she was doing to me, either. I had some unpleasant memories of being made up by Muriel for the abortive rendezvous with my father a few months ago, and I was afraid Helen was overdoing it just as Muriel had done. I asked her, "Do you really want my eyes to look like that? I look like a whore in the French Quarter." She frowned and put her hands on her hips. "Cassie, do I look like a whore?" Uh-oh. "No, you look very nice, Helen." And she did. "Well I put the same shade and amount of eye shadow on your eyes. The only thing I did different is use a little less liner on you. I've made you look like a young professional woman instead of a high school tomboy. Does that mean you look like a whore?" "Well..." "Now, let's do something about that hair." My hair had been growing longer over the summer. I had planned on more than one occasion to get it cut. Maybe into one of those super-short cuts that left just some tiny naturally curled hair favored by some African American women. Call it vanity if you will, but I just couldn't bring myself to cut my longish dark hair. It barely touched my shoulders, but it framed my face very nicely. Unfortunately, I have to admit I hadn't taken the best care of it. It was fairly straight with just a little bit of natural wave to it. While by any reasonable standard, I would be considered African American at a glance, like many members of my new race, I obviously had evidence of significant white ancestry as well, so my hair lacked the natural curliness of many black women. "I should have taken you in to a salon yesterday," Helen muttered as she fussed with my hair, alternately brushing and spraying it into shape. "Be careful with that spray," I grumbled. "It'll make my hair sticky." "Nonsense, it's not sticky," she replied, working on a tangle so hard I thought she was going to pull the hair right out of my scalp. A few minutes before Brian was due to pick us up, Helen finally finished with me, and as I looked into her full-length mirror, I had to admit she had done wonders. I looked like a young professional woman - a lawyer perhaps. I suddenly realized that since I was going to law school, this was a glimpse of my future. Once I was out of school, I'd be dressed and made up like this every day. I sighed, realizing I might as well get used to it. Besides, I did look pretty damn good, if I did say so myself. Brian picked us up exactly on time. Even as new as I was to appreciating men's looks - especially black men - it was easy to see Brian was a handsome man whose short hair, well-trimmed moustache and conservative dark suit accented with a fashionable tie marked him as the successful businessman he was. Ten years as an FBM agent had given him the confidence and polish that had made him a successful private investigator. He grinned when I greeted him at the door. "Well, will you look at this. Little Cassie is all grown up." "Stuff it, Brian," I growled, although I have to admit I was just a little pleased that he obviously liked the way I looked. One thing I had learned since my sex change: women can never get enough compliments. If I had known how much women appreciated compliments before I became one, I would have probably had a much more active sex life as a man. "Don't give her a hard time, Brian," Helen said, coming over to give her boss a warm kiss. "I'm trying to get her to be more feminine." Brian nodded. He knew all about my past - my real past. With my permission, she had told Brian who I really was and what had happened to me. "It's good advice, Cassie," he told me. "A well-dressed woman can twist men around her little finger. Look what Helen has done to me." They both laughed together, and again I wondered when they were going to quit fooling around and get married - or at least move in together. "Shouldn't we get going?" I asked, becoming tired of being reminded that I should act more girly.. "In a minute," Brian replied, all business now. He produced a file folder from his leather case. "I've made each of you a short summary of the particulars in this case. Read them on the way over and we'll discuss the case before we get there." I had the back seat of Brian's BMW all to myself, so I finished the summary before Helen did. That gave me a few minutes to go over the details again. By all rights, the case should have been turned over to the FBM, but as Helen had already told me, the family didn't want the publicity. The Lagrange family had made their money in agricultural commodities - foodstuffs, cotton and timber culled from a land empire with resources in four states. The family had been one of those canny clans that had jumped sides back in the Civil War, deserting the Confederacy once New Orleans had fallen and supplying the Union for the remainder of the war, earning themselves the friendship of such notables as General U.S. Grant who would later occupy the White House. Later generations had managed to smooth over the rift caused by such traitorous behavior (traitorous at least in the minds of good Southerners), leaving them right up there with the Deverauxs and other noble families. Of course, it helped that the Lagrange clan had more money than almost any other family in the state. I didn't really know Stephen Lagrange all that well. I had met him at various functions, but he was too young to be considered one of my friends. His brother, William, by contrast was the right age to be my friend but such an insufferable boor that I had never liked him. When we had prepped together, he had wanted very badly to be my friend - but only if I was a sycophantic one. He would have loved to number the scion of the Devereaux family amongst his closest associates, but only on onerous terms. It was a shame it wasn't William who was being transformed, I thought to myself. Let's see how haughty he would be with a vagina between his legs. "What do you think of the case, Cassie?" Brian called out from the front seat. I was surprised that he hadn't asked Helen first, but I realized the two of them had probably already studied and discussed the case in detail. "I don't see anything in here to indicate why Stephen has been singled out," I answered. Brian laughed, "Yeah, that's the mystery, isn't it? Usually in cases like this, there's a pretty obvious motive. It usually happens either to get back at the man for some sexual reason, such as dumping a girlfriend. Sometimes, it's done by a rival to get a guy out of the way. Stephen doesn't seem to have any steady girlfriends or obvious rivals." "Neither did I," I pointed out. "Yes," Brian agreed, "and your case is actually very uncommon." Yeah, I was changed to get at my father in a rather perverted way. But that was certainly unusual. "How about his brother?" I ventured. "Could William be trying to get Stephen out of the way?" "Possibly," Helen answered, "but not likely. William is apparently his old man's choice to take over someday, so there'd be no reason to get Stephen out of the way as there would be if things were the other way around." "There's been no ransom note either," Brian added. Sometimes, a son was changed into a daughter and a ransom demand was made, purporting to have a "cure" - a spell which would turn him back into a male. Those were unfortunate hoaxes, though. As I had discovered to my chagrin, it was impossible given the current level of magical science to turn a female back into a male. Magic simply couldn't recreate the Y chromosome properly. "Maybe Mrs. Lagrange always wanted a daughter, and this is her doing," I suggested. "That's an interesting idea," Brian commented. Then to Helen, he said, "We may want to probe on that point a little." I flushed with pride. One great thing about Brian was that he took me seriously. Of course, he knew who I had been and was well aware that I wasn't the teenager I appeared to be, while most people saw me as just another teeny-bopper. Still, it was nice of him to value my opinions. "What exactly do you want me to do?" I asked him. "I want you to talk to Stephen and give me your opinion of him," Brian replied. "See if you can draw him out. You know, find out if there's a disgruntled girlfriend we don't know about, or anything he might be willing to tell you that he wouldn't tell us. You appear to be close to his age and you've been through what he's going through. See if you can't gain his confidence." I shifted uneasily. "You want me to tell him what happened to me?" "Oh, no!" Brian assured me. "Just tell him you've worked on cases before with your sister where a sex change occurred. Don't let on that it happened to you. I'd never put you in that spot, Cassie." I smiled. I knew Brian was serious. He treated me as if I actually were Helen's sister, and that meant someday, he'd probably be considering me his sister-in-law. I knew he'd never do anything to hurt or embarrass me. "Here we are," Helen told Brian. We followed the long, winding cobblestone driveway and pulled up in front of the stately Lagrange home, but only after we had gone through the high wrought iron gate and had a chance to be impressed with the canopy of tall oaks that peppered the neatly-manicured lawn. "Shit," Brian muttered, "I've played golf courses that weren't this nice. Was your old home like this, too, Cassie?" "Sort of," I admitted, hoping I didn't sound too wistful. "Our house wasn't this big, though, and the grounds were smaller." I could have added 'but not much smaller,' but I didn't want to show off. Besides, none of the Devereaux property was mine now. Few houses in the South were large as the one we approached. The Lagrange mansion was large enough to be mistaken for a hotel - three stories of 19th Century brick, accented by a row of stately Corinthian columns that supported a long porch below and an expansive veranda on each of the upper floors. Surrounding the house were neat shrubs and colorful flowers without a hint of a weed in sight. Waiting for us as we pulled up was a butler in full livery. He was African-American, as was the favored custom among the landed gentry of Louisiana, and looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of Gone With the Wind. I guessed him to be in his fifties, with his partially bald pate fringed with curly gray hair, but he was fit-looking, with a trim body that made him look much younger. "Brian Wallace and associates to see Mr. Lagrange," Brian said formally as the butler smoothly opened the passenger doors for Helen and me, gently helping us out of the car. We each rewarded him with a smile which he returned. "Yes, sir, Mr. Wallace," the butler replied in a honeyed Southern accent that smacked of more genteel days. "Mr. Lagrange is expecting you. If you'll all follow me." The inside of the mansion was easily as impressive as the outside. We were escorted into what would once have been called the drawing room. Upon looking around, I decided that there wasn't a stick of furniture in the room that could be purchased outside of a fine antique store. It wasn't often that a Devereaux - or a former Devereaux - could feel like poor folks, but I suspected if any member of my former family were to enter that room, that's how they would feel. "Can I get you something to drink?" the butler asked politely. We all declined, so he just smiled and said, "Mr. Lagrange will be with you shortly." When he was gone, Brian turned to Helen and me. Looking at Helen, he said, "I want you to try to get an audience with Mrs. Lagrange. See what you can find out from her while I concentrate on the father and the older son. Cassie, you need to get in to see Stephen. See if he knows of anyone who would want to do this to him." I nodded, thinking that if Stephen was anything like his older brother, I would be able to narrow the suspect base down to anyone who had ever met him. "Mr. Wallace." We turned to see who had called out to Brian. I'll give Mr. Lagrange credit - he could make an impressive entrance. He stood in the doorway flanked by his wife and older son. William Lagrange III was a tall, trim man with graying hair and a gray moustache. He was dressed in a suit, so Brian had been right to have us all dress professionally, although Mr. Lagrange's suit was probably three times the cost of Brian's, and Brian's suit wasn't cheap. His wife was equally regal, looking as if she were preparing to attend an afternoon tea. Perhaps she was, in her expensive blue silk dress and matching accessories. William IV was the only one casually dressed, although his hunter green polo shirt and khaki slacks were obviously tailor made. While Mr. And Mrs. Lagrange focused on Brian and Helen, William IV was obviously staring at me. He looked me up and down, from my shapely legs to my partially-covered breasts, grinning when he met my eyes. I could feel my face flush. While I had become accustomed to having men stare at me, there was something absolutely predatory in his stare, and I was reminded of what a sleaze he could be. "I'm William Lagrange," the elder man began, offering his hand to Brian. I was impressed. There were still some older men in New Orleans society who only reluctantly greeted African-Americans so readily. "And this is my wife, Penelope," he went on, nodding to his wife. She smiled faintly but did not offer her hand. "And this is my son, William," he continued. "Charmed," he oozed, taking my hand first. I felt as if I was being touched by a snake. Although he had said only one word, I heard in it the faint echo of a Whisper and reminded myself to stay on my toes. The younger William's Whispering power wasn't terribly strong, but it was discernable. When Brian had made his introductions, we all sat down facing each other over a low antique table which probably cost more than most cars. As for the divans we sat on, I smugly told myself that as expensive as they were, they certainly weren't as comfortable as the leather couch back in my condo. "Has Howard offered you anything to drink?" Mr. Lagrange asked smoothly. "Yes, but we're fine," Brian replied, smiling. "Then let me bring you up to date," our host sighed. He spoke to us for almost half an hour, detailing everything that had transpired. Stephen had come home from prep school on Wednesday, feeling a little flushed. At first, the family passed it off as a little virus, but once the changes began, the family doctor was called in (yes, he actually made a house call), and the diagnosis was magical rather than medical. As Brian had told us, there had been no anonymous notes from spurned ex- girlfriends or offers for a "cure" in return for a substantial ransom. In short, there were no clues of significance to build a solution around. "Mr. Lagrange," Brian began when the victim's father had completed his story, "when we spoke on the phone about the case, you indicated that you did have one possible suspect in mind. Could you tell us now who that might be?" Mr. Lagrange looked uncomfortable for a moment, as if he was about to tell a sordid tale. I suppose, given his attitudes regarding what was sordid and what wasn't, that was just about the case. "A few weeks ago," he began, "I was approached by some unsavory types who suggested I could make a considerable profit if I 'piggybacked' their shipments on some of my ships..." Ships? He had his own ships? Now I was really beginning to feel like the poor folk. "And those unsavory types were...?" Brian prompted. "They represented a Marie Dubois," he replied. "Mama Juno?" I blurted out. Mr. Lagrange studied me for a moment. "I believe that's what you people call her," he sneered, making me feel about a foot tall. And what was with that "you people" crap? I guessed the ready handshake was as far as he was willing to go to foster racial relations. "I have no use for voodoo or any other form of magic," he went on haughtily. "Magic is un-Christian and the work of the Devil." Oh, so he was one of those - the religious nuts. Now I don't want to make it sound as if I was some sort of heathen. I was raised a good Catholic boy, and I suppose now I was a good Catholic girl, but growing up in a church which recognized miracles on a regular basis, the concept of magic wasn't all that much to swallow. Some religions had other ideas, though. Some of the more fundamental denominations despised magic, even eschewing magical cures and other benefits. No wonder Mr. Lagrange wanted what had happened to his son kept quiet. In addition to the obvious embarrassment the transformation would entail, some of the really conservative denominations drummed magical victims out of the church, as if the poor people had somehow brought the work of the Devil down upon themselves. I had wondered why he had brought Brian in on the case instead of just going to the police or the FBM. I had assumed it was just to avoid notoriety over his son's transformation. While that may have been part of the reason, his religious concerns had probably been equally important. "What did you tell Ma... I mean Ms. Dubois?" Helen asked. "I want to point out that I have never met the woman," he replied, with enough vehemence to be denying anal sex with a donkey. Somehow, I thought he was lying, though. Call it women's intuition. "I told her representatives I would have no part in their sordid business." "What did they want you to smuggle for them?" Brian asked. "They never said and I never asked," was the blunt reply. Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Is the presence of Ms. Dubois the reason you called us in on this case?" "Partially," the elder Lagrange allowed. "I felt you would be much more skilled at getting the truth from that woman than others would." I of course immediately understood what he was saying, even though I had only been African-American for a short time. He was indicating that since Brian was of the same race as Mama Juno, he would be more successful than a white detective. There may have been a grain of truth to that, but it somehow seemed insulting. I silently hoped that back in the days when I was white, I hadn't made similar statements, but I had to admit that I probably had - unintentionally, of course. "I'd like to spend a little more time with the members of your family individually," Brian requested, somehow keeping his cool. Mr. Lagrange looked puzzled. "Whatever for? I've told you everything I know. This is obviously a case of revenge since I wouldn't smuggle something for them. There's nothing else I or any member of my family can tell you." Brian's response was measured but stern. "Mr. Lagrange, Ms. Dubois will be dealt with in due time. But we want to make sure we do a complete job for you. Now, I'd like to meet individually with your older son while Ms. Davis here..." he indicated Helen, "speaks with your wife. I would like the other Ms. Davis..." indicating me, "to meet with Stephen." "Out of the question!" Brian rose. "Then I'm afraid we can't help you. Thank you for your time, Mr. Lagrange." I thought the poor man was going to have a stroke. I'm sure few white men would dare speak to him in that way, let alone a mere black. I could see him wrestling with something as his eyes darted back and forth as the three of us made ready to leave. At last, he made up his mind. "Oh, very well. I don't want to bring anyone else into this mess. Howard!" The butler seemed to appear from nowhere. I wondered if it was the result of some magical talent or just years of practice. It was probably a little of both, I decided. "Yes, sir?" "Show the young lady to Stephen's rooms..." Rooms? As in the plural of 'room'? "I'll take care of the others," he finished. "Yes, sir." "Go the fuck away!" The voice on the other side of the door wasn't feminine, but it wasn't masculine either - at least not completely. Stephen was eighteen, but his voice sounded more adolescent - perhaps twelve or so - and I couldn't help but suspect that he was doing his best to pitch it as low as possible. "Mr. Stephen, sir," Howard called out so calmly that such outbursts must have become typical to him, "your father wants you to meet with Ms. Davis." "Tell Ms. Davis to fuck herself!" I must have blushed, for Howard looked at me sympathetically. "Ms. Davis, I think it might be best of you waited in my quarters while I talk to Mr. Lagrange." I just nodded. As nasty as Stephen sounded, I wasn't sure I wanted to meet with him anyway. Besides, my mind was on other things, namely Mama Juno. I was feeling extremely fortunate. Of all the cases for Brian to bring me in on, one involving Mama Juno was an answer to my prayers. It had been Mama Juno and her son, Pierre, who had been responsible for my plight in the first place. Mama Juno had seen to my transformation, and Pierre had debased me in an effort to lead me into a life of prostitution. But after their plot had failed, they had avoided the punishments they so richly deserved. They had managed to grease the right palms and stroke the right people in Louisiana's corrupt political system, and the worst they had suffered was a few weeks out of New Orleans to allow things to cool down. Howard showed me into his quarters - a cozy but decidedly masculine set of rooms not far from Stephen's quarters. "You just make yourself comfortable, Ms. Davis," he said solicitously. "I'll talk to Mr. Lagrange straightaway." I looked around the room and back to the door to thank Howard, but he had already left, silently closing the door behind him. As I sat on a comfortable couch, I noticed Howard's small living room was furnished in expensive but well-worn pieces, probably hand-me-downs from the Lagrange family. There were few personal items in the room, limited only to a few framed photos on the small fireplace mantle. They appeared to be mostly family photos, and one in particular which caught my eye showed a smiling Howard with his arm around a pretty little girl of about ten. In the background, I could see the skyline of Chicago, a city I had visited and enjoyed greatly back in my male days. "That's my daughter," Howard said, causing me to jump. I hadn't heard him come in. "It was taken about five years ago in Chicago." "The two of you were on vacation?" I asked politely. Howard sadly shook his head. "No, just me. My daughter lives in Chicago with her mother." "Oh." I felt a pang of sympathy for Howard. I, too, had been separated from my family, but unlike Howard, I had been fortunate enough to find a new family. Still, sometimes I found myself missing my old family, in spite of their many faults, and wondered if there weren't times when they missed me. "Mr. Lagrange has already spoken to Mr. Stephen," Howard explained. "Mr. Stephen will see you now." Whatever Mr. Lagrange had said to his younger son must have left scorch marks on the wall, for it was a chagrinned young man who stood before me. Actually, I use the term "young man" in its broadest sense. A stranger, seeing him standing there in his dark blue track suit and longish curly blond hair would have probably debated with himself if this person before him was male or female. I estimated the transformation must have been about half way complete, although it was impossible to say how far it had progressed internally. I had expected things to be further along, but spells vary in their timing. While I had become female in a relatively short span of days, I understood from my research that the process could take weeks, depending upon the spell, the resistance of the victim, and the wishes of the spell caster. I had met Stephen before, but not in the past couple of years, so I couldn't be entirely certain how much he had changed, but I could tell he was going to be a very beautiful girl when he was done. His features were already delicate, complimented by smooth, fair skin. His blond hair was so curly that it appeared twice its probable length, and while I was sure he had tried to cut it, given a few unruly strands, the magic in the spell had undoubtedly restored it to a more feminine length. Even in the shapeless track suit, there appeared to be two small bumps on his chest which would soon blossom into impressive breasts. He looked at me with soft blue eyes, framed in thick, natural lashes. "All right," he began calmly but with a superior tone. "My father says I'm to speak with you, so let's get this over. Howard! Get out of the room." "But..." "I said get out!" The order was meant to sound authoritative, but his voice cracked, causing it to sound shrilly hysterical and decidedly un- masculine. "Be careful, Ms. Davis," Howard muttered to me, too softly to be overheard by Stephen. "Call me if you need me." I hardly thought I would need Howard's help. The figure before me was probably no stronger now than I was, and besides, I was a Pusher. If he tried anything, I could use my magic to force him away. Since becoming a woman, my own primary power had increased dramatically, and I would have no trouble keeping Stephen at bay. In an odd way, forcing him away was the last thing I would want to do, though. Stephen was actually an attractive young man, if somewhat feminized. I could see he would have not needed his brother's whispering talent to have young women flocking around him... What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't attracted to him, was I? Yet strange im