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Saturday was a bright day. Autumn was in full swing, but we were having one of those Indian Summers, I guess. A very late remnant of summer was reminding us how warm and comforting the country could be. I was driving outside London on a country road just off the motorway. I was enjoying it. How could I fail to? Mrs. Milner had given me the keys to a cream coloured Mini Cooper Sport cabriolet, and I had the top down. I was travelling down to Eton to pick up a young pupil for the half- term. I wasn't the only one of the girls heading down there. Genevieve had a Bentley Continental GT, Amber had a Range Rover, and Emily was being chauffeured down in a Maybach. So I didn't get the pick of the bunch, but I hadn't driven for months, and this was fun. Who would want to be locked into the back of a Maybach? I think we were supposed to be stepmothers. I guess some men can't afford the trophy wife for real, so just hire them for special occasions. I had a number of pictures of my 'son' in the car with me, and had some confidence that I could pick him out of a crowd. I arrived very early, so I parked in Windsor and walked across the river. Most of the mothers, fathers, and chauffeurs weren't doing that of course, and the centre of Eton was a car park. As I understood it, my 'stepson' was a rugby player and cricketer, so shouldn't mind the little walk; he should be fit. I didn't mind it. My fitness was getting up to a reasonable standard, though my strength was barely increased from the levels at which Andy, my trainer, had first measured it, that of about a ten-year old child. I could row for about ten minutes now, covering two kilometres, and cycle for about half an hour at a comfortable pace. I'd come to appreciate cycling, as I had decided that I couldn't run any more. The purchase of a super-tight sports bra hadn't been enough to make running comfortable. I had to adjust my arms as they hit against the sides of my breasts if I ran naturally, and the adjustment felt wrong. I lacked as much motivation to keep fit as I seem to recall. I very often had to force myself to go to the gym and once there was often reluctant to put in any great effort, occasionally stopping when I was feeling like I'd had enough instead of pushing on. I combated this by using Andy to set goals for me, little improvements that I could tick off on a weekly or fortnightly basis, associated with times, distances, weights, repetitions, or even my weight. I assumed that it was my altered hormone levels that were responsible for my lack of drive, but I made up for it through a competitive personality that saw me always wanting to achieve my goals. So Andy set them, and I hit them. I looked down at the water running under the bridge. The autumn sun was low even in the middle of the afternoon, and the light was reflecting off the wavelets on the water, flicking golden glitter up onto the side of the bridge. Jan had the kids. I had time to myself, so I opened up my purse and fished out the envelope that I'd picked up from the mat this morning. Business mail, London postmark. Nothing really exceptional about the envelope except the company address on the rear. It was stationery from my old bank, yet it was addressed to Sarafina Michaels. I slid a long, false nail under the flap and slit it slightly open before sliding in a finger to do the rest of the work. The letter was a simple piece of plain paper, handwritten: "Dear Tiffany, I missed you at the club last night. It's a shame as I was so looking forward to watching you perform. I understand from your manager that you have moved on. I hope you will let me know where you've moved to. I didn't realise when I originally spoke to the club that you were performing under a different name. I watched your namesake's act and quite enjoyed it; however I was unable to entertain my husband as I had promised him, once I found that you weren't there. I felt quite upset about being unable to keep my promise, and, I must admit, a little let down. I do recall sending you a rather lovely item of clothing not so long ago. I recall that it didn't fit. I've sent one of my help over to make the necessary adjustments. I also have another position for you. If you get in touch with Rita on the number below, we might negotiate over the resizing. I do so want to introduce you to my husband again, Lucy" So, Lucy had been to the strip club and found out that I was gone. Now she was threatening me again. She'd probably been at the club just two nights ago, so someone was already looking for me. I could be being followed now, or there could be someone waiting for me back at home. I tried to consider the implications, but I wasn't too concerned for Jan and the children. This was all about keeping me in line, as some kind of object lesson for her husband. Kidnapping was not Lucy's domain but his, and if she had to resort to some threat against my loved ones to keep me in line, he would realise that she had lost her direct control. I still had to prove that I was a threat though. No, let me rephrase that; to Lucy I didn't have to prove that I was a threat, I had to prove that I was a promise. I put the letter back into the envelope and the envelope back into my purse. I pulled out my cellphone and made a call to Gloria, the private detective that I'd engaged some time back to look into Lucy's affairs. The harsh voice responding told me that she hadn't given up the smoking yet. "Gloria, it's Tiffany Michaels." I opened. "The Hong Kong file?" She immediately responded. "Yes. Can we talk money and an immediate start? Lucy and John Hung are in London." "Are they? Would you like to find out where they are and what they're up to?" "I would. Listen, Gloria, money is, well, money is no object now. I need to know everything about those two and anyone they associate with." "Ms Michaels, why don't you come by my office in the next couple of days and let me know what's up, and we'll discuss terms. Rest assured I'll get to work immediately and bill to the account we set up. Movements, associates and any other visibles will go down on file. Do you want audio?" "Can you tap their phones?" "It's an expensive operation, but we can try. Safer usually to use directional microphones, but neither as complete nor as high quality." "Go for safety with these guys." "Oh, that sounds exciting! So much better than tailing errant husbands! But," and Gloria suddenly sounded concerned, "do you need someone to look out for you?" "I don't think so. I'll get back to you." I hung up on Gloria moments later and wondered whether it would be worth speaking to Mrs Milner. I decided that this was something that I could handle. As I said, Lucy wanted me in line, to show her husband that she could degrade a man, to keep him in line. She needed me to be concerned enough about her threat that I would give in, and call the number she gave me. Well, I wouldn't, and neither would I worry about being found. I could take care of myself. But how could I take care of Lucy? Some of that boob-growth liquid would be a great start! My phone rang. My personal phone. It was Simon! Oh, he'd called before, but I'd let the calls go unanswered. Some time had passed and I thought he'd given up. I watched the phone as it rang, then felt my thumb head towards the green button. "Hello." I stated, as though I didn't know my caller. "Tiff! At last! Where have you been?" "Simon? I wasn't sure I'd hear from you again?" "If you're saying that because of the last time we met then you don't know me very well, and I'd like to change that." I paused for a moment. "Simon, I like you a lot, but I'm not sure I can give you what you're after." "I guess I expected this from when you finally answered the phone, in which case you're acting like you got what you wanted." I sputtered for a moment, and then realised he was right. I was acting like I expected him to. "You're right. I apologise. But the fact still remains that I'm not sure I can give you what you're after." "Meet me for lunch on Saturday, and we can talk." "Deal." I smiled to myself as I put the phone back in my purse. One more complication. You think you've sorted one out, and two more pop up in its place! Two evenings ago I'd got on a train out to a small town in Surrey. The small town where my parents live. The trip took maybe an hour, not including the short walk through the town centre and along the canal. The irony of it made me smile, that Lucy had been looking for me in a strip joint, whilst I was visiting my parents. Anyway, I dressed down and comfortable, in my regular jeans, t-shirt, jacket and trainers. I carried a small backpack, in which was a change of clothes and shoes, as well as some items of makeup and a purse. I did have an appointment that night. I had tried to visit before, but the closest I'd come was within sight of the ticket office at Waterloo, twice. This time I made it onto the train. As it pulled into the station everything looked so eerily familiar. Stepping onto the platform was stepping into a long running d?j?-vu. The feeling continued along the streets, and on the path by the canal. Though the trees had been green and intense when I last trod the path, every turn and sight brought a feeling of familiarity and ease. Then three young lads appeared on the path coming toward me. I never felt at ease with groups of youths in their territory. When I used to go running along this path, I got embarrassed when they called out derogatory comments. Not that it was all of them, or all the time, but the few made me wary of the many. In my mad imaginings I would turn on them with some biting remark that left them scarred and speechless. In truth, I ran less in public. Now, I was in the realm of mad imaginings again, weighing my options for passing them on the path, or on the grass, to the left or to the right, wide, or brushing shoulders to let them know that I could care less about them? Then I caught one's eyes. He dropped them immediately, and lined up behind his mates in single file as they gave me room to pass. "Thank you," I whispered as we passed. I looked back after a few more steps, expecting them to be looking back at me, but nothing, they just carried on together, kicking at stones. Simple, polite boys on their way to wherever. I hadn't been worried. I'd been, if anything, a bit aggressive. Logically I knew that I was a potential victim, for any one male, let alone three, but in the emotion of the moment I was masculine myself, guarding my territory, that strip of path that I was walking on. Logic just didn't matter. Was I supposed to feel vulnerable? All the time? I'd been out at clubs on Saturday nights enough times to come across girls that had no fear of the guys they were threatening. And I'd felt vulnerable myself enough times, as a guy. I guess it was situational, but I was a little worried; would my natural response to situations, like that last one, put me at risk? Of course, the fact that they hadn't looked back was slightly disappointing. I had been kind of looking forward to a wolf-whistle. The house appeared too quickly. There it was, on the opposite bank of the canal, the back garden rolling right down to the water and a collection of gnomes sitting on a miniature jetty fishing the weedy shallows. I painted the Arsenal strip on them many years ago, and named them for my heroes. No-one was visible in the garden and the back windows were opaque from this distance. I headed up to the bridge, crossing it past the old local pub which was busy for the middle of the week, and turned up my old street. A small boat's horn knocked me rudely out of my reverie. I was back on the bridge in Windsor, looking down at the Thames, looking down in particular at a small cabin boat with two men in it, both looking back at me and waving. Their gestures seemed to imply that they wanted me to join them in the boat. I smiled back at them and shook my head. They appeared dispirited. I blew them a kiss as a joke, then suddenly felt very self-conscious about it. I jerked away from the wall and felt myself redden. I just blew a couple of guys a kiss. So what, I thought, they probably loved it! But I didn't want to lean back on the wall, just in case they were still there, so I sauntered into Eton. I walked up to the old yellow door, took a deep breath, then pushed the bell button. I heard the muted chimes, then saw through the patterned glass some light as the door to the living room was opened. The chain slid back. I adjusted my backpack on my shoulder and shuffled my feet. The door was open and my mother was looking straight at me. "Yes?" She was an old woman, my mother, in her early sixties and aged by a lifetime of light smoking. She tried to keep young by keeping her hair blonde and slightly too long, as well as staying out of the sun as she'd been taught as a young woman. I was a late child for her, and her only child, so well loved. I remember a childhood of trips to the Lake District and Devon, and Sundays in the pub with family and friends. Dad was younger than her. She'd had no children by her first husband who died in an industrial accident. She remarried in her early thirties to my Dad, an ex-policeman, still working as security in the local hospital. He was the active one, always active, in the garden, or down on the allotment. Never too many beers, and forever rolling his eyes at Mum with her 'just one more Martini'. Dad always doted on her, and she, slightly flighty and a bit of a party girl, always had time and a hug for me. She'd been so proud when I got my job in the bank. Her first husband, Den, had always wanted to work in a bank and was attending night school to 'improve himself' when the accident happened. His employment left Mum with a good pension, and a payout that had meant she'd always been comfortable. She gave up teaching when she had me, and never went back to it, always preferring to be at home for me and Dad. The house was always immaculate, and occasionally decorated with titbits of whatever craft was taking her fancy, be it pottery, painting, or dressmaking. Sometimes she could sell what she made at fairs, or through her friends. She read avidly, and devoured all the latest books, no matter their genre. Thus she was an expert on everything, from fly-fishing to furniture. "The authors have researched their topics much more than you or I." She would say. "They write about what they know!" And therefore there were no debates, just the way things were, and that was it. As I grew older, Dad and I used to take our conversations out into the garden, where Mum didn't rule, and talk sports, and pubs, and other topics of conversation fitting a Father and Son. I wanted to hug her. She looked confused. Waiting. "Hi, Mum." Now more confused. "It's me. Michael." She held up her finger to indicate that I should wait, then twisted to call over her shoulder. "George! Can you come here?" "What's up, dear?" I could hear the paper being folded and my Dad coming out of the room. "There's a young lady here who claims she's Michael." And then he was there, looking over Mum's shoulder at me. He appeared to screw up one eye, and then pursed his lips. "Well, you'd better come in, hadn't you?" Tea was served on a tray. I knew that by this time of the evening mum would be having hers black, with just a small tot of gin in the bottom of the cup. Her questioning "Sugar, dear? Milk?" caught me out slightly, and I responded uneasily with "None, thanks, just milk." Dad watched me and nodded slightly. The room went quiet. "So, dear, what's this about Michael?" "Carol," interrupted Dad, before I had a chance to form an answer, "this is Michael." "Of course," she responded brightly, shaking her head just a little as she took a sip of her tea. "Michael, why don't you tell us what is going on?" I started at the beginning, right at the beginning, reminding them of my college relationship with Lucy. I told them what Lucy had told me about her life following her father's death, and the business empire that she'd taken over, part of which I worked for. I explained how she'd manipulated a scenario whereby I'd ended up travelling to Hong Kong supposedly for a few months of management training and experience. How this was preceded by medical preparation by the company doctor, unbeknownst to me and without my consent. Finally how we'd met in Hong Kong, and she'd arranged for my abduction to a centre where she'd performed a large number of physical transformations, and a few psychological ones, whilst keeping me under the influence of various drugs. I left out the scenes from the club, but did explain what Lucy thought she was doing, and that she was trying to keep tabs on me. All the while Mum sipped her tea whilst Dad listened intently, flushes of emotion running across his open face. "How much did all this cost?" Was Mum's first question when I wrapped up. "Cost?" I answered, confused. "I don't know." "What do you call yourself now?" "Tiffany." "Tiffany? What on earth made you choose that name?" "I didn't choose it. Lucy gave me it. It's on all my identification now." "You didn't choose it." She appeared to chew on her tea for a moment. "When did you tell Jan about all this?" "She found out when I got home, a few hours after I found out myself." "That was a couple of months ago, wasn't it?" "Yes. I'm sorry I didn't come earlier." "You didn't even call... Are you happy like this?" I looked across at Dad as he sat up ramrod straight in his chair. "Carol! Haven't you listened to a thing? Your son didn't choose to become a woman. He was forced. How do you think he can be happy about it?" She looked straight back at him and snarled "Forced? How can any man be forced into that?" She waved her hand up and down my body. "Mum," I gulped, trying to bite back my quickly rising emotions, "I didn't want this!" "I'm not your mother!" She shouted, standing up quickly. "George, get this lying tramp out of my house!" Without waiting for a response she swung for the door and yanked herself out and up the stairs. I couldn't help crying into my hands. Shortly I felt some soft footfalls and then an arm draped itself around my shoulders. My Dad hugged me into his chest and I gladly sank into it whilst I tried to control my sobbing. "Come on, kiddo," he urged, gently, "why don't you go find a seat out back and I'll grab us a couple of beers?" with that he lifted me slightly and pointed me towards the open rear doors. I choked up again when I remembered back to my mother's response that evening. I looked up, and found myself about half way down the High Street headed towards the college. I looked down at the small paper notes in my hand and carried on towards Keates Lane, where Common Hall was to be found. Eton really was a beautiful little town when the weather found it well. The streets were packed with strolling parents and scurrying scholars, sons of lords, royalty, and business emperors. I was dressed casually, but tremendously expensively. Sarm Hippique boots, Peter Rossi Jeans, a plain white Jermyn Street blouse, tailored to make me look a little smaller up top, and a bargain Nicole Fahri three-quarter length leather coat. My shoulder bag was the only mildly ostentatious item I carried, as it was obviously Gucci. Mrs. Milner allowed the use of mild ostentation, to inform less aware onlookers of one's class. With anything else it didn't matter how expensive it was, it simply mattered how cheap it wasn't! With the circles in which we revolved, no-one cared if you wore Versace, Smith, or Nicholas Trent, just so long as you didn't think you could get away with Dorothy Perkins or Monsoon. People paid for quality and comfort because it was practical. My hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and sunglasses covered my eyes enabling me to watch the wandering hordes as I walked. Not a few of the boys looked twice as they passed me, in either direction, juniors congregating and giggling while seniors either pretended not to look or offered me a shy smile. To those I smiled back. Most mothers walked in twos and threes, a few dressed like they were heading to Ascot with their charges, many, like me, looking like they had just driven the Range Rover in off the estate. There was a host of nationalities, and it struck me that perhaps this was one place that parents didn't send their nannies and maids, as there was so much opportunity here for maintaining the old school tie networks. That was when the next thought struck me that Mrs. Milner hadn't spent thousands of pounds on dressing us all for this occasion without considering her investment. We, Genevieve, Amber, Emily and I had been instructed not to travel together or meet up in Eton. What chance then that a single woman might interest a single man in catching her eye, approaching her in friendly conversation, maybe check out her availability? We were all trained for such a situation: converse, of course, but reveal name and number only. I smiled to myself. I was actually looking forward to trying out some of the tricks I'd learned, to see if I could garner any business. Dad and I sat out back on the bench looking down the long garden to the canal. I felt uncomfortable sitting there. Don't get me wrong, I didn't feel uncomfortable about the company or the location, I felt uncomfortable with my position, my physical position. Let me explain. Dad sat down exactly as he always did, the left side of the bench, beer in his left hand, right arm along the back of the bench. I sat on the right, leaned back, beer in both hands on my lap, legs comfortably splayed. That was how I always sat on that bench, with Dad, but my body was disagreeing with it. The thing was, I felt that if I crossed my legs, Dad would know that my changes went deeper than the surface. And then my hunch was confirmed. "You know," Dad offered, "it doesn't look right for a woman to be sat the way you are now. Very Tomboy-ish." He smiled at me. "I guess you don't want to hear it, but that old girlfriend of yours did an amazing job on you, from the outside. If I didn't know you, I'd think you were a very good-looking young lady." "You know, Dad, I appreciate the compliment. If I'm going to be a lady, better to be a good-looking one, right?" We laughed. "So you seem quite comfortable with the fact that you are a young lady?" Dad opined. "It's been a while. I've had some issues, but I think the rough spots are starting to get smoothed over." "How so?" "Like dressing, for example. Dressing in women's clothing, especially the obvious stuff like skirts and dresses. Beyond the physical issues that has been one of the biggest problems I've had." "I can see how it might be." Dad took a swig from his can. "Yeah, I couldn't get my head round the fact that I wasn't cross- dressing, that actually I was dressing right for my looks. I mean, think about it, how crazy is that? That we've taken a cultural attitude and turned it into a learned discomfort." "Eh?" "Take skirts for example," I continued, blithely, "they're just a wrap of material around your waist. Cheap, easy, and unisex. Look at the kilt, or even the towel wrapped around you after a shower. Trousers are more practical, warmer, more protective, and better fitting. Girls get used to wearing skirts from a young age, so they're comfortable with them. Men don't, so they're not, but they also add cultural stigmas, marking the skirt as feminine, therefore unmanly. Differentiating Kilts from skirts to avoid such a stigma." "So you don't wear skirts?" I smiled at him. "I do. Now. But rarely, and not when I can get away with jeans!" I crossed my legs. I thought I might be able to get away with it. "Why did she do this to you?" "Revenge?" I took a few mouthfuls of beer. "It wasn't just me, you know. There were others at the club. All her exes, apparently. Her message to her new husband is 'leave me behind, leave manhood behind'." "You said she's trying to keep an eye on you. Why is that?" "I don't know if she is, but she has tried to force me into a job in the location of her choosing, and threatened me if I try to do anything to reverse any of this." I indicated my body with my hand. "Why would she do that?" "What do you mean?" "Maybe it's my old mind working overtime." My Dad wondered. "I worked in a day before sociopaths, and various manias, and psychobabble reasons for doing wrong because you didn't understand. In my day, criminals did things for a reason. Oh, sure, passion was one of them, but it was just a reason, not a 'temporary loss of sanity'. Why didn't she kill you, or if it's the jealous girlfriend thing, why not just chop it off and be done with it? Why did she transform you like this?" "Maybe she wanted to try out some experiments. Apparently all my bits work, except I'm infertile. That's supposed to be a first for medical science." "Let me ask you something. If she'd castrated you, what would you have done?" "I'd kill her." "And if she'd chopped off a finger, or cut up your face?" "I'd find her and do the same to her." "But like this you're more concerned about Jan and the kids, cross- dressing, your job, and whether your parents are going to accept you?" I stopped and thought for a moment. "I'm whole and healthy, even Jan said that, so it's hard to be indignant about injury or loss." "She's emasculated you, and with that you've lost any thought of revenge. She's trapped you. She's probably not keeping an eye on you, she's distracting you. Wow," my Dad nodded to himself, "there really is a fine line between genius and insanity!" "Well, she's just miscalculated slightly. I do have thoughts of revenge." "Finish your beer, son, I'll get us another one. And then you can go through it." The common area was full, and when I stepped back outside for a breath of fresh air, and to avoid the House Master and Dame, I was followed by a suited gent that I'd let catch my eye a few times. I waited a few seconds, and then felt his presence at my shoulder. "Lovely day!" He brightly stated in a brisk accent. "James Guthrie," he introduced himself, holding out his hand. "Sara." I smiled, holding my hand for him to take. Today, I had decided, was not a 'Tiffany' day. "And who are you here for, Sara?" "Jake Marston." "Jake, yes, I know Jake. My Harry is a year below. Good rugger player. I didn't know Jake had a sister?" I laughed gently, and placed my hand on his arm momentarily for 'support'. "Why, thank you, Mr Guthrie!" "Please, call me James." About half an hour, and four introductions later, Jake stuck his head out for a look around and I waved him over. I left Duncan, the latest intro, with my 'office number' and headed toward Jake to help with his bags. As I got close I realised I needn't have bothered. Jake was about half a foot taller than me, and maybe a foot wider at the shoulder. He was carrying a rucksack, full, by both straps in one hand. For all his size though, his blond, floppy hair and unblemished skin made him look very boyish. He grinned widely and leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek. "Are you my latest mother?" He whispered as he did so. "Call me Sara," I responded subtly. "I hope the car's close," he said as he stood back up. I smiled. "'Fraid not. Sling your bag over your shoulder. We're walking to Windsor." "A mother who walks? What ideas is my father getting?" I wasn't sure who the dig was aimed at, or even if it was a dig, rather than an attempt at humour. "Perhaps good ones, Jacob Marston!" "Sorry, Mother!" he responded, with emphasis on the 'mother'. We did manage to get away from the crowds and into some relative peace as we headed back over towards Windsor. As we approached the bridge I was recalling the letter and Lucy's threat, so I was a little surprised when Jake spoke. "So who are you, Sara?" I gave it a moment's consideration. "Rent-a-mother, I guess. Your father couldn't make it in person so he contacted my agency." "My father never makes it. That's why mother left him." "I'm not sure you should be telling me this." "Oh, I'm sure it doesn't matter. My father's a workaholic womaniser and my mother's an alcoholic. Father won't be at home this long leave, and mother won't visit. Rent-a-mother is all I ever have." We carried on in silence for a few paces. I stopped, and grabbed him by the wrist to stop him. "How old are you, Jake? Eighteen?" "Seventeen." "You're too young for that cynicism, too young not to have an adult in your life." "And you're too young to be my mother." "Yes, thank God!" I smiled. He did too, slightly. "We're going to put your bag in my car, then we're not taking you home, instead, you're coming out with me for a while." "Really? Why? What for?" I turned him back towards the other side of the bridge and pushed him back into a walk. "Because I quite fancy something to eat, and I'm not used to eating alone." Dad came back with the beers and sat down. "Did you see Mum?" I asked hopefully. "Don't worry about it," he responded, non-committally. "I haven't got long before I've got to head back," I stated as I took the second beer. I was feeling slightly buzzed from the first. "So hurry your story. What you got planned?" "I'm not sure. I have pieces." "What do you have?" "I have somebody who doesn't know they're pretending to be me standing in for me at the place Lucy wanted me to work." At Dad's look of confusion I elaborated slightly. "I switched CVs with her. They think they're employing me." "Okay," Dad murmured thoughtfully, "if it's illegal, it's not as illegal as what you're up against, but it doesn't sound particularly safe." "No, but I just need it to hold out for a while. I've done something you told me about years ago, for changing identity. I've applied for some documents in the real names of dead people." Dad laughed. "That's a good one! You're lucky though. There's a new set of systems coming down the line that check deceased lists against passport applications. You're after a passport, I assume?" "Yeah, next port, Hong Kong." "And when you get there?" "See, that's the tricky bit. First thing when I'm there is I'm going to find a group of other people like myself." "The others she did this to?" "Yes, all her ex-boyfriends I presume. I'm going to find them and enlist them, but to do what, I don't know." "You don't know, or you don't want to tell your old man?" I looked across at Dad and smiled. "No, really I don't know. I need to find the thing that will most hurt her." "What about getting her to change you back?" I looked down at my beer, and nodded non-committally. It was that question I was considering as I sat Jake down in the faux- French caf? in Windsor station, the question of getting her to change me back. There was something driving me to consider the question, driving me from two directions. The first was that I needed to think about something as a distraction; the second was that the thoughts that I needed to be distracted from were associated to my form. They were the same thoughts that were becoming my curse, the drive to feel something in a certain location. That location being an exceptionally, if not almost exclusively feminine location, thoughts of changing back meant that I could think about being rid of the embarrassing, somewhat humiliating urges. Right now though I was sat opposite a tall, muscular male whose physique could have been making me feel a little intimidated, yet whose demeanour was nothing but gentle, even soft. His face was still so young it was almost cute. Certainly there were masculine features there, the strength of the jaw, and the thick eyebrows, but the clear, pale skin and the blondness of the hair belied all that. His bright blue eyes gave him an almost feminine gaze. He was a male, but he was pretty. I knew he'd never want to hear that, but I could feel a slight attraction to him. I mean I could see what was attractive about him. Even after a few glasses of wine which had slipped down a little too easily I wasn't going to be attracted to a man, let alone a young boy, but even I sometimes had fantasies of being held by strong arms. A strong woman would be ideal in my fantasies, but occasionally there were men who were good-looking enough to make me wonder. Jake, meanwhile, was chatting on occasion. Over a steak dinner I had found out a little about his background and childhood, and a lot about life at Eton. He was quite enjoying his cold, bottled lagers, something that I was sure he was used to from the way he drank them, though after four I could see that he was still not used to pacing himself or the alcohol strength, and his tongue was loosening. By the time dessert arrived he was telling a long story about a fruit bowl, the Dame of the House, and a packet of condoms that had me laughing and unabashedly inciting him to more, my hands drawing one of his across the table towards me. I poured him the last glassful from my bottle, and stepped to the ladies' room before the bill arrived. I felt myself overbalance slightly on my boot heels, and knew that I was a little tipsier than I should be. As I sat in a cubicle I also knew that I was craving something quite desperately, and my small day purse only held a few of my condoms, my self-satisfaction tools having been left at home. It only took me a moment to justify phoning a hotel, as I was obviously too drunk to drive. Yes, they were busy, but I could afford a suite, so I did. Returning to the table I grabbed the bill, took Jake by the hand forcing him to gulp the last of the wine, and headed directly to the till. After that it was a short walk to the hotel and Jake, though slightly reluctant, had to admit that we'd had too much drink to drive. I left Dad at the front door whilst it was just getting dark. I had to get back and would change on the train and probably do my makeup in Waterloo or the taxi. Mum didn't turn up again. Dad reckoned she'd headed out for the night, and I knew that meant that he was probably going to have to help her to bed when she arrived home. I wondered what everything meant for us now, for Jan, Katy and Kim. Richard had always been awkward for Mum, but I was happy, even relieved that Dad was onside. Dad never left Richard out, so perhaps he could have a male figure in his life now, a father figure, the same one I had. For Jan, Katy and Kim though, Mum was a major figure. Sure, we couldn't visit much, they were a long way away, but every school holiday, and some extra weekends saw us driving down and Jan spending time with Mum while Katy and Kim pulled out the chest full of dolls and soft toys that Mum kept adding to. I caught myself weeping on the train, and pulled a packet of tissues from my pack. In a fit of irony I silently cursed the hormones that were causing my make-up to run, and making it harder for me to prepare for my evening. Could we just invite Dad up? Or would I have to sit it out as Jan and the kids travelled away for weekends to my parents? I don't know. I didn't know. I didn't want to lose my Mum. What was I going to do? Get Lucy to change me back? The taxi finally arrived at the hotel and Jake and I were able to make our way fairly directly to the reception. There were no strange glances. My concern was that someone might notice the difference in our ages, what with Jake being still a schoolboy, but then I now looked younger than my 26 years, and Jake looked plenty older than his 17. I dragged him by the hand to our room, where I settled him on the end of the bed and brought each of us a beer from the mini-bar. I really didn't need another beer, but I could sense some nervousness in Jake. I guessed that he might need a little leadership, and probably quite a bit of reassurance, something at which I was very practised. He was pretty. It might have been the drink now, but I wanted to try kissing him, and I wanted him to hold me. He had Simon's size, and maybe some of his strength, but he also had such smooth skin, and fluffy blond hair, red lips and intensely pale blue eyes. I also wanted quite desperately to have him inside me. Not something inside me, or a cock inside me, I wanted to have him inside me. But I had to take this slowly, use my experience to cover his inexperience. Sure, he could have had girlfriends, and I'm sure he had, but probably never a stranger seducing him in a hotel room. So I started by switching on the television, picking out a film, undoing his shoes and moving him back up the bed to a comfortable position against the headboard. I picked a romcom. We had both drunk and eaten quite a bit and I didn't want him falling asleep, so I wanted something interesting. I didn't want something more interesting than me, though, so no action films, which I knew a schoolboy would be difficult to tear away from. There was the added bonus of the film I chose having a very attractive lead actress, and a nudity warning - the com in romcom was definitely emphasized. I chatted to him as the film started, and told him a few of my more off colour jokes. As we started to get more into the film I got him another beer, and getting back onto the bed settled slightly against his shoulder. It wasn't long before I put my hand onto his arm, and started to trace his bicep under his shirt. I could feel his unease, but I kept gently at it, until it seemed that he didn't notice. At that point I moved my hand softly up to his shoulder, and around onto his chest, before sliding it down his abdomen and onto his lap, bringing it to rest on the top of his right thigh. He shifted slightly. I couldn't tell if it was to move away or move closer at first, but then he lifted my head slightly to get his arm around behind me, and I found myself cuddled into the nook under his arm, my head against his chest. At the same time though it seemed that he moved his crotch back away from my hand, yet the manoeuvre brought my fingers onto the inside of his thigh, and I gently began to scratch my fingernails on his chinos. Slowly sliding them up and down the inside of his leg, and not neglecting his left thigh either, I gradually worked my fingers closer to his crotch. He might still have been nervous. He was certainly tense. I guessed I needed to make this obvious for him. I lifted my hand and gently rested it right on top of his cock, cupping the curve in his trousers ever so gently. I felt it inflate slightly, probably trapped in a tight casing of Jockey elastic. I ran my thumb and index finger from the base down around the shape that I could feel, and felt it pressing to be released to hardness. I raised my hand back to his chest and looked up at him, to find him already looking down at me. I smiled, and rolled off him and the bed. I knew the film was at an interesting stage, and the amounts of clothing being lost would put him right in the mood. Meanwhile I stepped into the bathroom and with a speed and efficiency that Mrs Milner had drilled into me I opened my purse and pulled out everything I would need, starting with cotton wool and cold cream. I stepped into the shower wearing the complimentary shower cap and with a mouthful of complimentary mouthwash. Two seconds of soaping the vital areas and I was done, followed by a brief towel down and then back in front of the mirror with my make-up bag. My artistry took under two minutes, following the Milner Mantra of less is more, and I was aware that I would be in dim light with a horny male. I curled my eyelashes, lengthened them with a heavy mascara, and painted my lips with a bright red lipstick. Two strokes of blush over the foundation took a second each but looked sexy. I pulled my underwear back on. It was daywear, but the effect should be okay. I thought about slipping the boots back on but they weren't high heeled. Everything today had been practical wear. Then I saw the gown and slipped that and the dodgy hotel slippers on. I mussed up my hair going for the Let's-Do-It-Again look, took a deep breath, and slipped back out into the room. It was quiet. The television was off and the bed was empty. I moved through to the reception room and caught Jake laying out bedding onto the sofa. I was puzzled. "Wouldn't you rather be in the bedroom with me?" I asked him from the doorway. He looked up. Apologetically. "You're very beautiful." "But?" "But I have someone." I almost screamed in frustration. I wasn't going to let this go. I couldn't! His reticence just made the craving so much stronger! "I won't tell anyone. No one will know." I managed to keep it level and quiet. I walked over to him, reaching for his arm. He let me, but carried on laying out his bed. Then he looked up at me. "Would you want to sleep with a woman?" he asked. I blundered straight into an answer. "I do! It's men I have trouble with but you seem so right!" Then I realised, and paused. "Oh!" I looked up at him. "You meant for me to say no, because it would be..." He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, it would be..." "So you are...?" "Yes," he replied, flopping down onto the sofa, "I am. I know, and I have someone else special who knows." "And?" "And that's it. No one else knows, except now you. I'm sure many people suspect, including one or two of my girlfriends." He smiled shyly. "Mostly because I've never, you know, with a girl..." I sat next to him. "Well isn't that just fucking ironic," I sighed. "I am sorry. If you were really interested, I mean." "Oh, Jake, I was. Who wouldn't be? But that's not the irony, at least not the only one." I sighed again. "Well, you've been straight with me, so I feel safe in repaying you. I used to be a man." I looked at him. Silence. Maybe shock, or was it disbelief, or what? Then suddenly, like an outburst of released breath "No way!" I nodded. "Really. Hence preferring sleeping with women." I shrugged and smiled. "Would you want me now?" He smiled and shook his head. "If it's true, and I'm not sure I can believe you, then no." I was still wanting him so much I was almost willing to prostitute my rear pretending to be a boy, but this craving had to be beaten somehow, and I willed myself away from that! I needed some dignity, especially in a situation that required all of it, not some belittling, demeaning form of begging. I got up, but held his hand and didn't turn away yet. "I am wondering why not?" "I don't quite know how to put it to you. You said you prefer women, yes? So imagine your beautiful, loved girlfriend and then imagine that she goes away for a few months travelling and comes back as a hard, muscly, hairy man. Short haired, stocky, square. Would you still think she was beautiful? Still fancy her?" He watched me shake my head. "That's how I feel about a man who would want to become a woman. What a waste!" I could picture his description, and I laughed. "Okay," I sighed again, letting his hand go. "Let's sleep and hopefully tomorrow morning we'll still respect each other, eh?" It was his turn to laugh as I backed toward the bedroom. "And I didn't want to become a woman, but that's a whole other story!" I closed the door behind me and kicked myself over and over mentally. I was almost on my knees from desire. I rummaged around in the minibar for a cold bottle of coke or something similar in size. Lucy threw all of the clothes back out of the suitcase that she had laid open on the bed. The room was a mess of indecision. Did she stay to see the snide smile wiped off her husband's face, or get back to running her company? She'd set her dog on the scent, but it would be a day before he'd even arrive, which would be a day of kicking her heels. Perhaps she could lay some groundwork, try to chase up Michael herself, but that would mean getting her hands dirty, and that was something she wouldn't do. But she couldn't trust her husband to find her, as it was in his interests to keep her ex free of her influence, undermining her authority. John knew that his dominance was limited to the old areas of interpersonal relationships, and his wife was master of the new ones, business, psychology, management, mind-games. If he could show he was her equal or superior in this one area she would lose her hold, his respect, and any authority she had. So Lucy decided that it was worth staying onsite for a while, until Michael, or rather Tiffany, was found. It might also be worth having that personal intervention, so that her husband could see her controlling her victim, and having the latest last-word. It made her smile, again thinking of that situation where she could be the one ordering her husband to humiliate her victim. And this perhaps after the doctor had done his job, giving the new woman a future to look forward to of being treated like the abnormality she would become. She pulled the last of her clothes back out, and set about putting them all back into the cupboards and drawers. A knock on the suite door two rooms away caught her attention and she glided through the rooms to open it. "Good afternoon, ma'am!" The woman held out a very large bouquet to Lucy, who immediately reached for it. Before she could get her head around the mass of leaves and petals the woman had turned away toward the lift. Lucy kicked the door closed behind her and headed for a large vase on a table in her hallway. She placed the bouquet in without unwrapping it, just turning it around to face her. It was beautiful, a very dramatic combination of oranges and deep purples. Someone knew her favoured colours. She smiled and reached for the card, but it was blank. Ah, well, she thought to herself. She got quite a few of those.