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I was taking a walk to stay--all right; I'll admit it--to get in shape, when I saw the "Going Out of Business" sign in the second-hand furniture store a block north of my condo. I wasn't in the market for anything, new or used, but I can't resist a bargain, and what was better for finding a bargain, I asked myself, than a store that was having a going- out-of-business sale? The store offered everything you could imagine, in every condition you could imagine--sofas, tables, chairs, bookcases, beds, lamps, china cabinets, sideboards, hassocks, you name it. Some items looked almost new; others bore the scars of generations, in the same or a succession of families. There was nothing special, but the prices were agreeable. A couple of large prints of original erotic paintings, etchings, and illustrations tempted me, as did their price tags, stirring my cock as well as my thoughts, but I passed on them, doubting--all right, I'll admit it--knowing that I wouldn't have the balls, as it were, to hang them in my condo. They'd join the naughty statues I'd bought as a younger version of myself, right after high school, when I'd rented my first apartment--cloven-hoofed satyrs, mostly, their erections jutting from their hirsute groins as they pranced among naked, dancing nymphs. The statues had looked sexy, even decadent--or so I'd thought, in my younger days--cavorting upon the end tables that had flanked my black leather couch. Now, they just took up closet space. No doubt, so would a copy of a Eugene Le Poitevin illustration, an Aubrey Beardsley sketch, a Mark Blanton painting, or a Giulio Romano etching. I was about to leave when the looking-glass caught my eye. As soon as I saw it, I knew I just had to have it, no matter the price. It was love, I guess you could say, at first sight. It was a full-length mirror, of highly polished glass, in an ornate, bronze frame carved into ivy vines and leaves of intricate and beautiful detail. This was a find, indeed; it was a treasure! No doubt, it would be horribly expensive, too, I thought, as, with a sense of despair, I took the price tag on the string that was tied around a space between the tendrils of leafy vines, turned it over in my trembling fingers, and, holding my breath, dreading to see the price, which, surely, would be--must be--beyond my means--and I beheld the sum for which the proprietor would agree to part with this wonderful masterpiece. My eyes bulged. I frowned and looked again. Surely, I had misread the tag. No sane man could let such an item as this beautiful looking-glass go for the absurdly low price that was printed on the tag. I read the numbers: $10.00. Ten dollars! Such a price was unbelievable. It was impossible. Surely--fear clutched my heart at the thought--there must be a mistake. The proprietor had meant $100.00--perhaps even $1000.00--not a mere $10.00. What if he the owner had made a mistake? I asked myself. He'd marked $10.00 on the tag, I reassured myself, and, if the mirror was tagged at $10.00, I'd make him accept $10.00 for it. If he hesitated, if he balked, if he refused to sell the looking-glass for such a ridiculous amount, I'd charge him with fraud, with false advertising. I felt ashamed of myself. It wasn't like me, I told myself, to take advantage of another man's mistake, nor should I. A shameful thought presented itself to me: You are not responsible for the incompetence of others. No, I wasn't. Was I? Would it be taking advantage of a man--or an act of sheer stupidity on my part--to let such a good deal go, even if the bargain had been unintended on the seller's part? Hadn't there been a saying, among shopkeepers, since the days of ancient Rome, which was used to justify their own taking of advantage of buyers? Caveat Emptor: Let the Buyer Beware. Well, by the same token, shouldn't I, a buyer, be willing to let the seller beware? I was rationalizing. I know that. I knew it, then, too, at the time. But I wanted that mirror. Desperately. I had to have it, and I couldn't afford to pay $100.00 or $1000.00. Ten dollars, though, was affordable. It was very affordable. I took the mirror from its place upon the wall, surprised at how light such a seemingly ponderous object was, and made my way, ever so carefully, down the narrow aisle, past heaps and mounds of merchandise on tabletops and racks, mindful, every step of the way, of the opportunities of chipping the frame or breaking the glass of my treasure, and arrived, finally, before the counter upon which reposed the proprietor's ancient cash register, willing to shout and curse and rant and rave and threaten and cajole and plead and beg, if need be, to make the purchase I had set my heart, my mind, and my soul upon making, here and now. The store's owner, a stooped and wizened old man reminiscent, to my mind, of the sin-aged portrait of Wilde's Dorian Gray, with but one eye, and it as hideous as that of the old man in "The Tell-Tale Heart," which Poe's narrator describes as "the eye of a vulture--a pale blue eye, with a film over it." There was also something of the mesmerizing quality of Coleridge's ancient mariner about both the "glittering eye" and the demeanor of the old man. Despite his slight figure, the old man's appearance gave me pause. There was something about him that didn't seem quite right; that seemed, despite his diminutive form, dangerous, in fact. My hands trembling, I lifted the mirror--gently, carefully--and set it down, with infinite caution, upon its back, atop the counter, and, clearing my throat, said, with attempted insouciance, but in a voice hoarse with nervous tension, "I'd like to buy this mirror, please." The old man met my gaze, and my very blood ran cold, for there was, despite his stooped and fragile frame, something sinister behind his single, piercing eye, something beyond mere menace, although he smiled-- or, rather, seemed to sneer. He plucked the price tag up, in his bony fingers, and examined the florid script in which someone's hand--his own, I'd wager--had written the numbers the label bore. Inwardly, I cringed, just knowing that he'd say the price was wrong, that it was a mistake, and name the true amount he required, which would be too dear for me to pay. Instead, he nodded. "That'll be ten dollars," he said--or croaked--for his voice was not the deep bass of the demonic creature I'd imagined him to be, behind the mask and costume of the flesh that he wore. Instead, his voice was the wheezy near-whisper of the truly aged. I handed him the money, and he handed me a receipt. "All sales are final, you know," he cautioned as I lifted the mirror from the counter and hugged it to my breast. "I can grant neither a refund nor an exchange, not even with your receipt. I'm going out of business." "I understand," I assured him. There was no way I would ever exchange the mirror for anything else in his store or for the measly ten dollars it had cost me, even if he were agreeable to a refund or an exchange. His smile broadened, and he looked like the little old man he was, my overactive imagination, stoked by the fear that my intended purchase would be denied to me, aside. "You got quite a bargain, my lad," he said, "quite a bargain, indeed." I thanked him and hurried home--as fast as I could while exercising all due caution and diligence, lest I break the mirror--and installed my treasure in the living room, on the wall to the right of my fireplace, feeling as victorious as a warrior who'd stolen priceless spoils from a conquered monarch's palace. * * * The Internet has made us wealthy beyond measure, because it delivers goods and services at minimal cost--and often free--that would otherwise, in the all-but-infinite variety available to us, at least--be beyond our means, and all with no more trouble than the pressing of a few keys. Like many people who live alone, I surf the 'net a lot; too much, my ex-wife insisted. I check out plot summaries of the latest books, fiction and otherwise; watch clips of the latest Hollywood flicks; look up all sorts of stuff, trivia, mostly, on various websites and online encyclopedias; check the meanings and spellings and etymologies of words; see what my favorite radio talk show hosts and TV personalities are up to; read the dirt that today's armies of gossip queens dish on celebrities; and, of course, like all red-blooded males everywhere, American and otherwise, feast upon the smorgasbord of porn. There's so much tits and ass--and cock and balls, for that matter--on the Internet that I doubt there's a complete and dedicated heterosexual or a homosexual left in all the world. We've all become bisexual, I think--or pansexual. I know I have. I mean, how many times can a guy look at naked men, even if they are fucking naked women, and not eventually get into both naked men and women? Sure, guys may deny it, but that doesn't mean that they're not secretly fantasizing, that they aren't "curious" about what it would be like to be on the giving or the receiving end of a stiff, hard cock, right? I used to be straight, but surfing porn on the Internet has made me as interested in men as I am in women. There's no mystery, then, that I find the combination of the sexes and genders that shemales represent to be my real cup of tea. I'm a ladyboy lover, and proud of it. Being a shemale lover is, it seems to me, the logical and inevitable outcome of being a porn addict. Since buying the mirror, I surf the 'net more than ever, and I already surfed it more than most, even before my purchase. I'm on my computer from dawn to dusk on the weekends, and as often as possible during the workweek. If I could, I'd sit before my console twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, week in and week out, month after month. I find myself perusing porn more and more, too, since I bought the mirror, spending less and less time on any other content. Oh, and I've become a home nudist. I never wear clothes at home anymore. Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying I've become a nudist-cum-porn freak because of the mirror, just since I bought the damned thing. There's no cause-and- effect relationship, I'm sure; it's just a coincidence. Oh, and I masturbate more, too--a lot more--since buying the mirror. * * * I missed seeing the mirror, so I moved it. It's not on the living room wall anymore. It's here, on the study wall, with me. Before I relocated it, I'd see it only when I took a break for a cup of coffee or a sandwich or an apple, and, then, I was right back in my study, naked at my desk, checking out the latest pictures and video clips of anal intercourse, analingus, bestiality, bondage and discipline, bukkake, cock-and-ball torture, sperm-filled condoms, cunnilingus, daisy chains, dildos, enemas, exhibitionism, fellatio, fetishism, forced feminization, fisting, frottage, homosexual couplings, incest, inter-femoral intercourse, irrumation, lactating lesbians, masturbation, nudism, sadomasochistic shenanigans, spanking, tit fucking, tit torture, vaginal intercourse, voyeurism, and water sports, although not necessarily in that order. Having the mirror nearby, just basking, as it were, in its presence, makes me feel content. I find myself smiling, even humming, as I click link after link in my sleazy universe of pornographic cyberspace, feeding the polymorphous perversity of my omnipresent, pansexual cravings. One day, I saw a dude--a twink--who has an astonishing resemblance to me! Hell, the bastard could have been me; that's how close the resemblance was. At first, I thought some surreptitious asshole had snapped a picture of me and uploaded it onto the website, but that's preposterous. I guess it's true that everyone has a double, which is an idea I'd always thought was just pretty fucking absurd--because mine was sure as hell grinning out at me, his face wet with streaming pussy juice while his ass was crammed with thick, hard cock. The only difference was that he had blond hair, while mine's brown. I guess, if you surf the 'net long enough, you'll see everything, including your own doppelganger. I had to admit, the guy was a handsome bastard, just like me. In fact, after checking him out, I thought maybe I might look even more handsome as a blond, like him, rather than as a brunette. I rose, my cock erect from ogling the blond-haired twink with my face and build, his face wet with cunt juice and his ass full of cock, and ambled across my study to the mirror. I wonder how I'd look with blond hair, I thought, eyeing my brown locks. Would I look as good as the blond twink on his knees in the picture, I wondered. Whoa! My heart stopped, and I stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, at my reflection in the full-length mirror on my study wall. My hair was no longer brown; before my eyes, it had changed, becoming, in the same instant as I had wondered what I'd look like with light hair, rather than dark, blond, like the hair of the twink on the Internet site. Even my eyebrows were blond. I looked down, and, sure enough, the change in my hair color was complete, with even my pubic hair blond, now, instead of brown. The change scared the hell out of me, as you can imagine. What the hell was going on? What I had just seen was impossible, pure and simple. Shit like this just didn't happen. It couldn't happen. There was no way in hell that it could happen. Yet, the mirror showed me, whether it could happen or not, it had happened. I was a blond. Maybe it was a trick mirror, I thought. Hell, yes! That had to be it. It was a trick mirror. A novelty item along the lines of funhouse mirrors. It had to be. There was an easy way to tell. My erection swaying before me, I hastened from my study, walked down the hall to the bathroom, and got another heart-stopping shock as I saw, in the bathroom mirror, the same sight that I'd beheld in the looking-glass mounted upon the wall in my study: I was a fucking blond! I happened to notice the mole at the right corner of my mouth. The accursed blemish had been a source of misery since I was old enough to name the thing. As I said, I'm a handsome cuss--false modesty is hypocritical--but that fucking mole mars my looks. It's the one thing imperfect about my countenance. It's not big, and, thank God, it's not hairy, but it draws the eye--or, at least, it draws my eye--like a magnet. It's an insult to the handsome features of my otherwise perfect face, as much a cause for lamentation as the biggest, darkest purple facial birthmark or harelip or scar that ever spoiled a man's otherwise handsome face, and I longed, all my life, to have it removed, but took the advice of plastic surgeons, instead, who counseled against the procedure, saying it could cause complications far worse than the mole's insult to my vanity. But, now, I might have the perfect--not to mention free and painless-- way to remove the accursed growth, once and for all time! If the mirror could change my hair from brown to blond, surely it could also remove this damnable, unsightly mole! I fairly ran from the bathroom to my study. Standing before the looking- glass, I closed my eyes, and said, out loud, "I wonder what I'd look like without this mole on my face." I felt nothing, and I feared that the accursed growth was still there, where it had always been, since the day of my birth, an outrage and an offense worse than the excrescences with which Joseph Merrick, the so- called Elephant Man, was afflicted--worse, at least, in my own estimation, for the mole afflicted me. Dreading the sight of the mole's not only insulting, but also mocking, me with its presence, I opened my eyes, squinting into the mirror within the ornate frame. In the glass inside the bronze ivy which bordered the glass, I saw--and my heart leaped!--the accursed growth of skin was gone as completely as if it had never been! The change was exhilarating. It was marvelous. It was also more than merely frightening; it was terrifying. In the twinkling of an eye, just because I had wondered how I might look as a blond and without the accursed mole I'd borne from my birth, I was changed. Irreversibly? Permanently? God, I hoped not, for, although I could live with the blond hair and welcomed the loss of the mole, what if I had wished for something else, in a moment of mere idle curiosity, without considering the ramifications of the thought? What if, in such a moment, I had imagined something that I didn't want to retain forever, such as myself, perhaps, as a three-headed monster, a dwarf, a giant, a disembodied penis with wings, or, most ludicrous of all, a woman, for God's sake? Would I be stuck, as it were, in such an incarnation to my dying day? Would I be buried as such? There was a way to know, I thought, and I said, aloud, "I wonder what I'd look like with brown hair." Nothing happened. My heart seemed to shrink and my stomach to fall. The effects of the mirror were irreversible. They were permanent. I must be very careful, indeed, what I wished in front of the looking-glass. But then another thought occurred to me. Maybe the mirror hadn't reversed its spell because I already knew what I looked like as a brunette, having had brown hair before I'd wondered what I might look like as a blond. Instead of having said, this time, "I wonder what I'd look like with brown hair," maybe I should simply have wished to be a brunette again. I tried this approach, and, to my great relief, I saw my hair turn from light to dark again, resuming its original color in the looking-glass. I thought about wishing the mole back, but I couldn't abide the possibility that it would return and that I would then be stuck with the hideous growth at the corner of my mouth forever afterward. Besides, the change in my hair color proved that the mirror's effects were not permanent, that they could be reversed, hadn't they? To be sure, I wished my blond locks back, and my hair, once more, was transformed, going, in an instant from brown to fair. * * * It was absurd to suggest, even to myself, that the looking-glass was responsible for my obsession with pornography and my newfound identity as a home nudist. If anything, these changes, unlike the change in my hair color and the loss of my mole, were merely coincidental to my purchase of the mirror. It was odd, though, how I'd changed from a relatively modest man into one who flaunted his nude body, if only to himself, going about, whenever possible, naked, my cock erect, more often than not, and wearing women's panties or a butt plug up my ass when I ventured out to tend to errands or went to work. At home, always naked, often masturbating, I surfed the 'net, more or less continuously, in a never-ending search for more and more images, both still and moving, of the perverse and decadent. A man shoving his erection through another man's asshole and deep into his impaled partner's rectum; a man kneeling behind another man, his face buried in the other's buttocks as his own tongue probed his lover's anus; a woman mounted by a German shepherd, the animal's bizarre, red cock thrusting frantically into her sopping-wet pussy; a woman kneeling in the center of a circle of standing men who, each in turn, masturbating, delivered volley after volley of ejaculate into her sperm- frosted face; nails driven through scrotal flesh; condoms, large and pendulous, loaded with sperm; one woman's face between another's thighs, her tongue lapping at her lover's stiff, swollen clit and dewy cunt; a circle of men and women, each orally servicing the one who lay or knelt before him or her; artificial penises of extraordinary length and girth, plunging into anuses and vaginas; tubes inserted into rectums to flush and cleanse them of their fecal contents--I devoured image after image and video clip after video clip of these activities, and, still, I was not satiated with depictions of such behavior; always, I wanted more. I clicked my mouse button or pressed keys upon my keyboard, ever pursuing more images of sexual decadence and perversity: women flashing their tits, their asses, or their cunts in public; men sucking the cocks of other men; women licking the pink-painted nails of other women's toes; men wearing lingerie or frilly dresses festooned with lace; men inserting their fists and forearms into women's gaping cunts or assholes; men fucking other men, fast and hard and deep, up their firm, smooth asses; mothers masturbating sons or fathers spewing their thick, white semen across the faces, breasts, or buttocks of their daughters, often while the parent of the other sex observed and assisted; men fucking women--or other men--or both--between the thighs, from the front or the back; men fucking other men in their mouths; lactating lesbians licking milk from the swollen nipples of full breasts; men and women masturbating themselves and one another in every imaginable combination of partners; parents naked with other adults and with their own and other families, at secluded nudist camps--these sight, and others-- countless others--vied for my time and attention. I delighted in depictions of women bound and gagged, stickpins inserted deep into the tender flesh of labia and areolas; red asses covered with bruises and welts and stripes from being paddled, spanked, and caned; cocks thrusting between the sleek, tender mounds of full, round breasts held together by the women who were being fucked in such an unlikely manner; breasts purple from being constricted to globes half their true size by an infernally ingenious crisscrossing of tight, confining ropes or made to wear mousetraps upon severely compressed nipples; men with large cocks deep inside sodden cunts; men peeping in secret at women dressing or undressing in settings they believed were private and secure from prying eyes; men pissing upon women's upturned faces and down their shining breasts or women pissing upon the male or female faces they straddled for just this purpose--all these images I sought out and a myriad more, never satisfied and always needing just one more, and then another, image of lust, whether heterosexual, bisexual, or homosexual in character. I paid attention to all manner of sexual personae: adulterers, babes, bears, bisexuals, bimbos, bitches, bottoms, butches, call girls, catamites, chicks, cubs, cuckolds, damsels in distress, dominatrixes, dykes, effeminates, fellatrixes, female impersonators, femmes, foxes, gigolos, girls next door, harlots, heterosexuals, homosexuals, hunks, jezebels, johns, kept women, lesbians, lipstick lesbians, masochists, masters, matrons, mistresses, Nancy boys, nudists, prostitutes, queens, sadists, sex slaves, sissies, sodomites, stalkers, streetwalkers, studs, tops, transsexuals, transvestites, twins, twinks, voyeurs, and, I think, perhaps even the rarest of them all--an actual virgin or two. Before purchasing the looking-glass, I would have classified myself as an all-American, red-blooded male who was interested only in straight women as lovers and who was concerned exclusively with vanilla sex. Now, I'm a pansexual, equally interested in men and women as sexual partners and in anything sexual that one can do with anyone--or, indeed, anything--else. But, of course, I don't blame my newfound identity and interests on the mirror. That would be absurd. Eventually, I became obsessed with male-to-female transsexuals, but not with those who had, as it were, gone all the way, undergoing the grand finale of sex-change surgery. I preferred those who retained their male genitals but were otherwise indistinguishable from--or even better looking, in many cases, than--the most beautiful and glamorous of women. I preferred to think of them by the cruder--some misguided souls might say, the offensive--term "shemales." As I sat naked at my desk, surfing the 'net, I found myself looking at the usual fare, to be sure, but, more and more, I clicked on links to shemale sites. I couldn't seem to get my fill of these gorgeous creatures who were the embodiments of both sexes simultaneously, without being either one, physically, sexually, or psychologically. The very concept of transgender and of transsexual sexuality haunted me. I wondered what it would be like to be such a gorgeous creature, to have a beautiful, feminine face and, except for my genitals, a woman's lovely form. To look down and see a pert pair of breasts bobbling and swaying below, to see sleek, soft skin upon my bare thighs, to see buttocks that were not only sleek, but full and firm, yet soft, as well, to have silken hair fall to my shoulders or below--the images in my imagination made my cock rock hard and my balls rise inside my tightened scrotum. Cowper's fluid, or pre-cum, would appear, like a drop of dew, at the tip of my purple, swollen glans, and, wiping it onto my forefinger, I would taste the precious, salty fluid, and imagine a cock planted deep in my shemale ass, fucking me, hard and fast, while I sucked a second lover's erection, bobbing my head up and down upon his thick, stiff-standing prick, while both my lovers moaned and groaned, fore and aft. I wasn't before the mirror, though, when I wondered this, and, so, I remained myself, masculine of face and form, though polymorphous in the perversity of my sexuality. I remembered the experiment with my hair. I'd willed it to be blond, and it had lightened; when I wished it brown again, it had reverted to its original darker color. Were I to wish myself a shemale, rather than a male, would such a transformation be reversible as well--or would I be irrevocably and forever such a creature? How could I go to work as a transsexual? How could I explain myself to my family and friends? How could I go about the simplest of daily tasks, or even relieve my bladder or evacuate my bowels, without encountering a multitude of difficulties, some anticipated but many unforeseen? Dating, too, would present a variety of unusual and difficult problems, not the least of which might include my being beaten to a pulp, or even killed, by some macho idiot who had no doubts about his own sexuality--or believed, at least, that he had none, whereas, in fact, he would likely be extremely conflicted about his sex, his gender, and his sexuality, which would be why he couldn't tolerate those who differed from him. It was better to do my wishing at my desk, I thought, rather than in front of my magic mirror, for, if I didn't like the change, as I imagined I would, or if I didn't want it to be permanent, as I thought I did, and the effects proved irreversible, or the mirror were to be broken somehow, before I could will myself a man again, or if there was a limit to the number of wishes that the mirror would grant, then I'd be stuck in the body of the opposite sex, my cock and balls notwithstanding, to my dying day! Blond hair might be reversible, but that didn't mean that a transformation as profound as that through which transsexuals go would be. After all, there's quite a difference between a change of hair color and a change of sex and gender! It would be better not to put the mirror's ability to reverse such effects to the test, I thought. I must be content with admiring those who flaunted themselves in photographs and videos on the Internet or, perhaps, with one I could find to date. Still, both these surrogate options were a far cry from the real deal, so to speak, of actually becoming a shemale myself. Maybe there was a way, though, I decided. I could start with a transformation that was more complex than a change of hair color but not as drastic as a change of sex. I had seen, in a penis enlargement ad, a handsome youth with a cock of nearly unbelievable dimensions. The damned thing was nine inches long and as big around, even flaccid, as my wrist. It belonged on a stud horse, not a man. His balls, too, were gargantuan enough to better fit a stallion than a man. I wouldn't be likely to want a smaller cock if I could have one of such glorious dimensions as the penis of the young man in the ad, I thought, so, even if the mirror's work proved irreversible, there'd be no harm. Excited at the prospect of testing the looking-glass's capabilities in this manner, I hurried to the mirror. Standing before the mystic glass, I said, "I wish I had a cock and balls as big as those of the young man in the penis enlargement ad." Instantly, my penis stretched and swelled, becoming a third longer and thicker than its original size, and I took the monster meat in my hand, feeling its heft and girth. My balls were the size of baseballs, too, filling the expanded pouch of my enlarged scrotum. My "new" cock was a truly magnificent tool, and, watching myself in the mirror, I masturbated, making my new cock rise, to stand, rigid and thick, before my belly. Within a few strokes, my huge prick pumped and spurted thick volleys of semen against the smooth surface of the polished looking-glass, and my thick, white cum splattered and ran in rivulets down the pane, ejaculating a seemingly inexhaustible supply of my fecundating fluid while I, seized by an orgasm more powerful and relentless than any I'd ever before experienced in my life, moaned and writhed, shuddering and gasping, feeling as if my very soul were spurting, along with the streamers of my semen, out of the depths of my being. When I'd recovered enough strength--and steadiness--I said, "I wish my cock and balls were their normal size." I fully expected my penis and testicles to revert to their previous dimensions, but they remained huge. Semen still dripped, like water from a leaky faucet, from my half- erect prick, and my scrotum had not yet relaxed, letting my gargantuan balls drop to their normal positions within the loose bag of flesh which contained them. Although my genitals were returning to their flaccid state, they weren't shrinking in size; they remained proportionately as huge as those of the young man in the penis enlargement ad. Some of the mirror's magical effects obviously were not reversible. It's a good thing, I thought, that I'd tested the mirror before I'd wished I were a shemale--and no sooner had I thought this thought than I'd become a transsexual! The desire had gone unsaid, but it hadn't gone unexpressed in my thoughts, and a thought, to my mirror, was obviously as good as a spoken command. Before me, in the looking-glass, stood an altogether lovely young woman, with a beautiful face and figure. She had long, blonde, curly hair; wide blue eyes with thick lashes, a thin nose; full, sensuous, pink lips; high cheekbones; a pointed chin, a sharp jaw line; a long, slender neck; delicate shoulders; breasts that were high, full, round, sleek, and firm; a concave tummy; curvaceous hips; long, tapering legs; and-- turning to gaze over my shoulder--a sculpted back and lovely, full, round, womanly buttocks. The only hints of masculinity were the huge cock and balls dangling between her smooth thighs, below the wispy blonde curls of her pubes. She--or I--was gorgeous, and I knew at once that there was no way in hell I'd ever want to be entirely masculine again, not when I could look like this! For an hour, I posed and postured before the magic mirror, becoming more and more delighted with my transformation and wishing, with increasing fervor, that, even if I should be insane enough someday to wish my physiological--and, indeed, my psychological--change reversed, I'd remain the splendid shemale who smiled at me from the glass in which my lovely face and form were reflected. Just yesterday, during a rare outing, to run some errands I could no longer postpone, I had passed the used furniture store from whose proprietor I'd bought my magic mirror. A month had passed since I'd made the purchase, but the store seemed as full of stock as it had been on that fateful day, and I saw the wizened old man inside, showing a young woman a scandalous statue of a satyr with a rampant erection, dancing with naked nymphs; it was a work similar to those figurines I stored in my own closet. Don't buy them, I said to her, in my thoughts, for you shall outgrow them and, then, embarrassed by them, but unwilling to part with such immodest art, you will merely store them away in your closet, wherein, wrapped in cloth or bagged in plastic, they will prance and dance to their hearts' content, but always in privacy and darkness. I hadn't gone inside the store. Now, recalling this scene, I thought that I ought to pay another visit to the furniture store. It was only a block away, and the owner might be able to answer the many questions I had about my mirror. Where did its magic come from? Was there a limit to the number of wishes it could grant? Why were some spells, if spells they were, reversible, while others were not? Could the mirror's glass be broken? Have any ill effects ever ensued from the transformations that the mirror causes? Was the looking-glass the cause of my obsession with pornography and, more recently, with transsexual beauties? Was I fated to be forever a shemale (as I hoped) or could the transformation be reversed (I prayed not). Would the mirror work on others or just me? Why had he sold it for such a pittance--or, for that matter, at all? Surely, he must know of the properties of the looking-glass. He must know its powers. A disturbing thought stabbed my consciousness: perhaps he did not know. Perhaps, to him, the mirror was merely what it appeared to be--a looking-glass in an ornate frame--nothing more or less. Well, there was no use wondering whether and what the old man knew about the mirror, not when, in a few minutes, following a short trek, I could know all that he knew, if he knew anything at all. Unfortunately, I had no wardrobe of feminine attire and must go dressed, as it were, in drag. But wait! I told myself. I could wear anything I wanted--literally anything I desired. I looked at my gorgeous female self, and said, to my looking-glass, "I'd like to be dressed in as sexy, but not inappropriate, outfit." Immediately, I was. I wore diamond earrings, a black velvet collar, a peach-colored bra and thong panties set, and a green cotton gypsy boho, floral-embroidered mini-dress with matching purse and heels. I gave my reflection a wink and strolled the block that stretched north, between my condo and the furniture store. I was a bit uneasy, remembering the proprietor's single, glittering eye that had pierced me like a bolt when he'd fixed his gaze upon me, but I needn't have been concerned, not in the least, for, upon my arrival, it was clear that the store was deserted. It was totally and completely vacant. Not one item of merchandise, nor a single rack or table, remained within its cavernous interior. Even the cash register and counter were gone--as was the withered, wizened, stooped old, one-eyed man who'd sold me my marvelous mirror. I was taken aback at how quickly he'd managed to remove the hundreds of items of stock from the cluttered tables and racks that had lined the store's narrow, cramped aisles. It seemed impossible--another marvel, as astonishing as anything else about the proprietor and his shop. I shrugged, started to turn, and stopped, my gaze caught by the words, in large, block, red letters that had been added to the large "Going Out of Business" sign in the storefront window: "All Sales Final--No Refunds or Exchanges." Upon purchasing my mirror, just a few days earlier, I'd taken comfort in these words. Although I was as fond as ever--or more so--of my beloved looking-glass, these words, added to the original sign, in letters the color of blood, seemed, somehow, ominous to me, now. A cold breeze, seeming to have arisen out of nowhere, touched the nape of my neck, setting my hair on end and making my nipples--and my cock--erect. I returned to the safety of my condo, and, secure in my cozy study once again, I stood before my mirror and admired the lovely looking-glass ladyboy I'd become.