Principle Wife Ennai Ooka Azhaithaal
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The Uncertainty Principle: Episode 1 free porn video
EDITOR'S NOTE
The following tale is based on documents recovered from Woodfield Cottage
prior to its sale in March 2012. The story appears on these pages by
kind permission of Mr John Pennington.
The right of Mrs Pennington to be identified as the sole author of this
work is no longer disputed. In spite of their unconventional style,
graphologists are satisfied that the earlier manuscripts were produced by
the same hand as the others. Mrs Pennington's reasons for creating this
needless confusion are likely to remain a mystery until her whereabouts
become known.
Readers should be aware that the basic premise of this story may offend
their sensibilities. I also feel obliged to draw their attention to the
strong language Mrs Pennington occasionally employs.
Richard Furness
Hinton Membris, Northamptonshire
October 2012
* * *
You remember that quote from Sherlock Holmes, the one that goes something
along the lines of when you've eliminated the impossible then whatever
remains, however improbable, must be the truth?
Of course you don't. You've never heard of him.
This is going to be difficult. There are so many references you just
won't get.
Maybe I should dress it up as fiction. I mean, what are the chances that
any sane person will believe it? Sometimes I struggle to believe it
myself.
Okay, we'll play it that way. Pretend it's just a story. A yarn I made up
to pass the time.
Even if it isn't.
Even if it really, really isn't.
*
Chapter One
What finally persuaded me to open my eyes was the unmistakeable sound of
a steam locomotive's whistle.
I already knew that I hadn't made it home last night. The bed was too
wide and comfortable to be my own, and had proper sheets and blankets
instead of a duvet. Obviously I'd checked into a B & B, one that was
located not too far from a preserved railway line.
Funny that they ran trains before dawn - and on a Sunday as well.
[B & B stands for 'Bed and Breakfast', which should be self-explanatory.
Picture something between a boarding house and a small hotel. I'll try
and keep these interruptions to a minimum.]
My brain made a valiant effort to piece together the events of the
previous day. I'd set off from Sunderland [the town you know as
Bishopwearmouth] intent on a wholesome ramble across the Northumberland
fells. I caught the local train to Hexham and strolled up to the bus
station on Priestpopple. It was a warm, bright June morning with a gentle
westerly breeze, perfect conditions for walking. But the summer cold I'd
been nursing had begun to stream. Although a cooked breakfast in the
Wetherspoons at the back of the market place eased the worst of the
symptoms, by now my enthusiasm for the great outdoors had waned. Soon I
was on my way to Carlisle, ready to indulge in less physically demanding
pursuits.
[Wetherspoons: a nationwide chain of public houses that serve reasonably
priced food throughout the day.]
I remembered picking up a second-hand copy of Clive Barker's 'Imajica'
from a charity shop on Lowther Street. I remembered going into HMV and
wondering who they imagined would be willing to part with ?60 for a
single season of 'The West Wing'. I remembered the test match being on in
one pub, and Sky's rolling news channel in another. I remembered going
outside for a cigarette, where a complete stranger had attempted to
engage me in a conversation about the leadership of the Labour Party. I
remembered ordering a large Laphroaig and becoming involved in an
argument over whether it was pronounced 'La-phro-ig' or 'Luh-phreeg'.
[A charity shop is...no, if I go on like this it'll be unreadable.]
I remembered getting maudlin as the alcohol took its toll. I remembered
thinking 'to hell with it' and buying a ticket to Euston so I could pay
Susan a surprise visit. I remembered lurching towards the buffet in
search of a few cans of Strongbow to keep me company on the journey.
I didn't remember anything else.
Well, I mused as I lay there in the darkness, you've excelled yourself
this time, Col. Thirty-four years old, assistant Head of Year in a large
secondary school, supposed to be a role model for the youngsters in your
charge, and one dose of man 'flu has you getting so shit-faced you
haven't the faintest idea which part of the country you've woken up in.
A good day's work. Now I needed to figure out how those assignments I
promised 9E2 would be marked and returned to them on Monday were going to
get done.
At least my cold seemed to have cleared up. And I didn't have a hangover,
which was another pleasant surprise.
Then my tongue chanced upon something altogether less agreeable. The only
dental surgery I'd ever needed was the occasional filling. Yet I could
feel three gaps in my top teeth; the widest was on the right side of my
jaw, where I was missing the lateral incisor, the canine and both
premolars.
I froze. My brain was unable to issue any instructions to my central
nervous system because it didn't know how to process the sensory data it
was receiving. If my heart hadn't been capable of beating independently
it would have stopped there and then.
But that wasn't all. The sockets were fully healed. Not one of them felt
raw, or even the slightest bit tender. The extractions had been carried
out weeks, if not months ago.
Cold beads of moisture formed on my forehead. The evidence pointed
towards only one conclusion. Somehow I had lost a significant portion of
my life.
Maybe the London train had crashed. If I'd suffered a head injury, that
might account for my amnesia.
I moved cautious fingers to my cheeks, my temples, the top of my skull.
No bandages, bruises, bumps or bald patches.
I wiggled my toes. I drew up my knees and moved them from side to side.
Everything below the waist was in order too.
Everything?
Although I could feel the pressure building up in my bladder, it wasn't
having the usual effect on my dick. In fact it wasn't having any effect
at all.
I slid my right hand under the covers. When it encountered the silky
smooth skin below my navel I frowned. When it met only a few sparse wisps
of pubic hair I narrowed my eyes. When it confronted nothing between the
tops of my thighs that remotely resembled a penis and a pair of testicles
my mouth opened so wide it could have swallowed up a Panzer division.
The full extent of my injuries was now revealed. They had resulted in my
emasculation.
My complete and utter emasculation.
I began shaking. Intimations of a future my worst nightmares had failed
to produce flashed through my mind. I would reach the end of my days
without having fathered a child. I'd had full sex with my last woman.
Bizarrely, what disturbed me most of all was that I would never again be
able to use a urinal in a public lavatory.
It took me several minutes, but in the end I managed to push these
thoughts aside. I had other concerns. I still didn't have a clue as to
how much time had elapsed since my ill-fated visit to Carlisle. For all I
knew, when I looked in the mirror I'd see a middle-aged man staring back
at me.
A middle-aged man whose first duty might well be to mourn beside his
mother's grave...
Suddenly the idea of walking around with nothing hanging from my crotch,
upsetting as it was, seemed of secondary importance.
I raised my head from the pillow. I could bask in ignorance no longer.
Whatever the consequences of my drunken behaviour turned out to be, I had
to face them.
The light had improved a little, enough for me to notice as I sat up that
two sizeable mounds of flesh were swelling from my chest.
[Even today I find it impossible to convey the sense of shock that tore
through my entire being. No matter how florid my imagery, no matter how
carefully my sentences are constructed, no matter what techniques I use
to increase the dramatic impact of my prose, the description I set down
will be inadequate. If by its absence I give you the impression that I
took all this relatively calmly, I can assure you that I did not.]
I had grown breasts.
Not only had my genitals been amputated, I'd developed a pair of pair of
tits into the bargain.
Now I was furious.
Who had made the decision to pump me full of female hormones? What
medical purpose did that serve? And who had given their permission for
this treatment to be administered?
Or were these questions redundant?
There's a saying where I grew up. When you're very familiar with
something, you know it 'like the back of your hand'.
Well I was looking at the back of my hand - and I didn't recognise it at
all. For one thing, it was sprinkled with dark freckles.
The same applied to my fingers, which were also slimmer and shorter than
I remembered.
I was prepared to accept that hormones might have altered the texture of
my skin. I felt reasonably sure that they couldn't reduce the length of
your bones.
I reached for my crotch, found exactly what I'd expected. No cosmetic
surgeon had sculpted that orifice. It was as natural as the one I was
breathing through.
When you've eliminated the impossible...
This wasn't my body.
How I'd come to be wearing it was a mystery.
But this wasn't my body.
At least it wasn't the body I was accustomed to. It was certainly mine
now.
Strangely enough, it wasn't the prospect of having to spend an
unspecified period of time as a woman that bothered me so much as the
growing realisation that everything I'd believed about the universe and
humanity's place in it had been turned on its head.
Let me stress that I didn't actually believe in anything. I made choices
and held opinions based on informed guesswork. I was confident that the
sun would rise every morning because I couldn't conceive of a force
powerful enough to stop the earth spinning on its axis. I put my trust in
Newton's laws of motion whenever I crossed a road. I examined the
available evidence and concluded that a man named Adolf Hitler was
responsible for the deaths of millions of people during World War Two.
[How did Hitler accomplish this? You don't want to know.]
But I didn't believe any of those things. There was always a chance -
though in each of these cases it was a ridiculously small one - that I
might be proved wrong.
As for the entity I regarded as 'me', recent advances in neuroscience and
cognitive psychology suggested that it was probably an emergent
phenomenon arising from my brain's highly evolved ability to predict the
future - which it does best by extrapolating the past. My 'self' I
considered to be an accidental by-product of the memories my brain had
stored. This seemed considerably more plausible than the concept of a
soul, immortal or otherwise.
What I'd discovered in the short time since I woke was forcing me to
think again.
For the brain inside my head had access to the unique patterns of neural
signals that made up Colin Armstrong's memories. Assuming that transplant
technology wasn't quite at that stage yet, I had no option but to concede
that something else had put them there. Whether I called it my essence,
my spirit, my disembodied consciousness or indeed my soul was beside the
point; whatever had transmigrated from Colin's body to this one, it had
brought his memories with it.
I quickly abandoned this futile speculation. What use was metaphysical
enlightenment when I didn't know my own name?
All at once I was overcome by despair. The task in front of me was too
big. I could adjust to being female, but the thought of meeting other
people, of trying to pass myself off as this woman and of what might
happen if I got it wrong, made me feel sick.
Why had fate placed this burden on my shoulders? What evil had I done,
that it saw fit to punish me in this way?
It took a few minutes to fight down the panic that had threatened to
engulf me. I succeeded because the one thing I was determined to rescue
from this situation was my self-respect. I wouldn't go under. Shoppers
might laugh and point. Children might hurl abuse. Friends and family
might turn their heads from me. I'd tell them all to eat their own shit.
Better all round if it didn't come to that.
I needed to look at the big picture. As a Geography graduate, I was
trained to take a systematic approach to problems and devise integrated
solutions to them. I had to work on the assumption that my condition was
permanent, that I'd inhabit this body for the rest of my life. The
strategy that would benefit me most in the long run was surely to bully
myself into thinking like a woman from the outset.
It wasn't going to be easy. I couldn't wave a magic wand and develop an
immediate interest in shoes. Then again, the gentler sex encompassed a
spectrum every bit as wide as its male counterpart. As long as I stayed
within certain boundaries I'd be okay.
The grey of pre-dawn leaking through the curtains drawn across the window
on the far side of the room at last gave me an opportunity to observe my
surroundings. The bed was situated in the corner, facing the door. Beside
this, taking up most of the opposite wall, stood a unit consisting of two
wardrobes separated by a dressing table. The only other item of furniture
was the armchair a few feet to my left.
Then I noticed the boxes scattered randomly across the floor, as well as
the piles of books, ornaments, crockery and kitchen utensils. There was
also a large rubbish sack, full to bursting with waste paper.
My mood soared. Here was the break that just might enable me to pull this
off!
She was unpacking, and she was doing it alone. Not only would I be this
dwelling's sole occupant, but it appeared that I didn't have any close
friends or relatives living nearby. I felt as though I'd just been
granted my dearest wish.
Now I could think more clearly. My first target was to acquire a name. On
the armchair rested a shoulder bag; it was too far away for me to reach
so I pushed back the covers, averting my eyes from my naked flesh in case
its contours, folds and hollows proved too fascinating a distraction. My
feet made contact with the deep-pile carpet, and I braced myself to take
my very first steps as a woman.
They were ungainly ones. My breasts bounced cumbrously as I stood, swayed
heavily with every movement I made. It was unsettling to know that they
weren't some temporary inconvenience, but a feature of my physique that
would eventually become as central to my sense of self as my male
genitals had been. Perhaps more so, considering that they were much too
large for me to get away with not wearing a bra.
Which was another treat to look forward to.
As luck would have it, the bag lay open and from the top peeped a little
black address book. Although its previous owner had entered her personal
details in neat capital letters, I still had to hold the page close to my
eyes in order to read them.
"Annalisa May Pennington," I said out loud, the book falling to the floor
as I jumped back in astonishment at the sound of my new voice - and the
plummy, BBC newsreader accent in which I'd spoken.
Annalisa...
How did she shorten that?
It didn't matter. It was my name now. I was free do as I pleased with it.
Anna?
No. Lisa.
Lisa Pennington. That's who I'd be. Lisa Pennington.
I crouched to lift the book from the carpet. I wanted to know my date of
birth before I came face to face with my reflection.
When I saw it, I gasped.
July 17th 1975.
The same as it had always been.
That wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be.
What the hell was going on here?
I'd have a go at solving that riddle later. First I had someone to meet.
I turned towards the wardrobe unit. The girl staring back at me from the
dressing-table mirror allowed her mouth to fall open even as I felt mine
do likewise.
We both took a single step forward.
"Hello, Lisa Pennington," we said to one another.
*
The bathroom had a curiously old-fashioned feel to it. The WC was flushed
by means of a long metal chain, the cistern so high I'd have to stand on
the lid if I ever had to repair it. Hot water was supplied by the
immersion heater in the airing cupboard. The taps feeding both the
washbasin and the tub were of brass, and sorely in need of polishing.
Annoyingly, there was no shower.
I scrubbed my hands and face, irritated that it would be half an hour or
more before the water would be warm enough for me to run a bath. The
stubble in my armpits reminded me that changing sex hadn't consigned the
drudgery of shaving to the past; like remembering to sit down when I
urinated - and what a close call that had been! - it was one more
addition to the ever-lengthening list of adjustments I'd have to make.
Two entries stood out from the rest. The first had been suggested by the
box of sanitary towels on the shelf to the right of the bowl, the second
by the tumbler in which a dental plate was soaking.
Yes, I was in for a fun time as the luscious Lisa.
The phrase was no exaggeration. Her tits were on the heavy side, and her
upper arms were a little too plump and freckled for my liking, but in
most other respects she was a very tasty bit of stuff. She had a trim
waist, wide hips, strong thighs, rounded knees and smooth, perfectly
shaped calves. Her face was appealing rather than pretty, but her
complexion was unblemished, only the laughter lines at the corners of her
intelligent hazel eyes and the first signs of creases around her delicate
lips betraying the fact that she wouldn't see thirty again.
Not that fancying my new body cheered me up. On the contrary, if Colin
Armstrong might have been tempted to make a move on her then so would the
majority of other men. I had a rough idea of how to take the wind out of
a guy's sails - God knows it had been done to me often enough - but
unless I could think of ways to avoid unwanted attention in the first
place I was going to be in demand.
I brushed my teeth, then did my best to put a centre parting in my unruly
dark brown hair. It was one of Lisa's less attractive features; she'd had
the top cut into short layers, but left the sides and back long enough to
brush her shoulders, giving the impression of a job half complete. I
wondered if I shouldn't just have the lot taken off. As Colin I'd worn my
hair unfashionably long since I was in my teens and began my love affair
with metal bands. This might be the ideal time to change all that, and by
doing so break decisively with my past.
['Metal' refers to a style of music performed with electrically amplified
guitars, and characterised by a relentless drum beat, strident chords and
piercing vocals, all played at a tremendously high volume. Originally
known as 'heavy metal', it ultimately fragmented into sub-genres too
numerous to record here.]
"I reckon you'd look fine," I said to the girl in the mirror above the
basin, a remark with which she evidently concurred. "But before we make
any rash decisions let's find out a bit more about where we are."
Wearing the plain blue robe I'd taken from its hook on the bedroom door,
I padded along a corridor whose plain eggshell walls cried out for prints
of abstract or surrealist art. It widened into a hallway from which one
door gave onto a living room and another led to a kitchen, the latter as
poorly appointed as the bathroom.
I didn't linger in either. Yet another mirror held me captive as I
struggled to accept that the young woman looking back from the glass was
really me, that her shrewd but alluring eyes were my own.
Who was she? What had brought her here? Why was she living alone?
And if she had a soul, where was it now? Was she at this very moment in
Colin Armstrong's flat, asking herself the same questions?
Would she try to find me? She certainly knew where to look. If she did,
would I have the strength of character to handle that meeting?
The hall ended at the entrance to a porch, which looked out over a small
front garden and a low wooden fence to an unmetalled lane that wove
between fields of waving corn on its way to the foot of a broad valley.
Perhaps a mile from here, to the west if the early morning shadows were
anything to go by, I could see a cluster of rooftops dominated by a tall
spire. A short distance to the south of this settlement, amid lines of
railway wagons, stood a series of long sheds from which smoke curled and
drifted.
I rubbed my chin, perplexed. The whole scene looked as if it would have
been more at home in the 1950s. The fields were bordered with high
hedgerows, and seemed much too small for modern farming machinery to
function efficiently. Many of them contained blossoming trees.
On the doormat lay a white envelope. I had to peer at the name and
address on the front; the letters were written in ink, and formed into a
cursive script that made them jump about like mischievous scallywags just
when I was on the point of identifying each one.
No doubt there was a pair of reading glasses somewhere. But I couldn't be
bothered to look for them.
I persevered, deciphered the handwriting - and instantly wished I hadn't.
Mrs J Pennington
Woodfield Cottage
Ashby Lane
Hinton Membris
Northamptonshire
Mrs J Pennington.
Mrs.
I wasn't wearing a wedding ring, but the fact remained that I'd been
thrust into the body of a married woman.
I had a husband, with all the complications that implied.
The next two observations I was to make, when taken in conjunction,
literally ended my world.
The first was the Oxford postmark, dated June 9th 2010, just four days
ago according to my subjective calendar.
The second was the postage stamp itself. It was the right colour, it had
perforated edges and the monarch's profile faced left, as it should.
But the face, though aloof, distinguished and thoroughly regal, was
indisputably, earth-shatteringly, male.
"It's Northamptonshire, Lisa," I said to myself, "but not as we know it."
Then I broke into laughter. It was the only thing I could do.
Yvette
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