Compliance free porn video

In 2020 the world marveled at the invention of the Transfer machine; a phenomenally complex device that focused neutrino beams allowing the consciousness of one person to inhabit and control the body of another. But it took only weeks before people realized the terrible danger Transfer posed. Governments moved quickly. By 2021 the unlicensed use of Transfer had been declared illegal by all UN members. Transfer into a body without the host's consent was deemed a crime terrible enough to deserve the death penalty, because there were few worse forms of suffering than to be the host-victim of Transfer, forced to watch helplessly while your body moves and speaks of its own volition, under the control of an invader. With the threat Transfer posed to national security and human rights so high, by 2022 the UN decreed that all machines must be destroyed. Unfortunately their ruling was too late to recover the few systems that had already disappeared into top secret military installations, or been stolen by the criminal gangs who sell joy rides to thrill seekers and cause havoc by possessing influential figures. It is only on the rarest occasions that the owner of the host body accepts the presence of the invader. When this happens, it is called Compliance. The Afternoon Before "So, Mister Avery," the man called "Locks" says to me. "Do we have a deal?" His speech is slow, and is thick with an Italian American accent. I would have believed he was trying to imitate Robert De Niro from The Godfather, if I didn't know that this really is how Locks talks, and that the mobster in front of me is one hundred percent, frighteningly real. Do we have a deal? Debating his question I look across the crowded, noisy coffee bar, and stare at the woman again. She is utterly exquisite. If you believe in the divine, then God has combined the face of an angel with the body of a swimsuit model when he created the woman sat just across the room from me. Even her hair is a gift - it's as blonde as honey, extending almost down to the small of her back in gentle waves that I want to stroke. I've seen Julia Corsten on TV or pictured in the media plenty of times, but never been in her presence in real life. A poll in a men's magazine once voted her the world's most eligible single woman, because the girl's resume is as dazzling as her beauty - youngest ever senator; highly influential; alumnus of Harvard Business School; and likely to be the first female president of the United States when President Groban finishes his time in four years. If ever a girl had a bright future ahead, it's Julia Corsten. Sat in this caf?, with the dome of the Capitol Building visible through the window, she is a living example of what an American female should be. Unless I screw all that up. "She's perfect," I almost groan. "Yes, she sure is, Mister Avery," Locks agrees languidly. "She sure is. She's everything you ever dreamed of. So I ask you again, do we have a deal?" Do we have a deal? I remain silent, continuing to watch while the woman pauses for a sip of her coffee. Julia is sat side-on to me, one of her long legs crossed over the other, talking across the table to some fat aging guy in a suit. He has the air of being another politician. I dismiss him - this guy is nothing to me. I only have eyes for the blonde. I watch how she keeps her head shyly lowered so her hair almost hides her face, and her full lips barely move while she's speaking, and yet she gesticulates with her delicate hands in a way that suggests great conviction and spirit. I'm watching the magical paradox that makes Julia Corsten so successful. The political right-wing where she has her roots is not always tolerant of women in authority, but Julia has a naturally demure, deferential air that disarms even the most traditional. Even her opponents seem unable to resist - in spite of her success she retains a vulnerable innocence that shields her like an aura, and Julia is smart enough to play the damsel in distress when it suits. She looks to have her companion almost hypnotized. In the political arena, she charms, disarms, and then she strikes. The combination beguiles everyone. A glance around the coffee bar shows me half the clientele are discretely watching her. I am not the only moth drawn to this flame. Julia has a notebook on the table, and is explaining a graph on the screen, either oblivious to her audience, or aware, but ignoring us. I want her desperately. But warring with the hot flare of desire she provokes in me is a powerful instinct to protect this perfect creature. To tarnish something so pure would be a crime - there's even a chastity pledge ring on one of those slender fingers. How could I mess with that? "Don't make me do this," I say to Locks in a pleading voice. "I will ruin her." Tearing my eyes away from the spellbinding woman just for a moment I turn back to Locks to see he is shaking his head, disagreeing with me. He stands out a mile amongst the coffee bar crowd. Al Capone couldn't look more like a hood amongst all these Washington bureaucrats. "You learn a lot about human nature in my job, Mr. Avery," Locks says, staring at me with alpha male directness, "and I think there's another side to that one that just needs to be released. You might be even be doing her a favor, releasing her from her inhibitions. A girl don't dress like that if she wants to stay a virgin until her wedding night" His words an invitation to look at her outfit, I turn back to watching her, and it's difficult to disagree. He isn't the first to have noticed the contradiction between Julia's puritan attitudes and her dress. She is clothed as provocatively as it's possible to be while remaining perfectly professional. Julia is dressed in a matching short skirt and jacket - standard business wear for the executive female. But there's so much more to this outfit. That skirt is tight, so deliciously tight I can easily see every contour of her slim legs, and a back-slit designed for greater freedom of movement shows even more thigh. Julia's jacket fits as snugly as the skirt does, fabric pulled in at the waist as if she wants to accent the swell of her breasts. Her unusually long legs finish in black patent high heels that are a little sluttish, but it's the fishnets that really support Locks" argument - sexy, black, hooker's fishnets. I try not to imagine peeling those fishnets from her leg with my teeth. I look at how the outfit shows her body shape and try not to imagine her naked. "She can wear what she wants," I argue weakly, "it doesn't mean she's easy." "Bullshit," Locks laughs, "those clothes are talking much louder than her mouth." I want to do nothing but watch her, but I must the spell and look back at Locks. He's smiling at me like he's won, like I'm already in his pocket. I have to resist somehow. "So what does all your experience of human nature tell you about me then?" I say angrily. "I know you think you're better than me, Mister Avery," he answers immediately, as if he was expecting the question. "A middle class educated college boy, a wife, a family, a stable income, you think you're better than the gangster. But human nature tells me we're all the same deep down. Everyone has something they'll give anything for - their personal button to push - and for you - your button is Julia Corsten. So maybe I didn't go to some swanky college, but my learning tells me you're gonna stop being an asshole and politely gonna say 'yes Mister Locks, we have a deal Mister Locks'. Then you'll go ahead with the plan, and you'll ease that middle class conscience of yours by telling yourself we made you do this, the mob forced you. But my experience tells me you'll say yes because you want her more than anything else in the world." I want to retaliate, but Locks and I have to fall silent for a moment. A man, dressed in a trench coat that makes him look like a detective, has entered the caf? and is walking round the crowded room. The emblem on his sleeve is familiar. He is holding a device like a torch, shining its green beam off the faces of the clientele one-by-one. The beam draws a solid bar across people's skin like a rapidly scanning disco laser. Most of the crowd don't even look up, this kind of security check being normal. Locks and I go silent as he passes us by. I think, "Damage Limitation... You're a few days early, buddy." While the man is conducting his rounds, a tall slim Asian woman in a dark trouser suit, almost as beautiful as the blonde, walks up to Julia and whispers in her ear with the deferential air of a Personal Assistant. Over the last week I've learnt who this is - Julia's intern, Jenny Won. In response to the discreet discussion Julia closes her notebook and I realize the two women are preparing to leave. Thinking "no!', I almost panic in my desperation to remain in the exquisite blonde's presence. I take one last longing look across to her, trying to hold every part of her image that I can, and my resolve dissolves under the spell. Her hair has fallen across her face, and gracefully she pushes the golden curtain back with those slender hands. "You'll have to tag her," I say throwing up feeble objections, and Locks replies smugly, "She's already carrying it." "It's gonna be today?" I gasp with genuine shock. In his slow Italian drawl Locks corrects my grammar, "Going to be today, Mister Avery. It's going to be today." One Week Earlier "Try to relax, Mister Avery," says Scoldini, even though he looks like a cat about to pounce. "You're trembling. That doesn't look good in a guy." Relax? That's easier said than done, after two shady-looking types have kidnapped you from the street, hustled you into the back of a car at gunpoint, and dropped you at the office of the most notorious mob boss on the East Coast. As far as I know I've done nothing to offend this guy, and I plan to keep it that way, but I'm scared all the same. Be polite, and then leave, I tell myself. My surroundings are expensive, wood panels, leather furniture and Scoldini has an oil painting of a nude behind his vast desk, although as I watch the image shifts and I understand it's a screen. On a side table there is a decanter of whisky, and with civility he pours me a shot into a crystal glass. I try to convince myself it's really happening and this truly is Agostino Scoldini - The Chief, pouring me a drink. Everyone has heard of Agostino Scoldini, even white collar IT Joes like me who would never have anything to do with crime cartels. He has been nothing but hospitable since my arrival, but he still has a sense of underlying menace that is terrifying. "We have something in common, Mister Avery," begins Mister Scoldini. "We both have a public face we show to the world, and a private one that is kept secret." I take a long draw on my drink, using the hit of liquor to hide my shaky nerves. "Let's talk about your dark side first. In public, Mister Avery, you are an average family man. Married, with two daughters, you manage the IT division of a large finance firm. Your employees respect you. You pay your taxes and probably contribute to charity." He lingers over "taxes', reminding me of the Agent at the beginning of The Matrix. "In secret, you have a whole other life. You are known online by the name of Jennifer_76, Mister Avery. You created Jennifer_76 because you find the idea of being a woman arousing. Sometimes you pretend to your wife you're away on a work trip, and you go out to tolerant clubs, dressed as this Jennifer. Somewhere you keep a secret store of women's clothing somewhere for this purpose - probably at your workplace. You also write transgender fiction as Jennifer_76, but here you part ways with the mainstream transgender community, because you only have an interest in stories of transition where the woman ends up in bondage." My heart drops through the floor when he mentions Jennifer. How can he know this much about me? Oh Jesus, I think, what does he know? Scoldini presses on relentlessly. "You also download pornography, Mister Avery. Nothing illegal, but here too your taste is for images of women in distress or in restraint. It's not the kind of content you'd like your wife to discover." He laughs, "So I can summarize your secret life, that you're not only aroused by the idea of being a woman, but by being a submissive woman." Clearly, Scoldini knows too much to deny it. I'm not even going to give him the satisfaction of trying to lie. I might as well go on the offensive instead. "Are you trying to blackmail me?" I demand. Scoldini holds out his giant hands, palms up, and shrugs. "Blackmail is a terrible word Mister Avery. Let's not say blackmail. Rather - I'm going to offer you a gift - the opportunity of a lifetime, but... it is an opportunity you are best to accept." I drink some more whiskey, trying to assume a man-to-man face, as if I'm a player and not some sap who has just been caught with his pants down. "What is this gift then?" I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Have you heard of Senator Julia Corsten?" Scoldini asks me. I laugh then. "Who hasn't? The most right wing Republican presidential hopeful for thirty years? She is fiercely anti-pornography, anti-gay, and has stated that transgender people are deviants. Hell, even some liberal women voters think she's too much of a step back to the Pilgrim Fathers" days, because she believes in a more traditional woman's role in the home." "Quite correct," nods Scoldini. "But let's focus on the fiercely anti- pornography part. Pornography - that is the most important thing. While Jennifer_76 might deserve to burn in hell as far as Julia is concerned, her real hatred is for the pornographers. That means your bondage downloads make you her particular enemy, Mister Avery. If Julia becomes president you'd better delete some of your hard drive." "She might have different opinions, but Julia's got nothing to do with me," I admit boldly. "I'm not going to assassinate her, just because you try to blackmail me. I'd rather you tell my wife what you know." Scoldini laughs. "No, no, no, Mister Avery. We do not wish the lovely Miss Corsten dead. That would be a waste of such an undeniably beautiful woman. With our legitimate business interests in one of the largest sellers of pornography in America, we simply want to encourage a change in her political opinions." "That's not likely to happen, is it?" I ask. Scoldini gives that open-handed shrug again. "Let us dream that Senator Corsten also had a secret, just like you do, Mister Avery. Let us imagine she had once modeled in a masochistic bondage shoot. Her arguments would look rather hypocritical if those images became public." I'm sat with a man who could have me killed, but it's such a ridiculous notion that I forget myself for a moment and snort with derision. "She'd never have done that in a million years," I laugh cynically. "And if she did, we'd already know. Do you think she could keep it secret? She doesn't even show herself in swimwear - half the men in America are waiting for a long lens shot of Julia Corsten on the beach. If someone had photos like that, they'd be sitting on a fortune." Scoldini nods. "Yes, Mister Avery. Such pictures would be worth a lot of dollars if released, or they could be kept secret and used to motivate Senator Corsten for even greater value." This conversation is exasperating me, because it's so pointless. "She'd never do something like that though, and she'd never have done it, or we'd already know," I repeat, "so I don't see why we're even discussing this." "There is one way she would model," Scoldini says smiling viciously at me. "There is one way." Early on the Night A black hood covers my head. They can't risk me knowing where the machine is located. Inside the hood, my breath is hot against the cloth. It's the first time in my life I've been properly blindfolded, and I don't like it. I feel very vulnerable. "What is the phone number you have to ring?" the voice of Mister Locks repeats from beside me, and I give him the answer. I'll be able to take nothing with me on my journey, so I have to memorize that number. Once I'm inside Julia Corsten, I must dial and contact Scoldini's people. If I don't make contact, the whole mission will fail. Our car pulls to a halt and for a moment I wonder if we've arrived, but the engine stays running. I hear the ting-ting of the warning bells at a railroad crossing, and I understand the reason for waiting. "Tell me the phone number one more time," Locks says, and obediently I reply. He is silent for a moment, so I escape this place by thinking about how my life has changed completely in one week. No-one on the outside would have any idea I'd spent the last seven days in turmoil. I kissed my wife goodbye as normal, giving her flowers before leaving for a fictitious week-long project secondment. I told her I loved her, and I meant it. There is a risk we will never meet again, and I want her to remember me with fondness. She thinks her husband is managing a team upgrading servers. She doesn't suspect that he is in fact hooded, on his way to the secret location of a Transfer machine, about to possess the body of the lovely Senator Julia Corsten. She doesn't know her husband is about to commit a capital crime and he's spent the last week secretly preparing for the mission. She doesn't know her husband has a secret life, and he can only keep that secret by playing his part in the plan. It's simple, really. Once I have possessed the body of Julia, I will find out her location and report it to the memorized telephone the number. His people will collect me and Julia will be taken from her home, then driven to her worst nightmare - a sex dungeon. One of Scoldini's many subsidiaries in the pornography industry includes a bondage professional who would very happy to record a couple of hours with Julia modeling. At his studio I, in control of Julia's body, will help them shoot footage of Julia Corsten willingly being debased in every way possible. By participating, I am being given my ultimate fantasy - experiencing sexual humiliation as a female. Unfortunately it is at the expense of another's happiness. Under the blinding hood, I feel almost overwhelming self-loathing for agreeing to this, for taking the coward's path, for giving into blackmail instead of sacrificing my own happiness. But it is not all self-disgust. The other small part of me is more excited than I've ever been in my life. Soon, I will get to be a woman. Soon, I will have a pussy and breasts. Soon, I will beg naked under the whip, freed from all inhibitions as my chained hands reach out to beg. In the idling car, there is a deep rumble and the clank of a train passing. It is slow and takes forever - must be a goods train. Locks makes me repeat the phone number several more times, and then I'm made to repeat the plan. There must be no mistakes. After her ordeal Julia will be permitted to keep her modeling session as a secret shared known only to Scoldini and his friends. He believes she will do anything to avoid those particular images being made public, and I agree with him. She will be destroyed if it's discovered she secretly indulged in something she publicly rejects so emphatically. Later in the day she has a public appointment at a UN meeting on human trafficking. I must attend that meeting as Julia, or there will be suspicion. This will be more challenging for me, as apart from dodging security checks from Damage Limitation looking for Transfer victims, I'll have to fool others in the meeting into believing that I am Senator Corsten, and more significantly convincing Julia's closest acquaintance - her assistant Jenny Won. Jenny intrigues me. Any high profile woman with no obvious boyfriend is a victim of gossip, and with Julia those rumors are about the nature of her relationship with Jenny Won. Whether Julia is a lesbian or (much more likely) not, Jenny is likely the most likely person to notice a change in behavior, and that makes her the biggest threat. I can't let my sexual interest in the Chinese woman lead me to make a mistake. Scoldini's people have been thoroughly professional in their preparations for my mission. Over the last week, I have spent much of the time researching sex trafficking, so I can now express informed opinions, as the world and Jenny would expect her to do. Scoldini makes money from satisfying many vices, so even though he also has interests in bringing women to America from Eastern Europe, his plan is that Julia will propose bold measures to stem the flow of victims, and humanely treat those who have been smuggled into the United States. The warning bells at the crossing have finally ceased, and as the noise of the train fades I'm pushed back into the seat as the car rumbles across a single track and accelerates. The final part of the plan is crueler than the bondage shoot, because it's unnecessary. Scoldini will already have enough leverage on Senator Corsten, but he has a sadistic streak that is not yet satisfied. He will not be present at the bondage shoot, and he will not be denied the pleasure of flaunting his power over the blonde personally. Julia was due to appear at a charity dinner in the evening, but I am to have Jenny cancel the Senator's appearance. Then, still wearing Julia's body, in the evening I am to attend a party for Scoldini and his friends. The guests will comprise criminals, vice kings, and those amongst her political opponents that are in his pocket. He even intends to make clear that the real Julia Corsten is helplessly watching, and a Transferred invader is in control. As Julia endures the public humiliation from serve the various pleasures of the crowd, they learn the lesson that if Scoldini can do this to Julia Corsten, he might be able to do worse to them. If he can flaunt a Transfer victim, he must be beyond the law. I am distracted by the sound of church bells. It's very late for them to be tolling - it must be nearly midnight. Both her engagements will be torture for the real Julia, mentally and physically. After the party my time becomes my own, or more accurately Julia's time is my own. I will be at leisure to fuck who I want, or merely voyeuristically enjoy Julia's nakedness. There will be little opportunity for this reward though. It is anticipated that some time in the following day Julia will regain control of her body. Transfer isn't permanent, unless the host permits it, which is known as Compliance. The victim regains control in a time between a day and a week, depending on the willpower of the host. When the host takes control back over, the invader is forced back to their own body. The street slang for this is "Springback'. When Julia regains the use of her body I will Springback. I will be returned to my family, to continue my life in peace if Scoldini has told me the truth, whereas Julia Corsten will be abandoned to pick up the wrecked pieces of her own existence from under the cloud of blackmail. And all this will happen to her because of me. I will bring about her downfall. For the past week I have tried to convince myself that if I didn't play along they'd simply find someone else. I try to believe that, in a way, I'm helping her. Better me than someone else, after all. I know it's not true though. I could say no, but I must have this experience. I want a day as Julia more than life. The car is slowing, only a couple of minutes after passing the church. We must be at the machine, but I can see nothing. It is dark under my hood. The engine stops. I have learned the plan. It is diabolically simple, and as long as the tag is in place it is likely to work. We are here. The Night The machine is vast. How they managed to steal something this size and keep it hidden for so long, I have no idea. It fills half a warehouse, comprising a complex network of pipes, wires, screens, flashing lights and things that look like guns, all focusing down to a stainless steel chair. As soon as I walk through the door my ears fill with a hum of machinery and the chatter of a matrix printer, and the room has the atmosphere of a space launch. "Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Nice to meet you, Sir," their scientist says to me, speaking at speed as if he struggles to keep his mouth up with his brain. I look at him skeptically. I've never seen more of a nerd. He just needs a lab coat to finish his appearance. I consider punching him, just to see what happens, but as I'll be completely in his power in a few minutes, that's not a good idea. "Welcome to Transfer class, 101, Sir," he says, pumping my hand. "Tell me - how much do you know about Transfer machines?" Everyone in the world knows a little bit, so I incoherently tell him the common knowledge, my eyes travelling constantly back to the machine. Transfer projects the awareness of one person into the body of another. For a while both individuals are looking through the eyes; hearing the sounds; feeling each touch as if it's their own body, but only the Transferred person, the one known as the invader, has control. It will be like Julia's body is my body, until her soul regains authority and I am forced to Springback. I briefly explain the concept of Springback to the scientist to show my understanding of what will happen to me, and he nods his approval. Transfer can't target an individual, we continue. There's no way to lock onto someone's brain. It can only target a GPS tag, and the invader will automatically move to the nearest awareness to that tag. That means it is vitally important that the tag has is planted close to the target, otherwise there could be accidental transfer into the wrong person. This happens a lot. The odds of failure are even higher because, in addition, important people that are at high risk are trained to recognize tags for their own protection. I have no idea how they'll have hidden one on Senator Corsten. She might have dumped the tag this afternoon, or I might even wake up inside someone in a prison cell, victim of a sting operation by Damage Limitation. Yes, Damage Limitation. One last thing about Transfer is common knowledge. "It's illegal to use Transfer," I say shortly, staring up at the hulk. "We could face the death penalty if this gets traced back to us." "Correct," he says rapidly, "we could face the death penalty, so let's deal with protecting our identities first, Sir. The good news is that you can't read each other's minds when you're both in there. You won't know what the target is thinking; they won't know what you're thinking. So the target can only trace you if you meet someone you know, or write down your address or phone number or something like that, so they can see it. They'll see everything you see. Be careful what you say out loud as well, because they'll be able to hear everything just the same as you can hear it." I'm beginning to say, "but she'll..." when he interrupts me urgently. "Don't tell me "he" or "she", Sir," he says, shaking his head as fast as a terrier. "I don't need to know, and I don't want to know. It's nothing more than sending you to a tag, for me. Call them "the target". That helps protect us both." "Is there a way I can stay longer in... the target?'I ask. Experiencing Julia Corsten's world will be a once-in-a-lifetime dream for me, so I want it to last as long as I can. He nods vigorously. "Yes Sir, Yes Sir. The more they resist, the faster you will Springback. If you do things the host doesn't like - embarrass them or hurt them, they'll fight you more strongly, so you can stay longer by avoiding that." I'm certainly going to be doing things she won't like. Regretfully I tell myself that I'll get a day, maybe two, at most. "Can you tell when they're resisting?" I ask. "If I do things the target likes, I'll get to stay longer." "Some people talk about feeling a tickling sensation in their mind, as the target fights to regain control, or a pushing feeling. And there's a sense of withdrawal when the target is compliant, and they're sitting back to watch. After a day has passed - just before Springback, some transfers even talk about being able to understand these sensations as a yes-no, to have simple conversations. "Shall we have burgers tonight?" And if there's no flutter - that's a 10-4" "It's never longer than a few days?" I ask. "Can someone ever get stuck?" He shrugs. "Only very rarely, Sir. If the host hates their own life that much, they might not mind someone take over. While a person is possessed they feel little emotion. Did you know that? It's like watching the world through a TV screen - you're not really there. If the host was unhappy to begin with, just occasionally, that person will let someone else run everything. Then you have a different problem - you can't get out. We call that "Compliance"." I can't imagine Julia Corsten would hate her life, or accept my presence. She will not be compliant. All the same, I am curious about it. "What is the longest someone has remained in their host?" Again there is that shrug. "There are stories about people never returning, but they might be urban myths," says the scientist. "The two minds learn to communicate, and they develop shared control. It becomes the most profound form of intimacy - two souls merging into one, and they never have to be alone." He shakes his head. "Urban myth - don't pay them attention, Sir. I only know one way to get stuck forever," he says. "It happens if something kills the invader's body. Then they can't Springback, so after the host takes over again, they're stuck in the back of the host's mind for the rest of their life, watching but unable to do anything." I feel a chill. "What will happen to my body while I'm in her, I mean in the target?" "We'll keep it safe for you, Sir" says the scientist, and for the first time he sounds a little threatening, like the other mobsters. "It's an incentive to complete your mission." Each answer just leads to more questions. And this is my only chance - I can't ask once Julia is listening. "What happens if the target is killed while I'm inside them?" The nerd looks directly at me. "If the target dies, your mind is wiped out too. It's a bit like being killed in that movie, The Matrix, when you're in The Matrix." He looks at his watch. "On that happy thought - it's 2 in the morning. Soon we'll be ready. We always send invaders in the early hours of the morning." "Why?" I ask. "It's when the hosts are most likely to be at home. Imagine if you arrive in your host and you're out and about somewhere. You have your house keys but you don't know where you live. You can't read their mind, remember, Sir. Not many people carry their home address with them. You could waste half of your time inside them figuring out where is home, when you should be having a good time." I'd spent a lot of the past week thinking about waking in Julia, and it had never occurred to me that I might wake up lost. The scientist makes sense, though. I look at the machine again. Vapor drifts from super-cooled pipes, and I can see warning signs labeled "Liquid Nitrogen'. I have run out of things to ask. If I'm ever going to do this, then I am ready now. "Let's get on with this, then," I say determinedly. "The sooner we start, the sooner I'm back with my family." Two Days Before "Dadeeee!" and my little daughter Sarah runs up to me, throwing her chubby arms around my waist. My older daughter Lucy, already acting like the little woman and too mature for these displays of affection, is sat doing her homework at the breakfast bar. "Michael," my wife says, and welcomes me home with the familiar kiss of a gesture many times repeated. I feel a pang of guilt at the way I've treated this kind woman, and the place I've brought us both with my secret world. Leaving a gulf of unsaid things I change out of my work clothes, and return to the lounge. The whole of one wall of our den turns into a TV - some clever wallpaper made by a company in Korea, and on its screen a ball game is playing, but I silently watch my family instead. How many more chances might I have to do this? So many things might go wrong. The centre of my world is my wife Helen. She's in her late thirties now, but she works out, eats carefully, and has remained an attractive woman. The shapely hips, full breasts and mane of golden hair that made me wild with desire in college can still draw the attention of other men, but my youthful masculine jealousy has faded forever, replaced by a different kind of envy. When I see another man's eyes take in Helen's body I burn because I want to be like her, and experience someone mentally undressing me. It was the rise of Jennifer_76 that ended our love life. I can't understand why she's stayed with me sometimes - if I was Helen I would be leading a whole alternate path, meeting dominant men and serving as their slave. And yet there is a mutual love that keeps us together. Perhaps for a woman, that is enough, and I'm the only one that craves a darker world. Perhaps in two days, when I'm a woman, I'll understand. "You're quiet tonight," Helen says to me docilely. "A lot on my mind," I answer. "Problems at the office. I need to do some work later." Silently she nods her consent. "No one is watching this," Helen says, indicating the ball game on the wall, and ending the subject she says, "TV - news'. I watch her preparing pasta. She likes the effort of making it freshly herself, rather than buy a packet from the store. Helen enjoys the domesticity of these motherly tasks. At first it surprised me when the college girl who studied a Masters in biological nanotechnology wanted to settle in the housewife role, but she carries on with a peaceful compliance. As I've done so many times already this week, I tell myself I've agreed to the Transfer for her, and for my daughters. Helen would be devastated if she knew that a black dress belonging to Jennifer_76 was locked in my bottom drawer at work. It would shatter everything we'd built over many years for if she knew I liked to watch images of women like her having their breasts whipped. By wreaking one life, I will save four. My conscience is not to be allowed such an easy escape, though. The news has switched from a story on rioting workers demanding support for American manufacturing after their automotive employer has gone under, plunging most of their Midwestern community into poverty, to an article about Julia Corsten. I almost jump with guilt when I see the woman whose body I will soon inhabit. "Pornography is the enemy of the American man, as much as the American woman," she is saying in her quiet, but determined voice. The same thought strikes me each time I see Julia: she's so beautiful - perfect bone structure, porcelain skin, eyes of sapphire blue, and that golden hair. Her lips are full, screen goddess lips meant to be pressed in a kiss from a rakish hero. "Addiction to pornography causes depression and ruins lives," she says. "Men seek more and more graphic images for their sexual fulfillment, and this need damages their healthy relationships. Pornography is linked to organized crime, and creates gangs who believe we'll never beat them, just because the public are restricted by a law that sides with the criminals" freedom. Pornography is not a first amendment right. Please - there needs to be a ban on pornography in America. I want to see that as soon as possible, and I need the voters of America to help me." I don't want to see a ban on pornography, but I have to agree it damages lives. Would Jennifer_76 have been born without the internet? "Girls, come get your food," says Helen, and she sits down next to me on the sofa, handing over a bowl of pasta. It is a simple dish of cherry tomatoes and pine nuts drizzled in olive oil, and it tastes delicious. "Sometimes that woman makes sense, and sometimes she sounds like a right wing nut," Helen says conversationally, indicating the image of Julia on the screen. "Lucy's doing a project on her for school, you know." "It is nearly women's week," Lucy says, as if it should be obvious to me. "We have to talk about a woman who made a difference in the world." "And you chose Julia Corsten?" I can't help asking. "What difference is she making?" "She's going to be the first female president," Lucy says confidently. Helen rolls her eyes at me. My wife's politics are far to the left of Julia Corsten's, but she sees Julia as a positive female role model, and for that reason alone she doesn't want burst our daughter's balloon. I didn't think my guilt could be worse, but now I know I'm going to bring down my daughter's hero. "Lucy has written to Senator Corsten, inviting her to visit the school, haven't you Lucy?" Helen says, but Lucy has turned her attention to the TV and ignores her mother. I look at my wife. She's wearing tight jeans, the denim faded almost white, and a plain vest that shows the "V" of her cleavage. Yes, Helen still has such a good figure - the only signs of bearing two children are some stretch marks on her lower abdomen, and you can't see those unless she's in her panties. I would have given anything for a day as Helen, but soon I will look even better than her in a pair of jeans. "Did you manage to find a sitter while you go to your reading circle?" I ask. Helen's book club is the last trace of the intellectual college girl, and she goes without fail one evening a week. My departure for the "conference" might have screwed that up. I try to be a decent human being, in spite of Jennifer_76; in spite of my secrets; in spite of what I'm about to do to Julia. It's important to me that Helen is allowed her own life. "Mary's daughter is coming in, to watch the girls while I go out," Helen says, and I visualize a slightly dumpy but pretty teenager who sometimes sits for us. Then my thoughts turn to Transfer. I realize that at the same time she's at a simple book circle, I might be enduring a public humiliation at Scoldini's party, inside the body of Julia Corsten. My looming future is too enormous to think of anything else, and I eat silently. After our meal, I excuse myself and go to the study. I've configured the desk so I sit facing the door. That means the screen of my laptop is hidden from anyone bursting into the room, giving me enough warning to hide illicit content. I open the secret, password protected part of my computer, and abandon the life of Michael Avery to plunge into the universe of Jennifer_76. Images, movies, stories, carefully stored in categorized folders. The "pornucopia', I call it. I filter easily down to one of my favorite movies and open it, sitting back with a sigh. The camera pans across a dungeon. A woman, an attractive woman, sits naked on the floor, her knees together, feet to the side and drawn up to her buttocks. She is shackled to a short wooden post, by chains that link to manacles at her wrists and ankles. As I watch, her handler enters the scene, his body only in shot from the waist down. He gropes the girl intimately, and then at a command she rises to her knees and takes his penis from his loose pants, sucking him into hardness while he knots his hand in her ponytail of hair. The scene arouses me - soon I am hard in my own loose pants. Only content like this can arouse me now. When I was sixteen it was enough to jerk off over a picture of a girl in a bikini, but now my needs are far more sophisticated. Perhaps Julia is right and I am the victim of this addiction, like so many other American men. I have considered deleting all the pornucopia with one click, saying goodbye to Jennifer_76 and burning her belongings, but now it is too late. My sins have caught up with me and there is no escape from my self-created nightmare. And despite all the damage it's done, I still crave more. "I want to be like that girl, I so, so, so, want to be like her," I am thinking, watching the naked female as I have done so many times before. But it's different tonight because soon I will really be her, or someone very like her. How will I feel when my wrists are truly restrained? Will it be the way I imagine? Will I cry out like she does when he cups and squeezes my breasts? Will my pussy be wet, aroused as I finally live my dream, or will the knowledge that I'm doing this at the expense of Julia Corsten be too overwhelming? Julia Corsten - the senator takes over my thoughts. Leaving the movie paused I search the internet for Julia Corsten, and I'm blitzed with images of her beautiful face. It's been a couple of hours since the news broadcast, but I find some wit has already sampled Julia's voice and matched it to music. As I watch her appearing to rap "I want... sexual fulfillment. I want... graphic images" over a hit dance track, I have to feel sorry for the girl. Politics is tough for a beautiful woman. Even though this is clearly a mash-up, easy to tell from the strange, lurching movements her head makes in the movie, she's still demeaned by the mix. "Help... please... beat... me... America" and "I need... to be... restricted', she says, all to the thumping music. I go back to the dungeon scene. "I'm too weak to resist," I mouth silently in my study, my eyes filling with tears of despair. "Just once before I die, I have to be the girl in those chains." The climax comes suddenly and intensely, fuelled by the heady cocktail of imagining myself female, and imaging myself restrained. There is barely time to reach for the box of tissues, before I am spurting and spurting, paper clutched around my crown to catch the seed. Before the orgasmic high has faded, I am already filled with even deeper regret for my lost hopes. Tonight might have been my last chance to make love to Helen, perhaps even the last chance I'll ever make love in my life, and I've just blown the urge into this tissue. I'm pathetic. This is the girl I was so desperate to get undressed at college, but the passing of years has meant I didn't even keep my last night sacrosanct. If something goes wrong during Transfer, I don't deserve to live. The Moment - Groundside Cautiously I mount the machine and sit in the shining steel chair. I'm expecting to be forced into leather shackles like those to restrain a prisoner for electrocution, but there is a simple safety belt, salvaged from a car. I comment on this to the scientist as I buckle myself in, and he is amused. "It doesn't hurt," he says. "No, no, no, Sir. It's not like you'll be struggling, Sir. One moment you'll be here, and then next you'll be in the target. Easy as pie. Your body in this place will be unconscious the whole time, so we just need something to stop you falling out the seat." He walks away, leaving me in the chair, and crosses over to the control desk of ancient computers. He looks down, tapping on a touchscreen. I am breathing quickly, nervously. The scientist sees this, and tries to reassure me. "I'm just searching for the tag," he explains, "that's all'. "Those PCs look like they belong in a museum" I comment, in a vain effort to distract myself from my excitement and my fear. "They probably date from when the machine was built," he agrees, "but there's never been any need to update the code." Swiveling round in his chair, he pulls a switch on a big circuit breaker box. I hear a deep bass humming that resonates through the room, building steadily in volume like we're in a jet revving for take- off. An alarm begins bleeping from the computer terminal, audible over the rising drone of the machinery. "We have a lock on the tag," he says. There is a roar of escaping gas as one of the cooling systems vents, and I jump. I feel an ache from my hands and realize I am gripping the arm of my chair, like I'm on a rollercoaster about to leave. My mouth is dry. I look down at myself, my male body. So many things could go wrong over the next few days - this might well be the last time I ever see it. For this most important journey I have dressed in smart work pants, suitable for attending a business meeting. I put them on to maintain the fiction of my conference destination. Visible at my crotch is the bulge of male genitals. I squeeze my thighs together, feeling the sandwich press on my testicles. I won't miss these at all - miss my cock and balls. Not compared with the sense of fulfillment I'll get from possessing a pussy down there. In just a couple of minutes I might be sat, looking down at my new curvaceous, feminine hips, and smooth womanly legs. It's a deliciously thrilling proposition. Will I still find myself desirable inside Julia? Will I feel the same on my new body, swimming with female hormones, or will my sex drive drop as low as a eunuch's? My heart rate is accelerating, matching the growing sound of the machine. "Nearing neutrino threshold," the scientist says to himself, and then to me, "that will be our balls sterilized by the radiation. Yes, Sir." I think he's joking. I look down at my crotch again. I don't care if I have balls or not. The sound of machinery grows so loud that I can barely hear the voice of the scientist counting down. This warehouse must be somewhere isolated, because it's like standing next to an airliner. I can feel the vibrations through the steel chair. "Here goes" I think, gripping the arms of my chair and taking a last look at my large hands, with the dark hair on the backs I hate so much. There is a wedding ring, tarnished and battered, on my left ring finger. "Helen, I'm sorry," I think. "Three... two... one..." I see the scientist's mouth move and he reaches out to a button on the terminal. At the zero moment, I see him press downwards. The Moment - Airside My eyes are already open, heart racing, looking into a darkened room. The surroundings are completely unknown to me. I'm lying on my side in a bed, alone in a king size bed, under thin cotton sheets. It worked, it actually worked. I've been Transferred. Only one thing concerns me. "But am I in the right person? Am I even in a female?" I must look at myself. On a bedside table next to me, I see the outline of a lamp, an expensive looking lamp. Reaching out I fumble for a switch, and as I grope in the dark there is a thrill because I can already feel my fingers are more delicate. Long nails press against an electrical switch. Light illuminates the room, making me blink, and there it is - my woman's hand, slender and smooth, with those nails rounded by a file, leading to a slim wrist and bare arm with fine bones. The skin is tight and youthful. Excitement surges within me. I'm in a young woman. I've just possessed the body of another human being, committing a capital crime, but I can't help laugh with joy, and for the first time I hear the sound of my new voice, high pitched and feminine. "Yes!" she exclaims, sounding as jubilant as someone punching the air. Thrilled, I pull back the covers to look down at my new body. This woman is wearing a ridiculously sexy lacy satin nightdress, which comes down only to thigh length on the most exquisite pair of long legs I've ever seen. Oh my, these are nice thighs, lithe and sleek and good enough to eat. And look at my hips - my hips are wide and low, their childbearing width accented by lying on my side, and they flow into a cola bottle narrow waist. Above that slim belly, for the first time in my life I have breasts. Those are my breasts, my own beautiful, gorgeous full breasts, rising and falling rapidly in time with my excited breathing. This woman's nightdress is tight fitting, so her breasts strain against the fabric to show that the girl has a fantastic rack. I can see her nipples - my nipples, each making a promontory. They are erect. Desire dissolves all self control. I'd planned not to touch myself out of respect for Julia - for whoever I inhabit - it's no different to sexual assault and so far in my life, "no" has always meant "no" in my attitude to women. I can barely imagine how terrifying it must be right now for her, watching helplessly while her body moves with its own will. But my resolve breaks when I stare at my chest. Just once I have to touch these beautiful tits. Just once in my lifetime, I have to know how it feels to touch my own breasts. I lift my delicate hand to my chest and I squeeze. Oh, it's as perfect as I'd imagined - so pert, and so firm, and warm from the heat of her body, and the sensation of being touched creates a strange tug between my legs. I groan out loud. These are the kind of tits men jerk-off over, in darkened rooms as they stare at digital images of a pouting girl. And they are mine. I'm feeling a lush pair of tits, probably Julia Corsten's tits, and no-one is going to stop me. She feels bigger than I'd expected in my fantasies - she must be an unusually large cup size for a girl with such a slim body. I grope those breasts until the pleasure changes to discomfort, squeezing like an inexperienced college boy with his first date, but I still can't stop. I only succeed in abandoning my tits by reaching down far enough lift the hem of my nightdress to see the outline of her pussy, my pussy, pressing beautifully against the tiniest pair of thin satin panties hemmed with elaborate lace. They're almost as high cut as a string, showing off the soft vulnerable flesh of my groin. And there it is, my own pudenda, arching to an impossibly feminine peak. My self-sexual- assault continues as I reach between my legs and rub my fingers over that mound, trying to masturbate the way I've seen women do in movies, and I'm rewarded with a delicious, warm, pleasure that spreads through my body. This is my body, my pussy. I have no penis, but a pussy, a hole to enclose a male penis during intercourse. I have ovaries, a womb, and I'll release eggs. If a man ejaculates inside me at the fertile time of my cycle, I will become pregnant. This sensation of being female is so erotic to me that I might have climaxed if I was a male, but my woman's body is more resistant to arousal. I am also distracted by something unexpected. It's like an itch in my head where it's impossible to itch, or maybe a flutter, and I understand. It's Julia - if I am in Julia. She must realize by now she's lost control of her body, and she's frightened, resisting. I feel a pang of pity. Someone - she doesn't know who - is groping her, using her own limbs, and that person is me. I'm supposed to love women, I don't hate them, but I've disproved all that by molesting a girl against her will. "I'm sorry," I say out loud, in this woman's high, feminine voice, and the fluttering stops for a moment. Is she listening? Taking my hand away, I try to apologize, "I'll not do that again." It is a cheap promise. I might not touch her, but Scoldini's plan is to let lots of other people do so. "Try not to panic," I tell her. "You've been the victim of Transfer." That seems to be no reassurance, as the sensation returns immediately. The fluttering is too desperate to ignore, so in spite of my desperate urge to resume caressing my new body, I swing my legs out of the bed, sitting carefully up, but I'm distracted as I notice the weight of this woman's hair, falling into place down my back. I reach to the nape of my neck and pull a thick tail of golden blonde hair over my shoulder. This hair is long, long enough to hang down over my breast. My stomach barrel-rolls with excitement, even as the woman inside my head resists me. It looks like Julia Corsten's hair. "Please, relax," I say, trying to soothe her. The feminine lace slip I'm wearing barely covers my hips. I look down at my silken thighs, my slender ankles, and delicate smooth feet of the type the fetishists find so erotic. Julia (I am calling myself Julia already) must be a small shoe size, even for a girl. I flex my knees, trying to imagine how it might feel to have a man sandwiched between my thighs as he enters me. I raise my head and look properly around for the first time. Julia's bedroom looks to have been decorated in furniture from the revolution era. I see quaint dressers with ornately carved legs, curved into the shape of a woman's hips. The lamp is the only object from the twenty first century. If this is her apartment, then her bedroom is as old fashioned as her attitudes. Placing my small woman's feet on the polished wood floor, I stand. The mirror at the dresser is my target. I step forward and wobble. The weight distribution of my body is noticeably different at first, but by the time I've crossed the room I've got used to compensating for the sway of my breasts and hips. I reach the dresser, and stare into the glass. The surge of elation is like nothing I've experienced before. The face looking back at me is indeed Julia Corsten, but this is Julia like I've never seen her before. She's as flushed as if she's just had sex, cheeks pink and her pupils dilated. The unusually long blonde waves of hair that have always been so immaculate are unkempt from sleep, hanging around her face, and the strand I pulled across my shoulder still drapes on my left breast. Her chest rises and falls with breathing. Julia's lips are pursed, open in an "O', lips that could so easily close around a man's cock. She's stunning. I've seen pictures of her on the internet, and watched her across the caf?, but never had the opportunity to really study her face up close. Her skin is flawless - no makeup needed here. I moan with desire for the image of myself, and hear a woman's groan, Julia Corsten's voice sounding whorish and sexual. I lift my hand to my face, and touch long finger nails to delicate, high, feminine cheekbones, watching the reflection of the girl do the same. My jaw is as fine as china. Gone is the jutting, male, Neanderthal brow of bone over my eyes, and a smooth, feminine forehead curves to the line of my thick blonde hair. "Oh," I say with wonder. The future president of the United States has bare shoulders and arms, her slip of a nightdress only being held up by thin spaghetti straps. I was quite muscular as a man, despite a sedentary job, but Julia is as thin and delicate as a catwalk model. That vulnerability is even more noticeable without those business jackets she usually wears. Perhaps that's the reason she chooses them - protection. She's lucky she's a woman in this modern, civilized age, and she wasn't born in the past. A Viking marauder would have carried this girl off in an instant. The only flesh on the girl has accumulated at her breasts, which most heterosexual men in America have already noticed are unusually full in relation to her slim frame. Looking further down the reflection I see my cleavage looks fine even without the support of a bra. These are pert tits. I also notice that my nipples are still very noticeable. I want to bare myself, and touch myself again, but I promised myself that Julia would not be molested by my hands. However, doing this might be all the crueler, giving her hope. The time draws closer and closer when the hand of another is intended to caress those nipples, and I will be as unable as Julia Corsten to push that hand away. I shudder as I visualize the scene, and Julia's reflection flushes a deeper pink. I close my eyes wishing I could freeze time. I don't want to go on with the plan - I could spend forever just watching myself, but I have a mission. Merely being Transferred into Julia wasn't enough. I must find a phone, and tell my masters where I am. There is no trace of technology in this bedroom from George Washington's era, unless the tech is disguised, but a Senator must have a high tech office somewhere. Summoning the will to move away from the mirror, I say goodbye to my bedroom and explore Julia Corsten's home. Five minutes after Across the corridor I discover Julia's study, and as expected I return to the modern age. The furniture is similarly antique, but here there is tech -computers, large screen TV, phones, a printer, and shelves and shelves of files and books. A glance round shows Julia Corsten is a polymath - there are books on political theory, sociology, psychology, science and religion, and a couple of books in German. Unfortunately I don't have time to reflect on her literary tastes. Somewhere in here, there will be a letter with her address - my priority is to find out where I am. So I devote my attention to the expensive solid desk, with a scuffed green leather surface, that fills the middle of the room. I start by opening one of the desk drawers, and I jump. On top of the papers, the most accessible object, is a gun, a large chrome plated handgun. It's too big for Julia to comfortably use with her small hands, and yet she owns it. This is the kind of weapon women buy because its size makes them feel more secure. It's ominous that Julia would need the presence of something like this in her house. The justification is immediately below, in a buff colored envelope. It's a folder of letters sent to Julia's campaign office. Her resisting presence abruptly vanishes from inside my head, so I open one at random and read it. My hand shakes, as if the paper has suddenly grown hot. "If I got you alone, I'd slice off your tits and make you scream," it says. "You dress like a WHORE, you disgrace to American women," rants another handwritten letter with a feminine style. "GOD sees all and HE will strike you down." Showing that Julia can please neither liberal nor conservative women the third one says, "you frigid prissy little virgin, if you went out and got laid once in a while you might not give the rest of us a hard time." Next comes another threat, cut out of newsprint, which makes my skin crawl. "Lock your doors at night, Julia Corsten, because one day I'm gonna be there and I'm gonna rape you until you start to like it." How can people think they can send her this shit, just because she's a woman in the public eye? Male politicians never have to deal with this. I bet no-one threatens to rape president Groban. And it doesn't take me long to realize the common theme in this folder of hate. Every letter has some reference to Julia as a woman, to her physical appearance and sexual conduct, or to something the writer would like to do to her. I feel a surge of pity for the girl I've invaded. She was frightened by these sickos, frightened of finding the masked man in her bedroom, but when the nightmare came, it didn't need to break into her front door. Something much worse happened to Julia Corsten. In the place she should have felt safest, in her bed, there was nowhere to flee. She didn't need protecting from the serial killer. It was the IT guy, the one who was a nice family man, and his only mistake was that too many people knew he wanted to be a girl. In the next drawer down, beneath the one with the gun, is a pile less sinister of paperwork. Utility bills are addressed to "Miss J Corsten', not "Senator', and there, finally, is an address. I stand indecisively to a moment, thinking about the poisoned mail. Why does she keep it? Is it to motivate her to succeed, or to fuel a hatred of men? I wonder what mister "I'm gonna rape you until you start to like it" would make of the footage of Julia being screwed in a dungeon. I pray for her sake, that he never sees that. Julia's mobile is on the table, but I can't use it, as I don't know the code to unlock it. So I pick up the old-fashioned receiver on the desk, and dial the number I've memorized. "Yes?" says a voice. It sounds a bit like Locks. "This is Julia Corsten," I say in her female voice. "It worked." "What is your address?" he asks without surprise, and I read off the information. "We'll be there in thirty minutes," he says. "Put something sexy on." Inside my head Julia starts to panic as the phone goes dead in my hand. I replace it in the cradle. That's it - they're on the way. Put something sexy on, the man said. I have to look nice when I'm being stripped. Julia's wardrobe isn't in her study, and I didn't see it in her bedroom. I'll have to explore further. I'm turning to leave when I notice something I haven't spotted before. In a frame on the wall is an embroidery sampler, a piece of fabric that looks so old it might have been sewn by a woman off the pilgrim ships at Plymouth Rock. Perhaps it is a hand-me-down in Julia's family, an heirloom. The cloth is frayed to pieces at the edges, but most of the designs have survived. In the centre of flowers and patterns, is embroidered the text of a bible verse. It says, "For the man is not of the woman: but the woman of the man. Neither was the man created for the woman, but the woman for the man. Corinthians, Chapter 11" It surprises me so much for this to belong to Julia that I have to ask out loud, "and you really believe this?" There are plenty of bible verses that women don't care much for - the one about living in tents during their period is one gem - but this one with its notion that woman is there to serve man is a real doozy. The feminists will hate Julia if they knew about this. I feel another wave of pity for her. If she thinks she was created to please men, she's destined to get her wish before long. Pushing my conscience away, I continue to explore a stranger's apartment. Further down the hallway is my favorite place so far. Julia has a huge bathroom. It's completely tiled inside here - what you call a wet room. She has an ornate ceramic corner bath big enough for three people, and a tempting looking shower. There is a pleasant smell of eucalyptus in here. I catch a glimpse of myself in a full length mirror bolted to the wall, and double-take at my view of the beautiful blonde woman, still a surprise, barefoot in her lace slip. The next room I find off the corridor was probably intended as a second bedroom, but Julia uses it as a walk in wardrobe. Almost all the available space is filled with racks and racks of beautiful women's clothes. I run my hand down one rail, making garments swing back and forth. This is my heaven. Women have so much more choice in how they dress than men. Julia's taste is for smart dressing, smart, but in outfits that are as sexy as possible as it's possible to be while remaining professional. There are skirt suits, pant suits, blouses, jackets, dresses, boots and heels, but no trace of a simple pair of jeans. Everything manages to be classy, yet provocative, which is just the way Julia appears in public. A rack solely devoted to dresses has examples ranging from ankle length ball gowns to short Audrey Hepburn little black numbers. I wonder again about her motivation, as so many fashion columnists have also done. Does she do it deliberately to taunt men, flaunting what only her future husband will enjoy, or is this a feminist expression that she should be allowed to wear what she wants? I hold a light summer dress to my face and inhale a spicy, heady perfume from the soft fabric. This is the scent of Julia. Now it's my scent, my beautiful body. An area with stacks of open shelves shows me that Julia likes to accessorize. She's filled it with scarves, brooches and bangles, and ties for her perfect long hair, the hair I can currently feel between my bare shoulder blades. The real Julia has been silent for a while, but fresh flutterings in my mind tell me I'm approaching her more intimate apparel. I hook a miniscule thong on one of her long nails, suspending it from a slender finger. For a prissy ice-maiden, Julia has the most erotic taste in lingerie. All I can find is skimpy lace and frills, the kind of stuff you find in the more provocative catalogues. One set is a sheer mesh - she'd look worse than naked wearing that. It looks as if it's been chosen for no other reason than to entice. Again I am puzzled by the contradiction in her personality. Why does a woman who publicly vows to remain a virgin until her wedding night like to wear underwear for a male fantasy? No-one is ever going to see it. "What's the d