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Overnight Change by Janet Harris ?© 2014 When I woke in a strange bedroom, I didn't realise I myself was also strange. I looked around this rather feminine room and noticed the bra hanging over the back of the chair beside the bed long before I noticed that I had tits. I didn't have to put my now slender hand down to my crutch because only a slight movement of my legs was enough to be sure that all that had hung between them last night was completely gone. I was shocked, of course, but not unhappy. I hadn't expected my secret fantasies to come real on that day. I can remember nothing which could have triggered it. I was quite scared when I pinched myself; it hurt, so I wasn't dreaming. I stared at the bra, knowing I would need it now, probably every day for the rest of my life. Feeling an urgent need to pee, I climbed out of bed to find I was wearing nothing but underpants, just like last night. However, these were much smaller, of pale blue satin with white lace edges. They curved smoothly away between my legs, leaving no doubt what was underneath. Now all the other transformation stories relate a loss of balance, a new centre of gravity, but as my huge nipples, erect with the excitement of my transformation, preceded me into the bathroom, I walked tall and proud. Nothing could seem more natural. Mainly, I was delighted to feel, for once, younger than yesterday. Nor did it occur to me to try to pee standing up. The new feelings as I released my bladder seemed perfectly natural too. Sitting there, I silently asked my name but got complete silence from the "inner voice" helper I had hoped for. After the new chore of wiping myself, I went straight to the mirror. I was certainly young, late teens or early twenties, but not at all like my former self or any of the female members of his family. Who was I? "A young lady with amnesia" was the best answer. It would be a challenge and I was still very much up for one of those. I re-entered my new bedroom and went straight to the desk in the corner which had a laptop and several documents on it. They seemed to be official letters to and from various people who might or might not be myself so I started going through the drawers. It was then that I really felt the need for that bra, so I decided to get dressed first. I had been pleased to notice a denim miniskirt on the chair earlier as I'd always admired wearers of them so, after struggling into that bra, which indeed made me more comfortable, I picked up the pair of tights. I felt stubble on my calves so made a mental note to shave them in my next bath or shower then pulled up the tights very carefully so as not to ladder them on that stubble. I ran a hand over my smooth soft chin to reassure myself I would never have to shave that again. The blouse was pale green with short puffy sleeves and a rounded frilly collar which I left open first two then three buttons, checking that my bra wouldn't show as I showed off my cleavage. I found those left-facing buttons not at all difficult, in fact I was proud of them and a bit annoyed that the skirt had a button and flies zip the boy's way round. I slipped on the four-inch heels and tried a few steps, delighted with how natural I felt dressed like that. Then I found a brush on my dressing table to tidy my hair, which I haven't mentioned because I hardly noticed, even though it was brushing my shoulders. It was mid brown and neatly cut all exactly the same length, just over my shoulders. Looking at it again in the mirror, I really wanted to know who and where I was. I was also feeling that a handbag was the next stage of getting dressed and, of course, that would be where to find ID. I put the hairbrush down again and dived into the denim shoulder bag, still on the back of the chair by the bed. There was my driving license with the face I had seen in the mirror next to the name Frances Matilda Cunningham. How strange! I didn't much like any of those names and would never have chosen them when writing a story. I could be called Fran, I thought, but it was far from what I had expected. The date of birth made me 22, nearly 23. The address was a flat in a block I usually passed on my way to work. I looked out of the window and recognised other buildings nearby. What was my work now? Was I single? There were two bunches of keys in the bag, one with a Volkswagen fob, must be flat and car, and the other had three ordinary Yale keys, a strange security key and an electronic pass fob. A shop? A bank? I went back to the desk to double check a letter I'd seen to Miss F M Cunningham BSc. There it was, so great, I'm a graduate. The address was a well known insurance firm. That would be challenging indeed with no memory or inner helper. Should I go to work today? It had been Saturday night when I went to bed for the last time as Peter. I noticed a little blinking light on the open laptop, meaning it was only suspended, so I pressed a key in the hope of seeing the time and date. Just a blank screen requiring a password appeared. I was brutally reminded that I knew absolutely nothing about the woman I had become, least of all her childhood pets or previous car numbers. I caught myself using those pronouns and wondered "When can I really become just me, the new Fran?". I was staring, past my boobs and the hem of my skirt, stretched across my lap, at my nylon clad knees. I was surprised that the excitement of the stark reality of my sudden transformation was giving me the female equivalent of a hard-on. Something felt swollen between my legs and it certainly wasn't a dick. So this is how it would feel to fancy a man? Not bad! I still needed to know the date and time though I did know where I was. On my bedside cupboard was an radio alarm clock showing 08:05 and beside it a tiny watch I had omitted when getting dressed. I strapped it onto my newly slender wrist and then examined it. There was a little date window with 10 showing. That should be Sunday but I still wasn't sure. I looked around for a newspaper or other clue and spotted the drawer in my bedside cupboard. In it was a pink diary but it was locked. I rooted through my handbag for the key, then realized it had to be reachable from the bed. Sure enough, I found it at the bottom of the little zipped make-up bag also in the drawer. It was a five year diary, an eighteenth birthday present from Auntie Violet. It started with references to the previous one so I turned to today's date near the end and found she (no I) had written a few lines last night. Now I was confident it was Sunday and could relax, though I was a bit hungry for breakfast. First, though, I was too curious about the diary to put it down. Sitting on the bed in my miniskirt with my hair falling both sides of my face, reading my emotional writings, I felt intensely feminine, to my delight. However, I was worried about the challenges ahead, especially the password. It seemed I had been out last night with Jill, Sophie and Brian, whom I had found too geeky to fancy. I seemed to be very single, then, which was a relief, not having any relationship to worry about. I was pleased that I empathized with everything I read, well of course I did, and that it gave me so much information. However I was soon too hungry to continue and crossed to the kitchen corner of my studio flat. In the top cupboard I found a box of muesli and a bowl. I stood on tiptoe to reach them but found it made little difference from my heels. In the fridge was only skimmed milk. Yesterday I had eaten a big bowl of chocolate cereal, followed by bacon and eggs, but now I must watch my figure. I sat at the little table and wondered how lonely this life would be. Just how single was I? Again I stared in amazement over my boobs at my nylon clad knees poking out of my miniskirt. My hair kept falling over my face as I prepared my breakfast and I didn't want it getting in my mouth as I ate, so I went back to the dresser, finished brushing it out and pulled it back into a scrunchy at the back of my neck. I was surprised and pleased how naturally these movements came to me, especially fitting the scrunchy on my wrist and slipping it onto my hair, doubled back through it. Feeling the pony-tail on my back through my thin blouse, I munched my way through a big bowlful of muesli. I was at the sink, washing my bowl when there was a knock at the door. Suddenly I felt very shy, after feeling increasingly confident in my skirt and pony-tail. I remember that the knocking interrupted a silly thought that I was in "the woman's place at the sink". It made me a bit cross, thinking that I would certainly make any male partner do the lion's share of the washing-up, but it also made me giggle that the thought had crossed my mind. When I gingerly opened my flat door, there stood a middle-aged man. As I focussed on his face, I found the one I had seen in the mirror every day, up until yesterday. "You'll catch a fly like that" he said as I gaped, astonished, "Aren't you going to invite your poor old Dad inside?" Still gaping, I stood aside and he entered. When I'd shut the door I said "But I didn't - you don't - have a daughter like me." "No, I don't. I only said that for the benefit of your neighbours. Are you OK, Frances?" "Yes, fine, well, great actually!" I grinned, "But how did you do this body-swap? Is it permanent?" "Do you want it to be?" "Well erm, er, maybe..." I stammered, looking him up and down. After over an hour of springing around in a fit young body, I really didn't look forward to being back in my fifties. I was embarrassed to find my eyes drawn to the bulge in his jeans and to find myself wondering what it would be like to invite a man inside this marvellous body, feeling that warm swelling again in my own crotch. "Not this man" I told myself silently but firmly. I looked up to see him grinning. "Sometimes it's embarrassing to be telepathic," he said, "and you're right, if we did that we'd both be unfaithful to Susan. I woke up next to her this morning and if I go back (your choice) I don't want any guilty secrets." I could feel my blushes all around my frilly green collar as I stood in front of the man I used to be in my skirt and tights. "Do I have to decide right now?" I asked. "No, no hurry," he said, "You can have this body back any time up to Friday." I was amazed at my own confidence and how my new high-pitched voice sounded so natural. I was surprised that I didn't feel scared of this apparently powerful being. He was reassuringly friendly even though he was clearly super-human. "Something tells me you weren't Fran for very long," I ventured, "so where is the original?" "You like to be called Frances." he corrected me. "No, I prefer Fran," I asserted, "and you haven't answered my question." "Oh she wanted to be male so became her boyfriend two weeks ago." "My boyfriend?" "No, he dumped you straight away." "Oh gosh! You don't pull your punches, do you? Why do you do this body-swapping thing?“ "You wouldn't understand. Let's just say I like helping to realise fantasies. You seen pretty pleased with yours." "So how did you find me, I mean you, I mean that body?" "Ah, you're wondering if I traced you through Fictionmania? Well, I can assure you that you've covered your tracks well. No, I sat behind you (this body) on a bus last week and read your mind." I realised that I hadn't read far enough back in my diary to find the real former Fran. Was she a nice person? Was I popular at work? A woman who secretly wanted to be a man, eh? I glanced at Peter's crotch again and was glad that I was "all neat and tidy down there" now. "Yes, you're quite a popular young lady", he said, smiling at my thoughts again, "and, now Tom's out of the picture, you're quite sought after, so to speak." That set me blushing again, of course, so I decided to distract myself by being hospitable. "Can you stay for a cuppa?" I asked, moving towards my kettle but hoping he couldn't. Of course I realised immediately that he knew my thoughts. "No, you're lucky," he grinned, "I've told Susan I was only popping out to the shops. Just text me if you do want this body back. Take care. Bye." So, closing my door behind him, I was suddenly very scared again of being stuck in this new body. Grasping my breasts, I asked myself aloud "Do I really really want this?" I did, because "I" was wholly Fran, and I thought like Fran. I did feel very guilty about leaving Susan with a complete stranger and even another, different stranger in her husband's body when the weird body-swapper got the opportunity to move on. I felt bad, but I found myself trying to find ways out. Could I befriend Susan? I hadn't thought of her as a fellow female before. We had little in common now with a thirty year age gap and completely different careers. I really didn't want to be Peter again, though. I was loving the feelings of this fit young body, the way my pony-tail swung around my back and my skirt hem pulled around my thighs. I sat back on the bed and dug further back into my diary. I soon found the subtle change of style two weeks ago when I had swapped bodies with Tom, though the body-swapper had hidden it well. I suddenly realised that I had swapped souls rather than bodies. I felt that, despite my lack of female memories, I was wholly and truly Fran. It was only that I had a new soul pushed into my head but otherwise I was still just Fran. Of course it would be nice to know more about myself and face less challenges in that respect but the diary was certainly helping a lot. Apparently I wasn't all that close to Tom when he dumped me, taking my soul and running, so to speak. All my references to him were positive and, if we had been life partners I would have been constantly critical. That thought made me giggle. Would I have had it when I was Peter? I think not. I loved my new, more emotional, priorities and felt really at home with them. I was also glad that I‘d brought a long life of experience and, hopefully, wisdom into Fran's. I could be more efficient and effective now. With that thought, I put down the diary and finished putting away my breakfast things. Then I made my bed, then sat at my dresser to attempt some make-up. It wasn't difficult to work out how to apply blusher, eye shadow and even mascara. Before long I was quite pleased with the results and ready to face the world as a pretty, well at least I thought so, young lady. I really wanted to stride out down the street in my new persona but was also very nervous about it. I knew from an alarm on my phone that I had some food shopping to do. The longer I put it off the worse it would be, so I grabbed the denim jacket hanging on the back of the door and raced out, almost skipping downstairs to the lobby. There I found a handsome young man checking his mailbox. "Hello Frances!" he called. "Er, hello" I stammered, blushing again and telling myself firmly to stop fancying everything in trousers. Luckily he was too engrossed in the contents of his mail to notice. I noted he had re-locked box No 26 and maybe I could find his name in a residents list or even my diary. I needed it only to return his greetings, honestly! Outside, I wondered which of three VW cars was mine, so I dug the keys out of my handbag and pressed the remote button. To my surprise it was the biggest, not the smallest of them which flashed its hazards. I got in and looked in the glove-box for the documentation. I found out that it was a company car; Peter had never had one of those. I fitted the seat- belt between my boobs, kicked off my heels and headed for a familiar supermarket, until I realised that I might bump into Peter or worse Susan there. My new route took me out onto the motorway and I got to taste the lovely turbo power of my Jetta. Earlier, at traffic lights, I had undone my pony-tail and tossed out my hair, because I was as proud of being the lady driver of this fast car as I was of my slender legs and skirt when I was walking. It was a pity, I reflected, that it wasn't convertible, to really blow my hair, but you rarely get company cars which are. I really enjoyed the looks on the faces of young men as I overtook them. I must be doing pretty well at work to get a car like this at 22, I thought. I had seen "Underwriter" under my signature, not "Assistant Underwriter" and hoped I could pick up the threads of my work well enough tomorrow, Monday. When I was about to get out of my car in the supermarket car park, I remembered that I couldn't use my debit card without knowing its PIN and I would soon run out of the little cash I had seen in my wallet. There was no choice but to text Peter. Susan might ask him about it, so I had to devise a subtle code, not difficult since I knew his mind so well and that the body-swapper would have been able to glean most of his memories, unlike me with Fran's. I knew his number, of course, though it was new on my phone, as mine would be on his, so I phrased it as if I were a work colleague needing a code, though I did sign it Fran. Immediately just the four digits came back, so quickly that I wondered over what distance he could read my mind, but then I remembered that he had said he, as Frances, had sat behind Peter on a bus and that he had asked for a text by Friday. I was beginning to feel lonely on the way home, a feeling that would bother me more and more. I actually regretted not meeting anyone Frances had known in the shops and determined to research my friends thoroughly so that they wouldn't suspect a change when I met them. Back in my flat, which, although in a good area, seemed very frugal compared to my car, I examined all the photos in my phone. There were lots of Tom, I knew it was him by the way he suddenly disappeared two weeks before. I was getting used to my sexual attraction to males by now, but the impact of some their faces surprised me. I was seeing the women critically and unemotionally. The unnamed faces in the photos were frustrating. I really needed to get into my laptop. I was tempted to text Peter again but it was too embarrassing. I tried the PIN and I tried my unusual middle name, then I felt hungry so I put some of the ham and cheese I'd bought into a wholemeal bap and made myself a big mug of coffee. With those at my desk, I went back into the phone for clues. There was nothing in the Facebook app. "Just like Peter, I'm too private for that." I thought, but it could have been handy now. My email was quite informative but I suddenly noticed that I was frances54 so I went back to the laptop and tried matilda54. I was in! Only a selected few of my phone pictures had been renamed on my laptop to include friends' names but that was the best help I had, so far. I became sure of my parents that way. The family likenesses to my new face was striking. I had seen in my call-log that I usually rang them Sunday night so I‘d better do that tonight, though that wasn't the sort of company I craved. Their dialling code was a distant city. I really liked the look of most of my friends, the men hot and the women chic. I was really pleased that my sexual orientation had changed so completely. Again, I felt that I was wholly Fran and only Peter's memories had been shoved into my head. All my thoughts were now feminine and it was already becoming hard to remember what it had been like to actually be Peter. When I looked at Tom's face in the photos, I thought "There's the former Frances." but why had she chosen to go that way? Ambition, perhaps, because I‘d found out that he was a manager of a different department at work. Was I hitting the glass ceiling? I felt less ambitious now than I had as Peter, I welcomed my new priorities as a woman and could not understand the former Frances' motives at all. Then I suddenly wondered if the body-swapper had been lying. Before meeting him, as Peter, I had wondered if Frances had been a witch and done this change herself. There were also other scenarios which might fit the known facts but the change in the diary and Tom's body being greatly preferable to Peter's made it most likely that the truth had been told. Would I bump into Tom at work tomorrow? It would be embarrassing but he would think I was the body- swapper and if I put him straight I could find out more about myself. After a bit more research, I felt like venturing outside again, but I wanted to dress differently, to feel more relaxed in more familiar clothes, t-shirt and jeans for instance. I had glanced at the white blouses and skirt-suits in my wardrobe, knowing I worked in an office, so now I opened the drawers and chose a plain black t-shirt. All my jeans had boy's-way flies, which annoyed me, except a grey pair with colourful embroidery. They were too feminine for my purpose, so I swallowed my pride and chose a heavy denim pair. I seemed to have only pink and white trainers, until I found some blue lace-up deck shoes, so chose those. I could have kept the tights on but found some white socks instead. It was weird zipping up the jeans over my smoothly rounded crotch and seeing my t-shirt bulging out in front, but I did feel less provocatively female when I set out for my walk in the park, though it actually made me feel even more lonely and bored. When I got back I looked again at my phone log to see when I usually rang my Mum but it was much too early. The last thing I needed was for her to suspect there was something wrong. She might already have detected the absence of the real Frances in the last two calls but I was fairly confident the body-swapper was clever enough to prevent that. After another hour's research, I needed a break, so I turned on the TV, kicked off my shoes and curled up on my couch with a glass of wine. I had already loosed the low pony-tail I had sported for my walk because I felt I looked too formal and severe. I had not had long hair since I was a student and now it was making me feel young and free again, though I knew that tomorrow I would have to be serious and formal at work in one of those skirt-suits I'd seen in my wardrobe. Suddenly my phone rang and the name Sophie was on the front, one of my best friends. "Hi Sophie!" I cried, wondering if I should sound as enthusiastic as I felt. "Hi Frances, recovered from last night?" I was disappointed with my name but was having second thoughts about shortening it. Why draw attention to my transformation? "Oh yes, raring to go again!" I replied, wishing I'd written more about it in my diary. "Where are we going?" she asked, leaving me struggling to remember venues. "Why not the George again?" I suggested unimaginatively, "Will I see you there after I've rung my Mum at seven?" "Well no, I won't be going that early. I can join you there at eight if you can't wait till I come by yours." She must live in the opposite direction to the George, I suddenly realised. "OK, pick me up on your way, then." "OK, see you later, Frances. Bye!" When I put my phone down, I felt very lonely again. It was still almost an hour before I could ring my Mum and I was scared to ring another friend. I went back over older emails again to try to gauge my closeness to people. I decided to risk ringing Polly who hadn't been with Sophie and me last night. I won't relate that call in full. Suffice it to say that I did all the listening because she thought her boyfriend was cheating on her and no, she couldn't come out tonight. I waited until exactly seven, the usual time to ring my Mum, very excited, because Peter had no living parents and I would be someone's daughter for the first time. Perched on the edge of my couch, with my knees tightly together, even though I was wearing jeans, I found her number and put the phone under my long hair to my ear. "Hello?" came a mature female voice, so she didn't have caller-id. "Hello Mum.." I began, about to say "this is Frances" but she interrupted with a warm and loving "Oh, hello Frances!" which sent a tingle right to the ends of my fingers and toes. I needn't have worried about remembering anything because she took over ninety percent of the conversation. I stared at the framed photo of my parents on my desk, at one point going over to turn it more towards the couch and felt genuine love for them. My Dad came into the room and called "Hello Frances!" and I would have liked to talk to him too, but Mum didn't offer that and I heard the door shut as he left again. She went into great detail over his heath issues, which surprised me because he was less than ten years older than Peter. When we finally hung up, it was time to get ready to go out with Sophie. My first thought was to try the third mode of dress for women and wear a dress. Perhaps that was too formal for just my local pub with my mate but I'd spotted a lovely green mini-dress in my wardrobe of soft comfortable cotton with a lighter green panel down the middle. I just had to wear it tonight. When I'd pulled off my jeans and t-shirt, chosen a bra with a bit more uplift and a new pair of sheer tights, I wriggled into my favourite dress. It seemed awfully short and its sleeveless top was a new sensation for me. Would Sophie think I was out "on the pull"? Well, perhaps I was. I was certainly feeling randy and I couldn't wait to try flirting with men. I was still experimenting with make-up, especially vivid reds, when the doorbell rang. Sophie didn't seem to be surprised to see me in my dress, although she was wearing a casual polo shirt and loose trousers. I picked up a waterproof jacket, rather than my formal raincoat, as the clouds were looking gloomy, and strode out with her in my sheer nylons but flat shoes, having wanted to wear heels but needing to tone down the dress a bit. It was nice to walk out with a close female friend with no sexual involvement. I thought she was really pretty, more than me perhaps, but I saw it only in rivalry, not attraction. Even before entering the George, I had spotted young men that I fancied and was proud to be spotted by them. Having established enough facts about myself to be reasonably confident, I could now start on my sex life as a woman. At the back of my mind was a suspicion that I might have to return to manhood when I next woke in the morning, or on Friday, though the latter would be voluntary and dependent on my faith to my wife. Right now she certainly seemed to be someone else's wife. So, there was a certain urgency in my pursuit of male company which I hoped Sophie wouldn't notice but I soon realised that she was just as eager as I was. I quite admired the first bloke who approached us in the pub and opened my mouth to reply to him before I got a sharp kick in the shin under the table. It really hurt now I was wearing tights. As soon as he had retreated in failure, Sophie asked "Were you too drunk to remember what happened last night?". I learnt to follow Sophie's lead after that. In my haste I had forgotten that this was our home pub and most men were not strangers. This was really the last place to go "on the pull". However, she soon pointed out a pair of "prospects" who were new there. They soon noticed our stares and came over to try their chances. They seemed very handsome to me but I let Sophie take the lead this time. I found flirting came naturally and pretty soon we four were getting along wonderfully. Dave seemed far more attractive than Paul to me, so I was surprised to find Sophie concentrating on Paul. That suited me so well that I wondered if Sophie was doing it to help me out. Dave liked talking about himself, which would normally be negative but, knowing so little about myself, I was glad to listen. I was amazed that his deep voice was turning me on. When someone put something danceable on the juke-box, I gladly followed him onto the floor. I found my dress ideal for twisting. When Paul suggested we move on to a night-club, both Sophie and Dave said they had early starts in the morning. I took this to mean that I couldn't take Dave home for a nightcap either but I was bold enough to ask anyway. He turned me down very gently with a kiss on my cheek as we parted. Of course I was disappointed not to get any actual sex on my first day as a woman but fully realised that it would be too much to expect, especially with a stranger. Sophie seemed a bit shocked that I'd asked him back to my flat. Luckily she didn't go on about it too much on our way back to mine, where neither of us suggested that she should stay. I was worried about going to work in the morning, too. I didn't feel at all sleepy when I got home but I knew I'd better get straight to bed. I suddenly wondered again if the body-swapper's suggestions had been false and I would actually revert to being Peter again overnight. I needed to try a female orgasm while I still had the chance, so set about it in the shower. I found it easy to fantasize about bedding Dave as soon as I had rashly intended and that seemed to do the trick, much sooner than I had expected. My knees buckled in the shower as wave after electric wave of ecstasy washed over me with the hot water. I also confirmed that I could do it again as soon as I liked. Lovely, but I was not really satisfied, I longed for a man's body to cuddle. I felt too sexy to get into bed in just knickers like the previous night. I searched my drawers and found a frilly pink baby-doll night-dress to wear instead. Sitting up in bed, I picked up my phone three times to text Peter, or rather the body-swapper, to ask for an overnight reversion. I just couldn't make up my mind. I felt a coward for avoiding going to work and learning to be a bright young underwriter from scratch. I looked forward to meeting Tom because photos of him had turned me on and I wanted nothing more than him to take me back as his girlfriend, once he knew I was no longer the body-swapper. If he didn't, I wasn't sure I could handle the heartbreak. There was always Dave, I thought wickedly. I had not asked for his number, nor he mine, but Sophie had got Paul's, she had told me on the way home and offered to text him for Dave's. I postponed accepting that offer until after a Monday attempt at getting Tom back. Dave had been such a gentleman to me, I thought now, while I had not liked him declining my invitation at the time. On the other hand, I felt all this was dreadfully unfaithful to Susan. The body-swapper was the last person I would choose to leave in my place and whoever he might leave in Peter's body next could easily be worse. I really couldn't go on as Frances whilst feeling so bad about my former wife. Yet my brief experience of being female was so intriguing. So, did I send the fateful text or not? Maybe they'll be a sequel...