The Ugly Duckling free porn video

When my step-brother and I accidentally swapped bodies he convinced me not to tell anyone what had happened. He said it would be safer that way, but now I've watched him taking over my life and making out with my boyfriend I'm not so sure. ****************************** THE UGLY DUCKLING by BobH (c) 2014 - 1 - Viscount Hugo Farnsworth was a tall, handsome, and seriously ripped aristocratic hunk who would one day be the Earl of Ambridge, but at this present moment he was energetically thrusting away between my legs, and making me very happy. It was a speciality of Hugo's to be able to gauge when a girl was about to climax and to time things so that he and she orgasmed almost simultaneously. Which is why I cried out as he filled me with his seed, both of us arching our backs in unison. It was a beautiful thing. I'd been on the pill since I was fifteen so I had no worries on that score, which was just as will. Daddy would be terribly annoyed if I got pregnant. It was why he put me on the pill in the first place. Oh, he certainly didn't want me having sex at that age but he was enough of a realist to take precautions, unlike those deluded dreamers who believe that keeping contraception from their daughters will keep them 'pure'. Just as well really, since I lost my virginity a month later. "Whoa, you're a total animal, Cammy," said Hugo, rolling off me. "I know," I laughed, "and you wouldn't have me any other way." "No, I really don't think I would," he said, giving me one of those grins I'd let him believe were a large part of how he'd charmed his way into my panties in the first place, he being oblivious to the fact I'd had a crush on him for years. "But, much as I'd like to lie here with you all night, we'd best be getting back to the party. People will be wondering where we are." "My friends won't," I said. "They'll know exactly what we've been up to, that I've been giving you your birthday present in your bedroom, but we don't want to go upsetting your parents, so you're probably right." "You know I am," he said, "especially since it's my twenty-first birthday. That's a big deal to father." "Next week it's my birthday," I said, happily, "and you can return my present in kind." "Oh, I intend to," he grinned, "after all it's not every day a girl turns nineteen." We dressed quickly and rejoined the party, separating at the foot of the grand staircase. Hugo sought out his rugby team pals while I looked for my own posse. The ballroom was packed with all the bright young things of our generation of aristos and children of the wealthy, but I couldn't see them anywhere. I collared someone I recognized from school who was sitting alone in a corner, a girl who had been too fat and uncool to be allowed into my group of schoolfriends, and quizzed her. "Have you seen my friends, Ianthe?" I asked, having to raise my voice to be heard. "Outside," she said, "smoking." Ah, that made sense! The Farnsworths were one of those tiresome families that didn't allow smoking indoors so you had to go out into the garden if you wanted a cigarette. Passing through the French doors I found several small groups clustered together, standing on the lawn and puffing away, including mine. Phoebe, Gemma Cole, and Tara Kenwood-Palmer were my closest friends and we were really tight. I'd been at school with Phoebs and Gemms, but Tara was a new addition to the group. She was a couple of years older than us, a fashion model - tall, thin, long black hair, and with striking features. She was also my cousin by marriage. We'd met and hit it off at Daddy's wedding to Samantha, who he married after Mum died and who was Tara's aunt, her step-mother being Samantha's sister. There's nothing unusual in us both having had step-mothers, of course - with divorce and remarriage rates being what they are these days Gemma has had three. The wedding was eight months ago and Tara has been a member of our posse ever since. It was she who spotted me first. "Camilla!" she said, "we were just talking about you." "Yeah, how was Hugo?" asked Gemma, with a grin, holding out her cigarettes. "Delicious!" I replied, taking one and accepting a light from Tara. "Don't let him hear you say that," said Phoebe, who was his sister and so officially Lady Phoebe Farnsworth, "his head is swelled enough as it is." I took a drag on my cigarette and smiled. The brother-sister rivalry between Hugo and Phoebe had always amused me, and I found myself idly wondering what it might be like to have a brother of my own. Oh, I had step-brothers - Samantha's sons Peter and David - but they weren't like proper brothers, weren't boys I'd grown up with. I had a sister, Poppy, but she was only eight years old so the age gap was such that there never been any sort of rivalry between us. "We've been quizzing Tara about the celebs she knows," said Gemma, "trying to get her to give up any juicy goss she has on them." "I don't know as many celebrities as you all seem to think I do," said Tara, amused. "I'm not at that level in the modelling world." "Do you want to be?" I asked. "Frankly, no. When you get to the level of say a Cara Delvigne, or Kate Moss before her, the press intusion into your private life can be unbearable. Both those ladies are going to still attract that sort of attention years after they stop modelling because they've become celebrities in their own right. When I eventually marry and have children I want there to be no press interest in us at all." "Before Camms got here you were telling us you'll be on the catwalks of Paris and Milan all next week," said Phoebe, "which is not exactly maintaining a low profile." "It is if I stay away from those parties that will draw the paparazzi," said Tara, "which won't be a problem in Milan. I'll be spending all my free time there with Roberto." Roberto was Tara's Italian boyfriend. Her career being what it was, she didn't get to see him as often as she'd like to. "Will you be back in time for my party?" I asked her. "Yes, don't worry. I'll be done before the weekend. The last show is on Thursday." "Good," I said, "Hugo will also be away all week, but he's promised he'll be back in time, too." Pausing to take another drag on my cigarette, I gazed down over the long lawn to the small wood and the fields beyond, impressed as always by the scale of the Farnsworth country estate. If things continued to go as well between Hugo and me as they had been, I might one day be the mistress of all this. It was a nice thought. "I'm really looking forward to your party next Saturday, Camms," said Gemma. "Me too," said Phoebe, "will your brothers be there?" "Step-brothers please, Phoebs," I said, "and no, thank God! They'll both be at the children's party." Poppy's birthday and mine were three days apart; mine was on Wednesday, three days from now, and hers was on Saturday, the day we'd both be having our parties. Conveniently, our house was large enough to accomodate both without the parties having to share much space. David was thirteen, but very young for his age, and got on really well with Poppy and made her laugh. Peter was fifteen and would I'm sure have preferred to be at my party. Fortunately, his mother had roped him into helping run Poppy's party. This meant he would basically be baby-sitting a bunch of seven and eight year old little girls, which would keep him out of my hair. I really ought to thank Samantha for that. As step-mothers go I could have done a lot worse. "Are you sure them being there won't frighten the children?" said Gemma. "How was it you described Peter?" "I called him 'an ugly little troll'," I said, "and he is. So's his brother. How a woman as elegant and beautiful as Samantha gave birth to such strange-looking sons I'll never understand." At thirty eight, Samantha still had the face and figure of someone a dozen years younger. I hope I look as good when I'm her age. "At least they're not creeps," said Tara. "I guess," I replied. "They're just sort of...there. Peter spends most of his time when he's not at school in his room playing computer games, and David plays with Poppy. He can be moody and sulky sometimes, but he makes her laugh. I like that he does, but it's a shame his mental age sometimes seems closer to hers than it does to thirteen. The summer school break starts the week after next so Peter's going to be hanging around the house every day for the following six. The first two weeks Samantha and my father will be taking Poppy and David with them to the Carribean for a vacation, but not Peter, alas. He could seriously cramp my style." "I've just noticed you don't have a drink, Camms," said Phoebe, putting her hand in the air and snapping her fingers to summon one of the caterers. Since she was the daughter of the house one was there in seconds, bearing a tray of cocktails. "Get stuck in," she said. "After all, what sort of party would it be if we didn't?" So we did. - 2 - "Rough night?" said Samantha the following morning, taking note of the sunglasses I was wearing and chuckling wryly as I joined her, Peter, and David. We were having breakfast at the table beside the swimming pool in our back garden where we usually took our meals during the summer months. When it wasn't raining, that is; not that there was much chance of rain today. There was a clear blue sky overhead and the sun was dazzlingly bright. "Rough enough," I said. "I was OK until Gemma suggested we start doing shots. Everything gets kind of fuzzy after that." I looked at the bacon and eggs the boys were tucking into and blanched. "So you won't be wanting breakfast, I imagine." "God, no. Just coffee. Lots and lots of coffee." Samantha poured me a cup and I sipped it slowly, hoping it would settle my stomach. I glanced at the boys, sitting there in their school uniforms and tucking into their breakfasts. We hadn't wished each other a good morning, but then we never did. In fact unless there was a specific reason to do so we never talked to each other. I should probably feel guilty about that. I mean, Samantha was really nice to me and they were her sons, but we had never hit it off. I ought to make an effort, but I just couldn't get past how ugly they were. I'd liked Samantha since I first met her two and a half years ago. She and her husband Roger Croft had recently met my parents at a charity event and quickly become fast friends. They used to visit the house frequently. Six months later Roger died, followed by my mother a few weeks after that. Daddy and Samantha consoled each other in their grief, so perhaps it's not too surprising it grew into something more and that sixteen months later they got married. At first, I thought Daddy would never get over losing mother, but thanks to Samantha he came back to life and learned how to smile again. And for that I'm grateful to her. I first laid eyes on her sons at Roger's funeral. I'm not proud of the fact, but seeing them made me shudder. I think they must have some idea of the effect they have on people because they don't like being photographed. They're not in any of the photos taken at Daddy and Samantha's wedding. "OK boys," said Samantha, "finish up and let's be off. I won't have you being late for the start of the school week." Grumbling, they got to their feet and she led them out to her car. Daddy had already gone off to his job at Dunham & Associates - the law firm he owned - and Poppy had had a sleepover at a friend's house, school finishing a week earlier for children her age, so that left me sitting alone, contemplating the day ahead. I lit a cigarette and gazed across the swimming pool, soothed by the light coming off the sun-dappled water, light kept below the level of pain by my sunglasses. Like many houses in this part of west London we had no garden at the front but a substantial one at the rear. There was garage space under the house for two cars - Daddy's and Samantha's - which meant I had to park my beloved BMW in the street outside. Parking in Central London being what it was, I took the Underground if I was travelling into town but I loved to drive whenever I could. For the past year, since leaving school, my life had been one of indolence and hedonism, and I'd enjoyed it, but I knew I had to start giving some thought to what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I wasn't very academically gifted so university wasn't really on the cards, and doing charity work didn't appeal. Perhaps my best option lay in marrying Hugo and starting a family. Of course he'd have to ask me first, and I couldn't tell if he was serious enough about me, or if he was ready to commit to anyone yet, despite us having dated for a couple of years now. I had always loved him, but I wasn't going to be the first to say it out loud. He would be off in the middle east all week on behalf of his father, working on one of the earl's business interests, and I wouldn't be seeing him again until my party. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I certainly hope so. I was hooking up with Phoebe later, but for now I would start the day the way I always did by updating my diary. I'd carried the latest volume down to breakfast with me, so I laid it open on the table and began writing up the events of Hugo's birthday party while they were still fresh in my mind. In the afternoon I met Phoebe for a fitting at the costumiers where our superhero outfits were being made for the costume party Gemma would be hosting in two weeks time. Everybody had to come as different superhero or supervillain -she was quite insistent on that - so a lot of coordination among the guests had been necessary beforehand to make sure we didn't clash. Perhaps predictably, lots of the boys wanted to be Superman, and lots of the girls (and two of the boys) wanted to be Wonder Woman, so we drew names out of a hat for those characters and Tara got Wonder Woman. Being a model she was a bit lacking in the breast department but I was sure some careful corsetry and a little tit-tape would help there. Gemma was going as Black Widow, of course - it was her party so she got to choose, and anyway it worked well with her red hair. As for Phoebe and me.... "How do I look?" asked Phoebe, giving me a twirl as costumiers fussed behind her. "Pretty damn hot, Phoebs," I said. "Batman better watch out." She was dressed in a Catwoman outfit - 1960s TV show version, complete with long nails on the gloves. Her current crush, Hugo's best friend Spencer Carlton, was going as the Adam West Batman. This was not a coincidence. "I'll get my hair done in period style on the day. Y'know, I can't blame you for choosing to go as Power Girl," she said, looking me up and down, enviously, "if I had your curves she's who I'd've picked, too." Surprised girls like us would know their superheroes? Don't be. The others all have brothers who were into comics when they were younger. As for me, I'd had a crush on Hugo since we were children, and used to read his comics when I went over to their London house to play with Phoebe, hoping to catch his attention and impress him with my comics knowledge. It didn't work, of course. What eventually made him notice me was the many wondrous things Mother Nature does to a girl's body during puberty. Phoebe and I took afternoon tea at the Dorchester later, and that was pretty much it for Monday. Tuesday was entirely uneventful - I spent most of it sunbathing beside the pool - which brings us to Wednesday, the actual day of my birthday. To my surprise, my father was there when I joined the family for breakfast. "Daddy?" I said, surprised. He had usually left for his office before the rest of us were up. He got up and gave me a big hug. "Happy birthday, darling," he said. "I know we're having a family dinner tohight to celebrate, but I wanted to be here to wish you happy birthday before I set off. They can manage without me in the office for a few hours, I'm sure." He then kissed me on the forehead. I knew he'd be giving me a present tonight, but this meant as much to me as any gift. "Yes, happy birthday, Camilla," said Samantha, and the boys too added their birthday wishes, though somewhat grudgingly, I thought. Daddy didn't stay long after that - he still had a legal practice to run - and soon it was time for Samantha to make her daily school run with the boys. Unusually, she sent them out to the car ahead of her. "I'll be with you shortly," she said, "I just need a quick word with Camilla first." "What's up?" I asked when they had gone. "I know you and my sons haven't grown very close, and I regret that." "Samantha, I...." "No, it's OK, I understand. You're not that far apart in years but at your age those few years are significant, and neither of them is exactly a social animal. But Peter is trying to make an effort and has bought you a rather nice piece of jewelry. Could you put it on and wear it tonight when he does? It would mean the world to him." "Of course," I said, wondering what I was letting myself in for. I couldn't imagine Peter having very good taste, but his mother did. If she thought it was 'rather nice' I was inclined to trust her judgment. "Thanks. I'll see you later this afternoon. Enjoy your day." Which I did. I met up with Gemma and Phoebs and we spent the day shopping for dresses to wear to my party. I was really pleased with mine, a skin tight, short skirted, long sleeved, sparkly blue number. When I got home I hung it on my closet door and spent a good twenty minutes just sitting on the edge of my bed, happily contemplating it. Since today was my actual birthday, that meant a family meal where it was just us, around a table, celebrating. Samantha cooked my favourite vegetable curry, and dessert was chocolate cheesecake - the birthday cake with the candles would be on Saturday. And since it was my birthday I happily indulged in both; I'd worry about my waistline tomorrow. When we'd eaten, Daddy stood up and proposed a toast. "To Camilla, nineteen years old today. Happy Birthday, darling!" "Happy birthday, Camilla!" the others chorused, all of us then taking a gulp of our wine or soft drink. Next came the gift-giving. First up was Poppy, who shyly handed me a small gift-wrapped package. "Happy birthday, Milla!" she said, Milla being the name she'd called me since she was a toddler. She was the perfect 'mini-me', looking exactly as I had at her age. Inside was a brooch. It was 'junk' jewelry, but quite attractive and clearly something she'd picked out herself. "Thank you, sweetie!" I said, giving her a quick hug. Next up was Dad, who handed me an envelope in which was a nice cheque. Yes it was only money, but it was a tidy sum. "Thank you, Daddy!" I said, kissing him on the cheek. Samantha was taking me shopping on Friday, so that just left the boys. Peter lumbered to his feet and gave me a small, ornate wooden box. "From both of us," he said, nodding at his brother. I opened it, and gasped. Inside was an antique silver ring with a crescent moon on it. I could see immediately it was a quality piece. "Thank, you," I said, shaking his hand somewhat awkwardly. "That's a really cool ring." I took it from the box and slid it onto my finger, as I'd promised Samantha I would. Poppy went off to bed at eight-thirty and the boys at nine forty-five, Samantha always insisting they be in bed by ten. Which left me, her and Daddy to relax and finish off the wine. All in all a pleasant way to end what had been a very pleasant day. - 3 - As soon as I woke the following morning, I knew something was wrong. I felt...off. I raised a hand to my face but had difficulty focussing on it. When I did, when I saw a pale, pudgy appendage with stubby fingers and short nails that I recognised immediately. It was like a blow to the stomach. "No!" I shrieked, throwing back the covers and seeing my short, fat, and blurry but undeniably *male* form for the first time. Somehow I was in Peter's body, in Peter's bedroom. Frantically, I fumbled for the spectacles on the bedside table, as the bedroom door opened and a figure entered. "Camilla?" said a female voice. I got the glasses on, and gasped. It was me. Or rather, Peter in my body. "What have you done to us?" I cried. "Me? Nothing. At least not deliberately. I think it must be these." He opened his right hand to reveal the moon ring. Only then did I realise I was wearing its twin. "Magic," I said, frowning as I realised what he was suggesting, "you think magic caused this?" "Do you have a better explanation? They came as a matched pair. I gave you one for your birthday and wore the other myself. I still had it on in bed last night. I had a dream about being you, maybe caused by the ring, and when I woke up I was you." His eyes swept down over his female form, a look of wonder in his eyes. "But I didn't wear my ring to bed!" I protested. "I know - I found it on your dressing table - but you did wear it for a while last night, so maybe that was enough." I stared at him, standing there in my body, wearing my pink silk dressing gown and slippers, that impressive cleavage looking magnificent, then down at the body I now inhabited, at his body. I grabbed a handful of the flab around my waist, and started to cry. "This is a nightmare!" I sobbed, "We have to tell our parents, get them to change us back somehow." "No," replied Peter, firmly grasping my shoulders. "No?" I said, staring up uncomprehendingly into that beautiful face I had studied in mirrors for so many years, "Why not?" "No one must ever know. If they did word would get out - secrets always do - someone would steal the rings for themselves, and we'd be stuck like this forever. Can you imagine how many rich old people would pay a fortune to be put into a younger body? And how many younger people do you think would give up those bodies willingly? These rings could make someone very, very wealthy. No, we have to be brave and keep this to ourselves, to convince everyone we're actually who we appear to be until we find a way to change back." "You think there is a way?" I asked, feeling a burst of hope. "Well, they do have an image of the moon on them," he said, staring at his own ring thoughtfully, "and last night was a full moon. This is beginning to make sense. If I'm right it means we won't be able to change back until the next one, four weeks from now, but...." "Four weeks?!" I said, dismayed. "But my party is the day after tomorrow!" "It'll be tough, I know," he replied, "but it's better than a lifetime." "I still think we should tell someone." "No," he insisted, "we daren't. For the next four weeks I have to be you and you have to be me. It's for the best, you'll see." Against my better judgment, I found myself nodding in agreement. Four weeks. OK, if I had to I could do four weeks like this. It was only the thought it could be over in four weeks that was keeping me from screaming. "Now that you're fifteen, again, it means no drinking, no smoking, and no sex," he said "But I was doing all those by the time I was fifteen!" I protested. "Yes, but you're me now, and I wasn't." "That's not fair!" Not that I could imagine anyone ever willingly having sex with this body. I'd called Peter 'an ugly little troll'. Well now that was me, and I hated it. Peter may have bought me a ring for my birthday, but in reality he had given me his body. Worst. Present. Ever. "Where did you get those damned rings, anyway?" "A shop on a little side street in Soho. Funny thing is, I must've been down that street dozens of times over the years but I'd never noticed it before. That's actually why I went inside - sheer curiosity. I took a picture of it, so see for yourself." He picked up his phone from the bedside table, found the photo he was looking for, and handed it to me. There, wedged between a newsagent and a porn store - this was Soho, remember - was a strange little shop that was like something out of Dickens. It looked very out of place there. If Peter hadn't noticed it until recently he must walk around with his head in the clouds. "The place seemed to be mostly full of junk," Peter continued, "and the proprietor was this weird old geezer dressed like a wizard. I was looking for a birthday present for you anyway so I thought 'what the hell' and asked him if he had any antique jewelry in stock. Quick as a flash he reached under the counter and pulled out a small box with the rings inside. They were perfect, so I bought them." "Did he say anything about them being magic?" "No, but as I was leaving the shop he shouted after me that during a full moon they could give their wearers a new perspective on life. I thought this was just some sort of new age nonsense and didn't pay it any mind. Obviously, I should have. The rest you know." Peter handed me his ring. "Keep them both safe," he said. "Now dry your eyes, get dressed, then come over to your...uh, I guess it's now *my* bedroom. I need your help." I handed him his phone but he refused to take it. "No, that's your phone now," he said, "and yours is mine. I'll need to know the password so I can unlock it." "But my life is on that phone!" I protested, appalled at the thought of giving it up. "Yes, and if I'm going to live it for you for the next four weeks I'll obviously need the phone. We'll sort this out in my bedroom. Now hurry up and get dressed." As he turned on his heel and left, I watched the swaying of those shapely hips longingly. It's a surreal experience, seeing yourself from the outside for the first time. People had sometimes accused me of being vain, but seeing my body like that I now realized I hadn't been vain enough. My god I'm beautiful! No, *was* beautiful. And I was determined to be beautiful again. I forced myself to examine my new body in the mirror on Peter's wardrobe door. Seeing the full horror of that short, dark-haired, overweight form with its pasty skin and its bad eyesight for the first time, I shuddered. I had to physically resist the urge to throw up. The evidence was there before me, but I was still having difficulty believing this had actually happened. It should just be a bad dream, one I'd wake up from any minute now, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. No, this was all too awfully, horribly real. For the moment those piggy little eyes, that bulbous nose and receeding chin, and those thin lips that stretched over alarmingly buck teeth, were all mine. It was a face that only a mother could love; and she was probably the only one who did. I no longer had breasts, of course, but this body was flabby enough that I had 'man boobs'. I slapped my stomach, depressed by how fat I was, and noted with surprise my lack of body hair. I had that straight, lank, black hair and thick, dark eyebrows, but below that...nothing. I was as hairless as a baby. Gingerly, I took my penis in my hand, a pathetic, flaccid little thing that was so much less impressive than the mighty member Hugo had been pleasuring me with these past few months. Sighing in disgust, I let it drop from my fingers after a few seconds. Like someone in a dream I pulled on some clothes, glancing around the bedroom as I did so. I'd never been in here before so the shelves filled with computer games, the computers themselves, and the posters on the wall featuring rising supermodel Cate Hunter were all new to me. When I was dressed, I made my way to what had been my bedroom, hating the way the weight around my midriff and the need to keep my thighs from rubbing against each other affected my gait. I used to have a graceful walk; now I waddled, breathing heavily as I did so. Peter was sitting at my dressing table, brushing out my - now his - long, blonde hair and looking gorgeous. He had donned panties and a bra but had not yet closed the bra hooks. "There you are," he said, giving me a small smile, "you couldn't hook my bra together for me, could you?" I did as he asked, then he swiveled on the stool to face me. "Thanks. I'll need to learn how to do that for myself, but it's not the only thing I need you to teach me; there's also make-up." "Make-up?" I repeated, as if not understanding. "Yes, you never go out in public without it so if I'm going to be you for the next four weeks I can't either." "I suppose," I sighed. "OK, Aunt Camilla's cosmetics class is now open, so pay attention." "Uncle Peter," he said. "What?" "It would be 'Uncle Peter' now. We have to use the names that go with our bodies, even in private. We daren't slip up." "But it's my name!" I said, pleadingly. "Can't I hold on to just one thing that's mine?" "No, I'm sorry," he said, gently, "but you really can't. For this to work we have to commit to our roles one hundred percent. You know I'm right." I stared at him for a second, at that lovely body that was so near and yet as out of reach as if it was a million miles away, and nodded. He was right, damn him. "OK, but I'm taking Mr Ruggles," I said, grabbing the now ragged teddy bear that had shared my bed since I was a toddler. Peter did not object. In the half hour that followed I did Peter's make-up for him, taking it slowly and carefully explaining each step so that he understood everything I was doing. He listened attentively, nodded a lot, and the few questions he asked were sensible ones that showed he was paying attention. When I'd finished I was pretty sure he had taken everything in. He gave every impression of being a very fast learner. He would need to be if we were to have any chance of pulling this off. Looking into the mirror, he gave a nervous little smile then nodded approvingly. I think he was pleased with the job I'd done but didn't quite know how to say so. He was a guy, after all, so this must be weird for him however willing he was to sub for me. "Thank you, Peter," he said. It was the first time he'd called me that. I knew there would be a first time, but I still winced. "My pleasure, Camilla," I forced myself to reply, hating it, "Now we need to get you dressed." "What do you suggest?" he replied. "I don't know what you had planned for today so I don't know what I should wear." "Lunch and shopping with Phoebe and Gemma," I said. "I've been looking forward to it for weeks. They're paying. It's their birthday present to me." "I'm so sorry," said Peter, gently laying a hand on my shoulder. "If I could change this I would." "Yes, well, you can't," I said, shaking off his hand, "so let's just make the best of it, shall we?" "OK," he replied, chastened. "Are you sure you can pull this off?" I said. "You might look like me now, but you're not me. My friends and I are very chatty and we laugh a lot. You spend most of your time alone in your room. Can you do this?" "Yes," he said, "I'm sure I can. I choose to spend most of my time by myself but I do have social skills. I've seen you and your friends together often enough that I think I can convincingly fake being you for them." I wasn't convinced, but this was the course we were set on now. I selected the clothes I thought Peter should wear - the clothes I'd intended wearing today - and ran a critical eye over him when he had put them on. "Not bad," I said, "not bad at all. That dress always did look good on me." Standing in front of a full length mirror, Peter examined himself from every angle. He seemed pleased by what he saw. "Thanks so much for this," he said, "now there's just one more thing to left to do." He picked up my phone. "I need your password." "But the stuff on there is personal!" I protested. "Yes, and I'll need access to all of it," said Peter. "I...I don't want to do this." "I already have your body," he said, exasperated by my reluctance, "and it doesn't get more personal than that. Now stop being so childish and give me the password." "ilovehugo," I said, through gritted teeth. "Thank you," said Peter, "now you need to get ready for school." "School?" "There are still two days to go 'til end of term and the start of the six week summer break, remember?" "Can't I just say I'm sick?" "You could try, but Mum would see through it immediately. And you know what a stickler she is for her sons not missing school. Now put your school uniform on and let's go down to breakfast. Mum will be wondering where we are." Back in my room I stripped off the jeans I'd thrown on and took down the clothes hanger that held the school uniform. I'd left school over a year ago, glad to be free of it at last. Going back to one wasn't something I wanted to do. Not that there was any alternative. Sighing, I put the uniform on and headed down to breakfast by the pool. Peter, Poppy, and Samantha were sitting at the table, but there was no sign of David. No one seemed to notice anything different about Peter or me, accepting us for who we appeared to be. "Your brother's not well so he's staying in bed," said Samantha, as I took my seat. "He needs me here to look after him so Camilla will be driving you to school today." Startled, I looked at Peter, who gave me a little nod. "It'll be OK, Peter," he said, "I do know how to drive a car." Samantha and Poppy laughed, thinking he was making a joke, but what he was actually doing was telling me not to worry, that he actually could drive. I was worried. A lot of fifteen year old boys may think they can drive a car but how many actually can? "Here you go," said Samantha, surprising me by piling eggs and bacon onto the plate in front of me. I stared at it in dismay. "Ah, I was thinking I might have the same as Camilla today," I said, glancing across at Peter, who was demurely nibbling away on a crispbread. "Don't be silly, darling," said Samantha, "Camilla is a young woman and has to watch her figure, but you're a growing boy and you need more than a crispbread wafer and half a grapefruit to set you up for the day. Now tuck in and let's have no more of such nonsense." Reluctantly, I did as she asked, finding to my surprise that I had a far greater appetite in this body than in my own and quickly clearing my plate. "There we are, I told you so," said Samantha, "now you need to get going. You and Camilla were so late to breakfast that you'll be late for school too if you don't get a move on." When we had gone out to my BMW and had buckled our seat belts, I turned to Peter. "If you wreck my car I will kill you," I said "Don't worry," he replied, "my father spent ages teaching me how to drive on private roads. It's been a couple of years but I still remember how to do it." I wasn't convinced, but Peter surprised me by pulling away smoothly and then handling the BMW in traffic like someone who had been driving for years. I was impressed. "You weren't kidding about being able to drive," I said, "but I'm surprised you're not rustier after all this time." "Photographic memory," he said, "I have perfect recall. Not only can I remember anything I've ever read, I also never forget anything I've been shown how to do. That applies equally to driving and to using cosmetics." "So you think you'll be able to do your own make-up from now on?" "I *know* I will. Oh, and those copies of Vogue and the latest celebrity gossip magazines you left on the on the back seat are the perfect homework. I'll speed read my way through them before I meet your friends in town and memorize the contents so that I'm up to date on the sorts of things you talk about." I felt I should object to this characterisation, but I couldn't because Peter wasn't wrong. When we weren't talking about our relationships, fashion and celebrity gossip *were* our main topics of conversation. The Barron School was an independent private boys day school for those wealthy parents who didn't want to send their sons off to boarding schools such as Eton or Harrow but who did want them to get an equivalent level of education and to make equally prestigious contacts that would serve them well later in life. Needless to say, its fees reflected this and made it very exclusive. Peter dropped me off at the gates. "Don't look so down," he said, "it's only two days." "Yes, but I don't know anyone here. How can I pass myself off as you to your friends." "That won't be a problem," he said, "I don't have any friends." "Wh..what? None?" "No. I was never in with the popular crowd, who always made fun of me. I don't imagine you have any idea what that's like, do you? I bet when you were in school you were part of the popular crowd. I got my own back by acing every test and coming top of the class in every academic subject. I'm rubbish at sports, though. You need to watch out for Tristan Creek and his neanderthal friends. He's the school's biggest bully and enjoys nothing more than making my life a misery." He looked at me with a hint of pity in his eyes. "Right, I've got to go now. I have a date with Gemma and Phoebe and I don't want to be late. Gemma rang me while you were putting on your uniform. Apparently we're all getting a pedicure, then having lunch at the Savoy, followed by shopping for clothes. Sounds like I have a busy day ahead of me." He leaned across and kissed me on the forehead, leaving some of his lipstick there. "Have fun!" he said. I climbed out and he roared off in my BMW, heading for his date with my friends. I watched him go until the car rounded a corner and left my sight. Dejectedly, I trudged up the driveway to the school, wheezing with the effort needed to carry my bulk up that slope. We were late getting here, so I made my way up it alone, knowing the day would start with me getting a bollocking for not being on time. Great, just great. I did not enjoy the day that followed. When classes ended that afternoon I was part of a great throng heading down the driveway, most making for the cars that would be carrying them home. Even among that swarm of parked vehicles my BMW stood out. That was because Peter had managed to park so that it was the first car you saw as you passed through the gates. Then there was Peter himself, who had changed into my tiniest miniskirt and was leaning against the side of the car, languidly smoking a cigarette. He looked effortlessly sexy, and every boy's eyes pretty much bugged out as they passed him. More than one of them walked into something, to Peter's obvious amusement. "Peter!" he called out, as I approached, dropping his cigarette to the road, twisting it out with the toe of his shoe. He came over and gave me a big hug before kissing me on the forehead. "Think that's got their attention?" he whispered in my ear. "Oh yes," I replied, "there will be no shortage of boys suddenly eager to be my friend tomorrow and find out who the hot blonde who met me in her BMW is." "Good," he chuckled, "then that's mission accomplished." "So you're smoking now?" I said, as we walked back to the car. "That didn't take long." "When Phoebe offered me a cigarette after lunch, on the terrace at the Savoy, I accepted because you would have. I'd never smoked a cigarette before, or even been very interested in trying one, but I found it surprisingly pleasurable. You smoked and I have your body now, so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised. I knew I might have to smoke while I'm pretending to be you, but I wasn't expecting to enjoy it." "Lucky you," I said dryly, as we climbed into the car and buckled our seat belts. "And my friends never suspected you weren't me, or thought you were acting strangely?" "Not for a second," said Peter. "I told you I could pull this and I did, so stop worrying." "Alright," I said, confused by how I felt about this. On the one hand, relieved that Peter had succeeded, but on the other dismayed Gemma and Phoebe had so readily accepted him as me. We'd been best friends all through school, so shouldn't they know me better than that? "So," said Peter, "why is your hair damp?" "Tristan Creek and his cronies caught me in the toilets. They shoved my head down one and pulled the flush. Seemed to think it was the funniest thing ever." "Oh I'm so sorry," said Peter, sounding guilty. "I should've warned you never to get caught alone in the toilets with those creeps. How do you feel?" "Honestly? My first thought afterwards was: 'is that all you've got'?" "What? I don't understand." "Compared to what girls do to each other it was pretty tame and stupid." "How do you mean?" asked Peter, intrigued. "We're much meaner, so we don't need silly shit like that. We're better at using words to hurt and we use the power of social exclusion with laser precision." "Interesting," said Peter as he started the engine. "Did you learn that as the one being bullied or the one doing the bullying?" Not wanting to answer the question, I changed the subject. "If you had no friends at school that must mean you usually sat by yourself at lunch," I said, "but I sat with other people." "You did? Who?" "The geeks and nerds. I'm not clear on their names, but they seemed the obvious ones Peter Croft would sit with if he sat with anyone." "And they welcomed you?" "Well, they were surprised at first but they weren't hostile. They seemed to think you were usually standoffish. You probably could've sat with them any time." "Huh," said Peter. We drove the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in our thoughts. I was replaying the way Peter had greeted me at the gate, how that would increase my popularity tomorrow, and how I could have done that for him at any time if I could have been bothered to. - 4 - For a few moments after I awoke the following morning I forgot what had happened to me -then my awareness of my body kicked in and the reality of the situation came rushing back, hitting me like a blow to the stomach. I was Peter. Fat, ugly, Peter. And I would be for the next four weeks. I didn't want to get out of bed. It would be so much easier just to stay here and hide away from the world for those weeks so that no one had to see what I'd become. Then Peter swept into the room, pretty as a picture in a summer dress, strappy three inch heels, and light but well done make-up. "Rise and shine," he said, looking disgustingly cheerful, "Mum's not going to be happy if we're late down to breakfast two mornings in a row." With that he swept out again, leaving me to get dressed. Sighing, I pulled the hateful bulk that was now my body out of bed, threw on a bathrobe, and shuffled over to the bathroom. Peter's hair had looked surprisingly good. Thursday was usually the night I washed it, a task that had fallen to Peter now that hair was his. I'd explained my usual routine then left him to it, with results that were actually pretty decent. After performing all the necessary tasks, I returned to my bedroom, donned my school uniform, and joined the others at breakfast. Neither Poppy nor David had made it down today. "They're both unwell," explained Samantha, "so Camilla will be driving you to school again today. Your cousin Tara has volunteered to take care of them so that when she gets back I can take Camilla into town for the girls' day out I've promised her." "Fine by me," I said, glancing across to Peter, who had finished his crispbread and grapefruit and had taken out what looked like my diary from his handbag. "I'm starting a new volume today," he said, noting my interest, "beginning with the events of yesterday." It was considerate of him not to carry on writing in my current volume, though I admit to being intensely curious as I watched him set pen to paper on the opening page of the new one. "I won't need you to pick me up from school, this afternoon," I told him, "because I'm going into town to pick up comics." "Oh, that's right," he said, sounding surprised, "you haven't actually done that this week yet, have you? Huh. I'd forgotten all about them." "OK, but don't stay out too late, darling," said Samantha, "I don't want you missing dinner." "I won't, Mum," I promised. Actually, I was less interested in comics than I was in the shop where Peter had purchased those rings. It was on a street not far from Soho comics store Gosh!, where Peter had a standing order. The rings were now under my shirt, on a chain around my neck, and if it was at all possible I was going to get that wizard to undo the bodyswap right now. If the schedule could be brought forward so that I didn't have to endure four whole weeks of being like this then I was going to demand he bring it forward. I won't bore you with details of my day. Suffice it to say Peter drove me to school, which wasn't as awful as it could've been thanks to it being the last day of term and all. When it was over I caught a bus to the nearest Underground station, and took the tube into town. Getting off at Piccadilly Circus, I plunged into Soho and headed straight for the street where the magic shop lay. It wasn't there. Oh, the newsagent and the porn store were where they should've been, but all that lay between them was an air gap. One inch wide. "This isn't possible!" I whispered, feeling a sort of superstitious dread, as I ran my fingers over the gap in disbelief. Yet was it really any more impossible than my own strange transformation? In something of a daze, I wandered over to Gosh!, picked up Peter's standing order, then made my way back to the tube station and home. I spent the entire journey going over and over what I'd seen - or, actually, *not* seen - and wondering what if anything I should tell Peter. I still hadn't decided by the time I arrived home and found Tara sitting in the kitchen, texting on her phone. "Hello, Tara!" I said, delighted to see her. She glanced up, gave me a disinterested nod, then returned to her texting. Of course she did. I'd momentarily forgotten I wasn't currently Camilla Dunham. But her reaction still stung. Dejectedly, I made my way upstairs. I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help myself. Since Peter and Samantha weren't back yet, I stole into Peter's bedroom and headed straight for the shelf that held my diaries. Taking down the new volume Peter had started, I opened it and was surprised to see it was in my handwriting. I'd taken notes in school over the past two days and my handwriting wasn't like Peter's - or much like my usual handwriting for that matter. I assumed this last was because of the fine motor control of another hand being different to that of my own body's. But if that was so, how to explain the handwriting in the diary? Deciding to file that conundrum away for future consideration, I began to read: 'Thursday: Woke up this morning feeling like a new woman. First thing I thought about was the lovely antique ring Peter gave me last night. A very thoughtful gift. I really must start being nicer to him. After breakfast, drove him to school. Glad that part of my life is over. Later met up with Phoebs and Gemms in town. Had a pedicure together in hot new place 'Digits' that Phoebs wanted to check out. Lots of celebs get their mani-pedis there. Enjoyed the experience, but then every girl likes being pampered. Lunch at the Savoy. Had a marvellous time out on the terrace afterwards, talking and laughing together. I'm lucky to have such friends and mustn't take them for granted. They picked up the tab for lunch and the pedicure, but they also had an extra birthday present for me, which they presented me with on the terrace: a new, top of the line vibrator. Had a lot of fun with it in my room that evening. Picked Peter up from school late afternoon. Wore my shortest skirt to give the boys a thrill.' Huh. Clever. Anyone reading this would see a straightforward account of a relatively unremarkable day, but it contained all manner of little digs for me to see when I got my body back and continued the volume. I was disturbed about the vibrator because 1) I had forgotten to ask Peter if my friends had given him anything for my birthday, and 2) he had already pleasured himself with it. Since I had no desire to do anything sexual with his body I'd somehow never considered he might not feel the same about mine. Still, I don't suppose I can blame him. Going from his body to mine would be like going from a Ford to a Lamboughini. Of course he would want to take it out for a spin to see what it was capable of. I smiled ruefully and went back to my bedroom. Not having done so yet I decided to explore the room. It was going to be mine for the next four weeks so I ought to know where everything was. During this search I discovered something unexpected in a bedside drawer. It was a photo showing Tara and her older sister Lucy with two boys who I took to be Peter and David at first, but who on closer inspection I realised couldn't be. Still, the resemblance was uncanny. Though a few years further apart in age they too were short, dark-haired, overweight, buck-toothed, and pasty skinned with thick glasses to compensate for their bad eyesight. Who could they be? Scrawled on the back of the photo were four names: Tara, Lucy, Paul, and Raymond. Curious, I turned to my computer and called up Google, typing in "Paul+Raymond+Kenwood-Palmer". The first hit told me what I wanted to know: "...died within one month of each other, Paul and Raymond Masters, sons of Jane Masters and the late Jonathan Masters, they are survived by their mother, her second husband Robert Kenwood-Palmer, and his daughters Tara and Lucy." I leaned back in my chair and whistled. So like me Tara once had two step- brothers, and they had died. I wonder why she never mentions them? Come to that, why has Samantha never mentioned her sister having sons? They were blood-cousins to Peter and David, which explains the resemblance, but their mother is if anything even more beautiful than Samantha. Weird that they produce such ugly sons. Was this some sort of condition, perhaps, some genetic defect that runs through their family? I had met Jane and Samantha's parents, Charles and Victoria Wolfe, when they came here to see see their grandsons one time. Curious, I did another search: "Charles+Victoria+Wolfe". A few hits down I found something: "Both Victoria and Charles have known great loss, he when his first wife died and she after her teenage sons Tom and Richard were taken from her within a month of each other. Victoria was comforted by her husband and by step-daughters Jane and Samantha after the latter tragedy." Huh. So Victoria was actually their step-mother. And that thing about her losing her sons just like her step-daughters would lose theirs was, well, spooky. Wanting to know more about Tom and Richard I did an image search on them, and that's when I felt like I'd entered the Twilight Zone. Tom and Richard Carstairs - their father's surname - were short, dark-haired, overweight, buck-toothed pasty skinned and wore thick glasses. But Victoria wasn't a blood-relative of her step-daughters, so how could she have given birth to sons who looked just like theirs did? What did it mean? I tried to find out something about Victoria's parents and came up with their names: Harold and Elizabeth Embleton, but not much else - not everything is on the web. I did however discover Victoria had a sister, Emma, who had married an American and moved to the States forty years ago. Unfortunately, without knowing his name the trail ran cold. Samantha might know who her Aunt Emma had married, but I wasn't sure how to ask her without rousing suspicion. I was chewing this over when I heard the front door open. Samantha and Peter were back. I headed downstairs, curious to see what Samantha had bought him, a birthday present that would be mine in a few weeks time. I arrived in the kitchen just as Tara was leaving. "see you at your party tomorrow, Camms," she said, as she and Peter exchanged an air kiss. Then she was gone. "Hello darling," said Samantha, giving me a hug, "did you have a good day?" "Average," I said, shrugging, "So what did you get Camilla for her birthday?" "Something really special," said Peter, lifting a Harrods carrier bag onto the counter, "though just as special is how today really cemented our relationship and we bonded as mother and daughter. Thank you...Mum!" "Oh, Camilla," said Samantha, hugging Peter and coming over all teary-eyed. "Thank you. I...I have to go and see Poppy and David now." With that she turned and headed up the stairs. "What was *that*?" I said, when she had gone. "Now I'll have to call her 'Mum' when I get my life back." "And what's wrong with that?" said Peter, accusingly. "I know you like her and she couldn't be nicer to you, so why not start calling her 'Mum'?" "Because I'm not ready to," I said, "I don't know if I ever will be. Claire Dunham was my mother." "Was. Sadly, she's no longer with us. But Samantha is. She's the only mother available to you now. Give her a chance." "So what did she get you?" I said, changing the subject. Peter reached the bag and pulled out a brand new pair of Louboutins with four inch heels. He put them down on the counter very gently, and we both gazed at them reverently. I thought they were the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. "Wow," I said. "I know, right?" said Peter. "Yes, and you'll have the privilege of wearing them first at the party tomorrow, lucky cow. I'll be taking possession of them eventually and I want them in the same condition they're in now. Whatever you do, don't mess them up." "I won't," he promised. - 5 - Saturday, the day of the party, had finally arrived. Or, to be more precise, the day of the *parties*. Both would be starting in the afternoon, with Poppy's party finishing by eight and mine running into the early hours. I spent much of the morning helping Peter get ready, making sure his hair and make-up were just right and briefing him on everything I could remember that my friends and I had done or discussed recently. "This looks amazing!" he said, as I zipped him into the sparkly party dress I had spent so much time finding and been so looking forward to wearing today. "I know," I agreed, stepping back and gazing at him wistfully. "You look as beautiful and sexy as I'd hoped I would for the party." "I'll do you proud," he said, "you'll see." "I hope so," I said. Both parties had been assigned an inside room - though mine also had the kitchen, obviously -and one of the poolsides. On mine was a barbecue and a bar had been set up, complete with barman; while on Poppy's side there was a bouncy castle and a soda fountain. Daddy had also hired a children's entertainer to amuse the little girls, each of whom was given a tiara, a wand, and a pair of fairy wings to wear as they arrived. Poppy looked delighted to be the centre of attention and was running around playing with her friends and laughing a lot. David was joining in, naturally, while I was a chaperone, keeping an eye on them all and making sure no one got too close to the edge of the swimming pool. Daddy and Samantha were there with us too, of course, staying with us and leaving those at my party to get on with it. I spent as much time enviously gazing across the pool at my friends as I did watching the little girls in my charge. This was the first time I'd seen Peter in a full-on social situation as me, but there he was; drinking, smoking, laughing, chatting animatedly to my friends, and obviously very comfortable and relaxed doing all of the above. Looking at him, I saw a beautiful, happy, stylish young woman, who looked fabulous in her party dress and Louboutins, enjoying life to the full. In other words, I saw me. I could see why everyone was fooled by Peter. It was a masterful piece of acting on his part, demonstrating a skill I never would have guessed he possessed. In the early evening, Poppy's party moved indoors for the final hour. As we did so, I saw Hugo finally arrive and make his way across to where Peter was drinking with my friends. We were inside before I saw them greet each other. This would be Peter's real challenge. If he couldn't fool Hugo into thinking he was me the whole deception would fall apart. For the following half hour I was involved in running a game for the girls, but as soon as I could do so I checked out what was going on at my party. I pulled the curtain back a fraction and looked outside. There, a few yards away, were Hugo and Peter. As I watched so Hugo took Peter in his arms, crushing Peter's female form against his own oh-so-masculine body, and kissed those pouty, painted lips. Nor did Peter seem to be resisting. No, standing there on tip toe in his new Louboutins, he was kissing Hugo back with equal intensity. "Come away from there," said Samantha, who had come up behind me. "Camilla should be able to enjoy kissing her boyfriend without being snooped on, Peter. Young women have a right to expect privacy in intimate moments like that." She pulled the curtains closed and ushered me back into the kiddie party. Not that I really noticed. Having seen what I had my mind was racing with thoughts of what would happen next. Hugo and Peter would steal upstairs to his bedroom and then they would have sex, Hugo making love to the girl he thought was me. And having seen how turned on Peter was when they were making out, I had no doubt he would enjoy every minute of it. It should be me Hugo was making love to, damn it, me! God, this was so frustrating! By mid-evening, when the last of the children had been collected by their parents and Poppy was in bed, I found myself back in my own room, sitting at the window and gazing down at the party in the garden below. These were my friends celebrating my nineteenth birthday at my house, yet they were down there having a great time while I was stuck up here, feeling miserable. I turned in early, trying to block out the sound of the music and laughter from below that continued long into the night. The following morning, we were half way through breakfast before Peter joined us, wearing the same sunglasses I had in his condition, and looking a little unsteady on his feet. "I see you overdid it again," said Samantha. "Honestly, you young women today..." Slowly lowering himself onto his chair, Peter said nothing. He looked at the bacon and eggs we were tucking into and blanched. I had to smile. That had been me a few days ago so I knew exactly how rough he must be feeling. "So just coffee, I imagine," said Samantha. "Please," he croaked, "lots and lots of coffee." He then proceeded to drink several cups, visibly perking up as he did so. By the time we were the only two left at the table he seemed much better. "God, I'm never doing that again," he said, with feeling. "We all say that the first time we get drunk," I chuckled. "Yes, well, maybe I'll be more sensible." "I saw you making out with Hugo," I said, "and you looked like you really enjoyed it." "I did," he agreed, "and making love afterwards." "So you *did* have sex with him!" "Of course, I did. You would have, so it might've aroused suspicion if I refused to. And, oh my! He's very good in bed, isn't he? I never dreamed sex would be that amazing." "But..but you're a guy!" "Not at the moment I'm not. I'm a woman, and my body reacted to him just the same as if you were still in the driving seat. Anyway, you should be pleased I enjoyed myself. It makes it much easier to carry this masquerade off convincingly than if I was repulsed and just faking it." "I suppose," I said, not really mollified, "but it still feels as if my boyfriend is cheating on me with you." "I get that, but as far as he's concerned I *am* you. When we switch back he's going to remember having made love to you tonight." "Yes," I agreed, "yes he is, so you'd better fill me in on all the details." "I will," he said, nodding, "but not 'til we change back." "What? Why not?" "Because I need this to be mine," he said, a note of pleading in his voice, "just until then. It may have been as a woman rather than as a guy, but this was my first time so it's very precious to me. Surely you can see that? How often in my life do you think I'm going to have someone look at me like that, with desire in their eyes, to touch me that tenderly and make love to me with that sort of passion? Let's be honest, I'm going to be lucky if it ever happens at all. You've got eyes and a mirror; it's not very likely, is it?" I thought of my 'ugly little troll' comment, and felt ashamed. I'd been a bitch to him, and he'd done nothing to deserve it. "OK," I said, "you're right. I now understand why you'd want to enjoy every moment of this time to the full, to just grab it with both hands and embrace it with all of your heart; this is a holiday from being you." "Exactly," said Peter. "I liked having Hugo tell me I'm beautiful, even if it's only borrowed beauty. And I want you to be happy with that, with me being Hugo's girlfriend and living it up while I'm you." "I am," I said, and to my surprise I was even though I vaguely felt I shouldn't be. "It's only four weeks, after all. Given the circumstances, it would be mean and petty of me to begrudge you that." "Oh, thank you," he said, coming over and hugging me, "I'm so grateful to you! You're the best sister in the world." - 6 - With the party behind us my mind turned to other matters. Having figured out the best way to approach Samantha about the mysteries of her family, I did so as soon as I was able to get her alone. This turned out to be in the kitchen late that afternoon, as she was preparing dinner. "I was researching our family," I told her, keeping it as casual as I could, "and I was wondering what happened to your Aunt Emma after she moved to America. Do you still keep in touch?" "She and my Uncle Frank email out a Christmas letter every year telling relatives what their family has been up to in the preceeding twelve months, but beyond that not really." "Could you forward a copy to me?" I asked. "Of course," said Samantha. "Thanks," I said. "So she and her husband met and married over here forty years ago then moved to the States?" "No, that was her first husband, Brad Eisen," said Samantha. "When he died she married her current husband, Frank Gant. It's her family with Frank that she writes about." Another dead first husband? It *could* be just a coincidence, but.... Later, in the privacy of my room, I read the Christmas letter: 'Merry Christmas one and all, and I hope everyone had a good year. Ours was a big improvement over the previous one, though it could hardly have been worse. Frank took early retirement in January and got a very nice payoff from his company. We're both looking forward to many more years together, riding our horses, traveling, and spending time with our grandchildren. On that front I'm happy to report that since the last Christmas letter our eldest daughter Mindy is finally coming to terms with the deaths of her sons in that year from hell, helped greatly by her husband Paul and his loving daughters Karen and Christy. Our other daughter Miranda has recently remarried. Losing her first husband in the same years her sister lost her sons was hard on us as a family, but her new husband Mark is a wonderful man. He and his daughters Fiona and Cassie have wlcomed Miranda and her sons Richard and Henry into their lives and already formed a strong family unit. They know about Klein-Jackman Syndrome, of course, and what it means for the boys' futures.' Klein-Jackman Syndrome? What the heck was that? I had no idea, but I knew it had to be important. And there was that pattern again: a widow with two sons marrying a man with two daughters. No way it was a coincidence. I needed to do some more digging on that front, but first things first... I googled 'Klein-Jackman Syndrome', my hands sweating in anticipation of finding an answer to at least one mystery. This took me to a single web- page, one that had an artists' sketch at the top of the page that could have been of me, or David, or Tara's dead step-brothers. I began to read: 'K