Your Wish Come True (revised): Chapter 5 - Awakening free porn video

Your Wish Come True by Pol Roger Chapter 5 Awakening He overslept and was late for work, but that was the least of his worries IT was morning. He could tell by the light, even though his eyes were still shut. And he was in bed. The last thing he remembered was a blackout, or the computer going blank at any rate. How had he got to bed? Never mind, he felt rested and refreshed. He gave a little stretch, while keeping his eyes shut for just a little longer. The first thing to disturb his sense of luxuriating cosiness was something tickling his nose. He was slowly moving his hand up to his face to brush whatever it was away when he became aware of how loud everything sounded. And what's that smell? he wondered. Ah, yes, that nice new soap he'd got for the bathroom. Fancy being able to smell it all the way from here! It must totally be a lot stronger than I thought, he vaguely concluded. At least it's not too girly. He'd been slightly concerned about this when he bought it, thinking it really was a bit too feminine, but now it seemed quite alright. But there was another smell he couldn't quite put his finger on, rather musky, neither soap nor perfume. Strangely enough it reminded him of Dianne. He could hear the wall clock ticking in the hall. The street sounds muffled through the closed double-glazed windows were more distinct than they normally sounded. He could hear his own movements in the bed more clearly, the almost imperceptible sound of the pillow against his ear. It was as if his hearing had suddenly become more acute. Odd, he thought. As if in answer to this observation, the telephone began to ring. The sound startled him, seeming so much louder than usual. He had opened his eyes now and had turned toward the phone to answer it. Something was wrong. He sat up quickly. He had become aware of something on his head and all over his pillow. Hair. Hair everywhere. Somehow hair had been placed all round his pillow. It must have been this that had been tickling his nose. Now that he was sitting up he realised the hair was on his head. Somehow he was wearing a longhaired wig. A really long-haired longhaired wig. He grabbed at it but it seemed to be attached. Ouch! He'd leant on it accidentally, causing it to pull. It really, really hurt. Someone was playing a horrible joke on him. How had this wig got on his head, and why wouldn't it come off? And why would a wig hurt when it was pulled? Then he noticed how big everything looked. Everything seemed to have increased a little in size. Or he had shrunk. The bed seemed bigger. The pillows seemed bigger as well. The whole room seemed to have grown slightly. All these thoughts rushed at him at once, overwhelming his senses. The phone was still ringing. He reached out his hand to answer it. What the ... Shit! His hand was different. It was smaller and more delicate, and had much longer fingernails than he had yesterday. It wasn't his hand. He looked at his arm. It was absurdly slender with sparse soft downy fair hair, and the skin was much smoother and somewhat darker-toned than he knew his arm was meant to be. He nimbly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling none of the usual stiffness in his legs and body. He was wearing a pair of his summer pyjamas because they were comfortable--cotton shorts and a tee shirt top--but they had become several sizes too big for him. His legs were smooth, tanned and slender, and delicate like his arm. They looked sort of feminine. Just like girl's legs. Impossible! "What's going on?" he said aloud. It wasn't his own voice. It sounded high pitched, like a child's voice. Or again, like a girl's. He said a few words randomly. Yes, it really sounded more like a child's or girl's voice. He looked at the phone, which was still ringing. I can't answer the phone sounding like this, he thought. He let it ring. Soon the ringing stopped. From downstairs he could hear the answering machine taking a message. "Mr Ross, is everything okay? We're a bit concerned you haven't come in and we haven't heard from you. Would you please call the office as soon as you can to let us know you're alright?" It was Penny's voice. He checked the time. Ten o'clock. Shit. He'd overslept. Shit, that wasn't the biggest problem. What was going on? He went to stand up but fell straight back down on the bed. His whole body felt different and unfamiliar. He tried to stand up again. He could hardly keep his balance. He seemed smaller and lighter, but his body felt awkward and uncoordinated. He steadied himself with a hand on a nearby chair. He felt like his hips were somehow out of joint and his legs attached at the wrong angle. His legs felt longer or his waist and hips higher up somehow than they should be, and they seemed to be much farther apart. He seemed to be leaning forward from the waist, or his bottom was sticking out; anyway, it felt strange. And he had to lean backwards a bit keep his balance. He sensed his usually slightly stooped shoulders were very straight today. Something else was definitely wrong but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He looked down at his body. He had felt a slight unaccustomed feeling of weight and movement at his chest and his shirt seemed to be really rubbing against him. He could see his chest was protruding. His hands reached there in panic. Shit! I've got breasts! He'd been getting flabby around the chest for a few years now (not to mention his stomach) but these were definitely rounder and fuller. They weren't at all like flabby "man boobs". They were full and firm. They felt wrong, and while not exactly heavy, they made their presence felt. The thing was they jiggled, it seemed at the slightest movement. The feeling was emphasised by the fact that the rest of him (except his bottom) felt really skinny. His heart seemed to be pounding in his head. He staggered toward the bathroom, nearly falling over several times because of the unfamiliar way his body moved, steadying himself on pieces of furniture and walls. He looked in the mirror. It was not his face. It was hers. Mandy's. The face of a teenaged girl. He looked in horror and disbelief. The look of horror and disbelief displayed itself on Mandy's face, but it was now his face. She was clearly panicking, or he was panicking. In fact she was screaming. He tried to pull himself together. He forced himself to look at the reflection in the mirror without becoming hysterical. It was clearly the face and body he had spent the last week obsessing over. But it was also different. Unlike in the Picture, she had no makeup on at all. The face in the Picture had only had a little on, but it evidently made a difference, and now she looked slightly unfamiliar. She still looked beautiful, though. Maybe even more so. She looked younger without makeup. Shit, she looked a lot younger. Her lips looked so full! He realised they felt full as well, yet his mouth and tongue seemed to feel slightly smaller compared to how they had felt yesterday. He touched his lips. Yes, they were soft and incredibly sensitive. Her hair was not at all like it was in the Picture. Yes, it was the about same colour and texture, darkish blond (and quite a bit lighter towards the ends), long and straight and full and silky, but it was much longer. It reached past her waist down past her thighs, and stopped below her knees at about the calves of her legs. Derek had never seen such long hair on anyone, ever. And it felt awfully heavy. He pulled it away from her face a little. Her hairline was somewhat low on her forehead and temples, an arch shape framing her face rather than a peak. It was a shock after the receding hair he had become accustomed to. He kept looking. Her eyebrows were beautiful and well shaped, a darker shade than her hair, mid to dark brown really, but they looked a little un-groomed compared with the Picture Mandy. But she was wearing the jewellery she had worn in the Picture. Lifting the hair up behind the ears he could see she had two plain silver earrings higher up in each of her ears and silver hoop earrings in each lobe, and she had the silver nose ring in the left nostril. He looked down. He could see a silver chain bracelet round his left ankle and a ring on his second left toe. He went back to the bedroom (beginning to walk a bit more steadily) and checked the place where he had been keeping the jewellery he had bought over the last few days. The items he was wearing were definitely the ones he had bought, since they were no longer to be found in the drawer with the others. So someone had put the jewellery on him. This was very confusing. How could that be? And how could he have had his nose and ears pierced without knowing? Lifting up the bottom of the pyjama top and holding out the now ridiculously loose waistband of his pyjama pants, he peered at himself over the tops of his breasts. His waist seemed tiny and out of proportion to his hips, which seemed to stick out widely. He had lost his flabby tummy. It was now almost completely flat--just the merest curve--and he could see rather prominent hipbones on either side. He had the silver heart-shaped stud in his navel. Only now did he notice the feeling of it brushing against the loose clothes. There was the tattoo near the left hip. He glanced over the rest of himself. Oh shit! No penis! He suddenly registered the void where the rest of him should be. He kept looking in disbelief. That's what he had been noticing was wrong. He had missed its familiar feeling immediately, but so many other things felt wrong that he had been somehow distracted from recognising this. Or perhaps he had somehow been blocking out thinking about it. He must have been, because how else could he not have noticed this immediately? Yet given everything else, why should it surprise him? Tentatively he touched where his penis should be and confirmed what he could scarcely bring himself to believe: he had a vagina. He was amazed at how sensitive the area was. He drew his hand away quickly. As if in answer to the horrified questions that were beginning to form in his mind, he immediately became aware that he needed to pee. Or he assumed that's what he needed to do. The sensation was different to normal, but he could feel muscles clenching against another impulse, so he surmised that's what it must be. He moved unsteadily over to the lavatory. He would have to sit down of course. He lowered himself onto the seat. It felt much higher and bigger than usual. His long hair was everywhere, so he gathered it together and arranged it so that it hung down beside him. Thankfully none of it seemed to have gone into the loo. He tried to urinate, but nothing came. He tried again. Nothing. He needed to go, badly, but it was like he had forgotten how. He tried to visualise urinating, but he was actually having trouble figuring out where it was even supposed to come out. He took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. Suddenly it came gushing out, the sensation quite unlike what he was used to. The whole area was left wet and he was even a little damp on his pubic hair, and had to use a piece of toilet paper to wipe himself dry. He should have spread his legs wider he realised. Surveying himself he noticed he had light brown pubic hair growing in a rough triangle, and almost no hair elsewhere. His legs were unshaven, but the hair was light and downy. There was some tufty light brown hair under his arms. He had got up and was once again at the wash basin and mirror. His face was completely smooth, and felt strange and unlike his own. It was much more mobile and expressive, displaying every thought and emotion. And right now it was displaying fear, confusion and dismay. He suddenly felt as though he was going to vomit. He leaned over the basin and began to retch. His whole body convulsed in a series of dry retches, but nothing came up. The episode passed and he stood gasping and perspiring over the basin. The telephone began to ring again. He tried his voice. High pitched. A girl's voice, though croaky after the retching. He tried to lower his voice. Still obviously a girl's voice. In fact it sounded ridiculous. There was no way he could answer the phone. Once again he let the answering machine take it. "Derek, Brian here. Are you alright?" Then he heard Brian speaking to someone before he disconnected, "I think we'd better get the police to check his house." Derek began to really panic. If the police came round they would find him, like this. How could he explain himself? They wouldn't believe he was himself. They would wonder what she was doing there, this girl. They would want to know who she was and they would want to see some identification. They would want to know where I, that is Derek, was and they might suspect me of foul play, Derek thought. They might think I have done away with him. With me, that is. Another thought occurred to him. Am I going to be able to get at my bank accounts? People won't believe I am me. The full enormity of his situation was beginning to dawn on him. He needed time to figure this out. First he had to contact the office. He had to stop them calling the police. He couldn't speak on the telephone. He couldn't even risk telling them he was ringing on Derek's behalf. That would raise too many questions. He had an idea. He got his mobile phone which had been switched off, turned it on and prepared an SMS text message to Brian's mobile phone. It read "There has been an emergency. Im ok but cant come into office today. Dont come round. Xplain later. Give my excuses. Derek." That should buy him a little time anyway. He sent the message. He waited an agonising few minutes to see whether there would be a reply. What if Brian didn't have his phone on him? Or had called the police already? His phone played the tune which announced he had a message and he checked it: "Glad youre ok hope its nothing serious Brian." Phew! Now what should he do? IT had all begun with the computer, and the Picture. The answer to his dilemma must be there somehow. Derek went into the study and opened the laptop. He waited impatiently while the computer started up. That's funny, he thought. He didn't remember turning off the computer. The last thing he remembered was a blackout. He clicked on the folder yourwishcometrue. A message came up. "This program has expired and will uninstall automatically," with a box to be clicked "okay." Derek's blood ran cold. It wasn't okay! If he couldn't get at the files, especially the Picture, how could he find out what was happening, and find a way of reversing it? How would he get out of this? And if the evidence had disappeared who would believe him? Even with the evidence would anyone ever believe him? He had an idea. He would check the original web site. He clicked away from the box and tried to open the internet browser. No good. Nothing was going to work until he clicked okay. He went to run his fingers through his hair and felt the long tresses. He became aware that he was sitting on some of his hair and it was pulling again. Why is this happening to me!? Why is this happening to me!? Why is this happening to me!? He could feel himself becoming hysterical. He tried to get a grip on himself, but his feelings became overwhelming. Sobs started to shake his body. He slid from the chair onto the floor and lay there, crying and hugging himself. After a while he stopped crying. SHE lay silently for a very long time. Then she pulled herself back into the chair and forced herself to look at the computer. It was exactly the same. The box was still there on the screen, waiting for okay to be clicked. She could of course leave it like that, do nothing. Then she could show people what had been on the computer. But what would it show? All it said was that a program had expired and would now automatically uninstall. She decided there was nothing to lose. There was no choice. She clicked okay. The computer began to whir and work hard. A progress bar appeared beneath the word "Uninstalling." She watched in despair as the progress bar moved slowly to completion. A message box: "Finished uninstalling." She clicked okay on this box and looked eagerly to see what had happened. The folder Your Wish was gone. The files, the Picture, all gone. She opened the internet browser and typed in "www.yourwishcometrue.com." Go. Thank goodness! The web site opened. It was as she remembered, with the words "Welcome to wishcometrue.com." Once again she read "Are you ready to make a wish? Select a category." There were the same categories she remembered: "Just for fun", "friends and enemies", "lifestyle", "circumstances"... Down the list was "your ideal". She was looking for some way to contact the web site. She hadn't read past "your ideal" the last time, but now she read some more choices. She noticed one that said "your fantasy". But "your ideal" and "your fantasy" are the same thing, aren't they? Blood drained from her face. Had he thought he was creating his own red hot fantasy when he was in fact programming his ideal self? He had had a few drinks when he made the choices, and maybe hadn't bothered to read on. It was just a game. Just a bit of fun. It wasn't real! Yet somehow the events of the last week were beginning to make sense in a crazy sort of way. They warned you to be sure this was what you wanted, her memory reminded her. Then she began to remember some of the characteristics he had given what he thought at the time was his fantasy. She could barely remember some of the things he had put, but she remembered she (that is, he) was basically creating a total sex object. Fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! I've become my own fucking sexual fantasy! She dissolved into tears. Why is this happening to me? And why am I crying so easily instead of trying to figure this out? The tears spent themselves. What could she do? There didn't seem to be any way to contact the web site. She had to do something. She clicked on "your ideal." "Congratulations. Our records show you got your wish. Your account has now expired," said the new page. She clicked to go back to the previous page. "Server not found," came the message. She clicked forward. "Server not found." She typed in the web address again in the address window. Go. "Server not found." She checked the connection. She tried another web site. Everything seemed to be fine. She tried again. "Server not found." Her last hope of finding a way out of the nightmare seemed to have vanished. Panic again. Nausea. Dizziness. ONCE again she pulled herself together after the fit of crying had subsided. It could be the server is just temporarily down. She could try again later. She suddenly remembered the flash drive that had been in that package. Could it have anything to do with this? It didn't seem to be anywhere in the study, either on the desk or floor, or even in the drawers. She remembered she had intended to throw it out in the rubbish, though she had no recollection of having done so. Nevertheless, she checked the bin in the kitchen and sure enough there it was. With nothing to lose, she gingerly fished it out of the rubbish and taking it back to the study, inserted it into her laptop. Its icon appeared on the screen with the name "FINAL DELIVERY". She tentatively clicked on it. Empty. Why would someone send a package with an empty flash drive? This whole predicament was driving her crazy! She needed to calm down. And think. She realised she was hungry. Very hungry. She went to the kitchen and greedily scoffed down some chocolates straight out of the box. Then she made a sandwich of smoked salmon and cottage cheese, some olives and some pickled cucumbers. Everything seemed bigger and heavier. Of course--she was much smaller now. She had to stand on her toes and really stretch to reach the glasses in the cupboard, which were only on the lower shelf. A sense of frustration and helplessness made her force herself to pause continually in order to pull herself together and remember what she was in the middle of doing. It was like she was going mad. Yes, it was exactly like that, she fancied, fighting off another wave of dismay. Yet for all that she was going through she actually felt quite well. She didn't feel she was sick, or in pain, despite her earlier retching. She recognised that was probably just panic. She felt really rather healthy, much fitter, in fact, than she had for ages. Than Derek had felt for ages, at any rate. This sense of health and energy had been growing stronger since this morning when it all began, she realised. However, she now lacked the physical strength she realised she had taken for granted as a man. She had found it quite impossible to get the lid off the jar of olives, for example, and she had to use a gadget (which she was relieved was there) to get it open. A woman's body again, she realised. A very small woman. Just a girl. She was a girl. Oh god! She closed her eyes and gripped the counter with her hands as she fought off the panic again. Her breathing calmed down, and she resumed making lunch. Her fingernails were making things difficult, so she broke off in the middle of preparing the food and went to the bathroom to cut them shorter. Wait--not too much shorter! Why not? She found it hard to understand her reluctance. Perhaps this wasn't her own body, so she had better not do too much to change it because she would have to return it soon. If that was the case she vaguely hoped someone was taking care of her own body, wherever it was. She cut her nails as short as she dared. The result looked butchered. I'm sorry, I promise I'll fix it up later, she apologised to the alien body that was now herself. She shrugged it off. That's alright; I'm not that bothered, really. They can always grow back. She finished lunch and went back to the bedroom. Walking was getting easier, though it was still awkward. She decided it would be necessary to confront her squeamishness about the body she was in in order to be able to function better, at least for now. Something suddenly struck her. She wasn't wearing any glasses, and yet she could see everything with absolute clarity. Nor was she wearing contact lenses. She actually checked. Her vision was perfect without them. She had worn glasses since she was a schoolboy of fourteen, but now they appeared to be quite unnecessary. "That's quite nice, anyway," she thought aloud. No, it's bloody fantastic, actually! She knew a smile was spreading across her face despite her underlying sense of terror. She opened the door of the closet, which had a full-length mirror on its inside, and surveyed herself. There was no question. She was exactly the girl from the Picture. Her smile was fading but it still looked radiant. What an amazingly beautiful smile! And what perfect white teeth! She was so beautiful! It made her catch her breath for a second. Then it made her vaguely afraid. Oh god, if she was in raptures over her own face and lusting after her own body, even in the predicament she was in, what were other people going to do? She looked so very young! Seen in the flesh she seemed much younger than she had looked in the Picture. Her body glowed with vitality. Youth and vitality. She had never seen the naked body of a girl this young, not even her daughter. Not since Emma was a baby. How old was she? Here in the familiar surroundings of the bedroom rather than on a computer screen, she looked much younger than Emma. She was a lot shorter than Emma too, and looked maybe about fifteen or sixteen. Perhaps younger. But then again, she could also be older, she told herself. Say, twenty? A young looking twenty, of course. There's no way I look twenty, she finally admitted, scrutinising herself. But a lot of girls look younger than their age, she reflected. A lot looked older, too. She had seen fourteen year-olds who looked older than she now did. Not many, though, she comforted herself. Was she biting her lip? She stopped herself and composed her features. Then, grimacing, she examined her teeth. They were really white, and all perfectly straight and even. Perhaps not perfectly perfect. They didn't look artificial. The long hair was a mystery. And a great deal of trouble. It was very heavy and kept getting snagged in things. Mandy in the Picture had hair halfway down her back but this was at least twice that length. And the underarm hair--shouldn't it be shaved? She had a sudden flash of memory of the DNA simulation when she had been studying the Picture on her computer before she went to sleep. She remembered reaching out to touch it. Is that what happened? Has my DNA been reprogrammed? Then why do I have piercings and a tattoo? Nothing makes sense. She slowly removed the pyjamas. It felt scandalous, like she was a voyeur. It was wrong to force this girl to strip in front of her. She looked at herself naked in the full-length mirror. Her skin was certainly darker-hued than most white English people, and perhaps just a little sallow. And yet her skin was a distinctly lighter tone than the girl's in the Picture had been, without any tan lines. It was smooth and unblemished, and she had the impression that she looked like she had actually spent very little time in the sun--or that she had been away from the sun for a long time--and would probably go a lot darker given the chance. The only mark on her was the tattoo. There was hardly a mole or a spot or a freckle--that she could notice, anyway. Having made this observation, she began to see the odd tiny mole or freckle. But the overall impression was one of silky smooth clear skin. It looked and felt gorgeous. She had the body of a girl on the brink of full-blown womanhood, post- pubescent but somehow not quite grown up. Definitely the body of an amazingly beautiful teenager. She was perfectly proportioned, slim, very fit-looking--brimming with health and feminine grace. Perhaps on the small side for some tastes, she worried. Petite--tiny almost--but with such a slender straight back and graceful shape that she commanded notice. It felt completely incongruous. What she saw in the mirror was almost the total opposite of what she was, a shy, balding, middle-aged lawyer. This girl must feel repulsed even being looked at like this. What would her parents say? She turned to look at herself from behind, and saw the perfect curve of her back down to her wonderfully shaped full but firm buttocks. She reminded herself of a child-sized "cello. Her back felt straight and strong and her neck seemed absurdly long and thin when she touched it. Her shoulders were now much narrower and again she sensed the diminished strength in her arms. All the weight in her upper body--such as there was--seemed to have shifted from the shoulders to her hips and buttocks. And her breasts. She turned face on again and considered these. They were not actually all that large, maybe even on the small side. A lot of girls--and a lot more men!--would probably want them to be a bit bigger. But they were beautifully shaped--rounder at the bottom but still pert. Like rounded teardrops. The nipples protruded quite a bit, with the areolae also raised quite a lot from the breasts themselves, and they pointed a little upwards. These circles were about an inch and a half, maybe even two inches, in diameter--much bigger than she remembered her male nipples being--with tiny bumps around the edges, and only very slightly darker than the surrounding skin. She continued to look at her breasts. She had been worried about seeing her breasts, because they had been feeling like they were protruding hugely. They felt so big to her and they jiggled when she walked and the nipples were constantly rubbing on her tee shirt. Standing up straight seemed to push them out even further. But looking at them now they seemed perfect. Despite the unfamiliar feeling of weight they didn't look enlarged at all. They looked amazing. She looked away from the mirror and down at her body. The breasts again! They stuck out, partly obscuring her view. She looked past them to survey herself as she had earlier, then back at the mirror. It was hard to accept that the body she was seeing was her own body. "God, I look totally hot!" she thought. She raised her right hand to her left breast and touched it. Immediately she felt a warm sensation and the nipple stiffened and seemed to grow. They were incredibly sensitive. She cupped both breasts in her hands, and began to feel their weight and massage them a little, feeling their texture and receiving extraordinary sensations in response to her touch. They had both changed and become firmer as soon as she touched them. She had had no idea until now how sensitive and erotic women's breasts were. In fact he had been inclined to believe that women's breasts were for the benefit of men. Now she knew that wasn't true. She smiled and let out a short laugh. She cut short the laugh, horrified. Her heart was racing. Her breathing was getting shorter. It's just the surprise, that's all, she told herself. Keep going. She felt a little calmer. She cupped a breast in each hand again and massaged them gently. She let the palms of her hands range over their surface. As she gently stroked the nipples with the back of her hands, she felt a melting feeling from deep inside. She was touching her breasts, but the feeling wasn't coming from her breasts. She thought she was going to start moaning, it was getting so intense. She moved her right hand very tentatively to her crotch, leaving her left hand to continue massaging her breasts. Her touch felt a sticky moistness and immediately the air was filled with her musky smell. She felt around carefully with her fingers, amazed at the sensitivity of the whole area and the diversity of sensations from touching different parts, and the different kinds of pleasure depending on how she touched or stroked or rubbed any particular spot. She was also amazed how wet she was. She knew what that meant. Even if she hadn't known, there was no denying her arousal. It was like nothing she had ever experienced--it was like hypnotism or possession, with a life of its own. In some ways her arousal was more like an ache. Like a need, or an appetite. Was it coming from her crotch, or her breasts? It seemed to be consuming her. She didn't know how to satisfy this need. Everything she touched just made it stronger. She gasped involuntarily when she touched above the vagina and found her clitoris underneath its little hood of soft sensitive skin at the top of her labia. She explored the clitoris with amazement. It seemed a much larger area than she had supposed from her experiences with women as a man. The mound of incredibly responsive flesh sent deep warm vibrations through her whole body. Her entire groin area seemed to have become one great need. It was making little gyrations against her hand, as if of its own accord. It's nothing like I imagined, she thought vaguely. Her conscious thoughts were beginning to fade into the background. Her mind was beginning to be somewhere else. Was that person in the mirror her? Or was that person seducing her? She was in the thrall of the reflected image, as she had recently been in thrall to the same image on the computer screen. But this was much, much better, because she could make the image in the mirror do anything she wanted. Absolutely anything. She was in control. She gave a strange laugh, but this time it brought no anxious response. The sight of her touching herself was making her feel sexy and uninhibited. Her breathing was faster. Her heart was beating in her ears. She felt her body was on fire. She put her fore and middle fingers into her vagina and rested her thumb against her clitoris. She touched what felt like an elastic band (which seemed strange) but her slender fore and middle fingers went in easily. She closed her legs around her hand. Involuntarily her pelvis began to make short thrusts as she fucked herself with her fingers. She rubbed her breasts with her free hand and then stroked her nipples. She stopped looking in the mirror and closed her eyes, allowing herself to sag onto the bed. Lying on her back with her legs over the end of the bed and her feet on the floor, she continued to touch her vagina, gently stroking the whole of both vulva, the inner lips, clitoris, a finger right inside, while her other hand roved over her breast and nipples, and occasionally to her mouth, touching her lips and caressing her cheeks and throat and abdomen and whole body before coming back to her breasts. Her juices were really flowing. She had never tasted vaginal secretions before. In twenty years of marriage to Dianne, Derek had never given his wife oral stimulation, nor even tried to taste his fingers after stimulating his wife. He wasn't put off by cunnilingus in theory; it was just that the musky smell was always so strong that he had been sure the taste would make him gag, so he had never done it. She took her fingers out of her vagina and to her mouth, sucking and licking them to get every trace of the musky-smelling fluid. Then she did it again, making sure she had plenty on her fingers. It didn't taste bad at all. It wasn't at all the strong taste she had imagined, though it made a tingly after-sensation on her tongue. In fact, it hardly had a taste at all. Vaguely salty, like saliva. Poor Dianne! She would have liked me to have used my tongue, she thought to herself. I should have given it a try. I really quite like it. Her fingers were back in her vagina, the ball of her hand pressing on her pubic bone. She began to use her legs to raise herself up off the bed in time with the involuntary thrusting movement of her pelvis. It was irresistible now, so intense she forgot everything else. She was on another plane, in another world, being held in an exquisite agonising suspense. Then she felt the need to thrust more quickly. Her movements became short and jerky. Every muscle seemed to tighten suddenly. She took a sharp intake of breath and held it for what seemed an age. Then suddenly her whole body seemed to be throbbing as something burst forth from deep within in waves of fire and electricity, and she was groaning and gasping, unable to contain the primal sounds coming from her. A low ecstatic music of intense pleasure engulfed her body and then held it suspended, as time itself seemed to stand still. She stopped breathing again for that long moment, then felt herself relax with a groaning sigh. The pulsing vibrations began to fade. THE waves receded and she lay becalmed. Gradually her breathing returned to normal. Wow! That had been incredible. Is this what a woman normally feels in an orgasm? She stayed where she was, eyes shut, enjoying the sharp awareness of her body. She ran her hands over her body, touching her breasts again, feeling her hips, her inner thighs, her pussy. Still wet, she observed. And still very sensitive. Too sensitive! She felt her clitoris very carefully. It was almost painful to touch it. And it seemed to have swollen in size. She moved her fingers around the area, not getting too close. The feeling of just caressing her skin was fascinating. Her pelvis began to move again, rubbing her against her hand. She felt the clitoris again, and it no longer hurt to touch it. She lay there for ages, just playing with her vagina, alternately caressing, massaging, lightly brushing with the tips of her fingers, then using her hands or fingers to stimulate different parts, or come inside her with a finger and stimulate the wall of the vagina behind her pubic bone. It had become so moist again that it was practically dripping. All the while she was moaning and gasping and crying out, unconcerned about--perhaps unaware of--her cries of pleasure, lost in the infinite variety of her new sensual experiences. Soon her arousal had reached another fever pitch. Crying out she felt again the warm waves of her orgasm and the pulsing of its rhythm, this time not so urgent but somehow deeper and more lyrical. She lay exhausted and gasping for air. But within a few minutes she was calm and relaxed, as if she had had a long sleep. Perhaps this isn't going to be so bad after all, she thought. Shit! She was instantly alert as if someone had cracked a whip. Sitting up on the bed she shook her head as if to clear her mind. Opening her eyes she saw herself again in the mirror, sitting with her legs spread wide and her vagina exposed and still moist and aroused. Good Lord, I've been a woman, as far as I know, for three hours and I've already had two orgasms (two amazing orgasms, she corrected herself). What must it be like with a man? she found herself wondering. The thought made her shudder. Yet there was something unconvincing about the shudder. Something had been stirred by the thought. What's that? A look came across the face of the reflected image and then seemed to vanish. A pleased look of mischievous fun, as though the image had just won a game, or a bet. She studied her reflection in amazement, but there seemed to be only the look of anxiety and returning panic. She must have been mistaken. SHE was still in a terrible predicament. She was in her own house, on her own bed, so far as she could tell the same person she had always been, with the same memories, but in a different body. Someone else's body. A female body. This isn't really happening, she began to tell herself reasonably. But her mind was starting to explore things from new angles. It was uncovering more problems. What if this is real? What if this is permanent? If she had had a surgical sex change, she would have to face the difficulties of telling everyone and giving them time to adjust. But it would be a gradual process before there would be acceptance (hopefully) and recognition of her new identity. There would be legal and professional hurdles, but they could be overcome. There would be tensions in relationships between family members and friends, but if they really loved her it would all be fine. (Family! How was she going to explain this to her children?) And she would have freely chosen the new identity, and had counselling and a support network to prepare her for her transition. There would have been points along the way when she could have waited till she was ready, or even decided to turn back. But this was a completely different situation. Completely. She felt a sense of panic returning. How could she work? Who would ever take a teenaged female lawyer seriously? How would her qualifications be recognised? How was she going to prove her identity? She looked at her hands. There was nothing of her old male hands about them. Would she have different fingerprints? She thought it quite probable, as it simply wasn't her body. Who was she? She didn't have a birth certificate, or a passport (not for this body anyway), or school qualifications, or mother or father or history or friends. Not in this identity. Legally she did not exist. As far as the law was concerned, she was a squatter in a house belonging to a man who was as of now missing, without any means of proving who she was. And that was the most benign scenario. An idea: She could go to the nearest hospital claiming to have lost her memory and let the authorities worry about her identity. No. They would treat her as mentally deranged, place her under supervision. She would be under the control of an uncaring and largely incompetent bureaucracy. As a lawyer she had seen powerless people suffer all kinds of abuse at the hands of the state. She shuddered. Somehow, she was beginning to realise, she had to come up with a plan for creating a new identity. And she had to somehow find an explanation for the "disappearance" of Derek Ross. Damn! She didn't even have any clothes! She couldn't even leave the house without arousing notice. Once again she lost control of her fragile emotions and dissolved in tears. But who is to say this is permanent? She might wake up tomorrow and find everything back to normal. This could be a dream! It doesn't feel like dream, she thought. I've had some pretty weird ones lately but this is different even from them. It's gone on too long for a start. God, I hope it's a dream! It could be virtual reality. She was in a computer game, and had been allotted the identity of a female character. This body was just an avatar. Then how do I get out of the game? You would have to play it to the end, I suppose. Am I getting confused with a movie? Television show? She looked at herself in the mirror again. Every sensation she was feeling was unfamiliar, yet the sense of detachment about her body was now gone. Her heart was beating a little faster again. Something inside her was wanting this not to be a dream, or virtual reality, or even reversible. Some part of her was glad, and excited. And this was beginning to overcome her fear and distress. Now that really did scare her! She would have a shower and start making lists of everything she needed to do and all the alternatives she needed to consider. THE shower made her feel better. She was amazed at how supple her body was. For example she discovered she could easily reach any spot on her back, and bend over to a degree she had never known, even when she was a young man. But it took half a bottle of shampoo to wash her hair. She knew from recent reading that she had to use a lot of conditioner, which she did, on the strands not the scalp. She finished off with a cold rinse. But now the hair was wet it seemed to weigh a ton. And it would take ages to dry. She tried to put it into some kind of braid, but she had no idea how to do it. In the end she tied it back with a silk necktie. Should she cut it off? She was reluctant to do anything drastic until she had more answers. Also, the only scissors in the house were kitchen scissors. She had been considering again the possibility that this wasn't a permanent state. What if she somehow found a way of accounting for Derek Ross's disappearance and established an identity for herself, and she was suddenly changed back? The immediate concern was that until she had some female clothes, she was a virtual prisoner in the house. Perhaps she could shop online for some clothes and have them delivered. She went to the computer and began to search. She tried Harrods, Marks and Spencer, Debenhams, Selfridges and Harvey Nichols, as well as some other online shopping web sites and some stores around London. The trouble was that although she found some suitable items, she had no idea what size she was. And the delivery time ranged from a day to seven days. She needed something to wear now. Then she wondered, What if this is some kind of hallucination? Then she'd be a man getting around in women's clothes! She tried some of Derek's clothes, but everything looked ridiculous and likely to attract attention. It was all getting too much for her again. She just didn't know enough about being a girl, and every time she tried to decide what to do next or what plans she should be making, she felt overwhelmed and on the verge of hysteria. No one had ever been in this situation before, as far as she knew. There was no one to advise her, nowhere she could look for precedents, no information she could look up. No one would believe her story if she told it to anyone. And her whole situation and place in the world was precarious and uncertain. She could lose everything she owned. She had probably lost her relationship to every person she knew, for how could any of them deal with what had happened? She would be declared insane and locked away. Maybe she was insane. Whatever the case, she suddenly felt completely isolated and alone. And utterly confused about what to do. She was getting desperate. She made a decision. She had to tell someone, and get some help. Someone she could trust. Dianne? She pictured Dianne laughing at her predicament, and laughing some more when she told her friends the story. She would call Emma. At least Emma was a girl and could help her out with some practical issues. Like what to do with this hair. She needn't tell her everything. She could pretend to be Mandy and get her to help as a cousin. She found her phone and composed a text message: "Emma urgent problem pls come by soonest v important. Dont call me on phone Dad." She sent the message. Five minutes later the mobile phone played its incoming message tone. "Ok b there in 30 min. Concerned Em" She felt a wave of relief. At last she was going to be able to confide in someone.