Melissa Won t Let Go Chapter 5 Melissa
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Melissa Won't Let Go. Chapter 3, Mrs Singh. free porn video
Melissa Won't Let Go.
By Tanya H.
-3-
MRS SINGH
Another walk through the city as a female. At least this time I had
company, somebody to prevent some lone male inadvertently making me
their fantasy. Lora chattered inconsequentially about the weather and
football and anything but my predicament. At least she slowed a bit so
my little legs weren't too rubbery as we stopped in front of an
independent bookshop I'd never seen before.
"Here we are, we'll get you sorted inside." She practically beamed at
me.
"In here?" I looked up sceptically at the sign above the door.
"Popjoy's?"
"It's literary. Didn't you ever read Wodehouse? Jesus!"
Popjoy's had a lengthy shopfront and big windows with colourful
displays of David Walliams, Harry Potter, Lee Child, Chrissy Archer and
a hundred other titles and authors. Through the windows I glimpsed
long, tall shelves, graceful plants and wide sofas. Inside the air was
filled with a warm smell of new, printed paper, coffee and baked
potatoes - my tummy rumbled. Beyond all the books, the comfy chairs and
displays lay a cosy cafe, busy with mid-morning coffee lovers. Though I
looked longingly in that direction Lora weaved me through the browsers,
waved cheerily to a round girl behind the checkout and punched a code
to get through a Staff Only door to one side of the shop.
"What's the boss like?" I asked, following Lora up some narrow, worn
stairs.
"Dark and mysterious. Or mystical, it's hard to be sure - I'm never
sure of the difference."
The difference would be academic, as long as she could stop this
nightmare, as long as she could wave a wand and get me out of this
midget body. As long as all this was real and not me having some kind
of episode. Would waking up in a padded room with a diet of mashed
banana to look forward to be an improvement?
At the stair head a corridor went further into the building - just an
ordinary, scuffed, slightly shabby looking staff-only corridor you
could find at the back of any retail establishment. Identical,
unlabelled doors broke the wall's monotony down each side, though Lora
ignored them, heading for the one dominating the whole corridor from
the end.
"Ready?" she asked, poised to rap her knuckles on it.
"For what?"
"Here or back to school?"
"Ha ha!"
She knocked, waited until a woman inside invited her in before pushing
open the door and waving me through. I hesitated on the threshold,
looked to her for reassurance. Lora grinned.
The office beyond, and it was an office not some potion master's den,
or a witch's lair was wide and airy thanks to large windows giving a
view over a small, neat park. There were many bookshelves, as you might
have guessed, displaying a mixture of brightly bound modern editions
and thicker, more sombre vintage books. A plain wooden desk faced away
from the window, but the office's occupant stood to one side watering a
pot plant of some broad leaved variety I couldn't have named if you'd
put a gun to my head.
Aside from her sari, which shone with a kaleidoscope of colours, the
most striking thing about her was the Rapunzel-thick plait hanging down
her back with its tip just below the line of her hips; it shone like
jet, with some silver streaking back from her temples. When she turned
to watch us both I guessed she might have been approaching a beautiful
fifty, with dark, smooth skin and just a few crinkles at the corners of
her eyes and mouth. She wore no visible makeup, while gold hoops
gleamed in both ears, one nostril and her left eyebrow. Though I was
normally too polite to stare, her eyes took mine and held them, being
so beautifully shaped and incredibly dark you could have fallen right
into them.
"Hello, Lora. How is my special boy today?" she said, in a mellow voice
tinted with the east.
"Very well, thank you, Mrs Singh. This is James; James meet Mrs Singh."
Snapping myself from her hypnotic stare I made myself go forward and
offer a little girl hand. "Pleased to meet you," I said as she shook
it. Her skin felt soft and dry, she smelt pleasantly of cloves.
"James?"
"Cursed. A bad one. Worst one I've seen for a while, couple of weeks at
least."
"Indeed you are," said Mrs Singh looking down at me carefully. She
seemed very tall and at that moment, very imposing. "Take him
downstairs, get him a sandwich or something and bring him back when he
changes. We'll deal with it then. Okay?"
Which did come sharp - I'd been expecting the magic wand, remember? And
I had been pretending the schoolgirl for some time now, I must have
been due a change. She must have sensed my reluctance to leave, for she
smiled such a beautiful, calming smile you couldn't help yourself, but
smile back.
"Don't worry, James. I have been dispersing worse problems than yours
since I was ten years old and about your present build."
With that, she dismissed us by turning back to her plant.
"How often does this sort of thing go on?" I asked Lora's back as we
went back down the stairs.
"Like yours? Never seen one like that, the creativity and malevolence
is notable. Curses? I probably find one a week. Though I don't just
cover Plymouth, I do everything West of Exeter. So I get about a bit."
Then we were back in the shop. Without hesitating she went for the cafe
and I had to run and catch up, tugging her hand. That latte had run
through me, pooled heavily in my bladder and I needed to go.
She just laughed when I baulked at the female toilet door. "Where else
are you going to go, young lady?" With eyes on the floor tiles I crept
inside, like a real woman was going to start screaming, and rapidly
locked myself into a cubicle. While I grappled with the unfamiliar
clothing and mechanics of what should have been an everyday occurrence,
I studiously ignored my modified genitals - in case I could be accused
of being some kind of nonce myself. Then, in the middle of enjoying the
immediate relief of a long, satisfying pee, a cold draft made me
shiver.
Still in mid flow I was just able to save the floor from a wetting and
almost cried with relief to see my hairy thighs and the much missed
line of my cock. Instead of tights and knickers pushed down around my
knees there were my work trousers and plain boxers; I had a tie and a
shirt and bloke fingers and an Adam's Apple and everything!
I would have hollered with joy had I not remembered where I'd got
myself trapped. Lora laughed when she saw me, blushing furiously and
edging out of the lady's. She had a good laugh, mellow and rocking -
possibly insensitive at that moment, but my own relief came like a
sugar rush so I laughed too - partly from the sitcom timing, partly
because she looked so lovely.
Then I remembered her Mum had christened her Dennis and confusion
grabbed me again.
"Impeccable timing," she said, leading me to the coffee shop again.
"Just don't leave me alone with any blokes!"
"This lot?" she waved dismissively at the coffee shop's clients, who
were admittedly a little elderly. "Their fantasy would be a nice-
looking lass to make Horlicks and put their socks on for them."
"Believe me, that would have been perfect compared..."
She stopped as though she'd run into a brick wall and covered her mouth
with a hand. "Oh, god - sorry. I am a thoughtless cow sometimes! Is it
too soon? Course it is. Sorry, James." She laid a hand on my arm. "I
get a bit blas? about stuff. Probably a coping mechanism. Anyway, we
can go back to the boss now, can't we?"
Back in my own body, with my own voice and with the prospect of some
end to what I'd been going through for the last few days, it was easy
to be dismissive myself. "If your signposting gets this behind me, you
can take the piss as much as you like."
So we went back up the stairs and along the corridor, Lora knocked
again and there I was being invited to sit on a low chair off opposite
the desk while Mrs Singh sent Lora for tea.
I went through what I can only describe as a pleasant interview. Mrs
Singh leant forward and watched me throughout; curious, but relaxed.
She started by asking about myself; my background, what did I like,
what did my parents do - she was interested in my sister's work as a
teacher. Any time I did a little fast forward onto Melissa she steered
me back onto easier ground; what about my girlfriends, my schooling.
How did I like working for the department store? What ambitions did I
have? I might have felt a little impatient with the whole process, were
I not so keen to put this whole sorry episode behind me. If Mrs Singh
could spare the time to listen attentively to my ordinary life then I
could tell her of it..
Particularly after she disclosed that as far as my bosses at the store
were concerned I had been taken to hospital and kept in for
observations after collapsing outside, just before I'd booked on. I
wasn't expected back until Monday, assuming I was okay by then. Even
better, and increasing my wary respect for this woman's capabilities,
she opened a desk drawer and produced my wallet, car keys, phone and
all the other stuff I'd left behind after Barry the Cleaner had thrown
me from the building.
When I asked her how she'd arranged all that she just smiled,
dismissing my question with an elegant gesture. "All part of the
service," she said, making me wonder what this was going to cost.
Then we got onto Melissa. As before, with the police and courts, I
didn't let my emotions go and launch into an over dramatic tirade
against her. I kept my account factual, to the point, though it was
hard to keep emotion from my voice when I gave her the very edited
highlights of what had happened those times I'd been alone with a man.
"The letter was the medium of cursing you," she said, when my tale was
done. "Her words carried the curse and by reading them you were
infected."
"It just looked like an ordinary letter!"
"I know. But this is a powerful instrument, that woman has poured a lot
into such a curse. You are most lucky Lora found you."
I made some, mumbled comment about the pervert I'd last been
transformed by and she shook her head. "I don't just mean that. The
time of each transformation was getting longer, yes? I imagine that had
the curse worked its course the intervals being male would have
disappeared entirely. Imagine, James what would be the value of a woman
who could be the fantasy object of any man she was left alone with?
What would a woman, who could resemble any woman - actress, singer,
celebrity, fantasy - be worth to some unscrupulous person as a
prostitute?"
For a second the room swayed as her words hit me. My face chilled and I
gripped my knees painfully. She reached to touch my hand, her fingers'
warmth relaxed me slightly.
"It's done. The curse is lifted."
"Done?" I'd half expected some opaque ritual; sprinkling of holy water
and intonations in strange languages, though my expectations were
moulded by the entertainment industry's interpretations of witchcraft
and magic. Mrs Singh didn't appear to possess either a pointy hat or a
wand.
"Yes. Though I suggest you spend the rest of the day with Lora, test
the water so to speak. So you have the confidence to be with men
again."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"I don't know what to say, thank you - obviously. That doesn't seem
enough - I mean, what you've done for me. How much -"
She cut me off with another gesture. "Lora will explain the... ah,
bill. Such as it is. You will not find paying it a problem. Nor will it
bother your bank account."
For a moment I wondered if I was committed to hand over my firstborn,
or seven years of my life - or some other nonsense, but her look and
her manner were so soft, so friendly I couldn't really imagine her
demanding something like that. Instead she wished me well, shook my
hand again and had me go back into the bookshop to find Lora.
A tall girl with l startling pink hair didn't take much finding. Half
way through a baked potato heaped with cheese and beans she grinned to
see me, patting the seat beside her.
"You look skull-fucked."
That earned her a squinty sideways look, but she only laughed.
"Lunch?" she wondered and my freshly uncursed belly rumbled.
The tests went well. First, Lora introduced me to Max, a lean, olive-
skinned chef who'd made the very good pasta I'd enjoyed for lunch. She
cajoled us both into the head chef's little office, grinned fiercely
and closed the door on us. We both stared at each other a moment, I
pretended to read a couple of notices behind the door, he looked at his
phone.
"How long does it usually take?" she called.
"Maybe we weren't alone enough," I suggested. We were side by side on a
sofa in the bookshop. "I mean, there were other people in the kitchen,
you weren't far away."
"You said it happened by the staff entrance to your store last time.
Not to mention on a public bench on the Hoe."
"Maybe he doesn't like girls."
"Oh, he likes girls alright."
Next she grabbed one of the sales assistants, a shortish, stocky
looking lad called Paul who readily agreed to go for a walk with me
around to the park at the back of the shop. We sat for a full five
minutes discussing the weather and football on a secluded bench under a
sycamore tree and whatever his fantasy woman looked like, I didn't
become her.
With Paul returned to the store, we went for a walk. When I asked
where, Lora spread her arms like she could encompass the whole city and
said, "Everywhere."
"What are we doing?"
"Paying Mrs Singh back - isn't she amazing?"
"Paying her back?"
"God's work, James. We seek out the cursed and bring them to her. She
uncurses them. Boom!"
Which made about as much sense as anything else that had happened to
me, but I followed her effervescence towards the Torpoint ferry
terminal and a planned walk around the seafront back towards the Hoe
where she'd found me earlier - a lifetime ago.
"Big seaport like this, James - we get loads of the cursed wash up
here. The Navy brings a lot of them - sailors pissing off wives in
every port. Two years I've been doing this and I must have brought in a
dozen matelots. One lad, poor thing, he'd been cursed with reverse
puberty after short-changing a Mumbai sex-worker. He'd become a six
foot two 13 year old in charge of maintaining a frigate's engines! Mrs
Singh sorted him, but he had to go through puberty again - in the right
direction - poor lad. His wife left him when he was only just getting
some bum fluff on his top lip. I think his acne on top of everything
else, the dirty-lady included, finished the relationship."
That story reduced me to a halt. She stopped, looked over her shoulder
and laughed. Lora laughed a lot, as if the world had been created only
to delight her.
"This is insane. Why isn't this shit common knowledge?"
"Ring the Daily Mail, sell them your story."
"Point taken. So you just wander the street looking for the afflicted?
How do you tell them?"
"I'm a sensitive, remember? You get a feel for them, the cursed.
Sometimes it's a taste, like a bad taste, sometimes a haze around them,
even a sound once in a while. You had an aura. And I saw you go from
nursie to schoolie in a blink. Bit of a giveaway. You'll be sensitive
to it too, decursed always are, like ex-smokers being the worst critics
of smoking..."
"You've been... cursed too?" It felt weird saying it, like passive
acceptance would make me as mad as the rest of them.
"Good and proper. By my own Mum too!"
"Your Mum!"
"Poor deluded cow. She wanted a son, a proper son. Not a son who wanted
to be a daughter. You don't mind me being open about this do you? Not
transphobic are you?"
I looked at the floor. I kept forgetting she'd disclosed being called
Dennis and wasn't sure if that whole thing was just her humour. "I
don't think so, I haven't had to think about it before. I've never met
anybody... trans? Don't even know the term, sorry."
"I'm already over it. I prefer the term, woman, but hey! What do I
know? Anyway, Mum - she wanted to make me a proper bloke who didn't
want to wear a dress or do any other cliche'd girly shit - because I
didn't know any better, okay - and found a curse to do that to me."
"It obviously didn't work."
For the first time since I'd met her, her lips turned down at the
corners. She sighed. "A failed suicide attempt, running away from home
a couple of times and some pretty fucking awful sexual abuse later here
I am, de-cursed and Lora. I'd be dead if one of Mrs Singh's people
hadn't found me."
Showing me her back she hurried on, shoulders down.
Feeling the worst kind of shit, I ran to catch up. "Lora, I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have -"
"You didn't do anything but ask a natural question. I even laid the
groundwork for you to ask it. Do you see what I mean about God's work,
I'm not a believer by the way? People do shit to other people, like
you, and now we can help unshit them." Another grin lit her face. "I
have been to the dark place, and I'm not going back there. Relentless
positivity is the watchword now."
Plymouth remained Plymouth as she took me around it, but it felt
different now - there was magic about; magic to make Lora somebody's
idea of a man, magic to make me potentially every woman. Mrs Singh's
quiet words about my likely fate had Lora not found me haunted my every
step and nausea rose at the thought of being trapped like that. In
between that mindless compulsion to mate as I tripped between men's
fantasies would I have known who I was? Would I have remembered
anything of my life before?
Then I thought of Melissa and the hatred it must have taken to fuel
that curse upon me.
Maybe Lora sensed the gloomy path my thoughts led me along, for she
attempted distraction with bright chatter about herself. I learnt she
worked four days a week as a graphic designer, specialising in website
design. She showed me some of her work when we stopped for another
coffee and I was properly impressed - she had a real talent, as well as
being a captivating person. I could hardly keep my eyes off her.
"Are you trying to read me?" she asked, clearly having noticed how much
attention I was paying her.
Not being sure what she meant I asked her to explain.
"Can you see a man or a woman? Are you hunting for something male? It's
what you do, the cisgendered. When you learn what I am, you look for
sign, perhaps to convince yourself you have seen through the trick.
That you knew all along."
"I didn't know until you told me."
"To get my retaliation in first." She leant across the table and stared
directly into my eyes. "Do you think I'm pretty?"
When I couldn't think of a single word, she sat back and laughed.
"Men!"
The heat rising in my cheeks must have coloured them, for she laughed
again. Her looks had tied my tongue, for she was pretty; not a
delicate, blushing kind of prettyness, but a lively beauty that started
in her eyes and finished with the happy curl of her lips. The confusion
and problem came from the cultural filters that had grown up inside me.
"I've made you uncomfortable," she said, reaching to touch the back of
my hand. "Sorry."
I set my shoulders and forced myself not to move my hand away from her.
"After everything that's happened to me over the last week, you being
some kind of ex-Dennis is almost vanilla."
"Some kind of ex-Dennis? Wow! I like that."
"Lora suits you better."
"Thank you."
"And you are."
"Are?"
"Lora. And pretty."
Another laugh, this time I smiled along. Making her laugh felt good.
Just what I needed.
"Is this it then? Looking for the cursed - wandering round and drinking
coffee?"
"Pretty much. Usually I stick to the city centre, railway station, bus
station and the front. We'd better avoid the precinct though, what with
you being 'off sick' - don't want to blow your story open. It's best to
go where people go, where people sit to stare into space and wonder
what the hell is happening to them."
"And take them to Mrs Singh?"
"Sometimes they don't want to go, mostly they will clutch at any straw.
However implausible."
That made me snort, sadly. Ghostly fingers scrabbled at my girlish,
skinny thighs. "Thank you. For finding me."
"Just doing my job, ma'am."
But the 'what-ifs' haunted me as we left the coffee shop and resumed
our search.
I insisted on buying her dinner. Probably the very least I could do. My
feet were sore by the time we stopped at a first floor pub with low,
beamed ceilings and a vast fireplace occupied only by a gently snoring
calico cat. We sat at battered chairs opposite a stained table that
looked like it had already seen generations of pints before either of
us had been born. The two women behind the bar, whose frequently
entwining fingers suggested they were more than just co-owners, greeted
Lora by name and me with an easy acceptance. I had a cracking fish pie,
Lora had some mountain of a burger with curly fries and a pint.
My cool lager hit my overloaded system like a dose of there there
there. Unable to finish my dinner, I slumped in the chair like a doll
with the stuffing kicked out of it and tried not to stare at Lora with
my heavy eyes.
"I haven't walked so far in ages."
"Why I wear combat boots," she said. "How are you feeling, apart from
fucked?"
"Sleepy. Listen, no offence - I have really enjoyed your company, but I
can manage, I'm fine. I'm sure it's gone away."
"And leave a job half done? With the humzinger of a curse you've been
enjoying? No way. Let's try another test."
So I headed downstairs to the gin shop on the ground floor, empty at
that time of the evening except for the bored looking lad behind the
counter. I tried him with some conversation about the best kind of gin
for a tall, fast-walking, pink-haired girl.
"Lora? She likes this one." A rose-tinted version, obviously. Anyway, I
bought it.
"You know she's a special kind of girl?" said the lad - his question
almost enough to distract me from the happy realisation that I hadn't
changed sex. (I'm sure his ultimate fantasy girl would have been a
sturdy, viking-breasted lass who knew the Game of Thrones and Star Wars
universes inside out.)
"We're just friends."
"Cool. Only, if you hurt her there are a thousand people in this city
who would hunt you down like a dog and consign your soul to a bottle of
wasps for eternity." He kept such a dead-pan face I almost chuckled.
Promising to bear that in mind, I took her the gift and wondered why
anybody would assume I'd hurt her.
Realisation hit me halfway up the stairs - in case I found out about
her being some kind of ex-Dennis half way through a long kiss with her.
Like that was going to happen!
Though she did love the gin.
Nothing had changed at home. The landline's message light warned me of
a voicemail which turned out to be from Sue, the HR specialist at work.
She wished me well and advised me not to come back until Monday - good
of them; however Mrs Singh had arranged it. The snail mail scattered
behind the front door didn't suggest anything more from Melissa -
thankfully. Would she know her curse had been broken? I'd have to ask
Lora, her contact details sat in my phone in case of further
developments and to arrange our next cursed patrol. I would need to get
better boots before then; I had to soak my feet for forty minutes in a
very hot bath before they talked to me again.
Then to bed. The world had become a bit scarier, but a bit more
interesting at the same time - spending time with Mrs Singh, Lora and
the rest of the team could only add something to my ordinary life.
Thursday morning woke me with a fine blade of sunshine slicing my room
through a narrow gap in the curtains. There were worse things to be
woken by. Outside, Plymouth mumbled with its usual Sunday symphony of
car and seagull while I lay contentedly with one hand wrapped
comfortingly around my cock and balls.
Life felt good; still male, still with a decent job, but now with a
new, very interesting, pretty, lively and sexy friend.
Sexy? Where did that come from? Could Lora class as sexy being some
kind of ex-Dennis? Her legs were, especially in fishnets - she'd look
incredible in heels - and her chest looked interesting. Were her boobs
real? They had bounced like real ones. What would they feel like to
touch, caress... kiss?
I found my hand moving, all by itself, up and down the slowly
lengthening shape of my cock.
Her mouth was certainly sexy - curved and full and soft. I imagined
she'd be a good kisser. In fact I imagined her kissing me - all over -
and my hand started to move a little quicker. My nipples grew a little
hard and I moved my other hand to maybe tease them a little. Until my
fingertips found something round and firm and soft right under my left
nipple. A breast!
That warm arousal chilled instantly. I practically threw myself from
the bed to stand naked looking down on myself and the single, pert,
caramel coloured breast I wore on the left side of my chest.
I moaned denial over and over. A belly clenching heave had me sprinting
for the toilet in time to spew horribly; chills ran over my skin and my
body hair lifted. Wiping at my lips with the back of one hand I
stumbled away from the loo, intent on my phone and calling Lora. My
right leg went out from under me so I fell heavily into the door frame.
Sight of the leg, partially folded under me, brought another groan. It
had shrunk, looking withered and deformed against the other one, but I
recognised the problem. Almost six inches too short, I had a girl's leg
like the ones that had carried me from Plymouth Ho to Mrs Singh's
bookshop yesterday.
"James?" Lora answered on the fifth ring. "Something wrong?"
"I need to see Mrs Singh again!" I coughed at the end, my voice went
tight and squeaky.
"What's happening?"
Words didn't come easy as electric panic battered me. As if the
transformations I'd experienced weren't bad enough, at least they had
followed a pattern. In this new escalation, as that small, caramel
breast bulged and turned a fake tan shade of orange, as the nails on my
left hand turned into scarlet talons, all I could do was beg Lora to be
quick.
She might have been ten minutes or two hours. It seemed like an age.
I'd grown two breasts by then, though they were horribly mismatched,
one leg was still longer than the other and on top of everything else
my cock was rigid. Focussing on what was real felt difficult; I tried
to kiss her when she lent her shoulder to my lopsided, stumbling
progress to her car. I tried to push my persistent erection against
her, like some enthusiastic terrier trying to dry hump her. Once she
got me in her car I tried forcing her hand from the gearstick to give
me a hand-job.
I think I must have fainted after that.
Or she knocked me out.
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