Changeday: The Rejectionists free porn video

In the years since the very first Changeday most of us have got used to being male half the time, female the other half, switching from one to the other every four weeks. Most of us, but not all.... CHANGEDAY: THE REJECTIONISTS by BobH (c) 2020 (Continuity note: It's not particularly important to the story, but this takes place not long after 'Changeday: Five Years'.) - 1 - "Thanks, mom," said Grant as my wife Mary piled our only child's plate with pancakes. He poured maple syrup over them then set to with a vengeance. Not that I blamed him. This would be his last chance to indulge himself like this for almost a month. From tomorrow it would be a slice of grapefruit and a crispbread for him. "You planning on getting in any training this morning?" I asked Grant. My strapping, 16 year-old son stared at me in disbelief. "On *Changeday*, Dad?" he said. "You've been pretty focussed on staying in shape over the summer break so you'll keep your place on your school's alpha phase football team next semester," I observed, mildly. "Pumping iron, going on seven mile runs; so I'm a little surprised you'd want to miss a whole morning." "Grant's going make-up shopping with Jamelia," said Mary. "They have that big party tonight, remember dear?" "I don't have a lipstick that goes with my new dress," Grant explained. I rubbed my stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Fair enough, then," I conceded, having faced a similar dilemma myself not too long ago. Her menfolk seen to, Mary joined us at the table for the last family breakfast we'd share for a while. It was just after 7.00am on a sunny Monday morning here in New York City. In seven hours the current phase would end and everyone in the world would change, all seven billion of us. As I ate I perused my copy of 'The New York Times'. I was particularly interested in news about the bill to legalise dual marriage, which was currently passing through Congress. It had sailed through the House but it could still be torpedoed by religious conservatives in the Senate. For some it was just an overdue acknowledgement of reality, while for others it represented a surrender to 'immorality'. I was in favour of it, as was Mary, though the thorny accompanying issues around property rights were a problem. After downing my own pancakes and a second cappuccino I rose from the table, patted my stomach, and wiped the inevitable froth from my moustache. "I'm now ready to face the day," I said, smiling as I leaned down to kiss Mary on the cheek. "Bye, hon. I'll see you in four weeks. Enjoy yourself." "You too, baby. Don't forget your big anniversary tomorrow." "No chance of that!" I chuckled. "Bye, Dad," said Grant. "See you tonight." Hefting the bag of clean clothes I was taking with me I left the house and walked to our local subway station. I journeyed into Manhattan strap-hanging as usual, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the oversize shirt and baggy trousers I always wore on alpha-to-beta Changedays. When the train reached my stop I got off and strolled the short distance to One Police Plaza, where I worked. I showed my pass at the door, then took the elevator up to my floor. When I arrived there I was not surprised to find most of the desks empty. The captain's secretary was bent over the photocopier, giving me a very nice view of that shapely ass of hers. Tall, attractive, and very feminine, Emily Stewart was dressed in a blouse, short skirt, and heels. On hearing the elevator doors open, she glanced over and gave a big grin. Apart from her, only one other person was present. "Mornin', Sean," said Kamal when I took my seat at the desk facing his. Detective Kamal Hussein was my partner. In his late twenties he was ten years younger than me, but we made a good team. He and I were part of a squad tasked with looking out for visiting foreign dignitaries worried about potential threats to their safety. Note that I said 'potential'. Where there were actual, credible threats seriously armed protection teams would be called in rather than leaving matters in the hands of a couple of detectives. Which was fine with us. Our job was more about hand-holding and providing reassurance than anything else. Hence today's little assignment. Crown Prince Anwar of Kuraq would be flying in to JFK in a few hours for tomorrow's big meeting at the UN. That's where all the rest of our squad were - babysitting delegations from other countries who had arrived early. Kamal and I were to meet Prince Anwar and his entourage and accompany them to their hotel, where there would probably be Kuraqi dissidents waving banners and protesting his visit. This was when we'd most need to be on the alert. I was sure the majority of protesters would be peaceful, but all it took was one hothead with a gun.... "Ryan, Hussein, in my office now!" announced a commanding female voice. This was Lola Rodriguez, our captain. As we made our way across the room another woman emerged from the office, prosecutor Melanie Leman. Dressed in a smart skirt suit and looking every inch the professional, Melanie was good-looking but no- nonsense. As she passed us I noticed that as well as her briefcase she was carrying a bag from Victoria's Secret. I raised an eyebrow at this, which she saw. Grinning, she winked at me. I wondered if her being here had anything to do with what the captain wanted to see me and Kamal about, but this proved not to be the case. "Trouble, Captain?" I asked, nodding after the departing lawyer. "Nah," she replied. "Leman was just going over a few points with me concerning a collaring case I was involved with at my old precinct last year." I shuddered at this. Collaring was a horrible way to die. "Princess Nadia," said Lola, "sister of Crown Prince Anwar. Living in exile here in the Big Apple. She believes that among his entourage will be someone sent here to kill her. I need you to talk with her before his flight gets in, see if there's anything more to this than paranoia on her part." "Justifiable paranoia," said Kamal. "The Kuraqis aren't big on their women showing any independence. That goes double for the royal family." "Yeah, well, if nothing else try to reassure her. You have a couple of hours before you have to meet Prince Anwar at JFK, so go check in with the princess first." - 2 - Overlooking Central Park and a couple of blocks along from The Dakota lies The Carrington. An apartment building built a century after its illustrious near-neighbour, The Carrington is home to the hyper-wealthy and the last word in secure and luxurious living. Once past the doorman you arrive at the security desk in its modernist lobby and are confronted by the unsmiling bodyguards stationed behind this - one male, one female, both formidable-looking. I suspected they'd look equally formidable when we all switch genders later today. As it happened I knew the guy, and a smile broke across those stern features when he recognised me. "Sean Ryan as I live and breathe!" he said, standing and reaching across the desk to shake my hand. "Kevin Bridger!" I acknowledged. "Looks like you found a cushy number after leaving the force." "Eh, the pay's better and I'm less likely to get shot at, which the missus really loves. Can't blame her for that. So what can we do for you?" "This is my partner, Kamal Hussein. One of your residents, Princess Nadia, is worried someone might be out to get her, so we were sent to look into that." Bridger nodded to his companion, who phoned up to the apartment and talked to the princess for a few seconds. "Her Highness is upstairs at the moment but will join you shortly," the woman said, replacing the receiver. "Press the doorbell when you arrive and she'll buzz you in." So we did just that. When Kamal and I stepped out of the elevator we pressed the doorbell, there was a buzz followed by the sound of the door lock unlatching, after which we let ourselves in. The apartment was every bit as spacious and luxuriously furnished as we had expected it would be. In the absence of the princess we milled around a bit, examining stuff but not touching anything. "Hmm, she's very well-read," said Kamal, inspecting first the bookshelves and then the books next to the laptop on the coffee table that she was obviously in the process of reading. "Lots of philosophy and political theory." "I'm glad you approve," said a female voice. We looked up to see Princess Nadia descending the stairs from the upper level. Dark-haired and beautiful, she was wearing a cream coloured silk trouser suit and pearls, immaculate make-up, and an amused smile. An elegant and clearly sophisticated woman, she took her place on the leather sofa on one side of the coffee table and gestured for us to take the other, which we did so. "I'm Detective Sean Ryan," I said as she lit a cigarette, "and this is my partner Detective Kamal Hussein." She sized us up while exhaling, giving me a brief once-over but lingering on Kamal. "I'd offer you gentleman drinks, but it's a bit early in the day," she said, "even for me. Now, how can I help New York's finest?" "You believe your life may be in danger from someone in the crown prince's entourage," said Kamal. "Can you tell us why you think this might be?" "Because I'm who I am, and they're who they are." "So you've received no specific threat?" I said. "Not at this time no, but then I don't have to. The threat is constant, and they will sieze any opportunity that presents itself." She took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaling slowly. "My younger brother Karim and I secretly supported the pro-democracy movement in our country," she said. "When that movement was smashed and its leaders executed, our involvement came out. I escaped, Karim didn't. I've been here ever since, maintaining a low profile and quietly supporting the protests by Kuraqi- Americans. But not quietly enough that my family haven't noticed. For someone to defy their will like that, particularly a woman, is something they will find intolerable. Sooner or later a Kuraqi agent *will* be sent to kill me." Kamal said something sympathetic-sounding to her then in what I assumed was Arabic. I was wrong. "You speak Kuraqi!" said Princess Nadia, her eyes widening in delighted surprise. "My parents are Kuraqi," said Kamal. "They got out shortly before I was born." "And your mother?" "She's now a local councilwoman and political activist." "Good for her!" As touching as this moment of bonding was, we needed to get down to business. "The Kuraqi delegation are flying in for tomorrow's debate at the U.N. and will be here three days in all," I said. "If you believe there's a threat to your life the safest thing for you to do would be to stay holed up here in your apartment until they leave." "That's what I intend to do," she said, "just me and Indira." "Who's Indira?" Nadia opened her laptop, tapped a few keys, then turned it around so we could see the screen. This showed a photo of a clean-shaven, nondescript guy of middle-eastern appearance next to one of a drop-dead gorgeous woman with the same colouring. "Indira Mubarek is a member of the pro-democracy movement-in-exile. What began as email exchanges about strategy gradually developed into something more. I'm not interested in her male self but she and my male self have grown very attracted to each other. She'll be taking an early train down from Boston tomorrow. I have high hopes for something meaningful developing between us when we finally meet in the flesh for the first time." "What's her male name?" asked Kamal. "Ian." "Ian? Really?" "Yes, really." "Well, I guess that's it," I said, me rising to my feet being the signal for everyone to do so. "Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, your highness. Now that you've alerted us to your suspicions we'll be sure to look at the Kuraqi delegation more carefully." "That's all I can hope for," she said. She turned to Kamal. "Do you have a card?" she asked him. "For in case I need to contact you?" "Of course," he said. When he handed it to her their fingers touched, and she was a fraction slower taking it than she needed to be. Hoo boy! Princess Nadia might not be attracted to Indira's male form, but she clearly liked Kamal's. When we left the apartment I called in to NCIC, tapping in my search query while we waited for the elevator. "Ian Mubarek?" said Kamal. I nodded. It was obvious, we both found that name suspicious. Yet when his mugshot appeared it was clearly the same guy whose photo the princess had shown us. "Ian Mubarek, 29, place of residence Boston," I read aloud from the accompanying data, "was arrested twice last year for obstruction while protesting outside the Kuraqi consulate there. Looks like he checks out." Stepping out of the elevator and into the lobby, we crossed to the exit and headed straight for our car. It was time to greet the Kuraqi delegation so we needed to get to JFK. - 3 - We were waiting at the gate when Crown Prince Anwar and his entourage were ushered through customs. They were easy to recognise - all Kuraqi men have full, bushy beards. According to Kamal this was considered an essential display of their masculinity in that very gender-conscious culture. He himself went clean-shaven. There were half a dozen of them in total, all attired in white business suits with striped ties bearing the colours of their national flag. Crown Price Anwar was of average height and not particularly prepossessing. Only the way he carried himself suggested that here was a man used to wielding power. His wife Princess Raina was with him, a small woman covered head to toe in a black burkha, her eyes barely visible behind the mesh covering her eye slit. Of the rest of the entourage, there was one who stood out. Both tall and wide, this man was very alert, his eyes scanning the terminal for potential threats. Clearly this was the prince's bodyguard. "Welcome to America, your highness," I said, inclining my head slightly rather than giving a full bow. "I'm Detective Sean Ryan and this is my partner Detective Kamal Hussein. We've been assigned to accompany you to and from events for the duration of your stay in our country." Kamal greeted him in Kuraqi, and his eyebrows shot up. "Not many from the arab world speak our tongue," he said. "My family is Kuraqi," said Kamal. "I see. This is my head of security, Colonel Farouq," he said, indicating the big guy. "You will liaise with him on all such matters where necessary. I believe limousines have been arranged to take us to our hotel?" "That's correct," I said, smoothly. "If you'll come this way, please...." "Will there be any protestors?" asked Prince Anwar. "Not here at the airport, no," I said, as we proceeded through the private tunnels leading to the secure parking garage. "You shouldn't encounter any until we reach the hotel. When we do expect to see pro- democracy banners, and others demanding the release of Prince Karim." "*Princess* Karima is not imprisoned," replied the prince, testily. "She's living in seclusion amid great luxury in the women's section of the royal palace. She's receiving instruction in female pastimes deemed fitting for one of her status and being kept safely away matters that as a woman are no longer any concern of hers." It didn't seem politic to respond to this, so I didn't. When we reached the garage, Prince Anwar and his entourage climbed into the two limos waiting for them and sped off, with Kamal and I following in our pool car. When we got to the hotel I was relieved to see there were no protestors outside. Looked like they were saving all their energy for the protest outside the UN building planned for tomorrow. We saw our visitors up to their room, which was where we parted. "It's little more than an hour until the change is upon us once more," said the Prince, "so I'm sure you gentleman will want to be somewhere appropriate when it occurs." "Thank you, yes," said Kamal. "We'll return this evening to escort you to the reception." I waited until we were on the road and returning to One Police Plaza before voicing what I'm sure was on both our minds. "It'll be weird seeing them in female form pretending they're still men," I said. "Yeah," chuckled Kamal. "Even with breast-binding, suits with lpts of shoulder padding, and false beards there's a limit to how convincing that's gonna be." "What was with all that *Princess* Karima stuff?" I asked. "You don't know? Wow, man!" "No, I don't," I said, "so spill." "Prince Karim and his wife had sex in the beta phase when she was a man and he a woman. That's illegal in Kuraq, though I'm sure it happens a lot - people are people, after all. Unfortunately, he got pregnant. Not only is that an even bigger no-no, but you stay female while you are, only being affected by Changedays again after you've given birth. By which time, given a normal gestation period, you've gone out of sync with it and are now female in the alpha phase. And since that's the phase that corresponds with your true gender....." "Ah," I said, comprehension dawning. "As you know, there are several countries across Asia and the Middle East where they interpret Changeday as a test of faith, that regardless of how their bodies change they somehow still retain their original gender, the one in the alpha phase, and that they only remain true to God by resisting the temptations the change subjects them to. Religious people all across the world believe that Changeday is God speaking in a very loud voice, of course, but there's a lot of disagreement as to what He's saying." "True," I said, sliding my fingers inside my shirt and touching my crucifix thoughtfully, feeling the tiny figure of Jesus beneath my fingertips. "We believe Changeday is the Lord telling us to walk a mile in each others shoes with the intention of making us act with greater kindness and understanding." "As an atheist, I think both interpretations are wrong," said Kamal. We'd never discussed religion before, so this came as a surprise. "Then what do you believe Changeday is?" For no particular reason he and I had never actually talked about this so I was genuinely curious as to his answer. "Honestly? I think we're all just guinea pigs in some sort of giant experiment." "By whom?" "Beats me. Maybe aliens, or some fantastically advanced future-humans, or...whatever. But if I'm right there's something you need to remember about experiments." "What's that?" "They all eventually come to an end." - 4 - Given the hour at which we experience changeover in the US, schools and businesses across the country have arranged it so that lunch break on Changeday occurs at that point. Ten minutes before changeover, if I wasn't out on the job somewhere, I'd go out onto the roof of One Police Plaza and gaze out over the city. Changeday is a busy time when you're a cop. It didn't take criminals long to figure out that if you committed a crime shortly before changeover then got away and out of sight, it would soon render any physical description of you meaningless. A lot of them continue to take advantage of this. So while many people prefer to undergo the change in private that wasn't always an option for uniformed police officers, all of whom were required to show up for duty on Changeday. Then there are collar murders. Collaring is a simple, evil concept based on the fact that most women's necks are smaller than most men's. Put a tight collar on a woman on or before Changeday with no way for her to remove it, and it will slowly strangle her as she shifts into her male form. There was a serial killer who used collaring as his method of choice. He would leave his victims bound and gagged at various points around the city then taunt the cops by leaving us cryptic puzzles, knowing that we knew exactly when they'd die if we didn't solve these - which in most cases we didn't. The Kuraqis use collaring as a method of execution. Some auto-asphyxiation enthusiasts get a kick out of collaring at changeover too, but if their quick-releases jam this can go horribly wrong. The roof was a private place for me to go through the change, and as a distant church bell struck the hour it begin. Every human being on the planet was about to physically transform, a fact that had never ceased to inspire awe in me. As always it was the tingling I felt first, a slight prickling of the nerve endings. Then the changes started, the beginning of the transformation that many regard as a holy miracle. And maybe they're right. What happens to your body, all that shifting around of you flesh and bone and what for some was a large change in their mass, should *hurt*. Yet, for whatever reason, it doesn't. At worse it might be described as 'uncomfortable', but no more than that. I rubbed my now stubble-free chin and idly ran a finger over my upper lip. At first I could feel the moustache rapidly receding beneath my fingertip, but by the time my finger reached the other end of the lip the skin beneath it was completely smooth. As a man my hair was thinning, but I was now experiencing the satisfying feeling of it growing thicker on my scalp. Within a few minutes the changes had slowed then quieted, and it was over. My breasts were now pushing out the front of my shirt, while my butt had grown to fill my trousers and my waist had shrunk. Tying back the currently blonde hair cascading over my shoulders, I rolled up my now too-long trouser legs, hitched up the waistband, and headed for the stairs. When I got to my floor most had already changed into their opposite gender clothes, many detectives having returned for changeover. One who hadn't and never did was Emily Stewart. Despite having just gone through the change today like everyone else on the planet, she looked pretty much the same as she had before. Emily was a rejectionist - also referred to as denialists or refuseniks - someone who rejected the transformations of Changeday and who insisted on continuing in her birth-gender, and not for reasons of religious dogma like the Kuraqis. Yes, there was now a penis beneath her skirt that hadn't been there twenty minutes ago and which would remain with her for the next four weeks, but in the beta-phase Emily had had electrolysis to remove all trace of facial hair, dressed in her regular female clothing, and took estrogen to give her those female curves. For some reason this didn't work for testosterone, any effect taking it might have over four weeks not carrying across from one beta phase to the next, which made things harder for male rejectionists. I thought about this while changing into the clothes I kept ready in my locker, wondering yet again why this should be. We respected Emily's decision to deal with the matter this way, and not just because of the trouble HR would rain down on our heads if we didn't. She was one of the small minority who looked almost identical in their male and female forms so she could pull this off with ease. That wasn't true of everyone who also chose rejectionism, which they did for reasons ranging from the personal to the religious. Emily's boyfriend in the beta phase - John Miller, an officer stationed in midtown - had no problem with his girlfriend being a she-male, a term once considered derogatory that had become less so in recent years. (With the dizzying speed that terms went from being acceptable to unacceptable to being 'reclaimed' these days, I didn't expect this to last.) Once upon a time Miller might have been mocked and even faced hostility from his fellow officers over his choice of lover, but Changeday had speeded up the evolution of attitudes on many sexual matters and largely eliminated sexism, at least in western society. As a woman I was generously endowed in the tit department so it was always a relief to don a bra and get some support for my girls. Basic white panties and blouse, pantihose, a grey trouser suit and pumps with a chunky one inch heel and I was good to go. Well almost. There was still the small matter of make-up. I didn't apply the full, glamorous face I'd put on for a social or evening event, just kept it simple with lipstick and mascara. When I hooked a pair of earrings through the piercings that reappear every time I'm female, I was almost done. Placing my wedding band on the locker shelf, I hung up the fresh male clothing I'd brought in ready for next Changeday, stuffed the male attire I'd been wearing into my sports bag, then left the locker room. My partner was sitting at her desk typing up a report, something not made easier by the long nails she favoured as a woman. She looked up and smiled. "Sian," she said, "it's good to see you again." "You, too, Kamala!" I replied, this being a little ritual greeting we went through after every changeover. "You heading home now?" "Damn right I am," she said, tossing that long, thick dark hair of hers and setting her hoop earrings dancing. "We're not needed until this evening so mama's got a date with her favourite vibrator. I suppose you'll be heading home to get it on with that handsome boy friend of yours." "Of course I am. You should get yourself one. Vibrators are wonderful things, but they're not very good at snuggling up to you afterwards." - 5 - When I got back home to Park Slope I found my daughter Grace sitting on the sofa watching TV. She looked up as I entered. "Oh, hi Mom!" she said. "Mel rang to say he's running a little late. He reckons he'll get here in about twenty minutes." I smiled down at Grace affectionately. Whenever she switched from Grant to Grace she never wasted any time putting on make-up and a pretty dress. Unlike her boyfriend/girlfriend, Jamal/Jamelia, who was on their high school's boys beta football and girls alpha soccer teams, it was only Grant who was on a team. Where he was a beast, Grace was very petite. It took her a while to accept she was too small to make any of the girls teams in the beta phase, but when she did she got into femininity in a big way and became very girly. And I had to admit that I had too, at least when I was with Mel. It was strange how so many of us seemed to slowly develop different personalities to go along with our gender changes. Or perhaps it wasn't. Multiple Personality Disorder was a long-documented condition usually caused by psychological trauma. That it exists at all suggests we all carry a variety of personality elements within us, elements that are kept more or less in balance most of the time but become unmoored in MPD sufferers. When Changeday came along we all acquired an alternate body, one in which most of us develop a different balance between those elements. Not so much Multiple Personality Disorder as Secondary Personality Reorder perhaps. And it might even be the healthiest psychological adaptation we could make to the physical change we go through. That, at least, is the current thinking among leading psychologists who've examined the phenomenon. "Twenty minutes. Then it looks like I can spend a few minutes with my darling daughter," I said, dropping down on the sofa beside Grace and giving her a hug. "What're we watching?" "It's a French movie," she said, "a real tear-jerker." It was a romance set in the 1970s with both the male and female lead roles being played by the same actor, something that guaranteed equally skilled performances. Filmmakers have been able to seamlessly combine multiple roles in a movie by the same actor for decades - think Hayley Mills playing identical twin girl's in 1961's 'The Parent Trap', for example - and Changeday had made this an increasingly common practice. Except in America. Hollywood considered the female selves of their middle-aged action stars far too old to play their love interests, though did get cast as his own mother. Which, since they always have love interests young enough to be their daughters, would make sense to those with that mindset. Hollywood, eh? Then again, there was that famous thirty-something actress who had begun to be relegated to mom roles who in the beta phase had since become a sought after male action star, so there was that. After ten minutes, I leaned over, kissed Grace on the cheek, and got to my feet. "I'd better get ready for Mel," I said, heading upstairs. Unlike Grace and Jamal, not everyone was compatible with their partner when they switched genders. This was true of me and Mary. When I was male we were a happily married man and wife, but when I was Sian and she was Mark, I shared this house with Mel while Mark went off to live with his girlfriend. This was a very common arrangement, so much so that many people want the right to marry both their alpha and beta partners, to be a husband and a wife to different people, the so-called 'dual marriage' that was currently in the news. Bigamy - being married to more than one person in a given phase - would remain illegal. I took a quick shower, towelled off, then carefully donned the lingerie I'd laid out on the bed beforehand. Just as I was finishing this, closing the last of the clips that attached the stockings to my garter belt, a voice from the doorway behind me said: "Looks like my timing is perfect." I turned to face Mel, who was grinning at me, one hand on my hip, and batted my eyelashes at him. "Perfect," I agreed, "so why are you standing over there and not over here?" He didn't need to be asked twice. In two strides he was across the room and I was in his powerful arms. We both tore his clothes off as we kissed, him sweeping me off my feet and carrying over to the bed. The sex that followed was as mind-blowing as it always is on Changeday. For several hours after changeover everyone is as horny as hell. At first we wondered why this should be; now we didn't care. No, all most people who were in a position to do so cared about when it happened was getting laid. Afterwards, as we lay in each other's arms, I asked Mel about his day while lazily running my fingers through his chest hair. "I've just been making opening arguments defending the US government in a case being brought against them for gender discrimination by someone who identifies as genderfluid," he said. "Really? On what basis?" "On the basis that - and I'm quoting from memory here - 'by intentionally preserving and reinforcing the tyranny of the gender binary the government knowingly invalidated perspectives that contextualized long-lived experience within then emergent gender paradigms,' end quote." "My God," I said, "do people actually speak like that?" "This one does." "But what are they saying? That's all just gobbledegook to me." "Their assertion is that had the government not intervened and, by example, encouraged us to maintain tradition gender presentation we would have settled into a neutral 'unisex' position. In not letting things fall out naturally that way the government actively and maybe even knowingly discriminated against the non-binary." "Hmmm," I said, thoughtfully. "Do they have a case?" "Possibly. I mean, think about it. Female gender presentation in particular is learned behaviour. There's nothing inherently female about wearing dresses, make-up, and high heels. Those things are only considered feminine because society - 'heteronormative, cisgender society' as they would describe it - has decided they are. Growing up as a girl I was expected to embrace performative femininity and gradually absorbed its requirements through osmosis. You never had that, yet here you are, performing femininity beautifully, just as most other males do when they turn female. Why?" "Because it's always just seemed like the natural thing to do and because I adore it," I said, frowning. "I mean, I love lingerie and you love seeing me in it." "Well yes, that's true," he admitted. "So it's your fault, too," I said. "You finding us such a turn on like this only reinforces it. As guys you and all the others are such, well, *guys*." "I suppose," he conceded. "Speaking of which...." Mel reached over to the bedside table where he'd placed the Victoria's Secret bag I'd seen him carrying earlier in the day. "A present for you." I looked inside and started laughing. "Lingerie," I giggled, "red lingerie." "Well, like you said, I do love seeing you in it." I reached under the sheet and began caressing his penis, which started to stiffen in response to my ministrations. "Oh goody," I said. "It looks like you're almost ready to go again...." - 6 - When I met up with Kamala that evening in the underground car park at One Police Plaza I let out a low whistle. "Got a hot date tonight?" I snarked. She had on full make-up and was dressed in fishnets, four inch heels, a black leather miniskirt, and a red silk blouse unbuttoned enough to reveal a push-up bra and a lot of cleavage. "I wish," she said, as we climbed into her car, "but no. I just want to make Prince Anwar and those other motherfuckers feel uncomfortable." Ah, so this was about *that*. "From the way you used to talk about this stuff before the first Changeday happened I thought you were all in favour of respecting everyone's claims in regard to their gender and their choice of pronouns?" "I was," she said, looking both ways before pulling out onto the road, "and I am. But among Kuraqis and too many others it's not a choice, is it? No, they're told they remain their birth gender regardless, that their beta phase is a lie whose base temptations it is their religious duty to resist. You know as well as I do that for most of us our sexual orientation switches along with our gender, which means that people are deliberately being made miserable for no good reason. I can only imagine the long-term mental problems this is storing up. And you can bet the royal family are all 'do as I say, not as I do', too." "What do you mean?" "For all their public piety, young princes visiting the west before the first Changeday would keep the local high-end call girls fully employed. I see no reason to believe that's changed. Either they now get serviced in secret by strapping young male prostitutes, which would at least be bowing to reality. Or, more pathetically, they're still keeping local high-end call girls fully employed only now they're using stap-ons to bolster their delusion that they're still male and having the girls tell them what studs they are, all the while desperately fighting the desires they're really feeling. Prince Anwar brought his wife along so he might actually be as pious as he seems, but most of them are a bunch of hypocrites." There was real vehemence in Kamala's voice as she spoke which, given what I knew of her family's history, I could understand. I decided to change the subject. "How come you're an atheist?" I asked. "I imagine your family is religious." "They are, but none of that stuff ever made any sense to me. I tried to believe for their sakes, but I just couldn't." "So you've never wondered how everything came to be?" "Of course I have. But I'll take questions I can't answer over answers I can't question every time." At their hotel we travelled up to the Kuraqi delegation's floor and were greeted at the door by Prince Anwar himself. I only really knew it was him by his eyes and his air of authority. As a woman he was several inches shorter, more slightly built, and had softer features from what I could see of them behind the bushy false beard that was an excellent copy of the natural one he had in his male form. He glanced at me, noting my conservative trouser suit with approval, then frowned at Kamala. To his credit he didn't rise to the bait. "Come in and be welcome," he said, making his now higher-pitched voice as gruff as he could. The rest of his entourage were ready and waiting, carefully padded and tailored suits and shirts over tightly bound breasts disguising their now female bodies. All wore bushy fake beards possibly even more luxuriant than their real ones, and someone even appeared to have false eyebrows! This was Colonel Farouq, who was no longer tall and wide but slender and much shorter even though he, like the others, probably had 'lifts' in his shoes to give a little more height. He looked like he might be quite pretty under that beard, something I imagine was infuriating to someone so obviously macho. I glanced over at Kamala who had clearly reached the same conclusion and was trying to suppress a smirk. Where the others had frowned at Kamala's provocative attire Farouq had looked startled, a reaction that puzzled me and I wondered what it could mean. Concealed beneath an extra-large black burkha and towering over everyone else was Princess Raina. In her male form she was tall and broad-shouldered, but she still deferred to the requirements of her culture. I wondered what she honestly thought about all this, but knew I'd never get the chance to ask her. "Well, ah, gentlemen," I said, hastily, "and, um, lady, I think it's time we were going." As had happened earlier the prince and his entourage travelled together in the two limos while we followed behind in Kamala's pool car. "I bet the Kuraqis aren't happy about this UN meeting being scheduled during the beta phase," I said as we drove. "On the contrary," said Kamala. "They were the ones who pushed for it to be held now." "What? But why?" "To demonstrate the strength of their faith by showing the firmness of their resolve in resisting the 'temptations' of the beta phase. They want to shame any of their co-religionists in other delegations who may have begun to give in to them. It's all about piety one-upmanship, basically." "Wow...just, wow!" "They're looking for any advantage they can in these negotiations, any slight edge, so weirdly it's a ploy that actually kinda makes sense." As soon as we'd delivered the Kuraqi delegation to the venue for the reception Kamala and I were off the clock. Another team would see them safely back to their hotel at the end of the evening, with us taking over again tomorrow morning. I was home again in time to encounter Grace before she went to her party. She had obviously spent hours getting ready and was looking both pretty and elegant. A lot of teenage girls overdo their make-up when they go on dates in an attempt to look older or more sophisticated, but Grace had judged hers to perfection. "You look gorgeous," I said, giving her a hug. "Jamal is a lucky boy." "Too right," she said, grinning. "And I hope you have condoms in that darling little purse of yours." "Mooooom!" "Don't you 'mom' me, young lady. I remember what it's like being a teenager, with those raging hormones, and I've asked you about condoms when you've gone on a date with Jamelia as Grant, remember. I don't want either of you getting the other one pregnant." At that exact moment the doorbell rang. "Saved by the bell!" said Grace, brushing past me to open the door. It was Jamal. Grace tried to hustle him out, but Jamal is a polite young man so of course he greeted me. "Good evening, Ms Ryan," he said. "Good evening, Jamal," I replied. "If you intend having sex with my daughter tonight you will be using a condom, won't you?" "Oh my god!!" said Grace. "Um yes, I, ah, that is to say, I...." "That's all I wanted to know," I said, smiling sweetly. "Now you two run along and enjoy the party." Now Grace *did* hustle him away, closing the door after her a touch more loudly that she needed to. From behind me came a familiar chuckle. "That was mean," said Mel. "You know how easy it is to embarrass teenagers." "I do," I said, turning to face him. "That's what makes it so much fun and why parents have been doing it since time immemorial. But I was serious, too. I'm pretty sure they're having sex - I was at their age - but they're way too young to deal with babies. And I doubt if either of them would be happy about the other being stuck in one gender for nine months." "Probably not," he said. "Their generation hasn't just accepted Changeday gender-switching; they've positively embraced it. They love it and they hope it lasts forever." He took me in his arms then and we kissed. Soon his hands slid up under my blouse and he began fondling my tits. "God, I love your breasts!" he said. "As a woman mine are small, and I've always been thankful for how great that is for the line of my jackets, but now that I'm a red-blooded male I just want to bury my face in yours." I placed a finger over his lips, silencing him. "Less talk and more carrying me off to bed to have your way with me," I said. So he did, and made me a very happy girl indeed. - 7 - The next morning at the Kuraqi delegation's hotel was pretty much a repeat performance of the day before. Prince Anwar greeted us at the door. He and his entourage were once again waiting for us, all of them (save for his wife) false-bearded and with breasts securely strapped down beneath their padded business suits, which were dark grey today. One person was missing. "No Colonel Farouq?" I enquired. "The colonel is running an errand for me and will be joining us later," replied the prince. I looked at Kamala - who, save for her tube top, was dressed pretty much as she had been yesterday. She just shrugged, so we led them out to their limos. The drive to the U.N. building was uneventful, but once we got there we encountered a sizeable contingent of pro-democracy protestors waving banners and shouting. We watched uniformed officers hold back protestors so the limos could get through then dropped back, Kamala parking our car across from the UN so we could keep an eye on the protestors. Reaching into the back seat she produced a camera with a large telephoto lens, trained it on the protestors, and started taking photographs. We faced a long wait until the UN session got under way then ran its course, and we'd been tasked with logging all the protestors for our intelligence unit to identify later. "The feds once tried to talk me into going undercover and infiltrating the Kuraqi pro-democracy movement here in the US," said Kamala, as she clicked away. "I was single and I'm fluent in both Arabic and Kuraqi so it made sense. The Kuraqis really, really want us to crack down on the movement over here and we want their oil, so I wasn't too surprised when I was approached. It would've been the usual job where you join a peaceful group, agitate for them to engage in acts of civil disobedience, then smash up property when they demonstrate to make them seem violent and so discredit them." I nodded. Sending in agents provocateur to discredit and disrupt leftist organisations had been standard procedure for decades. In the 1960s we used it so often that the anti-war groups being targeted got wise to the tactic and were always on the lookout for the 'narcs' they assumed had infiltrated them, often identifying our agents. Fortunately, that hard- won lesson had since been lost and their successors were a lot more vulnerable to infiltration. "Since you're sitting next to me I'm guessing you refused," I said. "Yeah, I did. That's not the sort of shit we should be pulling. For a nation as rightly proud of our democracy as we are, we're far too ready to work against those who want democracy in their own countries." I liked Kamala, but not her naivete. As well as selling us all the oil we wanted the Kuraqis spent billions on weapons from the American armaments industry. It wasn't in our best interest to risk any of that by allowing the Kuraqi people a say in what their government did. Kamala could be a real bleeding-heart sometimes. Which is when it hit me. I pulled out my phone and called in to NCIC, quickly tapping in my search query "Oh, crap!" I said. "What?" said Kamala, lowering her camera. I showed her the photo my query had returned. "Hey, I just photographed that woman," she said. "She's one of the protestors. What does this mean?" "It means that if we don't get to Princess Nadia's apartment in time she's going to be murdered." That was good enough for Kamala. Dropping her camera in the back seat, she started the engine and we sped off in the direction of The Carrington. "Nadim," she said. "What?" "It's Prince Nadim now, not Princess Nadia." "It won't be either if we don't get there in time," I replied, turning on our siren and flashing lights, "so put your foot down!" If our killer was focussed only on her mission it would already be too late. I was hoping against hope she wasn't. At The Carrington we found Kevin - now Katie - Bridger on duty again, which was a spot of luck. Where he was a shade under six feet, tall and thin, she was short and round. "Hi, Ryan," she said, recognising me, "what can we do you for today?" "Prince Nadim," I said. "We have reason to believe the woman he's currently with is an assassin sent to kill him." "Holy shit!" "Yeah, and assuming we're not already too late chances are they're upstairs in the bedroom," said Kamala. "If the assassin hears us enter the apartment she'll have time to do the deed, so we have to be as quiet as possible before we burst in on them." Bridger glanced at the guy manning the desk with her and he nodded. She then unlocked the key safe on the wall behind her and took out their duplicate key to Nadim's apartment. "Good luck," she said, handing it to me. Kamala and I rode the elevator to Prince Nadim's floor, opened the door to his apartment with the key we'd been given, and very quietly crossed to the stairs. These were carpeted, and also covered with items of discarded clothing, both male and female, indicating the Prince and his would-be assassin had been undressing each other even as they were making for the bedroom. We climbed the stairs slowly, placing our feet very carefully so as to minimise the chance of any sudden creaks that might give away our presence. On reaching the bedroom level I grasped the door handle, Kamala took her gun out, and we readied ourselves. At a nod from her I threw the door open. In the bedroom a woman naked save for stockings and a garter belt was straddling the prince. Since the bed was side-on to the door she saw us immediately. With a speed I wouldn't have believed possible, she thrust her hand under a pillow and drew out a wicked-looking knife, raising it above her head in one smooth motion. She never got the chance to plunge it into Nadim's chest because at that point a shot rang out and the knife went spinning from her hand. Did I mention that Kamala is the best shot with a handgun I've ever seen? I now drew my weapon and the woman's shoulders slumped. She knew we had her. "Wh..what's the meaning of this?" demanded Nadim, shocked by what had just happened. "Allow me to introduce Colonel Farouq of Kuraqi Intelligence," I said, "the woman sent here to kill you." "Man," said the colonel, "I'm a man." "Yeah, sure," I snorted. "For a man you seemed to be enjoying sex as a woman an awful lot when we burst in on you." "I was faking it," came the reply, "lulling the target into a false sense of security so his guard would be down, allowing me to strike." "We were having sex for the second time," observed Nadim. "That's a lot of lulling." "C'mon," I said, grabbing the colonel's shoulder and pulling 'him' roughly towards the door, "you're under arrest and you need to get dressed." "Officer Hussein," said Nadim, smiling at Kamala, "would you stay a moment, please?" The colonel and I descended the stairs, him retrieving his clothes as we went and me staying just out of arm's reach and keeping my gun trained on him. I was under no illusions as to how dangerous he was, even unarmed. Kamala and Prince Nadim joined us just after the colonel had finished getting dressed and I was cuffing his hands behind his back. When she saw him Kamala gave a snort of laughter. "So that's why you were giving me the stink eye yesterday," she said. "Your outfit is identical to the one I was wearing then." It was true. He was now clad in fishnets, four inch heels, a black leather miniskirt, and a red silk blouse unbuttoned enough to reveal a push-up bra and a lot of cleavage. And since in this form the colonel was a very beautiful woman, he looked good in it. "Why did you come to the apartment?" he asked. "What gave me away?" "The false eyebrows I noticed you had on yesterday," I said, "but it wasn't until today when Kamala and I were talking about going undercover that the penny dropped. The only reason to have them was to hide eyebrows that had been plucked. And the only reason to have plucked your eyebrows is to accompany presenting as a woman. Which meant either you were defying the laws of your country, or you had special dispensation to dress as a woman when required to go undercover. Given the threat to Prince Nadim and your absence from the UN today, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. Yesterday I confirmed Ian Mubarek's identity but neglected to call up a photo of him as Indira. Now I did, and she was not the same woman whose photo Princess Nadia had shown us. I was worried I might have had my epiphany too late to save the prince, so I had to pray you'd use the opportunity to satisfy your own desires first before killing him. And you did." "I have no such desires," snarled Colonel Farouq. "I'm a man and my current form is repugnant to me. I only do what I do in the service of my prince and my country." "We both know that's not true, Farouq," said the prince, looking at him sadly. "Since you didn't expect me to be around afterwards to tell anyone you let your guard down and showed me the real you. I'm so sorry you don't have the freedom to be yourself at all times."." "Lies, all lies!" he shouted. "You can lie to yourself, but not to us," said Kamala, surprising the prince by taking his hand. "Prince Nadim is *gorgeous*! What red-blooded woman could look at him and not want to do this?" And with that she kissed him. He was startled at first, but then returned the kiss. I glanced at Farouq, whose expression was a mixture of longing and jealousy. And in that moment I truly felt sorry for him. "You know you can't hold me," he said. "As a member of the Kuraqi delegation I have full diplomatic immunity." "We know," said Kamala, breaking her kiss with the prince, "which is why my partner here phoned her boyfriend Melvin Leman on the way over. He's a high-flying lawyer who works for both the police and the government. He's agreed to expedite things and smooth over any blowback on us from the State Department." "What? I don't understand. What do you mean?" "What he means, sweetie, is that you're being deported," I said, "which you had to expect would happen. What you won't have expected is that we're taking you directly to the airport where, very conveniently, the only daily flight to Kuraq by a US airline just happens to be leaving in two hours time. You will be put in chains and given into the custody of an air marshal who will accompany you on the airplane until you land at the other end." "Wait, you have to let me retrieve my clothing from the hotel first!" he said, sounding panicked. "I can't arrive back in my country dressed like this!" "Not our problem," said Kamala, "not our problem at all." "Besides," I said, "I think you look *adorable*!" - 8 - I reported all this to Mel over dinner that evening. "Kamala planted one on the prince?!" he said. "Wow." "Well, it didn't come out of nowhere. During their brief little tete a tete in the bedroom Prince Nadim told Kamala that he was as attracted to her as Princess Nadia was to Kamal. Turns out the feeling was mutual." At which point the waiter brought an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne over to our table. "To celebrate the occasion," said Mel as the waiter uncorked the bubbly and poured a glass for each of us. This was a celebration I'd been looking forward to and why we were eating in one of New York's swankiest restaurants. I was wearing an evening gown which had a plunging neckline that displayed my frankly impressive cleavage to glorious effect. Actually since I had the sort of classic 'hourglass' figure that evening dresses like this were made for, *all* of me looked fabulous in it. The dress was beyond the means of someone on a police salary and had been a present from Mel, who was looking mighty fine in an exquisitely tailored three piece suit. "To our anniversary," he said, raising his glass. "We've been together a year now. Here's to many more." "I'll drink to that!" I said, and did. "There's a very good chance that dual marriage will be legalised in the next couple of years," said Mel, "so this seems like the perfect time to do this." When he got down on one knee, I held my breath. When he pulled out the diamond ring I gasped. "Sian Rowena Ryan," he said, "will you...." "Yes, oh yes!" I said. "I'd be honoured to be your wife!" The slipped magical moment when he slipped the ring on my finger only served to confirm what I'd long come to accept. That this truly was the best of all possible worlds. ******** The End ******** Notes: 1. Lately I've found myself itching to revisit my various TG worlds. This is the first result of me scratching that itch. More will follow. 2. The Irish 'Sean' and Welsh 'Sian' are pronounced 'shorn' and 'sharn' respectively. 3. Changeday has always been an open universe, this one and my previous two tales collectively forming that universe's 'bible'. If you have questions about the set up, they will almost certainly be answered within these. If you intend to set a story here please don't set it more than five years after the first Changeday happened. I have my reasons for this, which will become apparent in a later tale. Earlier Changeday tales by me available here on FM: CHANGEDAY: FIVE YEARS CHANGEDAY: THE BEGINNING