Bikini Beach: Self Sacrifice free porn video

1. The Penitent "You don't want to do that." The gunman's head jerked round, eyes flashing dangerously; had Brian misjudged things? Had he allowed his bravado to take him just a step too far? Would today be the day he drew his last breath? The boy could not have been more than nineteen; perhaps this had been a mistake; perhaps he was one of those in-between teenagers, where a mature view of the world had not quite caught up on the panic of being cast into it as an adult. He took a step back so that he could keep his eye both on the man at the store counter, and on Brian: his gun now turned and seemed more interested in the man who had last spoken. Now was the time to drive a wedge into the gap in his resolve. "I'm not a police officer," Brian said as kindly as he could. "What you do next is between you and them. There's nobody here to take you. Not yet. You still have the chance to walk away from this, if you put down the gun and leave these people in peace." He was afraid to pull the trigger, but there was something in his eyes that told Brian he was equally afraid not to pull it: to lose his prize, to lose face, to lose. He wavered for a moment, then rational argument and common sense won: the disjointed emotions that seemed to be driving him had had enough cold water poured on them to allow him to think, and consider the consequences of his actions. That was fatal to his resolve; fear overtook him and showed clearly on his face; be began to back off, the gun beginning to waver again as if he had no clear idea what to do with it. "Just run. Go." An unpleasant expression passed over the gunman's face; perhaps the suggestion he should run sounded to him more like the suggestion he was a coward. He was young enough for intimidation to have a better effect. "Or do you think you're tough enough?" The young man did run: all the way to the door. There he turned and looked back, raising the gun again; he levelled it straight ahead; an angry expression, full of hatred, overcame his face and he pulled the trigger, first lowering his aim to fire at something that caught his eye on the nearest shelf. From somewhere on the other side, there was the sound of a glass bottle shattering; a bag of rice began to pour its contents onto the floor in the checkout area. The gunman turned and fled; seconds later, there came the sound of a car engine roaring into life, and the harsh squeal of tyres. The handful of people who had stood and watched the scene unfold began to breathe easily again, all expect for one woman who was staring along one of the aisles, struggling to catch her breath. * "Hey," Christina said, urgently but gently, reaching the door in barely enough time to catch Brian before he escaped. She held him by both hands. "Were you just going to go without saying anything?" "Sorry," he replied, "I ... em, I ..." he tilted his head away from her and she gently pulled his chin round so she could look into his eyes. He did not resist, but neither did he let her meet his gaze. "You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault." "That's what I keep telling myself, but I don't believe it. If it hadn't been for me, the guy wouldn't have fired that shot." "You don't know that." "I shouldn't have stepped in. I made him lose face in front of people. That's why he did it." "No. He did it out of spite." "He did it to make people take notice of him, so that he didn't feel so insignificant." "Brian, there was nothing you could have done." "There was something I shouldn't have done, though." "Why don't you just stay here with me? I'm worried about you." "I'll be fine." "Yes, I know," Christina said after a short pause to assess her boyfriend. "Please just remember, everything will be all right in the end." "It will. I'll make sure of that." Brian put his arms round Christina and pulled her close, but she noticed there was still no trace of happiness on his face before the embrace hid it from her. He held her for longer than usual, making her wonder why, having initially seemed to be reluctant to hug her, he now seemed to be having difficulty letting go. She decided not to pursue the warning signs just for the moment. "See ya," she smiled broadly, with no little effort. "Not if I see you first," he replied and she laughed in relief, with the lovely silvery sound of her voice, at the joke; at least, she thought it to be a joke: in fact, it was a heartbreakingly poignant irony. There would actually be little effect in avoiding Christina, since if she ever saw him again, she would never recognise him; any evasion of the woman he loved would be for purely selfish reasons, as he expected his heart would be unable to survive a reunion under the drastically altered, unendurable circumstances it would take place. He hugged her again, unable to resist the temptation to hold her just one last time; and knowing it was the last time was what made their embrace all the more beautiful, all the more precious, and its loss all the more difficult to bear. As always, a warmth seemed to spread from one to another, like the perfect resonance of a bell, the tiniest beginning growing to a lovely, rounded tone. They separated and Brian closed the door behind him. "She could have been so good for me," he thought to himself, "but thanks to my stupidity, it's not to be. She'll find someone else, someone more worthy of her, who will make her as happy ... no, probably even happier than I ever could have." * By ten o'clock the car park was almost half full, and still there was a steady trickle of vehicles turning from the road into the entrance; not perhaps as many as had sometimes been the case, but since almost every car had three or four people in it, today would seem to be shaping up to be a good day. At about twenty-five past, one of the few exceptions manifested itself, as a new B.M.W. approached the entrance, slowing down almost reluctantly, then creeping under the arch that bore the designation, "Bikini Beach. Car Park. Patrons Only." It crawled in the opposite direction to all the other customers, parking as far away from the pedestrian exit as possible, and only one person alighted. Anya leant forward and glanced out of the ticket office window, half smiling in semi-satisfaction at the sight; the sky was a clear blue, and there were plenty of customers; business was picking up again. She settled back into her seat as another line of young women began to form in front of the booth. The girls chatted to each other, and to Anya; one or two of them she knew well. Then a dark cloud passed over her mind. "Anya, are you all right?" the girl at the front of the queue said, seemingly concerned. Anya returned a false smile. "Sorry, Jana," she replied, "Miles away there." The queue emptied and Anya sat back, feeling shaken; there was still something very wrong: something that seemed to be growing. Her unsettled mood spread, threatening to overwhelm her; she barely heard the internal door at the back of the ticket office open and close, as a man who looked to be in his early thirties stepped up to the window. Although she now laid eyes on him for the first time, she had been aware of his presence even as the car had turned off the road: of how reluctantly he had opened the driver's door and stepped out, clutching against his chest a rolled-up towel the way a child carries a comfort toy; of his laboured, apprehensive steps towards the booth where she waited; of the way he looked sadly around as he approached, like a condemned man being led to the gallows, and giving himself one last, sorrowful look at the beauty of the world around him while he still existed as a part of its wonders. He looked at the clear blue sky; at the deep azure sea beyond the park; at the tidily maintained, pleasant appearance of the park itself; then at the morning clientele, scantily- clad, chattering excitedly as they waited in line; and although he should have been aroused by the sight of such an array of beauty, Anya was painfully aware of the way he tried to shut them out of his mind, as if he had no right to appreciate them, or (more accurately, as she was coming to realise) as if his appreciation of them were about to lose its meaning, and was now somehow taunting him, and only amplifying the terror that grew with each step he took. He was quite handsome, was her first thought: tall, slender, obviously in good health, with good skin, at least for a man; a strong, oval face, his hair almost blond, his eyes a pleasant blue: very attractive, she decided. Why, then, she questioned herself, was he so troubled that his very presence should disturb her the way it did? "Hi," he said coldly, looking at Anya as if he wanted to hate her; then, perhaps because he noted the uncomfortable expression on her face, seemed to relent. He smiled, but still looked far from happy. "I believe you can change the past." "I'll deal with this, Anya," Grandmother's voice said from behind her. * Grandmother directed the man to walk around the perimeter of the park, from the ticket office to the buildings behind; there he found a door, not easily visible from the entrance, that sprung open as he approached, without any obvious sign of how that had happened. It led into a corridor, entering it roughly half way along, and just inside the door, to one side, stood a middle-aged woman; at least, she appeared to be middle-aged. The man got a good look at her for the first time, and his curious impression was that it was difficult to tell exactly how old she was; although she appeared to be slightly stout and rather frumpy, there was something about her that gave him another curious impression: that she was not all she seemed and her true appearance was masked in some way; she was also (now he looked closely) beautiful, however not in quite the same way as would be true of other women: she had a strange, ethereal beauty that seemed to shine from within. Then the moment passed, and a slightly stout, rather frumpy, middle-aged woman smiled benignly at him. "This way," she said kindly, lifting her arm to indicate a door at the far end of the corridor. "Through there, if you please." Brian walked in the direction she had indicated, opening the door at the end to find it led into a large, comfortable office. Once inside, he stopped in uncertainty and the woman passed him, taking her seat behind the desk facing the door. She swept her hand towards a chair opposite her. "Take a seat, please, Dr. Anderson," Grandmother said. "Brian," he corrected her, "Please." "Brian," she replied, tilting her head in acknowledgement, "It's unusual for a young man to come to Bikini Beach on his own. Usually he'll be with friends, or members of his family. What is it I can do for you?" "I've made a terrible mistake," he replied, his voice cracking towards the end of the sentence. "And I need you to help me fix it. I need you to undo what I've done. I need a lifetime pass to Bikini Beach." Grandmother stared at him, looking concerned. The door opened and a knock sounded on it at the same time; Anya looked in. "May I?" she asked. Brian looked over his shoulder; he voiced no objection so Anya closed the door and took a seat in the chair beside it. Grandmother returned her gaze to Brian, who continued. "I know that you can change the past, although I also know ..." (he sighed) "That means you'll have to ... change me into ... " (he faltered and clearly needed a great effort to continue) "Someone else, but I'm going to have to accept that because it's the only way to unravel my mistakes." "You'd better tell me about it," Grandmother said gently. Brian took a deep breath, then began; his voice was unsteady to begin with, but he settled down once his story began to unfold; he also spoke mainly to the floor, and only once in a while did he look up to meet Grandmothers kindly, but steady, gaze. "I've always felt under pressure to face up to things. I feel ... guilty ... inferior ... if I just stand back and let things unfold ... let other people have the initiative. My father, really. He was an old- fashioned man's man, and he tried to bring me up to be the same as him. 'Be a man,' he would say, 'You have to stand up to people and make them take notice of you.' He did everything he could to toughen me up. All kinds of sports, the more violent the better. He even made me go hunting with him, which I loathe." "If you were brought up to be a lover of hunting, but you grew up to loathe it, that is to your credit," Grandmother interjected gently. "I'm not really like him, you know. I didn't like the things he made me do, the sports he made me play. If I showed any reluctance, he'd give me a manly slap on the back and tell me not to act like a queer. He wasn't interested in how I felt ... it's almost as if he thought feelings were for wimps, and the more I resisted, the more he pressed me. I just ... don't like violence. I don't like cruel sports, any more than I like violence in real life, and that was the crux of the problem my father had with me. He thought of himself as an alpha male, and he wanted me to be the same. You've no idea how disappointed he was with me when he found out I wanted to be a doctor, curing and helping people. To him, a real man is the guy who kills and injures people, not the wimp who patches them up and cries over them. Do you know, he refused to call me a doctor! He always said I was a nurse, right up to the day he died. And to him, being a nurse was a woman's job. He wanted me to be a police officer or something, be tough, carry a gun. "I did my best to rise above that, do what I thought was right, be my own person, and I thought I had. Right up till last week. I was on the way home from the hospital, and it was getting late in the evening, about nine o'clock. I stopped off at a store on the way home and I was next for the checkout, when the guy in front of me pulled a gun and threatened to shoot the store clerk if he didn't give him all the money in the till. "What I should have done was stay out of it, let him rob the store, call the police straight away, give them a description, try and give them the license plate of the car, let them deal with it. But, no. Not my father's son. I couldn't step back. I had to prove my manliness by facing the gunman and talking him down, being the hero who saved all these people's lives, not stopping to think they weren't in any real danger al all ... unless my actions put them in it. Looks like my father succeeded with me after all. "I did it, though. I talked him down just like I said, and sent him off with his tail between his legs." "You averted the robbery," Grandmother interjected. "Congratulations." "Except when he got to the door, he turned and fired a shot into the shop, so that everyone would know he wasn't scared of me." "A normal reaction, I'm afraid, for him. He did that for his own benefit, to show himself that he shouldn't feel intimidated. It's not the first time he's done something like that." Brian hesitated for a few moments before he continued; perhaps it was surprise that the old woman seemed to know so much; more likely he found it difficult to carry on. "There was an eleven year old girl hiding behind the shelf he fired at. He hit her in the chest. She bled to death lying on the floor while I was enjoying my moment of triumph." "Rana Damanis," Grandmother said; Brian nodded, his head bowed, his eyes screwed shut, squeezing tears from between his eyelids. "If I hadn't tried to be the tough guy, face up to him like a man, he wouldn't have felt the need to reassert his masculinity by scaring us all with that gunshot. If I'd let things be and not tried to be a chip off the old block, that girl wouldn't have died." "Rana didn't die because of your actions," Grandmother said, slowly and steadily, in as assuring a voice as possible. "You can't possibly know that." "Rana's time on earth was tragically short, I agree, but I'm afraid that's the way things all to often are. Some of us are given more time than others, unfair as that may be." "No. I can't possibly accept that. It's our place in this world to do what we can to relieve the pain of others. It's our duty to save and preserve life in any way we can. That makes it your duty to help me put this right." "Young man, please don't lecture me. I know much, much more than you about life in this world and about our place in it. I know things you could not even begin to imagine." "But if we have the chance to make things right, to do the right thing, even if it's the second time around, surely that's what we have to do? If we can change the past ... please, I'm begging you." "No-one can change the past," she replied sternly, almost snapping at him, like a teacher becoming exasperated by the repeated refusal of a long line of students to listen to her advice, then her mood suddenly softened. "Not really. That's not how things work." "Then, please explain," he replied. "How does it work?" "I can change the future," she replied, smiling wryly, "My clients' futures, to be specific. Of course, that is a power which is always open to everyone; the only difference in my case is that I have certain options available to me that you, on your own, do not. When these changes are set in motion, however, there are certain situations where the past is forced to adjust itself to make the present and the future possible, but the way in which that happens is something over which I have much less control, and the results can be surprising, and sometimes unwanted." Brian leant forward, seeming suddenly to come to life, and a look of enthusiasm, almost bordering on avarice, flashed across his face. "But that's what I need," he said, his voice shaking with excitement, "That's exactly what I want. If you give me that, it would mean my father wouldn't have brought me up the way he did. My mother would have had far more influence over me than my father would. Don't you see?" "Oh, yes, Dr. Anderson, I see. I see far more clearly than you, and what you are asking for is wrong." "How could it be wrong? How could it be wrong to save a life?" "Because the implications go much deeper than just saving a life." "Just?" Brian sounded outraged. "Just saving a life? How can you say that? Life is sacred. That's one of the most important things we learn at medical school. To heal the sick and save lives is the - THE - reason I wanted to become a doctor. How can you possibly qualify that by putting, 'Just,' in front of it?" "The things you want to change are things that are meant to be." "Nothing is, 'Meant to be!' we all control our own destiny. That poor girl was shot because my father filled my head up with all that macho bravado. If he hadn't done that, I wouldn't have caused the shooting." Grandmother wordlessly regarded him for a few moments before speaking. "You did not cause the shooting." It was obvious that Brian was slightly shaken by her words, and by the authority in her voice, but he quickly recovered and then sat still, staring back at her, unmoved. "You are clearly determined to see this through, as I feared you would be. I was morally obliged to try to dissuade you, however futile that may turn out to be. I will give you one final warning, though: do not do this. I can already sense some of the things that may turn out to be, if I grant you what you wish." "So you know why I need this! You've known all along!" "I can read well enough to understand. However, I know more than you hoped I would. I know you do not truly want to do this. What you seek is born of despair, and your plans were laid with grief as their foundations. If I give you what you ask, there will be a price to pay, and it is not only you who will bear the cost. I cannot see clearly yet, but can tell you this: any relief you gain will be balanced out by the unhappiness it brings in its wake." "I'll deal with that when I get to it." Grandmother sighed. "I can see that I am not going to persuade you of the folly of your actions. Therefore I am prepared to issue you with a membership valid for three months only." "Three months? What good is that? I mean, presumably after three months everything will go back to the way it is now, and that poor girl will still die?" "That will give you the opportunity to live with the repercussions arising from the events of today. However if, after three months, you decide you do want to go through with this, you need only return here and I will upgrade your pass to a lifetime membership. There will be no need for you to become Brian again, ever, if that turns out to be what you truly want." Brian's reaction was plain to see; he seemed to flinch slightly at Grandmother's words, and he swallowed hard. "Anya, would you be so kind as to sell Dr. Anderson a membership valid for three months?" The young woman nodded slowly and sat behind another, smaller desk at the side of the office. She tapped on the computer, made some gestures involving a plastic card and a contactless card reader/writer, then pushed a different reader, this time one for credit or debit cards, over the desk. Brian examined the price displayed on the device, nodded, and inserted his card into the slot. That done, the older woman escorted Brian back to the door in the corridor, while Anya remained in the office. When Brian reached the window he found a different girl, her thick auburn hair committing the heinous crime of partly obscuring such a lovely face; she smiled knowingly at him. "Hi, I'm Marta. Are you a member?" she asked initially, then, seeing the card in his hand, but realising that he must be new, explained, "Hold the card close to the symbol on the top ... just ... there ..." The turnstile clicked. Brian hesitated and looked over his shoulder, giving Marta a grateful but uncertain smile. "Enjoy," she said, the trace of wickedness in her eyes beginning to infect the corners of her mouth as she grinned back. Brian turned and scuttled through the turnstile in embarrassment: of course that girl knew what was about to happen to him! She had probably seen dozens of frightened faces just like his; watched dozens of men and boys suffer the fate he was about to embrace. He made off as quickly as he could, wanting only to escape from the girl, who seemed to be enjoying his predicament; there were two buildings ahead, blocking the park from the entrance; he made for the smaller one, the leftmost, on the basis of the sign above the door. The sign had the international "Restroom" symbol of a male, and underneath, the word, "Men." Men! Now there was a thought! This would be, he realised, the last time he would walk through a door marked with this symbol. Unless, of course, he gave up medicine to work as a toilet cleaner; then he would have access to men's restrooms, along with the privilege of cleaning urinals that he would, by then, be unable to use. While Brian's trembling hand was pushing open the door to the men's locker room, Anya and her grandmother were sitting in the office, both staring silently at each other, both looking as unhappy as the other. Finally Anya spoke. "Grandmother, I don't feel that what we're doing is right." "Nor do I." "Then why are you letting him do it?" "Regretfully, a point-blank refusal on my part would do more harm than good." "Would it? Would he not get over it?" "No, he would have become worse, more and more depressed, eventually becoming suicidal. I need to show him that what he was asking for was not only wrong, but that it will have no effect on the way things turn out. That is why I insisted on a three month pass as a trial period. Once he sees that things were not his fault, he may begin to accept, then, one would hope, grieve healthily." "Will that work?" "I cannot say. Not yet. Once Dr. Anderson has used the showers, things will start to fall into place, and both the future and the past will start to become clearer. Then I may see whether the changes I have wrought are going to turn out as I hope. Regretfully, I will not be able to see everything while there are still two possible futures." * Brian let the door swing shut behind him and looked around. The room was fairly small; much smaller than he would have expected in a park of this size, but then he had been told the clientele of Bikini Beach were mainly female: in fact, he had heard rumours that beyond the only other exit from this room, the clientele of Bikini Beach were exclusively female. There were a few lockers available, but he did not bother opening any of them, as none of his possessions would be left unattended: Brian had not come here to make use of the park's amusements; in fact, having emerged from the shower, there would be no reason to remain on the premises at all. He walked to the far end of the bench, closest to the showers, which he looked at with no small measure of trepidation: along with the exclusively female clientele, he had also been told of the means by which that was achieved. Then he suddenly swung onto action; when something was inevitable, there was no point in trying to shirk it, or even delay it. The words of his father came back to haunt him: "You have to face up to things. Be a man." Nice one, Dad, he muttered under his breath. His shirt he held up and examined before draping it over the back of the bench. Taking off a man's shirt for the last time, he thought. No, maybe not. Perhaps someone else's shirt. The next morning. How far would it reach? he wondered ... knee length? Wonder how tall I'll be? His pants, folded, joined them. Definitely the last time for those. Underwear, socks, discarded on the bench, shoes stowed untidily underneath, Brian turned and began to make his way towards the showers with all the self- assurance of Anne Boleyn ascending the steps to the executioner's block. He could not resist the temptation to look down at himself one last time; how surprising, he thought, that under these circumstances he should be experiencing an erection: why did he seem to be excited about this? Not excited, he realised, it was just that he was thinking about sex differences. No, he mentally corrected himself; not thinking: obsessing about sex differences. Furthermore, this was his final opportunity to see such a thing from this angle ... then he corrected himself again: it would possibly not be the final time; however next time, if there were a next time, it would be pointing in the other direction. By this point, Brian was standing under one of the showers and a trembling hand was reaching for the faucet. When it turned, he gasped in surprise at the pleasant sensation, the water managing to be both warm and refreshing at the same time. He closed his eyes to luxuriate in the feeling of the spray, even as he thought, "Typical! I should have known the steam would be pink!" Pink mist was the last thing Brian saw with male eyes. As he stood, he could feel his body tingling and almost melting, his innate posture shifting, a soft weight beginning to pull very slightly at his chest, his erection dissolving into nothing. Finally, plucking up the courage, she opened her eyes and looked down, gasping in shock and sorrow: the anguish of seeing a woman's body was not alleviated one whit by the warnings from her new nervous system, telling her what to expect. She reached round to turn off the faucet and was immediately assaulted by further reminders of what had just happened to her: pivoting her hips made her thighs brush gently against each other, clearly with nothing between them; the motion of extending her arm made her chest wobble in a way she had never felt before; her hand found blank wall, three or four inches below the faucet. She reached up and turned off the water. "Three or four inches," she thought to herself, "I haven't lost too much height, which means I'm quite tall. For a woman. I guess I'll be thinking or hearing, 'For a woman,' a lot from now on. 'You're quite tall for a woman,' or, 'You're quite strong for a woman,' or, 'That's pretty good. For a woman.' Oh, God, what have I done?" 2. The Locum Brian's left hand drew itself across her left breast until her fingers touched her right; her other hand automatically placed itself on her groin, her small pubic mound cupped perfectly in the palm of her hand and her middle finger beginning to press itself into the groove beneath it in horrified fascination, the fingers on either side trying not to probe the absence of testicles, but unable to resist. With a gasp, both hands dropped to her sides and she strode back into the changing area. This brought no relief: at her sides, her hands and wrists brushed against the soft curve of her hips, and her natural movement had changed as much as the feelings that were assaulting her from all parts of her body. She arrived at the bench to find more differences: her male clothes had disappeared and, in their place, a floral print summer dress lay draped over the back; female briefs and a bra lay on the seat before it; underneath, white and light blue trainers sat, neatly placed against each other, just like the pose that, whether standing or seated, would be both natural and expected from now on. She lifted her towel and as it unrolled the bottom half of a bikini fell out; she stared fixedly at it, so different from the male trunks she had packed that morning; then she began to dab herself with the towel, trying to touch herself as little as she could, but finding that to be a choice between the impossible and the ineffective. Her disconsolate mood turned into sudden panic when it was interrupted by a noise coming from the direction of the door leading to the outside. Not knowing what to do, she grabbed the closest item of clothing to hand, the bikini, and stepped into it. She then stood, helpless and self-conscious, her arms folded over her bare chest, waiting to discover the identity of the unwelcome intruder: after all, she was standing semi-naked in the middle of the men's locker room, a woman, as if she needed any more of a reminder than the feeling of her arms pressing against the breasts she was shielding from view; had it been a man who had entered, as she feared, he would have gasped in surprise and pleasure at the sight before him; instead she was met by the pity in Anya's eyes. She breathed a huge sigh of relief. "Hi," Anya said sympathetically, "how are you doing? (As if I couldn't guess.)" Brian only grimaced in response, hugging herself even tighter. Anya smiled again and held out her hand: in it she had a bikini top that perfectly matched the other half, something that took Brian completely by surprise, as she was convinced that before Anya had raised her hand, it had been empty. She looked longingly at the flimsy tangle of cups and straps, but her arms remained tightly clamped around herself. Anya smiled in sympathy; most new women struggled to tell the difference between discomfort with their new bodies, and shame; they were, consequently, painfully modest, even in the company of another female. She turned away, holding her hand and the garment behind her; a second or two later, she felt it lifted from her outstretched finger. Brian put her arms through the straps and fitted her breasts into the cups, fastening the top behind her as if she had done it every day for her entire life. Anya, of course, know she would not have long to wait before it would be prudent to turn: when she did, she was met by the sight of a young woman who could easily have been a model, except for one thing: the blue eyes on her beautiful face were within a fraction of bursting into tears. Anya took a seat on the bench, giving the girl a moment to compose herself. Brian continued to stand self-consciously; arms at her sides, showing off her graceful neck and shoulders, both brushed by blonde hair; her small, beautifully shaped breasts protruding in front; the flatness of her groin clearly visible between her thighs. Thinking she might be able to disguise the troubling obviousness of her figure, she instead decided to sit down beside Anya, which she did; hands folded on her lap, showing off her graceful neck and shoulders, both brushed by blonde hair; her small, beautifully shaped breasts protruding in front; the flatness of her groin clearly visible, even once it had been lowered between her thighs. "I don't know how I managed to put that bikini top on," she said, just for the sake of having something to say, her intention being to distract herself from her transformation: however all she did was distress herself even further, hearing her voice for the first time. "It's just something Grandmother does for you to begin with," Anya explained, "to help you through the first few days. A lot of people find themselves a bit overwhelmed, to say the least." "You don't say." "And some things, like suddenly having to wear a bra, for example, and having to struggle away without the first clue how to put one on, it could break them." "How do you know that's not already happened?" Brian replied, but her sad smile was composed and calm, which gave the lie to her implication. "It also helps you avoid embarrassing mistakes. For example, tell me your name." "I'm Dr. Karen Anderson," she said, then frowned in confusion. "That's not what I meant to say." "After a few days, you'll be able to lie about being someone who no longer exists, if you really want to." "So Dr. Brian Anderson no longer exists," Karen said and Anya shook her head. "I can still say my old name, so why can't I tell people my real name name is Karen? I mean ... Karen. Wow. If I can lie and say, 'I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger,' why can't I tell the truth and say I'm Karen Anderson?" she laughed, taken by the ridiculousness of her situation. "Now that you're out of the showers," Anya, said, changing the subject. "I think Grandmother wants to talk to you again. Do you want to change first?" "I presume that was a faux pas, and not a cruel joke." "Karen, I'm so sorry. Slip of the tongue. What I meant was, after you've spoken to Grandmother, you may of course want to enjoy the park for the rest of the day, so you might not want to put your outdoor clothes back on yet." "I can put my outdoor clothes on, but I couldn't put them BACK on. I've never worn a dress before in my life." "I was going to suggest you do what a lot of women do, and put your dress on over your bikini. Then you just need to slip it back off again when you're ready to go in. Of course, you'll need to use the women's locker room, so you'd better bring all your things with you." "No offence, but I've no intention of using the park. I've achieved what I came here to do. I've never enjoyed rides much in any case, and the idea of wandering around almost naked with everyone admiring my body is not something that appeals to me, even if it would just be other women. In fact, that would only make it worse. Wandering around admiring almost-naked women would be pretty awful from the place I'm in right now." "Okay," Anya acknowledged, quietly and sympathetically. "I'll take your advice though, and just pull the dress on over this. Then I won't have to look at myself again. Yet. I'd rather defer that pleasure for a while." Karen lifted the dress over her head and let if fall around her, then rolled her underwear up in her towel, not caring that it was damp; she then stood facing Anya, looking uneasy and squirming as if there were something completely wrong. "I'm not comfortable with this feeling," she said, absent-mindedly pulling at the folds of the dress, "The way it's completely open at the bottom. It's as if I'm not really wearing it - just hiding behind it." "Don't worry. You'll get used to it. You'll probably surprise yourself by getting to like it, I expect." "The jury's definitely still out on that one." Karen followed Anya slowly, trying to minimise her uneasiness, not noticing to begin with the route they were taking. It was only when two teenage girls ran past, giggling, that she became aware of her surroundings. "Why are we going this way?" she asked, aghast, but unable to stop herself taking in the scene. "It's quicker," Anya immediately replied. "And you're allowed in now, aren't you?" They had reached the office building; Anya swiped her card and held the door open for Karen to enter first. "I wish you'd blindfolded me." * "Dr. Anderson," Grandmother said, "I hope, by now, you are willing to accept that my advice was correct? As you will be aware by now, Brian Anderson's influence made no difference to the actions of the young man who held up the store. Even after taking the money, as he has now done, he still turned at the door and fired into the shop, and he still hit poor Rana." Karen, surprised and disappointed, began to turn pale. "He did?" she said quietly. "Close your eyes and relax. Things will start to come back to you." Karen did as requested. She sat for a few moments then gasped. "Now do you see?" "No, not at all. In fact, I feel vindicated if anything. Rana Damanis didn't die of her injuries. She survived, because I was able to save her. In fact, the truth is that she survived because I'm a woman. I was right all along." "Please, Dr. Anderson, you have to understand. The reason Rana didn't die is because events have been distorted in a way they were never meant to be." "I'm sorry, but I can't accept that. The events of last week turned out exactly the way they're supposed to, when - fortunately - a doctor happened to be on the scene. Instead of being the cause of her death, I saved her life. That's what I do. "The bullet hit her in the upper arm, partially severing the brachial artery. I was able to apply direct pressure to the damaged blood vessel, and slow down her blood loss enough to give the paramedics time to transport her to hospital. I travelled with them and together we managed to keep her alive until she could be operated on. I walked into theatre at the side of the gurney with my finger still in her wound, stepped back on the count of three and let the team take over, then scrubbed up and assisted. It was a life-saving operation, and it was successful. What is wrong with that?" "Saving a life is not wrong, however Rana's time on earth had come to an end. She is only alive because I have corrupted reality." "That I refuse to believe. Because I'm a woman, I wasn't inclined to try and be the tough guy. I backed off the same as anyone with any sense would do. I spotted Rana cowering behind one of the shelves, in tears, and I went over to comfort her and tell her to be brave." "That must have made her move, because the bullet that was supposed to hit her in the chest got her in the arm instead." "Then it was an incredible piece of good luck, and it averted a tragedy. But that's not because you corrupted reality, it's because my father didn't corrupt me. I was born a girl, so he didn't try to turn me into a man. That put me in the right place at the right time, so the way I see it, this is what was meant to happen. I have you to thank for putting me in that fortunate position, by making me the person I am obviously supposed to be. That is far more important than any personal discontent I may have about the person I am, or the gender I am." "The fact that you and Christina are the same gender is an important sign." "I don't understand." "You and Christina have always believed you were conceived on the same night, and that you were made for each other." "Yes, as a matter of fact we always have. Why?" "You believe correctly. Do you know how such a happy coincidence came about?" "Our parents were very good friends, for about as long as any of them could remember. They were holidaying together in the Rockies. They'd hired a cabin. One evening, after dinner, they sat in front of the fire with the bottle of wine from the table, meaning to finish it off before going to bed. They didn't. They upped and left without another sip, and ... well, that was when both Christina and I were made." "That's not quite what happened. Not any more. They drank what they had in their glasses, then retired. That slight delay resulted in you being fertilised by a different sperm, one that made you a girl. I did my best to influence the events of that evening. I tried changing the length of time they sat for, how much they drank, but nothing ..." "I thought you said you couldn't change the past." "I said the past would adjust itself to make your future possible, and that I had very limited influence over how that would happen. I cannot change much, but I was able to influence the time of your conception. However, there was no adjustment I could make that resulted in Christina being born a boy. No matter what I did, you were always both girls. That in itself should tell you that something is wrong, and the fates are already collecting the price of an unnatural extension to Rana's life." Karen's only response was to shrug her shoulders defiantly. "You are determined, I can see that. My advice remains unchanged, although, if anything, I reiterate it even more strongly than before: after three months, once you have realised what you are doing is wrong, please, please, do not return here. By then you will have experienced many of the unfortunate repercussions of what we have done today. Allow your membership to expire, and go back to being Dr. Brian Anderson, and the way things are supposed to be." "I look forward to seeing you in three months." * Anya showed Karen to the side door that Brian had used to enter and exit the office. She turned and they exchanged a sad smile. "Thank you," Karen said. "Good luck," Anya replied and pulled the door shut. The sound made Karen start slightly; it seemed ominous and final, as if the door had suddenly been slammed shut on everything she knew and was comfortable with, casting her adrift in unknown waters, not knowing whether she would sink or swim. She gazed around her; the world looked exactly as it had when she had arrived at Bikini Beach as a man: the same blue sky; the same line of trees, their foliage gently swaying in the breeze; the same sun, warming her now bare arms. Everything was the same, yet everything was irredeemably different: the beauty of the world had never been seen by her through a woman's eyes; it had never been accompanied by the slight downward tug of breasts; nor by the undeniable, empty softness she sensed with every movement, however slight, of her lower limbs. She turned her head and looked past the office buildings, to the car park. There was another thing that seemed to be the same; a large cluster of cars gathered together at the closest end, but at the furthest point stood one car, a familiar deep blue, exactly where Brian had parked his: she surmised, not unreasonably, that the blue car still belonged to her. She began to walk towards it. There was one thing that was the same. She walked through the car park to the opposite end. As she approached, she saw it was the same model Brian had had. That made two things. She drew close enough to read the registration. Three. She had a small yellow purse slung over one shoulder, and in it she found a car key that she knew well. Four. Unfortunately, there ended her run of good luck, because in the same pocket as the key was a driver license. The picture she vaguely recognised, remembering as she did now that she had walked past a mirror on the way out of the locker room, although at the time she had been too stunned and distraught for it to register; she now stared at it in remorse: it was her own face, but it was softened, more gentle, beautiful, terrible to look at. Strangely, that was not the most upsetting thing on the plastic card: on the right, two thirds of the way down, was the word, "SEX:" and beside it, in cold, hard, merciless black ink, was the single letter F. The familiar chirp from the car when she pressed the key she ignored: that letter F on her license still weighed heavily on her mind and had destroyed any desire to count her blessings, however great or small they might be. That feeling was only reinforced when she slid into the driver's seat and pulled her legs together, noting the lack of any discomfort, there being no need for caution, or to adjust her clothing to avoid pinching parts of her body she no longer had. "I'd sooner be in agony," she thought to herself; "Actually, I am," she replied mentally. The journey home was another mixture of good and bad; mainly bad. Turning the wheel, changing gear, pressing the clutch; all were painful reminders as her upper arms brushed against her breasts and her thighs against each other; only when driving in a straight line at constant speed was she almost - almost - able to imagine that things were still normal. Then she arrived home. She turned into the small car park in front of her apartment block, then stopped to think: this had been where Brian had lived; why should she assume she still lived here? There was a latch key on the same ring as her car key; it looked exactly as it always had. She pulled her driver license out of her purse once more and, trying in vain to avoid looking at the picture, or at the "SEX: F" opposite, she read her address. She was parked outside her own apartment. Quickly, she made her way to the door, expecting she would, at least, have some solitude to cry in private: this had been Brian's apartment until the day, about two years ago, that he and Christina had decided, on their engagement, to live together: she had then moved in with him. Now, of course, the pair had no more reason to live together than they could have an expectation of raising children together. She pushed the door open and was immediately greeted by another shock. "Karen, that you?" a woman's voice called. Christina's voice. * Karen walked through to the kitchen to find her former fiancee bustling about happily. "I'm just making coffee," she chirped. "Want one?" Karen's heart went out to the graceful beauty she was beholding: at that precise moment she wanted nothing other than to be Brian again, to wrap her arms around the girl, to kiss her deeply and passionately. She was going to have to content herself, though, with an unsettlingly platonic relationship; dominated by so-called girl talk: boys, fashion, shoes; the closest they would come to sex would be talking about their individual relationships with other men ... unless ... were she and Christina perhaps lovers? That would be the cruellest fate of all - to give up her manhood, but still find herself in the situation where she wanted and needed it desperately, and where the affection of the woman she loved would be a tortuous reminder of what she had lost! "I'd prefer something stronger, to be honest, but that'll do for now." "Is there something wrong? That's not like you." "I'm fine, honestly. Coffee would be lovely." Karen escaped to the living room, where she sat on the sofa with her eyes closed, until Christina entered, carrying a tray. The tray was hurriedly discarded onto the coffee table and Christina leapt onto the sofa beside Karen, taking one of her hands (which Karen only now realised she had automatically and demurely folded on her lap). Christina looked deep into her eyes: this might be Karen's chance to discover the nature of their relationship; Christina gave her a sad half-smile that contained an equal mixture of love and concern, then began to pull Karen towards her: this was it. Karen copied Christina's gesture in putting her arms around her and leant forwards, keeping her head facing straight on, though angled slightly, in the way she had, as Brian, when she had been about to kiss her. Christina was not in the slightest inclined to kiss her on the mouth, but instead pressed cheek against cheek, then turned to give Karen's face a gentle peck, before returning to the previous position. That answered the question: they were room-mates and good friends. On one hand, that would mean she would not be subjected to the tantalising frustration of making love as a couple who had lost the ability to enjoy penetrative sex, and with not one single sperm to pass from one to the other; but it would also mean she would never again be able to touch the lovely softness of Christina's breasts, nor hear that quiet gasp or feel her lover's tremor of pleasure when she placed her hand between her legs and pressed her finger into the groove whose discovery always came as a wonderful surprise: one that never faded or diminished. "Is it Steve?" Christina whispered quietly, bringing Karen back to reality with a jolt. She was completely at a loss, never having heard of Steve before. She shrugged philosophically; that, she thought, would be the best way to fudge her way through this (inevitable, she sensed) conversation. Although she was sure that if she relaxed and let go, memories of being Karen, with Steve, would flood into her head, but she almost immediately decided there were certain things she would rather not know for the time being. "Hmm," Christina continued, "I just knew it. I don't know why you keep seeing him. You're going to get your heart broken, girl." "It's just ... I don't know ..." "Or is it ..." Christina put her hands on her shoulders and leant forwards to whisper in her ear - to whisper a question concerning how many inches long something was. The mere thought shook Karen to the core: she reacted with such surprise, and that obviously registered so clearly on her face, that Christina immediately giggled naughtily. "Have I shocked you? That's not like you! You're usually the first to big up a guy's ... credentials ..." Karen, as a man, had heard people say that women could be worse than men when it came to lewd conversations: not only had she never expected to find out whether or not that were true, but she had somehow imagined Christina to be above such crude behaviour. Not so, apparently, and, even worse, it seemed she herself was the more culpable of the two! This, presumably, was only going to add yet another layer to her torture: it was most likely that Christina would expect her to talk and giggle about the male anatomy, and in such a way that she would have to pretend to be excited about things men had but she did not. What could be worse? Actually, quite a few things, she then thought, and realistically expected that, in time, she would have to face them all. Karen, resigning herself to the fact she would have to bite the bullet, leant forwards and whispered a random number in Christina's ear. The reaction of her friend was to sit back in surprise, eyes wide, mouth falling open. "Oh, wow! You've never told me that! You lucky girl. Maybe, em ..." (Christina giggled) "Maybe Steve deserves another chance after all." Karen tried to smile in response, but only succeeded in looking uncomfortable. "I can certainly think of one way he could redeem himself." "Christina, don't. Please. Even a man would be offended by the sexism in that remark." "Sorry." The pair sat in thoughtful silence for a few moments while finishing their coffee, then Karen, her voice shaking, had to excuse herself. She walked, in trepidation, along the hallway and closed the bathroom door behind her. She approached the implement of torture - psychological torture - slowly and reluctantly; the lid was closed, so she raised it, but only the lid. Not the seat. That, she thought sadly, she would never raise again. No, immediately followed the automatic thought: every so often she would have to lift it to clean underneath it, but she would certainly never again be able to use the lavatory with the seat up. She sighed, then turned her back, pulled one item of clothing up around her waist, another down to her knees, and, with another trembling sigh, lowered herself to sit. Karen washed her hands gratefully; although she was far from happy, she at least had found a familiar ritual: something she had always done, was just the same as before, and had not been taken from her. Her relief did not last long, though, and a few moments later she was resting her forehead against the cabinet above the handbasin, while she fumbled for a tissue. She had only just begun to recover when she looked up and caught sight of her reflection in the door of the bathroom cabinet; she immediately decided to remove the mirror by opening the door. That only served to replace the original upset: the sight of a woman's face, with another: the contents of the cabinet. On the right hand side of the middle shelf sat an unopened box of tampons, waiting to take the place of the half- empty carton directly above it, since from now on they were going to be used up twice as quickly as they used to be. Karen looked sadly at the sight, fighting back tears all over again; the last time she had pulled open the same door, it had been with a larger, more powerful hand, and that place on the middle shelf had been occupied by a box of condoms. Now there would no more call for she and Christina to use such things; the need had gone, along with Karen's ability to wear one. "You sure you're all right?" Christina immediately said when Karen returned to the sofa. "Yeah, think so. Say, why don't you and I go out tonight? Just us. No men." "Great idea," Christina gushed. "Girls' night out." "Girls' night out," Karen thought to herself, as what she herself had said sank in: "No men." 3. The Price Grandmother looked over the rim of her spectacles at Anya, who was sitting at the other desk in the office. "I know what you're thinking," she said and Anya turned her head to stare back at her. "Do you?" "You can sense that you're going to meet Dr. Anderson today, but you're hoping you're wrong." "And what do you sense?" "I fear you're not wrong." "In that case, wouldn't that mean she's happy with her new life?" "On the contrary, she's miserable. She misses Christina terribly, and the more time they spend together, the more she misses her." "Then surely she'll realise she's made a mistake, and make the right decision today?" "Unfortunately, from what I can see so far, she's hell-bent on self- destruction. The problem is, she sees it as self-sacrifice, so it's going to be virtually impossible to dissuade her, even now." "She still hasn't come back, and it's less than an hour till we close. Maybe she's decided to take your advice after all." "I suggest you go to the ticket desk. Someone you know will be there by the time you reach the window." Anya, looking concerned, did as asked and shortly returned with another woman in tow. "Dr. Anderson," Grandmother said, "please, come in. I wish you no offence, but I was hoping never to meet you again." "None taken," came the instant reply, "But I told you you'd see me in three months, didn't I?" "You did. Have you decided to take my advice?" "I have come to purchase my lifetime pass." "Please, Dr. Anderson, allow me one more chance to dissuade you." "I'd prefer it if you called me Karen, if you don't mind. Dr. Anderson could easily be confused with a man's name." Grandmother smiled wryly. "In this world, there are certain events that are fixed. They may not have great ramifications, and they may be grossly unfair, but that is the way things are. To change them is to upset the balance of the world." "Yes, and if you do, there's a price to be paid. You already told me, but I don't see that." "You yourself are already paying that price." "In what way?" "You have never wanted to be a woman, and you still don't." "What I want is irrelevant. No-one gets to choose which sex they are. We have no option but to make the most of what we have, and try to live with things the way they are. And this ..." (she spread her hands and looked down at herself) "Is the way things are for me. "It's the father who determines his child's sex. It's supposed to be the X or Y chromosome of his sperm, but in my case it was what he did after I was born. Ironic, isn't it, to think that the harder he tried to make me into a man, the more inevitable he made it that I was going to end up being a woman? I hope he's looking down at me - or up at me - and screaming in agony at what he's done to his boy. You should blame him, not me. I'm just the person who has to live with the consequences. "How could I look in the mirror without seeing that poor girl staring at me over my shoulder, asking me, 'Why did you let me die, just so that you could have what you want?' I wouldn't be able to look in a mirror ever again, because that's what I'd see." "That young girl's death, tragic as it may have been, was what was supposed to happen." "Try explaining that to Rana Damanis! She would be within her rights to ask, 'Is it so terrible to be a woman, that you would be willing to sacrifice my life just so that you could be a man for your own selfish reasons?'" "That is not the question you should ask. You are changing what is supposed to be, and, as always, there will be consequences, possibly quite severe. What you ought to be asking yourself ..." "Please," Karen gently interrupted, "I don't want to hear another word about what would be best for me. I'll stick my fingers in my ears and scream, 'La, la, la,' at the top of my voice if I have to." "You also need to consider Christina." "Christina has a whole lifetime of opportunity ahead of her, even if my role in it has changed." "Karen ..." "No." Karen placed her credit card on the edge of Grandmother's desk. "You're not going to listen, are you?" "I've made up my mind." Grandmother sighed. It was not a sigh of impatience: far from it; her sigh was one of weariness, having watched far too many young people, convinced they were right and they knew better than their wiser, more experienced elders, throw their lives away on rashly taken decisions, based on mistaken assumptions. She closed her eyes and a few moments later, Anya entered. "Would you be so kind as to upgrade Dr. Anderson's pass to a lifetime membership, please, Anya?" she said sadly, being answered by a smile that conveyed the same mood. "Come over to the desk, please, Dr. Anderson," Anya politely requested, pressing a key to wake up the screen, "And hold your membership card over this reader." There was a quiet beep from the computer as Karen complied, and immediately Anya pushed a card reader over the desk towards her. "I asked you to call me Karen," she said while typing her PIN, "would you? Please? Because ..." "Because Dr. Anderson could be a man's name," Grandmother interrupted, "But there's no need to avoid it any more. Dr. Anderson is a woman, and always will be. And," she added after a pause, "As far as anyone outside this room is concerned, you always have been." "Is that it?" Karen replied, incredulous. "No flash of lightning ... not even a tingle in my fingertips?" "That's it," Grandmother said, "All that is going to happen is ... nothing. You simply will never go back to being the man you were intended to be. You now have what you wished for. I'd like to say I hope you were careful, but I cannot, because I know you have acted unwisely" * "There is nothing you could have done," Anya tried to console Grandmother. "She was determined to follow this through, no matter what." "I know. It's just so distressing to see lives thrown away unnecessarily like that." "Can you tell?" "Once she was in possession of her lifetime pass, everything became clear, but by then it was too late to warn her, and there was no point in distressing her unduly, by showing her the true extent of her folly. Better to allow her a short period of relative happiness before she begins to realise for herself. I wish now I had chosen to offer her a one-year pass instead, because I see it will take much longer than I originally expected, for things to become clear to her." Anya sat in the chair opposite her Grandmother's desk and waited for her to continue. "I said there was a price to pay, but it was a far steeper one than even I imagined. Rana will live for another six or seven months before her grip on the branch of a tree slips, and she injures her head in the fall. A few hours later, she will collapse and will have died by the time the ambulance arrives. In exchange for those few extra months, an exorbitant payment will be demanded of not just one, but three people." "Three?" "Christina will never marry, nor will she have more than a handful of boyfriends, none of whom will become close enough to be her lover. You see, there was only ever one man intended for her, but, unfortunately, I turned him into a woman. "Karen will not be so fortunate. Like Christina, there was only one woman for her, but now she will find herself taking a different path. She will marry. However, I'm afraid her marriage will be based on pure lust. Obviously you'll have noticed how lovely she is." "Of course. She's stunning." "And that will be all her future husband is interested in. He will make her miserable, and he'll turn more and more abusive the more resentful he becomes of how intelligent and charming she is. Eventually, their loveless, childless marriage will deteriorate into violence, and her divorce will be the best thing to have happened to her for a while, or for some time into the future." "It's so sad to think that married life could be so bad for someone, that divorce would be a good thing." "After what happens with her husband, she will never marry again, nor will she ever have a boyfriend, sadly. She will move back in with Christina, and the two will live as room-mates all their lives. People will laugh at them behind their backs. Many will suspect them of being lesbians, and perhaps they would have been happier if they had been. Karen and her husband will always use protection, so she will live her entire life without a single drop of semen entering her body. Christina will die a virgin." Anya sighed. "Who is the third person?" she asked. "The amazing young woman of whom Karen was supposed to be the father, will of course never be born now, and even that, I'm afraid, will begin to form a shadow in her mind as it becomes clear that neither she nor Christina will ever have children. She will have to live with the knowledge that she has gained nothing, and lost everything, in exchange for a few extra months for a girl who, she will come to realise, was destined to die anyway. "Her and Christina's daughter would have grown up to be one of the most brilliant paediatric surgeons in the United States, if not the world, but her intended achievements will now become the work of others. The groundwork will be laid by Karen herself, and others in their field will contribute the follow-on developments. "The damage we have done will, in time, be smoothed over, and almost a hundred years from now, once their daughter's death would have passed, the rift will have all but healed. The only scars left will be tiny and insignificant in the large scheme of things: the date on Rana's grave, Karen's name on hers, the surname on Christina's, and, of course, the absence of one grave. Their unborn daughter: the life that never was." * "That was good tonight," Karen said as she inserted a hanger into the dress she had worn to dinner, before opening the door of her wardrobe. "Was it?" Karen persevered with her attempt to foster a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere. "I really enjoyed myself." She peeled off her stockings and laid them and her bra over the back of a chair. "Did you? You certainly talked enough. About yourself." Karen turned to face him as he spoke; she was almost naked and he looked at her breasts before lowering his eyes. At one time, this would have caused a flutter of excitement in her middle, but tonight it made her feel distinctly uneasy. She reached for her nightdress. "Steve, are you all right? You seem a bit ... I don't know ..." She pulled her nightie over her head. "You don't know what?" Steve replied; there was now an angry, dangerous edge to his voice. "What's got into you?" "I don't know what you mean." "I feel distant from you. As if I don't really know you any more." "Well, maybe we should get to know each other better. Reacquaint ourselves with each other." "Steve? What are you doing?" Steve had grabbed hold of her wrists; he pushed her roughly onto the bed and, letting go with one hand, lifted her nightdress and pulled her underwear down, not caring how badly it chafed her as it was dragged over her skin. The pain made her whimper. Her free hand she had used in a vain attempt to defend herself; now Steve easily took hold of it again, and he climbed on top of her. Her instincts made her immediately pull her knees together as tightly as she could, but to no avail, because she was not strong enough to prevent his much greater weight forcing one of his knees between hers. From then on, all she could do was struggle wildly and plead incoherently, and before many seconds had passed, she was lying helplessly: her arms pinned down on either side of her head, and her legs trapped on either side of her husband. She could not get any purchase to kick him, and she was unable to force a knee beneath him to push him away. She could feel his erection; he began to use it to probe for the opening of her vagina. All of a sudden, her panic left her and she became unexpectedly calm; although her voice was trembling, she was able to plead rationally with him. "Steve, don't do this, I beg you. You're raping me." "How could it be rape when I'm your husband?" Karen almost replied, "That still counts," but thought it would only anger him. "Please. You're not wearing anything," she said instead; throughout their courtship and married life, Karen and Steve had always used a condom. "I think it's time you learned a woman's place." Karen was within a hairsbreadth of dissolving into panic again; Steve had found her vagina and now only needed one firm push; however he shifted his weight slightly, giving her the chance to use the softness of the bed and pull one hand free. She immediately grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged it with all her strength. He gave a roar of pain, lost his balance slightly, and put his hand down on the bed to support him. However, he placed it too close to the edge and the mattress gave way: with a single twist of her body, Karen toppled him onto the floor. She immediately rolled off the bed and ran for her life. Sprinting along the hall, she grabbed her keys on the way past and unlocked the front door. By this time, Steve was still emerging from the bedroom, a few seconds behind her, and she used those seconds wisely. She pulled the door shut, lifted the handle, and inserted her key into the lock, turning it. By the time Steve had retrieved his own key, all he was able to do was thump his hand angrily against the side window of the car as she drove off. * "Karen?" Christina said, shocked, as she opened the front door of the apartment to find her friend on the doorstep, in tears, wearing only a nightdress, no underwear, barefoot. "What on earth's happened?" "Steve attacked me," she whimpered, collapsing into Christina's arms, "He tried to rape me." "Oh, my God, Oh my God! No! Please, no!" Christina pulled her arms tightly around her friend, as if she could fashion a cocoon of safety that would shut out all pain. "Lock the door," Karen urged her. Christina began to close the door, then stopped. "Your car ..." she said. Karen's B.M.W. was sitting abandoned, angled across the small car park, engine still running, driver's door wide open. "No! Don't go out there!" Karen shrieked as Christina slipped outside, "He could be coming!" It took Christina only seconds to pull the car into a space, but to Karen it seemed much longer. She stared after her in trepidation; it was like watching a scene from a horror film, where a beautiful young woman is innocently pottering about, completely ignorant of the monster lurking in the darkness, about to pounce. Christina pressed the button on the car key while she was running back, and Karen slammed the door behind her, holding it shut as if she could permanently seal it just by pressing her hands on it. Christina turned the lock and Karen burst into tears. "Don't do that!" she sobbed from the comfort of her friend's arms. "Come through here," Christina replied, leading Karen with her arm around her shoulders. "Sit down. I'll make you something to drink." "No, don't leave me, please," Karen said, refusing to let go of Christina's hand, and pulling her down beside her. Christina put her arm back around her and felt her head drop onto her shoulder. "Tell me one thing," she asked gently. "Mmm?" "Did you get away from him in time? Before he ..." Karen nodded, her head still bowed, her eyes still closed. She began to sob violently. "Thank God. Thank God. Shh, you're safe now." * "What's wrong?" Anya had entered the office to find Grandmother sitting staring morosely into space, looking almost as if the world had ended. "I was right about today." "What about today?" Anya replied, then immediately answered her own question, "Oh, yes. I feel it too. Karen." "Could you give me an hour or two, please, Anya?" "Sure. There are a few things I can be getting on with in the meantime." "Of all the conversations I have had with Dr. Anderson, I'm afraid, Anya, that the one we'll have in a few minutes will be the most difficult and heartbreaking of all." Grandmother followed Anya out of the office, but while the younger woman carried on and into the ticket booth at the far end, she stopped half way along and waited beside the door. Presently, it swung open to reveal Karen, who was in the process of walking past. "Oh," she said, slightly startled, then looking sadly at Grandmother, said, "Hello." She seemed afraid. "Nice to see you, Dr. Anderson," Grandmother replied. "Please come in. I think you know the way." She followed Karen into her office and they took their seats at either side of the desk. "So," Grandmother opened, "how long has it been now?" "Five years." "And how are you?" Karen did not reply immediately. Instead she regarded Grandmother for several moments before saying, timidly, "I need to ask you something." "I know," Grandmother replied; her voice was soft and understanding, but there was a sadness in it that she was unable to disguise. "You were right all along. I'm sorry. I should have listened to your advice." Grandmother nodded sadly and sympathetically, but said nothing. "That girl died. Rana Damanis. She died in an accident." "Yes." "Just like you warned me." Grandmother nodded again, but felt it was wise to remain silent. "I left my husband. We're divorced. I moved back in with Christina. We've lived together for nearly three years now." "And how is she?" "Great. She's beautiful, witty, good at everything. We have a great time together. I don't know if I love living with her, or hate it. Don't get me wrong - we absolutely adore each other, but it's just so frustratingly ... platonic." Grandmother waited for Karen to continue. She had been dreading this moment, knowing how painful the rest of the conversation was going to be. "Is there any way you could change me back into a man again?" "Karen, I'm so, so, sorry, but I'm afraid I can't change a woman into a man. That's beyond my powers." "But you'd have changed me back at the end of the first three months if I'd agreed. Why can't you do it now?" "I wouldn't have changed you back. The spell that turned you into a woman would have worn off and you'd simply have reverted to your true form. But now that your transformation has been made permanent with a lifetime membership, this is your true form, and you can never change back again." Karen lowered her head and closed her eyes. She tried her best to control her breathing, but was unable to stop herself sobbing. Grandmother took another chair and placed it beside Karen's. She took two tissues from a box on her desk and offered them to the distraught woman, who dabbed the tears running down the sides of her nose. She placed the box on her lap when she sat down beside Karen, who wept for several minutes before regaining enough control to be able to speak unevenly. "Isn't there anything that can be done to get me out of this?" "I'm sorry, Karen, but there's nothing I can do." That answer returned Karen to abject weeping; Grandmother put her arm around her shoulders and offered another two tissues to replace the originals, which were now wet through. "Take as long as you need," she said. "We won't be disturbed." This time it was much longer before Karen recovered enough to be able to look round and give the older woman a sorrowful, contrite smile. "It is true what they say," she stammered. Grandmother remained silent; she waited until Karen felt able to continue. "Act in haste, repent at leisure."