Satan's Pact free porn video

Chapter 1. Chanctonbury Ring A cold, drizzly afternoon seemed somehow appropriate. Standing numbly, feeling as if he were stumbling around in the dark in the grip of a nightmare, able to grasp almost nothing of what was happening in the real world around him, Nigel picked up few of the words spoken by the vicar, and those he did manage to take in grated horribly. "... in your infinite mercy ..." Mercy? Do you call this mercy? "... take the soul of our dear departed ..." Soul? If only. "... ashes to ashes ..." Just like the church they had died in. The sudden silence made him start, dragging him back to the graveside, where he watched in despair as his darling Stephanie's coffin was lowered into the ground. Standing close enough to be able to see everything, he was unable to get over how terrifyingly deep the grave seemed: he watched the blurred image of his wife making her final journey ... down ... down ... it seemed to go on forever, as if her body were being lowered into Hell itself, to reunite it with her soul. Suddenly, everything was over and people were leaving. Some left immediately; some accepted the invitation to join with the family at the Craniston Hotel afterwards; but despite there being a good number of people there, nothing could alter the fact that Nigel was utterly lonely. Up to the point where they had left the cemetery, he had been a married man, even though his wife was deceased; but everything felt different now, because he had abandoned her in the cold, hard ground, and nothing could alter the fact that Stephanie was gone. Everyone was sympathetic and genuinely concerned for him, of course, but they were equally keen to return to their own lives in the sunlit world, where the people they loved were still alive. Gradually the animated chatter (how dare they!) died away and before he knew it, Nigel had shaken hands with everyone and was now almost alone; even Stephanie's parents had gone home. "Ready?" Nigel jumped when Taylor's voice came out of nowhere, or so it seemed. "Oh, hi," he replied, even managing to slur two simple syllables. "Yeah, I think you are. Let's get you home." She took his arm and, supporting him more than being escorted by him, guided him outside and into the car park. She opened the passenger door while he steadied himself with both hands on the roof, and then helped him into the seat. Neither spoke much during the drive home; Nigel was in too much grief and too much of an alcoholic haze to be inclined to do so, and his driver could thing of nothing to say that would not upset him all the more. Nigel had almost forgotten the offer to drive him home afterwards: something he had, in truth, accepted only reluctantly. While it was kind of her, and very understanding (knowing he would be in need of a little Dutch Courage), there was one very good reason he was hesitant to take her up on her generosity: her face. He had always got on very well with Stephanie's sister, and he and she were as close as a brother and sister in-law usually were: however today, despite his fondness, he had been avoiding her like the plague. Although he had never thought that she and Stephanie were particularly alike, today Taylor was his late wife's spitting image, and it hurt to look at her. "Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?" she asked once he was safely in the arms of the easy chair beside the fireplace. He nodded and pointed at the sofa, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, "Might crash out over there." "No, don't. Go to bed and have a proper night's sleep." She almost added, "You'll feel better in the morning," but decided that would be as untrue as it would be patronising, so she left it unsaid. "Just a moment. I'll be right back." She returned from the kitchen half a minute later with a pint glass almost full of water. "Here," she said, "drink this. It'll help." Then she smiled grimly. "Better than that will," she growled, pointing at the drinks cabinet. Nigel nodded contritely, as if she had caught him mentally pouring another large whisky, and had mentally confiscated it. In truth, her warning was unnecessary. He was not a particularly heavy drinker, and today he had had enough to last him a week. Taylor lifted Stephanie's keys from the sideboard. "I'll take ..." she began, then stopped when she realised what she had almost said, "... these. Then I can let myself in tomorrow if you're still a bit under the weather." Nigel grimaced and nodded his consent. "Nigel?" "Mmrrh?" "Remember what you promised." "Mm. Won't doo nthin to msel." "Good. I'll see you tomorrow sometime. Goodnight." Taylor let herself out and Nigel stumbled first to the bathroom then the bedroom, where he crawled into bed trying to remember whether or not he had brushed his teeth, and falling asleep before he had made up his mind. He was more concerned with his promise to Taylor, and how he had avoided the issue: she had been trying to make him promise 'not to do anything stupid,' as she had originally put it, but he had persistently sidestepped that. Nigel had no intention of doing anything stupid. Not until June. **** It was early afternoon before Nigel finally surfaced, having slept for sixteen or seventeen hours. There was no sign of Taylor, so he decided to try to eat something, then have a shower. By then, his head was a little clearer, so he made himself another cup of coffee, which he took through to the living room and selected a particular book from the bookshelf: the one he suspected had destroyed his life. When he and Stephanie had married, both had wanted to have a family, and intended to begin immediately. However, after four years of childlessness, a fertility specialist had given them the most devastating news possible: that Stephanie suffered from a degenerative condition of the ovaries that made it impossible for her to have a baby. She had begun to attend church again at that point (not having been there for some years), but very quickly (surprisingly quickly, to Nigel's mind) switched to libraries and bookshops. Occasionally, he overheard her on the phone, having the most bizarre conversations, and from what little he could discern, one word in particular stood out: "Grimoire." When he looked it up online, he discovered to his horror that a grimoire is a magician's handbook: full of spells and rituals, but in particular, ways of raising the dead, invoking demons, or ... summoning the devil. Then that book had appeared on the bookshelf: It was a collection of British folklore, mainly myths and legends, and Nigel had been surprised his wife would be interested in such a subject. Stephanie had looked at it frequently, sometimes several times a day, but no matter how often she read it, the bookmark always remained in the same place. Although it was mildly puzzling, he failed to see anything particularly suspicious, until one day when he decided to sit down and read the marked pages in full. It was then that he came across something in one of the entries that startled him. Remembering the grimoire, he put two and two together. The entry read: "Chanctonbury Ring, Sussex. "A hill-fort dating from the Iron Age. The beech trees on the summit block most of the sunlight, and the atmosphere within is noticeably chillier than the downs outside. Local tradition says that no bird ever sings among them. Another superstition claims the trees are uncountable, but that if anyone ever succeeded in doing so, he would raise the ghosts of Julius Caesar and his armies. A more sinister tale is that the devil can be summoned by running around the trees backwards, seven times, on Midsummer Eve at midnight. When he appears, he will offer a bowl of porridge, but if you accept, he will take your soul in exchange. In another version of the same story, he will grant your dearest wish." When he spotted this paragraph, he had shaken off his initial reaction and laughed, but his derision turned once more to concern as Stephanie began to act more and more strangely. One evening, with no warning, she had mysteriously decided to visit a friend, staying overnight, and a day or two later, the chance discovery of a petrol station receipt made Nigel realise she had been nowhere of the sort, and instead had headed due south out of London. It was the date at the bottom that had been the biggest shock, because that was what brought home to him that she had left on the twenty-third of June, and returned on Midsummer Day, the twenty-fourth. He did his best to discount it as a nonsensical coincidence, but a few weeks later, Stephanie was pregnant. If that were not suspicious enough, next came the appointment with her GP, who was filled with equal quantities of delight and disbelief. "Congratulations!" Dr. Ramsay had said. "That's wonderful. I couldn't be more pleased for you." She smiled, then her expression became more clinical. "Any significant changes you've made recently? Lifestyle? Diet?" "I decided to take a short-cut," Stephanie replied. "I sold my soul to the devil." "That's one way to do it!" Dr. Ramsay replied, laughing. Stephanie joined in, but her laugh was hollow. Nigel experienced a weird buzzing noise in his ears and a horrible tingle along the length of his spine. Later that evening, anxious and uncertain, he finally brought up the subject. "What was that you were joking about?" he opened nervously. "Selling your soul to the devil?" "Nothing. Just a joke." Nigel rose and walked over to the bookcase, where he lifted the collection of myths and legends. He opened it at the bookmarked place, and laid it in Stephanie's lap, showing the entry for Chanctonbury Ring. She looked up at him, her eyes full of tears. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, barely audibly. "I went there. On Midsummer Eve. I did exactly what the book says. I waited till midnight, then started running backwards round the trees. After I counted seven, suddenly there was this awful, sharp smell, and I heard a man's voice. I turned and ... he was there. He looked horrible! But I don't know why. He was tall, slim, very handsome, well-dressed, but ... there was something about him that made me want to run away screaming. He held out a bowl, like it says there, but I refused. Then he said: 'Then what might I do for you?' "I explained about you and I wanting to have children more than anything, and ... I ... well, the upshot was, I agreed to trade my soul if I could have a baby. It worked, though! I'm pregnant! We're going to have a ..." "Are you insane?" "I think I was. I was so desperate I think I got a bit unhinged. I know there's no such thing as the devil. I know that was just some random guy. Or maybe I imagined the whole thing. But I'm pregnant, Nigel! Maybe it was the power of autosuggestion." The arguments and recriminations went on for weeks. They began with Nigel telling Stephanie he thought she was mad to entertain such a ridiculous notion as summoning the devil; mad to go all alone to that hilltop where anyone could have attacked her; mad to have had anything to do with the local prankster who had spotted a woman running backwards around the trees and played the usual trick on a gullible tourist. They ended with him still thinking she was mad, but for a different and far more terrifying reason. He started to notice things. He had at first disbelieved Stephanie when she said she heard strange, growling noises, and saw strange lights that disappeared when she tried to look at them, but then he started to experience them himself, although only when he was with her. A low, throaty rumbling that seemed to be coming from a great distance, and then things on the periphery of his vision, like wisps of smoke lit from behind, that dissipated when he turned his eyes towards them. They decided to stop going out after dark. **** November arrived to greet the third month of Stephanie's pregnancy, and it brought both cold, unpleasant weather, and cold, unpleasant thoughts. By this time, Stephanie had started to go to pieces. "I'm going to die," she often repeated. "I'm never going to hold my baby. I'm going to have a baby, but I'm going to die in childbirth. I just know it. I'm going to Hell. I'm not even going to be able to look down and watch my baby growing up." Nigel was becoming more and more fearful about the state of Stephanie's mental health, when one day, without warning, she simply disappeared. He was unable to find her anywhere; none of their friends or family had seen or heard from her; she did not answer her phone. She had been on the police missing persons list for two days when her body was discovered in the burnt ruins of a church that had collapsed when the building next door was destroyed by a gas explosion. **** Chapter 2. Midsummer Eve As the months passed, Nigel became outwardly less distressed, and Taylor's visits, which were frequent and systematic to begin with, began to lose their urgency. Shortly after the new year she began to see definite signs of improvement, and as spring progressed, slowly backed off until her calls became more relaxed and more normal. By the time May had come to an end, he seemed to be his old self again, and though it was clear he missed Stephanie a great deal, Taylor thought he was through the woods and well on the road to recovery. Not so. Nigel was still in the deepest despair, and had carefully planned his so-called rehabilitation to make everyone think he was all right. His greatest fear was that someone would suspect he had other plans, so he had meticulously acted out the healing process, and throughout June forced himself to socialise, forced himself to tolerate the company of others, forced himself to smile. Finally, it was the twenty-third of the month and time for hopelessness to be transformed into belief. He took two bottles of water and some carelessly-made sandwiches, throwing them onto the passenger seat of the car. Just as Stephanie would have done, he followed a route he had traced on the map many times; several times a day, in fact, during the past week. It was only obsession that made him keep checking the roads to follow, as he knew exactly which way to go: head south out of London and take the A24 to Dorking and Washington, then the A823 to the junction with Chanctonbury Ring Road. By half past ten, the car was parked, and he was impatiently pacing back and forth beside the copse of beech trees at the summit of Chanctonbury Ring. Time began to crawl. Ten forty-five. Eleven o'clock. Ten past eleven. Quarter past eleven. Eighteen minutes past. Nineteen. The longer he waited, the more slowly time seemed to pass, and the more determined it seemed to be to torture him. After what seemed a lifetime, it was five to midnight. He pushed everything else out of his mind and forced himself to concentrate on a single task, afraid he was going to get his timing wrong and miss his chance. Taking out his phone, he used it to watch the seconds count down with pinpoint accuracy. Finally, it was one minute to midnight, and he began. Nigel ran backwards, at a controlled pace to make sure he avoided stumbling, around the large group of trees. His first circuit was completed. His second. Midnight passed. His third. Fourth. By the time his sixth was done, his heart was thumping in his chest, far more heavily than would normally be caused by such gentle exercise. Almost there ... he arrived at his starting point and nothing happened. Tears of disappointment and despair began to form in his eyes. The devil had not appeared. Of course the devil had not appeared. Grief was driving him insane. Why else would he be making a fool of himself like this? How on earth could the devil appear? There was no such thing as the devil. "He-hem." Nigel spun around and his stomach immediately started to churn, making him think he was going to vomit: firstly with the awful smell, like sulphur; secondly through disgust. Now he understood what Stephanie had meant: the man standing in front of him was sublimely handsome; a perfect example of masculine beauty; immaculately groomed; exquisitely dressed. There was something about him, though: something wrong ... something menacing ... something unwholesome ... something putrid. Nigel took an involuntary step backwards, almost fell over, thought about fleeing for his life: but the man held something out to him, which immediately made him feel reassured. It was a round earthenware bowl with the handle of a spoon visible, and Nigel's immediate thought was that the bowl was a gift from his greatest friend, and if he accepted, the rest of eternity would be perfect. His fingers were an inch away when something brought him to his senses and he snatched back his hand. "No, thank you." It was impossible to describe the look of livid disappointment that crossed the man's face, or the overwhelming urge to interpret his avaricious scowl as righteous forbearance. The moment passed; the look of anger vanished, but not the feeling of terror. If he had torn out Nigel's throat and beaten him to death, it would have seemed less threatening than the benign smile that acknowledged the refusal of his offer. The thought struck him that he had sometimes seen a similar portrayal of wickedness: someone outwardly likeable and trustworthy, but surrounded by an unmistakable aura of inherent evil. Such perfectly presented characters had appeared occasionally on television, in films, and it was impossible, he thought, that those writers could have formulated such an accurate image of such a man as stood before him now, unless they had personally conducted an audience with such a man. Nigel wondered how many scriptwriters, how many published authors, had sold their soul to the devil in exchange for their big break, and were able to write from first-hand experience. "Then what might I do for you?" Exactly the phrase Stephanie had quoted. Nigel was shaking uncontrollably. He knew he had reached the end of his life, and the beginning of eternal torment. He was hardly able to speak, but he forced himself to think of Stephanie and somehow found the courage. "You ... you have my wife." "Her name was Stephanie, yes. I do like her. She screams so pitifully." "You bastard! You killed her!" "I merely claimed what was mine. She tried to go back on our bargain by taking refuge in a church. Although it was impossible to do anything directly to her while she was under unfair protection, the building next door was not beyond my reach." "You murdered eleven people." "Twelve. You forget her unborn child. If it is any consolation, four of those people were already mine. Your wife and three others. Your daughter, unfortunately, was not." "Daughter? You bastard!" "And you ... repeat yourself. Have you come here merely to insult me?" "I want to trade." "Trade? Interesting. You do realise I only deal in souls?" "That ... is ..." (Nigel took a deep breath) "... what I want to ... trade. My ... my ... s... soul." "I would be delighted to oblige. In exchange for what, might I ask?" "M... my wife's. Will ... will you let her go and t... take me instead?" "And what, exactly, would I gain by such an exchange?" "My soul!" "In place of your wife's." "Y... yes." "Then I would be no better off than I am now. Might I suggest an alternative?" "What?" "A challenge. I shall set you a task. If you succeed, I shall return your wife to you. If you fail, your soul is forfeit, and I also keep that which is already mine." Nigel thought for a moment. This was hopeful. He had a chance to get Stephanie back, and not lose his own soul in the process. "So what's the task?" he asked. The man smiled unpleasantly. "I require you to betray her," he said smoothly. "To be unfaithful to her." "Betray? Unfaithful?" "You must commit adultery." "Adultery? My ... my wife's ... dead ..." Nigel struggled to say the word. "If you succeed in your task, your wife will not be dead. You, however, must have a child not with her, but with another woman." "What?" "I shall give you ten years, during which time you must find a woman willing to bear your child. She must become pregnant by you, and give birth within those ten years. If she does, the moment your offspring is born, I will release the soul of your wife, who will then return to you. Assuming, of course, she is willing to overlook your little ... indiscretion." "But ... but ... that's not fair! That would be like I'd dumped her because she can't have children. Ask me to do something else ... anything else ... but not that!" "It is I who set the terms of the pact between us. Not you. You will accept whatever I decide the challenge will be, or there will be no bargain. Do you accept?" "I couldn't do that to her. Not to Stephanie." "Then if you do not accept my challenge, under whatever conditions I deem fit, your wife's soul remains mine. Goodbye." "No! Wait!" She would understand, Nigel was sure. Perhaps the mother would let them adopt the baby. Even if Stephanie left him over his infidelity, at least he would have saved her. At least there might be a chance of winning her back. "I ..." Nigel closed his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing: "I ... accept." "Done. It is after midnight, and that means it is Midsummer, Eve." "No, if it's after mid..." but the words died because the voice that spoke them was wrong ... as were the feelings coming from everywhere: head, hair, shoulders, arms, chest, hips, legs ... as was the dress flapping in the breeze against bare skin ... the devil's vindictive grin vanished into thin air, leaving a lone figure on the hilltop, who looked down in horror. The same voice rose again, but this time to release a wail of despair. The challenge was doomed to failure, and both their souls were lost. The devil had tricked Nigel into agreeing hurriedly to a pact without first agreeing fair terms. The task of fathering a child had been made impossible before it had even begun. She was a woman. **** It was a warm, balmy night, but Nigel still found herself shivering; partly through shock, and partly as a reaction to the new and unknown feeling of wearing only a light summer dress. She had bare arms; her neck was completely exposed, as was too much of her back, and a disturbingly large part of her front. Her shoulders were as bare as her arms, with only two pairs of flimsy straps over them, and looking down, she could easily see inside the front of the dress, where her eyes found not only the cups attached to one of the pairs of straps, but also the breasts those cups supported. Her legs were naked, making them feel unnaturally cool, despite the warmth of the night; although the dress just covered her knees, they still seemed to Nigel to be completely unprotected; the flimsy layer of cotton around her thighs and bottom was so light that it almost felt as if they had nothing concealing them at all. It was like standing naked on a stage with the curtains closed, but knowing there was a full house in the auditorium, and that at any moment the curtain could be drawn back ... Nigel's first reaction was to raise her hands to her chest, drawing in a rattling gasp of breath the first time she touched her own breasts. The sensation was familiar to her hands, having caressed Stephanie's so often, but also alien and abnormal to feel, from a woman's point of view, hands pressing on and holding them. One of her hands began to descend; she had no desire to do what she was about to do ... no desire to prove to herself what had been done to her ... what she already knew could not be otherwise ... but she was unable to resist. Her fingers discovered what they were looking for, or, rather, failed to find what she was hoping in vain that she still had, and she nearly collapsed under the sheer weight of irrefutable truth. "No ... oh, God, please, no!" She had known all along that she was only going to prove the non- existence of something she knew could not possibly be there, but still it was both the biggest and most terrifying discovery of her life, to verify beyond doubt that she was female. There was worse to come. As the initial shock wore off slightly, the rational part of her mind began to calculate what her immediate actions should be, and the first thing was an assessment of her situation. Being stuck in a woman's body was something she could do nothing about, but what about the repercussions of being a woman? Where did that leave her, and what were her priorities? Her own safety would have to be at the top of the list. All of a sudden, she was overwhelmed by a sense of vulnerability, remembering the way she had reprimanded Stephanie about being a lone female in the middle of nowhere, with no-one to protect her. Exactly as she herself was now. She had to get away from here. If standing still had felt different, walking was a hundred times more strange. As a married man, Nigel had been aware that the differences between men and women extended to more than voices, chests and bottoms. A woman's skeleton is not just smaller than a man's, but built differently, too, with the thighs angled more inwards, and the muscles connected to the bones in different places: her feet wanted to stay closer together than before, and place themselves one in front of another as she took each step, while her arms naturally turned outwards unless she made a conscious effort to pull them to her sides. Along with her new summer dress, she also had a pair of sandal-like shoes on her feet and, worst of all, the heels were not only raised, but thin enough to sink into the ground as she walked. Added to this was the difficulty of descending the hill effectively on tiptoe, the backs of her shoes threatening to catch on the uneven, stony ground and trip her up. She seriously considered sitting down to take them off, and walking back to the car barefoot. The car! Would it still be there? Would it still exist? In the darkness, it had taken about three quarters of an hour to climb the hill from Chanctonbury Car Park, but it took two or three times that to stumble along the return trip, and all that time she had no idea what she would find when she got there. The car park was shielded by trees, and when Nigel finally arrived, she could not immediately see it; she began to whimper in despair, but once through the entrance its dim outline became visible in the gloom, almost making her burst into tears of relief. It was the same car, a middle of the range family hatchback. Her hand automatically ran over her hip, expecting to slip itself into the pocket of the trousers she was no longer wearing, instead finding the car unlocked and the key in the ignition. She had definitely not left it like that, but at that moment could not care less. She climbed into the driver's seat, wincing at the feeling of sitting down as a woman for the first time. There was a bag on the passenger seat. She grabbed it and pulled it open, finding all sorts of things inside: lipstick, a mirror, a couple of unmarked containers of the type Stephanie had often carried, and whose contents she resolutely pushed to the back of her mind; a bottle of perfume; a driving license. She gaped in disbelief at the picture of a young brunette, then swivelled the rear view mirror towards herself and switched on the courtesy light. The same woman stared back at her in horror. Finding herself in a female body had been traumatic enough, but to look at herself in the mirror, and see her own eyes trapped in a woman's face made everything sink in. She made sure the door was closed, locked the car, and dissolved into tears, wallowing miserably in the feminine feelings and feminine sounds produced by her new body. **** Chapter 3. Out of the Frying Pan By the time Nigel had gurgled into silence, it was about half past two. Being the middle of summer, it would only be another two hours or so until dawn, and soon might come the arrival of early morning walkers, wanting to see sunrise from the hilltops, or perhaps staff of Wiston Estate, where Chanctonbury Ring stood; the last thing she wanted to do was to interact with other people as a woman, or to let anyone see her wearing a dress. Something at the back of her mind told her that that would have to come eventually, but not now. Please, not now. When she had begun crying, her driving license had slipped from her fingers, so now she had to suffer the purgatory of bending down in a tight space to retrieve it from between her feet. With a sigh, she glanced at it again, reading the name for the first time: Eve Ross, and straight away she saw the devil's cruel joke in telling her that after midnight it was "Midsummer, Eve." She threw the license back into the bag at her side and prepared to drive off, immediately realising that the seat was positioned far too far from the pedals for her. Under her breath, she cursed the discovery of yet another sex difference, then gritted her teeth and began fumbling between her legs for the adjuster. It momentarily struck her as odd that her driving license should have changed from Nigel Ross to Eve Ross, yet the car seat was positioned exactly as she had had it as a man; but she had bigger, and potentially much more embarrassing things on her mind. Driving was difficult. She was accustomed to planting a man's heel on the floor and pivoting a large man's foot onto the pedal. Trying to use a much smaller foot, hindered by an unnatural protrusion from her heel, proved to be irritatingly awkward. She was forced to manipulate the pedals using her knees as much as her ankle muscles, and it took three or four miles of frustratingly slow driving before she finally cleansed the kangaroo petrol from the tank. Once learnt, though, the technique of driving in heels turned out not to be impossible after all. It was best, she decided, to drive cautiously, not taking even the slightest risk and, as a result, arrived home safely: but disturbingly close to dawn. This she regretted, because the creeping daylight meant that once she alighted from the car, into full view of anyone who might want to leer at her, she would be visible to men much further away than she would have been under cover of complete darkness. There was another problem. If she arrived at her flat to find it was no longer hers, what would she do? She would be homeless. Supposing her car turned out to belong to the people who lived in her flat? Supposing they had reported it stolen? In her bag was a key that looked very much like the one she, as Nigel, had put into her jacket on leaving. She hovered it over the lock, and stopped. The name on the front door had changed: instead of saying, simply, "ROSS," it now read "E. ROSS." Eric, possibly? Edward? Perhaps she would be confronted by a family outraged to find her trespassing in their house, like in Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Perhaps the flat was owned by a woman, who would produce a can of mace spray when she discovered a strange man in her home. Then realisation dawned. Eve. Eve Ross. She turned the key and the door opened. No, she thought, in any case it would not have been a man that that imaginary woman would have discovered in her home. Nor would there be a family to find her trespassing in their house, like Goldilocks. Disturbingly like Goldilocks in more ways than she cared to think. She looked around. To her surprise, the flat was very much like it had been when she had left last night. Stephanie's things were all still there; books, a few ornaments, placed as they always had been. The bathroom contained both male and female cosmetics; Stephanie's favourite brands, and also the deodorant and shaving gel she had used as a man. The bedroom wardrobes contained the clothes she remembered: both Stephanie's and her own. All the evidence seemed to indicate the flat still belonged to her, but wait a moment ... Perhaps the ornaments, the perfume, the female cosmetics, were not Stephanie's at all: perhaps they were hers; and perhaps all the male things were not hers, but someone else's. Oh, no. Perhaps they belonged to another man. Perhaps at any moment, some guy - some guy that she had no idea who he was - would let himself in and say, "Hey, babe," and expect to go to bed with her, expect to have sex with her ... Oh, no. Although ... it was still early morning, so where was he? Just to make sure, she ran to the door and securely fastened it. Unfortunately there was no deadbolt, but she left her key in the lock so that another could not be inserted from the outside. Just for good measure, she switched off all the lights so there would be no signs of life through the windows. She made her way to the kitchen, where she poured herself a very large whisky which she drank far too quickly, before staggering through to the bedroom, holding on to the door frames for support. She had forgotten that not only does alcohol have more of an effect on women than on men, but it affects them more quickly too. She decided to close the bedroom curtains, as it was broad daylight, despite the fact it might give away that she was at home. She clambered into bed and tried her best to sleep, but found that to be impossible. Her mind would not rest: it was obsessed with the insufferable physical changes that she had been tricked into accepting. Time after time, her hand strayed to her chest or her hips, her waist ... her groin. All of these, but particularly the first and the last, drew a trembling sob of disbelief, each time as strong as the last, each time almost believing that the impossible could not have happened, each time her hopes, like a ship in a storm clinging to the belief that rescue would come, dashed on the rocks of despair. It had been a full day, 24 hours, since she had last slept, but still her mind was refusing to relax. Eventually exhaustion, both physical and emotional, began to take a hold of her and drag her away from the pain of consciousness. She stopped touching herself in horror. She stopped reliving the moment of her transformation. She curled up, closed her eyes and, gently and quietly, cried herself to sleep. **** No hangover, no matter how bad, no headache, no matter how fuzzy, could do anything to mask the dreadful experience of waking up in a woman's body for the first time. Consciousness dawned with a vague notion that something was not quite as it should be, and as her grip on reality gradually strengthened, the more it felt as if she were instead slipping away from reality and into a nightmare. Every part of herself that she moved or brushed against felt changed in some way, and as more and more perceptions assaulted her, she experienced things that it was impossible for a male to experience, and as she finally moved in a way that separated her legs, she suddenly knew. Her hand shot between them and she discovered to her terror, then remembered to her horror, that she was a woman. Everything came flooding back with a vengeance. Stephanie's stupidity. Chanctonbury Ring. Her own stupidity. The devil had changed her into a woman and set her a task that was impossible for a woman to perform. Ten years from now, her soul would be dragged down to hell and eternal torment: according to legend, those who traded their soul with the devil were granted a few years of worldly happiness in exchange, but not her. Until then she had to suffer the torment, which surely was almost as great, of living out those ten years in a woman's body. Correction: nine years and 364 days. She jumped out of bed and immediately winced as things settled into the usual position for an upright female. There was only one way to escape from this. She went straight to the bathroom cabinet and looked at the collection of objects inside. A nail file. Ladies' deodorant. Men's deodorant (would that count as cross-dressing?) Cotton buds. Mouthwash. Sanitary ... things (Stephanie's ... no, not Stephanie's: not any more). Then she found the box she was looking for, read the maximum dosage, pushed two tablets through the foil into her hand, and swallowed them with a glass of water. She walked slowly back to the bedroom, crawled beneath her duvet and let the sleeping-pills draw her back into a thankful unconsciousness. Waking as a woman for the second time was no less traumatic than the first, and the surprise was no less severe than yesterday afternoon. The same nagging sensation that things were wrong, the same unexpected discoveries, the same horrified realisation. She took a deep breath, which she released in a long sigh, and decided she needed to pull herself together. It was Monday morning, and time to go to work. Work! What was she thinking? She had no idea who she was, not really, and she certainly had no idea where she worked or what she did. After a moment's despair, an idea occurred to her: she had had a laptop bag that she always kept in the corner of the bedroom ... turning her head, there it was. She heaved it onto the bed and opened the front compartment, where she kept her staff card. She dug in her hand and pulled it out ... no, she pulled two out. Nigel Ross and Eve Ross. Now that was confusing. The cards were identical, apart from the name and photograph. Same company, same job title, even the same employee number (although she would be willing to bet ... not the same salary). "I still have a job," she whispered to herself, amazed. Now here, as she thought things through, was a great choice! Go to work, meet her friends and colleagues in a new, terrifying way; "Suppose everyone still thinks I'm a man?" she thought in panic. "I can't do it!" But no, her staff card definitely belonged to a woman. She was not going to be ridiculed for turning up at work cross-dressed (unless she tried wearing her own clothes). She was going to have to start using Stephanie's wardrobe. She was going to have to walk, talk, dress, behave, interact with people as if she had been female all her life. "But I'm not a woman!" she croaked in agony. "How could I possibly do that?" She stared at Eve's card. "But I am. A woman is exactly what I am. And a woman is what I'm going to be, no matter what, even if all I do is stay here and feel sorry for myself." She stuffed both cards back into the bag with a determined air. Now resolved, all she had to do was get ready for work ... and go. But then she walked right into the first hurdle, as soon as she entered the bathroom. The shower. Worse, the thing against the other wall, with everything still up from the last time she had used it. She stared at it with a touch of nostalgia, then walked over and lowered the seat. "Something I'll never have to do again." Yes, she would, she thought, whenever a man used one immediately before her. "Wonder if I'll ever complain about men not putting the seat down when they're finished?" She turned her back on it and let her underwear fall to her ankles, looked down at herself for the first time, almost passed out at the sight, shut her eyes and grimaced, decided to get on with things ... she had always felt a little sorry for Stephanie, in a patronising, almost sexist sort of a way, and now she herself was expecting to feel mildly humiliated at being forced to sit down to pee, but it turned out to be a purely perfunctory experience: simply attending to her needs according to her capabilities. There was nothing humiliating, nothing unnatural, nothing horrifying, and she almost felt disappointed that relieving herself as a woman turned out to be no big deal at all. The shower, though, was a much bigger deal: until now, she had been mostly able to avoid looking at herself, and try to avoid too many movements that produced unwanted physical sensations, but this was the point where it became totally impossible to deny her new gender, and where she would be forced to confront sex differences head-on. Although her breasts were small enough for one hand to cover each of them, they felt much larger than they really were to someone who was not used to having them. It was almost a relief to move downward onto her hips, despite their plush, rounded shape, but then came the worst: unfortunately, for the sake of her health, something that could not be avoided. It was agonising to have to place her hand on the part of her body where the changes she most regretted were. Forced to explore her new contours, she gritted her teeth and completed the task as quickly as possible, then turned off the water, not entirely sure whether she had rinsed off properly, but not particularly caring: she had had enough. Unfortunately, the towel provided no barrier at all, and completely failed to prevent her sensing exactly the same contours, even without skin contact. Clothes. She would be unable to wear her own, and would have to use Stephanie's instead. She opened the wardrobe door and stared in dejection at the array of hemlines dangling from the rail. Although there were no regulations at her office that mandated women should wear skirts, de facto convention was to dress in exactly that way, and she knew that if she turned up in trousers of any sort, she would be regarded as something of an oddity. Going out in public, and spending an entire day at the office, with her legs in full view of anyone who cared to gawk at them, was something she felt unable to face. She lifted her phone and dialled her boss' number, hoping he would know who she was. "Larry? Hi, it's ... Eve." "Eve? Good morning! What can I do for you? Everything all right?" "Not really. I'm sorry, but I won't make it in today. Headache, sore throat, runny nose ..." "You certainly sound like you've come down with something." Yeah, boobs and ... she thought to herself, but forced herself to stay focused on the matter in hand. "Think I'll go back to bed ... feel better tomorrow I hope." "Not a problem. Keep it to yourself, okay?" He laughed half-heartedly. "Seriously, though. You stay home and take care of yourself. Rest ... plenty fluids ..." "That's really good of you, Larry, thanks." "See you tomorrow, or whenever you feel yourself again." Yourself again. As if that would ever happen. "Th... thanks ... bye." Eve put off her phone, threw it to the opposite end of the bed, and burst into tears. **** Chapter 4. Catch 21 Staying off work was the worst idea Eve had ever had. Left with only herself for company, her hands, which seemed to have developed minds of their own, carried on where they had left off last night: in their role as the self-appointed auditors of her new body. She spent the entire day doing the one thing that she was able to concentrate on: self- exploration. Her hands ran themselves over every physical attribute that she wished she did not have: over breasts, waist, hips ... everywhere. Every time the horror of each touch was as great as the first had been. Worse, she was unable to resist, being still in denial about her change of sex. She was wearing her own clothes: large T-shirt, loose jogging bottoms and boxer shorts, refusing on principle to wear women's underwear. But even such a ridiculously baggy costume did nothing to disguise what it covered: despite having small breasts, the T-shirt still settled around them and into her cleavage; the joggers did likewise, lying flat on her body, both above and between her legs. Time after time, she pulled her T-shirt up and her boxers down, staring at herself in disbelief and despair. Time after time she repeated the same action, because she knew it was impossible - surely it was impossible - for there to be anything there but a penis and a scrotum; but every time she stretched her waistband it was only to reveal her perfectly sculpted waist and hips, and then a dark groove: an extension of the split between the tops of her legs, that continued forwards and came to an end half way up her pubic mound in a perfect little round indentation. Time after time her face twisted and her breathing became a ragged sob, as she was confronted by something that surely had to be impossible. She knew, of course, every time, what she was going to find, because it was betrayed in advance by the slim, hairless arm, small hand and slender fingers that reached out to take hold of the waistband: a feminine appendage mercilessly tormenting her with the absence of a masculine one. The entire day was one torrid reminder. Sitting brought leg against leg; eating and drinking brought arm against chest; resting her hands on her lap brought them against ... tomorrow she was going to work. She was going to seek the company of other people, whose presence would force her to stop this. Perhaps there would be times, even if only for a fraction of a second, when a word, a thought, a concept, would take her mind off her body. Even if that never happened, tomorrow would be better than today - it simply had to, no matter how many times her legs were stared at or her breasts spoken to. She would rather stand in the middle of a crowd of drunk men wearing only a bikini, than spend another day at home, alone, at the mercy of her own hands. **** The journey to work was nowhere near as traumatic as Eve had expected it to be. Understandable, she mused, given what she had had to put herself through that morning: stripping, visiting the bathroom, dressing ... by comparison, it was a relief to sit in a London Underground carriage knowing that the only parts of her body that were visible were her legs, and only from the knee down. Apart from her hands and face, but she was accustomed to those things being on open display. Arriving at the office, everyone knew her, which made her feel better; almost relaxed. It was actually quite nice for people to smile and treat her as if everything, including herself, were normal. Other than addressing her using a woman's name, of course. Other than having to use the women's bathroom, of course. Other than hearing a female voice when she spoke, of course. Men were quite a surprise. Her greatest and most irrational fear, that of being set upon by a pack of sex-crazed gorillas, turned out to be just that: irrational. Men met her eyes, and talked to her face. No-one stared at her chest, her legs, or her posterior. Then she turned suddenly to speak to one male colleague, and she realised how naive she was being. As she met his eyes, they flicked quickly upwards to meet hers. A tiny movement, but she saw it. A brief hint of embarrassment and annoyance crossed his face, then vanished and he met her gaze as if he had done nothing wrong. Caught. It came rushing back to her. She herself had been an expert until the end of last week. Look all you like, but make sure your eyes are up if she turns her head. She examined the people near her. Most of the men were apparently engaged in something else; one looked at her face and smiled politely. She turned her head to the people behind her. Two pairs of eyes exhibited the same sudden upward movement. Suddenly she felt she needed a shower. She glanced at her watch. Good. Time for a coffee break. **** "Eve! Hi!" "Heh ... hi ..." Eve floundered. She knew the woman smiling at her, and who was now pulling back a chair in a clear invitation, but there was a problem. As a man, she had rarely spoken to her, and was now furiously racking her brains, trying to remember her name. "Hi ... Sara." It came back to her just in time to avoid embarrassment, but only just. With a sigh of relief, she swept into the proffered seat. Sara frowned. She had obviously read something into the sigh, but Eve had no idea what. "The usual? I'll do it. The kettle's just boiled for mine." "Thanks, that would be lovely," Eve replied, having not the faintest idea what 'the usual' was going to turn out to be. Sara smiled again and jumped to her feet, fetching a second mug which she placed beside the one already on the worktop. Eve watched her every movement, dolefully admiring her slim build and shapely back. She remembered Sara a little better now. She was one of those women who had occasionally made her think, naughtily, "Pity I'm married ..." but today, with a lurch somewhere in her middle, the thought had turned into, "Pity I'm a woman." Pity? she chastised herself. Is that feeble word the best you can come up with, to describe this torture? Sara returned with two steaming mugs, a string hanging from each one. She took her first sip without removing what was obviously a tea bag, so Eve followed suit. She thought she detected a hint of ginger, perhaps camomile too. Sara wrinkled her eyes at her and Eve, to her surprise, discovered that the presence of boobs did not, after all, prevent her from returning the look in kind, and meaning it. "How are you doing?" Sara asked in a rush. So much of a rush it was clear she had been dying to ask from the moment Eve had entered the room. "I mean, really. How are you?" "All right ... I ... guess," she stammered uncertainly in reply. How could she tell Sara how she really felt? She fought back her tears, determined not to let them show in her eyes, but to no avail. Sara easily picked up on her uncertainty, her tone of voice, her body language, and correctly deduced how she was feeling, although for the wrong reasons. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to upset you." "No, it's all right. I get a bit teary sometimes. It's not your fault." Sara gave her a sorrowful, caring look. "You must miss Steph," she said gently. "That's ... how long now?" "Seven months." Perhaps Sara had not shot completely wide of the mark. "Never thought of looking for another flat mate?" "Morning, ladies," came a voice from behind and both heads turned to see another woman approach. Eve immediately panicked, because she recognised the newcomer, but yet again had no idea who she was. Sara, though, immediately bailed her out. "Hi, Elaine," she said, and Eve nearly swooned in relief. "Talk of the devil," Sara continued, and the swoon came within a hairsbreadth of knocking her out of her chair and onto the floor. "Takes one to know one," replied Elaine, sharing a giggle with Sara, and giving Eve time to recover both her breath and her composure. "But it sounded like you were talking about Eve." "I was just saying she needs a new flat mate. How about you ditch that loser you call a boyfriend and move in with her?" "Tempting. I might at that." Eve did her level best to smile: she was secretly mortified at the thought of living with a woman, but being a woman herself. Seeing a gorgeous, half-dressed girl fussing around, but not experiencing the pleasure of a male reaction. Occasionally seeing her topless, but not being able to enjoy touching those beautiful, soft orbs. Being allowed into her bedroom at any time of day or night, but having no reason to take advantage of the privilege. "Ever hear from that guy Steph was with?" Elaine continued, jerking Eve back to the present. "What was his name, again? Norman something ..." "Nigel," Sara corrected her. "Yeah, Nigel," Eve confirmed. "No. I ... em ... don't see him now ... not since ..." "So, basically, the guy just vanished into thin air?" "I suppose you could say that." "How like a man!" "Couldn't be much less a man!" Eve blanched at the realisation she had articulated a thought that was not supposed to have escaped through her mouth. "You're right!" Elaine giggled. "Whatever he is, a man he is not!" "If you only knew!" Eve, this time, managed to keep the thought safely contained in her head. Both the tea and the conversation were finally drained and the three girls returned to their desks. Eve kept her head down as much as possible throughout the rest of the morning, then began to regret that she had not brought something with her to eat. She was forced to leave the sanctuary of the office and, displaying her legs to the world, walk to and from a nearby shop. She could see eyes flickering surreptitiously onto them from men she was facing, and could feel them boring into her back from the waist down once they were behind her. She avoided the kitchen that afternoon, only leaving her desk for an understandably reluctant trip to the bathroom, and not speaking to anyone until she ran into Elaine at the main exit on the way home. They chatted about nothing in particular as they walked to the Underground station, then said goodbye to each other, heading to different platforms. The car was busy, for which Eve was grateful, as the throng of people mostly hid her from view. This she preferred to the morning's experience of sitting in a quieter carriage, with her knees, legs and ankles on show. The crowd did bring one big disadvantage, though. At one of the stops, while people were filtering towards the door, she felt a hand touch her. Her head snapped round, but it was impossible to tell who it had been: there was more than one possible culprit. "Someone just groped me!" she thought in anger and indignation, and she looked around at all the men nearby, suddenly afraid she was surrounded, not by human beings, but by vile, evil monsters. The touch had felt completely different from the normal sensation of someone innocently brushing past, and she remembered something Stephanie had said to her once: "Girls can tell the difference, you know." Her stop came and she pushed her way to the door as quickly as she could, turning a few puzzled heads in the process and earning her one or two irritated scowls. Up the escalator and onto the street she went, her walk so fast it almost broke into a run at some points. Finally through her front door, she stopped at the mirror, but could not look herself in the eye. As Nigel, she had been told that women subjected to abuse were often unable to meet the judgemental stare of their own reflection, but she had not properly understood: not until she herself had become a woman and had experienced the feeling of worthlessness the touch of an unwelcome hand could bring. With that, added to a full day of being forced to act out an unwanted female role, she turned away and stumbled through to the sofa, where she threw herself down and let the floodgates open. **** Her tears eventually subsided into anger and she cursed the devil (not that that would cause him much upset) and the way he had tricked her. "Couldn't even do things properly," she scoffed, thinking back to the anomalies she had discovered: both Eve's and Nigel's staff cards, Sara and Elaine remembering the man she used to be, yet somehow believing she had always been a woman ... everything seemed to be flawed in some way. And that was when it struck her. Flawed. She sat bolt upright, hardly noticing the wobble of her chest at the sudden movement. She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth, hardly noticing her forearms pressing against her breasts. She jumped to her feet and began to pace the room, hardly noticing the fluidity between her legs. An expression of amazement and hope spread across her face as she thought things through. The devil had been able to use Nigel to twist Eve into existence, but he had failed to erase Nigel - perhaps that was beyond his abilities. He had failed to erase her marriage to Stephanie, or at least erase it completely, because she still had all the possessions she had owned as a man. That was it! The devil's work was flawed. Of course it was: religions the world over - north, south, east and west, tell us that, no matter what name he has, the work of God is immaculate and eternal, but the work of the devil is worldly and imperfect. If her past as a man had not been entirely erased ... She flew to the sideboard and retrieved a sturdy fireproof box: the place she and Stephanie kept their important papers. She rummaged desperately through the contents, uncovering, as she expected, contradictory evidence in what she found; three birth certificates: one for Stephanie and two for herself: the first saying she was a boy called Nigel, the other saying she was a girl called Eve; three passports: two women and one man. Finally, with a gasp of triumph, she snatched up the object she was looking for. She unfolded the paper and stared in delight at the heading: The Sarrowhurst Fertility Clinic. There it was, in black and white. Exactly what she had been praying she would find. It was the contract she and Stephanie had signed with the clinic at the beginning of their fertility treatment, and it named them as husband and wife: another anomaly, since Sara and Elaine thought she had only been Stephanie's boyfriend. It covered several provisions and obligations, but the only paragraph she was interested in now was clause 7: preservation of spermatozoa in liquid nitrogen. Nigel had never been a particularly religious person, but at that moment Eve closed her eyes and whispered a few words of thanks. The devil had been able to rob her of the ability to produce sperm in the future, that was true, but he had failed to prevent her from producing it in the past. The unfair Catch-22 situation he thought to have imposed on her was as flawed as everything else. Better still, the devil had merely told her she had to find a woman willing to bear her child: he had not placed any restriction on who that woman might be. This could be the way out. **** Chapter 5. Family Planning Dear Dr. Palmer, I trust you remember me. My late wife Stephanie and I were patients of yours until a year past March. We were, if you recall, advised that due to polycystic ovary syndrome, conception would be impossible, even via IVF. Since then, our luck has been no better. I regret to inform you that in November of last year, my wife died tragically, in accidental circumstances. Furthermore, I have recently been diagnosed with a terminal illness. I am now in the process of setting my affairs in order, which brings me to the reason I write to you now. There is one item in particular I wish to arrange that involves your services. You have, in storage, frozen samples of my semen, which I believe will, by default, be destroyed upon my death. However, I refer to the final paragraph of section seven of the contract, which stipulates that with my permission, my samples may be deployed in the provision of fertility treatment for the benefit of others. It is my wish that my sperm be donated for the treatment of a young woman whom I myself will nominate. The woman in question is Ms. Eve Ross, who is a close friend (and distant relation) of my late wife's. She wishes, for private reasons, to have a child as a single mother, and for the father to have no legal claim on her son or daughter. I therefore give my permission for my frozen samples to be made the property of Ms. Ross, and placed at her disposal, to allow her to achieve her wishes. Furthermore, I wish this transfer of ownership to be made during my lifetime, in order that I might give permission on my own behalf, and not have the matter tangled up in legal complications. I have asked Eve to make an appointment with you, in order to introduce herself, and I further ask that you would be kind enough to deal solely with Ms. Ross in the future, including the making of arrangements for her treatment. I have attached an image of her passport, showing her photograph, to allow you to verify her identity. She will also have in her possession a hard copy of this letter, bearing my inked signature. For your reference, I have attached a copy of the contract we signed with the Sarrowhurst Fertility Clinic. Yours faithfully, Nigel Ross **** Eve sent the email, then retrieved the hard copy from the printer, signed it, and sealed it in a hand-written envelope, marked for the attention of Dr. Jason Palmer. The envelope she put into the fireproof box along with the contract, and then returned to the living room, wondering how she was going to endure the next day or two, while she waited for Dr. Palmer's response. Even if her plan worked, she was still going to have to live with this body for the best part of a year - at least - so she was going to have to survive for much longer than those one or two days; she was going to have to get used to being a woman for the foreseeable future. That did not mean she would have to like it; just learn to live with it, and do whatever caused her the least pain. What it did mean was that she was going to have to accept the fact she was female, could do nothing about it, and live from day to day with the anatomy that happened to imprison her. In this respect she was no different from any other woman or girl: cast into the world in a female body and left to get on with life, like it or lump it. That turned out to be something of an epiphany, although rather than a brilliant flash of inspiration, it was more like coming to a gradual realisation that she could, and would, survive, and that (despite the lie she had told Dr. Palmer) womanhood was not a fatal illness. While commuting, instead of being aghast at being exposed to the world as a female, she instead contented herself with sitting demurely and ignoring any glances cast at her; she learned to position herself to make it impossible for an unseen hand to touch her in the same way as on that first day. She sat, reasonably happily, in the company of other women, chatting easily, although she still turned an envious eye towards groups of men, feeling as if her membership of an exclusive club had been revoked. She coped. On Thursday afternoon, Dr. Palmer's email reply arrived. Her heart thumping in her chest, she cradled her phone in both hands and read: Dear Mr. Ross, Please accept my sincere condolences over the death of your wife, and my sympathy for the unfortunate news you yourself have recently received. Your request for the donation of your semen samples is in accordance with, and as provided for in, our original agreement. However, in order to satisfy the specific details of your instructions, namely the transfer of ownership to a nominated third party, we require an addendum to the contract. My secretary has posted an additional consent form, and I would be grateful if you could sign and return it at your convenience. Once your official consent has been received and processed, I will be in touch once more, and we shall then discuss our next steps. Yours faithfully, Dr. Jason Palmer, MBChB. FRCS. Eve almost jumped out of her seat and squealed with delight. She read it again. Then again. She put down her phone and tried to work, but gave up and read the email another four times. The rest of the day was spent in a mixture of hope and impatience. How long would the form take to arrive? Tomorrow was Friday. If it had been sent First Class, and posted early enough, it might - just might - arrive tomorrow. Failing that, Saturday. Surely she would have it by the weekend. If not, though, she would have to wail till Monday, which was four days away! Four days as a woman without making any progress towards being freed from it! Four days might seem almost nothing, compared to the year she was resigned to so far, but it was still three days longer than it would be if the form arrived tomorrow. The form did not arrive tomorrow. Nor did it arrive on Saturday. Eve felt completely helpless, stuck both in limbo and an unwanted body, which made for a most frustrating weekend. Had the form been signed and returned by now, she was sure she would be able to feel herself being gradually transformed back into a man, even if only in her imagination. As it was, she remained every bit as female as she had been the moment she had looked down at herself in horror, on that terrible night at the summit of Chanctonbury Ring. Monday morning finally dragged itself into existence, and Eve had to suffer the frustration of leaving for work, knowing that the post would not arrive until mid-morning. She seriously considered phoning in sick for the second Monday in a row, but was afraid Larry would begin to suspect she was spending entire weekends in an alcoholic stupor. That was in fact tempting, since unconsciousness was preferable to self- awareness, but she did not want to risk her health: having lost her male fertility, she had to look after her female reproductive system. She would be needing that, if she ever wanted to become a man again. Before setting off, she stood in front of the mirror and examined her reflection. A beautiful, healthy young woman stared back at her. She was slim and well-shaped, with small breasts (thankfully!) and slight, understated curves below. Her face, even though she thought so herself, was beautiful: an oval shape with a fine bone structure, white teeth and lovely eyes. She needed to look after her health properly, if her plans were going to succeed: that meant sleep, diet and exercise. Leaving the house earlier and walking a more roundabout route to the station; walking at lunchtimes; jogging perhaps. No, not jogging: too much bouncing, even in a sports bra (or so she assumed); too many eyes on too much figure- hugging sports gear; too many wolf-whistles (even one would be one too many). No jogging. A healthy sleeping pattern, though; a healthy diet: fresh fruit and vegetables; foods that are good for female fertility... eggs ... fish ... broccoli ... sprouts; high fibre cereal; low glycaemic carbohydrates; not too much coffee; tea, perhaps, or (even better) water; no alcohol. Wrong. Yes alcohol. Too useful as a sedative and painkiller. As much alcohol as she felt she could reasonably risk ... until she reached the point where it was no longer allowed. A little overenthusiastic, perhaps, to begin with, she drank, perhaps, a little too much water that Monday and had to make, perhaps, more visits to the ladies' bathroom than she would have liked (none at all would be best). Despite her lack of distress at what her body forced her to do, it was nevertheless a reminder of the body that had been forced on her, as were the sights and sounds around her: when shut in her cubicle, only female voices drifted in; when in the communal area, there were no men. There were doors, hand basins, hand dryers, mirrors. No urinals. The complete lack of such objects was, of course, due to a complete lack of something else: and it struck her that it would be a long time before she again saw a urinal (or a penis: either in the mirror, or in men's changing rooms and showers). In fact, if she failed in her task, she would never see such things again for the rest of her short life: not in the mirror, and most definitely not in any other situation. Monday afternoon crawled to a close, and Eve rushed home, standing, then sitting, on the tube, hardly able to contain herself. She walked home as urgently as she had on the day she had felt a hand touch her. She unlocked her flat, pushed frantically in and gasped at the sight of a letter on the mat. Almost forgetting to close the door, she lifted the letter to see it was franked by the Sarrowhurst Fertility Clinic, and with a squeal of delight, she first searched in vain for a letter- opener, then gave up and impatiently shredded the envelope. Inside was a form, very simple, with only a tick box to indicate she, or rather Nigel, accepted some sort of risk and absolved the Sarrowhurst of some kind of responsibility: and a space for her signature. Two minutes later, the box was ticked, the form was signed "Nigel Ross" and was in an envelope, addressed and stamped. Five minutes after that, it was in the nearest post box, and Eve was snarling in frustration, having read the plate to discover she had missed the last pick-up of the day, only ten minutes ago. **** Eve waited discontentedly until Wednesday, and then slipped into an empty meeting room. Closing the door, she took out her phone and dialled the number for the clinic. It had been on her contact list since she had begun making arrangements to provide her first sperm sample for the geneticist to examine. It also avoided the main switchboard and took her through to the correct department. "Carole Travers, Dr. Palmer's secretary, speaking. How may I help you?" "Oh, hello. My name's Eve Ross. I'm phoning to enquire about arrangements being made by a Mr. Nigel Ross for the ... em ... giving his consent for ... redeployment of ... em ..." Suddenly overcome with embarrassment at taking part in a conversation between two women about semen (and her own, at that), she began to flounder and was thankful that Carole was unable to see the colour of her face. However, the secretary was experienced enough to anticipate her discomfort and know how to spare her feelings. "Oh, yes," Carole interrupted gently and politely, "Ms. Ross. Dr. Palmer wrote to Mr. Nigel Ross this morning, requesting that you make an appointment to see him next week. We can arrange the appointment now, if you like. There's no need to wait for the letter to arrive." "Please, if that's all right." "Of course. Just let me check his diary ... would half past ten on Monday morning suit?" "Perfect. Thank you very much." "Good. See you on Monday." "Yes. Thank you." A wave of euphoria crashed headlong into a wave of disappointment that Carole had not said she should go there immediately, and that Dr. Palmer was sitting at his desk waiting to see her as soon as possible ... but she could force herself to be content with Monday morning, and do her best to last another five days without being able to imagine her boobs had started to deflate. C'est la vie. **** Eve arrived at the office on Monday afternoon in a state of consternation, immediately picked up by several women, especially someone who was fast becoming one of her closest friends. "Tea?" Sara's voice almost made her jump out of her skin (making her wish that she, Nigel, could do exactly that). "Come on, you look like you need a break." "You have no idea," Eve muttered under her breath as she followed her friend to the kitchen. "Try me," Sara replied once she was sure the room was otherwise empty. Eve blanched at the realisation she had been heard: she had forgotten that most women have better hearing than the average man. "Seriously," she continued after the two were seated, "what's eating you? Sometimes it's better just getting it off your chest." "If I didn't have them on my chest, it wouldn't have happened to me," Eve replied with a shudder. "I've had a ... a ... bad ... experience." "Oh, my God, Eve, what's happened? Someone hasn't assaulted you, have they?" "No, nothing like that. It was ... an appointment. A medical ... thing." "Oh ..." Sara reacted involuntarily, in a voice that oozed a number of different feelings, all painful. "Your gynae?" she whispered. Although many of the practicalities and inconveniences of life as a woman were a mystery to those who happened to be male, in this particular context most men, Eve included, could understand how desirable it must be to retaliate in some way, no matter how small. Hence a woman's need to reduce an eminent physician from 'gynaecologist' to the far more patronising and disrespectful 'gynae,' in a feeble and inadequate attempt to gain a little revenge for all that time spent with her legs in lithotomy stirrups, convinced there was no privacy or dignity to be had anywhere for those of her sex. Very well did Eve now understand and appreciate those feelings, having been subjected to exactly such an ordeal during her consultation with Dr. Palmer. She nodded, her eyes closed and the muscles of her face taut. "It'll pass," Sara said gently. "Give it a day or two and you'll feel a bit better. Maybe a week or two. Before it's time for the next one, anyway." She gave a forced laugh, trying to draw one from Eve, but she only responded with the same nod of the head, and had to force herself to look Sara in the eye. "I know," she said. "Thanks." **** Sara was right in a way: it did pass after a day or two, but mainly because it was driven out by something else. At her consultation, Dr. Palmer had told her to wait until her period began, and then get in touch with the clinic. At that point, they would calculate what he called her 'fertility window' and arrange an appointment to perform the process of insemination. On Wednesday morning, she discovered it was time to make that call. It began with a strange feeling in her middle when she woke; a feeling she first thought was an upset stomach, but with a sense of creeping dread, came to realise what it must be. There was no sign yet, but she was confident that would change soon. By the time she had relieved herself and showered, it had. Even a man in a woman's body was wise enough to be careful with the bath towel under such circumstances, so she dabbed herself with a bundle of tissue paper instead; a quick glance at it prompted her to reread the leaflet enclosed in the box of tampons, and brace herself to follow its directions. She pressed the tissue against herself one more time, then did as instructed, whimpering quietly to herself. Scowling at the discoloured tissue, she threw it into the toilet, banged down the lid and pushed the handle. It amazed her how something she had always associated with a grievous injury, or serious health problem, could in fact be a normal and healthy part of her life. By the time nine o'clock came, Eve was at her desk, watching the clock. She waited until ten past, then looked for an empty room in the quietest corner she could find, the discussion she was about to have being the last thing she wished to be overheard. She dialled the number she had been given, which took her straight through to the nurses' duty room in the clinic. "Good morning. Sarrowhurst Fertility Clinic. Kathleen Jardine speaking. How may I help you?" "Hello. My name's Eve Ross. I'm a patient of Dr. Palmer's. I ... em ..." "Oh, hello, Eve. I was the nurse present during your consultation and examination, if you remember me." "Of course, yes. Em, Kathleen, I was told I should phone you ... em ... when ... I ..." Eve could almost hear Kathleen's sympathetic, kindly smile as she took the initiative, to spare Eve any further discomfort. "That's all right, Eve," she said. "I take it you're phoning because it's time to arrange the appointment for the next stage of your treatment?" "Yes ... that's right ..." "When did your period come?" Eve was slightly shocked at the direct question, although she was secretly grateful that Kathleen had removed the need for her to say anything like that, as she was deadly afraid someone might hear her. She also found it amazing that women could be so matter-of-fact about something that was, at least for her, utterly traumatic. But, of course, normal women were used to it, and Kathleen was also a fertility nurse: there must be so many discussions like this that no-one around her would bat an eyelid ... "This morning, around seven o'clock, I think." "Good. That makes it fairly easy to work out. We should arrange your appointment for twelve days from now, so that makes it ... the 23rd. Let's see ..." Eve could hear Kathleen tapping quietly on a keyboard. "Would three o'clock on Monday the 23rd of July be suitable?" "Yes. Wow." "We'll see you on the 23rd, then." "Yes. Bye, Kathleen. Thank you! Bye." Eve ended the call and, her phone still in her hand, let her arm drop to her side. She stood for a minute or two, just staring into space. The period that had begun that morning would, with any luck, be her first and last. **** Chapter 6. The Kick Inside Twelve days to go. Eleven days to go. Every day was the same ... almost the same ... only the numbers were different. Eve began looking forward impatiently for the count to reach single figures ... then go under five ... finally it was Monday the 23rd and she was spending the morning at her desk, too agitated to concentrate on anything, unable to do anything other than think about what the afternoon would bring, half in hope and half in fear. With what would normally be lunch time approaching, she was beside herself with worry. She had decided to forgo food, convinced she would be unable to keep anything down; she had drunk hardly anything that morning, convinced she would have to rush to the bathroom in the middle of the procedure and ruin her chances of success. One o'clock arrived and her afternoon off began. She rushed out with hurried goodbyes and made her way to the Underground station: by half past two, with half an hour to spare, she was knocking on the door of the nurses' office and apologising for arriving early. "Not to worry," the nurse said. "Take a seat in the waiting area for now." At that moment, a familiar face entered. "Hello, Eve," Kathleen greeted her, "Good to see you again. Dr. Palmer is with another patient at the moment, but he'll see you soon." "Hi," Eve replied in an unsteady voice, making Kathleen smile sympathetically, "I'll be in the waiting area." "It is quite busy," came the reply. "I could find you somewhere else if you'd prefer." "That might be best. I'm so much on edge, I'm sure I'd drive everyone up the wall!" "I'll show you to a private room you can wait in. Along here, please." Kathleen led her around a corner and turned one of the handles. Eve briefly caught a glimpse of the number 7 on the door as it was pushed open and she blanched, realising she had been in this room before. "You can wait in here. No-one's using this one at the moment." "Thanks," Eve said unconvincingly. She gratefully allowed Kathleen to close the door behind her, being reluctant to touch it or anything else in the room. Just as she had once, men came in here to ... she shuddered at the thought of occupying the same room as people who were still able to do that. She looked around: everything was as she remembered it. The bed, the bathroom, the chair and occasional table, the cupboard with a selection of magazines discreetly stowed away inside it. The last time she had been shown into this room, the nurse had pointed the cupboard out to her, and suggested the contents "Might help." On this occasion, there was little point in looking at those magazines, or admiring the pictures, as they were no longer images of the opposite sex. The last time she had been shown into this room, she had entered bearing a sample bottle, which she had filled with semen: the very same semen that was shortly going to be given back to her again, but was going to be put into organs that were very different from the ones it had come out of. **** Half past three. Dr. Palmer had spoken to her only briefly before turning her over to the care of one of the nurses, who had introduced herself as Betty, and who was bustling about the theatre, occasionally pausing to talk nonsense that Eve was unable to concentrate on in any case. Her skirt, tights and underwear were still in the adjoining changing room, and she was reclining in a gynaecological chair, with only a towel to cover her below the waist. Dr. Palmer entered the room and Betty helped ease Eve's ankles into the stirrups and left her to squirm in anticipation, waiting helplessly for Palmer to lift the towel. There was a hatch in the wall behind her, that she had noticed earlier, and she heard it being slid open now. Palmer looked up and smiled at the person on the other side. "Are we ready to proceed?" "Yes, all good here." Eve immediately recognised a beautiful Northern Irish lilt she had heard several times before. She had had several conversations with the clinic's resident geneticist, particularly in the early stages of her and Stephanie's fertility treatment. In fact, at one point it had felt as if they were bordering on flirtation: that was while Niamh (she was sure that was her name) was complimenting her on the quality of her sperm, telling her there were, "Plenty of the little fellers, lively enough too." That, she thought sadly, was in the good old days when she had such a thing as a sperm count. "I'll explain exactly what the process will be," Dr. Palmer said to Eve. "I will use a catheter to transfer the semen directly into your uterus. First, I'll fit a small clamp, which will be slightly uncomfortable, but it will make the insertion of the catheter easier and less error-prone, and less uncomfortable for you, than it would be without the clamp. "Ms. Donnelly will load the semen sample and verify under a microscope that the sperms are alive and propagating through the catheter. She will pass the catheter to me, and I will make the transfer into your uterus. I will return the catheter to Ms. Donnelly, and she will again put it under the microscope to verify that it's empty." He looked up and nodded. Eve could hear the sounds of Niamh working, while Palmer lifted the towel and pressed something cold against her. It pulled strangely at her, making her gasp; it was, as he had warned, slightly uncomfortable, but not painful. Dr. Palmer walked over to the hatch and returned, visibly hurrying, with a long, thin, flexible rod. Behind the towel she was unable to see what he was doing, but suddenly she was assaulted by the most curious sensation: a faint tickle, but coming from things inside her that she not only felt should never be touched, but that she should not have. "That's good," Dr. Palmer murmured. She could feel the catheter being withdrawn, and he straightened up and almost ran behind her, out of sight to the window. "Vial and catheter both empty," she heard Niamh say after a short pause. "All transferred." Palmer came back into view and smiled in satisfaction. Niamh added: "Good luck, Eve," and closed the hatch before Eve had time to pull her thoughts together and respond. Dr. Palmer lowered the backrest of the chair and advised her to remain in that position, lying almost flat with her legs elevated, to give the sperms as much help as possible in "Finding their way," as he put it. The clamp had already been removed and towel pulled down to cover her. "Give it about twenty minutes," he said, "then you can go. I wish you the very best of luck." Betty, whose presence Eve had almost forgotten, almost made her jump. "I can't offer you a cup of tea or anything," she said lightly, "because it would be impossible to drink in that position! Would you like a book or a magazine to help pass the time?" "No thanks. I'll just lie back and try to relax." "Probably best. I'll pop back in about twenty minutes, in case you doze off." She left her to her own thoughts. Eve looked up at the ceiling and laughed. "Appropriate enough," she thought to herself. "Isn't that what women usually look at while they're making arrangements for having a baby?" **** Eve could sympathise with soldiers coming home from war to resume their civilian lives. After so much horror, bravery, danger, excitement, the monotonous grind of daily life was almost intolerable, and the thought made her recall an old First World War song she remembered hearing years ago: "How we gonna keep 'em down on the farm, now that they've seen Paree?" At least, compared to demobbed servicemen, she still had something to fight for and look forward to, but that did nothing to save her from the helpless, disempowered stretch of sixteen whole days, with nothing to do but wait to find out whether she would have her second period. Fifteen. Fourteen. Thirteen. By the time two weeks had passed, she was a nervous wreck and both Sara and Elaine were beginning to notice. Eve did her best to reassure them, but could easily see that both remained unconvinced. Finally it was the third Tuesday; her period was due tomorrow, Wednesday the 8th of August, and she went to bed that night, unable to relax, unable to sleep, unable to stop worrying. She briefly thought about taking a sleeping pill, but decided against it: a pregnant woman should not take unnecessary medicines or drugs, and she desperately hoped that she ought to be taking such precautions. The next day, Wednesday, she bought a pregnancy test. The day after that, Thursday, there was still no sign of her period, so she unwrapped the test and ventured into the bathroom, her heart in her mouth. **** "Eve, what's wrong?" Eve had been staring into space, absent-mindedly sipping her tea, when Sara's question made her jump. "Please don't try to deny it. You've been great ... until about a fortnight ago, and since then ... I don't know ..." "I'm pregnant." Eve reached out and laid her hand on top of Sara's, whose mouth fell open. "What? Are you sure? Have you ..." "My period was due yesterday. I took a test this morning. It was positive." "Oh, my God ... so that's what's been eating you. No wonder! You've been worrying about this. Eve, I'm so sorry. What are you going to do?" "Have it, of course." "Have it? Wow ... you know, I didn't even know you had a boyfriend." "I don't." "But ... who's the father?" Now there was a question. She would have to lie, of course, and the more people she lied to, the more important consistency would be, so she decided it would be best to stick as close as she could to the story she had used on Dr. Palmer. "I want to be a single mum," she told Sara. "I was artificially inseminated, using semen from an anonymous sperm donor." "Oh, my G... so it's deliberate?" "Yes." "Oh, Eve ... that's ... that's brilliant! I'm sorry I said I was sorry! Congratulations!" Sara shuffled her chair towards Eve and pulled her into a tight hug. "Thank you." "Anything I can do for you, just ask. You know I'd love to." "I know, thanks." "Are you OK? How do you feel?" "Delighted ... but I'm also scared shitless." "Yeah ..." (Sara laughed) "you must be. It's a big step, perhaps the biggest a woman could ever take." "Tell me about it." "But if it's what you genuinely want, it's the best thing a woman can ever do." "I'd go as far as to say that it's also the best thing a man could ever do." "Except men can't do this bit." "If you only knew," Eve thought. "They've still got their part to play," she said aloud, making Sara giggle again. The next big event that Eve had to look forward to was her twelve week scan. Twelve weeks of torture, hanging on a knife edge, wondering what the ultrasound was going to reveal, and wondering whether she would have good news, bad news, whether the extreme trepidation she was suffering would continue beyond that to the twenty week scan: perhaps she would have to wait it out to the birth itself, before she knew. Her fears were very real, and had begun with an innocent question put to her by Sara on the day she had told her she was pregnant: "Who's the father?" Eve was both the father and the mother. Her ovum had been fertilised by her own sperm. Well did she know of the birth defects that could result from incestuous relationships, and the baby she was carrying had even less genetic diversity than one born, for example, to a brother and a sister. Morning, noon and night she was continuously gnawed by guilt over what she might have done to the poor little thing, before it even had a chance to live in this world. She cried herself to sleep more often than not. There was nothing she could do about that now, though, and in the meantime she had plenty of appointments with her GP (she was delighted to discover that Alison Ramsay was still her doctor), and the midwife assigned to her. To her encouragement, none of the checks made by the health professionals caused them to suspect anything was wrong. The midwife assessed her as a normal, low risk pregnancy. She was given the 15th of May as her 'due date,' but was told that as this was her first baby, it was likely she would go beyond it. The twelve week scan passed and she almost burst into tears at being told the child appeared perfectly healthy. At that point, she began to tell people her news, including her parents (whom she saw rarely, but who thankfully believed her mother had given birth to a girl, and that they, not the devil, had named her Eve). Her work colleagues were delighted and congratulated her warmly, even the men, although they quickly left the women to it and slipped back to their own company, secretly congratulating themselves that they would never have to endure what Eve was going to have to go through. Despite the heartening news from her first scan, Eve was still uneasy, and not even the positive outcome of her twenty week scan did much to put her mind at rest. Good news was still good news, though, and she approached the end of her second trimester as hopeful as she could be. Her 'glass half full' side was delighted that she was half way through her pregnancy, while her 'glass half empty' side regretted that she still had half of her pregnancy left to endure, and made a point of reminding her that the remaining half was the difficult, uncomfortable half, where she would be sore, hardly able to get out of chairs, and would be spending more and more of her time in the bathroom, thanks to a bladder that would feel no bigger than a lentil. By the time she had reached eight months, she was uncomfortable, irritable, unable to bend properly, had trouble standing, sitting, getting into or out of bed; the movements of the baby made her feel queasy; she had to wear maternity clothes that felt as if they were designed for elephants; her breasts were swollen and tender; the weight of her 'bump' pulled her off balance and hurt her back. She had, by this stage, developed a new-found respect for women, and a feeling of horrified contrition that she had wanted to do this to Stephanie. **** Chapter 7. Better than Nothing Eve was in her old room in her parents' house when she felt her first contraction. It was a Saturday afternoon, three days beyond her due date. Her maternity leave she had taken as early as legally possible, 11 weeks before her baby was expected: her reasoning was that, since she would no longer qualify for maternity leave once she had become a man again, she might as well use it when she could. Her mother immediately took control and began monitoring everything from contractions and pulse rate to temperature and lavatory visits, with military precision. It was strange, she thought, almost surreal, that her parents would happily accept her pregnancy, yet make no mention of the baby's father: she believed the reason was that reality was in some sort of limbo, and that once the baby was born, Stephanie would return and everyone would believe her to be the mother, while she would resume her role as Stephanie's husband and, consequently, the father. Another five days of purgatory it was before her mother pronounced that her contractions were only five minutes apart (by that time, Eve had almost lost her grasp of the real world) and she was whisked away in a blur, hardly aware what was going on around her, fully conscious of only one thing: pain. Every part of her body seemed to be pulled, twisted, stretched: there was nothing in the world except pain. It took a total of sixteen hours before the agony at last began to recede, she was free, and a baby boy was laid in her arms. It was wonderful. Eve, grateful for the chance to experience even this brief glimpse of a mother's love, enjoyed the moment. Her mother was in raptures; her father could not be more proud of daughter and grandson. Eve was victorious: she had succeeded in her task, had fathered a child, and all she had to do now was wait for Stephanie to be returned to her. (But where was she?) Too exhausted to think about anything in depth, sleep overcame her; her mother lifted the baby from her arms and laid him in his cot. Eve smiled happily and gratefully, dropping off almost straight away. She had a vague notion of her mother telling her little darling to enjoy some well-earned rest, and they would come back to see her later. **** The sound of the door opening brought Eve out of a light slumber from which she was already beginning to stir: immediately alert, she opened her eyes and gasped when she saw the face peering tentatively through the gap. "Steph!" she called in delight, but her mouth remained open, now in shock rather than happiness, because she had called Stephanie's name in Eve's voice; she looked down to see she still had breasts; she moved her legs experimentally, to discover she still had nothing between them. Stephanie would have no idea who she was; there was no way on earth she would be able to persuade her that her husband was a woman (why was she still a woman?) and the embarrassment of admitting to Stephanie that she was her husband, Nigel, was the last thing on earth she wanted to endure (why was she still a woman?) "I'm sorry," she said, doing her best to sound apologetic instead of distressed. "My mistake. I thought you were someone else." Stephanie opened the door fully and slipped inside. She smiled at her: it was a strange smile; all at once grateful, hopeful, loving, sad. "No, you didn't," she said gently. "You know exactly who I am. And I know who you are, too. Who you really are." All of a sudden she rushed forwards and almost threw herself on top of Eve, squeezing her tight in one of the most passionate embraces the two had ever shared. Eve pushed her gently back and they looked at each other without letting go. "You know? How?" "They let me watch. Made me watch. To torture me. As soon as ... he ... met you and tricked you and turned you into ... into ..." (she broke off and waved her hand vaguely in Eve's direction to indicate her body) "... I could see everything that was happening. They wanted me to see it. They wanted me to watch you and despair. They wanted me to watch you suffering ten whole years, hating being alive, then watch your soul being dragged down into Hell ..." Stephanie knelt at the bedside and took Eve's hand, kissing it ardently. "But you won!" she continued, raising slightly reddened eyes to look at Eve. "You did the impossible. You beat the devil!" "Then why am I still a woman?" Stephanie continued as if Eve had not asked her question. "I owe you everything. My life, my soul. You were even willing to take my place in Hell, but ... you were amazing. So brave, so clever, so determined ... all for me. Oh, darling, it must have been unbearable for you!" "It was ... it still is! Why am I still a woman?" Stephanie looked Eve straight in the eye. Her face was straight, but it was clear it was becoming more difficult to maintain her composure with each moment that passed. Tears were collecting in her eyes. "We're together again," she said with a false cheerfulness. "You and me. I can't find the words to tell you how much I love you. There's nothing that's going to stand between ..." "Stephanie," Eve interrupted insistently, "why am I still a woman?" Stephanie's tears ran down her face and dripped from her chin. "When you made your ... pact," she said hesitantly, "the devil tricked you, and put ... unreasonable ... obstacles ... in your way." "Yes." "And the prize was that he would give me back to you." "Yes." "That's exactly what he did. Gave me back to you. Nothing ... more ... nothing less." "Wh... what?" "He never promised to put things back the way they were before." "No ..." Eve's head dropped back onto the pillow and tears began to leak out of the eyes that were screwed tightly shut. "He's going to leave me like this?" she sobbed. "For the rest of my life?" "Eve ... darling ..." "It's not fair! I won! I went through all that to save you ... but ... how can this be winning? I'm your husband. How can I be your husband like this? I need to be a man! I want to be a man! For you as much as ..." "Eve," Stephanie said as soothingly as she could, trying to stroke her head despite Eve doing her best to turn away, "All that matters is you and me. The woman you love has come back to you. And now we have the baby we always wanted. We've got ev... almost ... everything we could possibly want." Eve gazed at Stephanie, her face unsteady, trembling with emotion. Her eyes showed not only pain, regret, defeat; there was also a deep longing, desire, love, perhaps even temptation. Then the pain seemed to win and her eyes closed in despair. "No!" she sobbed, "I can't love you this way. We can't love each other. Not properly. I can't give you what you need. I don't want to make you into a ... a l... God, I can't even say it!" "Eve, don't talk like that. We ..." "Just go, please. Get out. I thought I'd won you back, but I haven't. The devil's only sent you here to taunt me with what we can't have. He's won. He's lost your soul, but he's still beaten us." **** It was later the following morning, after Eve's mother and father had left, that another knock sounded on the door. She was due to be discharged later that day, and wondered briefly if her parents had returned early to collect her. Before she had time to respond, Stephanie entered. "Steph," Eve pleaded, "please don't. I don't want to see you." "Just hear me out, please. Yesterday we were both too upset to think clearly." "This can't work. Not between two women ... I mean ... two women like us. One of us likes men, and the other wants to be a man. That's a recipe for disaster. We'll fall apart and you'll leave me. The longer we're together, the more it'll hurt when you do, so it's better if you go now." "There's something I've never told you," Stephanie said quietly and firmly. Instead of asking what that would be, Eve posed the question with a steadfast, defiant look. There was love in her eyes that she was unable to suppress, but a lot of pain too. "I've always loved you. You always made me go weak at the knees. I always loved melting into those strong arms of yours. There was never any question mark over my feelings for you. Never any doubt that I totally had the hots for my man, but ..." "Are you the devil in disguise? Have you come here to try and make me feel worse? Because believe me, you couldn't possibly make me feel any worse than I do right now, looking at you from inside a woman's body." "No! Eve, the point is ... the point is ... when I ... was at Uni ... it wasn't always ... boyfriends ... that I had." Eve's mouth fell open, but she could think of nothing to say. "One of us does like men, that's true, but she also likes women. Especially beautiful women. Especially brave, strong, indomitable women. They make me go all gooey in the middle. A strong woman puts me as much in the zone as a strong man. Sometimes more. Depends who she is ..." Eve was too taken-aback to be anything but passively amazed. "But ... but ..." she stammered, "you ... you never told me!" "I believe I said that ..." "No, I couldn't do it ... not have you right there in front of me, within arm's reach ... it would be like looking at a reflection I can't touch ... like you were there but not really there ..." "But I would be really there. Just like I'm here, right now. I'm real, and so is our love for each other." "I told you yesterday. I wouldn't be able to do things properly. Not the way I want to. Not the way I used to. I don't think we'd ever be able to enjoy ... sex? is it still called that if both of us are female?" "It is, and you know what I think you should do? Not worry. I think you'll do things just fine, and you know what?" (she lowered her voice to a whisper) "I think I've got some very nice surprises in store for you." "Steph ... I ... I don't ..." "When I fell in love with you, I didn't just fall in love with a man. It was you I fell for, and I love you with all my heart. Nothing's changed. Nothing important. I love you every bit as much as I ever did, no matter what I'll find when I unwrap you." While she spoke, Stephanie moved closer and put her hand on Eve's breast, caressing it gently and squeezing the slight stiffness that was forming between her fingers. She made Eve gasp in surprise at the unexpected pleasure. "Just give me a chance, and you might end up regretting all those years you wasted being a man." "Can you really love me? Like this?" "There's only one thing we don't have, only one thing that we'll never be able to do together, but we can get by just fine without one, and we already have what it would be able to give us. He's right here, sleeping at the side of your bed. We have everything we need. You, me, and our baby. "And when we're alone together, we've got lots of other things to make up for what we don't have." Eve looked into Stephanie's eyes. She still loved her, and becoming a woman had not made her love her any less: it had merely made her believe Stephanie would no longer love her; that she would be unable to satisfy her; that her passion would not be returned any more than it could be expressed. Her frustration at not being a man, instead of thwarting her feelings, had only made her desire this wonderful person all the more, and desiring what she believed to be unattainable made her love hurt more than she could bear. But now the pain disappeared, and she felt happier than she believed possible. Could it work? As if in answer, Stephanie's hand returned to her chest, and she leant forwards, closer and closer, until her mouth found Eve's, their faces nuzzling as they brushed their lips against each other, until the full weight of the kiss pressed Eve's head into the pillow. Something seemed to explode inside her, giving the slightest foretaste of what the future could be like, and she knew. Yes. Yes, it could work. "Eve, my darling Eve, I love you with all my heart and soul." "I thought I'd lost you. Twice. Last summer, then yesterday when you came back but I thought I couldn't have you ... I love you too." Both women were crying by this time, but it was the right kind of tears. Now it was Eve who put her hand behind Stephanie's head and pulled her into a kiss. "This is going to work, isn't it?" Eve said and Stephanie nodded, making droplets fall onto Eve's face. "It's going to work because we're going to make it work." Neither was completely sure how long they remained like that, looking into each other's eyes, touching each other's faces, kissing, smiling, whispering, secure in the knowledge that that despite the obstacles put in their way, they were together again, for ever. Love had won; a damsel in distress had been rescued by a damsel in shining armour; they had the rest of their lives in front of them, and they were going to be deliriously happy, because their love for each other was going to make them deliriously happy. Satan had lost after all.