I thought of very little else over the next few days. It became something of an obsession, and I was eager to know literally everything about the panty-dance. Oddly enough, I wasn't prepared to discuss the matter with my parents — talking about girls' underpants was sort of embarrassing — so I knew from the start I'd have to figure it all out on my own.

Natural curiosity spurred me on, at least at first. I wondered if women still did the panty-dance in the present day. I understood that the film's events took place over a hundred years ago (I hadn't been afraid to ask my folks about that), and that life had been much different back then. How did the dance first start; who invented it? Did only pretty girls show off their panties like that? It was genuinely fascinating; new ideas occurred to me almost every waking minute.

Most of all, I wondered how it must have felt, knowing that your lacy, white KNICKERS were on view to all and sundry. That was a question I was most determined to answer. The idea of whirling across a stage with a skirt raised to my chin made my heart race every time it crossed my mind.

Trouble was, there was only one possible way to satisfy my interest.

I knew what I'd have to do, but simply thinking about it made me blush with a kind of breathless, guilty pleasure. What if I got caught? Young though I was, I knew that boys weren't supposed to wear girls' clothing. If anyone found out, I'd absolutely die of shame – and that was the best case scenario.

Despite these misgivings, it took me less than a minute to make my decision. The temptation was too great, the desire too strong to deny. I'd have to be careful, need to sneak around while nobody was looking. At any rate, I really had no other choice: the impulse was virtually irresistible.
I would have to become a girl.

My initial attempts at dressing up were modest improvisations, using anything that resembled a skirt. I started out with one of my Mother's aprons, smuggled out of the kitchen early in the morning while everybody else was asleep. It was an old-fashioned pinafore, reminiscent of 1950s sit-coms, complete with a red gingham pattern. It seemed a natural choice, being so unambiguously feminine. That was how I saw it: only women wore aprons, so putting one on would make me a girl.

Slipping into this makeshift "dress" was incredibly exciting, awakening the same emotions I'd felt in the cinema. It would begin as I removed my pajama bottoms, stripping down to my plain cotton briefs. My pulse quickened with anticipation, raising a fine, pink hue across my features. The fear of discovery added spice to the ritual; I always glanced round to make sure no one was watching.

Wandering about in my little white knicks, I usually shivered from stem to stern. It wasn't just the morning chill, I knew I doing something extremely naughty. Goose flesh swept over my tummy as I walked bare-thighed across the floor. The bedroom was my stage, the panty-dance was about to begin, and I was the star attraction!

Having completed all the necessary preparations, I stepped carefully into the apron, passing the collar over my head and wrapping the draw strings around my waist. Naturally, it only covered my front (leaving my bottom exposed), but that didn't really bother me at the time. Being a child, my imagination was more than capable of filling in the blanks. It was long and frilly and looked like a frock. The transformation was finished: I was a girl.

It's impossible to describe the sheer delight I experienced, sweeping up my dress to exhibit my silky white underthings. Scampering around this phantom stage was a joy beyond anything I'd ever known. I could hear the roar of the crowd, the clash of the cymbals, the wild shrieks of the chorus girls. It was like entering another world, a place of blazing lights, thunderous applause and pure childhood magic.

As the weeks went by, my fantasies became increasingly more elaborate. I developed an impromptu routine which included high kicks, cartwheels and skirt flips, cantering my feet from right to left. My favourite move was the "royal flash" towards the end, where I bent over and revealed my pantied bottom to the audience. This was, of course, the climax of the show, the moment everyone had been waiting for. Inexplicably, the thought of jiggling my bottom-cheeks back and forth seemed almost indescribably wicked.

I also continued experimenting with my costume, graduating from pinafores to mock-frocks and cast-offs. Both of my sisters studied ballet, and I knew where their old hand-me-downs were stored. Most of their outfits were too big for me, but I managed to cobble together a few mismatched items that served my purposes. I didn't bother with the leotards or tutus (neither of which appealed to me), setting my sights on the jazz skirts and sequined tops. The highlight of the act was a pair of fancy-pants covered with tiny lace frills. Heart-stoppingly pretty, they were precisely my size when drawn up to the belly button. I literally couldn't believe my luck when I found them: it was practically too good to be true.

In the meantime, I finally worked up the courage to ask what the dance was called. Once again, I was reluctant to talk to my parents (Dad in particular seemed to have become rather distant in recent months), so I eventually approached my older sister, Rachel. She was only two years my senior and we'd been thick as thieves for as long as I could remember. All the same, I was still a little embarrassed about the whole topic, so I decided to wait until the right moment to broach the subject.

That moment presented itself one cool spring afternoon when we were lounging on the sofa, watching TV in the rumpus room. This was not long past my seventh birthday, and I'd noticed for close on a year that the panty-dance appeared on television at regular intervals (though not as regularly as I might have liked). I'd also come to recognize the tune — apparently quite famous from what I could gather – and figured that Rachel would have to know everything about it, being a ballet student and all.

We were watching some rattling old cowboy flick, a late-forties adventure about a Mississippi gambler shooting his way across the Wild West. Half-way through the movie, the hero ended up in a Silver Dollar casino, and we were confronted by a face-full of flailing petticoats. My eyes automatically widened at the sight of all those frilly silk panties, and I turned to my sister, barely able to conceal my excitement.

"Rachel", I asked, pointing to the screen, "what's that dance called?"
"Huh?" she replied, evidently distracted, then raised her eyebrows as the question registered. "Oh...that's the cancan."

We blinked at each other for a couple of seconds, then stared back at the TV without further comment. It occurred to me that Rachel was just as fascinated as I was, though maybe in a slightly different manner. We watched the spectacle unfold, occasionally casting sidelong glances at one another. The panty shots continued for another two minutes, during which the tension became agonizing. We were kids, a great unspoken mystery had been raised, and there were no grown-ups around. We both wanted to talk about it.

The silence was finally shattered during the commercial break. The cancan hung thick in the air between us, despite having vanished off the screen five minutes before. The conversation was a little awkward for the first thirty seconds, but then we both giggled when I asked why the girls were showing off their knickers (that's one of the best things about living in the United Kingdom: the word "Knickers" is guaranteed to break the ice in any company).

Having found a common ground, we talked through most of the afternoon, nattering away in the loose, careless fashion of childhood. She told me that the cancan was a French dance invented by a guy named Sharks Offinbark at a place called the Moolin Rooge (yes, that was precisely how she pronounced it). According to her ballet teacher, there was a special academy in Paris that taught the cancan, where only the world's greatest dancers could get in.

"What about the chorus girls in the Jekyll and Hyde movie?" I asked. "That was set in London."
Rachel shrugged her shoulders and said that the cancan was popular all over the world. This led on to various stylistic comparisons: France vs Britain, England vs America and so on. After intense speculation, we concluded that the original French version must have been the best (all the others being pale imitations, of course).

It was all terribly intriguing, especially since I had no idea what she was talking about half the time. Rachel knew her subject, and the terminology she employed amounted to a foreign language in my ears. On the other hand, I was utterly mesmerized by the notion of a Cancan school, and most interested in visiting Paris (where every girl in the city was required to learn the dance in primary school, from all accounts).

The conversation invariably returned to the revealing of the girls' knickers, and Rachel was surprisingly candid about the matter. Apparently, the exhibition of the panties was an absolute necessity.

"That's how it's supposed to be danced," Rachel explained in tones of casual authority, "you have to hold up your skirts to do all those high kicks."

It all sounded perfectly reasonable, but personal experience suggested there was considerably more to it than that.

"Do you think they actually like showing off their panties?" This sounded perfectly reasonable: the dance seemed specially designed to display every inch of their underwear.

"No," Rachel replied instantly, then gnawed her lip in evident consternation. Apparently, we were both keeping secrets too mortifying to disclose. An eye-rolling pause later, she lowered her voice and admitted that she and her friends liked to flash their undies when there were no adults around. "It's kind of fun when we do that bottom-wriggle at the end," she added, looking away to hide her pinkening cheeks.

At that second, I came as close to sharing my fantasies with another person as I ever would. Needless to say, I was desperate to know more about Rachel's private cancan troupe, but she flatly refused to say anything else, other than confiding that the last performance took place at Janey North's slumber party). From what she'd just told me, they felt precisely the same way I did, and I would have sold my soul for a chance to join them.

From that day forward, the cancan became a recurring topic of conversation between the two of us. In many respects, Rachel was amazingly patient with my prodding inquiries. I think part of it was that she enjoyed playing the expert, imparting wisdom to the less fortunate. I was her kid brother, it made her feel important when I came to her for advice. She probably suspected the source of my interest (possibly even knew about the borrowed knickers), but was considerate enough never to let on about it.

Our ongoing discussions opened a great many doors doors for me, solving many of the conundrums that had haunted me since that night at the cinema. Sensing the depth of my fascination, Rachel suggested I join her ballet class — Chamberlain Dance Academy was desperately short on male students, and there was always the chance that the senior class would put on a Moolin Rooge number for Bass-steal Day (again, that was precisely how she pronounced it).

Although predictably reluctant at first, my curiosity got the better of me, and Rachel eventually convinced me to tag along one afternoon. Within a week, I was learning my first steps under the rigorous gaze of Ms Evelyne Deane, struggling to arch my spine and avoid tripping up the ballerinas. I was the only boy taking classes at the time, for which reason Ms Deane quietly tolerated my stumbling antics. I was never as graceful as my siblings, but I persevered long enough to learn the basics. Over the next two years, I gained sufficient confidence to appear on stage, first with Rachel, then with an ever-expanding range of partners. Following my third recital, even Ms Deane appeared satisfied with my progress, telling Rachel that I'd graduated from being a lump of lard to a block of wood. Coming from a woman fundamentally incapable of uttering a good word about anything, this was high praise indeed.

Equally pleased with this state of affairs was my Mother, who now had all three of her children pursuing careers in the arts. She was supportive above and beyond the call of duty, devoting endless hours to sewing costumes and applying makeup, clucking and fussing over the tiniest details during rehearsals. She was a whirlwind of activity behind the curtains, her enthusiasm stunning even the most diehard of stage-moms.

Not quite so enthusiastic was my Father, who had grown increasingly distant over the past two years. Spending most of his weekends parked on the sofa in front of a football game, he showed little concern for any of us, viewing his offspring with the kind of indifference common to males of his generation. Having married in his early thirties, middle age struck him with near-lethal force on his fortieth birthday. I guess it might have been worse; lesser men would have spiraled down into heavy drinking or domestic violence. Fortunately, Dad was inclined to neither, and we gradually adjusted to his mute apathy.

For close on a year, I wondered if I were to blame for his impassive moods. Maybe he'd found out about my early morning dress-up games. I could only surmise how shocked he'd be that his own son was one of them (whatever "they" were; I was slightly too young to fully understand the concept). Perhaps he'd disowned all three of us on my account, refusing to even acknowledge our existence.

It wasn't until much later I realized that Mom and Dad had stopped talking altogether around the time I entered elementary school. Their marriage started disintegrating long before I was born; by the time I turned nine they were little more than two house-bound strangers working double shifts to pay an unwanted mortgage. Mom did her best to smooth the rough patches over for us, but she was more-or-less postponing the inevitable.

Dad moved out not long afterwards. He'd met a younger woman through a workmate, and his bags were packed within a month of their first date. Just like that, our father was gone. Rachel cried a little when he said goodbye, Mom and Kate just stood to one side staring after him with a kind of weary contempt. He barely spared me a glance as he lugged his bags out the front door, even after I raised my hand to signal farewell. At the end of the day, I'd become the most alien of his children, and he had nothing to say to me.

Not that it mattered, one way or another. Given the circumstances, there wasn't much to talk about anyway.

Fortunately, the world didn't end that afternoon.

We each recovered from our individual losses, and life trundled slowly along its rocky slope once more. Mom took an administrative position at the local council, earning enough money to pay off the house. Kate grew up to marry a well-established barrister, settling down in one of the more affluent suburbs of London. Rachel graduated high school and managed to get into RADA, majoring in Voice and Movement with a bit of modeling on the side. Evelyn Deane cast me in a couple of Christmas pantomimes, evidently to prove that even a block of wood has its uses. There was some talk of scholarships and academic auditions, though nothing much came of it. I was a good student, but I wasn't a great dancer. As Evelyn eventually told me — not without some regret - my true skills lay elsewhere.

In the meantime, I coped with the usual complexities of adolescence. I rowed with my Mom, squabbled with my teachers and learnt how to deal with schoolyard bullies. Like any boy hitting puberty, I developed crushes on girls who never noticed my existence and willfully ignored the ones who did. Of course, my situation was perhaps slightly more complicated than most. While I was exclusively attracted to girls my age, I also constantly fantasized about being one.

Inevitably, this led to many sleepless nights, pondering the paradox of my identity. I'd come to understand the meanings of words such as transvestite, trangender and transsexual, but they had a sterile, clinical sound. They couldn't describe the overwhelming delight I felt whenever I dressed up, the sense that I'd somehow morphed into my true self. Even now, I suspect there are no terms which express the deep, insatiable longing people like myself experience. Such notions are - by definition - inexpressible.

All I knew was that I was different. It was obvious to me, obvious to everyone around me, especially my classmates. They weren't openly cruel or belligerent, but they made it clear that I would never fit in. It wasn't simply my feminine personality. It was everything: my appearance, my posture, my manner of speaking. Much as I tried to conceal it beneath a veneer of faux masculinity, it was always present.

Entering my early teens, I learnt to accept the good with the bad. I was small and delicately built, with the lithe figure conferred by years of choreography. This occasionally made me the target of playground taunts, but it also allowed me to pass as my preferred gender. Looking considerably younger than my years, I was constantly mistaken for a girl of twelve, particularly when I went shopping with my Mother (at first, she used to correct people on this matter, but decided to let it slide when she noticed it didn't bother me).

It was around my fifteenth year that I started volunteering at the Red Shield store down in Waverly Avenue. Initially, it was part of my school's work experience programme, but I soon discovered I was perfectly suited to the position. Having spent half my life filching my sisters' hand-me-downs, I had an affinity for second-hand clothing. Mom was extremely proud of my charitable commitment - Friday afternoons and most Saturday mornings - but she never realized that my actions weren't totally altruistic.

You see, the store's manager, (Grace Oakland, by name) allowed me first choice of anything that came in. She'd sussed me out during my first week on the job, and we quickly sealed a mutually beneficial agreement. Apparently, I wasn't the first cross-dresser to walk in through the front door, but I was the only one who'd been willing to work behind the counter. Grace kept my secrets and rewarded me well for my services. By the end of three months I had collected a huge stash of bras, skirts, knickers and frocks, many items in pristine condition. Barely a week went by when some flimsy, girlish thing turned up in my size; Grace would hand it to me with a wink and a nod, brokering the latest deal.

I got on well with all the staff, most of them silver-haired Grannies with wide, open hearts and families in the midlands. If they knew anything about my extra-curricular activities, they never mentioned it. I don't think they would have cared anyway - I was quiet, polite and hard-working, and that was all that mattered to them.

All the same, it wasn't a perfect life by any means. Far from it; there were months of utter despair, when anguish and confusion overrode every other emotion. I wasn't just different - I was a freak, an abnormality, some loathsome thing without a name or purpose. There was always a feeling of loss and rejection at the back of my mind. I'd never forgiven Dad for ditching us so callously, and since Rachel had gone to RADA, I'd felt more isolated than ever before.

However, the worst thing of all was the doubt. In many ways, it was worse than the shame, worse than the self-loathing. What was wrong with me, why was I so bent, twisted and sick? Maybe the school yard rumours were right, maybe I deserved to be alone, pushed aside and cast out like a worthless pile of refuse. I had no idea who I was, what I truly wanted.
But then again, what teenager ever does?

Then, quite suddenly, I was sixteen.

It was the summer break, the final respite before my senior year. Mom was planning to visit Grandma up on the coast, Kate had long since moved to Edinburgh, and Rachel was touring Europe with her boyfriend. The house would be empty; I'd elected to stay behind to play homemaker. Mom wasn't too happy about leaving me alone, but I convinced her that I had to prepare for my upcoming matriculation. The pantry was stocked, the neighbours could keep an eye on me, and I was smart enough not to open the door to undesirables.

Mom capitulated after a half-hearted attempt to dissuade me; worry though she might, she knew deep down I'd be OK. This minor triumph raised my spirits considerably: this was recognition of my maturity, my need for privacy. Being alone didn't seem so bad at all. I'd have the place all to myself, an entire weekend to read, relax and just be myself.

Most importantly, I finally knew what I wanted.

I don't think I've ever forgiven my Mother for what happened next.

Walking home from school that afternoon, I'd rehearsed like a zillion different excuses, trying to figure out some argument I could use to sway Momma's judgment. Saying this would be difficult would be like calling a hurricane a slight breeze. Mom was pretty tight with Mrs Ramsey, and I knew that she was adamant about me appearing in the School Review. I'd have to be slicker than Harry Houdini if I wanted to avoid public ridicule. It was a slim chance at best, little more than a razor's edge, but it was better than none whatsoever.

Well, at least things can't get any worse, I told myself, stepping in through the front door. Famous last words, needless to say: I had absolutely no idea how bad things were about to become.

"Tracy? Is that you?" Mom's voice, drifting gaily out from the living room. My belly began to tighten up. Something was going on; her words sounded too sprite, too merry.

"Yes, Momma," I replied, dropping my satchel and kicking off my runners. I glanced longingly up the stairs, fighting down a bleak sense of foreboding. Maybe I should postpone the family conference, simply bolt for my room and lock the door.

"Could you come in here please, sweetheart?" Again, that bubbly, effervescent tone. Whatever she was feeling, it wasn't motherly pride. It sounded more like glee, the kind you hear in any playground, when the big kids gather 'round to torment some innocent scapegoat. Whatever she had in mind, it was certain to rob me of my last vestige of human dignity. She was always doing things like that. I made my way down the hall, biting my lip in anticipation of the inevitable.

Needless to say, my premonition turned out to be true. Momma was sitting in the living room entertaining a couple of guests, two women from Chamberlain Theatre Society. I knew them by sight, having appeared in a few of the Christmas pantos CTS held every year. One of them I placed as Ms Rhodes, the wardrobe mistress. The other one I couldn't pin a name to, although I had the impression she'd done the make-up for last year's show.

All three burst into spontaneous applause as I entered the room (the redhead with a knowing smirk). I paused in mid-step, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. I glanced at Momma in rising alarm. What was going on here? Why had she invited these women over for afternoon tea?Surely she hadn't –

"So - here's our little cancan boy!!" Ms Rhodes cheered, answering my unspoken question. My jaw dropped in astonishment. They knew!! Mom had told them, told them everything. I couldn't believe this was happening, that she'd betrayed me in total disregard of my emotions. I could almost see her on the phone, eyes gleaming with malicious joy as she blurted out the news:

Hi, Jane? This is Alicia. You'll NEVER guess what's happened. Well, my son Mickey's been chosen for the School Concert! He'll be dancing the FRENCH CANCAN!! That's right, the CANCAN, just like they dance at the Moulin Rouge. Oh, yes, he'll be showing off EVERYTHING, all the way down to his pretty little PANTIES. Isn't it exciting? Come over RIGHT NOW, we have to celebrate!

My pulse accelerated in near hysteria. How many had she invited to my coming out party? There were only three now, but if I knew my Mother, I could expect a throng of blue rinse horrors within the next half hour, gossiping away loud enough to beat the band. Any hope of secrecy flew out the window the moment Mom picked up the phone, by tomorow morning everyone in Chamberlain would know. I turned to face her, heart thundering in my rib cage –
And right on cue, the doorbell rang, confirming my worst case scenario.

I was wrong in one respect: it didn't take half an hour to chalk up a full house. Within ten minutes, the living room was a mass of babbling, wild-eyed housewives. They arrived bearing vanilla tarts and strawberry shortcakes, literally bursting with venomous suburban humour. I stood to one side of Mom's art-deco coffee table, trembling with barely suppressed panic. I wanted to run away, hide in my bedroom, but she had no intention of letting me off that lightly. A life long devotee of the theatrical arts, this was her shining hour, her moment of triumph. And nothing was going to rain on her parade.

All of my carefully constructed arguments disintegrated before Momma's indomitable fervor. She deflected my pleas with a careless wave of her hand, dismissing my fears as inconsequential. I pressed on regardless, appealing the verdict in growing desperation. Again, I should have known better. It was a doomed venture from the start.

"Momma, I don't want to do this," I whimpered hopelessly, trying not to stammer my words, "everyone will make fun of me." Mom laughed her response.

"Oh, what are you so worried about? You'll make a beautiful little girl."

"But I don't wanna look like a girl, Momma!!"

"Well, it's too late to back out now, Mickey. Mrs Ramsey's already made her decision, and you're not going to let her down."

"But Momma -" I moaned, feeling roughly four years old. She was patronizing me, treating me like an infant. The way she always had, for as long as I could remember.

"You're the one who wants to be an actor," she said, effectively terminating any further discussion on the subject, "so here's your big chance. Anyway, no more long faces, sweet-heart. I've got just the thing to cheer you up."

"What do you mean?" I asked, looking 'round uneasily.

"Oh, just a little surprise," she replied ominously, then reached down beside her chair. I watched in mounting suspense, wondering what I'd missed when I'd first entered the living room, what she'd kept hidden under her seat the whole afternoon. That sense of 'bleak foreboding' suddenly leapt into overdrive.

She picked up a brightly coloured shopping bag, a garish pink monstrosity decorated with hearts and butterflies. The logo read CONTESSA LINGERIE and bore a fifties-style picture of a Merry Widow decked out in an exotic black torsolette. The room went silent as she placed it on the coffee table for all to see.

My eyes bulged from their sockets as I realized what Momma had been saving up as the Grand Finale to the afternoon's festivities. For one second the floor seemed to lurch beneath my feet. I shook my head in utter disbelief: this simply couldn't be happening. She wouldn't do this to me; wouldn't subject me to such total humiliation.

How wrong I was.

"OK, gather round everybody," Mom exclaimed, taking me by the wrist, "It's time our cancan boy tried on his costume."

"Momma, noooooooo!" I wailed as she led me to the centre of the floor. I stumbled along behind her, blushing all the way to my hairline. An urgent, feverish heat filled my tummy: she was going to undress me; strip me down to my underpants before a houseful of complete strangers. Worse than that, she was going to make me wear whatever in the shopping bag - and despite her preceding announcement, I knew it wasn't a costume. It was lingerie - bras and stockings and flimsy lace panties. I stared around in gape-mouthed shock. What was I going to do now?!

Momma's friends crowded in, eager to play with their new toy. Their hands ruffled my hair, tugged at my clothes. They were literally squealing with delight, eyes shining with feral pleasure. The walls trembled with their excited cries. This was one show they weren't going to miss. I felt surrounded, trapped, hemmed in.

"No, Momma, please no!" I begged, heart pounding in my throat, "take me up to my room! I don't everyone to see!" A rash of laughter rippled through the audience. Some of them chortled over my childish modesty, others sighed with maternal pleasure. Someone patted me affectionately on the hip: there there, baby, no need to be shy.

"Don't be silly, darling," Momma replied, pulling me toward her, "you're a little boy, no one minds seeing your panties. Now come over here and take off that sweatshirt." I gaped up at her, unable to believe what I'd just heard. Panties?! What did she mean? I wasn't a girl, I didn't wear panties. I straightened up, preparing to voice my objections at the top of my lungs - then felt her fingers plucking at my waistline.

"Nooooooooooooo!" I cried as she peeled my sweatshirt over my head and dropped it to the floor. More laughter; giggles of sheer delight, in fact. Several clapped their hands to encourage Mom to continue with my reluctant striptease. Knowing what was about to happen, I stepped away from her, only to discover my exit blocked by Ms Rhodes and several grinning conspirators. The message was clear: I wasn't going anywhere.

"All right - hold still, honey-boy," Mom told me, reaching down to unbuckle my belt, "there's nothing to feel embarrassed about, we're all mothers here. Now - let's get those pants off. You can't dance the cancan wearing jeans, can you?"

It took her exactly five seconds to remove my blue denim Levis, leaving me standing in nothing but my fresh white underwear. Gasping with shame, I tried to pull my singlet down to cover my prim, cotton briefs. The action prompted a chorus of amusement from the audience: Isn't he just the sweetest little thing, look at him trying to hide his underpants, you'd never guess he was a boy, would you?

By this time, my face was blazing the colour of a ripe tomato. Even now, decades after the event, I can still recall the breathless, gasping shame of that moment, the derisive, contemptuous laughter of my audience. That was how it seemed to me at the time; twelve year-old boys are terribly self-conscious about their bodies, particularly where strangers are concerned. Of course, none of that mattered to Momma. She and her company were oblivious to my tearful pleas; they were enjoying the spectacle far to much to consider a child's emotions.

"Let's get him out of those undies," Ms Rhodes said behind me, her high, warbling voice pregnant with excitement. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw her outstretched hands descending on me, her features radiating horrific delight. I cast an imploring glance at my mother, but found no sympathy there.

"OK, Jane, go ahead," Momma agreed, placing her hands around my slim waist, "I'll hold him for you."

"NOOOOOOO!!" I squirmed in her grasp, frantic to evade this final indignity. All to no avail: resistance was futile, my fate had been sealed the instant Mrs Rhodes decided she wanted to see me naked. She had my vest off faster than it takes to read this sentence. I squealed, dancing from foot to foot like a frightened schoolgirl. Ms Rhodes tossed the singlet into the crowd –

And then it was time for my panties.

"Mom - I can't wear this."

We had spread the costume out from one end of the living room to the other. Gleaming satin seemed to cover every available surface. The sofa was absolutely inundated with frills and flounces; unidentified pieces of lingerie decorated the coffee table. A small mountain of petticoats occupied one of the armchairs, threatening to spill its nebulous mass over the carpet. I stared around in utter amazement, my cheeks tinting with a fine, high color. There were things I'd never seen before, things with hooks and straps and clips that made my pulse flutter just looking at them.

They expected me to dance in that?

Mom was having a good, long chuckle at my expense, taking great pleasure in my evident discomfort.

"Don't look so horrified," she laughed, picking up a handful of delicate black lace, "everything seems about the right size. It may feel a little strange at first, but you'll get used to it after a week or so," She held the garter belt out towards me, long suspenders dangling enticingly from her right hand. I backed up, shaking my head frantically.

"Noooooo!"

"Don't be silly; it won't hurt just to try it on. Anyway, you have to wear garters when you're dancing the cancan. It's practically a national law."

"Mom, I can't wear something like that." A soft, pink blush had suffused my features spreading gradually all the way down to my shoulders.

"Why not?" She asked, eyebrows raised inquiringly.

"I ... well ... it's ..." my mind had gone suddenly blank. I stared around helplessly, groping for words. A thousand different emotions seemed to be struggling for control of my mind. A cast a glance around the room, taking in that avalanche of shimmering white corsetry. "I just can't. They're ... they're so ... so ..."

"Pretty?" Mom asked, eyebrows still raised.

"Well…yeah."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

I wavered from foot to foot in a perfect rictus of frustration. How could explain this to her: the deep sense of humiliation I was feeling; the pleasure, the shame and the excitement? Part of me wanted this desperately, wanted to clip that sheer black web around my waist and feel its silken texture again my bare flesh. More than that, I wanted to have no choice in the matter. Crazy as this sounds, I wanted her to make me do this, force me to dress as a girl and dance around the stage with my panties on full exhibition.

Of course, I couldn't admit that to anyone.

"They're girl's clothes, Mom," I said, down casting my face and shifting my feet listlessly, "everyone'll laugh at me."

I felt her fingertips touching my face.

"It'll be all right, honey. You'll look fine. I promise."

I looked up at her. Her voice, like her hand, was gentle, encouraging. That was one of the things about my Mother; she could be as hard as tempered steel when she needed to be, but there had always been a sensitive side to her nature. How could I say no to her, even in something like this? I shrugged my shoulders, sighing under my breath.

"All right," I said, unbuttoning my shirt from the front.

"There isn't anybody else, Casey. You're the one."

They reached the top of the stairs, dodging a swarm of pink fairies darting out of the girl's dressing room. Casey faced his teacher, color rising to his cheeks in a soft red haze.

"Ms Deane, I can't do it," Casey cried, as if in real distress, "I - I just can't!!!" He had to get out of this. Somehow. Anyhow.

"I'm afraid you'll have to."

"But -"

"No buts, Casey", she interrupted, vague amusement spicing her tone, "come on, I'll help you get changed." Taking the boy's hand, she led him into the change room, ignoring his shrill objections. The enticing scents of perfume and stage powder wafted through the door. Casey dragged his feet, squirming uncomfortably. They were entering the dreaded GIRL ZONE.

"But, Ms Deane -" Casey's voice trembled like an infant's, protesting even as he complied. His heart began turning somersaults as they stepped through the open doorway. A few of the older girls were loitering by near the mirrors, powdering their faces and doing their hair. Casey recognized more than half of them from the Modern Dance Class. Tricked out in jet-black leotards and ghostly white makeup, they were the Ravens (like in that movie with Brandon Lee), Ms Deane's elite troupe. Casey moaned inwardly. This was getting worse by the second. He groped for an excuse.

"I've never rehearsed with Katrina and the others, Ms Deane, I don't know the routine! I'll make a mess of it, I know I will."

"No, you won't, you'll pick it up in no time. You're one of the best students we have. Now take off those clothes, Casey. I'll get your costume."

"Take off my -?" Casey sputtered, glancing wildly around the room. The blood virtually froze in his veins: he could image nothing worse than undressing before a roomful of girls. He shot a sideways glance towards the Ravens, all of whom were regarding Casey with considerable interest. A huge wave of embarrassment surged through his system, his lower lip tremored in despair.

"Noooooo," he begged, pulse racing in his throat, "please Ms Deane, I don't want to, not in here -"

Unfortunately for Casey, Evelyn Deane was not a woman to be defied. Transfixing him with an irresistible stare, she leaned in closer, towering over the eleven year-old like a hungry, red-tressed virago. "GET those jeans OFF young man!"

"No, no, please Ms Deane," Casey pleaded in the hopeless, quailing voice of a first grader, "don't make me do this -"

"NOW," the tall woman growled in a tone that could liquefy steel.

Moaning in shame, Casey peeled off his top and began unbuttoning his pants. He bit his lip in childlike dismay, struggling to hold back the whimpers threatening to escape his throat. This couldn't be happening! In a matter of moments, the evening had flip-flopped into a nightmare. The girls by the mirror whispered to one another and giggled. Casey's blush deepened to the shade of a maraschino cherry.

He wavered on the verge of tears, knowing he had no choice but to follow his teacher's orders. Turning completely away from his tittering little audience, he slipped the jeans slowly down his thighs, revealing his fresh, white briefs to all and sundry. A ripple of tinkling laughter filled the dressing room.

Meanwhile, Ms Deane had stalked over to the costume racks, pulling out a can-can outfit and examining it carefully. Casey had a trim figure, a shape as feminine as any of the girls performing in the Montmartre number. He could probably squeeze into a size six with the help of a waist-cincher and a suspender belt. Yes, this one would do nicely.

Stepping helplessly out of his jeans, Casey stood up in his singlet and underpants, two bright roses standing out on his cheeks. He felt completely disgraced, divested of what little dignity he'd ever known as a boy. Humiliation poured over him like some thick, warm liquid; he shivered with silent outrage - she had done this to him, forced him to parade half-naked before a bunch of giggling eighth graders. Once word got 'round at school next Monday (as he was certain it would) the teasing would never stop.

Truth be told, Casey actually looked like a girl, with his wavy blond hair and his soft, pouting features. He'd always possessed a rather feminine appearance: even now, people often commented on how 'pretty' (and rather effeminate) he was. Narrow shoulders, tiny waist, full lips and a delicate bone structure all contributed to the illusion - which was probably why Ms Deane had chosen him to replace Janey North in the first place (or so he imagined)

He was wearing a snowy white vest and a pair of bikini underpants; the simple, unadorned kind that could be worn by either sex. From a slight distance (or even at extreme close up, for that matter), he could easily have been mistaken for a young girl wandering around in her vest and panties, waiting for the curtain call.

Ms Deane strode up behind him bearing an armload of satin frills, placing the costume on the make-up counter.

"This is what you'll be wearing, Casey. The underwear may look a little complicated, but I'll help you with some of the trickier items."

She spread the ensemble out across the counter like a Las Vegas croupier fan-tailing a deck of cards. The dress was a blaze of garish red satin embellished with florid yellow lace. The halter-style top was studded with rhinestones and oversized frills around the bustline. Brilliant white petticoats had been sewn into the skirt's lining; Casey could see the frothy material peeking out from beneath the hemline. The whole outfit looked loud, gaudy and wickedly expensive.

A cold thrill seemed to run the length of his spine as Casey surveyed the garish spray of polyester ruffles and gauzy nylon flounces. In a few minutes, he'd be zipped up into this - this party dress - and sent out on stage to make a public spectacle of himself. It wasn't fair! Why was she doing this to him?! Why was she making him dress up like a SISSY when there were at least a dozen girls downstairs who could have taken Janey's place?! Hovering at the brink of hysteria, Casey looked up at his teacher, his eyes huge and moist and imploring:

"Miss Deane, I can't do it, I just can't!! I - I'm a boy, not a girl!!!"

Ms Deane leant down, placing her hands on Casey's arms, looking sharply into the boy's eyes to gain his attention. There were only seven minutes left.

"Yes, I know you're a boy, Casey," the ballet instructor told him, speaking in a fast, staccato rhythm, "but it can't be helped. Katrina's class is one girl short, and they need you. You're the only one who can do the steps at short notice. You remember the quadrille I taught you last summer?"

Casey nodded, thinking back. It was all still there.

"That's all you have to do, Casey. Jenny and Katrina will do the more complicated steps. It won't be hard. Just hold up your skirt and follow the lead."

Casey winced at the image of himself prancing across the stage with his dress over his head (and his undies on display for the whole world, let's not forget that vital piece of information). Ms Deane read his expression.

"Don't worry about it, Casey. Nobody's going to recognize you. In a dress and make up, you'll just be another chorus girl," Ms Deane told him, gesturing towards the costume. "Come on, it's time you climbed into this. Take off your vest."

Casey hesitated several seconds, knowing he really had no other choice. There would be absolutely no negotiation here: refusal was never an option where Ms Evelyn Deane was concerned. Surrendering to his fate with an almost imperceptible sob, Casey raised his hands and allowed her to peel his singlet off over his head. Gooseflesh played across his ivory tummy.

"Now, the underwear."

(WHAT?)

Evelyne shifted her position slightly, then reached out towards Casey's hips. What is she DOING??! he thought wildly, as Ms Deane hooked her fingers though his plain cotton undies. He opened his mouth to protest, to shriek his opposition, but all he could manage was tearful, defeated groan. The soft fabric slid down his thighs. The room spun around him; Casey nearly fainted as the cotton settled gently around his heels. This was literally his worst nightmare.

Eve patted him several times on the bottom.

"OK, let's get you dressed," Evelyne remarked, then led Casey over to the dressing counter by the hand. He trailed along on tip-toe, a pretty young boy with platinum hair spiraling halfway down his back. His complexion glowed with a tender rose tint, his girlish figure arched in a graceful arabesque. He endured this final humiliation without objection, wiping his cheeks with his free hand and fixing his gaze on the floor. He didn't even raise his head when the girls started whistling and catcalling from the other side of the room.

"There, that's better," Evelyn said, ignoring the hoots and jeers of the Casey Admiration Society across the floor, "now we can get started." Darting a glance towards the clock, Ms Deane began sorting out the costume with swift, practiced fingers. Casey watched in mute resignation, achingly aware that his pert young bottom was on full exhibition.

He simply couldn't believe he was going through with this - or that he'd given in so easily. It was as if some tiny part of him actually wanted to be dolled up like a fairy in a Christmas pageant. He banished the thought with an impatient shake of his head. I'm NOT a girl, he thought again, then glanced over towards cancan outfit.

(Oh)

Casey gasped in surprise as his gaze swept over the virginal lace underthings Ms Deane was laying out across the make-up counter. A sweet, fluid heat crept through his belly. He hadn't even paused to consider what he'd be wearing underneath - the sight of the dress had driven everything else from his mind. His heartbeat accelerated into overdrive as he realized the extent of his predicament.

I ... have to wear this? he thought incredulously.

The underwear was nothing short of captivating; flimsy, translucent remnants shimmering with silk and lace. Pristine white panties lay side by side with sheer black stockings and a number of mysterious, complex items Casey didn't recognize. Things with bows and clips and hooks he'd never seen before. The very sight of them sent a chill racing though his slim torso. Hot flushes raged through his bloodstream; he tried to glance away, but the lingerie (particularly the panties) seemed to exert an almost hypnotic influence over the boy's bulging eyes.

Ms Deane picked up a long, delicate strip of black lycra between two fingers; an intricate web of lace from which four adjustable straps descended. Casey moistened his lips with a flickering pink tongue. His breathing shallowed and quickened. Emotions he couldn't identify flooded his mind as the dance teacher kneeled down to slip the suspender belt around his tiny waist. He had no idea what it was, but inexplicably, he couldn't wait to feel it touch his alabaster flesh.

"All right," Ms Deane said crisply, "hold still."

Ms Deane fastened the suspender belt into position.

Casey felt the hook-and-eye lock into place, dimpling his waistline. French lace teased his skin, long black suspenders dangled lightly against his thighs. Cool, tickling feathers seemed to stroke his tummy as the teacher adjusted the waist-strap, her fingertips brushing his belly button several times. Casey trembled with each contact.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," Eve ordered curtly. It was time for the hosiery, and she didn't want the boy tripping over his feet while she slipped the denier up his legs. She worked quickly, smoothing out the sheer ebony nylon and tugging it gently up to mid-thigh. Stretching the elastic to the breaking point, she clipped the suspenders onto the stocking tops, then sat back on her heels to study her handiwork.

Running a critical gaze down Casey's inner thighs, Eve marveled at their graceful curvature. Casey had exceptional legs for a boy; long, slender and about as smooth as polished marble. Four years tapping the boards had toned up his calves, leaving them sleek and rather coltish. The black stockings were a perfect fit, and served to emphasize their length and beauty.

Probably grow up to be a Barbie doll, she thought ruefully.

Meantime, Casey was trembling with apprehension. His head swirled with conflicting emotions: shame, dread, guilt. And humiliation. Humiliation, huge and irresistible, roaring through his body like a river bursting its banks. He was nude, stark dripping naked, and Ms Deane was dressing him in girl's underwear. The image flashed through his consciousness with neon intensity.

But I'm a boy, he thought in silent protest, looking over at the mirror. Very soon, his metamorphosis would be complete. He'd be a she. A pretty little girl with a brilliant smile and a mischievous glint in her eye. He'd be sent out to flash his panties before half of Chamberlain, squealing with excitement as she spun through her number. Petticoats flailing around his chin, he would twirl across the stage in reckless abandon, his suspenders and stockings on full view of the audience -

Then: Ms Deane's knife-edged voice, snapping her back to reality:

"OK, stop day-dreaming and step into these."

Casey looked down, his heart pausing momentarily.

It was time for the panties.

They were a pair of high-waisted full-briefs, glistening white nylon edged with exquisite pink traceries. The bottom was a mass of dainty frills, hundreds of diaphanous lace ruffles which primped and fluttered at a touch. Glaringly bright, they looked pristine, innocent and easily the most feminine thing Casey had ever seen.

"Quickly, Casey. We don't have much time."

Casey slipped into the pants, shimmying his hips as Eve drew them up over his hips. Casey zoned in a fugue of disbelief; in a matter of minutes, he'd be dancing the can-can before an audience of hundreds. And worst of all -

he was wearing frilly underpants.

Eve looked at the clock, ticking blithely away over the door. Five minutes to go, and the girl didn't even have her lipstick on yet. The dress lay in a glittering huddle over the dressing counter, its sequins reflecting the lights above the make-up mirror. They'd never make it down to the stage in time. If it were just the costume, they'd be alright, but there were the gloves, the make-up and the waist-cincher to consider. And then there was the hair ...

I'll have to cancel the Montmartre number, Eve thought (not without regret, considering how hard her troupe had worked on it). Katrina and the others would be disappointed, but there was simply no other option at this point.

Unless ...

Ms Deane called out to the girls by the mirror.

"Could you give us a hand, please?"

Six pair of eyes wheeled towards Casey simultaneously, then the Ravens were on their feet, jostling each other aside in adolescent exuberance. All of them understood what their flame-haired instructor wanted, and each wanted a piece of the can-can boy.

"Yes, Ms Deane!!"

Shrill, birdlike voices echoed off the ceiling as the Ravens charged their quarry. Eve stepped aside to allow them a clear view of their prey, and the girls descended on Casey in a body. He was swallowed up in a storm of flurrying hands and midnight leotards. Their voices blended incoherently around him.

"What first?"
"The dress! Unzip the back. Here -"
"How do you do this up?"
"Give me a hand, will you?"
"Does this thing hook or clip?"
"Hooks up, I think-"
"He's not wearing a bra!"
"He doesn't need one."
"Neither do you."
"Hey, shut UP!!"
"Hold still, Casey!"
"CUTE!"
"How do you - ?"
"- straight up under the skirt -"
"Cheryl, grab the rouge!"

They raced Casey through his transmorphosis in under two minutes, leaving him hot and flushed. One of the girls fiddled with his hair, tying it up with plastic hair clips and a handful of orange feathers. The rest stood back to admire their efforts. All of them went quiet with surprise. Ms Deane stepped back to view him at a distance. She wore the expression of someone utterly astonished despite herself. The dance instructor had known it would work all along, but still ...

"Uncanny," was Ms Deane's only comment.

The girls began to chatter in amazement. They were no longer looking at a feminine boy playing dress-ups. A few seconds ago, he'd been a child of vaguely indeterminate sex, now he'd somehow morphed into a perfectly normal-looking ten year old girl. No, more than normal - pretty. Surprisingly pretty.

"You look great, Casey," one of the girls said, a remark followed by an instant chorus of approval.

"She doesn't have any garters", someone piped up, "you can't dance the can-can without garters, Casey."

"She's got suspenders," said another girl, "that's good enough isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, but -"

And suddenly, they were all over him again, touching and prodding, adjusting his clothes, smoothing his hair, fussing and fidgeting about so much that Casey didn't even notice they were starting to use the female pronoun to describe him. It might have gone on forever if Ms Deane hadn't broken them up.

"Okay, that's enough. Time's up, Casey. Let's go."

Ushering the can-can boy ahead of her, Ms Deane exited the dressing room with her usual air of self congratulation, leaving the Ravens alone to gossip amongst themselves (and boy, did they have a lot to talk about now). None of them noticed brief exchange that passed between teacher and student as they approached the stairs.

"Here," Eve said, handing Casey a pair of hot red garters, "put these on."

Katrina and Jenny and all the others were waiting anxiously downstairs, uncertain as to whether they would still be performing this afternoon. Janey's sprain had come at the worst possible time: they needed at least six to do this number, quadrille or not. They had some idea as to what Ms Deane had in mind, but a flat refusal was more than a possibility. What if Casey said no? There was no one else their age who could fill in for Janey - at least no one as good as Casey was.

"How could Janey break her ankle at a time like this?" Katrina was demanding of no one in particular, "she's put us right out of the show with her dumb stunts."

"It wasn't a dumb stunt," replied Cindy Bayliss, defending her absent friend, "she was practicing her handstands and fell over. And it's just a sprain, she didn't break anything, Kat."

"Well, it's still left us stranded up the creek, hasn't it? We'll never find someone to replace her in time."

"What about Casey? Ms Deane said she was going to -"

"He'll probably say no," Gail Williams cut in pessimistically, "what boy wants to do the can-can? Everybody would call him a sissy."

"Hey - there she is now," Katrina said, pointing to the stairs.

"Who's that with her?"

They watched narrow-eyed as Ms Deane approached with their new can-can girl in tow. A slim, shy-looking little girl in a red satin ball-room dress, none of them recognized her at first. It was several seconds before the penny dropped. Debbie Thomas stepped forward, mouth a-gape:

"Kay-See?!"

Casey hugged his arms in embarrassment, lowering his face and nodding toward the floor. Gail and Cindy ran forward, gasping with delight (WOW - is that really YOU, CASEY? Hey!!) and Casey found himself surrounded for the second time in as many minutes. Katrina and Jenny waded in, touching his hair and checking his petticoats with cries of disbelief - particularly when they saw what he was wearing underneath. Casey tried to hold his skirt down against their explorations.

"All right, time to get ready," Ms Deane interrupted, bringing the party to a premature halt, "You're on next, girls. Over by the curtain, let's go."

Eve clapped her hands smartly together. The girls ran lightly across the floor with little screams of excitement, scooping up handfuls of satin and lace. Casey followed after, his skirt billowing around him like a satin cloud. No time now for reservations. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his blush had spread all the way to his hairline.

Out in the theater, the Hostess of Ceremonies was looking over the program. The Civic Center was packed to capacity tonight - must have been more than a thousand people filling the rows. As it was, the seats were booked out for nearly a week in advance. Not bad for a small-town dance festival, especially this far out in the suburbs.

Glancing towards the wings, she noted that Evelyn Deane's dance troupe was in place for the next number - six young girls in garish costumes, petticoats hiked up to their thighs. This was going to be quite the spectacle, according to all accounts. Gesturing for silence, she tapped the mike, adjusted her glasses, then introduced the imminent festivities with a hint of spice in her voice:

"Well, the next number will certainly be a treat, ladies and gentlemen. The Spencer District Dancing School is pleased to present a taste of Gay Paree. Monsieurs et madamoiselles - the French Can-Can!!"

The auditorium's loudspeakers rung into life as the audience began to applaud. Offenbach's universally familiar overture to Orpheus in the Underworld echoed across the floor as the cancaneuses made their entrance, skirts bunched up to their hips. All of the girls wore prim white garters - all save one; a tall, stunning blond with a saucy grin and legs that could kill at a hundred yards. "She" was wearing a pair of bright red garters just below her stocking tops. Flaring and flashing with every movement, they almost screamed for attention.

And attention was what they got.

Casey dominated the performance from the first step. The spotlights followed his spirited dash to center left. The girls circled the stage, falling into position with their petticoats whipping about their thighs. Casey took his place between the two principals -

and the Can-Can really began.

Casey lifted his hemline clear up to his throat, allowing the crowd a spectacular view of his thighs, stockings, and lavishly frilled underpants. Crinolines were raised across the floor, and the girls sprinted forward in a dazzle of shining lingerie. A startled gasp sailed up from the audience. The hall erupted with cheers of satisfaction; howls and wolf whistles split the air.

Moving slightly forward off the others, Casey kicked his right leg over his head and brought it down in a circular motion, an action repeated by the remaining five dancers. Inexplicably, Casey had taken the lead, and the rest were following his cue. Smiles beamed from face to face, silvery laughter chimed above the music. None of them had realized just how much fun this was going to be.

The girls began spinning like tops, their skirts threatening to fly away. Several begin turning cartwheels and handsprings, all calculated to reveal every inch of their lingerie. They worked their way through a complicated series of high-kicks, flip-flops and turn-overs with undisguised enthusiasm.

Seized by an irresistible impulse, Casey suddenly doubled over and executed a perfectly balanced handstand. His petticoats immediately fell away, showing off his slender legs and flimsy nylon panties. With his hair brushing the floorboards and skirt reversed over his head, Casey couldn't see the audience, but there was no mistaking their roars of appreciation. The walls were almost shaking with the thunder.

Still holding his balance, Casey scissored his legs open in mid-air. His suspenders elongated by at least six inches, straining against his upper-thighs. Casey giggled in spite of himself - wouldn't it be embarrassing if one of those tense black straps snapped right here in front of the crowd? Then again, he had plenty to be embarrassed about as it was.

Being closest to the edge of the stage, Casey's knickers were on full display to everybody in the first four rows. Every ribbon, every bow, every dainty scrap of lace was clearly visible. His nebulous black stockings stood out in urgent contrast as Casey concluded his aerial splitz. His pulse was thudding like a trip-hammer; he'd never felt so pretty, so feminine in his life.

Bringing his legs together once more, Casey dropped over onto his feet like a gynmast in dismount. His dress fell back into place, covering his underwear behind a curtain of red satin. Can't have that now, can we? No room for false modesty here! Throwing both hands high over his head, Casey launched into a forward handspring. Polyester frills frisked about stockinged calves, cheeky little panties flickered back into view. Another cheer burst up from the audience.

Katrina and Jenny cantered to the front of the stage whipping their petticoats from side to side, joining Casey as he landed on his high heels. The timing seemed almost supernaturally correct: Casey never stumbled, never hesitated, never placed a foot wrong. Raising his crinoline up to his shoulders, he flung himself into the dance with renewed vigor, firing highkicks in rapid-fire bursts. Katrina and Jenny followed suite, proudly disclosing their gartered stocking-tops to half the population of Chamberlain. The rest of the girls spun about, tossing their skirts over their heads and exposing their bottoms in a flourish of white lace.

Watching unseen from the wings, Evelyn Deane studied Casey's form in subdued fascination. She'd known the boy was talented, but she'd never suspected he was capable of such (all right, let's be truthful here) virtuosity. Twenty minutes ago, he'd been on the brink of tears, now he was undergoing some kind of transfiguration. Eve shook her head in awe. She felt as though she were looking at the next Njinsky ... or maybe Fontaine, depending on the costume.

Out on stage, the troupe had whirled into its final configuration. Kicking up their stilettos in a welter of lace and garters, they offered the crowd a final glimpse of their firm young calves, their tightly strung suspenders, their girlish, naughty smiles.

What am I DOING?! Casey asked himself, lifting his left sole into a tendon-straining pat en l'air. What was he doing here, exhibiting his panties to like a million people at once?! Panties were sacrosanct; an unmentionable secret to be kept hidden beneath layers and layers of silk and satin. Except, of course, while he was dancing the Can-Can.

And what could be more exhilarating than that?

Reaching the grand finale, the girls turned in a line, bent over and presented their panty-clad bottoms to the audience. Skirts flipped inside out in a wave flowing left to right: one two three four five SIX!! Pert young bottie-cheeks were thrust out in a halo of foaming crinolines, sussie-straps stretched to their limits, glossy red pumps clacked together with the sound of breaking ice. Frilly round buttocks clenched and jostled for center stage, their lush curves bulging through their gossamer sheaths.

Casey peeked out from below her layered underskirt, looking out towards the theatre. The audience had exploded into a standing ovation: row after row of spectators rose their feet, clapping their palms and yowling their congratulations, their bravos, their encores. The boards beneath the girls' feet started vibrating in resonance as the tumult continued to climb.

"Casey - that was fantastic!!" Katrina Waylan whispered, her face the color of a wild strawberry.

"Yeah," Jenny Griffiths agreed with an admiring giggle, "you're the bomb, Casey!!"

The motion was carried by all present; Casey certainly was the bomb. All six girls wriggled their fannies in a unanimous declaration of triumph. Faultlessly white panties glared beneath blazing spotlights. Out beyond orchestra pit, the cheering swelled towards a crescendo. Encore, Encore, ENCORE!!

Now I'm really blushing, Casey thought, shyly regarding her new friends with a touching mixture of affection and gratitude.

And with that, the curtain came down on the Montmarte number. Purple Velvet swept the stage, bringing an end to the evening's festivities. The footlights dimmed, the applause began to fade. The cancan was over.

But for Casey, the show was just beginning.

Misha almost paused in mid-step, his eyes snapping forward in a classic double take. A long display marked ACCESSORIES took up an entire wall to the left of the counter. Most of it was tawdry window-dressing: feather boas, tiaras, sequined gloves, plastic derbies and similar paraphernalia. Cheap, gaudy trinkets that harkened back to the glory days of vaudeville.

Next to this was a plain, white sign containing a single word: LINGERIE.

Misha halted before the stand, surveying the merchandise in gape-mouthed astonishment. Mounted in pride of place was a flurry of shining, satin panties. Sleek, gossamer g-strings with floral insets; outrageously ruffled sissypants; skimpy red thongs with naughty black trimmings around the waistband. Pants of every size, description and colour: fresh white cottontails, pale blue bikinis, glistening lycra full briefs. This was something totally unexpected, a delicious shock which raised his temperature to feverish heights. He hadn't realized they stocked underwear.

No, he immediately corrected himself, not underwear. Lingerie.

Yes, Lingerie: demure, lacy underthings that clung to the body like a second skin. Exotic, lavish foundation garments that teased the flesh with a silken, feather-light touch. Wickedly seductive garter belts with adjustable suspenders, chic black stockings with seams running down the back. Magical, figure-hugging corsets with a thousand tiny hooks. Basques, brassieres and torsolettes so complicated they took half a day to strap yourself into.

Half-mesmerized, Misha barely felt Judy's fingers on his elbow.

"Michelle? Michelle?"

"Yes ...?"

"You'll be dancing the can-can, won't you?"

Misha fell speechless with embarrassment. He hadn't counted on this, hadn't stopped to consider the kind of questions he'd be asked. He'd never actually seen Calamity Jane, had no idea what it was about, beyond being set in the Old West. Why was this so goddamned complicated? He'd come in for was a fitting, not a lecture in theatrical history. What was he going to say now?

"Uhm ... yes, there's a musical number I have to ...." he stammered after an agonizing five second delay. He tried to finish the sentence but discovered the words had fled into some endless, grey limbo.

"Well, then," Judy said brightly, "the first thing we have to think about are your panties."

Misha opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind. Everything was happening too fast, he didn't have enough time to think. Worse still, their conversation was attracting a great deal of undue interest. Over by the hosiery display, the Mariah Carey clones were offering him their undivided attention. At least four other customers were drifting in his general direction, necks craning for a better view of the proceedings. Several more had started creeping out of the woodwork, attracted by some obscure form of magnetism unknown to science (or maybe by the words 'can-can' and 'panties'). He had to put and end to this discussion. Immediately.

"Well, I don't really think – "

Unfortunately for Misha, Judy Ryan could talk through a mouthful of wet concrete once she had a sale in her sights. She steam-rollered over the boy's objections without missing a beat:

"Now – you'll need something sassy and saucy, like they used to wear in those old westerns. You know; long dresses with hoop skirts and about a thousand petticoats underneath? Every movie back in those days had a bar room scene, and the girls always wore long black gloves and orange feathers in their hair. We've got some of those too, over in the accessories department. Anyway, you'll also need some garters and stockings – can't dance the can-can without stockings – but right now, we'd better start with these."

Misha's eyes bulged with surprise.

Judy held up a pair of white satin panties. Sheer, gossamer full-briefs, they were adorned with flimsy lace ruffles along the sides and bottom. The front was embroidered with delicate floral patterns and edged with a dainty pink frill. They were breathtakingly feminine, as fragile and insubstantial as a dream. Misha shook his head slowly, covering his mouth in amazement. He'd never known such things existed, even in the Victoria's Secret catalogue.

"Well? What do you think?" Judy asked.

"They're beautiful." Misha replied in hushed tones.

"Yes, they are rather pretty, aren't they? Original design too, did you know that? One of a kind, like most of the stuff we sell here. Mind you, I can't take the credit for these – Donna takes care of all the lingerie orders, lingerie's her specialty; she's had work in the Pret a Porter, would you believe it? All that was years ago, of course, but she's never quite lost the touch. Anyhow, time is money, and we haven't got all morning, so if you'd like to strip down to your bra and pants, we'll get started –"

(?????)

"What? I'm sorry –?" Misha interrupted, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Your fitting," Judy answered conversationally, "climb out of those things and I'll take your measurements". Laying the panties down on the display shelf, she reached out and unzipped Misha's Levis. Too stunned to react, he could only stare in disbelief as Judy lowered the faded denim over his hips. Shimmering nylon panties were revealed, inch by teasing inch.

(WHAT IS SHE DOING??!!)

Voicing a little shriek, Misha stepped away from the Mad Seamstress, snatching at his jeans with both hands. He tottered back in shock, hi-cut pink briefs on full view. A small group of spectators had gravitated to the Lingerie stand, chattering softly amongst themselves and commenting on Misha's choice of underwear. The two Mariahs stood together, trading backhand comments in low, whispering tones. Even Old Mrs Addler had abandoned her novel and sat watching from behind the cash register, scowling like a barn-owl.

"What's the matter?" Judy asked, genuinely bewildered.

"I ... you ... I can't ..." Misha sputtered, cheeks burning like passionfire roses, "why ... why do I have to get undressed?"

"So I can take your measurements, of course."

"But –" the boy hesitated, completely lost for words. What was going on here? Is this what a fitting actually involved? Abject humiliation before a crowd of total strangers?

"Oh, what are you worried about?" Judith laughed, zeroing in like a barracuda,"we're all girls here."

Misha shrank back in alarm, raising his hands as if to ward off a blow. His mind was groping for an escape route, some excuse, anything to avoid this public shaming. Everybody in the store had converged to witness the morning's entertainment; there must have been close to twenty people gathered 'round him now.

"Wait!" Misha cried out desperately, "I – I don't WANT to take my clothes off out here!! I ... I'm shy."

A ripple of laughter followed this breathless admission. The tension went out of the room; the Mariah clones started giggling behind small, lacquered fingertips. Misha almost collapsed with relief. Disaster had been averted by microseconds – at least for the time being. He glanced longingly towards the door, calculating his chances of making it onto the street before Barracuda Judy could tear his clothes off.

"Shy?" Judy chortled, bubbling with condescension "Why didn't you say so? We have changing booths right over there. Look – tell you what. Take these (she handed Misha the frilled pants and an underwire bustier) and put them on in that little room. When you've gotten changed, we'll finish taking your measurements out here."

"Out here? In front of all these people?" Misha gasped, seeing himself parading around half-naked with the entire room looking on. "Couldn't we – couldn't we do the fitting in there?"

"No, the changing booths are too small for that – we'll be bumping around like two elephants in a volkswagen. Not saying you look like an elephant, of course; no, far from it, you have a lovely figure for your age, but you know what I mean. Look, you might have trouble with the bustier, you'd need to be a contortionist to do up all those clips at the back, so maybe I'd better come in and give you a hand –"

That was enough for Misha.

"NO!!" He exclaimed in a shrill, piping voice, "no, I'll be fine, honestly. I'll call you if I need any help." Hugging the lingerie to his chest, he spun on his heel and bolted for the change rooms. His firm, ripe bottom turned in tight little circles as he scampered past the two Mariahs. The crowd parted with a smattering of good-natured applause. This was one show nobody was going to miss.

"What a strange girl," Judy said to no one in particular, adding as an after-thought: "cute bottom, though."

The resulting burst of humour chased Misha into the cubicle.

Closing the pinewood door behind him, Misha took off his beret and scrutinized his image in the mirror. Under normal circumstances, he would have found his reflection quite pleasing. Even without the make-up, his high cheekbones and sensuous lips gave Misha a youthful, girlish appearance. His supple physique was both lush and slender, poised at the very cusp of adolescence. In many respects, it had been a blessing, allowing him to live out his deepest fantasies (at least in private). But right now, trapped in a changing booth with The Mad Seamstress patrolling the show-room, Misha couldn't conceive of a worse nightmare.

What had he gotten himself into? This was the worst mistake of his life!! What had he been thinking, waltzing in here like Jennifer Lopez on a buying spree? He must've been crazy, delusional, totally off the rails. How had everything gotten out of hand so quickly? All he'd wanted to do was buy a couple of crinolines. Now he had to go back into the showroom wearing nothing but his underwear (no: lingerie, he reminded himself again, he didn't come here to buy underwear), while half the female population of Chamberlain stood by laughing up their sleeves.

Except they wouldn't be doing that, would they? Not exactly.

Sure, they might chuckle to one another behind their palms, but it would all be in the spirit of good, clean fun. Because as far as they were concerned, Misha was a girl. None of them knew any differently, none of them suspected Michelle Waverley was anything other than a thirteen year old dance student (which was close to the truth anyway; Misha had been treading the boards since his seventh birthday).

He looked down at the flimsy white remnants in his hands. He really had no other choice: if he tried to back out now, they'd almost certainly start asking questions. And that could land him in a world of trouble (forget lunch with the geek brigade; there were probably laws against what he was doing, although he hadn't considered that until now). No, there was only one way out of this cross-gendered labyrinth.

Misha took a long, calming breath, clearing his mind for the task ahead. He had to complete the performance. No, that was wrong. He couldn't simply act like a woman. He had to BE a woman, every word, every gesture, every thought. If there really was a Michelle hidden within his subconscious (as he'd imagined since his sixth birthday) – he had to allow her to take over. Completely.

Laying the lingerie aside (there was a hook with a clothes hanger set into the door), he began to disrobe, peeling off his top in a single lithe movement. His hair spilled over his shoulders in a blond waterfall, cascading down to the small of his back. His pulse lurched into overdrive; a gentle, carmine radiance permeated his neck and shoulders. Cool air whickered around him like the breath of winter. A delicious shiver swept the length of his spine.

Dropping the spandex tube to the floor, he lent down to unbutton his jeans. They were blue stretch Levis, wide-hipped and thin-waisted (the only kind he could wear, considering his womanly shape), a birthday present from his mother. He worked them slowly down his tapering thighs, enjoying the way his lace-edged panties came into view.

There was a sequence to removing his clothing, a protocol he had to follow. It made his periodic, ritual stripteases a thousand times more sensual (though he couldn't have explained why). Perhaps it was the gradual exposing of the panties, the knowledge that his dainty nylon secrets were being revealed. His belly was clenching with anticipation, his breathing shallowed. Wriggling his bottom from side to side, he slid the Levis over his knees, dropping them to the floor.

And as Misha stepped out of his jeans, everything changed.

Michelle Waverley straightened up, flicking her golden tresses away from her forehead, and appraised herself in the mirror. Misha was gone, overwhelmed by rising flood of shame, guilt and sexual delight. Trembling with arousal, she ran her palms over her nude, ivory torso, caressing her waist and belly. Her mouth parted in a gasping, rapturous sigh.

(yessssssssssssssssss)

Turning sideways, she studied the lean columns of her legs, the luscious arabesque of her thighs. Her sleek pink underpants glistened like liquid silver. The sight of them sent a wave of pleasure surging through her bloodstream. They were plain, high-cut briefs, but she'd always loved the smooth touch of nylon against her skin.

Of course, she had something far more exotic near at hand, something she'd been sent in to try on. Something that made her weak at the knees and brought a rosy flush to her cheeks. Her head swum with embarrassment. In a few minutes, she'd be called out to model her flimsies in the showroom – and yet she couldn't wait to show them off. Keeping her legs completely straight, Michelle took her pants down to her ankles.

Flicking the remnant aside with a careless gesture, she stood up, gleaming like an alabaster figurine. Sweet, liquid heat flowed through her tummy. Her entire sensory system shuddered at the brink of overload. Critical mass had been achieved, ecstasy was only inches away. The transition was finally upon her.

What am I doing? she thought as she took the frilly satin panties down from the hanger. She felt immersed in a sea of humiliation. Because cross-dressing was a kind of torture; a sultry, inescapable torment that always left her breathless with joy, agony and bliss. It was both surrender and a betrayal, triumph and defeat. No matter how much she enjoyed this, there would also be that sense of inner conflict, the legacy of her divided personality.

She hesitated no more than a second. The allure, the compulsion was too powerful to resist, even if she'd wanted to. Misha's voice was a tiny, remote pleading in the back of her mind, a petty distraction to be ignored and forgotten. This was her true nature, and she had no intention of denying it.

Bending double from the hips, Michelle stepped carefully into the sissy-pants and drew them slowly up her calves, luxuriating in the torrent of emotions they released. Her eyelids fluttered as the glossy satin brushed her inner-thighs; her moist, pink tongue flickered across her full, red lips. The tension was unbearable. Every nerve in her body was screaming with hair-trigger passion.

(oh GOD!)

She slipped the panties into place and looked back into the mirror. Placing her weight on one leg, she smoothed out the fabric with infinite patience. Posing in her sheer, platinum underpants, she was a stunningly beautiful girl, hovering at the threshold of womanhood. Her tawny limbs gleamed with the freshness of youth, the crimson petals of her mouth sulked like a spoilt child's.

Having concluded the panty adjustment ceremony to her satisfaction (the wide frills exaggerated her natural curvature, give her a rounded, classical outline), Michelle took the bustier off the hanger and inspected it at close range. Heartbreakingly lovely, it was a complex web of French lace and diaphanous lycra. Detachable shoulder-straps gave it an exotic, decadent appearance; wispy floral trimmings suggested innocence and purity. The underwire cups were tiny, but that didn't matter – her breasts were little more than token buds on a blossoming adolescent flower.

Smiling impishly, Michelle slipped her arms through the shoulder-straps and reached around to fasten the restraints. Easier said than done, of course. As Ms Judy had warned her, there were at least two dozen hooks lining the back of the corset-like garment. She managed to clip the first three or four through blind luck, but the remaining twenty evaded her best efforts. Well, that shouldn't be a problem, Michelle told herself. Help was close to hand, after all.

Almost precisely on cue, the Mad Seamstress rapped on the door.

"Michelle? Michelle, are you all right in there?"

"Yes, I'm OK," she answered, facing the mirror, "I'm having a little trouble with the bra."

"Yes, I thought so," Judy hollered, as if she thought her customer had gone deaf for no apparent reason, "would you like me to come in and give you a hand?"

"Yes, could you please?" Michelle replied without hesitation. A mischievous smile played across her features. She could hear her Otherself wailing at the back of her mind, groaning in protest over this violation of his masculine dignity. This deliberate violation! Misha didn't want Barracuda Judy strapping him into a corset; the very idea had him quivering in outrage. Well, they'd gone too far to stop now. The die was cast, so to speak.

Sorry, Misha, she thought to her Otherself, but this is what you wanted.

The door opened. Judy stepped inside, hands fluttering around like a pair of frightened doves. Outside, a cluster of inquisitive faces craned forward, eager for a peek inside the cubicle. Must have been close to thirty by now, Michelle could see them parroting about in the mirror. She felt Judy's fingertips spidering up her back, hooking the bustier faster than she could have pulled a zipper.

"You'll look utterly ravishing in this," Judy gushed, slotting the last clip into place, "once we get you into some stockings and a cinch-belt, you'll be the prettiest dancer on the stage. They'll be lining up to see your underwear!!"

A naughty giggle escaped Michelle's lips.

I sure hope so.

"Mommy, why is that girl standing there in her underpants?"

Sally Rainford was six years old. She lived in Chamberlain Heights with her Mommy (Gwen) and her older sister (Andrea). Like most girls her age, Sally liked Barbie dolls, Pokemon cards, Gummy Bears and dancing. In fact, she liked dancing so much that she had recently started lessons at the Spencer District Academy, where her teacher, Ms Evelyn Deane, taught her the Bunny Hop, the Butterfly, The Seven Steps, and lots of other neat and interesting things. That was why her Mommy had brought her to Lace & Garters Dancewear Shop ("What are garters?" Sally had asked, but Gwen Rainford had only smiled), so they could pick out a tutu for the dance recital next month.

Being somewhat bright for her age, Sally understood there was a time and place for everything, and knew that women didn't take their clothes off in the middle of a busy store. Which was why she'd been so surprised when The Big Girl had emerged from the changing booth wearing nothing but her bra and panties. It was OK to walk around the house in your undies (she and Andrea had plenty of experience doing that), but Big Girls weren't supposed to show off their knickers in public. Everyone knew that.

A good-natured burst of laughter followed Sally's ingenuous inquiry; even The Big Girl seemed amused by the question (although her face darkened to the colour of a wild strawberry). Sally looked round, wondering if she'd said THE WRONG THING again, as she so often did these days. Mommy usually gave her The Frown when she said THE WRONG THING (which was how she thought of it: in capitals and italics). Sally had been trying extra hard to watch her P's and Q's, but sometimes she just couldn't help herself: the words just blurted out with a life of their own.

Fortunately, Mommy didn't seem too upset with her this time.

"She's a dancer, sweet-heart, just like you. She's come in for a fitting."

"A what?"

"A fitting. She's being measured up for a costume."

"She's really pretty," the little girl commented artlessly.

"Yes, she is," Mommy agreed.

The object of Sally's attention was standing on a small platform in the centre of the showroom, blushing to the hairline. Hands on hips, right foot slightly extended, Michelle modeled her panties before an audience of close to fifty. Her impromptu striptease was drawing people in off the sidewalk, the steady trickle of shoppers was building into a stream. Word was spreading quickly up Lyndhurst Road; Lace & Garters Dancewear was putting on a demonstration, a beautiful teenaged girl was being measured in her underwear.

Hot flushes were coursing through Michelle's bloodstream, her belly was knotting with excitement. The display window had been cleared of merchandise to allow a clear view from the street, and she felt like the star attraction in a lingerie parade. Waves of helpless embarrassment washed over her like a rising deluge. And why not? She was wearing nothing but a halter bra and a pair of frilly white panties.

"Raise your arms," Mrs Addler instructed in gravel tones. She was taking the girl's measurements and had no time for airs, graces or social niceties. Michelle lifted her hands obediently, grinning playfully down at the crowd. With her slim legs on display and a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she looked like a 1940s pin-up queen. Several older gentlemen whistled in mock lechery, prompting another round of light-hearted chuckles.

Mrs Addler impaled them with a single, penetrating glare. Instantaneous silence descended over the room.

Muttering something through a mouthful of pins, Donna looped the tape around Michelle's flat stomach. The old woman clicked her tongue like a disapproving grandmother, then turned to the Mad Seamstress: "She'll take a size eight garter belt with nine inch suspenders. Make allowances for the crinoline."

"Check," Judy replied, who was kneeling down on the platform, measuring the girl's inside leg. "Midnight talls, 32 denier. Seamed." She looked up at Michelle, dropping her a conspiratorial wink. "Legs all the way up to your throat, kiddo. Dunno if we've got anything in stock that'll fit you. Make do with what we have, I guess. Still, good thing you've overcome your jitters, or you'd still be locked in the dressing room."

Michelle tittered in spite of herself. She hadn't overcome her jitters; that was the whole point. She was nearly swooning with guilty exhilaration. Her pulse was thundering in her ears, gooseflesh buzzed across her torso like a static charge. Her heartbeat had quickened to a frenzied gallop. She'd never imagined revealing her underthings would be so ... electrifying.

"OK, hold still, Missy," Judy told her, "time for the cincher."

Michelle glanced down and gasped with delight.

The 'cincher' was a gorgeous, ribbed garter-belt, the kind with adjustable suspenders and little white bows on the clasps. Transparent lace roses decorated the central waist-strap; the sides were reinforced with taut lycra panels. Unlike the slimline versions Michelle was familiar with, this was a genuine garter-belt, designed to flatten the tummy and contain the figure.

"All right, breath in – this is going to pinch a bit," Judy warned her.

Michelle held her breath as the cincher was clipped around her waist. The merest touch of lace was enough to blow her circuits. Huge, bluish stars detonated in front of her – for one infinite second, Michelle feared she was going to explode with desire. The room spun around her momentarily, morphing into a vortex of neon lights and colours.

Can't take much more of this, she thought, knowing that her yearnings could never be fully gratified.

"Yep – a perfect size eight," Judy remarked, nodding with satisfaction. The spectators murmured in admiration, whispering amongst themselves. Even the Mariah clones were suitably impressed with what they saw. The girl on the platform smiled modestly and placed a coy hand over her panties (although her palm was too small to really hide anything). The garter-belt was stretched tight about her middle, sinking into the soft pad of her abdomen. Her waist seemed impossibly tiny. Michelle looked achingly feminine.

"Works for me," Donna remarked neutrally (and coming as close to a compliment as she ever got), "but we ain't finished yet. You got those stockings, Judith?"

"Right here."

There are very few things as fascinating as the sight of a young woman slipping into a pair of black, seamed stockings. An expectant hush fell over the store as Michelle drew the sheer ebony hose up her tapering thigh. The effect was enthralling, spellbinding. Men stared in slack-jawed amazement, women stood motionless, their features inscribed with mute reverence.

Michelle sighed as she attached the stockings to her straining white garters. Exuding a light, fragrant perspiration, she bent over to adjust the straps, tuning them like the strings of some implausible musical instrument. Her pliant, dimpled bottom was thrust out towards the crowd, gossamer frills fluttering with her every move. She tinkered with the garters for a remarkably long time, coaxing them gently into position while the audience looked on, hypnotized. The suspense was insufferable.

Two agonizing minutes later, Michelle stood up, tossed her hair back off her shoulders, and allowed the audience a heart stopping view of her underwear. Yes, underwear, she smiled to herself, recalling Misha's obsessive, hair-splitting distinctions. No point in denying the obvious, was there? The spectators were cheering loud enough to shake the windows, and many of the younger women were extolling her virtues. They weren't applauding her lingerie, whatever Misha may have thought.

They were applauding her underwear.

Michelle accepted their acclaim with a graceful, heartfelt curtsy. Dipping her head and spreading her arms wide, she bowed before her congregation, a trim, nubile blond in pert white underpants and black suspender stockings. The gesture was totally unaffected, a spontaneous display of gratitude. This was the consummation of all her nighted fantasies. She felt transfigured, transported. Brushed by divine wings. The applause thundered on and on.

Of course, not everyone present was swept up in the jubilant atmosphere. Wearing a face that could have tamed a Texas bull, Mrs Donna Addler summed up the situation in six terse words:

Girl needs a damned good spanking!

Fifteen minutes later, Michelle had been irrevocably transformed. Judy tied her hair back in a French braid while Donna squeezed her into her costume. The two Mariahs volunteered to retouch her make-up, glossing her lips the most impertinent shade of red they could come up with. Violet mascara was applied to Michelle's eyelids and a subtle rouge to her cheeks. They worked with an indefatigable purpose, painting and strapping and primping and grooming. Vermilion feathers plumed her hair, silver ornaments ringed her lobes.

The dress itself was quite breathtaking. Consisting of a full-circle skirt and a halter top, it rippled electric blue beneath the showroom's harsh industrial lights. Wide black stripes ran from bust to waistline, while the bodice was fringed with racy yellow ruffles. The skirt was belled out by roughly eight pounds of petticoats, their flimsy polyester frills peeping out from beneath the cobalt hemline. Shoulder length gloves sheathed her arms in scarlet lace, tall black pumps added inches to her height.

"Mommy, LOOK at her NOW!" Sally Rainford cried as they unveiled the Vision Splendid.

Michelle stood on the platform with her crinoline hitched up her calves. Her brilliant smile brightened the darkest corners of the room, her crystal green eyes flashed with cheek and impudence. She looked unspeakably naughty, with her petticoats raised and her come-hither glances tempting the crowd.

Several cameras popped simultaneously, lenses zoomed and whirred. Word had finally reached the local press, evidently. Michelle raised her right hand in coquettish salute, knowing her image would probably grace the pages of The Chamberlain Messenger next Monday.

"Is she going to DANCE, Mommy?" Sally asked hopefully.

"I don't know darling," Sally's mother answered, "maybe if you ask her nicely ...."

Hearing this exchange (and thinking this would be the perfect end to a perfect morning), Judy stepped up behind Michelle, cupping a hand over her mouth.

"Well, how about it, kiddo?" she crooned in the girl's ear, "I think you owe it to them."

Michelle looked over towards Mrs A, sensing she had to get the old harridan's approval, regardless of what Judy said. She was right, needless to say. Still wearing that same bull-taming expression, Donna shrugged her shoulders and nodded her assent.

"Yeah, all right, go on," she said in a tone of grudging surrender, "you've drummed up more business in one morning than we've had in a month of Sundays." She peered across at her partner, eyes narrowed to slits; "we still got that Offenbach CD, Jude?"

"Sure do." Judy replied, and made for the cash counter. She gave Michelle an affectionate slap on the fanny as she walked past. "Just wait here, it'll only take a minute."

Michelle acknowledged the smack with a barely audible laugh. She enjoyed being the focus of attention, even when it involved a hot, stinging bottom. Misha would have considered it a blatant attack on his manhood, an insult bordering on contempt – but Misha wasn't here now. Misha had fled into the darkened catacombs of Michelle's unconscious mind, and she had no use for his fragile male ego. She was free: free for the first time in her existence, and she planned to make the most of her new-found liberty. However long it lasted.

Meantime, Mrs A was addressing the crowd, pulling herself up to her full height and breathing fire from her nostrils:

"Well, what're you waiting for? Y'all deaf or something? Get out of the way, the kid's gonna dance for you."

Babbling with excited gibberish, sixty-odd free-loaders cleared a space in the centre of the store, pushing back against racks and shelves and mannequins. Husbands stumbled over each other in a frantic scramble for the best seat in the house. Girls tripped up their boyfriends and issued snarls of warning. Yowling children were hoisted onto shoulders or lifted onto bench tops. More photographs were taken, several digicams were smuggled in below the tinkling doorbell, and one old man was heard to ask what all the commotion was about. Chaos ensued for precisely sixty-three seconds, and then –

The opening strains of Gaite Parisienne rang out over the sound system.

Michelle raised her skirts to her chin. An avalanche of glaring white petticoats spilled down either side of her legs, framing her sheer black stockings in stark contrast. Virginal satin knickers leapt into plain view, as clean and fresh as the driven snow. Long, white suspenders descended from her underwear, stretching and shortening with every move she made.

An exultant roar went up from the mob, drowning out the Overture in its intensity.

Michelle Waverley gazed out across the dance floor, her face beaming with pure happiness. An indescribable rush of pleasure coursed through her veins. This morning she'd been a clumsy, effeminate boy trying to scam a couple of old women; now she was a beautiful young girl, a talented, self-assured dancer poised to take the stage. She surveyed her audience with a sultry blend of warmth and embarrassment: they'd come in droves, swarming in off the streets just to see her underwear. Her pristine white panties; her lavish lace garters and frivolous midnight hose.

They'd come to see her.

Could she deny their expectations?

It's can-can time! Michelle thought as she stepped down off the platform.

The speakers crackled to life, the room fell silent. The sprightly notes of Gaîté Parisienne twirled into the air like bubbles in a champagne glass. Michelle stood at the edge of the makeshift dance floor, heart pounding with excitement. The crowd watched her in wide-eyed curiosity. Most had wandered in off the street, drawn by the music and the energy inside the dancewear shop. Others had been there from the beginning, tacit witnesses to a quiet miracle. This wasn't a performance, not really. This was something else. A declaration? A promise? A...letting go?

She stepped forward, crinoline raised to reveal her panties, thighs and sleek, black stockings. Her breath steadied. Her heartbeat synced to the rhythm of the orchestra. The tempo changed, and Michelle swung into action — a swift, bright pirouette that flared with color and shadow. And just like that, she was dancing.

She spun recklessly about the room, hemline flying over her waist. The spangles on her costume glittered with each movement, petticoats blooming like a flower in the spring wind. She didn't know how she looked, but for perhaps the first time in her life, she honestly didn't care.

The wolf whistles and started almost immediately, climbing with gradual intensity as Michelle crossed the floor in a storm of pleated lace. Judy leaned on the counter, grinning as wide as a Cheshire Cat; Donna cracked something akin to a smile (though she covered it by adjusting her glasses). Every eye in the house was locked on the stunning young danseuse with the black floral hose and the radiant smile. This was one show they'd never forget.

Michelle tossed a kick over her right shoulder, drawing gasps of delight. Frilly white knickers flashed in the noonday light; tight black garters whipped into view. With every step, she felt herself shedding old layers — fear, confusion, the shame that had clung to her like smoke. Gone were the questions that haunted Misha: Do I belong here? Am I pretending? Will they ever see me as I see myself?

The answer was simple.

Yes, she belonged. She was Michelle.

Swirling around on her stiletto heels, she doubled over from the waist and tossed her flocked petticoats over her head. A raucous cheer went up from the mob as her pump, pantied bottom was revealed. She danced with her whole body and her whole being, flowing from classical lines into something freer, wilder, her own style taking shape before the crowd's eyes.

From the corner, little Sally Rainford gasped with wonder. "Mommy," she whispered, "she looks like a princess!"

Gwen smiled, brushing her daughter's hair. "She certainly does."

The final swell of music surged, and Michelle lifted her dress in a wide, joyful arc, bringing the dance to its conclusion. The shop lights shimmered off her costume, but it was her face — so sweet, so young, so utterly feminine — that held everybody captive. She landed in a final pose, left leg thrust saucily forward, skirts raised to her chin, wild roses burning on her cheeks.

And then: silence.

For one eternal second, the world held its breath, then the room exploded into ear-spitting applause. Judy whooped, Donna clapped — briefly, stiffly, but sincerely. Cat-calls echoed through the air. Cameras flashed. Sally clapped as loud as she could, beaming up at the dancer like she was watching a fairy tale come to life.

Michelle stood tall and straight at the center of the room, gleaming white knickers on proud display.

For close on a decade, she'd fought to understand herself, to reconcile the conflicting personas fighting for supremacy within her. Today, that struggle had finally come to an end. She'd become the girl she'd always been; now, forever, always. For the rest of her natural life. And all it had taken was showing her underwear to a room full of strangers.

As the crowd slowly dispersed, Mrs Donna Addler made her way around the counter, clucking irritably under her breath.

"Kid," she said, eyebrows beetling in mock disaproval, "you are trouble."

Michelle's eyes widened.

"Trouble in the best way," Mrs A added with an ambivalent shrug. "You brought in more people than we've seen since the grand opening. And you danced like the building was on fire." She nodded to herself, measuring the girl with an appraising glance. "You ever think of doing this for real?"

Michelle blinked. "You mean… like… professional?"

Judy sidled up beside them. "Well, why not? You've already landed a part in Calamity Jane. Some of the local companies do community shows. Variety performances, fundraisers, that kind of thing. You could audition. You've got something people like to see."

"I'm not even sure what I'd wear," Michelle said softly, only half-joking.

Judy leaned in. "Honey, wear what makes you feel happy. You've got that part figured out, at least. Most people never do."

Michelle smiled.

A short while later, Michelle Waverley stepped outside, adjusted her beret as she made her way onto Lyndhurst Road. The afternoon sun washed the sidewalk in gold. The air was crisp, early-autumn cool. She paused outside LACE & GARTERS (Custom fittings available on request) for a long moment, listening to the breeze, the traffic, the rhythm of her own breathing.

Everything had changed in the space of a single morning.

Misha had arrived at the store wearing borrowed courage and frayed excuses. Michelle was leaving with so much more. Not a perfect ending, not by a long shot, but close enough all the same. She gazed at her reflection in the window, realizing that the girl looking back wasn't a stranger this time. I'm here, she thought, touching her fingertips to the glass.

And for once, she actually believed it.

The sun was starting to brighten the window when Danny began to feel more like himself. Vaguely conscious of his settling mood, he felt his heartbeat slow to more normal parameters, his fright and anguish receding like the morning tide. His feminine persona withdrew as well, gradually disappearing into the secret galleries of Danny's mind. There was no line of demarcation, no visible boundary between his twin selves. There was, at most, a sense of merging, as two streams unite to form a river. The waters of Danny's soul flowed from a single well-spring, but the source divided much deeper than anyone could have suspected.

If nothing else, Danny Milner was a survivor. It was his one redeeming quality. Loners tend to live on the ragged edge of human existence, plodding resentfully through their minimum income lives. Danny was no different. Years of hurt and disappointment had steeled him to expect failure at every turn. But it had also honed his subsistence skills to a fine degree, allowing him to adapt to his frequently desperate circumstances. Bitter, selfish and staggeringly lazy, Danny had nonetheless developed a pragmatic streak, one which had served him well over the past four years.

He dried his eyes with the hem of the babydoll, stubbornly choking back his tears. No point in crying, as his father had often reminded him (usually with a stunning blow upside the head). He could almost hear Dad's voice rasping contemptuously in his ear: Stop that SNIVELING, you ugly little SHIT! Patience had never been Dad's strong point. Still, the old geezer was right on this occasion. Blubbering in self-pity wouldn't improve his situation. Nothing would. Except maybe tracking down that fortune-teller. The one who'd done this to him.

(don't blame HER, you lousy chickenshit bastard! YOU did this to YOURSELF)

Danny stood up, shaking his head in denial. No, this wasn't his fault. He was the victim of some vicious, malign joke. The Gypsy must have taken advantage of his drunken state, erasing his masculinity out of sheer cruelty. What other explanation was there? He hadn't walked into the antique store asking for a sex-change. What man in his right mind would? Granted, he had residual memories of making some kind of agreement with the Gypsy, something to do with a mirror and a small sum of money, but that didn't make any sense.

Nothing made sense right now. How was any of this possible?

Short answer: it wasn't.

Long answer: it still wasn't, but here he was anyway. And how wasn't particularly important at this stage. If he'd been transformed into a girl, there had to be some way to change back. He had to find the antique store, barter with the Gypsy, get his old life back. No ifs, ands or buts; he couldn't afford to take no for an answer. Whatever it took, he had to walk into the shop a girl and walk out a man.

Where am I? He asked himself, looking around the room more carefully than he had earlier. Whose place was this? Despite the expensive furnishings, it had a blank, anonymous feel, as if anyone could have lived here. Bedsitter? Unit? No... hotel room. A four star hotel room on the upmarket side of Chamberlain. Sort of place he'd never stayed in because he was a shiftless loser with no money, no prospects and no girlfriends. Well, none who were willing to visit a hotel with him, anyway.

(so what am i doing here now?)

He had no memory of arriving here; couldn't even recall if he'd paid for the room. His recollections of the previous night were chaotic, disjointed. Whatever the Gypsy had done to him, it had scrambled his brains like an omelette. What part of the city was he in? No idea. Where was the antique store? Absolutely no idea. Somewhere in the Westside, maybe. He'd found it after he'd left the Blue Rose, out on Pitt Street. How long ago was that? Seemed like days, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. It was early morning now, no later than five thirty.

He walked over to the closet, his hips swaying with an unfamiliar gait. He was a girl now, his balance seemed to have shifted by at least ten degrees. His footsteps were light, almost fragile, the footsteps of a waif. The girl in the mirror had been frail and slight; a child still growing out of her baby fat. Her large breasts were the only indication of her physical maturity. Exactly the sort of girl Danny used to -

(don't go there)

No. Don't even think about that. Stay focused, or you might find yourself trapped in this body forever. There was a subtle temptation to simply accept this paradox, to surrender himself to its seductive influence. His body had changed, taken on the form of his deepest fantasies. Part of him desperately wanted to return to the mirror, slip lithely out of the nightie, explore the terrain of his supple, yielding figure. How often had he wondered...

(DON'T)

Shoving the image to the back of his mind, Danny opened the closet, standing on tip-toe to inspect the interior. As he'd guessed, it wasn't completely empty. Obviously, he hadn't arrived naked, and he couldn't have booked into the hotel wearing nothing but a pink baby doll. He must have been wearing something when he left the Gypsy's shop.

Not much however, by the look of things. There was a short black dress mounted on a hanger, a classic opaque mini barely long enough to touch her thighs. Below that was a pair of red stiletto heels and a black leather shoulder bag. Danny reached down and picked it up, heart accelerating with sudden hope. Maybe his wallet was inside, along with his keys and bank card. He didn't have much in his account; less than three hundred dollars as far as he could recall, but his position wouldn't seem quite so desperate if he could access some money.

Unfortunately, the shoulder bag contained very little. And none of it was even remotely connected to his former life.

Biting his lip in disappointment (a gesture he'd carried with him since early childhood), Danny emptied the carry-all over the dressing table and started sorting through the contents. He scrutinized each item in turn, silently cursing his growing misfortune. A pink compact and two tubes of lipgloss. A stick of eyeliner, a set of ear rings and a packet of hygienic napkins. A black lace bra and a matching pair of satin panties, both sealed in plastic envelopes. A red spandex hairband wrapped around a brush. An empty key ring shaped like one of the Powerpuff Girls (Buttercup, maybe, though he didn't know for sure). Danny shook his head in despair. Could there be anything more useless than an adolescent girl's shoulder bag?

(YEAH: a mooching, parasitic FAG who likes dressing up in WOMEN'S clothes)

"Shut up," Danny whispered, picking up the carry-all and shaking it briskly. There had to be some money in it somewhere, he wouldn't have made it past the front desk otherwise. Sixteen year old girl wanders in at two-thirty in the morning, dressed like a cheap hooker; the night clerk would have taken one look at her and demanded payment up front. This wasn't some backstreet clip joint either; he'd be asking at least seventy dollars a night, breakfast not included.

Hearing the tell-tale jingle of loose change, Danny remembered to breath and quickly located the source. There was a small, zippered compartment set into the side of the bag. Odd that he hadn't noticed it before; scavenging petty cash was one of his very few innate talents. Probably the reason he'd garnered a reputation for being tight-fisted back in high school (a label he'd rarely deserved, in all fairness).

Upending the bag, Danny spilled a tiny handful of coins onto the dressing table, his pretty face falling in distress. A swift count totaled no more than thirteen dollars. A trifling, insignificant amount - wouldn't last him half a day, even if he skipped breakfast and lunch. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into? How much had he spent last night, pickling his liver at the Blue Rose? How much had he gleefully pissed against the wall in his unending crusade to prove his manhood? No recollection: it was all part of that ceaseless grey limbo that descended on him after the sixth drink.

What have I done to myself? Danny thought, his eyes stinging with encroaching tears. He might have emptied his account for all he knew. Two hundred dollars over a single weekend was nothing unusual: at the end of the day, he was a fledgling alcoholic. Even if he found his bank card, there might be nothing left. And what would he do then?

Well, that wasn't hard to imagine. What does any teenaged girl do when she finds herself alone and homeless in the big city? Desolation broke over him in a dark wave, almost driving him to his knees. He leaned on the dresser with both hands, slim shoulders heaving with misery. Was this all his life came to - twelve sixty-five in quarters, nickels and dimes? He must have been worth more than this, surely. Why had this happened? What had he done to warrant this waking nightmare? The storm finally broke. Sobbing in near-hysteria, he wept over the dresser's varnished surface, soaking the meager pile of money.

(stop. stop NOW!!)

Drawing back from the abyss, Danny slowed his pulse by an effort of will. He'd shed enough tears for one day. He had to control himself, stay calm, stay focused. He couldn't afford to give in to his anxieties, no matter how extreme the conditions. His father had been wrong: he wasn't weak, wasn't worthless, wasn't an aimless, simpering drifter. He had to draw on his inner resources, marshal his reserves. He'd been struggling all his life, fighting the blind, cruel misfortune which had plagued his every step. This was simply one more disaster, the latest in a long line of catastrophes he'd endured since the old man kicked him out.

Returning to the closet, Danny started undressing, pulling the transparent nylon baby doll over his head. The morning was rising slowly into day, and the trail was growing cold. The path led back to the Westside; he was absolutely certain of it. Now that he'd managed to suppress his panic, the direction seemed clear. It was time to get moving. Get up. Get dressed. Get out.

Find the Gypsy.

He stood before the closet in his sleek, naked body, ignoring the impulse to look down. Women's genitalia were an undiscovered country for Danny; his entire knowledge of female anatomy came exclusively from porn magazines and videos. He hesitated nonetheless. Despite his overwhelming curiosity, he still had the universal male phobia of emasculation. Much as he wanted to run his fingertips over that soft, dimpled mound, he was terrified of what he might (or rather mightn't) find between his legs. Best to keep his mind on the task ahead, which involved nothing more complex than stepping into a pair of black satin underpants.

The panties were high-cut bikini briefs, cool and liquid smooth to the touch. A dainty red haze encircled the waistband, an elegant lace trim adorned the legs. Danny studied them in breathless awe, his temperature rising to feverish levels. The thought of actually wearing these silken wisps brought a faint crimson hue to his cheeks. How could he possibly walk down the street, knowing what he had on underneath? The mere sight of them made his blood quicken with excitement.

Not that he had much choice in the matter. It was either this or the pink baby doll he'd woken up in, and he sure couldn't go cruising the streets of Chamberlain in that. He could only hope the black mini turned out to be a lot longer than it looked.

Bending low from the hips, Danny slipped on the satin pants, gasping with unexpected pleasure as the shimmering fabric touched his flesh. He was at a loss to explain his reaction; the spiking blood pressure, the loss of breath, the butterflies swarming through his belly. He was almost fainting with desire. True, he'd had a passion for lingerie since grade school (a furtive vice which both shamed and exhilarated him at different times) but he'd never worn women's underwear in his life. Not that he could recall, anyway. There had been the dreams, of course - he'd had them as far back as he could remember - but dreams don't mean a thing.

(don't they?)

No, they don't. Face burning like a storm lantern, Danny picked up the bra and removed the clear plastic wrapper. He paused, stretching the black Lycra garment between his hands, and inspected the elaborate arrangement of hooks, clips and straps. It was unbelievably pretty, a delicate collection flimsy lace remnants. Like the panties, it was embellished with an ornate red frill, the cups edged with sweet floral patterns. So sheer, so skimpy; he doubted it would adequately cover his ample bustline. His stomach began to clench with unreleased tension, a rich, sultry colour suffused his face and neck and shoulders.

What am I doing? Danny asked himself in errant disbelief, what in God's name am I doing? He hadn't a clue how to put on a brassiere. It was some foreign, unfamiliar device he'd rarely seen outside of the Victoria's Secret catalogue. He'd certainly never handled one until today. The knickers had been a relatively simple matter - underpants of either sex having the same basic design - but this was ... well, strange. Alien, exotic, complicated. Maybe he'd better just leave it off, fold it away in the shoulder-bag and forget it ever existed.

No. It was only a bra, for God's sake. There was no eldritch mystery here. We're talking about a brassiere, the same as any pre-teen wears to the skating rink! If a twelve year-old kid could master the intricacies of an adjustable bra, then he could too.

Of course, it was more than that. Much more. Danny wanted to try it on, wanted to feel its gauzy texture against his ivory skin. His breathing had shallowed, he felt delirious, light-headed. Electric fire cascaded through his sensory network, raising gooseflesh along his arms and torso. He ran his tongue over his full, rosebud lips, trembling like a leaf in the rain. What was wrong with him? How could he feel so aroused? He wasn't gay, wasn't effeminate, wasn't the limp-wristed Nancy everyone had labelled him back in high school. And he would swear on his mother's grave that he'd never wanted to be a girl. Never!

Danny fastened the bra around his waist like a belt. His fingertips fumbled with the hook-and-eye attachments for nine seconds, missing the mark several times. Finally popping the clasps into place, he paused to double check his handiwork. The cups were at least two sizes too small. The underwires would probably pinch like an angry lobster (underwires? Where did that come from? Wasn't part of his vocabulary. Must've seen it in a magazine somewhere. He used to read Cosmo back in his teens, kept a small cache hidden under his mattress for years. Yet another covert operation he'd had to conceal from the old man. Dad would have beaten the living crap out of him if he'd caught him reading a women's magazine).

Reversing the bra so that the clasps were at the back, Danny worked the straps over his shoulders, easing his breasts into the cups one at a time. His head spun as the lace slid across his nipples. A burst of exquisite pleasure flared through his nervous system. Exhaling deeply, he shifted the brassiere into the most comfortable position, wavering on the verge of ecstasy. His eyelids fluttered in delight, a chill breeze whipped up and down his spine. What did he look like? How would he appear, squeezed into this gossamer harness?

Biting his lip in an agony of indecision, Danny glanced towards the mirror. The temptation he'd felt earlier was stronger than ever. Overpowering, in fact. He had to know, had to see the girl he'd become. She was the culmination of all his fantasies, all his lonely, frustrated daydreams. He hadn't been willing to admit that before, but there could be no question of it now. She was his holy grail, his muse, his incubus. All he had to do was step in front of the mirror -

But he didn't dare.

He could feel his masculinity dissolving, fading into the darkest corners of his subconscious. His personality was shifting, melting into something else, the way it had the last time he'd looked in the cheval. He'd fainted over a bed and woken up female - in mind as well as body. The image in the mirror had altered his consciousness, his self-perception. If he gazed into it again, he might lose himself for good. He might become a girl in every sense of the word.

Yet how could he resist this urge, this... compulsion? He could already hear the voice of his Otherself whispering at the back of his head. Calling to him, luring him forward. Preparing to take control. Her influence was overwhelming. Much stronger than he would have thought possible. How could she be so powerful? She was only a girl, a sixteen year old child. She should have been his pet, his plaything. His slave. He was a male, she was female; capitulation was out of the question. He had to retain command of this body at all costs. But standing here in his bra and panties, struggling to keep his eyes off the looking glass -

(i want to see her)

One glimpse. That was all he needed. A single peek wouldn't erase his ego; no way. The Girl couldn't harm him; she didn't really exist. She was a glitch, an aberration, the personification of his unfulfilled sexual yearnings. "Danni" was nothing more than a ghost in the system, a psychological mirage he'd created in a moment of infinite stress. He'd been a man for twenty three years now, a mirror couldn't obliterate over two decades of social conditioning.

Or so he hoped.

Bloodstream thundering with anticipation, Danny turned and walked barefoot across the room.

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(page 25)

Danny halted in mid-step, transfixed by what he saw.

The girl had changed. She was different. Not substantially, not in any way he should have noticed - but she was different nonetheless. More distinct, more... herself. There was no other way to describe it. Her eyes had deepened to a clear glacial blue; her hair shimmered like fine gilded silk. A thousand subtle alterations had taken place over the last hour or so, from the tone of her skin to the smooth curve of her thighs. Almost as if she were... what? Transforming? No. Evolving? Closer, but not quite. Developing? Yes, that was it. She was coming into focus, like an image sharpening to a higher resolution.

He raised a hand to his throat and drew it slowly down to his cleavage, reveling in the aria of sensations his fingertips raised over his (her) body. The desire to caress that soft, ripening form was overwhelming. And why not? She was beautiful. Staggeringly beautiful, impossibly beautiful. He roamed his gaze over her lithe, pliant figure, indulging his voyeuristic impulses.

Of course, he could do a lot more than look. He could touch. Touch her in ways he'd never touched a woman before. His girlfriends had always refused him any kind of intimacy (they invariably dumped him as soon as he tried to get physical), but who was going to stop him now? It was his body; he could do anything he pleased. Jesus, he could take her back to the bed and live out every darkroom fantasy he'd ever had. And why shouldn't he, for fucksake?! He had every right. And anyway -

(she wants it)

Yes, she wanted it. Why else would she have dragged him over here to the cheval? Why else would she be posing in the mirror, flaunting her breasts and thighs and underwear like some cheap 'Frisco streetwalker? Yes, she wanted it. They all wanted it, no matter what they said in the women's magazines. He'd learnt that much through painful experience. Look how often he'd been ditched in favor of someone better looking; some rich, fast-talking scumbag with a leather jacket and a Porsche. The sort of guy who treated women with the most abject contempt, lying and cheating and tossing them aside like used condoms once he'd had enough -

(oh, they want it all right. They just don't want it from YOU)

"Fuck off," Danny replied. Why should he be overlooked, simply because he'd lived off welfare cheques all his adult life? That's what he resented most about women. Despite all their self-righteous, feminist rhetoric about justice and equality and everything else, they still dismissed him as some worthless, unattractive failure. Lower on the scale of humanity than wife-beaters, racists or petty criminals. And Christ, if convicted felons were allowed conjugal visits, why wasn't he?!

Well, he finally had an opportunity to make up for the years of frustration he'd been forced to endure. He had access to a young girl's body. And not just any young girl - no, she was a nymph, a goddess, the Erotic Virgin every man secretly yearns for. He'd be a fool if he didn't take advantage of the situation. It wasn't as if he'd be hurting anybody, after all. It wouldn't be a rape, because there'd be no victim. As he'd reasoned before, Danni wasn't a human being, she was just some excess storage space in the emotional warehouse of his brain. It certainly wasn't her body, it was his. Which meant he could fondle and play with it any way he damned well chose.

Unaware he was employing the same logic used by generations of serial killers and rapists, Danny looked into the mirror and slipped the bra straps off his shoulders. He'd forgotten about the antique shop, forgotten the Gypsy and her magic looking glass. None of that mattered any more. The only thing that mattered now was satisfying his libido, his voracious, carnal appetite.

He tugged the brassiere down, exposing his breasts to the mirror. The breath caught in his throat as he surveyed their firm, supple contours. His nipples were as huge and dark as cherries, their carmine tips throbbing with arousal. He could almost see them pulsing in time to his heartbeat. A gentle, sensuous warmth began to spread through his torso, flowing downward through his belly.

He cupped his palms under his breasts, carefully slipping his fingers over the engorged nipples. A flare of pain erupted from each point, as sharp and bright as the edge of a razor. Danny gaped in shock, looked down, and - inexplicably - squeezed again. Gingerly at first, then with increasing force. Streaks of pleasure lanced through his body, all the way down to his tummy button. Oh my GOD, he thought, arching his back, this is GOOD. Better than Cosmo said it was, better than he'd ever imagined. It hurt - bordered on agony, to tell the truth - but he liked it.

And this was only the beginning.

Eyes wandering over his reflection, Danny lowered one hand to the trim of his panties and slid his fingers under the red lace. A surge of adrenaline seemed to hit his bloodstream. His knees weakened, the room lurched beneath his feet. He felt a surge of delight in his nether regions, far more intense than anything he'd experienced as a male. It was alien, exotic, unfamiliar. And the most wonderful thing he'd ever known.

Was this how it felt to be a girl? He inched his way a little further south, threading his fingertips through the downy blonde thatch at the junction of his legs. He'd have to proceed with caution; Danny knew from a thousand Cosmo articles that the feminine organ (what was it called? Clitoris? Clytoris?) was unspeakably sensitive. He'd have to go gently, at least at first. He explored a little further, swallowing air in swift, panting spurts. God, he felt aroused. If he'd been a man, he would have been hovering on the brink of orgasm.

His fingers encountered a series of complex folds, moist and slick with some hot, sticky ejaculate. Lubricating fluid, Danny guessed. Her panties were almost saturated with it. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, moaning through half-parted lips. A wild, transgressive joy seized him, so profound it was almost a bolt of panic. It wasn't only the illicit thrill of probing a girl's trinket box. It was her defenseless, helpless state. It was as if he was inside her, violating her semi-naked body by sheer will. It was power. Power he'd been seeking for as long as he could remember.

Her vestibule was an intricate, fleshly rose, covered with tiny bulges and dimples. Lubricant seeped from its pulpy heart (oozing with pussy-juice, Danny thought, relishing the obscenity for no apparent reason), soaking her upper-thighs. He delved into her tight little girl-thing, feeling it melt in his hand. So unfamiliar; an alien landscape waiting to be mapped and charted.

The minutes drifted by in a purple fog. His fingers darted back and forth, teasing and tickling and nibbling away like a minnow. His temperature rose to feverish levels, he could barely stand upright. He found himself shivering like a leaf in a hurricane; his belly was strumming like an over-tuned guitar string.

Huge, mauve stars suddenly exploded across his field of vision. His index finger had brushed against something. An inconspicuous bump near the top of her cleft. A hairtrigger, waiting to be squeezed. The slightest prod would send him into a vast, spiraling climax. He paused in his crude fumblings, unwilling to launch himself over the precipice. It was too soon, he wasn't ready yet. He wanted to get his fingers inside first, feel his way around that soft, dripping labyrinth.

(i want to fuck her)

Yeah, that was right, no sense denying it now. He wanted to screw her, hump her, spread her legs and make her scream for mercy. May have lost his weapon somewhere along the line, but he still had his fingers to work with. They'd do the job just as well, given his unique circumstances. Who needs a harpoon when an awl was sufficient for the task? The girl was practically begging him to mount her saddle - Jesus, she was wetting her pants with expectation. As he'd said before, she wanted it. She may not actually exist, but she wanted it all the same.

Danny's questing fingertips followed the line of her cleft, searching for an opening. It had to be here somewhere, all women had one. His pulse was cantering in his head, his tummy began spasm, shaking his frame from crown to heel. He was approaching some physical zenith; he wouldn't be able to postpone his orgasm much longer. He drove his middle finger into the centre of her labia, groaning with exhilaration. So close, so close...

Realization burst on him with blinding urgency. She was a virgin. That was why he couldn't find the opening. It was blocked by some kind of membrane, he remembered that from high school. Well, that shouldn't prove a problem. From what he'd read, it wasn't very strong, he could probably pierce it with a little effort. Might sting a little, but that didn't matter. Most girls lost their virginity by before they turned seventeen, so obviously, it was no -

(what?)

She was here.

Danni.

He could feel her presence all around him. Growing, spreading out through the pathways and conduits of his mind. Danny stepped away from the mirror, almost tripping over in his desperation to escape that haunting, alluring image. She'd tricked him, tempted him with her body. Distracted him long enough to take possession of his consciousness once more. The little whore had seduced him!! How could he have been so blind, so gullible, so fucking stupid?

(no! NO!! STOP IT, DON'T!!)

This couldn't be happening. She was nothing, just a collection half-forgotten memories and infantile daydreams. She had no reality, no identity - she wasn't a person, for Chrissake! She couldn't drive him out, couldn't usurp his birthright this way. He was a man, not some mincing teenaged slut. He'd proven his right to exist. It was his life - miserable, pointless waste though it was - and she couldn't have it.

The transition hit him with seismic force. There was no gradual blending of the waters this time. It was a storm, a cyclone. Danny fought to maintain his dominant position, but felt himself being swept away in the deluge. His psyche began to dissipate before that torrent of thought and emotion. A chasm seemed to open up beneath him, an endless, black ravine beneath his conscious mind. Falling into the abyss, he clawed desperately for purchase. Once, twice, three times -

and was gone.

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(page 25)

Reaching up, I took a black garter-belt off a clip-hanger. It was an intricate web of midnight lace, woven into complex floral patterns. Six adjustable suspenders hung from the red-trimmed belt, their cleats covered with precious scarlet bows. It was an extraordinary piece; regular belts only have four garters, but my Mother has a passion for the unusual. Needless to say, it was hauntingly beautiful.

My breath caught in my throat as I fastened the luxurious fragment into place. It sat taut against my nipped waist, a translucent strip of sheer decadence. Cool, teasing fingers seemed to drift over my naked flesh as I started toying with the straps, stretching them down to mid-thigh, then releasing them with a satisfyingly loud snap! Moistening my lips, I sank into the depths of my fantasy. I could almost feel my body change and melt beneath my gently probing palms...

Surfacing for air a few minutes later, I selected a pair of tan stockings from the chest of drawers. The choice of colour was an impulse; I normally wore black denier when indulging in one of my performances. But today was unique. In some obscure way, I was crossing some sort of boundary; one I'd never realised existed until now. Placing my right foot on the padded stool, I slipped the hose over my toe and drew it carefully up my calf.

Attaching the stockings was a complicated process (particularly since the belt had an extra set of suspenders). My hands shook as I adjusted the straps into position. Cross-dressing is a kind of agony: a sweet, sensuous torment that leaves you breathless with yearning. The stockings seemed to soften the shape of my legs while accentuating their natural curvature. I smoothed them out against my thighs, tugging gently at the insubstantial material.

The racks above me were slung with lingerie of every description; slips and camies, basques and corselets, French-cuts and bikinis. Rising up on tip-toe, I started searching through the hangers for a matching set of bra and briefs, one which would complement the garter belt perfectly. A minute later, I found precisely what I wanted.

Placing the brassiere on top of the drawers, I paused to study the underwear a little more closely. They were a pair of wickedly high-cut thong panties; diaphanous black satin edged with a brazen red trim. The triangle was a mass of insolent scarlet frills; the waist band was encrusted with tiny rose petals. They looked almost insufferably naughty stretched between my fingers. And I couldn't wait a moment longer to try them on!!

A huge smile stole across my face as I bent over and stepped into the thong, wriggling my tushie as I slipped them up my slender, stockinged thighs. The lace brushed against the denier, sending a thrill through my entire nervous system. I looked into the mirror, simmering with rapture. This was the most wonderful part of my dressing ritual. Drawing on a pair of panties was like assuming an entirely new body. A soft, yielding body, pliant and sensuous.

I ran my fingers over my stomach, tracing little circles around my belly button. Lips parted in near-ecstasy, I began to undulate slowly in the mirror, my hair spilling down my chest like a blond avalanche. I closed my eyes, caressing myself with gentle, questing strokes. And once again, I experienced that sense of change - of transformation - as if my form was shifting and running beneath my fingers.

Long minutes rolled by. Time seemed to spin out into some infinite blue void, where I drifted on a sea of immeasurable joy. The whole world seemed to fold and bend around me, and for one infinite moment, I felt as though I were falling - falling so deep and fast that I would never stop. Falling, perhaps, through the finely woven mesh of the universe itself.

Drawing back from the brink of climax, I opened my eyes and leaned against the wall. Hangers clashed and fell from the rack; I ignored them. I was breathless with exhaustion. Large indigo flowers seemed bloom across my field of vision. I willed my pulse down to a more acceptable level, gradually collecting my wits. What had just happened to me? I'd visited the Alcove at least a dozen times over the last two years, and although I'd often felt its subtle magic, the sensation had never been this ... intense.

The mirror continued to hover beside the antique chest, daring me to peer into its crystal depths one more time. And I did.

I was beautiful.

More beautiful than I'd ever imagined, more beautiful than a boy has the right to be. A delicate, rose tint suffused my face, neck and shoulders. My lips looked darker than black cherries. My eyes were wide, glittering emeralds flecked with diamond highlights. My trim, girlish figure seemed to have altered in the Alcove's muted atmosphere. Arms a little rounder, waist a little thinner, hips a little wider. Even my features - effeminate though they already were - seemed to have softened into an ageless, childlike pout.

Yes, beautiful.

If only I could look this way all the time, I thought wistfully, picking up the brassiere and sliding my arms through the straps. I'd wanted to be a girl most of my life, and I would have traded almost anything to have my wish granted. That was my concept of paradise, the image I took to bed with me every night: to suddenly wake up young, female and stunningly attractive. What more could a boy possibly want?

Reaching back, I clipped the bra into place, then made some minor adjustments across the chest and shoulders. Like the panties, it was a tight fit - far more constrictive than I'd expected. Mom wasn't a big lady by any means, although she'd always worn a c-cup as far as I knew. Her bras usually hung limp across my flat chest. By contrast, this one felt at least two sizes too small.

Still watching myself in the mirror, I swept my hair back over my shoulder to give myself an unobstructed view of the brassiere - and everything else I was wearing, of course. Striking a catwalk pose, I planted my hands on my hips and admired my reflection from a variety of angles.

And was struck speechless by what I saw.

The girl looking back at me was utterly breathtaking.

Her long, shapely legs bent slightly inward at the knees, their supple length exaggerated by the tense black suspenders. The red lace trimming the garter belt was garishly bright, as were the frills on her flimsy little panties. And strangely, in the dim lamplight of the Alcove, she seemed to have large, ripening breasts filling out the low-cut bra she wore. It was an illusion of course, a trick of the light and a feverish imagination. I was looking at a pretty teenaged girl in her underwear. One with my face and form

No, not exactly. There were differences, ones that should have seemed obvious from the start. Her face was captivating. Coy, tender, and totally innocent, the face of a Botticelli Venus. Her eyes were pools of demure laughter. She smiled, her teeth flashing brilliantly in the mirrored gloom, and I suddenly knew she wasn't as innocent as I'd first supposed. No: she was naughty, terribly naughty, and she reveled in it. I watched, fascinated, as she dropped me a teasing, little-girl wink, the kind that could bring a grown man to his knees weeping tears of desire. She was the most mischievous creature I'd ever seen, standing there in her bra and panties and nebulous tan stockings.

I turned completely sideways, examining myself in profile.

And realised something was wrong.

No - not something.

Everything.

The girl in the mirror had breasts.

It wasn't a trick of the light; some hallucination sparked by adolescent daydreams and a rush of endorphins. Two large, perfectly formed breasts were straining the underwire cups to the breaking point. Smooth, alabaster flesh overflowed the flimsy black lace. My mouth gaped in open astonishment; my hands flew up to confirm what my mind simply couldn't accept. And suddenly, I understood why Mom's bra had felt so tight.

I had breasts.

"Oh dear GOD!!" I cried in alarm, stepping away from the mirror.

There was no mistake. My hands were fondling a pair of lush, firm orbs; I could feel their engorged tips swelling against my fingers. How could I have missed them before?! I should have noticed while I was putting on the bra, easing myself into the cups and re-adjusting the shoulder straps. It wasn't the kind of thing a teenaged boy could ignore - even a cross-dresser like myself. Breasts don't grow on trees, and they certainly don't bloom on pubescent males, no matter how effeminate they happen to be. My head was reeling in confusion. This was crazy. I was crazy, I must have been.

But I wasn't. Somehow, I knew I wasn't losing my sanity. This was really happening. I had undergone some kind of metamorphosis, right here in my Mother's dressing room. My entire body had transformed, altered - right down to the width of my hips, the texture of my skin, the contours of my lips...

And a rather unpleasant thought occurred to me. A notion so frightening that I could barely bring myself to consider it.

"Mother of God," I whispered, looking down.

Standing closer to the make-up table, I lowered both hands to my panties, gingerly hooking my thumbs through the hip straps. There really was no other alternative. Sooner or later, I would have to find out how extensive the transition had been, whether I'd become completely female. There were, of course, a thousand other questions crowding my mind, but they'd have to wait. Right now, there was nothing more important than this. I had to know.

Still, I hesitated. The implications were overwhelming. What if my fears were right? What would I do? How could I explain this to Mom (Mommy) when she returned from Aunt Lizzie's (Liesa's)? Maybe she wouldn't even recognise me - nobody would, I'd changed so much. No one would believe my story, they'd call me a liar, a freakshow. I'd end up in a padded cell! Things were happening too fast; I wasn't prepared for this. Only five minutes before, I had wished for just such a miracle (if only I could look this way all the time), but right now, faced with the possibility that I might be trapped in a female body...

I was afraid.

I wavered back and forth, trying to find a solution, and alternative, a way out of this insurmountable paradox. There was none. I was paralysed with fear, shaking on the verge of tears. Why had this happened to me? All I'd wanted was a holiday from myself, a chance to act out a few of my idle fancies. I was a boy for God's sake, a boy! I didn't want to be a girl!!

(yes, you do)

(yes you do: if only I could look this way all the time)

Inhaling a long, steadying breath, I stared into the mirror and began to ease my panties down. My heart was thundering in my throat (though with excitement or terror, I couldn't tell). The frilled waistband slipped down my hips with infinite slowness, revealing the truth an inch at a time. The newly exposed skin was very pale, almost white. I could see the traces of a bikini line curving down my lower belly.

I stood very, very still, hardly daring to breath. An inexplicable sense of calm was descending over me. I took the panties down another inch, revealing a haze of silky, blond pubic hair - so fine and downy as to be virtually invisible. From this distance I looked nude, untouched. Below this, the ivory flesh folded over into a tiny, dimpled cleft - pure, pristine, and absolutely virginal. And that was all I needed to see. I could already feel my features tainting with a fine, pink blush.

I was a girl.

I sat down on Mommy's make-up chair - an unobtrusive art-deco piece I couldn't recall seeing before - and tried to make sense of what I'd just seen. Sliding my panties back into place, I felt drained, numb. My former panic had subsided into vacant shock. Something impossible had happened, something devoid of rational explanation. I should have been devastated, hysterical, yet all I felt was a listless torpor, bordering on indifference. Ten minutes ago, I'd been a boy. Now, in violation of all logic, I was a girl.

(and your point is...)

Perhaps I was simply thunderstruck - incapable of expressing any emotion. This was a revelation beyond all sanity, and my young mind was shutting down, unable to deal with the conundrum. Maybe all my systems had overloaded at once, causing an intellectual short circuit. Well, whatever the circumstances, my trepidation seemed to have vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, along with the confusion and anxiety.

So I sat and waited. Switching off the lamps, I hovered in the darkness, breathing through a girl's lips. I gradually became aware of my body - my female body - as my pulse slowed and tranquillity began to flow through my veins like a cool, soothing balm. I could feel every inch of my form: the sensuous flow of my belly, the fleshy hollow at the base of my throat, the gentle throb of my nipples. And as the minutes trickled by like sweet molasses, I realised that I wasn't completely devoid of emotion. Beneath my arctic detachment was a small geyser of warmth so subtle I hadn't recognised it until that moment.

It was relief.

I stood up, automatically checking my stockings, and stepped away from the make-up table. Despite the dread I'd experienced only ten minutes before, I was relieved. The miserable, crushing weight of manhood had been eliminated; decades of anguish and self-loathing erased in a single morning. No more guilt, no more shame, no more slinking around the house like a pervert. I didn't need to pretend any more. The masquerade was over.

Leaving the Alcove, I made my way back through the rustling tunnel of the walk-in. It flashed through my mind that the closet seemed to have doubled its length since I first stepped inside. It was an optical illusion of course, must have been. The mirror set at the far end gave the walk-in an impression of great distance; rows and racks sweeping off into infinity (then again, the ceilings seemed higher too, and there were no mirrors mounted up there...).

I didn't give these spatial distortions much thought, however. I felt free, deliciously free and uninhibited. Unencumbered by a burden I'd never wanted, my mood shifted once more. Relief turned swiftly to euphoria; I'd been liberated from my gendered prison, casting aside my false masculinity as easily as a snake sloughs its skin. The shackles were off.

The possibilities seemed endless. I would finally know the joy of being a woman. An entirely new world was opening for me; a world previously denied by an accident of birth. I was a girl; young and beautiful by any standards, and I could do anything I chose. Naturally, there would be problems to deal with; questions to ask and answers to seek - but those were concerns for tomorrow. Today, I would rejoice.

Thus, I emerged from the closet.

Literally.

Taking two steps into the Studio, I froze in mid-stride, bewildered for the second time that morning. The Back Room looked bigger. No, not just bigger - gigantic. The dimensions had altered; space itself had expanded, thrusting out in all directions. I shook my head in mute astonishment - the room had been enormous to begin with: now it was colossal, monstrous, the size of a city block. Picture windows loomed as tall as skyscrapers, potplants waved their ferny heads below an impossibly remote ceiling. The carpet beneath my feet ran off as wide and open as a football field.

(carpet?? we don't have carpet in in the Back Room!!)

(no, we DON'T!!)

Pushing those nagging, conflicting voices to the back of my head, I continued to scan around the Studio, the Back Room, whatever it was now. The whole place looked unfamiliar. Things had been shifted, displaced. The furniture had been moved, ever so slightly. The curtains were gone, replaced by pale blue slimline blinds. Looking towards Mommy's workspace, I noticed a brand new IMac, a garish lavender monstrosity complete with all the peripherals, seated proudly on an Ikea computer desk. This was unbelievable - my Mother had never touched a computer in her life, refused to even consider the option.

Then something caught my eye which drove all other considerations from my mind.

There was a hamper sitting on Mommy's work table. An Easter hamper, much the same as the one she'd bought for Aunt Lizzie (Leisa). I walked over to the table, telling myself this couldn't be right. Despite everything else that had happened this morning, I was reluctant to accept this one small inconsistency. It couldn't be the same hamper. I'd loaded it into the Chevrolet (Cadillac) less than half an hour ago. Damn near slipped a disk putting it in the back seat, I remembered that much at least.

But there it was.

Then, the voice: high, clear and underscored with dry humour:

"And just what do you think you're doing, young lady?"

There was nothing I feared more than discovery.

The thought of my secret being revealed had haunted me almost as long as I could remember. Like most tranzies, I'd begun "voguing" in early childhood. Even then, I'd known it was something which had to be concealed at all costs. Cross-dressing is an activity which carries as much shame as it does joy. Part of it is the guilt imposed on the practice by mainstream society, but mostly, it's the overwhelming potential for exposure. And exposure is inevitable. Despite all the safeguards, escape routes and precautions you take to evade detection, you're going to be found out. One day, you'll miscalculate your margin for error. It may be a window left open, a scrap of black lace lying forgotten on the floor, or an insignificant lapse in your normal routine. The circumstances are largely irrelevant. Whatever the reasons, your secret is going to be disclosed. It's unavoidable. The subsequent humiliation is nothing short of devastating. It has to be the transvestite's worst nightmare.

Hearing her voice raised in counterfeit rage, I forgot everything that had happened over the past thirty minutes. Suddenly, I was a boy again, standing in the back room of our big colonial-style house in Summerhill. Eighteen year-old Benny Woodridge, high school senior and part-time sales assistant. Benny Woodridge; art school reject and complete romantic failure. Benny Woodridge; cross-dresser, auto-voyeur, and all round-sexual deviant, decked out in his Mother's underwear.

Her exclusive designer underwear, to be precise.

"Mommy!!" I cried, almost falling over myself as I swung around to face her, "Mommy, I ... I was just -" The words trailed off, my brain clicked into panic mode. How in God's name could I explain this?!

"Don't worry, I know what you're doing," she cut me off good-naturedly, "not as if it's the first time you've tried on my lingerie." She came towards me rolling her eyes in feigned exasperation, like a long-suffering parent dealing with a spoilt child. She was wearing the same blue jeans and printed top she'd worn in earlier in the day, advancing on me in quick, businesslike strides, her freshly blow-dried hair bouncing about her shoulders.

"You ... you know?" I asked incredulously. Her words didn't make sense. She'd never seen me dressed (or undressed) as a girl before. If she'd had even the slightest suspicion, she'd never dropped so much as a single hint. For my part, I'd been meticulously thorough in covering my tracks for more than a decade. It was an obsession which bordered on paranoia.

"How did ... how did you find out?" I stammered in a breathless, little-girl lisp.

"Don't play coy," she answered, seemingly oblivious of my rising hysteria, "you've been raiding my wardrobe for years now."

She halted a few feet away, hands planted resolutely on her hips. Scrutinizing my trim, shapely thighs, she shook her head ruefully. I began to wilt before that critical stare, almost collapsing with embarrassment. I placed both hands over my panties in a desperate - and wholly unsuccessful - attempt to bury the evidence.

"Mommy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -" I started, feeling my face blazing the color of a maraschino cherry.

"I've told you before," Mommy interrupted dismissively, "you can borrow my dresses any time you like, but my underwear drawers are strictly off-limits."

Reaching out faster than I could react, she took me by the arms and spun me around so I was facing the mirrors. My jaw dropped as I caught sight of myself once more: a slim, frail clad in little more than a whisper and a prayer. I looked like a child playing dress-ups with her Mother's corset and garters. Much younger than my eighteen years anyway. Thirteen, fourteen at the most.

(Oh Christ Oh god, I'm NOT a boy, I'm a WOMAN; no I'm a GIRL; NO I'm a LITTLE girl)

"Did you really think I'd let you wear something like that at your age?" Mommy was saying. She leaned over my shoulder, pointing to my reflection: "you've barely finished high school, Bianca. Now take off that ensemble before you tear the material. Those stockings alone cost over two hundred dollars. Dior originals."

What had she just called me? Bianca? My head was spinning with shock and confusion.

Her fingers touched my spine, settling between the shoulder blades. A moment later, my bra went loose as she unclipped the back strap with a classic one-hand snap. I stiffened in surprise, a cold thrill swept through my midriff, my hands flew up to catch the brassiere before the cups fell too far.

"MOMMY!!" I cried in alarm. "What are you DOING?!!" But I already knew what she was doing. She was undressing me, peeling away my fragile dignity in successive layers. I gaped in the mirror, eyes bulging until they seemed to fill half my face.

"A little late for false modesty isn't it?" Mommy laughed as she removed the bra and dropped it over the arm of the sofa nearby. "I must've seen you naked at least a million times." Again, her words confused me. Mom hadn't seen me nude since I was - what? Eight? Nine? But this woman wasn't my Mom, was she? And I wasn't Benny Woodridge any more.

My name was - what had she called me - Brenda? Bianca? Yes, that was it; Bianca.

Bianca Woodrow.

All of this streaked through my mind between two heartbeats. There was more: images and memories poised to swirl up from my subconscious. Thousands upon thousands of them; thoughts and words and recollections of a childhood I'd never lived. A veritable torrent of information. Far too much to process under the circumstances. Particularly since I was virtually swooning with shock.

My Mother was disrobing me in the middle of the Studio.

She was placing my lush, young body on open exhibition before the picture windows. Wailing in protest, I placed my fingertips over my small, ripening breasts, gasping as the cool morning air whickered around them. I had never felt so humiliated in my entire life.

Momma's hands fluttered over my waistline, and suddenly I was wearing nothing but a black lace garter-belt and a pair of flimsy, red-trimmed panties (and stockings, of course, two hundred dollar Dior originals many women would have killed for). I couldn't lift my eyes to the mirror, knowing how small and defenseless I must have looked. Forget the fact that most of my fantasies revolved around panty parades and public exhibitions. This was different; indescribably different. All the years I'd spent lolling about in my satin daydreams, I had never imagined that being relieved of my underwear could be so ...ecstatic. This was no fantasy. This was reality, and there was nothing virtual about it.

"Mommy, I can undress myself!" I complained, looking back over my shoulder, "I'm not a baby, you know!!"

"You're my baby," she replied offhand, her words bringing on an eerie burst of déjà vu, "now stop wriggling your hips and hold still." Before I could consider the Twilight Zone implications of her last remark, I felt her fingers looping through the waistband of my thong. A rush of gooseflesh spilled over my bare shoulders as I realized what she was about to do.

(she's going to PULL my PANTS down!!)

"Momma!!" I squealed in horror, "Stop it!! Don't!! I can get changed upstairs!!" But Mommy wouldn't hear of it. She had too much invested in this outfit (which had cost her close on a thousand dollars) to allow it to leave the Studio, much less entrust it to her daughter's inept care.

"No, you'll get undressed down here, Bianca. That's the price you pay for sneaking around behind my back." She slid the panties down with both hands, rippling the lace against my inner thighs. I inhaled sharply, caught entirely off guard by this impromptu striptease. I risked a glance in the mirror, compelled by an impulse I couldn't resist.

It was ironic: I'd never seen a girl this naked before. Yes, I'd had my share of centerfolds and videos and sleazy porn sites on the internet, but they were so obviously contrived that I'd never had much interest in them. This was different. This was real flesh, immediate and voluptuous. I wasn't simply looking at a girl, I was a girl; and the experience filled every one of my senses.

I stood with my palms crossed in front of myself, gasping like a fish while Mommy lowered the thong over my knees. I shimmied my thighs automatically, watching in fascination as they dropped lightly to my ankles. My pale, ivory skintones had deepened to the color of a ripe strawberry. The suspender belt was way too tight, bulging out the soft tissue on either side of my waistline.

The thong was now coiled around my heels. Mommy patted my right leg just above the back of the knee, a signal I recognized instinctively, as if I'd been doing this all my life. I stepped carefully out of the panties, one foot at a time. Mommy draped them over the sofa, then turned back to me, beaming in parental amusement.

"All right, you can take off the garter-belt too," she instructed, absently gesturing towards my belly button, "and be careful with the stockings. Run a ladder through those and you'll be paying me back until Thanksgiving - next year."

Hesitating only a few seconds, I followed her directions, bending over to unclipped the suspenders. I had to bite my lip to suppress a fit of the giggles. I can't begin to explain how terribly embarrassing this was, taking off every snip of clothing in front of my mother. My tummy tingled with warm, liquid pleasure. She was treating me like a little girl, reducing me to the level of a helpless child. And somehow, I was enjoying it.

I dispensed with the stockings, handing them over to Mommy with a demure smile, then reached back to unhook the belt. Waves of abject humiliation were surging through my bloodstream, my heart was ready to burst like an over-inflated balloon. My hands fell away to my sides, exposing my dainty, feminine cleft. What was the point in hiding myself now? There was nothing I could keep secret from her. I was melting, dissolving in a torrent of ecstasy.

"OK, come on," Mommy's voice was a remote buzzing in my ear, "we don't have all day. Aunt Leisa's expecting us for lunch at one." The words didn't quite register on my consciousness. I was aware she'd spoken, but all meaning was submerged beneath a tide of corpulent delight.

Noticing my lethargy, Mommy gave me a nudge towards the doorway, following through with a well-aimed slap to the posterior. Not a loving pat on the fanny, either. This was good, hard smack on the bottom, my reward for skulking around in her wardrobe like a thief. Instant justice: very hard, very quick and very sharp.

(OWWWWW!!)

A white-hot star of agony exploded across my right buttock; I shrieked in hurt and surprise, leaping forward at least two feet. The pain was immense, unspeakable, streaking halfway down my thigh like a bolt of lightening. I whirled around with a yelp, covering my fanny with both hands.

She had spanked me!! I gaped at her in red-faced shock. I couldn't believe it. She hadn't punished me like that since I was ten. Yet here I was, small, naked, eighteen years old - and she had spanked me!!

On the bottom!!

"Mommy!! That hurt!"

"It'll hurt a lot more if you keep us late," she replied, both eyes sparkling with warm-hearted threat, "now run upstairs and get dressed. I've laid your clothes out on the bed."

She started walking towards me, still smiling that gentle, indulgent smile, and I understood that she wasn't kidding. No, she was deadly serious: if I delayed my departure another two seconds, she'd put me over her knee and paddle my bare cheeks as if I were no more than six years old. No excuses, no questions, no second chances. And worst of all - there would be nothing I could do to stop her.

Voicing a little scream, I turned and fled for the door, my hair whipping out in blond streamers. I scampered across the carpet like a frightened doe, a vivid, scarlet hand-print pulsing on my sleek, round haunch. Oh my gosh, how it stung, how it throbbed, a burning reminder of my juvenile status in the domestic hierarchy. Yet despite my searing discomfort, I was giggling; I could hear my laughter echoing off the walls as I approached the staircase. Why was I laughing? No idea. Maybe I was hysterical. Maybe I'd finally lost my mind. Or maybe I was happy. Happier than I'd ever thought possible. An hour ago, I'd been male; a big, lumpish boy fumbling around in his mother's underpants. Now, I was a naked alabaster nymph gliding past a dozen open windows, my perfect body gleaming in the late morning sunshine.

I hit the stairs at a full run.

My head was whirling by the time I reached the landing at the top of the stairs. It was all too much to take in; I was being overwhelmed by a tsunami of conflicting emotions. I wasn't crazy, I understood that much, but there was no way to explain what had happened to me over the past thirty minutes. Somehow, I'd slipped into an alternate universe where I'd been born female and my Mother was some kind of benevolent autocrat - same face, same voice, even the same personality in most respects, but darker, harder...stronger. A woman to be respected and obeyed, her every word heeded without question.

A tide of rising panic swept through my mind with cyclonic force. Memories seemed to be crowding in on me, graphic recollections of a life I'd never led. Bianca's life. I could recall intimate details of her existence stretching back to her earliest infancy, almost all of it closely intertwined with my personal history. Every decision, every thought and choice I'd made perfectly mirrored on this side of reality. Bianca and I were the same person, separated only by a few vagrant strands of dna. I was a boy, she was a girl, but in all other respects we appeared to be identical.

With the sole exception that she was a success.

In this world, Bianca Woodrow was an honors student, a prodigy, an overachiever. Her mother had pushed her much harder than mine had ever pushed me, demanding far more and accepting nothing less. Bianca had never failed a test, never shirked a responsibility nor neglected a task. She hadn't failed the entrance exam at Chamberlain Center for the Arts. Quite the opposite - she'd passed with flying colors, one of the youngest applicants to qualify for a place in the program.

How had she succeeded when I'd crashed and burned like a stray Hindenberg? The answer was deceptively simple: her Momma had much higher expectations than mine. Failure was not an option in the Woodrow household; there was a price to be paid for each indiscretion, each miscalculation, each act of covert rebellion. Bianca's academic schedule had been meticulously planned in advance, along with her social life and domestic routine. No excuses, no evasions, no self-pity.

And that had made all the difference.

The bedroom was set out almost exactly as it was back in Summerhill, with ceiling-high bookshelves along the left wall and a four-poster stretched out along the right. Adjacent to the bay window was my study desk, complete with its antique lamp and straight-back mahogany chair. A place for everything, and everything in its place, as Crazy Aunt Leisa would have said.

The color scheme was slightly different - more subdued, perhaps - and the shelves were lined with 'girlie' things - barbie dolls, nail polish, music boxes and so on - but there was no doubting this was my room. The seal of my personality was stamped into every nook and cranny; despite seeing it for the first time, it felt familiar in ways I couldn't have put into words. That sense of déjà vu returned once more, rushing over me with devastating force.

I strutted across to the bed, looking down at the clothing Momma had laid out for me. As I'd expected, she chosen the most effeminate pieces she could find in my wardrobe. Shooting a cautious glance back at the hallway, I leaned in for a closer look.

Splayed out on the bedspread was a pair of soft cotton knickers and a matching cross-your-heart brassiere, the kind worn by teenaged girls barely out of middle school. Plain, functional and utilitarian in every sense of the word, they were a far cry from the flimsy lace lingerie Mom kept in the Alcove downstairs.

Neatly folded next to these was a bright pink sun-dress with wide, puffy shoulders and a thickly ruffled hemline. I crimped my nose in a kind of wry amusement. It looked like something out of a Japanese cartoon.

No way was I going to wear that! I had no choice regarding the underwear - there wasn't much else to choose from - but I knew that Bianca had a closet full of slim-fit jeans and designer T-shirts. A little too garish for my tastes, but better than this cosplay ensemble Momma had picked out for me.

I lost no time slipping into the bra and pants. There were no long, smoldering looks in the mirror or voguing along imaginary catwalks. I wanted to cover my nudity as quickly as possible, hide that sleek, adolescent figure beneath at least three layers of fabric. That vast sense of arousal I'd felt only minutes before had been replaced by a harrowing sense of urgency. Momma had implied that dragging my heels would result in the severest of consequences; if I was going to get a spanking, I wanted to retain at least one shred of dignity.

Once I'd climbed into the underwear (my fingers moving with unaccustomed speed as I clipped the bra into place) I traipsed over to the closet and picked out a bright yellow t-shirt and a pair of faded blue Levis. On impulse, I also grabbed a silky white cami-vest, barely noticing what I was doing. Looking back now, I suspect that Bianca influenced that particular decision. She seemed to be hovering deep in my subconscious, whispering instructions like a guardian spirit.

It took me all of thirty seconds to pull on the outfit, starting with the vest. Once again, my hands seemed to move with supernatural agility, as if I'd been wearing Bianca's clothing my entire life.

I caught sight of myself in the dressing table mirror. The jeans and t-shirt did nothing to hide my newly acquired gender. Bianca's figure was slim and rather fragile; nothing she wore could have concealed her child-like physique. Apart from her breasts, she might have passed for a twelve year old. I suddenly understood how her mother could exert such strict control over her.

Making some final adjustments to my ensemble, I began packing a few items into my tote bag - toothbrush, shampoo, extra sets of underwear, the sort of things I'd need for a long weekend on the East Shore. With Crazy Aunt Leisa. Oddly enough, the thought didn't bother me in the least. As a matter of fact, I was looking forward to spending time with my new relatives, particularly cousin Elsa. In this version of reality, she wore contact lenses and knew all the best raves in town.

"You ready yet, Sweetie?" Mommy called from downstairs.

"Be down in a minute," I replied, slinging the bag over my shoulder. Walking to the bedroom door, I turned back to look it over one more time. My new room. My new life. My new Mother.

This had indeed been a day of revelations.

That was close on four years ago.

In the intervening period, I've completed my BFA and joined Mom in the fashion trade, interning as her part-time assistant. We've met with unprecedented success in the past six months alone, opening up two new studios in Heartsfield and Greenmeadows. I'm still the junior partner in the business, of course, but Mom recognizes my artistic abilities, even while refusing to acknowledge my age.

In line with my academic pursuits, I've devoted a great many hours researching the background of my adopted world. Initially, I thought I was living in a mirror image of my home town, but as each month passed, I began to realize that there were innumerable differences between the two. Most were superficial variations on names and locations - Aunt Leisa as opposed to Aunt Lizzie; Chamberlain Heights as opposed to Chamberlain Downs. Other discrepancies were more significant - Ireland being a republic, Columbia being a District and Canada being a Commonwealth, for example.

In many respects, the general histories were identical: two major wars in the Twentieth Century, military conflicts in Korea and Vietnam, the rise of digital technology at the end of the 1980s. Almost all of the leading figures have the same names - John F. Kennedy, Neil Armstrong, Germaine Greer and Steve Jobs to cite a few prominent examples.

I suppose that the real differences are far more subtle, but I see them virtually everywhere I look nowadays. I said earlier that my Mother seemed somehow 'darker' in tone - a shrewd, calculating entrepreneur who would gladly drive the competition out of business if it suited her purposes. She's still my Mother, still warm and kind and generous by nature, but she carries an edge of steel I'd never noticed before.

Everything seems darker over here. This is a world cast in shadows of anger and conflict, as the merest glance at the online press can readily confirm. The daily news revels in horror and violence beyond anything I'd previously imagined. Mayhem reigns supreme at every level of society: from the highest echelons of government to the back streets of Hell's Kitchen. This is a far bleaker realm than the one I came from, a landscape blackened with hatred and drenched with venom.

Still, wherever there is darkness, there must be light. The contrasts between joy and sorrow are so vast that human speech cannot describe them. I've experienced both over the past few months, plumbing the depths of human emotion. Perhaps it was the shock of finding myself locked inside a female body, or perhaps it was the inevitable process of growing up - teenagers invariably suffer torment and rapture in equal measure.

Whatever the explanation, I've adapted to the demands of my new role. I have a far closer relationship to my Mother than Benny ever had with his. Yes: we squabble, we argue and fight like two scorpions in a jar, but the bonds we've forged between us are nothing short of indestructible.

Nor are those bonds confined only to my immediate family - Bianca Woodrow is far more popular than Benny Woodridge ever was. Back in Summerhill, I was something of a classroom phantom; a bland, nondescript boy who left no visible impression on the mind's eye. Here, I'm pretty, vivacious, outgoing; the cute little girl with the bubbly personality and the oversized folio perpetually clutched under one arm. All things considered, I seem to have gotten the better part of the bargain.

I have far more than just Bianca's memories. I've inherited her drive, her persistence, her ambition. Her prodigious artistic talent. Often, I look back and feel astonished at how little I accomplished as Benny, realizing how much I might have achieved if I'd bothered putting in the slightest effort. Over in the Homeside, I was lazy, lethargic and self-indulgent; here, there seems to be no limit to what I can do. Perhaps, like Bianca, I've acquired a taste for success.

I've been granted a fresh start, a second chance that I'd be a fool to squander. Very few people are given the opportunities I've been handed, and I intend to make the best of an extremely good situation. The future is laid out before me like a boulevard of dreams, and there are no obstacles to impede my progress.

Strange then, how much I miss my old life.

As mentioned above, this is a crazy, kaleidoscopic world, a place of excess and excitement. Having been here so long, I probably wouldn't give it up, even if I could. All the same, there are moments when I wax nostalgic for the people I left behind. It's the final paradox I've had to face: the knowledge that everyone I know and love is - at some level - a total stranger. Frances Woodrow isn't my Mother, Constance Radcliff isn't my best friend, and Leisa Newtown isn't my Aunt Lizzie.

The doubts and fears usually creep in around ten PM, after the day's work is finished and I'm getting ready for bed. I often look out the bay window into the night sky, winding down at the end of a long evening, when my mind is free to wander where it will. Almost inevitably, my thoughts circle back to the life I led as Benny Woodridge, and I catch myself wondering:

What's happening over there?

During my first few months, I made several attempts to return through the Mirrordoor, believing - no doubt naively - that the gate must swing in both directions. I reasoned that there had to be some kind of portal hidden away in the Alcove, an obscure passage between quantum realities, but my experiments always came to nothing. As I suspected, there was no way back. Perhaps the traffic can only flow one way.

I've spent many a sleepless night puzzling over this mystery. How did it happen, how did I manage to step sideways in time? What triggered the transfer, why did I come to this specific location in the space-time continuum? And perhaps most importantly: what happened to Bianca?

Initially, I reasoned that we'd undergone a complete transposition, swapped bodies through some momentary rift in the fabric of the universe. It seemed the most logical conclusion. However, a more frightening scenario soon occurred to me, one I didn't like to contemplate.

What if we didn't trade places? What if Benny Woodridge simply winked out of existence, vanished off the face of that Earth, never to be seen again? That would explain why I can't return, and the revelation haunts me in the dead of night. If my fears are true, then Bianca would have no host to occupy, no place to go. That would mean that I ... overwrote her, erased her consciousness, deleted her from this plane of reality.

In the warm light of day, I often imagine that Bianca is walking around in my old body, finishing the degree I never started and enjoying a life I could never lead. Sometimes, I actually pray that she made it to the other side, mostly because the alternative is unthinkable.

Of course, it's more than just Bianca I have to worry about. There's also my mother - my real mother, Fanny Woodridge; last seen disappearing over the crown of Summerhill Road more than three years ago. What is she doing now? How is she coping? Did I leave her all alone in that world? The thought of her coming home to an empty house, night after night, never knowing what became of her son...God, I hope they managed to find each other.

So many questions, so very few answers, and only the faintest chance that I'll ever know for sure. If, as I suspect, the door only swings in one direction, there's no way to tell what happened to my doppelganger. For the time being, I can only hope that I'll eventually discover the truth, one way or the other.

How? Well, I suppose that's the only question that matters now.

In recent weeks, I've considered the possibility that there may be others like me out there, trans-dimensional castaways thrown up on the shores of the multiverse. I may not be able to go home, but there's no reason why someone else can't come here. For all I know, I might be surrounded by hyper-spatial immigrants. If I'm ever lucky enough to meet one of them, then maybe - just maybe - the answers to all of my questions might be forth coming...

STEPPING OVER
Copyright © Tracy Lane 2005/2021
All rights reserved

Kim continued along Memorial Drive until he reached the trail winding down to the Park. This was his doorway to the other side, the path leading into Kitty's world. Pinecones and woodchips crunched beneath his feet as he descended through the trees, fresh woodland scents prickled his nose. Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly twelve. J & S would probably be on their way right now, so he had to get a move on.

It was time to Step Over.

That was how he thought of it - taking one giant stride into another land, like in the story of the seven league boots. Even now, almost a year since he'd started migrating, the whole process had a bizarre, surreal quality about it. Some days, it was like waking up in some weird, never-ending fairy tale. Then again, there were times - such as today - when it all seemed completely normal.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he disappeared into the pine glade that bordered the playground. He had to find an isolated spot where he could be certain no one was watching. Kim wasn't sure what actually happened when he Stepped Over, but he didn't want any witnesses all the same. For all he knew, he might actually vanish into thin air - and that would have been downright impossible to explain.

Once inside the Glade, Kim stood quietly in the shade, preparing to make the transfer. He had to clear his mind, reach across that vast, yawning chasm separating their two worlds. It was like looking up into the night sky and feeling yourself fall into it; reaching that instant of perfect balance dividing a dream from reality. Crazy Mata had called it the Point of Tau, a state of perfect equilibrium between all the universal forces. It was something Shinto monks took decades to achieve through fasting and meditation, but Kim had a natural ability for it, according to Mata. And that was what made it all possible.

The transfer took place in a fraction of a second.

Kim felt the universe shifting around him, the barriers of reality dissolving like a mist before the sun. More than that, he felt his body melt and run inside its skin. Long blond hair swept down past his shoulders, unrolling like a platinum curtain. He was changing, altering. His clothes faded from his limbs as the transformation took effect. Looking down, he had a blurred image of naked flesh morphing between genders. Her clothing flickered back into existence, too fast for the eye to follow. First the underwear, materializing out of nowhere; then the dress, running down her hips in a golden wave. Glittering lights swept across her field of vision, blinding her momentarily -

And suddenly, she was standing beneath a grove of Cypress trees, blinking into a cool April morning. The transfer was finished, she'd Crossed Over from Kim's world.

Looking down, Kitty saw she was wearing a bright yellow sunfrock, the kind with buttons down the front and puffy sleeves on the shoulders. It was one of her favourites, sheer and light as summer breeze. It was funny; jeans and sweatshirt felt perfectly normal back on the Other Side, but once she'd crossed over, Kitty tended to view boy's clothing with vague distaste (particularly the underwear - who in their right mind would want to wear something so indisputably hideous as a pair of jockey shorts?!)

Checking the rest of her wardrobe, she concluded that everything was in the right place - hair tied back in a long, blond ponytail; garishly pink runners with frilly white ankle-socks. Business as usual. It was silly, but sometimes she half-expected to see Kim's clunky old Doc Martins adorning her tiny feet. Kitty understood that that would be impossible, but being a child, logic wasn't her strong point.

Glancing around the grove, she started down the bicycle path (woodchip trail in Kim's world), heading for the playground. She had arranged to meet her friends around twelve thirty, and it was getting on to midday already. It would take around fifteen minutes to make her way through the grove, which was somewhat larger than the pine glade on the Kim's side. With any luck, J & S would be waiting for her at the swings, same as most mornings.

In Kim's world, Janet and Suzie were just a couple of girls who lived five blocks down the road, but over here, they were Kitty's best friends. She's known them since the first grade, back when they used to play hopscotch everyday after school. Kitty guessed they were getting a little too old for Barbie dolls and jump-rope these days, but they still hung out together, watching TV and gorging on chocolate cookies like there was no tomorrow. Not that the future was a big concern for any of them. The best summer of their lives was spread out before them - and when you're a child, the summer never seems to end.

Emerging from the Cypress Grove, Kitty walked over to water fountain, scanning the playground as she bent over to take a drink. The field was empty except for a small group of boys playing catch on the other side of the oval. That was nothing out of the ordinary; Coronation Park was usually deserted this time of day. Most of the kids she knew lived over on the Westside. Kitty decided to test out the swings while she waited for her friends. It was only quarter past twelve; they'd probably still be finishing lunch.

Kitty rode the breeze for several minutes, leaning back and pointing her toes towards the clouds. A light wind whipped up her thighs, inflating her skirt and revealing her underpants. Smiling with pleasure, she kicked her feet in mid-air, enjoying the touch of the air on her skin. Like most girls her age, she loved riding the breeze in the early afternoon; it left her feeling cool and tingly all over.

"Kitty!" someone called, "hey, Kitty!"

She looked around to see Janet and Suzie approaching through the oval. Raising her hand in casual greeting, she waved a reply over her shoulder. The girls wandered over to the swings, chattering with the easy banter of childhood. All three swung in unison, as if sensing some universal rhythm, their ponytails streaming carelessly out behind them.

The afternoon passed in a patter of girlish conversation as they swung happily through the sky. Kitty's frock billowed up over her waist several times. She kicked her long legs every time her skirt rose, pretending she was a cancan girl. That was one of her favourite bedroom games; she often danced before her mirror with her skirt up to her chin. The very thought of showing off her panties in public made her heart race with excitement. Sometimes she wore her pink satin panties, the ones with the lacy frills around the derriere. She felt so breathtakingly naughty when she bent over and threw her skirt over her head, revealing her pantied bottom to the mirror.

"Wanna go play on the jungle gym?" Suzie asked no one in particular. They'd been on the swings for a good thirty minutes by now.

"Okay," Janet said, and hopped off the swing. Kitty followed a moment later, dropping catlike to her feet. The three walked over to the monkey bars, chortling happily away amongst themselves. Suzie reached the gym first, swinging to the top with a kind of unconscious grace. Kitty followed her friends along the bars, clambering hand-over-hand in quick bursts. Her heart was thudding in her throat. This was the part she enjoyed the most.

Reaching the centre of the grid, Kitty hooked her knees over the bars and slung herself upside down. Her dress immediately flipped inside out, exposing her undies all the way to her belly button. She felt a blush rise to her features: everything was on display now. It was embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice, too - that tingly feeling was spreading though her entire body now. Flicking her tongue over her lips, she glanced down (or rather up) to see what she had on.

Her panties were white nylon briefs with a little bow on the front. Most of Kitty's underpants were either pink or white (the only colours her Mommy bothered to buy, for some reason). Kitty absolutely loved showing them off. As far as she was concerned, it was a crime to hide something so pretty. The frock slid slowly down her torso, revealing several inches of smooth tummy and a hint of cotton singlet. The skirt hung limply over her face, blocking her view of the playground. She had to push it aside with one hand to see what was going on.

Suzie D'Antonio was sitting on top of the bars, idly studying her friend's underwear. There was nothing illicit in her gaze, just childish curiosity. She'd known Kitty for over four years and must have seen her panties like a zillion times. Anyway, there wasn't much else to look at, all she could see were a pair of splayed thighs and silky white gusset. Everything else was hidden behind a fall of yellow cotton. Overhead, the clouds wheeled across a perfect sky. The conversation drifted onto the usual topics - mermaids, unicorns, boys and teachers. Kitty rocked gently back and forth beneath the scaffold, her frock inching steadily toward the ground.

Janet was also hanging by the knees, although she wasn't revealing anything. The quintessential tomboy, Janet Connor never wore anything except shorts and jeans. Like Suzie, she was used to seeing Kitty's underpants every time they hit the playground (or anywhere else, for that matter). Young as she was, Janet understood that her playmate loved doing "girlie" things. It was just another side of her personality, no different from her preference for ultra-cutsie plush toys. As a matter of fact, Kitty Taylor must have been about the "girliest" little girl she'd ever met.

As for Kitty herself, she would have hung upside down all afternoon if she could have. Having her panties on exhibit always made her head spin with delight. It was something that Kim could never do back in his plane of existence, so she always seized the opportunity whenever it arose - making up for lost time, so to speak. It was sort of like the cancan thing; she loved that sense of impish pleasure that accompanied the act of baring. There was something else too, a kind of breathless arousal, but she was still too young to put a name to that.

At some point, Suzie lost all interest in Kitty's underwear and swung down between her friends, reaching out to take their hands in her own. Janet hummed a tune from a popular soft drink commercial and the other two joined in without even thinking. Gravity had its way with Kitty's dress until it was all but falling off her shoulders.

And holding hands beneath the wide, clear sky, they rocked their way through the early afternoon.

STEPPING OVER
Copyright © Tracy Lane 2005/2021
All rights reserved

The wind continued to pick up as the day wore on, shaking leaves from the trees and driving swarms of cicadas through the Cypress grove. The girls descended from the bars and chased each other around the cenotaph until they fell to the grass in a jumbled heap, breathless and gasping and giggling with delight. Once they'd caught their breath, they climbed up into the Indian Fort to play a few rounds of Rock-KissesPaper, which was how they normally concluded their day. Rock-KissesPaper was their special version of the classic schoolyard hand-game, in which the loser had to kiss the winners on the lips. It was a very secret thing, this soft pressing of the lips, something they had sworn to keep between themselves. It had been Kitty's suggestion, made some months before when she first started Crossing Over. Much to her surprise, the others had agreed without comment, as if kissing their best friend was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, of course, it was.

The afternoon finally wound down around 4.00, when the shadows began lengthening to a noticeable degree. Alerted by some obscure telepathy unknown to modern science, all three slid down out of the Fort and walked over to the water fountain (half an hour of non-stop kissy-kissy being thirsty work and all). This was their last pit stop before heading their separate ways, Kitty via the Cypress Grove, J & S through the oval. It had been a fine, cool day, but they were all ready to head home for a nice, warm dose of mother-love. Somewhere beyond the trees, households were clicking into evening mode. Baths being run in anticipation of the evening's girl-washing festivities.

"See you tomorrow?" Suzie asked, her hair tousled by the rising gale. Janet stood close behind her, carefully straightening out her rumpled t-shirt. Her mom would probably have a heart attack when she got home, same as every night.

"Yeah, okay," Kitty replied, unconsciously fussing with her own clothing, "over by the swings again?" The girls nodded their agreement, Janet readjusting her hair-band in the background.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Okay, bye"

They stepped in to exchange brief girly kisses (on the cheek this time), moist and sweet as the taste of rock-candy. Kitty felt a light hand patting her bottom. Probably Janet - Jan Connor was an incorrigible bottom-patter, always had been. Not that Kitty minded in the least, there was something rather endearing about the gesture. They said goodbye one last time, touching fingers as they turned away, and the afternoon was over.

Kitty returned to her quiet spot beneath the trees, preparing herself for the return trip. The Cypress Grove was a Pine Glade back on Kim's side of reality, one of a number of subtle differences between their two worlds. The surrounding countryside was pretty much the same - low foothills leading up to steeply sloping mountainsides. The layout of the city was virtually identical, but street names and other things were slightly off-kilter. Coronation Avenue was called Memorial Drive in Kim's world; Eastland Plaza was known as Dawnside Mall. These were all minor variations, barely discernable to the casual observer. The most significant difference, so far as Kitty could see, was that she was a boy over there.

And in some respects, that made all the difference.

Closing her eyes (unlike Kim, she didn't like to watch the world melt and shift around her), Kitty uttered her codeword and Crossed Over. The moment of transfer spun out to eternity; the ground seemed to vanish beneath her feet. Plunging through the quantum fabric of the universe, Kitty felt her clothes whipped from her figure, her body dissolving and reforming at precisely the same instant. Stars glittered beneath her eyelids, blazing like miniature supernovas -

And Kim Taylor opened his eyes.

He was back in his world, still bearing the residue of his otherself. That lush tingling sensation was coursing through his nervous system, making his heart race like a trip hammer. He glanced down at himself, making sure he wasn't wearing a dress, then glanced around the Glade, listening for approaching footsteps. Had anyone seen him arrive? No, it was nearly four thirty, and the woodchip trail was deserted. He had to get home now. His Mom would be heating up the oven, wondering where he was this late in the afternoon.

Checking his watch, Kim headed up towards Memorial Drive. In some other universe, Kitty Tyler was walking along a disused bicycle path, treading precisely the same steps as himself. Somehow, they always managed to fall into sync whenever he decided to Step Over. They would probably remain in tune until he reached his front door. It was a paradox, impossible to explain, but that was how it appeared to work.

"Is that you, Kim?" his mother called out from the kitchen as he let himself in through the front door.

"Yes, Mom," he replied, kicking off his runners. The rich aroma of chicken casserole wafted down the hallway. Kim ran his tongue over his teeth, realizing for the first time how hungry he was.

"OK. Upstairs and wash up. Dinner's in ten minutes."

"Yes, Mom," he repeated, and trotted obediently up to the bathroom. Most of their conversations followed this minimalist pattern. No sentiment, no tenderness, no maudlin terms of endearment. His mother wasn't as openly affectionate as Kitty's. Women tend to treat boys differently to girls. Well, no big deal; the woman cooked a killer Sunday roast, which was how she usually demonstrated her love for him.

Leaning over the sink, Kim scrubbed his face and arms, watching himself closely in the mirror. He could almost see his twin standing on the other side, lathering up her tiny hands with liquid soap. They were still in sync, even now. Probably would be for the rest of the evening. Of course, superficial variations were inevitable. Kitty lived in an all-female household; her vanity was covered with bath oils, deodorants and exotic perfumes. Kim's marble-top was devoid of cosmetics, his mother kept everything in the medicine cabinet (particularly since she'd caught him experimenting with her lipstick).

Drying his face with a soft blue towel, Kim bid a silent farewell to his reflection and strode out into the hallway. Kitty walked with him, he could hear her thoughts echoing through the passages of his mind, like a voice murmuring through a paper wall. That wasn't too surprising; they were the same person after all. Always had been, although he'd never realized it until last year. Seemed like forever ago now, but when you're a kid, a year can last a lifetime.

He headed for stairs, thinking of the afternoon he (she) had spent at the park: the sun, the grass, the cool, gentle breeze. The gasping delight she'd felt, hanging upside down with her dress over her head. A heady mixture of pleasure and humiliation, it usually occurred when he imagined he was a girl - something which had baffled him for years, but made perfect sense since he'd discovered Kitty's existence. Small wonder he fantasized about being a girl.

In another reality, he was.

Looking out through an upstairs window, he saw that a blue twilight had fallen across Chamberlain. Streetlights flickered on one by one as he watched, sweeping past his house towards the west end of town. Kim had always thought it signaled the end of day (which, indeed, it does when you're nine years old). He descended the stairs with his hand on the rail, smiling gently to himself. There was a great deal of magic in his life. More, perhaps, than any child honestly deserved. He often wondered if there was any one else like him, if he was the only boy capable of spanning the boundaries between two separate worlds. He supposed there had to be others, but Crazy Mata had told him that he was unique. Rare, exceptional, one in a million. The only one who turned into a girl when he transferred.

"Dinner's ready," Mom called from the living room. They usually ate in front of the TV, same as any normal American family. Kim picked up his feet and scampered down the hallway, practically watering at the mouth. Strangely enough, he was always ravenously hungry after spending a day on the Other Side. Hungry, tired and thoroughly satisfied.

"Well, did you have a good time down at the park?" Lynne asked as Kim launched himself into a chair.

"Yeah," he replied, reaching for his plate, "we played on the swings and the bars and everything!"

"We?"

"J & S and I."

"Oh, yes, S and J," Mom nodded sagely, "your new friends. So, what else did you do?"

Lynne Taylor listened in mild amusement while her son regaled her with stories of the day's adventures, grateful that he was finally making friends. She knew he was something of a schoolyard pariah, that his classmates regarded him as an unwanted and rather unsavoury stranger. Originally she'd dismissed it as the result of a naturally timid personality, but recently, she'd begun to fear that Kim was socially maladjusted (the latest sound-bite bandied about by new-age therapists these days). The revelation that he was forming normal relationships came as something of a relief. And if it seemed a little odd that a nine-year old boy was hanging out with a couple of girls, Lynne didn't mind in the least.

For reasons she couldn't quite explain, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

The girl in the red mini has strawberry blond hair and long, tapering legs. Stepping into the dressing room, she puts down her shoulder bag on the make-up table and hitches up her hemline, revealing a seemingly endless length of smooth, stockinged thigh. She poses in the window, completely oblivious of the council workers across the road. Benny and his friends suddenly pause in their labours, faces mesmerized by the prospect of seeing a pretty young girl adjusting her nylons before their very eyes.

With the girl out of sight, the battle resumes. Jaws are busted, noses pulled, lips fattened. The bald-headed priest tumbles into the ditch, still holding his bible aloft. In the background, all but lost in the general confusion, Benny is led away in an armlock by the PC...

The clothes KC had taken from the linen cupboard were not exactly the same as the girl's on Benny Hill, but that wasn't a problem. KC's imagination required only a close approximation. There were a pair of frilly white underpants which fortuitously happen to fit him exactly, and a small, creamy coloured crop top which - for KC - would double for a bra (KC didn't know what a brassiere was for, but it was unquestionably a necessary part of the costume). There had been no white satin half slip in the sewing bag, but he'd managed to find a bright pink cotton skirt with an elasticized waist. It was light and breezy, almost translucent, and KC judged it would feel cool and smooth against his flesh.

No stockings in his size, but there was a pair of longish girls' socks, which, to KC's inexperienced mind, was pretty much one and the same. The last piece of apparel had been the treat of the morning. Holding it up, KC wasn't quite certain what it was. A woman's blouse or top or something, but it was bright and red and stretchy; it would look just like the mini the Benny Hill girl had been wearing.

There was even a zip at the back. KC smiled, his eyes wide with innocent, childish pleasure, and began to take off his PJs.

Something happened while KC changed.

He didn't just put on girl's clothing, he seemed to put on a girl's body. No, not quite. His body felt different, there was no question of that, but he seemed to have pulled on a great deal more than a girl's shape. He...felt like a girl. Or at least, what he imagined a girl would feel like, if she was sweet, and saucy, and pretty - and very, very naughty. He could not, at his age, have put it into words, but it was as if he had somehow slipped into a new identity.

He had become the girl. The one from last night. The one who'd taken off her clothes.

KC could see her very clearly in his mind. He had taken a snapshot of her with his eyes and developed the picture in his imagination. It was like a high resolution moving photograph; he could visualize the finest details, the texture of her skin, the lacquer on her fingernails, the deep redness of her lips, the sweep of her hair over her forehead. But the photo wasn't just in his imagination. It was as if that picture had somehow been superimposed onto his body.
KC had become The Girl.

She played out the scene several times, recreating the scene from memory: the dressing room with its racks of feminine accoutrements, the make-up table with its cosmetics and brushes, the tall, wide window looking out onto the street, the vaguely lecherous council workers leaning on their picks and shovels - she moved through a complex, constructed mind-space, shedding her clothing and parading before a non-existent audience.

The ecstasy swept over her, simmering in her body like a ball of liquid heat, leaving her trembling with excitement and a new emotion she couldn't name. Something had blossomed within her, something huge and pure and utterly beyond description. It was a breathless, gasping delight without comparison, something which she would seek for the remainder of her life. And although this sensual fire would remain forever beyond her reach, there were a few rare moments when she would come extremely close . . .

She assumed her feminine role most mornings, basing her performances on TV programmes. It was the beginning of the seventies, an era of extreme political incorrectness and risque humour, when sexual innuendo insinuated itself into the least sexual of domestic comedies. Television provided her with an apparently inexhaustible source of inspiration for her fantasy-play.

At first it was enough just to become The Girl and act out her scenarios subjectively, but after a while she became curious to see what she actually looked like while she performed. KC couldn't let anyone see her dressed as The Girl, but at least she could watch herself.

KC had taken to hiding her props in an old suitcase under her bed. She rose at five one morning and dressed as The Girl, then examined herself closely in the dressing table mirror. She'd never performed in her bedroom before - there wasn't nearly enough space - but this morning she made an exception.
She stripped gradually down to her undies, smiling widely as each successive layer came off.

First her slippers, then her blouse, followed by skirt and singlet - the latter standing in for a full slip. Removing the slip was always the best part, the last thing to come off before her panties were displayed to the world. She felt thoroughly undressed, even though she was still wearing her bra and pants. Of course, the underwear was the most important part of the performance. If she'd been completely naked, she wouldn't have been The Girl at all. She just would have been some naked little boy. And where's the fun in that?

She didn't look much like the girls on television (they were all grown up, for one thing) but she was pleased by what she saw. Her striptease revealed a pretty little girl with short, curly brown hair and a roundish face, her body slightly pudgy with baby fat. If her hair had been slightly longer, she might have passed for any five year old girl, no different from the ones she used to play with back in Ashville.

Trouble was, KC wasn't trying to look like a little girl. She wanted to look like The Girl, tall and leggy and almost-adult. They were more like princesses in a fairy tale: always laughing, always falling in love and always living Happily Ever After. And best of all, The Girl could be naughty and get away with it. The Girl could get away with just about anything.

A little over a month later, KC grappled with the problem of being male. Boys looked different to girls, especially in one extremely crucial spot. It was easy to hide this difference when she was wearing a dress or a skirt, but once she'd completed her obligatory striptease, she could see her thing, quite plainly, pressing against the thin fabric of her underpants.

KC somehow knew it was out of place. Girls, even older ones, seemed to be perfectly smooth down there. While she was too young to have any real concept of sexual difference, it was still a baffling mystery nonetheless. She often considered asking her parents about it, but wasn't sure how to approach the subject. Her Mom in particular wouldn't appreciate the line of questioning.

Looking at herself in the mirror, KC pulled tight on the elastic of her panties, trying to hide the small bulge at the junction of her thighs. One time she'd tried tucking it up between her legs, then pulled on a pair of knickers to hold it in place. It had worked for about a minute or so. Her underpants had looked flat and completely faultless. Unfortunately, it had soon grown awkward and uncomfortable, especially when she tried moving around. She gave up after the first few tries, deciding it was more trouble than it was worth.

KC had no idea what "real" girls had down there, but it sure wasn't anything like she had. She placed a hand over herself, obliterating the offending outline. If only she could make it go away permanently. Dressing as The Girl made her feel wonderful; she would gladly have sacrificed that silly little thing if it meant she could feel this good all the time.

Such a small, unimportant thing, really, but it made all the difference. It made her a boy, and she could honestly say that she hated being a boy. If she could just get rid of it, she'd never have to live as a male again. People would think she was a girl, a real one. She would be one step closer to The Girl. KC wished she'd been born female.

She'd forgotten all about the spiders.

Mom and Dad had gone out to Bingo, leaving KC alone with Graham and one of his friends from Lachlan High, a short, scrawny boy named Franky Curtis. Franky was an ugly little bastard who was constantly grinning like a weasel. KC thought he had one of the most unpleasant faces in human existence. Years later, she discovered that quite a number of people agreed with this description. No one seemed to like him, except Graham, and even this assumption was debatable. Mom couldn't stand a bar of "that Curtis boy" and refused to let him inside the house if he dropped by when Graham was out. Even Dad used to refer to Franky as "the chinless wonder" behind his back.

KC quickly learned to avoid coming within arm's length of Franky whenever they were in the same room. That stupid, hyena-faced smile disguised a streak of brainless, gibbering cruelty. The chinless wonder scared her much worse than Graham ever had. Franky had this way of looking at her, as if she was an insect that he was about to step on for the sheer, vindictive fun of it. Fortunately, he wasn't too bright, and KC found that if she stayed out of his sight, Franky wouldn't bother her. Most of the time, KC was safe.

Not this night, however. She was drawing pictures in her bedroom when they came to get her.

KC realized almost immediately what they intended to do, and lapsed into tears and pleas as they dragged her out to the hallway. They had opened the spider-cupboard in preparation for the evening's entertainments. It looked to KC like a square, black mouth ready to swallow her alive. She shrieked when she saw it, a wild, keening, despairing noise barely contained by her tiny throat.

Franky's face swiveled down towards her. His eyes were huge and glassy. That enormous, vacant grin was back, more hideous than KC had ever seen it before. He looked barely human, more like some lunatic monstrosity from a nightmare. He was giggling to himself, an idiotic, meaningless sound that was halfway between laughter and drooling baby-talk.

KC looked up at her brother.

Graham's face wore the same expression of angry, impatient determination he'd had the night of the drowning game. Graham was a man of grim purpose, and nothing was going to interfere with the execution of his responsibilities. He'd made KC a promise months ago, and he was going to keep it. His eyes were dark and narrowed and completely devoid of mercy: Graham was a REAL MAN, and real men had no time for compassion.

KC's chest clenched up, as if a huge fist was crushing her lungs. She began to gasp for her ventolin. Graham ignored her. Franky continued to slobber out his demented laughter. KC's breath came in wheezing, grating sobs. She struggled against them, setting her feet against the floor, but Graham dealt her a stunning blow to the back of the head. She fell forward, gasping weakly. Frankly grabbed a handful of her hair and continued to drag her over to the cupboard. By now, KC was nearly passing out from fright.

They dumped her before the cupboard's gaping doorway. Huddled in abject fear, not even daring to look into the spider-lair, KC wrapped her arms around Graham's legs. Franky's hands descended onto her. She was pulled away and forced to stare in. The spiders were no more than a foot away now. Her face convulsed with absolute terror. They were going to put her in there, shove her in with all those swollen, scampering, biting horrors and slam the door shut, leave her in there to scream and claw and cry all night. She opened her mouth to wail with all her strength. A strangled, choking cough caught in her throat. Nothing else came out. It was the asthma.

Magnified by the lens of hysteria, the spiders looked supernaturally huge, their midnight bodies like shiny, jet-black grapefruit, their thousands of eyes red with fury. They would swarm all over her body, peeling back her flesh and boring into her deepest, most secret parts. There would be no escape, they would fill every crevice inside her, squirming beneath her skin, biting her to death.

They thrust her, weeping and hopeless, into that crawl space from hell. Graham braced the door with a chair, and they returned to the lounge room to watch Disneyland.

An unknowable length of time later:

Cry-baby! Look at the CRY-BABY. Not like a REAL bloke is he?
No. He isn't.

Mom and Dad'll be home soon. Can't let them see him like this. Get up you little shit. Get up.

KC lay unmoving on the floor. A spider scuttled out from under her elbow and disappeared back into the cupboard. Graham had to kick her several times before she got to her knees and crawled slowly towards her bedroom. Graham was careful not to kick too hard. He didn't want to leave any obvious marks.

KC said nothing to her parents about the spider-cupboard. Graham had warned her that if she told anyone - anyone at all - he'd kill her. KC never doubted Graham's capacity to follow through on such a threat, but it wasn't the only reason why she kept her ordeal secret. She simply couldn't talk about it - she could hardly think about it without wanting to run away and cry. She was incapable of articulating the humiliation and shame the episode had instilled in her. And whenever she closed her eyes ...

Cry-baby! Look at the CRY-BABY. Not like a REAL bloke is he?

KC had begun to hate herself.

She couldn't have explained why, but she had come to believe that the whole thing had been her own fault, that she had deserved everything that had happened to her. She had done something to get Graham mad at her, something she couldn't quite understand, but it seemed to have been connected to what Franky had said after they pulled her out of the cupboard: What are you, a fuckin GIRL or somethin? A real man wouldn't cry like that.

Early morning:

KC stared at her face in the mirror. Had they known? Had Graham found out what she was doing, dressing up like a girl when everyone else was asleep? Had he told Franky about it, discussed plans to teach her a lesson one night when Mom and Dad were out? Did they lock her in the spider-cupboard as some kind of punishment? Punishment for not being a real man? Was it really so bad? Wanting to be The Girl?

She took the suitcase from its hiding place beneath the bed, took out its contents, dressed before the mirror. Nothing happened. There was no warmth, no ecstasy, no magic transformation. The Girl was gone. A single, large tear formed in corner of her right eye, overflowed, trickled down her cheek. She - he wasn't a girl. He was just a dumb kid in a dress, pretending to be a lady.

They had broken him down, taken everything off him, reduced him to nothing. A real man wouldn't have let them do it; as Franky had said, real men don't cry. He closed his eyes, and for one terrible moment, he could feel the chinless wonder's hands on his skin once again, touching him, turning him over: C'mon, GIRL, showus whatcha got between yer legs -

KC began to undress. This time, however, he didn't bother to look at himself disrobing.

Life crawls by at a snail's pace for an unhappy child. A minute lasts for hours, a day seems to grow longer with the slow passage of each empty moment. A month stretches into the realms of the infinite. A year was the length of time it takes the winds to erode the Alpine ranges to sea level.

Graham gave KC the grand tour of hell.

They had all the time in the world.

KC's parents noticed the change in their son. Dad commented to his wife that 'Case' wasn't looking his usual chipper self these days. You sure there's nothing bothering the lad? Hardly know he's in the house, most of the time. Talk about seen but not heard. You're lucky to get more than two words out of him in as many hours.

Mom shrugged her shoulders and put it down to boredom and maybe a little loneliness since they'd left Ashville a few months back. He was missing his friends at the playgroup. Kids are like that you know. Still, it was a good thing we made the move when we did.

Dad lit a cigarette and nodded in agreement. Yeah, he was young, he'd make plenty of new friends once he started school. Maybe they could look 'round for another kindy in the meantime. I mean to say, we can't have the boy moping around the place tripping over his own lip, can we?

Guess you're right. I mean, he's only five years old, isn't he?

Rising early was a difficult habit to break. KC still got up around five-thirty and played in the back room until the cartoons came on. However, entertaining himself presented something of a problem now. He felt miserable and listless most of the time. Nothing was fun anymore, nothing seemed worth the effort of doing. He wished Dad was home more often, wished Mom was less busy during the day. He also wished that Graham would leave home and live with his friends, like he was always saying he would.

Climbing out of bed, KC picked up one of his trucks and walked out to the kitchen. The toy was virtually useless, a cheap plastic cement mixer which had lost all of its wheels. He suspected Graham had broken them off deliberately (Graham made a habit of destroying anything that KC loved) but he hadn't cried when he discovered the damage. He'd experienced much worse than a broken toy over the last few months. It was still dark outside. The house was dim and still, the lino cold against his feet.

He paused next to the kitchen table, looking out into the back room. Something was different about it this morning. It was like one of those dreams where you walked into your house and found yourself surrounded by strangely unfamiliar faces. The people you spoke to claimed to be your family - and indeed they looked and sounded exactly like them - but you knew, deep inside, that they weren't. Everything had changed, but you couldn't explain how.

KC blinked several times, then walked carefully forward, placing the toy truck on the table. He'd suddenly lost all interest in playing. Oddly, he felt no fear, as perhaps he should have under the circumstances. Any other time, he might have sensed ghosts or monsters lurking in the darkness and run away to wake his parents up. But this time there was no hint of threat. He had a mystery to solve.
Then he saw it. There was a sliver of light slashing across the floor of the back room. A fine, radiant shaft that might be cast by a light hidden behind a door which was ever so slightly ajar. And that, KC knew, was not possible. There were no doors on that side of the room. Only the one that led to -

No. It couldn't be. But there it was: The Door to Nowhere was open. And light was spilling out of it.

KC gaped at this marvel in childish disbelief. His life had been a montage of daydreams and fantasies up to this point. Months ago, he'd imagined that the door might open into Narnia or some other magical land. But he'd tested that particular fancy dozens of times; he knew that the door was merely a cover for a brick wall, nothing else. His mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. Yet, here he was, the door was open, and there was light coming from somewhere behind it. Even from this distance he could tell it wasn't artificial light: it was too warm, too ... gentle. It was a soft afternoon haze. Another impossibility. He could look out the back window to confirm that the sun wasn't even properly up.

I must be dreaming, KC thought.

But he wasn't. He was awake, slowly approaching the Door to Nowhere, already reaching out with his tiny hand to grip the golden knob. The one which was perfect for his height, as if the door had been built for him and him alone. His heart was racing, his breath shallow: not with fear, but with an oddly exultant feeling, an emotion poised midway between anticipation and excitement.

He hesitated, relishing the scent of flowers drifting through the door. Roses, KC was certain, fresh cut roses, like the ones he and his Mother saw in the florist every time they walked into town. He could almost see them now, carmine red and dripping with cool, sweet water. Rosewater, he thought for no reason at all, and swung the door open.

A momentary confusion: KC seemed to be looking into his own room. No, not his room. But he had recognized it, nonetheless. It was Her room. The Girl's.

He was looking into The Girl's bedroom.

'Bedroom' wasn't the right word. There was another word, something his Mother used on occasion, something that sounded dainty and enchanting, a word ladies might use. Pretty ladies.

Boudoir.

It flashed through his mind and was gone. The room was aglow with pastel colours, muted pinks and lilacs, traces of midday blue. Stepping through the doorway, he felt a curious shifting sensation, like the start of a lucid dream. It would be years before KC could make such a comparison, but that was precisely what it was like: stepping consciously into a dream.

He halted, closed his eyes, and inhaled the subtle, flowing fragrance lacing the air. The smell of flowers struck him once again, but the roses were only masking something even more delicious and untouchable. He'd thought the room was empty, but he'd been wrong - the Girl was here; invisible, intangible, but present in every sense other than the physical.

He was breathing in The Girl.

KC opened her eyes.

The bed was an antique four poster, covered with an ornate satin quilt and plumped with half a dozen pillows. There was a skirt and blouse on the bed, along with a small number of delicates. KC approached, only vaguely surprised that clothes had been laid out for her. It was her room, after all. She picked up the skirt and held it against her waist, as if taking its measure. It was a little girl's full circle, blue with a white lace trim around the hem. She turned to face the three-way mirror at the far end of the room. The mirror, like everything else in the (boudoir) room was the perfect size for a five year old child.

KC studied her reflection. She'd never noticed before how funny she looked in boy's pajamas. Cute, sweet, but funny all the same. A little girl posing as a boy. She felt a giggle bubbling up in her throat. It was the first time she'd felt like laughing in months. Yes, she looked funny, no question about it. She replaced the skirt on the bed, walked over to the door, and shut it quietly, once she'd ascertained that there was a knob on the inside. She supposed she wouldn't want to be trapped in here. Then again, maybe she wouldn't want to leave. Who knows?
She walked back to the bed and started unbuttoning her pajama top. Maybe this was a dream - that was the only way to explain what was happening - but KC was no longer sure whose dream it was. KC knew she wasn't asleep, so this had to be someone else's vision. Well, it didn't matter who was having it, KC was happy again. In a dream, anything could happen. Anything at all.

She stood naked, looking down at the underwear on the bed. This was nothing like the old throwaways from Mom's remnants bag. Brand new, almost sparkling. There was a singlet, a pair of briefs and some long socks, the kind with a lacy ruffle at the top. All pink, a very faint hue that was almost white. No bra, KC noted, but for some reason, she felt no disappointment. Right now, she didn't mind being a little girl. She reached down, picked up the panties, and turned to face the mirror. KC smiled at her reflection.

The smile flickered out after a few seconds. KC staggered back, recoiling from her image in gape-mouthed shock.

The mirror showed a real girl.

KC's hands flashed down between her legs. Paradoxically, a glancing inspection affirmed that everything was still in its proper place. She handled her boy-things gingerly, assuring herself that they hadn't simply evaporated off her body (not that this would have been such a bad idea, KC would later speculate, but it had been one hell of a fright at the time). She then looked back at the mirror.

The girl in the three-way had nothing downstairs. Nothing at all. KC changed her position several times until she was absolutely certain of this. The flesh seemed to fold under and vanish between her legs, leaving only a dimple where KC's thing was.

What was going on?

KC walked up for a closer look. She noticed almost immediately that the girl in the mirror was not a precise duplicate of herself. She had larger eyes, and her face was fractionally softer and prettier. Her limbs and shoulders a little more rounded, her hair a little longer and curlier. She was more like KC's twin sister.

No, that wasn't right, not at all. The mirror-girl wasn't KC's twin, she was KC. The mirror was special; magical. It didn't show KC as she was, but how she should be. She swung around and wriggled her tushie at the three-way. It was plump and rosy-pink and smooth as a baby's bottom, so to speak. KC giggled to herself and looked away, blushing. She began to see how much fun she could have, playing her dress-up games in front of this magic mirror.

All the clothes fitted perfectly. Fully dressed, she admired herself in triple view, turning around several times, trying to see herself from as many angles as possible. She finished by twirling about like a top. Her skirt flickered up, revealing her thighs, like a dancer from one of those old Hollywood musicals her parents enjoyed watching. She came to a stop, paused, and glanced around the room, curious to explore.

A large window looked out to a late afternoon landscape. It was a familiar setting; the backyard of their house, except that there were clumps of Oak trees and no fence bordering the property. Perhaps she was looking into another time, 'the olden-days', as Mom was fond of calling the past. KC wondered if it were real. If she opened the window, could she climb out and go play in the shade of one of those old, weathered oaks?

Well, she could investigate that possibility later. Best not roam too far right now. If, as she suspected, this were an incredibly vivid dream, what would happen to KC when whoever was having it woke up? She decided to stay near the door for the time being. Not that she was really worried, of course. This was The Girl's (boudoir) bedroom, not the spider-cupboard: nothing bad was going to happen to her in here. The rest of the house might have belonged to Graham, but this room was hers.

She opened the folding doors of the built-in wardrobes, and discovered they were full of girl's things; blouses, frocks, dresses, shoes, and skirts. The dressing table contained nighties and underwear and various knick-knacks - brushes, combs, lacy handkerchiefs and cotton scarves, hairclips, oddsocks and buttons. A thousand small items for which KC had no name for. Things that might represent the bits and pieces of a little girl's life.

Her life.

KC's.

She looked over at the door for a few seconds, wondering what was happening out there, what time of day it might be. In here, it was late in the afternoon. Beyond the door, it was still morning. Mom would just be getting up to put on the kettle and call Dad to breakfast. That was a good place, in some ways, but it wasn't perfect. It had some terrible, dark corners. It had fear and hurt and shame lurking its the shadows. Most of all, it had Graham and Franky and the spider-cupboard. The Girl's room was better. Much better.

KC walked over and lay down on the bed, nestling in the cool satin depths of the quilt. It was just as she's thought before: maybe she wouldn't mind being trapped in here, maybe she wouldn't want to leave. Ever.

I've come home, KC whispered to herself, and closed her eyes.

A frigid silence chilled the air between them. Felicity transfixed the boy with an ebony stare. Robbie withered in that arctic gaze; a deep carmine flush invaded his features. Nothing was said for several moments, then Felicity began gathering up the cards with an air of weary dismissal, her expression one of vague distaste.

"We have nothing further to discuss."

Robbie felt a surge of panic. What had he done? She'd been trying to help him, to offer him a solution, and he'd missed his chance. His window of opportunity had closed - probably forever. Worse than that, he'd insulted her in some obscure way he didn't quite understand. He could see that now, see it in the sharp angle of her spine, the harsh set of her features. She was the one person who might comprehend the doubt and confusion he'd been feeling - and he'd pushed her away with a few careless words.

"No, wait," he cried (a little more desperately than he'd intended), leaning half-way over the counter, "you don't understand, Felicity. I ... I can't talk about this, really I can't! It's too embarrassing, too -" he groped for the word - "humiliating. Whenever I think about it, I feel all dirty and sweaty, like I was -" touching myself, he was going to say, but let the sentence trail off into oblivion. He tried to start over: "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"Do you trust me Robbie?" Felicity asked, cutting him off.

"Yes," the boy nodded, hesitantly.

"Then listen carefully. As I said before, the answers are never where you first look for them. Sometimes you have to take risks, venture into places you'd rather not go. Places that frighten you, the way a child fears a darkened room. The problem is; you're no longer a child, Robbie. No one is going to hold your hand now. If you want to explore that darkened room, you have to enter alone ... and face whatever waits within."

Robin nodded, saying nothing.

"You came here today because you wanted something," the woman continued, "something so magical and terrifying that you can't bring yourself to ask for it by name. And here you face a paradox, Robbie. Because what you want - what you need so desperately - has no real name."

And she was right. There were words - alien, clinical words he'd read in textbooks and heard on documentaries - but they couldn't begin to describe the complicated emotions he'd experienced in the preceding weeks. Robbie knew precisely what they meant, but the meanings themselves were irrelevant. As she'd said, what he wanted had no real name.

"What can I do?" He asked, teetering on despair.

"Give it a name."

"I can't. I ... I don't know how to put it into words."

"You don't WANT to put it into words Robbie. You want the answer, but you don't want to ask the question. You want the cake but you don't want to cook. You want the gain, but not the pain. Like all men, you want The Easy Solution." She measured him with a dry, leveling glance. "I thought you were different."

"I am!" he almost wailed. This wasn't right, she wasn't being fair. He WAS different, he'd been made to feel different from the moment he started school. Rejected and ostracised from day one, he'd endured the contempt and loathing of virtually everybody he knew. The big kids in the playground. Mr Grady, his gym coach. Mrs Lorris, his homeroom teacher. The old geezer who mopped out the hallway back in grade school, the one who used to call him 'Rosebud' under his breath. Jesus, his own parents on occasion, when his effeminate ways embarrassed them in public. How could he explain that to her, make her see what an ugly, pointless waste his existence had become?

She already knows.

The thought flashed across his mind like summer lightning: she knew. She'd always known. She'd known from the morning he'd stepped across The Shop's tiled threshold five years ago. Even then, she'd known everything about him, known him better than his own Mother. Every hair, every pore, every flickering eyelash. The Tarot had told her, whispered his story through her gliding fingertips, slowly disrobing his fragile soul until he was left naked and shivering in the night.

"You already know what I want," he said, his voice wavering on the verge of tears.

"Yes." Her tone was calm, unperturbed, almost serene. Robbie gaped in surprise. He'd expected a laugh, a denial, a knowing smirk; anything but indifferent confirmation.

"Then why won't you give it to me?"

"Because you're not a child, Robbie. As I told you before: if you really want this, you have to ask for it. By name." She started rearranging the cards once more, laying them out in a rough semicircle. "There's an old saying, no doubt you've heard it: Money can't buy happiness. It's true. Money can buy anything except happiness." The cards now formed a tight, gold-rimmed crescent moon, the horns pointing in Robbie's direction. "But that doesn't mean happiness comes free."

"I only have five dollars," he said automatically, not really understanding what she'd meant.

"Four ninety-eight," she corrected with a throw-away gesture, "but that doesn't matter: your money's no good here, as they used to say back in Vegas." A fond, nostalgic look passed over her face, as if she were recalling a dear, years-lost friend. She went on: "You can't buy what you want, Robbie, not anymore. The price is more than you could possibly afford. Bill Gates couldn't afford what you want, trust me."

"Then how - ?" Robin began, his voice quailing with anguish. Why was she doing this, why was she torturing him with these lying riddles? She was playing with him, a cruel, teasing game he felt compelled to play against his will. His head was reeling with the contradictions: yes, I have what you want, but no, you can't have it. Yes, you can buy it, but no, you can't. Yes, I'm going to help you: no, I won't. What was going on? Felicity had never treated him this way before. She was offering him false hope in one hand and an empty promise in the other. He felt cheated, tricked, betrayed.

I thought you liked me, he thought, feeling his heart sink with lonely, child-like hurt.

"I do," Felicity told him, as if he'd spoken the words aloud (which he had, without realising it), "that's why we're having this conversation. I like you quite a lot, Robbie. Very few of my customers have shown such dedication over the years. Unfortunately, I can't simply give you the answer to all your prayers. There are rules about these things. I'm not a genie, I don't grant wishes. Get that part absolutely clear in your mind. This is a place of business, Robbie, which means we have to strike a bargain."

"A ... bargain?" The boy replied uneasily. The conversation was taking on rather a macabre tone, as if he was bartering for his soul. Reading his expression (or maybe his mind, let's get it out in the open), Felicity flashed him another wolfish, predatory smile, freezing the blood in his veins.

"A deal, anyway. Reach an agreement, negotiate a contract. Make an exchange. The way things were done back in the olden days, before there were books or banks or money."

"What else can I give you?" Robbie asked in the tiny, strangled voice he'd used earlier. Knowledge crept over him in a slow revelation. She had trapped him, backed him into a corner with her wilful deceits and manipulations. Why in God's name was she doing this? What could she possibly gain?

Felicity's hand drifted over the cards.

"Tell me what you were looking for, Robbie."

The boy opened his mouth, attempting to reply, but the words refused to budge. They caught in his throat like fish in a net, struggling to escape back to the depths. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want to abase himself before this strange, fathomless woman. It would be a humiliation beyond endurance. But what choice did he have? She had deprived him of all options, all alternatives.

Inhaling a deep, calming breath, Robbie forced out his answer:

"I was looking for a dress."

"No." Felicity shook her head, not unkindly. "You weren't looking for a dress. You were looking for something else. That's why you couldn't find it."

Robbie considered this for a few moments, peering into the cloistered depths of the Lady Chapel. What he sought should have been in there, hidden amongst the racks and stacks and camphor chests. Several times, he'd reached into the cluttered rows, only to grasp a fading mirage. It was always on the edge of his vision, hanging just beyond the point of recognition.

He looked up at Felicity, his expression one of gradual revelation. The gypsy had been right all along. He hadn't been seeking a dress per se. He was searching for something else, something he'd lost a long time ago. Or perhaps something he'd never possessed to begin with.

Felicity smiled indulgently, as if dealing with a slow and rather ungrateful student.

"We seem to have made some progress," she remarked, turning three cards over in quick succession. A vague shadow passed over her features while she studied the final hand. Close though he was, Robbie couldn't quite make out the configuration. All of the sigils seemed to blend into a meaningless jumble, perhaps because he didn't want to know what the future held for him.

Felicity flipped the cards face down once more, seeming to reach a decision.

"You want to be a girl?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what you're asking?"

"Yes." He nodded without hesitation, though he actually had no idea whatsoever. Nor did he honestly care at this point: Robbie knew what he wanted, and that was enough. More than enough, in fact.

"And you ask this of your own free will?"

Far away in the back of the shop, an ancient chrome pendulum ticked away the distant seconds. Robbie studied the dark woman's face, aware that this was his last chance to back out, to leave by the front door and simply accept whatever the world had to offer a boy of thirteen.

"Yes."

"All right, then. Come with me."

Felicity rose from her chair, leaving the Tarot behind on the counter, and walked quietly though the archway of the Lady Chapel. Robbie followed in a kind of plodding fugue, chill fingers teasing up and down his spine. The enormity of his decision struck him with appalling force: there would be no turning back now, no compromises or negotiations. The bargain had been struck, the contract sealed, and the conditions were binding. In perpetuity.

What had he done?

Before he could pursue this line of thought any further, Felicity halted before a changing booth at the very back of the Chapel. Robbie stared at it in dull wonder - he must have walked past it at least a thousand times over the last five years. How could he have never noticed it before?

"You weren't looking for it until today," Felicity answered his unspoken question.

A sleek, iridescent curtain was drawn across the booth's opening, the glossy fabric framed by a pallid, moonlight glow from within. Robbie stepped carefully forward, mesmerized by the pulsing radiance surrounding the doorway. He waved his right hand slowly through the air and was startled to see an after-image trailing in its wake.

"You'll find what you seek in there," Felicity told him, pointing a jeweled finger towards the cubicle. Her words were flat and hollow, like the ritual chant of a litany. There was none of the cheerful malice he'd heard in their earlier conversations. All pretense had been dropped. As far as she was concerned, this was a business transaction, nothing more.

And it was time to pay the piper.

Eyes locked on the curtain, Robbie started fishing about in his hip pocket, withdrawing a handful of loose change. Four ninety-eight, exactly as she'd predicted. He deposited two crumpled bills and a scattering of coins in her upraised palm, barely aware of what he was doing. Felicity stepped discreetly to one side in a sweep of gypsy silks, her role in the drama fulfilled.

Robbie edged closer to the shimmering veil, fingers extended like a sleepwalker. His pupils were dilated, his lips slightly parted. He should have been frightened - terrified, in fact - but the thought of running never occurred to him. The light was seductive, entrancing. He had to know what was hidden behind the veil.

"Felicity?" he asked in a daze.

"Yes?"

"What's in there?"

"Everything you've ever wanted."

He drew in a long breath, catching an unusual scent in the air. Something wistful, delicate, almost imperceptible. It wasn't the incense that normally permeated the atmosphere of the store. No, it was much finer than that; a sweet, subtle aroma that flowed like a breeze across an open wheat field.

"What's in there?" he repeated in a hushed, awed whisper. His gaze never left the curtain; serpents and firebirds swirled hypnotically across his field of vision. The light appeared to be bleeding out from behind the draperies, enveloping him in fluid, opalescent waves.

He surrendered himself without conscious thought, feeling his body shift and melt away into nothingness.

Felicity watched dispassionately as Robin Lindale vanished from the world, dwindling away like a dream forgotten in the morning hours. He expired into non-existence with little more than a sigh, leaving behind only his wasted hopes and fruitless desires, sole witnesses to his empty, meaningless life. Not even a void was left by his passing: time flowed and shifted around spot where he'd stood, erasing his presence from all human memory...

With only one exception.

"Goodbye Robbie," Felicity said to the empty store, and receded back into the shadows from which she had originally sprung.

Sightings Magazine Feature:
The Vanishing Chorus Girl

RE: The Jane Doe Mystery
Continued from Sightings Vol 14, No. 11.

After our initial article went to press, Sightings received a flood of reader feedback. While most of the correspondence was quickly dismissed as fraudulent or cases of mistaken identity, a handful contained snapshots and Polaroids that lent unexpected credence to their claims. One correspondent even submitted a grainy 35mm home movie in which "Jean" — and, astonishingly, her oft‑noted pianist — can be seen performing at a regional televised talent quest.

As our investigation continued, we uncovered a now‑defunct late-1990s website dedicated to wartime mysteries. Buried among its pages were previously unpublished accounts and photographs of "Jean Doe," documenting her enigmatic appearances well into the mid‑1960s. Strangely, despite the passage of years, the woman in these images does not appear to have aged.

The implications are unsettling. If genuine, these fragments suggest that Jean's appearances were not confined to wartime barracks, but extended into civilian venues, across decades, and even onto broadcast television.

Continued overleaf.

From the archived site wartimemysteries.com (last updated 1998):

THE VANISHING CANCAN GIRL – WHO WAS JEAN DOE???

We have COLLECTED many strange reports from soldiers & civilians alike about a dancer who APPEARED at Brixton Barracks in 1942 and then DISAPPEARED without trace. Some say she was a CHORUS GIRL, others say she was a SPY.

What is most STRANGE is that she was SEEN again in 1947, 1953, even 1965 (!!) and she NEVER LOOKED OLDER. Same legs, same smile, same UNION JACK behind her on stage.

We have PHOTOS (see gallery page – WARNING: slow load times) and letters from veterans who SWEAR she spoke English but in a WEIRD DIALECT.

Who was JEAN DOE? Was she HUMAN? Was she a GHOST? Or something ELSE???

If YOU have seen her, please EMAIL us at wartimemysteries @ aol.com

Reader Email to Sightings (received March 2014):

"Hello, I don't know if this is the right place to send this, but after reading your article about the vanishing can‑can girl I had to write. I swear I saw her myself. It was 1968, at a civic hall talent night in Birmingham. She called herself Jean, spoke perfect English but with a strange lilt I couldn't quite place. She danced like nothing I'd ever seen, high kicks, stockings flashing, and there was a man at the piano who seemed to know her every move.

What struck me most was how she looked — young, radiant, not a day older than the photos you printed from the war years. I remember thinking she didn't belong, like she'd stepped out of another time. And then, halfway through the show, she was gone. No announcement, no exit, just vanished. People laughed it off, but I never forgot.

I don't expect you to believe me, but I still have a Polaroid from that night. It's grainy, but you can see her leg raised mid‑kick, and the pianist hammering away at the keys. If you want, I can send it along."

Continued page 19.

Editor's Note:

Space does not permit us to publish every verified account of Jane Doe's appearances subsequent to the Brixton Incident. However, in the interest of clarity and completeness, the editorial staff has chosen to reproduce extracts from the most outstanding examples — particularly those accompanied by snapshots and press clippings — as may be seen below.

"I was there."
Private Harold Wainwright (ret.), interview excerpt

"She danced like nothing I'd ever seen before. Lord, those legs — every man swore they were the finest. But it wasn't just that. She looked at you like you mattered. And then she was gone. No door, no exit. Just vanished."

A Cover Up?
Extract from War Office Memorandum, 1942

"Captain Adrian Clarke was unable to explain how the civilian performer arrived on base in violation of protocols. No papers examined, no background verified. Incident logged under Miscellaneous – Entertainment."

Liverpool, 1949
Corporal Wayne Stockland (ret.) letter to the editor

"I was stationed at a dockside canteen show, and there was a dancer who seemed out of place. I never knew her name, but when I saw your magazine's photo, I recognized her instantly. Same face, same smile. She looked far too young for someone who'd been performing during the war."

Glasgow, 1952
Name withheld, letter to the editor

"She appeared at a charity revue in the city. Everyone thought she was just another chorus girl, but she had a strange aura, like she was both part of the show and apart from it. I hadn't thought of her in years until I saw your article. The pianist was there too, playing with uncanny precision."

Manchester, 1957
Mr. Ronald Higgins, letter to the editor:

"I was a teenager at the time, sneaking into a music hall. There was a blonde dancer who seemed to glow under the lights. I never caught her name, but when I saw the Sightings piece, I knew it was her. She looked exactly the same as in the wartime photographs you printed — no older, no different."

London, 1963
Name withheld, letter to the editor:

"She turned up at a televised talent contest. I remember because my family watched it together, and we all remarked how unusual she was. She didn't seem to belong to the same decade as the other acts. When I saw your magazine's spread, I felt compelled to write. I don't know who she is, but I know I saw her."

Sheffield, 1966
Mr. Albert Jackston, letter to the editor

"...this was back in my longshoreman days, maybe the fall of '66. I dropped in for a drink at a dockside working men's club, don't recall the name, might've been The Riverside or something similar. Anyway, there was a pianist and a revue dancer who performed a short set. No one announced their names. When I saw your photos, I felt a chill. It was her. The same woman from the war years, unchanged. I don't know how that's possible, but I swear it's true."

Reader Letter (received April 2014):

"Listen, you people don't understand what you're dealing with. This so‑called 'Jean Doe' is NOT just some chorus girl. She is connected to the Philadelphia Experiment, mark my words. The Navy tried to make a ship invisible in '43, and what happened? People fused into bulkheads, some vanished entirely. 'Jean' was one of them — she slipped through the dimensional rift and reappeared at Brixton Barracks.

And don't think for a second she's human. The dialect everyone talks about? That’s the speech pattern of the Lizard People who live under London. They've been infiltrating our society for centuries, and Jean is their emissary. Why else would she never age? Why else would she vanish without a trace?

Furthermore, the Green Children of Woolpit — remember them? Two kids who appeared out of nowhere in medieval England, speaking strange words, eating only beans. Jean is the same phenomenon, only dressed up in stockings and garters. She's the grown‑up version, the continuation of that lineage.

You can laugh, but the evidence is all there if you connect the dots. Jean Doe is the key to understanding the hidden history of Britain, the experiments gone wrong, and the reptilian infiltration. Ignore this at your peril."

Editorial Note:

While we appreciate the enthusiasm of our readers, the above letter ventures into territory best described as "highly speculative." Connections to the Philadelphia Experiment, reptilian infiltration, and medieval folklore are entertaining, but we leave it to our audience to judge the merits. We include this correspondence strictly for archival purposes.

Continued page 42.

Expert Commentary: Dr. Nathan Ralston
British Center for Paranormal Research

"Manifestations of this kind are extremely rare. Our case files since the Second World War contain only scattered reports, and most are fragmentary. However, precedents exist. In the 19th century, similar phenomena were recorded in Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and parts of Northern Europe. The phenomenon has been variously described as Genius Loci, Place Memory, or Metapsychic Resonance.

"What makes the 'Jean Doe' case unique is her mobility. Most manifestations are confined to a single location, consistent with what is popularly known as the Stone Tape Theory. Jean, and to a lesser extent her pianist, appeared in multiple places across decades. This suggests a geographically unstable temporal expatriate—a rare condition in which the subject is not bound to one site but drifts across time and space.

"There may be a connection to the 'timeslips' reported in the Northern Hinterlands between 1944 and the late 1970s. The War Office itself employed the informal designation 'Brixton Jean' in mid‑40s memos, indicating official awareness. Leading theorists — Velikovsky, Von Däniken, Sitchin, Tsoukalos — have all speculated on similar anomalies, though none with this degree of persistence."

Editorial Note:

Dr. Nathan Ralston holds a PhD in philosophy from Chamberlain University and has authored several self‑published works on the Electric Universe and Plasma Cosmology. While his interpretations are controversial, his emphasis on "temporal expatriates" adds a provocative dimension to the ongoing mystery.

Epilogue: The Letters That Began It All

When Sightings received the first unsigned letters describing The Brixton Incident, the editorial staff treated them as curiosities — rambling, unreliable, the product of a disorganized mind. Yet as testimonies accumulated, photographs surfaced, and archival fragments were unearthed, those missives began to look less like fantasy and more like fractured witness statements.

The implications for the author are unsettling. According to their own convoluted testimonies, "Jean Doe" is merely one of many identities they have adopted during innumerable time‑traveling excursions. The letters speak of portals, anomalies, and therethens — temporal fragments which the narrator claims to have lived and experienced. Initially dismissed as delusion, these accounts now demand closer examination, particularly since the preponderance of evidence supports the existence of 'Brixton Jean' herself.

If the narrator is to be believed, they are not merely describing Jean — they are Jean, or at least one of her incarnations. The Pianist, too, appears in their recollections, bound to them by some inscrutable connection. Whether this is quantum entanglement, metapsychic resonance, or simply coincidence remains unknown.

Editorial Conclusion:

The letters remain unsigned, the author anonymous. Yet their words have shaped the investigation, forcing us to confront the possibility that The Vanishing Cancan Girl is not a singular apparition but a shifting identity across time and space. If so, the writer of those letters may be more than a witness — they may be the phenomenon itself.

Bonus feature, page 67.

Letter to Sightings – July 2014
Unsigned, postmarked Brixton

You've got it all wrong. They're temporal anomalies, not historical events. They start, they end, they flash out of existence, blinking on and off like the eyes that guard the Alcove before the Doorway. Never quite open, never quite closed, until they drag me through. I've never been to Glasgow or Sheffield or Manchester, she's never further than Brixton. I told you before, she's just one of many. So many others, so many worlds, so many wherewhens, so many elsedays.

Can't focus.

Why did you listen to all their lies?

IF YOU'RE GOING TO PRINT MY LETTERS AT LEAST TELL THE TRUTH — it's all I have left now. There's no timeslip, no jaunt, no skipping records. There's just the Portal in the Alcove where they hover and watch and hum all night long. Humming, droning, on and on, hour after hour, day after night. Keeps me awake, dusk to dawn, over & over, never sleep, never doze, never know when they're going to take me.

You got everything wrong.

There's no pianist, there was just THE PIANOMAN that one time. I have the lightpix to prove it, I sent them to you didn't I? So difficult to remember these days, worse than before. They take everything, rip my mind out and put something else in whenever I pass through the singluaaaaaaaarity. Two suns in the sky, cracked gray earth underneath, and I WASN'T EVEN HUMAN. I screamed and screamed until they brought me back through.

Why don't you listen to me?

Jean is only one of the forms I've taken. I told you, the Portal leads to worlds that never could have been, never should have been, and I'm different in each one. I change, I shift, I melt and weave. Everything changes — my face, my form, my mind, my soul. It’s not backthen, it's sidewise. There were no handphones during the war, can't you see that? I only saw the Pianoman once, thought he was part of that world, but perhaps he belongs to this one — another traveler on the edge of forever like in that episode of Star Trek.

Took a sedative. Helps.
Will try to explain. Again.

It isn't time traveling. Past, present, and future lose all meaning when you cross the threshold. Four dimensional space, being and nothingness — they're all the same in there: meaningless illusions. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You have the photos, the lightpix — what other evidence do you need? Jean was only one, one of many, e pluribus unum, just another shadow inside a mirage and there are so many more. I can send you proof. If you want evidence I'll post it to you next time.

Not now, not today. Can't think, can't remember, can't forget. Two suns in the sky. Need sleep, but the portal won't let me. The Alcove tortures me day in and day out with its incessant humming — worse than crickets, worse than cicadas, worse than wasps or bees or dragonflies in the mid‑summer heat. Sleep no more Macbeth does murder sleep and the wasps are at the Door. Go away, I'm not home, the eyes are staring, please go away. All I want for Christmas is my

Cell phone. Photos. Lightpix.
Not enough? You want more?
I can get you more.
As much as you want.
I have to. Have to make you believe, make you understand.
Have to prove it's all true.
Have to prove they all lied.
Have to show you
have to
have to
have to go out, take a walk, mail this letter. Then maybe I can lie down, close my eyes. So tired, so deadly tired, feel as though I could sleep forever — even if I don't know where I'm likely to wake up. Don't care, doesn't matter, as long as the things in the doorway aren't watching me with their hideous three‑lobed eyes. All I want for Christmas is

please go away

Frame from 35mm filmstock dated 1964.
Courtesy of Sightings Magazine.

Much to my relief, Mom never said a word about my morning with the neighbors. Truth be told, she didn't say much about anything; she was too far gone by that stage. As I said, Mom had turned a little weird after Dad left. She'd quit her job and taken up drinking as an occupation, parking herself in front of the TV most days. That was the main reason why I'd been sitting out on the porch the morning the Reinharts turned up. She tended to wake up with a mean hangover, and I had no wish to risk her razor-edged tongue that day.

Mom didn't have too many friends here in Fairmont; no one she could confide in or open up to, anyway. Worse still, her drinking was alienating her everyone who may have been able to help. Don't get me wrong, she wasn't abusive or neglectful - at least not at first. Dinners still got cooked and the shopping always got done (one way or another) but the woman sprawled on the living room sofa was slowly becoming a stranger to me. It was like standing on a shore watching a boat drifting out to sea and knowing that it would never, ever return.

In the meantime, Chrissie and I started living in one another's pockets. In the first month after she moved in, I gave her a whirlwind tour of our neighborhood. I took her first to Wentworth Park, where we spent most of our afternoons, then introduced her to all the local attractions. We followed the trails through the Wilderlands; tossed coins into Memorial Fountain; and checked out the concrete tunnels running beneath the old railway station (that was kinda scary – the place had been abandoned for decades, and everyone said it was haunted). We played and talked and read comics in each other's bedrooms, and somewhere along the way, we forgot we'd only known each other for a couple of weeks.

"Whatcha doing?" Chrissie called out from the tree-swing.

We were playing in my back yard that morning: Chrissie had commandeered the old rope-and-saddle and was currently trying to touch the sun with both feet. I was perfecting my gym routine over by the back porch, standing on my hands and turning the odd flip whenever my balance shifted the wrong way. I picked myself up off the grass, extravagantly tucking my T-shirt into my jeans.

"Gymnastics," I replied, making a rolling gesture with my right hand, "I'm going to join the circus."

"Gym-NAS-tics?" She arched her back for greater height, aiming her feet towards the heavens. Her skirt-tails streamed out behind her in a billowing scarlet mass.

"Yeah, gymnastics," I repeated, "you know: backflips, cartwheels, somersaults." I was vaguely surprised that she hadn't done any tumbling at school, but I was getting used to that now. It was sort of like the Whipper-Snapper: she'd never seen one until she came to Fairmont. I was getting the impression that she must've lived on a farm or something back in Longridge Bay.

Realizing she had no idea what I was talking about, I leaned over and demonstrated a better than average handstand, wavering on the brink for around five seconds. Chrissie's eyes snapped wide with understanding: I wasn't just horsing around (as she'd originally thought); this was something she could actually learn.

Launching herself off the swing, she hit the ground running and scrambled across the yard. I recognized her expression; I'd seen it at least a thousand times over the last month; every time I introduced her to anything new or unusual, something she hadn't experienced before. Her pretty, round face was radiating delight as she halted before me, eyes glittering like purple diamonds.

"Do it again, Billy!" she twittered impatiently, "show me how to do it!!" Her fingers spidered down her dress, kneeding and twisting the hemline. I was getting used to that, too.

"All right," I laughed, swept up in her childish exuberance, "it's easy, you just bend over like this..." I flopped onto my hands and waved my feet in the air. Chrissie watched in round-lipped delight, absorbing every detail of my performance. The curve of my spine, the spread of my palms, the tilt of my skull. The span of my fingertips, the shifting of my tendons. Every microscopic detail, in the space of a heartbeat.

"Let me try now, Billy!" she trilled excitedly, "tell me if I'm doing it right!"

"Want me to hold your legs?" I offered hastily, though it was only a precaution. I knew from prior experience that she'd be perfect from the very first try. She always was.

"Yeah," she answered, barely hearing the question.

Drawing in a calming breath, Chrissie raised her arms over her head and swept over into a perfectly controlled handstand. Tensing her thighs, she brought her heels together, pointing both feet toward the sky. It was a most impressive performance for an absolute beginner: balanced, graceful and confident. Her stance was tighter then an exclamation point.

"Billy!" she piped from under her dress, "how do I look? Am I doing it right?"

"Great," I told her, truthfully. As I said, perfect from the very first try.

"I wanna do it again!" she yelped, squiggling her hips excitedly from side to side.

"Okay," I agreed, releasing her ankles and backing up a few strides. She dropped lightly onto her feet, grinning from ear to ear. Her face was flushed with exhilaration; wild cherries bloomed on both cheeks. She reached out to grab my hand.

"What else can we do, Billy? Show me something else!"

I stared up at the swing for a few seconds, mentally cataloging all the stunts I'd learned at the youth center last year. There weren't many -- mainly rolls and basic mat-work. What could I teach her next? It couldn't be anything too easy, or she'd lose all interest in a second; I knew that much at least. No, it had to be something complicated, like a handspring, or a cartwheel or a –

"Step-over!" I exclaimed in sudden inspiration, "you know how to do a step-over?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, it's sort of like a handstand, except you go over and land on your feet."

"Show me," she said, gesturing towards the grass.

"No, I'm not very good at it…but you could do it easy. Just start by standing on your hands."

"Okay," she nodded, and flipped onto her palms in a swirl of red cotton, "what do I do now?!"

"Uh ... bend your leg backwards," I instructed, already picturing the move in my mind's eye, "yeah, that one ... now let yourself – "

And over she went, executing a perfect two-point dismount that would have impressed a gold medalist. I couldn't help giggling a little; she honestly had no idea how cute and pretty and funny she really was. I covered my mouth with both hands, laughing through splayed fingers.

"This is FUN, Billy!" she giggled, eyes twinkling with innocent joy.

Before I had time to reply, she twirled round on the spot and launched into another step-over. Pausing at the height of her arc, she whirled to the ground, voicing a shriek of pleasure – and then she was shaking me by the shoulder with both hands.

"C'mon Billy! Let's do it together!"

"I can't," I laughed, "I'm not as good as you."

"Yes you are!" she insisted, dragging me forward. And incredibly, she was right. A moment later, we were both careening across the yard, bounding and plunging and flying head-over-heels with pure summer madness. Chrissie dipped and swirled almost faster than the eye could follow, skirts and pigtails flailing in her wake. We were utterly possessed. It was like a force of nature, sweeping us along like a gale through the trees. I have no idea how long it lasted. Could've been two minutes, could've been twenty.

We finally found ourselves stretched full-length on the lawn, gasping and exhausted under the slowly revolving sky. It was like the first day we met, that morning when I saw her spinning around her yard like a human top. It had been pretty funny, watching her collapse in a boneless heap over by the fence, but now I understood the simple, child-like joy she'd experienced. Understood ... and envied.

I looked across at my little friend, enjoying the high, tinkling chime of her laughter. Chrissie lay giggling beside me panting with helpless mirth. Catching her breath by slow degrees, she sat up and started smoothing back her pigtails. It couldn't have been more than 11.30 in the morning, and we still the whole day looming over us.

"Whatcha want to do now?" I asked, still catching my breath in quick shallow gasps.

"You wanna walk up to the Crest?" she suggested, absently smoothing the wrinkles out of her sunfrock.

"Yeah, okay," I nodded. The Crest was the highest point in Fairmont, a grassy summit with lots of trees and picnic tables. We often went up there lie on our backs and watch the cloud-animals drift by. On a good day, you could see clear across to the Pacific Ocean (or so we imagined). It was one of Chrissie's favorite places. We rose at precisely the same moment – juvenile telepathy again – and walked around the side of the house, brushing the grass from each other's clothes without exchanging so much as a glance. It never crossed my mind how strange that might have seemed to an outsider.

We ambled up to the footpath, our feet avoiding the cracks our eyes picked out in unison. As we reached the corner, I felt her fingers slipping into mine. I suppose any other boy on the planet might have pulled away, but over the few short weeks since our first meeting, we'd somehow grown closer than friends.

Closer, perhaps than siblings.

And for some unknown reason, that never crossed my mind, either.

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I got home around four-thirty that day, bristling with grass-blades and smelling of pine needles, most of which came off at front door. Disposing of the evidence had become a daily routine over the past four weeks: I couldn't give Mom an excuse to cut Chrissie out of my life. No matter how tanked she got, Mom had eyes like a hawk and was always aware of the hours I was keeping. She'd also begun to notice whom I was keeping them with, and I wasn't all that certain she approved.

As I'd expected, Mom was still camped out on the sofa, watching The Price is Right with the remote in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She didn't appear to have budged since I left that morning, but I knew that couldn't be right; there was a bottle of Jim Beam on the coffee table that hadn't been there before. Next to that was a half eaten bag of Doritos, original cheese flavor. Last night it had been Johnny Walker and pineapple pizza. Don't ask me how she could afford all the whiskey, she'd been out of work a good two months. Heck, I didn't know how she could afford the rent, the way things had been lately.

Hearing my step on the floor boards, Mom shifted around on the sofa, a ponderous, grey woman overflowing slightly at the hips. The first lines of age had taken root in her face around the time I'd been born, so I'd never known her as a young woman. The last few traces of beauty had disappeared along with my father, and the gaze she turned on me now was heavy with exhaustion.

"You been spending a lot of time with that little girlfriend of yours," she commented in a gravel voice, "what's the deal, Billy-boy? Her mom a better cook than me?"

Eve most certainly was a better cook than Mom, but I thought it prudent not to mention that to her.

"No, Mom. I just like playing with Chrissie."

"Yeah, right," she drawled, "the golden child and her gilt-edged momma. You been inside next door yet?" She knew I had, but she interrogated me on the subject at least once every afternoon.

"Yeah, a couple of times," I nodded.

"Rich, aren't they?" she asked.

I shrugged. Maybe they were, who knows? I was a kid, I didn't notice that sort of thing.

"Lots of fancy furniture?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Pictures on the wall?"

"Yeah."

"Silverwear on the tables?"

"...yeah." I had to think about that one.

"Like it better over there?"

"No," I replied immediately. Mom fixed me with a level, measuring stare, silently estimating the truth of my answer. I couldn't understand my mother's growing hostility towards Eva Reinhart. They'd spoken maybe twice since she moved in, and Eve had never been anything but polite and friendly on both occasions. I'd learnt very quickly never to praise Chrissie's mother under any circumstances, it was like waving a red flag at a bull.

The resentment slowly drained from Mom's eyes, replaced by a sort of dull apathy. Apparently, she'd decided I wasn't lying to keep the peace (or maybe she'd decided I was, Mom's expressions were impossible to decipher these days) Turning back to the TV, she waved me off with a careless gesture.

"Left-overs in the fridge," she said, bringing the cigarette to her lips, "I didn't feel like cooking tonight."

Dinner was a slice of cold pizza with some three day-old ravioli and diced ham. As I dished it onto a plate, Mom told me to come and eat it in the living room; she didn't want me tossing it out the window while her back was turned. She knew I wouldn't have done that, but evidently she wasn't done with me yet. Odd thing was, she didn't say a word as I scraped down the sad remains of three slaughtered meals. Barely looked in my direction, as a matter of fact. Guess she just enjoyed hearing me choke on every succulent mouthful.

The evening progressed in this manner until about seven-thirty, when I asked her if I could stay up and watch TV another hour. The only answer I got was a blue-grey stream of Marlboro. I recognized the signal instantly: silence was lethal in the Campbell household, as I'd discovered all too often in recent weeks. Standing up as quietly as possible, I headed out to the hallway without a sideways glance. I made it as far as the door before she called me back.

"Hey."

A cold finger traveled the length of my spine. Her voice sound strained, terse. Not quite venomous, but I already knew she was angry. The fact I'd done nothing to antagonize her made no difference. Like I said, it was impossible to predict her moods. I walked back through the living room and halted before the sofa, hoping she just wanted to kiss me goodnight.

She didn't.

Reaching out a hand, she touched my hair, flicking it back from my face several times. It wasn't a caress; there was something dismissive – almost contemptuous – in the gesture. Eyes slitted in cold detachment, she studied me with a vaguely troubled expression, as if seeing some alien child she didn't quite recognize. An unwanted and rather unpleasant child, perhaps.

"I'm taking you to the barber's tomorrow," she croaked, turning back to the TV, "you're starting to look like a girl."

I lay on the bed in my pajamas, watching the curtains exhaling the cool evening air. Despite the breeze, it was too warm to sleep under the covers; almost too warm to be wearing PJs. Our house wasn't as big as the Old Stewart Place; the rooms were yellow, peeling sweat-boxes straight out of an Alabama work-farm. Well, I suppose that's an exaggeration of titanic proportions, but that's how I remember it to this day. There were huge damp patches on the ceiling and the walls were yellow and warping from the annual humidity. The climate was turning sultry as the great summer heat descended; in a few weeks, a good night's sleep would be close to impossible, even with the window open.

Still, it was early days so far, and the mercury was yet to climb past eighty most days. I moved my legs around on the bedcover, looking for a cool spot to put my feet. It was a wasted effort needless to say, I'd already used up most of the available positions over the past twenty minutes. In all honesty, however, it wasn't the heat that was keeping me awake. Slipping my hands behind my head, I stared into the streetlit darkness, recalling my mother's parting shot.

You're starting to look like a girl.

She wasn't the first person to say that. It was a popular taunt around the school yard, usually accompanied by such time honored favorites as I Know What I am But What Are You and the classic playground retort I'm Rubber You're Glue. All the same, I seemed to get that particular insult more often than anyone else in the fourth grade, especially since Josh Hogan and his goons had elected me last year's scapegoat, alienating me from my small number of friends and making me a target for every meathead with an ego problem (Josh Hogan had been the sixth grade's resident demon for two years running, the sort of kid you change continents to avoid.).

Strangely enough, Mom's sneering comment hadn't bothered me all that much. Quite the opposite: vindictive though her tone had been, I'd felt a brief flare of surprised pleasure – almost exaltation – at her words. The implications made my head swim with feelings I couldn't put a name to. Emotions; strange, exotic, arousing, began to cascade through my mind faster than I could process them.

Was she right? Did I look like a girl?

Did I look like Chrissie?

Sliding off the bed, I turned on my old Elmo nite-lite and padded across the floor, avoiding the loose boards with a practiced tread. There was a small dressing table on the other side of the room, a yard-sale knock down equipped with a three-quarter mirror. At nine years old, I must have seen my reflection at least a zillion times, but tonight, I was looking for something different. Someone different, perhaps. Stepping closer to the mirror, I scrutinized my face through narrowed eyelids.

My hair was straight and thick and chestnut brown: longer than most boys' my age, hanging down past my shoulders. The sun had bleached it a shade lighter over the past month or so, lending it some striking blond highlights. A little wild at the moment, but I doubted I'd be getting it cut tomorrow. Mom's hangover would keep her in bed until midday and she probably wouldn't leave the living room after that.

The hair framed a pudgy, heart-shaped face with dark blue eyes and small, rose-petal lips. Like Chrissie, I'd never completely lost my baby fat. My features were soft and round slightly infantile. A spray of freckles across my nose completed the image of childish innocence; people often mistook me for a six year old (another reason why I had trouble finding friends my own age). A six year old of either sex.

You're starting to look like a girl.

Backing up three steps, I took off my clothes and stood before the mirror, running my gaze up and down my naked body. I was more than a little surprised by what I saw. While I wasn't precisely a girl, I seemed to have the same supple limbs and rounded proportions. I even had a girl's protruding belly and dimpled bottom-cheeks. Strange I'd never noticed it before. There was only one part of my body that wasn't female, and that was a very small part indeed. If it weren't for that ...

Kneeling down before the dresser, I opened the top drawer and started sorting through the piles of shorts and socks and t-shirts, pulling out several items and taking them over to the bed. Again, I avoided stepping on the loose floorboards. Mom had probably passed out by now, but I couldn't afford to take any risks. I had to keep this a secret from her, a secret from everybody, for that matter. I couldn't have said why, I hardly even knew what I was doing at that point. Somehow, I understood that there couldn't be any witnesses to this particular game.

I pulled on a pair of cotton underpants; white hipster briefs with a tight elastic waist band. They weren't exactly the same as what Chrissie had been wearing today, but they were close enough for what I had in mind. Turning back towards the mirror, I froze in mid-breath. With my hair spilling over my shoulders and my panties drawn up to my belly button, I was no longer a boy. Raising a hand to my throat, I regarded my image in round-lipped silence. My mother had been right.

I looked just like a girl.

Sitting down on the bed, I reached for the next article of clothing. Chrissie normally wore frilly pink ankle socks (the ones with the strip of lace running around the top; I'd always found them unbelievably sweet). They were an essential part of her wardrobe, as pretty in their own way as her little satin panties. I didn't own anything even half as cute, but a pair of white nylon school socks would serve the same purpose. I slipped them on one foot at a time, watching myself closely in the mirror. It was easy to picture Chrissie doing precisely the same thing every morning before she went out.

I stood up in my socks and panties, posing in the mirror. My pulse began to quicken; a rare, fine color invaded my cheeks. I ran my fingertips slowly down my torso, raising hum of goose flesh over my bare tummy. Fluttering my eyelids in gasping response, I reached down for the last piece of my costume. It was time to finish the illusion.

I didn't have a short red sunfrock, but I did have an outsized cotton t-shirt of the same color. I dropped it lightly over my head, allowing it to hang loosely down to the tops of my thighs. And somehow, as it molded itself against my girlish shape, it became a dress. Not like the one Chrissie had been wearing today: it didn't have a bow on the back or small yellow buttons running down the front, but it was a dress all the same. A high-waisted scarlet shift so sheer I could almost see the ghost of my underwear through it.

A child's imagination is a wonderful thing.

I'm standing on the lawn on a glorious summer morning when the cicadas call from tree to tree and the sky seems to go on forever. A light June mistral whispers through leaves and branches alike, lifting my skirt with teasing, invisible fingers. Squealing with surprise, I push down on the blossoming fabric and lift my face towards the wind. My veins are flooded with liquid joy, the kind of joy only a child can experience on a morning like this.

Far away, like a voice in a distant memory, I hear my Mother calling my name ...

I opened my eyes, staring up at the blistered yellow ceiling. My body was still humming with that strange tingly feeling. My entire nervous system lit up like Times Square on New Years Eve. It seemed to pulse and flow like a static charge. The images were still tumbling through my mind's eye: memories and fantasies and scenes that never happened and yet somehow felt completely real. Real enough to make my heart thunder like a steam locomotive, real enough to dilate my pupils and darken my complexion several shades.

I was lying on the bed with my t-shirt thrown up to my midriff, casually exposing my white cotton briefs. The room was still a little on the warm side, but I was covered with a thin film of sweat, cool and moist in the evening breeze. I barely noticed the humidity anyway. Something had happened to me, some change had occurred – and, once again, I hadn't seen it coming. For a few minutes I'd become someone else. No, that wasn't right. I hadn't become someone else.

I'd become my real self.

I got off the bed and walked over to the mirror, unconsciously adjusting my t-shirt to a more modest position. Even now, it looked more like a girl's shift than anything else. I leaned in to study my reflection once more, knowing that what I was thinking was impossible. Such things only happened in the realm of Long Ago and Ever After, and I hadn't put much stock in fairy tales since my seventh birthday. It was silly, really – crazy, in fact – but I honestly couldn't help myself. I had to see.

Needless to say, there was no change whatsoever. For a second I thought maybe my face was a little fuller than I recalled, but that was just my imagination. And while a child's imagination was a wonderful thing, it had its limitations. It could turn a t-shirt into a sundress, but it couldn't change a boy into a girl. Even at nine, I understood that wishful thinking didn't get you anywhere. Look at how my parent's marriage had turned out. Placing a hand on the top of the dresser, I bent forward in to study my features at extreme close up – and froze.

There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy, slumping footsteps; the sound of a drunken woman hauling herself along the banister. It was Mom! She was awake. I stood bolt upright, staring at the door. Had I woken her up, cartwheeling across the floor like a lunatic? Was she coming up to investigate? Leaving my face in the mirror, I padded back to bed, pulling the t-shirt over my head. I couldn't let her catch me wearing it, she'd know I was playing around when I should have been asleep.

I flung the t-shirt aside and all but dived under the covers. I was frightened. Mom had a mean temper this time of night, but that wasn't the extent of my fears. Illogical though it was, I was sure she'd work out what I was doing. And if that happened, she might make (what I imagined was) the obvious connection; that this was all somehow tied in to the girl next door. She'd be absolutely furious, banning Chrissie from our home and forbidding me to see her.

And that simply could not happen.

The footsteps approached my bedroom door. Reaching over the side of the bed, I flicked off the nite-lite and snuggled down against the pillow, forcing my breathing to slow to a snail's pace. Then she's standing in the hallway right outside, I can almost feel her hesitating by the door, looking down at the knob. I lie in knife-edged silence, waiting for it to turn ...

Five seconds pass. Ten.

I heard her footsteps receding down the hall towards her bedroom. Returning my gaze to the ceiling, I remembered to breath, realizing for the first time that I was trembling under the sheets. It took me several minutes to relax completely; for some reason, I'd been close to all-out panic. I ran my fingers through my hair in a calming gesture, unable to explain my near-terror. Mom had a mouth that could gut a fish, but even in her worst moments, she'd never done anything to really hurt me.

A sort of midnight quiet began to descend over the house, broken only by the odd rustle and creak of settling foundations. I wanted to get out of bed and play the spinning game again, but eventually decided not to risk fate twice in the one evening. Pushing the covers to the bottom of the bed, I found one of the few remaining cold spots on the mattress and made myself comfortable.

I looked towards the darkened window, remembering how it had felt, twirling across the yard with my dress soaring over my tummy-button. I could recall everything: the glaring of the sun through the leaves, the roaring of the trees overhead. The scent of freshly trimmed grass, the rush of the wind through my outstretched fingers. The gentle waving of the dandelions as I drift off to the place where dreams are born…

Dozing lightly on the lawn, I hear my Mother calling from the veranda.

Her name is Eve.

I have this pet theory that adults and children come from different planes of existence. I mean, they occupy the same Cartesian space and everything, but they seem to inhabit totally separate realities. You probably couldn't write a dissertation on the subject, but if you think back to your own childhood, you'll realize it has to be true. A child's world is huge and bright and wonderfully unpredictable; a place where the laws of physics are constantly rescinded as a matter of course. Time has a fluent, malleable quality unknown in the adult realm. A minute could last for an hour, an hour could stretch out to a year. A good summer could literally scroll away into eternity, sort of like those old-fashioned barber poles you used to see down in your main street. That's the thing I remember most from my childhood: the days seemed to go on forever.

I think it was because we were experiencing everything for the first time. There was so much to see and touch and know from one heartbeat to the next, we had to squeeze the life out every last meandering second. A simple walk to the park could take you to some crazy, Technicolor land where cats could fly and trees could dance and every rainbow led to a pot of gold. As you grow older, you lose touch with this world of gnomes and sprites and Puff the Magic Dragon. You're taken to a room where you forget the wondrous lessons of infancy and learn the insurmountable truths of life in the Real World. And finally, you descend into some lifeless gray limbo of loans and paychecks and mortgage repayments, where nobody lives happily ever after because all the fairytales are politically correct.

And the worst part is this: you go there of your own free will.

Well, most of us do, anyway.

For those of us who never quite abandon Alice or Pooh or Dorothy, there are the memories of an endless, golden season in the middle of the year. Looking back to those fine, still mornings I spent playing in the Reinhart's front yard, I realize that they were amongst the happiest in my life. There were shadows, needless to say (including the one I faced every afternoon around 4.30), but they seemed to take up only a tiny portion of each day, like the passage of a single cloud over a vast green landscape. If the cloud signaled the presence of an oncoming storm, it seemed too low on the horizon to pose any serious threat. The days were long, the days were warm, the days were beautiful. And whenever I recall the casual miracles of that everlasting June, I know that I'm seeing the world once more through the eyes of a child.

I tiptoed down the stairs with a hand touching the banister, listening for sounds of movement down in the living room. Mom usually slept until about twelve, but she occasionally woke up early and staggered 'round the house in a rambling stupor. It didn't happen very often, but I knew better than to draw attention to myself when she was tanked to the gills. Last time she'd awoken in that state, she'd gone on a minor rampage, smashing glasses and screaming at the top of her lungs. I spent the next two days hiding in my room, listening to her cursing my father to hell.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I crept down the hallway towards the front door. I was dressed very simply; blue spandex bike shorts under a Hard Rock t-shirt four sizes too big. This was a radical departure for me, but there wasn't much else to choose from. Everything else was in the laundry, had been for the last fortnight... Still, the new look suited me in some respects. I'd taken to wearing oversized t-shirts over the past week, ever since the night I played the spinning game. The one I had on now hung almost to my knees, so I'd hitched it up with a knot at the right hip.

I glanced back over my shoulder, making sure she wasn't standing at the top of the stairs. That was how these things always work; it was kind of like those Wes Craven movies where you think the hero's finally safe and then the monster appears out of nowhere to rip his face off with a rusting garden hoe or something. They always get you when you're not looking. Fortunately, there was nothing lurking on the first floor landing, so I continued down the corridor, glancing into the living room as I slipped past the doorway.

Mom was lying on the sofa.

No, that's not the right word. She wasn't lying; she had collapsed like a landslide, like an imploded skyscraper. The sofa was surrounded by the wreckage of her disintegration; a chaos of upturned furniture, broken bottles and cast-off pizza cartons. Shattered glass and scraps of refuse littered the floor; a trail of chicken bones and KFC boxes led out to the kitchen. The whole downstairs area was a wasteland stinking of garbage and cigarettes and three-day old vomit.

But worse than all this was my mother herself.

She was sprawled half off the sofa with her knuckles grazing the floor, her lank, matted hair pasted to the side of her face. A thin runner of drool hung from the corner of her mouth, threading its way tenuously to the floor. Her face was puffy and bloated, the skin tinged with a faint yellow cast. I studied her features, trying to see the woman she'd been only a few months before, the woman who used to cook me flap-jacks for lunch every weekend; flapjacks with sugar and maple syrup. There was no sign of her. She'd been submerged beneath a torrent of rancid, melting flesh. Her body had fared no better; she seemed to be overflowing around the midsection. Her loose-fitting jogging pants had worked their way down her hips, exposing a sweeping vista of pulpy cellulite.

Despite my fear of her drunken rages, I still felt some degree of compassion. At the age of nine, I understood that she was lonely and hurt and depressed, that she wasn't entirely responsible for her actions. There were things I didn't understand, of course. I didn't know that Dad had managed to drain most of her bank account all the way from Chicago. I didn't know about the unpaid bills, the repossession waivers or the eviction notices. I had no idea how desperate our position was about to become. No idea whatsoever.

I stood at the doorway staring down at her, wondering what I could do, how I could help my mother escape the gray, swollen mass bulking out the sofa. Even now, I ask myself if there was anything I could have done, any words I could have said; something that might have brought her back from her self-constructed purgatory. But I was a child, barely three months past my ninth birthday. What could I have done?

She stirred on the couch, grunting under her breath and fluttering her eyelids. I backed quietly down the hallway, holding my breath in case she heard me and woke up shrieking.

A moment later I was stepping out into the wide, cool morning, shutting the darkness behind me as I trotted down the porch steps. A green haze of dragonflies darted across the lawn, their multi-faceted eyes glinting like emeralds. I watched them swarm off towards the street, then walked over to the fence dividing the Reinhart's yard from ours.The sun had barely cleared the trees, the day was unfurling before me, and the cloud had passed over the landscape.

At least for now.

The Old Stewart Place was a colonial-style homestead with a veranda running all the way 'round the outside. Easily the most picturesque house on Lakehurst Avenue, it had bay windows out front and attic sleepers in the roof. The front garden had erupted into full bloom almost the same day Chrissie arrived and appeared to be taking over the footpath as the season progressed. You had to follow a footpath through the rose bed to reach the veranda. Maybe that's why sprinting up the Reinhart's front steps always felt like coming home. By definition, a home should have a garden.

The front door was open (Eve didn't believe in air conditioners, said they caused insanity or something), but I paused to knock all the same. Even in a place like Fairmont, you don't just go waltzing into someone's house all unannounced, everyone knew that. I waited with my hand on the doorframe for a few seconds, then I heard a clear, warm voice inviting me inside. It was Chrissie's Mom, calling out from the living room.

"Come in Billy."

Evelyn always knew when it was me, probably because I arrived around the same time every day. I walked into the long transept hall, figuring Chrissie must've been up in her bedroom (as she didn't come scampering out to answer the door like she usually did). Probably playing with the Whipper-Snapper I gave her a few weeks back; she never got tired of zocking it back and forth.

As I headed down the corridor, I noticed a trail of tiny footprints leading from the staircase to the living room. Tiny wet footprints. For some reason, this fact didn't quite register on my consciousness. I turned into the archway, raising a hand in greeting, oblivious of what I was walking into.

"Hi, Mrs. Reinhart, is Chrissie - "

That was as far as I got. Freezing in mid-sentence, I dropped my eyes to the floor, my cheeks igniting with sudden embarrassment. All at once, I realized what the little footprints had meant. Chrissie wasn't up in her bedroom at all. She was down in the living room with her mother, standing in front of the sofa. Her moist blond hair trailed down the middle of her back, and there was a soft blue bath-towel lying at her feet.

And she was in her underwear.

"I'll - I'll just wait... out here," I spluttered to no one in particular, half-stumbling into the corridor. What was I supposed to do? I knew I shouldn't be here right now; maybe I ought to go home. Or at least wait out on the veranda until it was OK to come back inside. I peered out the front door, thinking Chrissie would probably never speak to me again. Gnawing on my lower lip, I started inching towards the door, unable to believe what I'd just seen.

(chrissies got no clothes on)

"Billy." Eva's voice again.

"Y-yes, Mrs. Reinhart?" I stammered, still averting my gaze.

"It's all right," she told me reassuringly, "you can come in if you want."

"Really?" I asked in overt surprise. My eyes started to wander through the archway, but I yanked them back on a short leash.

"Yes, it's fine, honey," she replied in coffee-cream tones, "we'll be finished in a minute."

(but chrissies got no CLOTHES on)

Despite my mounting agitation, I turned and looked into living room once more, mainly to confirm that it was all right for me to enter. I thought maybe Chrissie had climbed into a dress or was wearing the towel around her shoulders. Either option would have been okay, but it turned out that I was wrong on both counts.

Eva was sitting on the chaise-long in her jeans and t-shirt, hair tied back in a bushy black ponytail. Chrissie was standing to one side in her bra and panties, carelessly brushing the tangles from her hair, totally oblivious of her state of dishabille. She turned in my direction, eyebrows raised in silent inquiry, her posture completely relaxed. Well? Are you coming in, or what?

I looked hesitantly up at Eve, unsure as to what to do next.

"Come and sit here," Eve told me, patting the space next to her. There were some clothes laid over the end of the couch, along with a pair of spangled yellow sandals. Evidently, Chrissie had just finished bathing, and Eve had brought her out to the living room to get dressed. It was a big, airy space with light spilling in through the windows, painting the floor with long golden rectangles. Pushing myself forward through a supreme act of will, I walked across the room and sat down beside Mrs. Reinhart – and saw what little girls were made of.

I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. Chrissie and I were practically joined at the hip, I'd grown so used to the sight of her underpants that I barely noticed any more. But this was the first time I'd ever seen her this undressed. Heck, it was the very first time I'd ever seen any girl this undressed.

I stared at my playmate in childish wonder. She was so different to me, so totally different. Having no point of reference, I'd always assumed that we looked pretty much the same under our clothes, except that Chrissie was smaller and prettier and had longer hair.

Looking at her now, however, I realized she was somewhat taller than I'd previously imagined – taller and more mature, in fact. All this time, I'd thought she was around my age, maybe eight or nine, but that had all been a mirage, a … glamour, for lack of a better word. It was just one of the countless illusions that seemed to surround her. She had the face of a child, true, but her body was blossoming. I could see that much, even at a glance.

How old was she really? Eleven? Twelve? Old enough to wear a training bra, at the very least. But that couldn't be right – only a month ago, I'd seen her almost completely disrobed, back when we'd played the handstand game. She'd looked no more than eight that day, and I could have sworn that –

"Billy," Evelyn said, snapping me out of my reveries. I practically leapt out of my flesh, staring at her in red-faced guilt.

"Sorry?" I replied after an uncomfortable pause. It was all I could manage.

"Could you hand me that skirt, please?"

"Yes'm," I replied, biting my lip once more. What had I been doing?! I knew it was rude to stare. She must've thought I was the biggest prevert in the space-time continuum, practically drooling over her half-naked daughter like that. I looked frantically around the room, not quite certain what she'd asked for. Had she said 'skirt' or 'shirt?' No idea. A single, rampant thought was flashing through my mind in glaring, neon letters:

(chrissies not wearing any clothes and they caught me staring)

Of course, I hadn't been drooling and neither of them considered me a 'prevert'. Eve was actually regarding me with considerable amusement, raising a comical eyebrow as I finally found what I was looking for.

Earlier on, I'd noticed a small pile of clothing neatly folded over the edge of the chaise-long, although I hadn't paid much attention at the time. There was a sky blue mini with a big silver zip down the side, along with a short-sleeved blouse splashed with strawberries. There were no socks on this occasion, but a pair of spangled yellow sandals had been placed on the floor, ankle straps lying open.

"Here," I mumbled apologetically, averting my eyes as I handed the skirt over. Chrissie snatched it up with an exasperated sigh.

"About time," she clucked impatiently, shaking her head in evident disbelief: you aren't a prevert, Billy. You're just an idiot. I smiled sheepishy at her disapproval, then turned my gaze towards her long-suffering Mother. Eve shrugged a wordless reply, carefully maintaining a straight face. The day was just getting started, after all.

I sat watching Chrissie dress for the next few minutes, silently recording everything I saw for future reference. It was like some magic reverse-striptease where the girl covered everything up rather than slipping everything off. Tonight, I'd replay the entire morning's events from start to finish, over and over on a continuous loop. It was the one thing I could look forward to when I went home: casting myself in Chrissie's role and feeling that familiar mix of shame, pleasure and excitement that accompanied my nightly 'dress up' shows. My emotions had become increasingly more complex since the Reinharts moved in. Part of it was the wonder of new experience, part of it was the joy of childhood friendship.

Part of it was sheer jealousy.

Chrissie had a Mother who cared for her, a Mother who loved and doted and fussed over her. Chrissie ate pancakes for breakfast and meatloaf for dinner. Chrissie had soap in the shower and towels on the rack. Chrissie had fresh bed-sheets and clean pillow slips and clothes that didn't smell like they were ready to crawl away and die in the corner.

Most of all, she had a Mother who talked to her.

I supressed a deep stab of envy, knowing how all of this had been denied to me for reasons I simply couldn't fathom. It all seemed so desperately unjust. When was the last time my mother had bathed and dressed me? When was the last time she'd brushed my hair, stroked my cheek, told me how special I was? Five months ago, six? A year? I couldn't remember.

I shoved the darkness into the back of my mind, understanding how unfair it was to blame the Reinharts for my misfortunes. If anything, their presence was my final refuge from complete and abject misery. I looked over at my erstwhile playdate, suddenly grateful that we had the whole of summer ahead of us.

"Well? How do I look?"

Chrissie finished strapping on her sandals and stood up to face me with her usual quizzical expression. She was every bit as beautiful as I'd ever seen her – more so, in fact, than on the day we'd first met. It's hard to say how – it was like she was ripening as the season climbed into mid-summer. Eve looked her over once or twice, fiddled with her hair, then nodded to herself in approval. Perfect.

And so she was.

"Can we go down to the park now, Mommy?" Chrissie asked, kneading her hemline.

"Not 'til you've had something to eat, Missy," Eva said, rising to her feet, "can't go out with an empty tummy, can we?" She glanced over in my direction, placing her hands on her hips. "Have you had breakfast yet, Billy?"

The question caught me off guard, and I hesitated several seconds, not sure how to answer. I hadn't eaten anything substantial for nearly two days - the fridge was empty and Mom had destroyed every plate in the kitchen during her last howling binge. I'd been surviving on a diet of potato chips and cheese-curls lately, and I'd left home without eating anything at all that morning. To say I was hungry would have been an understatement, but I was reluctant to let Eve know there was anything wrong.

"I...uh, I yah um – " I began, lapsing into the stream of gibberish I normally employ when my brain clicks into shutdown mode. Chrissie put a hand over her mouth and giggled, eyes rolling up to meet her Mother's.

(billys really funny mommy)

(no darling billys very hungry don't laugh)

"Already eaten?" Eve asked, reading my expression as much as my mind, "well then, why don't you come out to the kitchen for a snack? You ever tried French Toast?"

"No I haven't," I replied, intrigued by the name, "what is it?"

"Real yummy is what it is, Billy," Chrissie announced, scampering over to grab me by the arm, "c'mon, you'll love it!" She started yanking me off the sofa, regaling me with epic descriptions of her Mommy's culinary skills (all of which were totally indisputable, I should add).

In a span of minutes, we were seated at the kitchen table, chattering away in fluent childspeak while Eva tied on an apron and wove her motherly enchantments. Switching on the radio, she bustled about the breakfast bar, humming under her breath and filling the air with a floury haze. Call me old-fashioned, but the sound of a woman singing in the kitchen never fails to swell my heart with contentment. I think most people forget what a mysterious, magical place a kitchen is for a young child, with its jars and spices and secret, hidden spaces.

It goes without saying that Eva Reinhart's French Toast was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted up to that point. I like to believe it had nothing to my being on the brink of starvation.

Perhaps I was asking for trouble. I was old enough to understand that my mother wouldn't take this desertion lightly. At best, she'd see it as a criticism of her parental abilities (such as they were); at worst, a defection to the enemy camp. But as I said before, what else could I do? I was nine years old, I was hungry, and there was no food in the house. Eve's generosity was a godsend. Unfortunately, none of this would make any difference to Mom. The moment she discovered I was eating my meals next door – and this was inevitable – she would give in to a fury that could melt lead.

Mom had come to loath Evelyn Reinhart with a passion that bordered on the irrational. There was no logical reason for her hatred; she hardly knew Eva, had traded maybe a hundred words with her, and most of those had been at their introduction. But Mom despised her all the same. During her less lucid moments, she held, long, rambling monologues with herself, attacking first Eve and then my father with equal venom. Sometimes, she seemed to imagine that Dad had run off with Eve, or at least someone like her. Times like that, I either got out of the house or hid in my room, as her delusions often signaled the onset one of her frenzies.

Most evenings, however, she spent comatose in the living room, and I frequently prayed she'd stay that way. Much as it pains me to say this, Mom had grown so unpredictable that I was avoiding her as much as possible. Fortunately, she was usually unconscious when I sneaked in through the back door at four-thirty. This afternoon I'd found her half-submerged into the couch, clutching a bottle of cheap wine in a death-grip. Evidently, Johnny Walker had been slashed from the budget, along with the pizzas, the corn-chips and the Colonel Sanders. Staring around the room at the fall-out of our lives, I fancied we'd sunk about as low as we could go. I couldn't have known how far we had left to fall. How very, very far.

But all of that lay in the future. For now, the oncoming storm was an insignificant blur, betraying not a hint of the havoc it would eventually wreak in our lives. As the temperatures climbed, I played in the sun with the girl next door; oblivious of the Darkness gathering on the horizon. How long did we have together? How long before the dogs began to howl around the streets of Fairmont? Three months, I realize now; little more than ninety days to run and shout and revel in the joy of her company. It seems impossibly short, a fleeting interval in the passage of years, but as I noted earlier, time moves differently for children.

And a lot can happen in three months.

Later:

My bedroom offered some small measure of protection from the encroaching shadows – not much admittedly, but better than nothing at all. It was eight o'clock, the sun was setting, and I had the evening to myself. It was time to slough off my daytime identity and free my Otherself. I'd come to see myself in two different roles – the boy I played during daylight hours and the girl I became every evening. She had no name, no existence beyond the frame of my three-quarter mirror; yet, like any other child, she lived in a realm of dreams and fantasies. And – like any other child – she inhabited more than one plane of reality.

I kicked off my clothes and walked over to the dresser, recalling how Chrissie had looked the morning her Mom cooked breakfast for us. The image had been replaying itself through my head like a video set to repeat and I'd acted it out every evening for the past week. It was one of a number of games I played while my mother was asleep and the house was on silent running. All of them were extremely sensual, a few of them left me breathless with excitement (the "Dressing Up" scenario was probably the most exhilarating – the scene at the end where I zip on the mini skirt always left me quivering in near-ecstasy).

Sliding open the dresser drawer, I reached in to find my costume. The underwear situation was becoming desperate, but I always kept a pair of white cotton hipsters in reserve. They weren't as pretty as Chrissie's underthings (particularly her Days of The Week selection), but they smelled clean and served their purpose in every other respect. I kept them hidden under a stack of t-shirts, the most priceless item in my top-shelf collection (where were they anyhow? Must've pushed them to the back for safe keeping).

Leaning over the drawer, I glanced absently at my reflection – and stopped.

There was a girl looking back at me.

Straightening up to my full height, I studied myself in the mirror: my hair, my face, my pre-pubescent figure. Lifting my fingers to the glass, I shook my head in slow disbelief, still doubting the evidence of my eyes.

Was it possible?

I'd been denying it for weeks now, telling myself that it was just my imagination. Dreams never came true in the real world, wishes were never granted, I knew that for a fact. If they did, Prince Charming would never have run off with his secretary and Cinderella wouldn't be lying paralytic down in the living room. Life was no fairy tale, no matter how desperately I wanted otherwise; ducks didn't turn into swans, straw didn't turn into gold, and boys couldn't turn into girls. Yet here I was, staring into a face that only barely resembled mine.

I was changing.

A transformation had been taking place, just as I'd suspected; one so gradual as to seem virtually non-existent. What had been the first signs? A rounding of the limbs, a faint swelling of the tummy? That could have been anything - a change in weight, a trick of the light. Blonde streaks in the hair? Had to be the sun; I spent most of my time outside. Nothing dramatic, nothing inexplicable. No Hollywood CGI, no Terminator-style morphing. Just a slow, plodding transition from one state to another, as imperceptible as the growth of a child.

When had it begun? Back in June, the night of the spinning game? No, it had started weeks before that, right after school let out, not long after Dad had hopped an Airbus to Chicago. End of spring, around the same time the season turned and the flowers burst forth along the sidewalk. The day I sat listening to the radio on the front porch, idly tapping away at a paddle-ball while a huge blue moving van rolled up before the Old Stewart Place.

The morning Chrissie moved in, to be precise.

How long ago was that? Eight, nine weeks? The whole length of summer so far. As the days grew longer and the streets pulsed with vibrant green life, some bizarre metamorphosis had occurred; was still occurring right now. There was no other explanation; the signals were all there, and they were far too obvious to ignore.

My hair had lightened by visible degrees. At first I'd thought it was common sun-bleaching, but it had also changed color somehow, going from a dark reddish-brown to a rich honey-blonde. It had thickened and grown at an impossible rate, taking on a sumptuous wavy curl. How long before it was down to my waist? Three weeks, a month? By the beginning of fall, it would be longer than Chrissie's, perhaps even as fair.

The changes extended to my face as well. The features had softened, growing steadily more feminine. My lips had folded into a sensuous pout, dimples appearing either side of my mouth, and my nose was melting into a clipped, round bump. The very structure of my face had altered; the cheeks padding up with puppy-fat, the jaw shrinking away to doll-like proportions. And while I hadn't lost any height, I had the open, blameless expression of a very young child – a girl of maybe six or seven.

I moved my hands down the front of my body, examining the differences with my fingertips. My tips were as large and dark as plums, the ends jutting from my chest in hard red points. My figure, lithe and rather girlish to begin with, was overflowing with lush, ripe curves, especially around the thighs and bottom. Even my belly button had changed. Back in May, it had been a shallow dip in the middle of my tummy. Now it was poking out like the tip of an impudent pink tongue.

Scanning myself closely in the mirror, I slid my fingers down to the junction of my legs. I was vaguely aware of how different girls were from boys, but that difference had been evaporating off my body for over two months. I hadn't noticed it until quite recently (perhaps because this was the slowest of all the transformations I was undergoing), but there could be no question now as to what was happening.

Strangely enough, this particular modification hadn't frightened me in the least. Most other boys would have run screaming through the house, but I found myself accepting it with the same puzzled confusion I'd felt all along. In a way, it was no different to anything else that had happened that summer. It was almost as if I'd been... well, expecting it, I s'pose. That's not exactly the right word, but it's close enough.

However, that wasn't the full extent of the changes. There was still one more, perhaps the most significant, something I hadn't noticed until a few days ago. It was the most perplexing – and maybe the most alarming – of all the enigmas I'd encountered so far. In a way, it was the key to everything that had happened to me, although I wouldn't understand that for quite some time yet.

Bracing one hand against the wall, I leaned in towards the mirror, close enough for my breath to fog the glass. Gazing into that innocent, elfish face, I sought an answer to this mystery, a clue to this paradox. And there it was, the final proof I was seeking. There could be no doubt, no mistake. Somehow, it was all true. Against all logic, all commonsense, I was evolving into a girl. And not just any girl, either.

My eyes had turned purple.

Purple, rimmed with turquoise.

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It all had to do with DDT.

Her mother had explained it to her on several occasions during her frantically careening adolescence: she was the product of a global interaction of nature and science. Her immaculate femininity was a fragile arch spanning human biology and industrial technology, a bridge constructed before she was even born.

Her physical development had been influenced in utero by artificial hormones - synthetic estrogens, the scientific journals had called them. Mainly insecticides, their chemistry mimicked the effects of natural female hormones when assimilated into the human reproductive system.

The local ecosystem had been literally inundated with these complex molecules following a catastrophic industrial accident in the 1970s. Researchers noted their impact on the biosphere in the following decade, when ecologists began to notice declining male populations amongst certain environmentally sensitive species - mainly frogs and salamanders.

Of course, no one was too concerned over the disappearance of a few creepy crawlies at the bottom of the pond, and the effects of the synthetics had been largely ignored. At least until the fertility levels in the Courtland Valley had taken a sudden, and quite significant downturn. Then everybody had become concerned for the well-being of all kinds of creepy crawlies.

To say nothing of the rising numbers of sexually ambiguous children being born in Chamberlain and its surrounding districts...

Of which Tessa had been one.

Walking to the doorway, Tessa looked out to the set once more. Lights were being dimmed and brightened, remotes tested for whitenoise. CNL had spent a small fortune on this production; no expense had been spared in terms of design, personnel, and hardware. They were even shooting a portion of the commercial on film, so as to capture the cinema crowd.

Things look as busy out there as they do in here, she thought, watching a tekkie running a white balance on one of the steadycams.

Feeling a light tap on her forearm, she turned and found herself eye to eye with the director's assistant. She was a small, bright-faced woman in a blue pants suit, carrying a clipboard full of names and publicity stills. Her name tag read 'LOIS.'

"You're ... Tessa?" she asked offhand, consulting the clipboard. Her voice was brisk but otherwise pleasant.

"Yes, Tessa Greenhart, Chamberlain Studios."

"And - that's what you're wearing for the shoot?" the woman inquired, indicating Tessa's flimsy lace scanties.

"Yes, it is," she replied, putting a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. She could feel a giggle fluttering around the top of her throat, trying to escape. "My agent told me to wear my prettiest undies today."

"Nice choice," Lois remarked, indulging her with an admiring glance, then snapped back to her more business-like protocol, "we're ready to start filming. You ready?"

Tessa took a deep breath. The others were already filing towards the door, gossiping like schoolgirls out on the town. Tall and leggy and beautiful, they had nothing to feel nervous about; they got to keep their clothes on.

I wish, Tessa thought, and the giggle finally escaped.

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(page 20)

Conceived in an environment literally swimming in synthetic oestrogens, Tessa had been unique, even amongst the thousands of children born into the twilight light zone between male and female. The reason had been deceptively simple: by the time she'd turned six, Tess had voiced her desire to be a girl. In effect, she wanted the right to choose her own gender. While Tessa's story hadn't made the front page of Time, it had caused a small hurricane of controversy amongst the pediatric specialists handling her case.

They'd wanted to flood her system with steroids before she entered puberty, adamant that this was the most logical course of treatment: he was a boy, he'd been born with a male organ (tiny though it was), biology dictated that he had follow his chromosomatic destiny. Tessa's wishes were, of course, completely irrelevant, he was a child, he had no idea what he wanted, and certainly, no concept of what was in his best interests.

This was precisely how they'd talked; emphasis on the masculine pronouns. They'd rambled on in this manner for some time, employing the authoritative, slightly patronizing tones that medical professionals retained for the ignorant: yes, his reproductive organs were completely atrophied: they'd never secrete the androgens he'd need to achieve manhood. But while he was incapable of producing his own testosterone, small daily dosages of the male hormone would ensure that he'd progress as God and nature intended.

He had to become a man.

Tessa's mother - Eva Greenhart, PhD - had been thoroughly unconvinced by these arguments. She'd read enough constructionist theory to know that a child's gender was not automatically determined by her sex. Gender was simply the product of culture and socialization, not an immutable law of physics dictated by anatomy and chromosomes.

Besides, why was masculinity considered the only option in this (or any other) case? Was femininity so undesirable? If they could change Tess into a man by boosting his testosterone levels, couldn't they just as simply employ oestrogen to transform her into a woman?

The endocrinal team had found the suggestion laughable (if not down right criminal) in its naïveté: synthetic oestrogens were the cause of Tessa's condition; by what stretch of the imagination did she conclude that the female hormone could be used to treat the boy's pathology? It's time you faced reality, Ms Greenhart: your son is suffering from an illness; his development has been arrested by foreign agents, his DNA damaged by toxic chemicals. From a medical perspective, he's no different from a victim of heavy metal poisoning.

Basking in the pompous, lilac glow of utter contempt, Eva listened in patient, nodding silence as they dictated her child's future, dismissing her (Tessa's) childish aspirations as totally unimportant. One of them had actually said that in his 'sexually unresolved' state, Tessa was no better than a neutered dog. Putting him on oestrogens would produce a sexual anomaly, a mutant neither male nor female, shunted to the periphery of 'normal' human society. Is that how you want your son to go through life? Are those the only choices you're willing to offer him:

Eunuch or freak?

And it had been this one statement, delivered in the offhand tones of complete insensitivity, which had made up Eva Greenhart's mind regarding Tessa's 'treatment'.

Ten minutes later Tessa was standing on the set with her face flushed the colour of a ripe strawberry. The only girl in the cast to be stripped to her bra and panties, she felt wonderfully vulnerable – her tiny lace remnants covered so little that she felt almost completely naked. The other girls milled around in their minnies and high heels, listening to the director's opening spiel.

Exhibiting a subtle pink flush from ankle to hairline, she crossed her hands over her pink satin wonderbra in a vain attempt to hide her deep cleavage. It was an impulse she was totally incapable of resisting: the director, the floor manager and most of the technical crew were men. Worse still, the set didn't appear to be closed; people seemed to be wandering in all the time, and she had immediately become the focus of all the attention of the masculine quarter.

She was almost swooning with pleasure.

It was strange: she had dreamed of this moment for years; since early high school in fact, but now that she was actually facing a battery of video cameras with her underwear on full display, her embarrassment was almost as vast as her delight. She'd never imagined how much she could actually enjoy being a public spectacle.

Anticipation washed over her in a warm, pulsing cascade. Her tummy was tingling with suspense; anytime now, the cameras would start rolling (or blinking or whatever it was that videocams do) and she'd be told to take her position for the first take. She was being overwhelmed with feelings and sensations, almost all of them drawn directly from childhood experience. This was hardly surprising in itself; she'd been only twelve years old when she had discovered that delicious blend of joy and humiliation which accompanies public exposure.

It had taken place during her first year of junior high school; she'd been living as a girl for around one year. Tessa and her older sister Zenia been conscripted as flowergirls at their cousin's wedding, and her mother had taken them into Chamberlain for the fitting. They'd gone to a bridal store called Something Blue, where the attendants had made an enormous fuss over her, utterly captivated by her long blond curls and huge cloud-blue eyes.

Being barely twelve (and looking about ten) they hadn't bothered taking her into the fitting room; opting simply to undress her in the showroom right down to her underthings. She'd been too surprised to even protest her disrobing; within seconds, she had climbed out of her jeans and t-shirt and was being led by the hand to the middle of the floor with her white cotton underpants on full display.

Tessa had been completely embarrassed: they were treating her like a little girl; standing her on a leather-bound footstool in her bare panties while they took her measurements. She was in high school now, almost a teenager; she didn't walk around in her undies like a six year old. Worse still, her sister wasn't made to bare her panties in public; Zenia got to have her fitting in private!

Strangely, she had experienced another feeling, hot and bright and skin-tight, a sense of pleasurable vulnerability she'd never known before. It was an emotion for which she had no word, something trembling and deep, poised halfway between bliss and ecstasy. She'd felt utterly and incomparably beautiful, like the princess in the fairy tale.

The same feelings of exaltation and arousal coursed through Tessa's thighs and belly while she waited patiently for the filming to begin. She was having difficulty keeping still; she had no idea where to put her hands. Hiding her cleavage left her panties exposed; so much of her body was on exhibition.

She'd been standing on the set for nearly twenty minutes while the director held a confab with the assistant and the FM; her embarrassment and sense of dishabille increasing to an intolerable degree. She would have given virtually anything for a brief robe to cover her modesty, but her pleasure at being forced to wait in her bras and panties was undeniable. Her breasts were straining at their tight satin restraints, throbbing gently at their pert pinkish tips. She looked over to the director's committee. The creativity conference seemed to be going on forever! How long were they going to make her stand here like this, the only girl in the studio stripped to her knickers? It was so unfair!! Did they actually think she had nothing better to do than show off her underwear to a hundred perfect strangers? Tessa thought about the script (such as it was), trying to distract herself from her semi-nudity. She'd seen the storyboard that morning, so she had a good idea what she was expected to do.

Her first scene is an extreme close-up of her face as she opens the bathroom door, her platinum blond hair moist and gleaming. Grinning a naughty little-girl smile, she looks both ways to make sure no one is watching, then scampers along the passage way, tossing aside her towel to reveal her brassier and briefs. The camera then follows her on a hundred yard flash through the household. Darting into the living room where one of her roomies is ironing a blouse, she pauses to glance at herself in the mirror over the mantle-piece, before flitting out to the central hallway waving to her friend as she goes. Glancing at Tessa's panty-clad figure, the girl laughs and shakes her head.

Heading for the staircase, Tessa passes another one of her flatmates, this one holding an animated discussion on her cell phone, who gives her a friendly slap on the tushie as she rushes up the stairs, damp hair flying. Still grinning wide – but eager to hide her undies from public scrutiny – she turns right at the top, dashing through her door with a silvery laugh.

Her second scene, which appears later in the commercial, takes place in her bedroom. Dancing before her full-length mirror – brush in one hand, blow drier in the other – she allows the camera a generous view of her nubile young body: her lean, slender legs and shapely round bottom; her curvaceous hips; tiny, waspish waist and perfectly sculpted breasts.

Tessa imagined it would be the best scene of the commercial: a pretty teenaged girl bouncing around in a tight satin bra and pink, gossomer panties, her hair flailing around her broadly smiling face. The sequence ends with Tessa colouring her lips cadmium red with a stick of Carmine Nights, winking cheekily at the camera: I knew you were there all along!!

"Tessa?"

It was Lois, the director's assistant. Evidently, the creativity conference was finally over.

"Are you OK? You're looking a little flushed."

"Just a touch of backstage nerves," Tessa smiled, "this is my first time before a TV camera."

Lois patted her hand sympathetically.

"You'll be fine. Come on, the shoot's underway, and you're up first."

Butterflies began dancing in Tessa's tummy as she felt herself led by the hand across the set in her lingerie. Her cheeks flared like a pair of valentine roses, and her heart slammed into overdrive. The time had come: the lights overhead flooded the set with brilliance, cameras were trained and focused.

It's happening, Tessa thought breathlessly.

Crescendo

---

Note: this story is set in the Tranziverse.

---

3.

Then:

'Nessa's birth name had been Vern Ascot. She'd lived seven years under that title, seven glorious years of hotwheels and playgrounds and catcher's mitts, the same as any other boy growing up in God's Green Acre. That was before The Change had struck, before TISM had altered his existence forever. Toxically Induced Sexual Morphism was considered one of the rarest genetic disorders in human history, yet Vern had somehow managed to win the cosmic jackpot, along with an ever-increasing number of children born in the Courtland Valley.

Vern's transition had occurred in sporadic bursts over three grueling years. The ordeal had taken a tremendous toll on his entire family: as the medical bills piled up and finally buried them beneath an avalanche of debt, his parent's marriage had collapsed into a toxic wasteland of anger, tears and accusations. Group counseling sessions had only exacerbated the situation, allowing Vern's father to vent his rage and disgust to anyone who would listen. A burnt-out veteran of two Middle Eastern campaigns, he was furious with the hand fate had dealt him, blaming his wife for the transgendered freak he'd been saddled with. The divorce had followed twelve months of drunken shouting matches, and Vern – now going by the name Vanessa – often suspected that it had come as relief to everyone concerned, especially his long-suffering mother.

The next few years had passed in a slow, grey limbo as 'Nessa rode out her transformation, gradually adjusting to the complexities of female life. By the time she turned twelve, both she and her Mother – the former Mrs Grace Ascot – had recovered sufficiently from their shared traumas to start enjoying life once more. Their financial situation had improved considerably: Vanessa had won a grant to Lainsbury Academy and Grace had even started dating again; an old flame from her university days named Rob Jackson.

Possessing a child's natural fear of strangers, 'Nessa was a little reluctant to accept her Mommy's new boyfriend (particularly since her father's violent outbursts still haunted her dreams), but she understood that she had to give him a chance, if only because he made her Mommy happy. After everything they'd been through together, her Mother deserved a little peace and comfort, both of which Rob seemed more than capable of providing.

As the days crept by and the seasons chilled, 'Nessie discovered – much to her surprise – that she actually enjoyed his company, finding him to be kind, warm-hearted and amazingly generous on occasion. Best of all, Rob honestly didn't care that she was a transfem. This was, perhaps, his defining virtue. In contrast to virtually every other man she'd ever known, Robert Jackson seemed to have no prejudices whatsoever. And that, in 'Nessa's view, was the dealmaker.

Over a year's worth of dining, picnics and outings, Rob became a permanent fixture in Vanessa's life. He was far more than just a "fun uncle," he was a genuinely good man: honest, reliable and trustworthy; the proverbial Tower of Strength her Mother was looking for. He wasn't exactly perfect – 'Nessa had noticed pretty early on that he was a bit of a workaholic – but in virtually every other respect, he was the most eligible bachelor in Ridgewick. The inevitable wedding took place the following May, with 'Nessa playing bridesmaid at the civil ceremony. It wasn't precisely a fairy tale marriage, but life seemed to stabilize to some degree, and the world kept turning as it always had…

With perhaps one exeption.

Now:

Rob ordered her to turn around. Moaning lightly under her breath, Vanessa obeyed his command in tear-soaked silence. She was literally blushing from crown to heel, standing there with her panties peeled down to her knees while her step-daddy subjected her to another one of his patented pre-spanking lectures.

Eyes downcast in complete and utter misery, 'Nessa covered herself in front with both hands, feeling a cold rush of gooseflesh over her tummy, thighs and shoulders. Needless to say, this desperate attempt to preserve her modesty was utterly futile. Rob instructed her to hold her hands behind her, leaving her nubile young body on open exhibition. This tableau continued for the next five minutes while Rob concluded his extended harangue with a detailed list of her recent misdemeanors.

And then it was time to go over his knee.

Gripping her tightly by the wrist, Rob guided the whimpering girl across his lap until her head was nearly touching the floor. Her smooth, white buttocks were thrust rudely upward, practically staring him square in the face. Sobbing in abject disgrace, 'Nessa lay jack-knifed over his paired thighs with her toes hovering above the floor on the other side. Her slightly splayed cheeks clenched back and forth in mute expectation.

With her spanking only moments away, Vanessa's sense of humiliation was literally beyond description. She wept in hopeless resignation, softly begging for mercy and whispering "please," "don't," "daddy" and "no" in various combinations. When she felt Rob's left arm taking her firmly around the waist, she tensed her entire body, knowing precisely what came next. Vanessa had not forgotten how hard her father spanked, nor how long he could make it last.

"Please, Daddy, no no no..." she cried as that wide, determined palm swept down across her naked cheeks.

Crescendo

---

Note: this story is set in the Tranziverse.

---

5.

Then:

Prior to the marriage, Grace had been 'Nessa's sole disciplinarian, usually dispensing justice with a few smacks to her pantied bottom whenever required. Like any child, Vanessa found it a little painful and embarrassing, but tended to shrug it off as a normal part of growing up. She sometimes even claimed that her Mommy hit like a girl, knowing that Grace found the comment particularly annoying.

All of that had changed during her thirteenth year, when both of her parents agreed she needed a firmer hand than Grace was able to provide. 'Nessa was growing up, ripening into a beautiful young woman. Limits had to be established for her own good. She required guidance, the same as any other girl her age. Most of all, she desperately needed some extra care and attention.

The kind that only a strong, loving Step-Father could supply.

Her first spanking over Rob's knee had taken place following a particularly vehement argument with her mother. Rob had intervened before the spat could escalate to a full-blown screaming match, sending the girl to her room and promising the sorest bottom she'd ever known. 'Nessa had stared at him in stunned disbelief, realizing for perhaps the first time that she had completely over stepped the mark.

Disbelief turned to outright fear when he'd come upstairs and instructed her take down her shorts and panties. He was going SPANK her on the BARE! Vanessa had immediately begun to wail in shame and terror. He had no right to punish her like a six year old child – he wasn't even her real father! As a last ditch gambit, she played the gender card, protesting that she wasn't a girl – she was a boy and should therefore be spared this indignity.

Rob had dismissed all of her pleas with an impatient wave of his hand: if she was going to act like a spoiled little girl, she would be treated like one. He'd had more than enough of her lies, deceits and mischief. For all intents and purposes he was her Father, and as long as she lived under his roof she would damned-well respect his authority.

His patience finally taxed to the limit, Rob had taken the struggling girl over his lap, peeling her pants down without further ado. Vanessa screamed as she was stretched across his knee with her alabaster buns on rude display:

"No, no, please Daddy, it's not fair, I don't want a spanking!"

The punishment that followed lasted only five minutes, but it brought 'Nessa to heel in ways that would shape her behavior for decades to come. Rob established his position as the proverbial Man of the House, Vanessa learned to never question his decisions. It was a lesson well learned, one which lasted right up to the present day.

Now:

The spanking began with a series of loud, staccato smacks across 'Nessa's tightly clenched cheeks, during which she shrieked at the top of her lungs. Each retort was as loud as a shotgun blast, echoing off the walls and shaking the windows in their frames. Within a minute, her milky white bottomtops were shining bright pink. She kicked her legs in rhythm to Rob's relentless tempo, squirming her peach from side to side.

"Hold still!" Rob ordered, holding her gruffly in place with his free hand. His palm lashed down almost faster than the eye could follow. One minute turned to two, then to five, then to ten as Nessa's lush, ripe bottom-cheeks blazed cherry-red. 'Nessa bucked about on his lap, shaking her hips in a futile attempt to evade that wide, blistering palm.

Once he'd finished tanning her lower cheeks, Rob turned his attention to her upper thighs. He was determined to teach the girl a lesson she'd never forget, and this was the best way to get his message across. Vanessa shrieked with each thunderous swat, working her way up to a virtual crescendo. The pain was nothing short of exquisite.

Recounting the full extent of Vanessa's agonies might be considered redundant; suffice to say that within fifteen minutes, her naughty young bottom had assumed the tones of an Autumn sunset (and even this might simply be stating the obvious).

There is, of course, one pertinent detail which might be worth mentioning.

Rob honestly didn't care that 'Nessa was a transfem; she was his daughter in every sense of the word that mattered. Their relationship might have been very different had she looked and acted like a boy, but the point was moot. 'Nessa wasn't a boy, she was a pretty teenaged girl who'd come to love him as her Father – again, in every sense of the word that mattered.

Which was why he'd never shirked his parental responsibilities. He gave her love when she needed affection, cash when she needed money and a roof over her when she needed shelter. He gave her everything she needed – and that included a good, hard spanking when she misbehaved. No exceptions, apologies, no excuses.

Yes, she might complain that he wasn't her biological father. Yes, she might claim that she'd been born male. Yes, she might even argue that she was too old for a spanking. And all of that would completely true.

It would also be completely irrelevant.

Because at the end of the day, he was her Father, she wasn't a boy, and she'd never be too old for a spanking. They'd been a family for over five years now, and 'Nessa knew precisely what to expect whenever she stepped out of line.

As he'd told her years before: if you're going to act like a spoiled little girl, you're going to be treated like one.

Crescendo

---

Note: this story is set in the Tranziverse.

---

7.

"If you're going to act like a spoiled little girl, you're going to be treated like one."

Always a man of his word, Robert Jackson spanked extremely hard, putting his entire shoulder into every thunderous smack. His wide, steely palm lashed down in a scathing blur, searing Vanessa's bottom with rich, carmine hand-prints. A gleaming, purple tint began to suffuse her upper thighs, creeping slowly down her slim coltish legs.

'Nessa's discipline generally lasted a minimum of ten minutes - often much longer - depending on Rob's mood and the severity of her misconduct. His steady over-hand pace did not let up until at least the halfway mark, after which he took a short break to rest his arm and scold his errant step-daughter. Needless to say, Vanessa kicked and thrashed a great deal during these prolonged spanking sessions, wailing and sobbing beneath his intractable hand.

Rob prided himself on being exceptionally thorough. He spanked relentlessly across both cheeks in rapid succession, scalding the flesh halfway down the thighs. The pain was nothing short of exquisite, and words cannot adequately describe the degree of agony the unfortunate young girl suffered, though her shrieks of anguish might covey at least some sense of her misery.

Due mention should also be made of the festive atmosphere under which justice was dispensed. As noted above, Vanessa's spankings invariably took place in front of an open window. This well-respected and time-honored tradition was the crowning glory of the Jackson protocol: whenever 'Nessa lowered her panties for her Father, the entire scene was visible to half the neighborhood – particularly to the brownstones across the road.

Possessing a firm belief in the benefits of abject humiliation, Rob assumed – correctly – that the open curtains added a public element to an already communal spectacle. With the sound of her punishment echoing through the length and breadth of Ridgewick, Vanessa knew that everybody within range had to be witness to her disgrace – though she naturally hoped against all logic that nobody would hear.

By the time Rob finished, 'Nessa's bottom had turned a bright, lurid crimson, shining like a storm-beacon in the night. Simmering with liquid heat, it pulsed and throbbed as the exhausted girl lay sobbing across her Father's lap. Leaning back in his chair, Rob sighed in grim satisfaction. The verdict had been rendered, the sentence had been served, all of his domestic obligations fulfilled. 'Nessa's firm young bottie had been well and truly smacked.

This particular spanking – one of the longest Vanessa had ever received – clocked in at close to nineteen minutes, a record even for the Jackson residence (over the next three weeks, it would be discussed up and down the block by friends and neighbors alike, detailing the finer points of the evening's entertainment. 'Nessa herself would hear whispered accounts from various high school 'informants,' none of which involved even the slightest hint of exaggeration).

Following his accustomed routine, Rob allowed 'Nessa to catch her breath for two minutes before hurrying her along with an additional swat and a scolding remark or two. The lesson had been learnt, the homily had been taught. It was time for the miscreant to confess her sins and express her regrets. Rob Jackson never did anything by halves, and his step-daughter had to demonstrate an appropriate amount of genuine contrition before her punishment would be declared complete.

Once she'd managed to find her footing, Vanessa was required to stand with her pants down and her head lowered while she thanked Rob for her spanking and apologized for her behavior. This was followed by a litany of heart-felt promises concerning her future good conduct, most of which lasted the better part of a week (at which point she found herself across her Daddy's lap with her naked bottom-cheeks staring at the ceiling). And thus, the cycle would begin anew, usually with the renewed vigor reserved for military bootcamps or religious inquisitions.

Racing the clock, Jess pulled out a frilly pink dress and a handful of dainty white underthings, laying them out carefully on the bed. Despite his rising hysteria, there was a ritual he had to follow when dressing up, a sequence his Momma insisted on, even when he was preparing for a spanking. Everything had to be kept clean, fresh and utterly pristine. A single wrinkle on the frock could earn him an extra five minutes over her lap, and he had no desire to test her patience any further.

Running back to the closet, he fished about until he found the glossy red shoes his Mother had bought him for his last birthday. They were high heeled pumps, the kind made for teenaged girls making their first public debut - junior prom, dinner dance at the Lions club or whatever. She'd found them in a fashion boutique called Young Miss (Momma was always buying things for him to try on, especially when there was as sale downtown. Sometimes she even took him shopping with her, dolled up in tight blond curls and little pink miniskirts. These cross-dressed expeditions were an ordeal of suspense; the risk of discovery was overwhelming).

I hate this, Jess thought, scrambling back to the bed.

Placing the shoes on the floor, he stood looking down at the garments spread out on the bedspread, making a mental note of everything he needed: shoes, socks, underpants, vest and dress. A place for everything, everything in its place. Only four minutes left; no time to waste! Momma would be here anytime now. He had to get dressed. Now.

She's going to SPANK me!

Jess picked up the flimsy nylon panties, feeling a rich, crimson blush saturate his complexion. Shimmering white full briefs, they were covered with pale blue flowers and edged with a dainty pink frill. The very sight of them set his pulse racing. His tummy swirled with warm, fluid shame. The thought of wearing a pair of girl's underpants had him trembling with outrage. He was a boy, goddammit, a young man poised on the brink of maturity. What right did she have to humiliate him this way?

Hurry up!! She'll be here any second!!

Closing his eyes in childish denial, Jess stepped into the sheer, gossamer knickers, gliding them slowly up his legs. The sleek material rustled against his flesh. He felt a rush of fearful excitement – the touch of nylon always preceded the agony of a spanking. His head began to swim with conflicting emotions - embarrassment, guilt ... and pleasure. That was the strangest contradiction of all. Much as he hated being paddled like a naughty schoolgirl, he invariably experienced a thrill of wild exaltation when his discipline was imminent.

The singlet! quickly!

Of course, it wasn't a singlet, not the sort any boy would want to wear. It was a white floral vest, a perfect match for the panties (except that it was made of cotton), right down to the rosy trim around the edges. Gaping with embarrassment, Jess pulled the vest on over his head. Taking a few seconds to smooth out the creases, he tucked it carefully into his panties, precisely as he'd been taught since early childhood. Everything had to be perfect, a single mistake would incur the severest penalties. He turned to check himself in the mirror -

And Jess was no longer a boy.

Jessica Hoskins stood scrutinizing her reflection, her sumptuous golden hair cascading down past her shoulders. With the late morning sunlight streaming in through the bay windows, she was a fragile, delicate nymph, her alabaster skin gleaming like polished marble. Her figure was taking on the lush contours of dawning womanhood: from her slender, tapering legs to her wide, curving hips, she was blossoming like some ripening, succulent fruit.

Illuminated by a subtle backglow, she stepped back to her bed and picked up her brief, pastel sun-dress. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she drew the frock on over her head and settled it lightly into place. Jessie was scared: she'd been unforgivably naughty, and Mommy was going to smack her bottom. She swiped her eyes with the heel of her palm, sobbing in open fear. This was all Jess' fault; he was the one who'd curled his lip, lost his temper and broke all the rules. It just wasn't right. She hadn't done anything. Couldn't Mommy see that?

She sat down on the bed and pulled on her prim white girl-socks. They were her favourites, the ones with the pretty lace frill around the top. She loved wearing them whenever Mommy took her out shopping, they made her feel sweet, lovely and very, very feminine. Of course she didn't feel that way now - she was getting ready for a spanking, and the last thing on her mind was how nice her socks looked. She turned an ear towards the doorway, listening in rising panic. Footsteps were ascending the staircase. Ominous, determined footsteps.

Mommy was on her way up!!

Moaning with desperation, Jessie squeezed her feet into the slick red pumps and tightened the straps about her ankles. In a matter of seconds, Marion would walk in through the door and her spanking would begin. She would be turned over Mommy's knee with her tender young bottom-tops on rude display. The image froze her pulse in mid-beat. It was going to hurt. So much!

Why did Jess always get her into trouble? This wasn't the first time she'd been punished for his errors. It was as if he were doing it deliberately; getting Mommy angry then leaving her to face the consequences. And today it would probably be a lot worse; today she'd almost certainly get the hairbrush.

Those heavy, clocking footfalls were in the hallway now.

Nooooooooo, Jessie whispered to herself. She stood up and ran a last minute check over her dress, hair and shoes. She hadn't had time to tie a bow through her thick, blond tresses; she could only hope her Mother wouldn't notice this single, insignificant oversight. Not much chance of that, though; Mommy's eyes were sharp. She never missed a thing.

Jessie skittered over to stand before the SPANKING CHAIR with her face downcast and her hands clasped protectively over her bottom. She tried to shrink inside herself, look as small and harmless as possible. It wouldn't do any good, wouldn't lessen her sentence by even one stroke; she was aware of that. But the hope of a twelfth-hour acquittal tortured her nevertheless. She didn't want a spanking, didn't deserve it!!

Mommy's footsteps were right outside the door now. Jessie turned to face her, choking down her tears and all but praying for divine intervention. Please not the brush, she thought over and over, the words filling her mind in gigantic neon letters, please not the brush, please not the brush. She caught herself trembling with expectation, knowing how hot and red and sore her peach would be in a matter of minutes.

Mommy appeared in the door.

She was carrying the brush.

Jessie lapsed into a litany of desperate pleas as Marion entered the room. She strode towards the spanking chair, her face calm but etched with purpose. The antique ebony hairbrush glinted menacingly in the sunlight. It was the realization of Jessie's worst nightmares, a sign that this would be a long and extremely painful spanking indeed.

"No, Mommy, NO," Jessie wailed in a high, quavering voice, "not the BRUSH, please not the brush, it HURTS too much, PLEASE MOMMY don't SPANK me with the HAIRBRUSH -"

Marion ignored Jessie's fervent pleas, seating herself comfortably on the chair and steeling herself for the task ahead. This would be a most satisfying experience for all concerned; Jess would shriek and struggle over her lap, kicking his feet and screaming for mercy. And then, the spanking would really begin.

"All right, that's enough!" Marion exclaimed, slicing through Jessie's breathless entreaties with a stern, unforgiving glance, "you worked very hard to earn this reward, young lady, and you have no one to blame but yourself." Emphasis on the words young lady; as far as Marion was concerned, if Jessie insisted on behaving like a naughty little girl, she'd be treated like one as well. Considering the situation, it wasn't difficult to view her wayward son as a rebellious young daughter. At the end of the day, he - she - was a natural for the role.

"Now," Marion continued, testing the brush against the flat of her palm, "I've put up with enough of your sullen moods and disrespect, Jessica. It's high time you were taught a lesson in common courtesy. I've tried to reason with you, talk you through these temper tantrums. That was a complete waste of time - naturally enough - and frankly, I'm sick to death of your attitude. If talking isn't having the desired effect, there's always the alternative isn't there? Let's see if a good, long SPANKING won't solve your little communication problem."

On the pronouncement of this verdict, Jessica's nerve broke completely.

"No, Mommy, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, really I didn't, I take it all back, PLEASE don't be cross, PLEASE don't SPANK me, I'll be good from now on, honestly I will -"

Marion listened to Jessie's quailing petitions, vaguely amused by the radical change in his character. The transformation hadn't been confined to the boy's appearance; his whole personality seemed to have altered. His strutting, boyish animosity had vanished the moment he donned the sun-frock. Twenty minutes before, he'd been screaming abuse at the top of his lungs, now he was begging her forgiveness with tears in his eyes. He was even calling her 'Mommy', something he never did under any circumstances. It was amazing what an hour or two of 'Jessica-time' could do for her boy's normally belligerent temperament - particularly when a hot, throbbing bottom was on the cards.

Which brought her back to the issue at hand. Punishment should never be tempered by remorse, no matter how sincere. Jessie had been inexcusably rude on the drive home, and Marion was determined to see that justice was done in this case. Leaning forward on the chair, she transfixed her simpering boy-daughter with an impaling glance.

"Stop that crying RIGHT NOW!!" Marion instructed, brandishing the brush in her right hand, "You're going over my knee whether you like it or not, young lady. You DESERVE a spanking, and that is PRECISELY what you're going to get. Now -" she paused, slapping the brush into her hand to reinforce her point, "I want you to come over here, bend over and lift up your skirt."

Jessica gasped, stamping her feet in childish refusal. It was time to bare her bottom! She hated this almost as much as Jess hated dressing up in girls' underwear; it was so juvenile, so embarrassing, so utterly degrading.

"No, Mommy, no, noooooooo!!" she begged in keening, frantic tones, "don't make me take them down, spank me over my panties, please Mommy, you don't know how awful it is for me, please don't -"

"You GET those PANTIES down NOW!!"

Groaning in utter humiliation, Jessica doubled over from the hips, flipping her dress over her back like a can-can dancer. Her virginal white underpants were immediately thrust into view; her plush, yielding cheeks literally bulging through the gossamer material. Reaching back, she hooked her thumbs through the elastic trim, pausing momentarily before peeling the sleek nylon briefs down her thighs.

Marion nodded to herself in evident satisfaction as her daughter's soft, creamy buttocks were revealed. Jessie had a delicious little bottom, no question of that (which was probably why she enjoyed spanking it so much). Leaning slightly forward, Marion laid a loud, stinging slap on each of the girl's buxom cheeks. Lush, round, and deeply dimpled, they quivered with each resounding smack. Jessie cried out in surprise, her buns twitching from side to side.

"No Mommy, no, please don't, I'm sorry, noooo ..."

Marion smiled ruefully, as if expecting nothing better. Well, time to get started. Couldn't spend the whole night admiring the view, so to speak. She had a job to do - one she found much to her liking, truth be told. No point waiting any longer. Business before pleasure, as her dear departed father had been fond of saying.

"All right, my girl," Marion said, taking Jessie by the right hand, "let's get you over my knee."

"Mommy, NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" Jessica wailed as she was led over her Mother's lap. Marion guided the helpless, sobbing girl into place, settling her bottom into the central position. Her pale, unprotected cheeks clenched and primped with anticipation. Heart literally hammering against her ribcage, Jessie whispered her final, tearful pleas, knowing her spanking was only moments away now.

"I'm sorry Mommy I didn't mean it really I didn't please don't ..."

Marion raised the brush, tensing the muscles along her right arm.

"OK - hold still and stop that wriggling", she warned, "you've had this coming for weeks now, and this is one lesson you won't forget in a hurry!!"
The brush streaked down, faster than the eye could follow.

Jessica screamed.

Marion's hand swept up and down with stunning force, burning its splayed print into the girl's quivering cheeks. A volley of ear-splitting shrieks filled the room. The time for whispered pleas had passed; Jessica's lungs could barely contain her screams as she twisted and squirmed on her Mother's lap. Her eyes bulged from their sockets, her legs thrashed in agony.

Marion held her daughter firmly in place as he seared her hynie up to a fine, subtle pink, pressing down on her back to prevent her rolling off her knees. Her peaches pumped and danced in response to those loud, reverberating slaps; huge, glistening tears streamed down her face. She howled incoherently, conscious of nothing save the white-hot pain flashing across her posterior.

Jessie beat her palms on the floor, wailing like a soul in purgatory. It was her worst nightmare: she was having her bottom smacked! Marion was tanning her naked fanny-tops, bruising her dignity as if she were nothing more than a naughty little girl. She was breathless with shame, hurt and wounded pride. Marion's hand blazed from side to side, relentlessly scorching its way around her derriere. Her cheeks felt huge and swollen, the flesh drawn tight as a drum.

"NO!! OOOWWW!! MOMMY!!! NO!!! IT HURTS, IT HUURRTS!!"

Indeed, it did: Jessica's bottom was literally smouldering with crimson heat. Marion dismissed her yelps with an impatient grunt, laying in with a vengeance. She'd had this coming for weeks now: Marion was determined to show her who wore the pants in this family once and for all. She'd make sure this was one lesson Jessie would never forget - no ifs, ands or buts about it.

"AAAA!!! MOMMY, STOP IT!!! OWWWW!! NO!!! I'M SORRY!! OWWW!! DON'T!!! AAOOOW!!! NO!! STOP!! PLEASE!!! NO!!"

Jessica bawled in misery. Her denuded bottie was as red as a traffic light, as sultry as a tropical sunrise. It rippled and shook with each smarting crack, flickered and shone with a simmering, carmine light. Marion's palm lashed into her cheeks, her bulbs, her thighs. Jessie shouted out her pleas in a high, keening voice, begging her Mother for an end to her ordeal:

"OWWW!! MOMMY PLEASE STOP IT HURTS REALLY BAD OWW!!! NO!! DON'T MOMMY!!! NO MORE!! PLEASE!!!"

Some minutes later, when Marion was satisfied her sorry little miss had been sufficiently chastened, she lowered her hand to one side, shaking out the pins and needles with a rueful smile. She felt a kind of grim, tired pleasure: it had been a long, hard day and now She could relax in the knowledge of a job well done. Her daughter's errant bottom had been spanked the colour of a passion-fire rose. The verdict had been pronounced, the sentence carried out, and justice served for one and all. Now it was time to rest on her laurels.

Jessica lay doubled over her Mother's lap, quietly sobbing over this latest humiliation. How could this have happened to her again? How could she have bared her tushie with hardly a flicker of resistance? She'd given in so easily, and offering up her naked fesses as if she'd actually deserved to be punished. Could there be anything more embarrassing?

Worse still, her freshly-smacked bottom felt as though it had been sitting in a blast furnace for the last hour; she'd probably have to sleep on her belly for the next month! Her cheeks seemed to pulse and throb with each thudding heart-beat. Closing her eyes, Jessica imagined her melons inflated to three times their normal size, heat rising visibly from her sizzling, purple flesh (probably nowhere near that bad, of course, but that was how it felt).

"It hurts, it hurts ..." Jessie cried softly, her botts trembling like two bowls of raspberry jelly.

"I should say it would," Marion agreed serenely, unrolling her sleeves with the air of a woman well-pleased with recent developments. Things had worked out for the best. The law had been upheld, the culprit punished, and now she could look forward to a quiet evening in front of the box with her feet up on the coffee table. What more could a woman ask for?

Guess there's nothing like a good, hard spanking to turn a bad day completely around.

The following few months witnessed a remarkable transformation in Jessie's character. Marion imposed a strict policy of Zero Tolerance over her conduct, under which the smallest infractions would be punished with hot, throbbing bottom. No questions were asked, no excuses were accepted: the instant she stepped over the line, she was made to lower her panties for the paddle. The result was sixty days of continuous spanking, during which Jessie's pert young botts were constantly smarting. Spanked on average at least twice a week, her fanny became intimately acquainted with a variety of wooden spoons, rulers, hairbrushes and anything else that could bruise a preteen's bottom. Hardly a week went by when her cheeks weren't pinkened for one reason or another (not that she had any cause to complain, mind you – Jessie only ever got what she deserved). It was juvenile, it was demeaning, it was embarrassing beyond belief - but Jessica knew better than to object.

The spankings began to taper off once the probation period had passed, but Julie warned her that the brush would be brought forth at the first sign of rebellion – a threat Jessie took very seriously indeed. Well aware that her mother would make good on her promise at the earliest opportunity, Jessie applied herself to improving her behavior. The transformation was both immediate and impressive. Lacing an apron around her waist, she became the very model of the houseproud preteen, performing her chores without complaint. Spending more time at home led to a steady improvement in her grades, and she somehow managed to resist the temptations offered by her more masculine associates.

Oddly enough, it wasn't long before she found herself back over Marion's knee. Despite her best efforts, Jessie simply couldn't control her adolescent temper. Like any other "girl" her age, she naturally felt some degree of resentment towards her over-protective guardian and made her sentiments known at regular intervals. Such confrontations invariably led to one of her Mother's "High Level Discussions", most of which involved a one-sided exchange between Marion's hand and Jessie's bottom (it goes without saying that Marion proved to be a most engaging conversationalist). Such debates generally lasted around fifteen minutes, give or take a few 'breathers' as circumstances required.

More significantly, cross-dressing became a normal, almost integral part of her life – along with the tears, shame and disgrace she suffered every time the Marion scorched her buttocks. It was, perhaps, the sole constant of her existence, as unvarying as the phases of the moon. In time, she almost stopped thinking of herself as a boy; due – in part – to the amount of time she spent in girl's clothing. As each day went by, Jessica was exposed to an increasing variety of skirts, frocks, dresses and slips, to the point where her Mother decided it was more convenient to keep her son in panties on a permanent basis.

Of course, Jessie was not the first boy to succumb to the irresistible allure of satin and lace; particularly not in the picket-fence paradise of Lainsbury. In a city where pinafore discipline was as common as fluorodized water, it might have been considered unusual if she hadn't…

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