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.