Date: Sun, 08 Jun 2003 07:27:42 +0000
From: Kristy Leigh <kristyleigh2001@hotmail.com>
Subject: MAKE A WISH (part 2)

MAKE A WISH

Copyright Kristy Leigh, 2003. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER ONE

      1.

The sun was starting to brighten the window when Danny began to feel more
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 SNIVELLING, you ugly little
SHIT! Patience had never been Dad's strong point. Still, the old bastard
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 faggot!  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 Gipsy 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
Gipsy, 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 Gipsy, 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 payed for
the room. His recollections of the previous night were chaotic,
disjointed. Whatever the Gipsy 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. Moan in
ecstasy as his fingers closed around his tender, throbbing nipples. 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 Gipsy'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 scrutinised each item in turn,
silently cursing his growing misfortune. A pink compact and two tubes of
lip-gloss. 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 totalled 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 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
meagre 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 Gipsy.

2.

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 harmhim; shedidn'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.

To be continued. Email me for more.

kristyleigh2001@hotmail.com
kristyleigh2001@yahoo.co.uk