Since May 3rd 1998.

---

The box arrived a week after Kerri left. Marty stared at the handwriting on the label, recognising it instantly, for there was no doubting those looping ends that were so typical of Kerri. For an hour, he left it standing, unopened on the kitchen table, an elongated cube of cardboard, about two feet square and three high, brown packaging tape crisscrossing its surface in a blatant challenge to the postal service to damage the packaging.

Why he didn't just open it straight away, Marty couldn't say, but there was a certain perverse thrill in wondering just what secret the box might contain and trying to fathom out just what might have triggered Kerri into making contact again, even if it were only by Royal Mail. His mind wandered as he conjured up all sorts of images, mostly pictures of Kerri, already fuzzy at the edges.

Marty shook his head. It was no good, he would have to open the box, face up to whatever it was she had decided was worth the cost of the postage. He doubted it would be something he wanted; more likely it was something she had found which had stirred some little need to get in one final jab at him.

It took a minute or two to cut open the top of the box and there, laying on top of the tight packing of white cellulose chips, lay a pale blue envelope, addressed simply to him by his first name and again, unmistakably, in her handwriting. Marty picked it up and tore open the flap.

Marty furrowed his brows in puzzlement. What on earth was she on about? Okay, so Kerri had always been understanding about his "dressing up" habit, as she always referred to it - indeed, they had met at a fancy dress party at the university, when Marty had gone as Cleopatra of the Nile and his former room-mate, Jon, had been dressed as Madonna. Jon, Marty had subsequently discovered, was actually gay, unlike himself, but that had never been allowed to interfere with their friendship and mutual enjoyment of clothing slightly more exotic than might normally be expected to find its way into a male wardrobe.

Kerri had been totally captivated by the sight of two young men whom she had originally taken to be real females and even more astonished to discover that Marty was totally heterosexual. As their relationship blossomed, so did her participation in his little rituals, but then, quite suddenly, she had seemed to draw back from him. When Marty tried to discover the reason for this change of attitude, she had become almost evasive.

`You really need to make up your mind, one way or the other,' she had said. `You can't have the best of both worlds all your life.' And then, one evening, when Marty returned to the flat, she was simply not there, just a brief note to the effect that they both needed to sort their lives out and she would be in touch again one day ... maybe.

And now, after a week, the box and this curious letter. Folding the single sheet and placing it to one side, Marty tentatively reached into the packing chips. His fingers touched something smooth and cool, explored a little, thought they understood what it was they were tracing and then floundered, uncertain. He withdrew his hand, searched out a black rubbish sack and carefully scooped out handfuls of the cellulose, slowly revealing something black and shiny, possibly, he thought, made of leather.

Ten minutes later, heart beating much faster, Marty had the outfit laid out on the table, its original box now by the kitchen door, the sack of chippings stuffed inside it. It certainly looked like leather, he thought, but he was certain it wasn't. At least, it wasn't like any leather he had ever seen before. Thick rubber, maybe? But no, there was none of the familiar heavy aroma of latex; in fact, the stuff gave off no odour at all.

Marty picked up the corset and studied it, carefully. It was beautifully made and designed, when fully laced, to give a real hourglass figure. The bust cups were padded with some sort of pliant, lifelike filling and there were two halter straps reaching up to join a wide, buckled collar. At the bottom, there was a total of eight suspender straps and Kerri had even included a pair of brand new fishnet stockings to be worn with it all.

The boots were quite incredible too. There was a sort of zip fastening at the back and laces at the front to ensure a snug fit and the pointed toes had been just slightly squared off. The heels, he estimated, were about four and a half inches, well within what Marty had grown used to walking in. He turned one of the boots over in his hand. For the thickness of the material from which it was made, it was extremely light, he thought.

The gloves were designed to be laced tightly too and reached the length of Marty's arms. He held them up, shivering slightly at the way the light danced on the black rippling surface and breathed in, deeply. Damn her, he thought, fiercely, she knew exactly how much this would turn him on!

There were two more items in the bottom of the box. The first, as promised in the note, was the black pen-like device, a tiny gold band indicating where top met bottom. Taking it in his hands, Marty twisted, clockwise. Nothing happened, but then Kerri had said something about it not working until the entire ensemble was in place and warmed to the body. He put it down on the table and examined the corset again.

Strange, there was no sign of any mechanism for the control to operate. Perhaps the woman had just been having Kerri on. Marty lowered the garment once more and reached into the bottom of the box, drawing out two soft black straps, whose purpose, initially, eluded him, until he noticed the little fastening studs at the front and back of the corset's lower hem. These were intended as crotch straps, running back to front and to either side of the wearer's genitalia, whether they be male or female.

`Quite beautiful,' Marty said softly, speaking to the empty room, but also, almost, to the absent Kerri. `And quite irresistible,' he added, half under his breath. `But I bet the damned boots don't fit, even if the rest does.'

However, as he was soon to find out, Marty was quite wrong.

The corset opened and closed at the front, a row of curious, flat busk fastenings sliding smoothly into place to join the two sections about the wearer's waist. The back lacing was difficult, without help, but Marty persevered until he had managed to close the gap about half way. He remembered what it had said in kerri's note about the pen device and he tried twisting it, but nothing happened. He sighed and tossed it onto the bed.

Still, it wasn't bad, even so, he mused, running his hands down the smooth fabric at either side of his body. There had not appeared to be any padding, but somehow the garment made his hips seem more flared, more feminine. Nice one, Kerri, he mouthed, silently.

It took a couple of minutes to fit the high collar and lace it snugly about his throat and it was all Marty could do to resist the temptation to see the effect in the wardrobe door mirror, but he knew it was best to wait until he had donned the entire outfit before peeking. Then, maybe, as he had an entire weekend ahead of him, he would add makeup and one of his wigs and maybe take a few pictures with the remote control Nikon. There was still half a roll of film in it, unless he was very much mistaken.

He had shaved his legs only the night before and the stockings slid smoothly up them with no resistance. He clipped each suspender in turn and noticed, with satisfaction, that they needed no adjustment whatsoever. He also noticed that the stockings seemed to be made of a similar material to the rest of the garments, the mesh made from fine skeins of the gleaming black fabric. Tentatively, Marty tested with thumb and forefinger. Whatever the stuff was, it was very strong, he realised.

The boots were next and they almost purred over the stockings, his feet slipping easily and snugly into them, his instep curved perfectly. He closed the fastener and then spent a few minutes adjusting the laces to a skintight fit, before standing to test his balance in them. He nodded, satisfied and took a few practice steps. Just right.

Finally, Marty drew on the gloves. They seemed to need very little smoothing out, covering his arms like an incoming wave of black oil and only minor tightening of the laces was needed. He flexed his fingers and the mauve and green ripples danced up from them, bringing a satisfied smile to his face. He was ready for the unveiling and stepped towards the wardrobe.

The reflection that jumped out at him was unbelievable. But for the lack of makeup and wig, it could have been a real girl and somehow his own, bare features seemed to be almost feminine even without any adornment. He breathed as deeply as the corset would allow and reached underneath to attach the two crotch straps, all the while conscious that his male genitalia were in plain view and somewhat spoiling the overall illusion. Why wasn't there a single wide strap to cover them, he thought?

He turned towards the dressing table, wondering if any of his black panties would go with the new clothing. There was a lycra, PVC-look pair that would do at a pinch, he knew. Halfway across the room he stopped, his eye catching the little pen device still lying where he had tossed it onto the bed. Pursing his lips, Marty paused, reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his gloved fingers. Slowly, he turned the top.

There was a sudden noise, like the hiss of air escaping from a punctured tyre and the switch fell from his shocked grasp as everything suddenly tightened about him in the same instant. The air was forced from his lungs and he tottered backwards, grabbing at the bedside chair for support.

`Wh-aaa !' he started, but stopped in mid phrase, for the tightening sensation stopped as quickly as it had started. `Phoaahhh!' he gasped, letting out what air remained in his lungs and slowly stood erect. `Ye Gods!'

Marty stared down at himself, unable to believe the transformation. At least another three inches, maybe more, had disappeared from his waistline and his hips seemed to have expanded even further, though that was doubtless an optical illusion, he realised. His legs, never a bad shape to begin with, had also adopted a sensationally feminine silhouette and his feet looked strangely small. Even his hands seemed narrower, his fingers longer.

`Bloody hell,' he muttered, tottering back to the mirror. `Oh, what?' He leaned closer, staring at himself in disbelief. `Must be lack of oxygen to the brain,' he muttered. `I'm just hallucinating, that's all.'

Ten minutes later, he wasn't so sure. Seated before the smaller dressing table mirror, his breathing now back to as near normal as the strictures of the corset would permit, Marty was forced to admit it was no hallucination, but there was no power or argument known to science that could account for the final stage of his transformation.

His hair was still fairly short, it was true, but it seemed to have styled itself into an attractive pageboy bob, a little longer than an urchin cut, but unarguably feminine, nonetheless. That in itself was hard enough to swallow, but the change in his face was even more dramatic.

Starting from his eyebrows, which had grown thinner and more arched, he worked downwards to the eyes, the thick lashes that were as heavy as any false pair he had ever tried and the heavily shaded lids and pencil liner that gave him the current showgirl look. And then there were his lips, cherry red and looking fuller and wider, so that his nose seemed shorter and narrower too, even upturned slightly at its tip.

It just wasn't possible.

Unless ...

It had to be the pen, he realised, turning to find where he had dropped it. Yes, that was it. Turning the top had released some kind of gas, an hallucinogenic of some description. Typical of Kerri's strange sense of humour, he thought. She would have known the effect this outfit would have had on Marty's alter ego and a quick whiff of whatever it was would be enough to trigger off auto suggestion - a sort of drug induced wish-fulfillment.

He stood up again, strutted across the room and admired his new self in the bigger mirror again, his red mouth curving upwards into a delighted smile.

`Thanks Kerri,' he said out loud, but stopped at the sound of his voice. It seemed lighter, somehow, higher pitched and softer - feminine, even. Marty laughed. Wow, whatever drug the pen released was certainly effective.

`Never mind,' he trilled, delightedly. `I'll just enjoy being Martine more than ever, until it wears off, however long that might be.' He reached down and took hold of his limp shaft, expecting it to stir quickly at his touch, the way it always did when he was dressed en femme, but there was no reaction at all. Puzzled, he stared down, wondering why his organ seemed to look smaller than usual and then he giggled.

`Bitchy touch,' he whispered. `A drug to make me think I look like the girl I dream about being, but something in it which prevents me getting off on the prospect. Damn it, Kerri, that's spiteful. Still, I can wait for it to wear off. Meanwhile, better find some panties.'

Four hours later, the delectable Martine was not quite so sanguine about what was happening to "her", for there seemed to be increasingly less of the original Marty and more of his feminine alter ego.and the flaccid manhood now hidden by the black panties continued to refuse to respond to any stimulus. With a sigh, Marty/Martine walked over to the bed and picked up the pen key, twisting it anti clockwise.

Nothing happened and she cursed, under her breath. She let out a little snort and tried again, but, as she twisted the top clockwise first, the outfit gave another little hiss and tightened a fraction more. Martine let out a little yelp of fear and dropped the pen again, tottering forward as even the feet of the boots seemed to contract and the heels rise another fraction of an inch.

Her hands flew to her face and the gloved fingers brushed aside strands of hair that had not only not been that long a few seconds before, but were now a whole lot lighter in colour. She turned slowly and approached the long mirror, wide eyed at the apparition that in turn walked towards her in the glass.

The hair was definitely at least two inches longer now, maybe three and the eyes seemed bigger and wider. The mouth, too, was fuller and pouted back. Shaking with fear, Martine looked down at herself again and sobbed at what she saw. Another inch at least had gone from around her waist and added itself to her hips. Slowly, she turned, displaying the naked buttocks at either side of the black panties.

`Oh lord, no!' she groaned, for her bottom was far too pronounced to be anything but female. Desperately, she struggled with the laces of the gloves, but they refused to budge. She tried the boots, but the result was the same. Wildly, she reached around to her back, fingers clawing for the laces there, but they seemed to have shrunk to a tight knot.

`Oh sheeeet!' she wailed and tried to release the front fastenings of the corset, but they appeared to have welded themselves immovably. Breath coming in sobs, martine tottered to the bedroom door, out into the hallway and across into the kitchen. Frantic fingers scrabbled through the cutlery drawer, finally emerging clutching a large pair of scissors. The blades stabbed and flashed, hacking at the snug black skin, but five minutes of maniacal attack made no impression on the outfit at all.

Sobbing through tears of sheer fright, Martine clattered back into the hallway, her reflection in the mirror by the coat rack seeming to mock her efforts. She stopped, clutching at the doorway of the lounge for support, shaking her head in an attempt to clear her fogged brain.

`It's the drug,' she groaned, through clenched teeth. `It has to be. None of this is real at all. Oh, you bitch, Kerri. You bitch!' She drew in a deep breath, or at least tried to, for the corset was exercising a fierce control over her lung capacity. Slowly, she drew herself upright and stepped determinedly into the lounge, crossing to the drinks cabinet. Brandy, or vodka, it didn't matter. She remembered reading somewhere that alcohol could act as a suppressant on most hallucinogenic substances.

She gulped a treble, hardly tasting the burning liquid and followed it with another almost as generous and then walked to the sofa and lowered herself stiffly onto it. Closing her eyes, she lay back ... and waited.

Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty ... nothing happened.

`Damn!' she rose unsteadily to her feet again, the heels now a real challenge. It was not possible that they could have grown even higher, but it certainly seemed like it. Must be the effect of the drink, she thought, as she swayed unsteadily back into the bedroom.

She stooped awkwardly and retrieved the pen, holding it gingerly between finger and thumb. It had to be faulty. She tapped it against the knuckles of her left hand and tapped it again. Very slowly, she rotated it back ready to try again, but it had hardly begun turning before the hissing sound started again.

Martine recovered consciousness in the middle of the carpeted floor and struggled laboriously back to her feet once again. The pen had rolled under the edge of the bed, but she made no effort to reclaim it again. She stared at it, regarding it as if it was a venomous snake and then teetered over to the wardrobe mirror.

`Oh nooo!' But there was no way of denying the truth. The waist was even tinier now, though strangely the feeling of tightness had faded to almost nothing. The shoulders were now narrower, the hair reaching several inches past them and now almost white blonde. the nose had retreated above even larger lips and they huge eyes stared out to either side of it, the massive lashes looking like two basking spiders.

She turned away, trying to ignore the sight of her tiny, booted feet, only too aware that the heels now forced her to walk almost on tiptoe, but there was worse to come. There were sensations now that were unmistakable.

Hands shaking, Martine peeled the bra cups back as far as they would go, revealing the twin mounds of flesh that had now displaced over half the original padding. In the shadowy recesses, two engorged nipples peered back at her. She gasped, choking back a cough over another cry of horror and her hands flew to the front of her panties.

A bulge, yes, but not what it should have been. Even before she peeled the shiny fabric away, she knew what she was going to find. The limp organ had shrunk to less than a third of its original size and the testicles, in their almost translucent sac, were now little larger than tiny grapes. The slender, gloved feminine fingers descended, lifting, probing, prying. tears welled up again as she felt the unmistakable beginnings of a virgin cleft forming down there, into which the shriveling remnants of the male genitalia were already beginning to retreat.

In a paroxysm of rage, Martine tore at the suspender straps and stockings, but, although they yielded with a little elasticity, they refused to surrender before her onslaught. There was now no doubt at all in her tortured mind; the outfit was fitted to her permanently. It was indestructible, unreleasable - at least by the switch that was provided for that function - and it was steadily changing her body, metamorphosing her into a real and very beautiful female.

She staggered to the phone in the hall through a mist of tears, grabbing up the receiver on the sixth ring. The voice was all too familiar, unmistakable.

`Kerri!' she screamed. `What the fuck have you done!' There was a brief pause and then Kerri came on the line again, her voice calm and soft.

`I take it you've tried on your present,' she said. `What do you think of it, Martine?'

`What do you mean?' Martine screeched back. `Have you any idea what this bloody stuff does?' Another short silence.

`I've got a pretty good idea what it's supposed to do,' Kerri replied, at last. `Though I must admit, I didn't really believe anything the woman said. It was only when she offered not to accept payment until I was satisfied that I decided to give it a try. Even if it was a load of hokum, i thought you'd like the outfit anyway.'

`This is crazy,' Martine wailed, fighting to regain control of her voice. `What is it, some sort of witchcraft, or is it impregnated with some kind of drug?'

`I honestly don't know,' Kerry said, quietly. `I was three parts drunk when I bought it. Like I said, i thought it was a load of bullshit anyway.' Another pause. `But it really does work?'

`Oh yes,' Martine sobbed, `it really does work. You should see me.' There was a gentle laugh from the other end of the line.

`I intend to, beautiful,' Kerri said, very softly. `I'll be there in about an hour. Just be a good girl and make sure the kettle's on. We've got a lot of talking to do, we two girls.'