Martine slept, but only fitfully, curious and disturbing images thrusting their unwanted way into her semiconsciousness and several times she awoke, her gloved hand feeling for Kerri in the darkness, but finding only emptiness, for they had agreed that Kerri would sleep on the long sofa in the lounge, removing any temptation from the newly created female whose sex drive seemed to have gone into orbit.

`Maybe I can fight this,' Martine had groaned. `Perhaps if I can beat whatever this stuff is trying to do to my mind then my body will start to revert back to what it was.'

`That might be a shame,' Kerri had muttered, but so quietly that Martine had not heard her. Nevertheless, Kerri had made up a makeshift bed and left Martine alone in the bedroom.

The clock radio on the bedside table blinked that it was just before six o'clock when Martine finally gave up the unequal struggle. She swung her legs off the bed, the steepling heels biting into the carpet as she stood and swayed and tottered through to the kitchen. The sleeping form on the sofa did not stir.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, Martine reached behind her and took hold of her hair, which was now down to the level of her pert buttocks. Amazingly, although she had not yet brushed it, the pale, almost white tresses, fell untangled from her fingers and she shook her head in disbelief. The curious outfit seemed to work its powers in so many diverse ways, though thankfully the heels now appeared content to remain at the height they had finally reached the afternoon before.

Not that they could have grown any more without forcing Martine onto absolute tiptoe, ballerina style and yet she had absolutely no difficulty in walking in the boots. The only problem was that they forced her to sway and rotate her hips in a manner that was not just seductive, but absolutely provocative. She poured her tea, added sugar and milk and took the mug with her as she minced past the slumbering Kerri and into the bathroom.

The long mirror revealed little new from the night before, except that maybe, just maybe, her lips were a little more full and pouting and her eyes perhaps, just possibly, were slightly larger. Martine stared at her reflection and suppressed a small sob, for the image that confronted her said one thing and one thing only.

Bimbo.

She placed the steaming mug on the corner of the bath and tried tugging at the gloves, totally unsurprised when they continued to refuse to budge. She stared down at the almost unbelievable orbs that rose from the cups atop the corset and experimentally thrust a gloved finger between flesh and fabric, toying with her right nipple.

The effect was like an electric shock and she withdrew the digit hastily, her hands flying to her mouth, her foot stamping lightly in frustration. If her own touch could produce such an effect, any contact with someone else's hands would be devastating. Not only had the suit turned her into a bimbo, it had altered her entire physiology so that she was now a slave to the demands of her new body.

Anybody, male or female, who understood her secret could turn her into a helpless sex slave with just one touch. Martine shuddered at the prospect and turned to retrieve her tea, but she was not entirely sure that the reaction was one of abhorrence.

`Morning. Sleep well?' Kerri was sitting up on the sofa, the duvet wrapped about her shoulders. She looked slightly bleary-eyed and her makeup had not survived the night too well. Martine was only too well aware of her own reflection, lipstick, mascara, eyeshadow all perfect - the outfit exerted its macabre influence in some strange ways.

`No, I tossed and turned all night,' Martine complained. `My head was full of weird dreams.'

`Damp knickers, was it?' Martine turned away, refusing to take the bait. `Ah well, I'll just have myself a shower and then, if you'd like to make me a cuppa, I suppose we'd better do something about your problem, assuming you haven't changed your mind, that is?' Kerri raised her eyebrows, quizzically, as Martine turned back to face her again.

`You have to be joking,' Martine snapped. `The sooner we get back to that shop and start getting me back to normal, the better. What time does it open?'

`Probably around nine,' Kerri replied, stifling a yawn as she stretched her arms. `But no need to hurry, just in case they don't open till later. No point hanging around the market all morning. Looking the way you do, we'll be fighting off all sorts of propositions.'

`So, where the fuck is it?' Martine hissed, through clenched teeth. Kerri spread her hands and shrugged.

`It was right here,' she said, nodding at the dilapidated shopfront, above the window of which, in faded gold leaf, was the legend Felding's - Ironmongery and Hardware. Through the grime which coated the glass door, they could just make out an ancient cardboard sign, which announced that the place was closed and, to judge from the empty window and what scene of desolation they could make out beyond that, it had been so for some considerable time. From the cafe next door, the jukebox pounded out the bass line of an eighties disco hit, but Martine was not listening to it.

`Well, it's not here now,' she said, stating the obvious and fighting to keep the fear out of her voice. `You must have got it wrong.' Kerri shook her head and turned slowly, her right arm moving in an arc that indicated the entire market place and the ramshackle shop buildings that surrounded it.

`I've been coming here since I was four or five years old,' she stated, flatly. `No way I'm wrong. I know this place like the back of my hand.' Without thinking, Martine raised her own gloved hand and regarded the back of it; the glove was as near as she was currently likely to come to being able to match such a claim. She stepped closer to the door and peered into the dim interior.

`This place has been deserted for a couple of years,' she said. `I may not come shopping here as often as you do, but I can remember when it was open before and that was some time back. You must have made a mistake.'

`No.' Kerri shook her head. `I may have made a mistake,' she said, levelly, `but not over where it was. My mistake was going into the bloody place in the first instance. It was definitely here, sure as I'm standing beside you.'

`So, where's it gone to now?'

`God knows.' Kerri bit her lip. `Under normal circumstances, I'd say it was impossible, but then - ' She turned and looked pointedly at Martine, who shivered, violently.

`I don't believe it,' she whispered. `This means I'm stuck in this bloody thing for ever, that's what you're saying, isn't it?'

`Well, not necessarily,' Kerri said, putting out a hand to comfort her former boyfriend. `I mean, there's got to be a way of getting that costume off you - we just haven't found it yet, that's all.' Martine drew in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

`I'd be prepared to bet every last penny I have that even an oxyacetylene torch wouldn't cut through this stuff, but I'm not prepared to try it, anyway. The outfit would probably remain intact and I'd boil up inside it.'

`Well, we've got to try something,' Kerri pointed out, `unless you want to resign yourself to being a girl for the rest of your life.' Martine's shoulders slumped, but she nodded to the cafe.

`Maybe, just maybe,' Martine said, keeping her voice low enough so as not to be overheard, `I could get used to being a female for the rest of my natural, but not this sort of female.' A group of bikers had come into the cafe and the jukebox was now playing a series of seventies heavy metal tracks.

`This body is an absolute trap,' she continued. `Even that greasy lot could have it away with me, if they knew, and I'd be helpless to stop them.'

`Whoa - slut!' Kerri teased. Martine's pretty features remained set.

`Exactly,' she retorted. `I wish I could get it across to you, but I don't think I have the words to explain.'

`Well, try me anyhow,' Kerri invited. Ten minutes later, she was at least half way to understanding Martine's situation.

`Body and mind in disharmony,' she said, softly. `Yes, I think I can see what you're driving at. Well, there is a possible solution. It won't turn you back into a male and it won't help suppress your body's urges, but at least we can make sure you don't end up with some horrible hairy-arsed pleb's cock up you.'

`The only way you can ensure that,' Martine said, sourly, `would be to lock me in the bedroom and throw away the key.' Kerri smiled, mysteriously.

`Not quite,' she whispered. `But you're getting warm.'

Kerri refused to be drawn further about her idea, remaining annoyingly mysterious.

`I'll meet you back at the flat around teatime,' she said. Martine did not try to hide her displeasure at this.

`And what am I supposed to do meantime?' she said. Kerri made a vague motion with her head.

`I'd strongly advise you to get yourself round to the taxi rank at the back of the station and get straight back home. Watch Aussie soaps or panel games for the rest of the afternoon and keep yourself out of trouble. We should have got you something a little more discreet to wear than that.' She nodded down at the full length leather coat that Martine was wearing.

It was sound advice and Martine almost took it, but, having watched Kerri disappear into the market place throng and turning away in the direction of the railway station, she stopped after only a few tottering steps and turned slowly back again, her eyes travelling over the sea of faces. If the shop really had been there - and she had no reason to think Kerri was lying about that - then surely someone else must have seen it, too.

Her gaze settled on the fruit and veg stall directly opposite the dilapidated building. Behind the barrow, a weathered female of uncertain years was weighing brussel sprouts into a brown paper bag. At her side, a younger woman - really no more than a teenager, though her features betrayed years of experience and hard work - was replacing carrots onto the "flash" from a hessian sack. Swallowing hard, Martine approached the stall with more confidence than she felt, catching the younger female's eye and moving around to the side of the display.

`Yes?' The girl's pale blue eyes narrowed, spreading wrinkles across the tops of her cheeks. Martine felt the two watery orbs boring into her. It was clear that beautiful women, dressed in expensive leatherwear and poised atop skyscraper heels were not part of the everyday scenery around here. She coughed lightly, clearing her throat.

`I wondered if you might be able to help me?' she began. The girl's face remained impassive. `It's just that ... well, that shop over there - ' She jerked a gloved thumb in the direction of the abandoned premises. The girl's thin lips pursed a little.

`What about it?' she asked, her voice rasping. `Yew lookin' fer cheap premises, are yew?' A light suddenly went on in Martine's head.

`Uh - yes, that's it,' she replied. `Yes, cheap premises. Has the place been empty long?'

`Dunno.' The girl shook her unkempt mousey hair. `Coupla years, I suppose. 'Ere, ma, 'ow long's Felding's been gone fer?' The older woman turned, but kept adding to the scales in front of her. `Lady 'ere's lookin' fer a cheap shop,' her daughter went on. The woman shrugged.

`Can't be sure,' she growled. `Two years at least, maybe two and a 'arf. Old man Felding died three Christmases back and the son wasn't that interested, not after he got that lottery win, anyhow. Just upped sticks an' cleared orf. Never even bothered puttin' the place on the market, s'far as I know.'

`So there hasn't been a shop there since?' Martine prompted. The woman looked at her without comprehension.

`Wot, over there? Nah, nuffin since, luv.'

`Not even something short term?'

`Well, Wilf Miller was after openin' it fer Christmas swag lines last year, but no one knew who to get in touch wiv. My ole man suggested maybe goin' in roun' the back and then offerin' rent if anyone did turn up, but Wilf didn't 'ave the bottle fer that.'

`So there's been nothing there over the past few weeks?' Martine persisted. The woman shook her head, emphatically.

`Not whilst I've been standing here and that's four days every week.' Which left two weekdays, plus Sundays, unaccounted for, Martine calculated. But then what sort of a shop opened up for two days and then disappeared again without a trace? Come to that, she thought, as she thanked the mother and daughter and turned away again, what sort of shop sold outfits that trapped the wearer in them and changed their entire physiology?

Despite knowing that her efforts would be in vain, Martine wandered about the market and questioned a few other stallholders, but the story was always the same. David Felding had won a share of the lottery jackpot - four million odd pounds, so the informed opinion said - and had simply diappeared overnight, emptying the shop, selling the three bedroomed house that had been the Felding family home for nigh on fifty years and melting into the ether. As far as anybody knew, the shop had never come onto the market and there was no estate agent appointed to try to resell it.

`You could try down the council, though,' one brighter-than-average stallholder suggested, eyeing Martine with blatant approval. `Someone must be paying the business rates on the premises, otherwise the bailiff's would've been about and I ain't heard anything in that way.' Martine thanked him and drifted away, wondering whether it would be worthwhile walking the half mile to the Civic Offices in her high heels, or whether to head for the taxi rank.

Either way, she was determined to follow up on the man's suggestion, as her only alternative was an afternoon stuck in front of the box watching mindless daytime TV. She paused, considering her options, realising that her feet did not feel at all uncomfortable in the boots. The sky overhead was a clear blue, broken only by the occasional wisp of cotton wool cloud, so she set herself and began walking.

He caught her up after only a few minutes. The fellow from the cheese and egg stall who had suggested the council offices was maybe in his late twenties - early thirties tops, Martine thought - with almost black hair, a square jaw and wide, pleasant eyes that sparkled with the gleam of intelligence that she suspected was mostly kept hidden.

`Mind if I walk with you?' he asked, his wide mouth curving into a pleasant smile that revealed two rows of even, gleaming teeth. `Must admit, I'm a bit curious myself. David got lucky, I know, but why he should just abandon the shop, I haven't got a clue. The way us lot are brought up, no matter how much dosh you've got, you don't waste anything and that shop would fetch a few bob.

`You won't earn your fortune around here, but it's a prime little site, especially with the market on four days a week. I thought about trying for it myself, but the old studies take up a fair bit of my time.'

`Studies?' Martine looked sideways at him. The man grinned.

`Yeah, but don't shout it out around any of this lot. I'm doing one of those Open University courses. This is my third year now. I work daytimes on the old family gaff, then do my college work in the evenings and on my days off.'

`Oh.' It seemed an inadequate response, but Martine found it curiously unlikely that a market trader should be studying for a degree. The fellow sensed her incredulity.

`Yeah, I know,' he chuckled. `Market traders are supposed to be a bunch of gypsies, tramps and thieves, but you'd be surprised. Harry Gilbey's son is an Engineering Consultant, his daughter's a fashion writer and Josh Gilbey's daughter is a surgeon, would you believe.'

`If you say so,' Martine said. The man's grin grew wider still.

`I do,' he said. `Mind you, the Gilbey brothers were always hot on their kids' education and made sure there was no skiving lessons, whereas my old man was more than happy to have me helping him out in the mornings, so I didn't get too many qualifications as a teenager.'

`But you're making up for it now?' Martine suggested, catching the infection in his smile. `What course are you studying?'

`Well, it's a computer based thing, to do with economics and such things. I guess you'd call it a sort of Advanced Business Studies degree, but they've got a series of much fancier names for it.' They walked a few more steps in silence. `I'm Adam, by the way,' he said, eventually. `Adam Foster - Foster and Sons Dairy Products.'

`Martine,' she replied, quietly. `Martine de Lorean,' she added, picking the first fancy name that came to her out of the void. Adam laughed.

`Anything to do with the cars?' Martine shook her head.

`'Fraid not,' she confessed.

`But you're in business?'

`Well, yes.' She hesitated. `Sort of, I guess, but I'd rather not go into details, if you don't mind.' Adam nodded.

`Don't want to tip the opposition to a good idea?' he suggested. For a second or so, Martine was nonplussed, but then she understood what he was implying and smiled up at him, for, despite her extreme footwear, he still stood several inches taller.

`Something like that,' she said. `In any case, this is still only a sort of vague idea,' she went on, adding truthfully: `And I doubt whether you'd believe me if I told you.'

`Try me,' Adam invited. `I'm gullible as anything, I promise.'

`Nobody's that gullible,' Martine assured him, her smile suddenly set into a grimace.