Chapter 02: Babydoll WhispersGasping for air, g, struggling upwards towards a surface that couldn’t be seen, like a man drowning and lost at sea—I awoke.

  Stucco whorls and dappled spray of light: details of an unfamiliar ceiling. A mp with a pink mpshade. The mattress beh me was too soft. Sheets, smooth and cool. There were muffled voices, at first weak and indistinct, briefly raised in argument and then abruptly gone. Bright sun shrough a window apanied by a gentle breeze. A distant rumble of traffibsp; Hints of familiar smells: a touch of vanil, and flowers, and fading perfume. And finally, a metallic aftertaste at the bay throat. Lig my lips, I found them tacky and sweet.

  Where the fuck was I?

  Turning brought a painful tug at my scalp. Hair, pinned beh me. I had long hair. Reag for it, the sight of my hand: shaped fingernails, smooth and glossy crests extending a timetre past the tip and painted a pearlest pink, highlighted fihat seemed long and slender. I wiggled them bemusedly. Their movement were mesmerising. The hand itself was slim and well-formed. The skin, unblemished as though never knowing blister or scar, bruise or split knuckle, blood or pain. They were very cute hands.

  Sharp pain nced my temple and I winced. This . . . wasn’t right. My hands, they were . . . strong? Calloused. They were violent hands: an image of them curled around a throat. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath.

  Pain receded; I opened my eyes. Those unfamiliar hands led to a dainty wrist, up a lithe arm to a well-shaped shoulder. A delicate blue strap made a pretty trast against pale white skin, leading down to a billowing babydoll that draped off of well-proportioned, rouits.

  I thrashed and kicked and freed my legs from the bed sheets and struggled into a sitting position so quickly that I felt dizzy and saw stars. Blood roared in my ears before I calmed enough for the vertigo to recede. Reag uhe sheer fabrid after a brief hesitation, I cupped the soft flesh that swelled my chest. Breasts. Soft and supple, topped by rge nipples over dimpled and dark areo. I squeezed aheir warmth beh my palm. I felt the grip on my chest. I stared dumbly at the mounds beh my hands. One nipple poked rudely between my fingers. Slender fingers. Pink nails. Breasts.

  Huh.

  I had tits.

  The pain in my temple throbbed, ebbed. None of this seemed right. But why not? Why the rea of a moment ago? Thoughts formed and dispersed, like clouds on a windy day. One arm fell limply at my side as I stared bnkly across the room. The other kept its uain grip on the mound that thrust perplexingly from my chest.

  The boob beh my palm felt real. So did the nails that dug int the soft flesh. Nothing fake, no prosthetics. The presence of those tits was too vivid, the toumediate.

  Why wouldn’t they be real?

  My other hand drifted ay taut stomabsp; The skih that touch was soft, smooth. Fingers crawled over rounded hips and slipped beh the wispy hem of what I wore. Searg, they found a pair of cy panties ah—well, I’m not sure whether what I found there surprised me or not.

  With one hand cupping my tit and the other my cock, I felt a moment of profound fusion.

  Think! I grappled for a name—for my own, which suddenly escaped me. The first hat came to mind ersephone. I shivered. No; that name carried with it pain and shadows and though I khe name was important, it was not my name.

  A moment ter another name forced itself to my lips: dy, anirl’s name. The name brought a flicker of pleasure and familiarity—a fleeting smile to my lips—but somehow it didn’t feel right. The name was—like a Band-Aid pced over a wound.

  Sitting at the edge of the bed, I winced with the effort of thinking through the dullhat darkehe horizons of my mind. Sleep threatened. It would be easier to simply lie down and worry about this ter. It felt strahat the name of two women came first. Despite the cock between my legs, was I actually female? I stared down at those fis. The memory of nimbly hooking a bra behind my back, of supp aling their weight in cy padded cups, fluttered to mind. So, too, the memory of those nails, of sitting back as an expert’s touch painted and shaped them. The phantom arch of heels; the shadow of a corset at my waist. A women’s memories, surely?

  David.

  The name burned away those feminine impressions. Yes! But also: no. No—for a moment, the name felt as wrong as dy’s did—almost more so at first—a hollow, empty name—a dark name, without light; and I was about to throw it aside in favour of something further back. Another name hovered just out of my mind’s reach, a brighter name beyond the horizon—but as I rolled David across the tongue—as I pared it against dy—it became fortable. I decided the name would do. David.

  A man’s name and, looking past those fleshy weights on my chest, a man’s parts; I was definitely male, after all. So how the hell did I end up sitting here in this girl’s room with a girl’s curves, dispyed in gauzy scraps of girl’s clothing?

  Pain: my hand gripped my thigh. Nails dug into a slender but fleshy thigh. Detachedly, I noticed my heavy breathing—nearly hyperventiting—but why? Somewhere in the bay mind a muted voice howled in rage arayal, and fear; and faded and slipped beh an inexorable wave of apathy. The drugged haze—for what else could this foggy detat be?—kept the stro emotions at bay.

  My fist unched. The angry welts left in my skin would fade.

  Gathering strength, I stood—wavered slightly—found my footing and stepped away from the bed. Those tits—my breasts—settled into gravity’s embrace even as the babydoll g to me like a dream, whispered around my thigh and ass like the breath of a lover. Long hair tickled my ned tumbled down the small of my babsp; My gaze drifted around the room with faint curiosity: from rumpled bed to cluttered bedstand; a rickety wicker bookshelf creakih spine-cracked romand suspense novels, a scratched table, a mix of half-melted sted dles aealights. Jewellery boxes erupted strings of cheap pstic treasures. A closet door, decorated with a ripped and mended poster of water lilies, leaned half-open. Within, a mess of dresses, skirts and blouses lurked. A battered dresser, some drawers half opeed with a rainbow of underwear and hosiery, the surface lost beh more half-melted dles, makeup jars and pots and vials and pencils.

  And in the er, half-hiddeh a pastel pink hoodie draped over its edge, a full body-length mirror. A moment’s hesitation and I took a step towards it. The hoodie joihe other clothes on the floor.

  I turhe mirror and stepped in front of it.

  Softness: the first, overwhelming impression was one of softness. Soft shoulders, wide but their prettiness atuated by the delicate strap of lingerie. My skin held a youthful lustre in the early m light. Then those breasts, small but perfectly formed, the dark, round circle of areos and the protuberant nipples pushing out from the ter. They sat high and proud over a taut, smooth belly. Lean hips led to sleek and smooth legs, hairless a of any hard lines of definition or muscle. Aween those legs: a penis, also soft and hanging limp and small in its gauzy blue veil of mesh panties.

  My hair tumbled in a straight, blonde ast my shoulders to mid-back. Framed between this golden cascade, a small and slightly upturned nose ah, lips that were soft and full. A narrow, weak . Thin, curved brows; long, dark shes. Green eyes. A girl’s faot my face, but somehow familiar.

  My legs went weak. I gripped the mirror’s frame. Without its support I would have fallen to the floor. I stared into my refle and sought to know myself. The room started to spin. The girl in the mirror was me; I was the girl in the mirror; but—

  Pain: like a steel bar smmed upside the head—recollected agony of a broken arm—ragged breaths—shattered leg. I winced and sagged. I remembered a punch to the face; a burst of fire in my side. Still gripping the mirror’s frame, I sank to my knees. Babydoll whispers against my high, and staring into the gss, I saw this person, this not-me girl staring back, eyed wide with fusio also—beautiful. Even in panic there was no denying the allure of those eyes, and the meticulous skill of the etics that emphasised that innate beauty. Mascara, eyelihe delicate blending of rose and gold shades, all focused my attention on those expressive emerald depths.

  Deep breath. Release. I leaned forward until my forehead felt the cool touch of the mirror. In leaning forward, I felt the wispy tickle of d the tug of gravity at—my breasts—pulling—me down, towards the floor. The room spun faster, tilted. Nausea rose. I gulped in air. Fingers curled into the carpet. Nails—pretty nails—glittered. Hair tickled my ned fell ay fabsp; My stomach lurched.

  Looking up, I saw this pretty young woman in the mirror on all fours, face a rictus grin of pain, but I focused on the eyes--green, with grey flecks—my eyes; not my face but those were my eyes; this was me. This is me staring into the mirror.

  I am David Saunders.

  And I remembered.

  Author's Notes:

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