Man Enough To Be Her: Throwback Collection (Patreon)

Man Enough To Be Her

by TG Kadee

Just as on most mornings, Grant was sitting at the table in his underwear, sipping coffee and reading the sports page when the telephone rang.

Picking up the phone, he punched the on button and, cradling it in the nook of his shoulder, said "Grant here," while turning the page to see the rest of the story about the Lions' latest beating.

"Morning," came the bright, clear voice of Mary Jean. "Have you seen the paper?"

"Reading it right now," Grant answered. "Lions lost again. Why they consider that news I'll never understand."

"And I'll never understand why men spend so much time watching that stupid game," Mary Jean shot back. "You should watch something worthwhile-- like soaps."

Grant smiled. "Football is an art, my dear. Pure art."

"Whatever," Mary Jean said. "Have you looked at the ads?"

"No, can't say I have."

"Penney's is having a big sale on bras and panties. I thought you might be interested."

Grant shifted in his chair, glancing down at the full swelling of the breasts that pushed out the front of his white cotton t-shirt. "You know cheap bras are one of my biggest passions,” Grant said. "Cheap bras that breathe with straps that never slide off your shoulder.... comfortable shoes and make-up that stays on all day. Give me those three things and I'd be a happy man."

Mary Jean laughed. She didn't know if he realized it, but when he talked about girl stuff Grant's tone changed ever so slightly. His soft voice seemed to rise a bit and his words lost their harsh masculine edge as he softened the delivery into a pleasing, singsong woman's speech. It was hard for her to believe how far he'd come from macho stud just over a year ago to a man who was not embarrassed to talk about his female needs with a former lover.

"I can pick you up in... say, an hour, and we can do some shopping and grab a bite at the mall? What say?"

Grant considered for a moment.  He and Mary Jean were both on extended leave after the ordeal with Maximus. Deep down, he still loved Mary Jean, even though he knew that there could no longer be anything -- real-- between them. "Why not?" Grant said, speaking his thoughts out loud. "I can’t turn down the chance to spend an afternoon with the woman I used to love."

"Used to? What happened?"

"Still love,” Grant said quietly. "But, more like a sister now."

He hung up the phone, set aside the paper and swallowed down the last of his coffee before getting up and going back to his room to dress. 

I guess she must know I'm still attracted to her, Grant admitted, feeling the phantom stirring of his lost manhood. But, she was smart enough to avoid the subject, knowing how much it hurt him that he couldn't love her anymore. Not the way he was meant to. Not as a man.

Looking in the mirror, Grant pushed the short sleeves on his t-shirt up to his shoulders and, hunching over slightly, flexed his muscles like a body builder. Smooth rounded biceps as slender as a child's barely swelled. His shoulders, themselves, were narrow and delicate. At five seven, Grant was not short for a woman, but neither was he large. He had the long, lanky frame of a teenage colt, with the heavy breasts and substantial hips of a mature woman.

The most unfortunate thing for Grant was his face. He had wide, dark, doe-like eyes that gave him a look of perpetual surprise. His tiny hint of an upturned nose was dusted with freckles and his lips were dewy petals. All in all, he looked like an innocent, gentle girl-- girl, not woman-- and he'd already found that in meetings and strategy sessions people tended to treat him as silly girl and not the ruthless, middle-aged agent that he was inside.

Mary Jean has been instrumental in helping him accept the face and the body. She told him how to turn them into strengths rather than weaknesses. She helped him learn to love himself as this girl.

But, as a man who'd spent his whole adult life as the biggest, strongest, most aggressive man in any group, it had been hard, very hard, to learn to be her. As a man, he'd demanded that people do what he wanted. When people disagreed, he'd intimidated them into submitting.

Now, he got men to do what he wanted by making them think it was their idea in the first place. He flattered them, teased them, stroked their egos. He was learning, learning why women were so manipulative, learning to use a smile and a little leg to get people to do things for him.

But it made him sick and on more than one occasion, after getting the director to agree to a proposal with a little sweet talk, he'd spent an evening crying into Mary Jean's shoulder because it was so unfair to be a woman.

Stripping off his t-shirt, Grant slipped into a cotton bra. Then, he slipped into a pair of lavender slacks and a white silk top. The slacks hugged his hips and fanny tightly, but flared out into bell bottoms at the knee. The blouse fit over his bosom snugly, and fit tightly around his body accentuating his slender figure and tiny waist. It was just a little short, giving people a glance at the smooth, convex tan flesh of his belly. 

"I spend two hours a day working out so I can be fit,” Grant had told Mary Jean. "I might as well show it off."

He kept his hair shoulder length in a cute but manageable hair cut that was feminine enough for Mary Jean without being too girly, so all he needed to do was brush it well and pin it up on one side with a barrette. 

Finally, he sat down at his make-up table and started to apply some light make-up.

Grant had read an article that advocated putting on base almost last. It was a good trick because it allowed a guy to hide any mistakes he made. Grant liked to start with his eye shadow and eye brow pencil, working his way down his face gradually until he had things just the way he wanted.

As he carefully used the eyebrow pencil to darken and accent his delicate brows, brows he had painfully plucked to give them that sine-wave flare women were wearing these days, his mind drifted back to the Maximus Mission, the mission that had gone so terribly wrong and cost him his manhood.

*****

Grant and Mary Jean worked as covert operatives for New Cell, a government agency specializing in the investigation of high technology crimes. As the 20th Century came to a close, the United States had realized that advanced electronics, chemical and bio-engineering technologies were growing so fast that the government couldn't even pass laws fast enough to regulate them. New Cell was formed employing some of the world's most intelligent and well-educated people to infiltrate dubious tech corporations and keep the government abreast of their activities.

In the 1990s, China had distracted the world with false rumors that they were intent on penetrating US nuclear technology and menacing the world with nuclear weapons. In fact, the Chinese considered nuclear weapons to be expensive and useless as tactical weapons. 

While the world worried about the Chinese nuclear threat, the Chinese were actually becoming the world leader in biotechnology-- technology they believed could not only make them the world's greatest super power, but do so without killing a single person.

One of the American branches of the Chinese military’s bio- engineering effort was called Maximus Corps. 

Grant still remembered the meeting where Special Agent Carson had outlined the mission to infiltrate Maximus.

"Based on information one of our operatives uncovered while working on a computer project Maximus outsourced to Soft Tech, we believe it very likely that Maximus may be conducting illegal cloning as well as viral research at their labs in Florida."

An aerial map appeared showing a relatively small compound of buildings and agricultural land. "Maximus built this facility in conjunction with the University of Florida's Institute for Florida Agricultural Science, their overt operation is the help create hardier citrus and livestock. The buildings you see are largely dedicated to this project." 

The aerial map was replaced by a thermal map. Grant smiled when he saw it. There were substantial pockets of heat indicating a huge underground facility. "Drug enforcement?" Grant asked.

Carson nodded. "DEA, doing a routine sweep for the kind of underground thermal activity that indicates marijuana harvesting operations, produced this photo and forwarded it to the FBI, who sent it along to us."

Mary Jean, who had been listening intently, her fingers steepled under her chin, stirred. "A huge underground facility in Florida doesn't seem likely,” she offered. "The state is so close to see level that most homes can't even have basements."

"The thermal evidence says otherwise,” Grant had answered, slightly annoyed. "Can't you see?"

Mary Jean tilted her head to one side and smiled. "I can see just fine. I make the point because there must be something exceptional about this site for it to support a huge underground facility. I just wanted to see if our operatives have checked that out. I'd hate to see us waste our time chasing shadows."

Mary Jean had worked with Grant before and knew him well. He always tried to intimidate the people he would be working with at the start of any assignment. It was a part of his character. He always had to be in charge. Last time, Mary Jean had let the big man intimidate her. This time, she swore to herself, things would be different.

Grant turned his chair to face her, giving her a good look at his chiseled features, cleft chin and, shirt open, a chest that looked as hard and unyielding as a beetle's carapace. He put his hands on the table, hands that were big and hairy, but with long, slender fingers. His forearms were bigger than Mary Jean's calves. "Still angry over our last mission?" He'd asked with a smile.

Mary Jean looked him right in the eye and shook her head. "Why should I be?" 

"Because you argued with me back then, too, and I was right."

"Children, children,” Carson said, chuckling. "Pay attention now."

Grant remembered turning in his chair to face the Special Agent, but he’d been feeling smug. He saw it in Mary Jean's eyes, in her body language. She wanted him. Of course, so did all the other women at the agency. 

That bastard, Mary Jean had thought. What makes him think he's such a great thing?

"We, too, wondered about the depth issue. It turns out that the area this facility was built on was already one of the highest points in Florida. Then, when the state of Florida was trying to build the ill-fated cross Florida canal-- a canal through the middle of the state that would have allowed barges to get from the Atlantic seaboard to the Gulf of Mexico without going around the entire peninsula-- the earth that was dredged out was dumped onto this piece of land.

In addition, when Maximus built the facility substantial amounts of additional fill were brought in at a cost so high that it makes no economic sense at all..."

"Unless you are planning on building a secret research facility,” Grant finished.

"Exactly."

"Do we know who did the contracting? Can we get blueprints?"

"The project was awarded to International Construction, a firm that had only been doing business in Florida about a year before starting the Maximus project. Site plans and other documentation filed with the state show no underground facility. International "went out of business" shortly after completing the project and the executives have all but vanished along with most of the crew."

"The crew vanished? How is that possible?"

"All of the construction workers on the project were foreign workers brought in by International. The labor shortage was sighted as the reason, but substantial donations to the campaigns of key senators as well as the president brought pressure to bear on immigration."

"That should have set off all kinds of red flags." Mary Jean said. "I can't believe no one acted on this."

"The people at justice buried the whole thing,” Carson said.  "Sometimes, you don't know who the enemy is until it's too late."

Grant grunted angrily. "I still can't forgive those bastards for turning in Will Fellows. He'd still be alive if they hadn't leaked his activities to the Russians."

"Let's stay focused,” Carson had said. "We don't want another Turncoat operation."

*****

Grant had finished applying his make-up. Small golden studs, a delicate gold link necklace and a fine golden bracelet finished off his wardrobe and he slipped into a comfortable pair of sandals. Glancing at the tiny gold watch he wore, he saw that he'd taken about 45 minutes to get ready. 

Mary Jean would be here any minute now, so he grabbed his everyday purse and checked to make sure he had everything he might need. Make-up, keys, hygiene products, mace, tissues. Wallet. Everything checked out, so he headed down stairs and was just sorting through the piles of the paper to find the ad sheet Mary Jean had told him about when he heard her pull into the drive way and honk the horn on her little, red, BMW convertible.

Mary Jean waited in her car, listening to the new Madonna song from the Austin Powers soundtrack. She and Grant had rented the video a few weeks ago and had both shrieked and giggled at Powers' hideous teeth and ape-hairy chest. When she'd suggested that was how Grant had looked when he was man he proudly boasted that he pecks were as hard as stone and that he'd always shaved his chest.

"I remember,” Mary Jean had said with a mischievous smile, thinking about the first time they'd made love and how good it had felt, after, to run her hands over that firm plane of solid muscle. 

 Grant, catching the wistful look in Mary Jean's eyes, had suddenly looked very upset and, picking up a pillow, had hugged it to his chest. "I guess I don't have quite the rock hard pecks I used to have," he's said sheepishly as Powers cavorted for the fem-bots.

"At least you don't have to shave it anymore,” Mary Jean had said sassily. Grant rewarded her with a relieved smile.

As Grant came out of the house, pausing to lock the door, Mary Jean watched him sadly. She knew that he still loved her, that he wanted to be a man for her, to bed her as he once had, but looking at the coltish rise of his girlish bottom, the flare of his hips and the soft, fleshy round small of his back, she knew those days were over. Mary Jean loved men... she needed a man... and Grant could no longer fit that bill.

Mary Jean was also a tall woman at five foot ten. Years of playing volleyball-- including four years on college scholarship at UCLA, gave her strong legs, broad shoulders and an aggressive swagger that intimidated most men. In fact, she'd felt confident during her years in college earning a degree in molecular biology that she could have taken most of the men in her classes. Most of the time, she was thrilled to be so big and confident. She thanked God every day that he hadn't made her some little blonde bimbo-- the kind of girl who let her boyfriend insult her and spent all her time worrying about pleasing him and not herself. 

But her social life-- her sex-life-- suffered. When it came to relationships, sometimes she wanted to be... normal. She wanted a man to sweep her off her feet... to ravish her... to make her feel the way women in the movies seemed to feel when the big, strong star wrapped her in his arms and, looking down, kissed her with such ferocity that she got weak at the knees.

It had been exciting, then, to meet Grant who, at six five and 240 pounds of solid muscle, could make Mary Jean feel small and weak and feminine in the way she'd always imagined that normal women felt around their men. It was exciting, even as it was maddening because Grant wanted to take that dynamic and apply it outside the bedroom, expecting her to be 

just as much his woman when they were out in public as when they were alone, making love.

Both of them knew when they went undercover together as research scientists at Maximus Corps that it was a mistake to have a relationship. 

Neither cared. They rationalized that their affair would throw off any suspicions on the part of Maximus. Everyone, after all, knew that agents would never let a romantic involvement compromise a mission.

One time after a very nasty argument at a restaurant, they'd driven home in utter silence. Grant had been pushy, demanding, speaking to Mary Jean as if she were a little girl in front of the staff and the nearby tables. She'd told him to stop being an ass. That she was a grown woman and wouldn’t tolerate him speaking to her that way.

When they'd arrived home, the tension had been unbearable and Mary Jean, slipping into a negligee, had decided to kiss and make-up. When Grant saw her coming down the stairs in her silk and heels, those long, powerful athlete's legs seeming to go on forever, he'd stared at her, his face angry, almost vicious, animal.

Mary Jean had matched his look, her own face, framed by her long black hair, a snarl of sexual aggression. Grant had met her at the bottom of the stairs, grabbing her wrists and pinning her against the wall spread eagle. 

Mary playfully struggled to escape Grant's grip, but he was a force, a machine, and he pushed his body against hers, crushing her against the wall. Noses just barely touching, they stared deeply into one another’s eyes, Mary's angry but inviting, Grant's hungry, eager.

When their mouths met they were hot, their tongues meeting and pleasure exploding as if someone had thrown open the door to a blast furnace. Grant had seized hold of Mary carried her upstairs while she lay cradled in his arms passive as a child. Then, he'd tossed her on the bed and come after her like a fury, tearing off her negligee and bringing her, thrashing and squirming, to a climax that exploded within her like Roman candle.

Now, as Grant put his keys back in his purse, slung it on his shoulder and walked over to the passenger side of the car, his hips and breasts swaying in subtle counter-point, she thought wistfully that she could now take him, throw him to the ground and hold him there, thrashing in pleasure as she.... 

Grant slid gracefully into the passenger side of the car, and leaned over to give Mary Jean a kiss on the cheek. They'd always greeted themselves in the continental style and, though when he first started turning into a woman he'd refused to let anyone touch him, once he'd adjusted to his new body they'd gone back to the old greeting. "It's so good to see you," Mary Jean said, touching Grant gently on the forearm. "I love that outfit."

Grant smiled prettily. "Thanks. That skirt is really cute, too. I haven't seen that before."

"I bought it... oh, ages ago. I just haven't had a good excuse to wear it before. I see you're still sticking with your pants."

"They're slacks,” Grant said defensively. "And I wear skirts sometimes."

"Don't be so defensive,” Mary Jean said, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the drive."

*****

When Grant had first returned to mainstream society after his change-- and it had only been a matter of months-- he wore his old male clothes. At first, he just rolled up his pant legs and sleeves. He'd even had a suit and a sports coat re-tailored to fit his new frame. He did everything he could to hide his figure, to appear blocky and manish. Yet, as he’d found his new sex, his new voice, his new face just weren't being taken seriously, he'd gone to Mary Jean in tears.

"Everyone treats me like a little girl,” Grant had sobbed in his sweet, clear alto. "At meetings, everyone ignores me. The men tease me... the women even worse.” He’d held out his little hands, palms up and said, “I just don't think I can go on living like this."

Mary Jean, looking into his wide, tear-filled eyes, just felt so bad for the little thing. He looked for all the world like a young girl... he literally had a doll face even down to the cute little freckles scattered across the bridge of his tiny nose. It was the face of a girly-girl, the kind of woman who becomes a kindergarten teacher or a nurse. It was the kind of soft, innocent face that men wanted to take care of, not the kind they were prone to take orders from.

Mary Jean had reached out and wiped a tear gently from Grant's cheek. Then, taking his small, slender body into her arms, she'd given him a kiss on the forehead and said, as his body was wracked with sobs, "there, there. Have a good cry, baby. Let it all out."

When Grant had stopped crying, Mary Jean had gotten him a cup of cocoa and, as he sat curled up on the couch sipping it, she'd said, "honey, if you are going to make it in that body, with that face, you are going to have to change."

Grant, glancing sideways out of the corner of his eyes while putting the cup to those sweet lips and blowing gently on the steaming liquid, said, “what do you mean?" He felt comfortable around Mary Jean. He knew that she would not make fun of him, that she cared about him, that she loved him as a human being. He needed to believe in someone. In something. He was frightened and confused and ready to put himself in her care.

"Honey," Mary Jean had said leaning forward. "You have to start being more of a woman. More of a girl. The way you used to do things, the way you used to relate to people, those ways worked for a man, but now you are a young woman and, if you want to be successful, you need to start using your strengths as a woman."

Grant's face had darkened. "Mary Jean, you know what kind of man I am," he said. "I'm a hunter. A fighter. I can't...."  

"You have to,” Mary Jean had said. "You're not a man anymore, sweetie, and biology is destiny."

*****

As Mary Jean maneuvered her car along the road, dodging in and out of traffic, she glanced over to see Grant checking his face in the vanity mirror behind the passenger-side sunshade. Pursing his mouth, he raised a delicate finger and wiped carefully at the edge of his bottom lip, trying to make sure the line of his lipstick hadn't smudged. Yes, Mary Jean thought, 

He has come a long way.

A group of boys in an old Mustang Convertible roared by, the boys all turning to gawk at Grant and Mary Joe. Their slender chests shirtless, they waved and howled, Grant heard one of them shout "hey, baby."

He and Mary Jean gave each other a glance, rolling their eyes. "Boys are so stupid at that age,” Mary Jean said.

Grant ran a hand through his golden hair. "They don't even have any muscular definition," he growled. "Momma's boys need to hit the weight room. When I was that age, I could already bench press 300 pounds." He playfully made a muscle, his slender arm looking soft and round in the sleeveless blouse.

Mary Jean smiled. "I wonder how those boys would feel if they knew that they were waving at a girl who used to be a guy?"

"Let's not go and tell them, OK?"

As Mary and Grant entered the Penny's, they were both relieved at the rush of cool air that washed over them. Summer in Florida was hot and steamy. Penney's was pretty crowded-- it was a good sale. Mary Jean led Grant into the underwear section, pausing briefly to nod at a rack of training bras. They were white and modest, the only frill being a little pink ribbon right in the center of the cups.

"Oh my God,” Grant said. "It's the same one. Who knew the Chinese spies bought at Penny's?"

"Further proof of the global economy,” Mary Jean answered. 

Picking up one of the hangers, she found the tag on the bra and showed it to Grant. 

Made in China.

"That explains it,” Grant said, taking the hanger from Mary Jean and holding it in front of his now ample chest. "Guess I need something bigger now. Hard to believe how embarrassed I felt when I had breasts this size."

Mary Jean saw that he was blushing at the memory and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You were different then. The change was new. Everything."

After the Chinese had captured Grant and Mary Jean, they'd made Grant into a subject of their experiment. Introducing a virus into his system that was programmed to cause his body to completely reform itself in the image of a young woman, they'd also worked on conditioning and humiliating Grant as the transformation progressed. The Chinese scientists not only hated Americans, but they were sexists as well and took great pleasure in torturing this budding woman who had killed several of their closest friends and operatives.

The Chinese intended to release Grant back to the United States Government as part of an exchange to get back some Chinese spies the US had in custody. They also wanted to scare the bee Jesus out of their American rivals by showing that they could turn even one of their strongest agents into a woman.

Mary Jean vividly remembered the day that Grant had come back to the cafeteria wearing his first training bra. Grant's face still looked pretty much the same as it had, though he'd lost his beard. He was a little shorter and smaller, but he’d still had the angular body of a man the last time she’d seen him.

He walked into the room, slouching, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. The Chinese had dressed him in a pale yellow tank top with white straps that glowed against his dark tan. As was usually the case, they’d made him wear a knee length skirt and pink and white Nike shoes.

Mary Jean still felt guilty because some part of her had really enjoyed seeing Grant suffer through his change, even as another part hurt for all the pain her lover was going through. "How are you doing today?" She asked, trying to make her voice as neutral as possible. Grant would get very upset with her if she seemed to treat him with any pity.

"Horrible," he'd said, throwing himself into a chair across from her.

"What is it?"

Grant raised his eyes to her and she thought she'd never seen him look more pained. More miserable. He'd let his folded arms fall from his chest and there they has been-- two little cones of soft flesh. His breasts. 

Mary Jean had immediately noticed that the man's cute little breasts were encased in a bra.

The look on Grant's face had been to die for. He looked like he’d just heard that his best friend had died, that he'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness and that he dog had died all in the same day. She could see he was taking it hard. Very hard.

Struggling not burst out laughing, Mary Jean softened her look and, tilting her head, said "do you want to talk about it?" Inside, a part of her was saying, so he has tits. Big deal. It's not the end of the world.

Grant shrugged, his little breasts rising as his shoulders pulled at the straps of his bra. "What is there to say?"

"This has to be so hard for you."

"It's... hard,” Grant grunted. "I mean, you know what kind of man I am. What do you think this does to me?"

"When did it happen?"

"They... started... not long after they started the treatments. But, they have really seemed to grow the last few days. They got a lot bigger this past week." He looked down at his tiny breasts as if he were talking to them. "I didn't want to believe that they were real, that this whole process was real, but I guess I have to face facts now."

"Have the Chinese researchers seen them?"

"Today,” Grant nodded tragically. "When they... examined me... they made me wear..."

"What?"

"A bra. That's also why they seem more noticeable, I think. I have a bra on under my shirt."

Mary Jean smiled to herself. Based on the way he'd hesitated when he mentioned the examination, she suspected that he big tough man had just had his first experience with being felt up by a man. Now, sitting there all weepy as he talked about wearing a bra, he looked just like a lost puppy.

"Let me see,” Mary Jean had said.

Grant put his arms over his chest defensively. "No. I can't let you or anyone see."

Mary Jean had stood, gone around the table and gently taken Grant’s arms away from his chest. "Don't be embarrassed. Don't be shy. I want to see. I may be able to give you some advice."

Grant had hesitated, then said, "Promise not to laugh?"

"Grant, you know I'm not like that."

With a sign of resignation, Grant had grabbed the bottom of his tank top and pulled it over his head. Mary Jean, keeping her face as blank as possible, took in the sight of the delicate white straps on his big, muscular shoulders, the dimpled flesh of his breasts encased in the white cotton cups... and the little pink bow right in the middle of his perky, budding breasts.

Her face cracked. She put a hand to her mouth to hide the smirk.

Grant, blushing a deep red crimson, put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. "I do look ridiculous, don't I?"

They both laughed, Mary Jean even giving Grant a light, arms only hug. "You poor guy. We have to get you out of here before this goes any further."

Grant started to struggle with the bra, trying to free himself from its constrictive presence, but Mary Jean stopped him.

"Wear it and get used to it. When they get bigger, you'll be glad."

"They can change my body,” Grant said, “but they can't change my mind. I'm not going to start dressing the part. This is ridiculous."

"Grant,” Mary Jean had said, "be brave. Don't fight them on little battles like this one. I really think that, in the long run, you'll be better off if you just wear the bra and don't make a fuss over it."

Grant was trying to pull the bra off over his head, the same way he would a shirt.  Mary picked up his yellow tank top and handed it to him. 

"Just keep it on."

"I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous. You even laughed at me."

"Be brave,” Mary Jean had said softly. "Do it for me, okay?"

The word brave caught Grant's attention. He took the tank top from Mary Jean and pulled it back on, the top tight enough to highlight his small breasts. "I'll do it for you," he said.

"That's the big strong man I know and love."

But, when she'd reached out to touch him, he'd pulled back defensively. "Not now," he said. "I don't feel... right."

Mary looked at Grant now as he hung the little training bra back on the rack. His breasts had, indeed, grown. Now, they were firm mounds of flesh the size of good cantaloupe and fit his slender frame perfectly. It was that day that Mary had figured out the strategy that she would use to encourage Grant along in his process. Each time he balked, whether at wearing a dress, doing his make-up or wearing heels, she would challenge his manhood. 

"You stormed a machine gun nest single-handedly with nothing but a pistol and a Bowie knife," she challenged him scornfully when he'd stood quaking outside Victoria's Secrets. "Now are you telling me that you don't have the courage to try on a teddy?"

Or, "I can't believe the same man who took on the Yakuza's chief assassin single-handedly is afraid to put on lipstick. Come on, Grant, be a man."

Grant had relented, each and every time, eager to prove that he was brave enough to be a woman.

As Grant and Mary Jean made their way back to the adult section, Grant turned to her and said, "I always wondered why the Chinese didn't keep us separated more. Didn't they know we would try and plan an escape?"

Mary Jean nodded, but put finger to her lips and shushed Grant. "We probably shouldn't talk about that here."

Grant nodded.

Mary Jean had often wondered the same thing. She had two theories.  Either the Chinese lack of respect for women-- and once the treatment started they did consider Grant a woman-- or else they wanted her to see what they did to him. Maybe they wanted her to be a witness so that anyone who doubted that this crazy little girl who came back claiming to be Grant would have a witness to rely on in addition to the photo and other evidence.

Yet, as the woman with her picked over a rack of lacy silk bras, her face smiling and eager, Mary Jean herself wondered, could this really be the hard as nails killer I remember? Could this sweet little thing really be Grant?

"What do you think of this one?" Grant asked, holding a bra toward Mary Jean for approval.

"That doesn't look like your style," she said, noting the filmy, lacy cups. 

"I meant for you,” Grant answered. "I don't have any use for sexy underwear."

"If you want to make it in this world as a woman..." Mary Jean started to say.

"I know, I know,” Grant answered. "I have to be sexy. But I don't plan on letting anyone see my underwear."

"A guy can tell when a woman feels sexy. Even if he can't see the sexy bra, he can tell you are wearing it by the way you move, the way you act."

Grant bit his lower lip and held the bra out where he could get a better look. "Maybe I should try it?"

"That style of cut will really enhance your bust line. Do wonders for you in the board room."

"Now,” Grant said, "you're talking my language."

Part 2

 Grant threw the delicate, lacy garment over his shoulder and continued to wander among the racks, gravitating, as always, toward the sports bras. He loved sports bras, not only because he was still a gym rat who worked out at least two hours a day, but because, he said, "they are the most masculine place a man can put his breasts."

Though Grant had changed a lot, he still retained many of the same personality traits he'd had before the change.  All of them had taken on subtle shadings as a result of the demands of the female reality he now confronted, but they were the same basic impulses. He still worked out, for example, but his work-outs focused much more now on endurance and flexibility-- areas where he could still outperform most men. More than once Mary Jean had seen Grant one up some guy by dropping into a full split and raising his eyebrows in an arch challenge. So far, none of the guys down at the New Cell gym had taken him up on the challenge, and she knew Grant was fiercely proud of the fact that he could also beat most of them when it came to any kind of distance training.

Weight training was another matter. Grant knew that he could never beat the heavy lifting males in a competition of upper-body strength and had toned down his upper-body workouts to include only light weight training to build tone and lean musle.

He was the same guy now that he was a girl-- competitive and eager to be the best.

Sighing to herself, Mary Jean followed along with Grant. He holding up plain, dowdy bras, she shaking her head no and offering him wonder bras and push-ups instead. For herself, she was planning on wearing a strapless cream gown to the retirement party of Special Agent Wilson and wanted just the right look and feel. She also wanted to get some racier things for...herself.

The racks were made out of a glossy, hard polished stainless steel. It was very much like the steel doors that barred entrance to the underground lab at Maximus Corporation. As she whispered and laughed with Grant, she glanced over and saw the reflection of his pretty face in the rounded contours of the rack, and she thought back on their infiltration of the Maximus operation.

**********

 Grant and Mary Jean had arrived at Maximus under the guise of visiting professors from the American University in Washington D.C. Maximus had been brilliant in setting up their operation as an extension of IFAS, which had similar research facilities in almost every Florida county, but there cover was also a serious problem for their security people. The 

IFAS connection meant that the upper levels of their operations were open to visits from University of Florida administrators as well as other faculty connected to the college.

Visiting professors from all over the world came to IFAS, so it was a simple matter for the operatives at New Cell to revive a couple old cover identities and arrange for them to be given access to the Maximus facility for one academic year.

The two had flown in together to Orlando International Airport and picked up a car rented for them by IFAS. After a day of meetings with IFAS people up in Gainesville, the two had driven down to the location of the Maximus lab for orientation before being shown to a pair of town houses that had been secured for them during their stay.

After a much needed shower, Mary Jean had put on her sweats and unpacked what things she'd been able to carry in her suitcase and overnight bag. For the sake of her cover, much of what she's brought was the paraphernalia of the scholar including books, notebooks, a small tape recorder, log books. Digging through this material, she unearthed a slender 

Laptop computer which she plugged in next to her desk.

Once the laptop beeped to life, it immediately booted up and began to run a program called "Fly Swatter." Within minutes, the ultra-powerful, custom made machine displayed a schematic of the townhouse. There were three spots flashing a dangerous red and two others yellow. The red flashes were hot spots-- places the probes in the computer recognized as containing eavesdropping devices. The yellow spots were areas the computer wasn't certain about.

Mary Jean left clicked on the red spots and a drop-down window appeared under each one explaining the type of device the computer believed to be present. The motion detector in the town house's built-in security system contained a camera, the phone had a bug and there was a listening device planted in the closet as well.

Mary Jean, as casually and a naturally as she could, checked the two yellow areas-- one was clean, but there was a sensor on the back door that would send a signal somewhere-- Mary Jean suspected she knew where-- whenever it was opened or closed.

Maximus did not want anyone sneaking out a back door. Mary Jean turned off the Fly Swatter program and let Windows initialize. The location and the nature of the bugs, she mused, what do they tell me? Medium security, she decided. The bugs were in obvious locations, places that an amateur spy could have found them with a visual search. That suggested to her that she and Grant were being surveilled at a level that was standard for all visitors. There was some concern that anyone who came to Maximus might breach security, but no special attention to the two of them.

That was good. It meant that they were unlikely to be tailed and could arrange meetings in secure places as necessary. It meant, to her mind, their mission had a high likelihood of success. 

As per their instructions, Grant and Mary Jean did nothing for the first week but scout out the territory. Working in their assumed identities, they interacted with the other researchers at the facility and did what would be expected of them. All the while, however, they each took every opportunity to look and listen, trying to find out where the entrance to the underground base was and how they could gain access.

The mission seemed to be going fine, but things between Grant and Mary Jean were not. As Mary Jean had expected, Grant was all bluster and testosterone, trying to boss her around and demanding that they always do things his way.

One night soon after they'd arrived, Grant had asked Mary what time she wanted to meet for breakfast. 

"How about 6:30?" She said, since that was the time they always met anyway.

"No, I want to meet at 6:00 this time," he said gruffly, the tone in his voice inviting a challenge.  

Mary Jean has simmered inside, knowing that Grant had only asked her this time so he could overrule and show his authority.

The last time Mary Jean had gone on a mission with Grant, she'd fought him every step of the way. Teeth barred, nose to nose, the two of them had gone round and round and round until Grant has almost threatened to scuttle the mission if Mary Jean didn't follow his "orders."

Mary Jean had not wanted the mission to fail and, swallowing her pride and reservations, had gone along with Grant's plan which had, in the end, worked out.

But, Mary Jean had promised never to let Grant bully her again. That mission had taught her an important lesson-- Grant thrived on conflict. He'd loved it when she fought him, it thrilled him. She, on the other hand, thrived on a successful mission. The arguments, to her mind, were a waste of time and energy.

By allowing Grant to set the terms of the debate, by fighting it on his grounds, she'd lost the battle before it ever started.

This time, Mary Jean had a different strategy. She'd gotten the idea while browsing through a catalog of German Romantic paintings. One of the paintings had been of a sylph, a beautiful female forest creature, sitting in a huge flower and singing. In the dark, wooded distance, the reader could see a savage woodsmen, but he was dropping his ax from his hands and staring at the beautiful creature in rapture.

Instead of fighting Grant, this time Mary Jean had been coldly indifferent, not agreeing or disagreeing with him but just giving off an air of boredom. She had also begun mildly flirting with Dr. Corey Holloway, a single professor at the research center, a guy who was the exact opposite of Grant-- short, slender, and bespeckled with a mild case of asthma. Corey loved to sing songs from Mozart or Wagner operas while he worked with the animals, a fact that drove Grant-- and a few others-- crazy.

Grant wanted, no, needed, to control people. He especially wanted to control women. It wasn't a malicious kind of control and he wasn't intentionally abusive, but he was the kind of guy who measured his own self-worth in terms of his ability to be the King Stag, the leader of the pack.

Mary Jean's indifference had at first annoyed and that annoyance had sparked into a tiny flame of anger. He knew what she was doing, but when she treated him with no more regard-- when she showed no more interest in him than she would show in her uncle-- that anger had become a brush fire. Finally, seeing her with that spindly, four eyed geek had created in Grant a blazing inferno.

He had to have Mary Jean. He fantasized about it-- him taking her, she moaning in passion, she, weak-kneed, clinging to his side, staring up at him in abject admiration. He would make her his woman.

Mary Jean had been patient. Coy. She enjoyed talking with Corey--he was a dear, sweet man, but when she went to bed at night she thought of Grant and his body corded with muscles like steel belts. She wanted his body, too, but even more than that she intended this time to win the war of wills between them.

Grant, desperate to conquer Mary Jean, began to capitulate. He let her choose the times of their meetings. He agreed to her ideas. He fought back his urge to win every test of wills and instead focused on what he considered winning the battle. 

Whenever she saw him in those days, Mary Jean fought back the urge to say, "Welcome to my web."

Finally, Mary Jean had allowed Grant to touch her in the car. They'd kissed and stroked one another, but after a time, too long a time, Mary Jean had separated herself from the big man and slid out the passenger side door. 

"Why don't you come over to my place?" Grant had said.  

"We can't do this. You know why." Mary Jean had practiced the line a dozen times. Both knew that a sexual liaison during a mission was a terrible idea. Mary Jean planned on keeping Grant on a leash for the rest of the mission then, when they were done and back at headquarters, she'd freeze him out completely. 

Grant rubbed his hands over his face and got out of the car, heading back to his own house. "Guess I'll need a real long cold shower," he said. 

"Wow." 

It was about 2 am when Mary Jean, tossing and turning, feeling like her bed clothes were choking her to death, realized that she's been fooling herself. She threw on her house robe and went over to Grant's place. On the second knock, Grant threw open the door, took her in his arms and swept her up the stairs to his bedroom.

*********

 Mary Jean smiled to herself as the memory flooded back on her, her hand creeping to her throat as she felt her face go flush. With her other hand, she felt at the padded cup of a plain white cotton bra. God, but he'd been a man.

"What are you thinking about?" Grant said sweetly, looking up at Mary Jean who started with embarrassment. "Have you been using that Herbal Essences Shampoo or something?"

Mary Jean laughed, but rolled her eyes away from Grant, worried that he might see something there, might suspect something. "Just got a hot flash,” she said, "but I'm too young to go through menopause."

Grant just laughed lightly and shook his head. "I think I've found what I wanted. I'm going to try some on in the dressing room, just to be sure."

"Let me see what you have."

Grant showed her the under wear he intended to purchase. Mary Jean nodded her approval. "You're doing better, kid," she said, giving Grant's shoulder a squeeze.

Grant smiled. "I thought you might complain about the Maiden Form "slender look." You're always pestering me about showing off my bust line."

"Most of the time, but the slender look has come into style lately with all those emaciated models and actresses. They have bodies more like teen-age boys than women."

"Don't you hate it?" 

Grant and Mary Jean turned around. A perky blonde salesgirl was behind them. Her nametag read "Savannah."

Savannah continued. "It's so frustrating that we don't have any normal women to look up to anymore. Whatever happened to Mary Tyler Moore?"

Grant and Mary Jean both laughed politely. Mary Jean continued. "Men are never satisfied. They always want us either bigger or smaller than we are by nature. Dolly Parton or Kate Moss."

"My ex-boyfriend kept bugging me,” the girl said, "he wanted me to get a boob job. I told him he should get it. If men had to deal with big breasts, they'd understand what they are asking for is not only self-mutilation, but a real pain in the... back."

Mary Jean and Grant glanced at each other. Burst out laughing.

"What is it?" The girl asked, glancing back and forth between the two women.

Grant moved toward and smiled. "It's so refreshing to hear you say what so many of us are thinking is all. Men really don't have a clue."

The three girls moved closer together then, Grant and Mary Jean asking a few polite questions before the girl moved off to help some other customers. Grant watched her go, her cute behind twitching in a tight pair of slacks, her golden hair swaying.

Grant was flush with pleasure from the conversation, but as the young woman left he felt a familiar twisting in the pit of his stomach. She was a beautiful young woman. There had been a time that, upon meeting him, she would probably have gotten all wide eyed and fawning, admiring his massive chest, his huge arms.

He would have enjoyed her attention, spoken to her, sized her up and... Yes, this one he might have asked out.

Now, all he could do was share secrets about lingerie and whisper conspiratorially about those annoying.... men. He knew he was a woman now and he had gone a long way toward accepting that, but, God, how he missed being a man.

How many mornings had he sat down on a frigid toilet seat to pee and cursed the day he lost the ability to pee standing up?

And his mind didn't help as, like a soldier who still reaches down to scratch his leg twenty years after using it, he still sometimes felt his manhood between his legs though he knew it wasn't there.

Mary Jean caught the wistful look in Grant's eyes and put an arm around his shoulder. "It's still hard, isn't it?"

Grant looked up into her eyes and smiled. It was good to have a friend who cared so much. For a moment, he enjoyed the familiar warmth of that body so close to his own, the smells of Mary Jean's perfume and shampoo, smells he knew and loved. He gave her a small hug back and then pulled away before those familiar feelings turned from comforting to painful.

"I'm going to go try my stuff on," Grant said, turning and heading enthusiastically toward the dressing rooms.

"I'll be along in a minute,” Mary Jean said, laying her own things out on top of rack and trying to figure out if she could afford them. But, she also wanted to give Grant some time alone.

In the confines of the dressing room, Grant let out a sigh and unbuttoned his top. There was a time when the idea of trying on his intimate apparel seemed repulsive. Other people might have been wearing this things, after all. But he'd purchased enough bras that pinched, or with straps that sagged excessively, or that just wouldn't adjust enough to accommodate the occasional fluctuations on his size that he'd finally realized he really had to try these things on before buying them.

Nothing could make him crankier than to go through a day having the soft flesh at the base of his breast constantly pinched by a cruel piece of cotton.

The twisting feeling in his stomach remained, though, and as he tried on his purchases, testing them not only for comfort but examining his profile and imagining how they would look under his favorite dresses and blouses, he remembered the first time he'd really felt that twisting in his stomach. It had been worst time, the time he'd had his first period.

*******

 The exterior of Grant's body looked entirely female and had looked that way for 2 weeks. Grant's captors at Maximus, however, assured him that there were still changed going on inside his body as new organs blossomed and took form. When these changes were complete, Dr. Wei Zhang had told him, “you will finally be a woman."

Dr. Zhang was the leader of the bio-engineering project. Working with a group of roughly two dozen scientists at the Maximus Lab in Florida and literally hundreds of scientists around the world, Zhang had perfected  the device that allowed the Chinese government to create designer viruses capable of anything from minor adjustments in a patient's metabolism to the 

kind of wholesale sex-change they'd performed on Grant.

Grant was sitting on an examination table in nothing but his panties, his paper privacy gown lying on a chair by the door. Dr. Zhang, his hands icy cold and powdery, was carefully feeling each of Grant's now fully developed breasts.

Grant had his eyes on the ceiling, his face still flush with embarrassment though he had now been examined many times. Dr. Zhang, to his credit, always approached the examination with professional detachment. Grant appreciated that as well as the gentle nature of his exam. 

Zhang’s professional demeanor was such an improvement over some of the other scientists that he was more than happy to forgive the man his frigid fingers.

Grant thought that one of the other scientists, who called himself Take, was a woman hater. It had been Tak who'd administered Grant's first breast exam, at first kneading and massaging the breasts like a lover, even breathing hotly on Grant's nipple, but who had finished by seizing the soft flesh and twisting it cruelly, grinning when a surprised Grant had yelped in pain.

"No sign of cancer in either of the breasts."

The nurse, a huge man named Hideko who still bore a scar above his brow from a fight with Grant before the change, nodded and noted the fact on his clipboard.

"How did the blood test turn out?" Dr. Zhang asked while handing a grateful Grant his paper robe.

"Blood samples tested negative. There are no signs of any problems."

Dr. Zhang pulled a stool up next to Grant and sat down, taking off his glasses. "There are no signs of cancer. All your systems are functioning normally. You are perfectly healthy for your age and... sex. It looks like the procedure has been a complete success."

Grant, glancing in the examination room mirror at the slender young woman he had become, shook his head. "Forgive me if I fail to find the success in this procedure."

Dr. Zhang, eyes softening just a bit with guilt, nodded. "I understand your resentment. I would feel the same. You were a pawn in all this, Grant Steele, simply a convenient subject that happened to come along at just the right time."

"We could have killed you, you know. We didn't."

"Sometimes I wish you had,” Grant said softly. "I don't know if I can live like this."

"Grant, you must understand that while the research we do here does have military applications, it also will bring tremendous benefits to all humankind. I will be able to use what I learned-- and confirmed through my tests on you-- to cure diseases in children while they are still in the womb. Imagine that. You have helped improve the lives of millions."

Grant saw himself in a 22nd Century history book, a before and after picture showing the man he'd been and the woman he'd become. He felt dizzy. Was the whole world going to know about this experiment?

"What are the military applications?" Grant asked softly, looking directly into the doctor's eyes. "Is this part of some breeding program? To create a huge, unstoppable army? Eugenics? I just can't see how what I have been through is going to be a strategic tool."

"That's classified,” Dr. Zhang said, standing. "Take her back to her room."

Hideko hovered protectively over Grant's small frame as the two walked through the corridors and back to Grant's room. A few of the male scientists smiled wickedly at Grant. One even whistled, but a nasty glance from Hideko shut him up. The female staff members often smiled and said "hi” prettily, but something about their tone and body language told Grant that for them there was some pleasure in his plight-- somehow, he thought, their own built-up resentments toward men had all been satisfied by his own transformation.

Hideko opened the door to Grant's room and held the door for him.  Grant glanced at the big man and smiled. "Thanks."

In one of the oddest turn-arounds in Grant's life, Hideko had gone from being his biggest male rival to having a bit of a crush on him. It had been Hideko who, proving to be Grant's physical match, had beaten him down in a fist fight and subdued him during he and Mary Jean's botched attempt to penetrate Maximus' underground base.

Now, Grant felt embarrassed and confused at the huge man's gentle attention and desperate looks of longing. They weren't sexual looks, either, not like the leering of some of the men. They were the open, sad eyed looks of a puppy who desperately wanted to be loved.

Hideko lingered at the door as Grant walked into his small quarters and Grant turned, raising an eyebrow in inquiry. "I know how they plan to use this to win the war,” Hideko said quietly.

Grant's spy training took over immediately. He had to have this information. Sitting down on the bed, he patted a spot next to him. "Come sit down."

Hideko hesitated. What was he doing? This was an enemy agent. 

He could be in serious trouble if it was discovered that he leaked top secret information. Better to walk away, he told himself. Go take some aspirin.

But then he glanced up at the smooth, tan thighs emerging from Grant's green gown, caught a glimpse of the delicate calves and then, blushing, came into the room, letting the door shut behind him.

"I shouldn't do this,” Hideko said, sitting down on the bed, his head pulled into his thick neck shyly like a turtle.

"Grant shifted his position, smiling gregariously. "Please tell me," he said. "As long as I’m here I can't tell anyone anyway. What difference does it make?"

Hideko glanced at the pretty little woman next to him. He liked the way her eyes sparkled. He also knew that she would be leaving the base in another few months. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I promise,” Grant said without hesitation.

Hideko cursed himself for a fool. This was not just some girl, it was a secret agent. Of course he would tell everyone. He reached up and let his finger run across the leathery ridge of scar above his eye, the place where the old Grant had marked him.

Hideko now outweighed Grant by at least 140 pounds. He was also almost a foot taller. His body wasn't as chiseled as Grant's had been, but instead featured of the bulging muscles of a man who lifted for power and not looks. 

Somewhere deep inside him, a little voice was telling Grant to be very careful. Hideko could over power you now in a second, it said. You wouldn't stand a chance. If you screamed loud enough, someone might come, but do you really want to take that chance?

Another part of him, though, seeing Hideko's soft, boyish glances, seemed to melt. He noticed that Hideko was touching the scar, the scar that he, Grant, had given the big man. Reaching up, Grant gently brushed the hair from Hideko's forehead, took the big man's hand away from the scar and ran his own slender finger along its length.

"I'm sorry I did that now,” Grant said softly. "It was just business."

Hideko grunted. "You were a worthy opponent. Rarely in my time have I met a man who could match me physically? You were only the third. The other two are dead."

"You know,” Grant said, "you only got lucky with that kick. I'd take you two out of three."

Hideko smiled. "You joke about it, but it is a shame what they have done to you. You have the soul of a warrior and were a better man than any of these scientists. And now you are just a... female."

"So why did they do this?" Grant asked. "Just to mock me?"

Hideko shook his head. "This is a terrorist device," Hideko said, spitting out the word terrorist with obvious contempt. "The men of America would rather be slaves with balls than free women with menstrual cramps. 

The Peking government will likely release this virus into segments of a large American city. They expect to have your leaders capitulate to a whole series of demands that will make China the world's dominant super power."

Grant thought about it. Remembering what he'd been through, he pictured the panic when half the men in New York woke up to find themselves with breasts. He pictured the fear on Bill Clinton's face when the Chinese told him they could take away his Johnson. Wouldn't Hillary love to see that?

Could American fight? Would half the population be willing to experience a sex change in order to remain the land of the free? 

Who would have babies?

Hideko nodded as he saw the reality sink into Grant's face. "You cannot combat the virus. While your government wastes billions of dollars making more nuclear missiles, star wars defense systems and outmoded bombers, China has gotten decades ahead in the field of bio-war. The Chinese government will conquer the world without ever firing a single weapon."

"I do not like war," Hideko said, then. "But, if we must fight, I would prefer we fight like men."

"Why fight at all?" Grant said. "Why not join the global economy and build up your country that way?"

"Western nations have exploited China and other nations in Southeast Asia for many, many years. Our mothers and children worked in sweatshops for pennies while you Americans made millions. We do not-- we cannot-- trust the West. It seems fair that in the future your children should work in our sweatshops. That would be justice."

Grant nodded. He had one more question to ask. "Is there any way to reverse the process?"

Hideko stood, his face flushed. "I have told you too much. Get dressed. You have dance class in less than an hour."

Hideko had left quickly and Grant had stripped off his hospital robe and gotten dressed. The rest of that day, he thought again and again of how safe he'd felt sitting next to Hideko. He also kept thinking about how good the man had… smelled, but he thrust those thoughts from his mind with annoyance.

Two weeks after his discussion with Hideko and the meeting where Dr. Zhang had promised Grant he would "fully become a woman," he woke up to find a rust-colored stain on his sheets and panties. It was then that he'd felt that knotting in his stomach, a knotting like someone with a fist of glass shards had reached up inside him and twisted.

Tears had blurred his vision as he sat up in bed, examining the stains, and then finally poured over his eyelids and down his cheeks, droplets plummeting to the sheets like little beads of silver where they mingled with the traitorous red.

Grant had lay back down, hugging his pillow tightly to his chest, curling into a fetal position and squeezing his knees together as he sobbed silently.

He felt a big iron gate swinging shut on his manhood, leaving him trapped in a room of soft pastels and flowers, a room where he could hear the distant cries of infants and the soft cooing of mothers.

What if someone attacks me, Grant wondered idly. What if he gets me pregnant? He squeezed his pillow harder, tight against his breasts and now he let it slide between the soft interiors of his thighs which were curled almost to his chest. He squeezed it there as well.

He thought of Kathy Rigby and the first ad he'd ever seen for a tampon on television. Finding out what they were and laughing at the girls.

Boys teasing girls in high-school until the girls yelled at them and then laughing, "It must be that time of month again."

Most of all, he remembered how glad he'd been that he was a boy, that he didn't have to endure those monthly bleedings, those pads, all the things that had once confirmed in his mind the superiority of the male physiology.

Grant rolled out of bed and looked at himself in the mirror, eyes puffy and red from the tears. I have to be strong, he told himself. I have to be a man about it. But he plucked at the front of his nightshirt and held it away from his body like the stomach of an expecting mother and, putting a hand at the small of his back looked at himself and said, "You’re positively glowing!"

I will never have a baby, Grant swore as he headed to the bathroom. Never.

Once his doctors had learned that Grant had had his first period, that necessitated an examination. His feet in the stirrups, Grant had been near tears as the excited staff had gathered around and taken turns looking at and probing what they called "their work."

At one point, one of the female staff, seeing Grant's duress, had come over and smoothed his hair from his forehead. "Don't worry," the petite, ivory woman had said, "it will be over soon."

"Thank you," Grant had almost choked as he'd felt another-- something-- slide into him.

"A girl's first period is always very exciting and traumatic for her," the woman continued. "It's okay if you cry."

Grant, in spite of himself, had put his head in the crook of the woman's arm and sobbed.

The male scientists present snickered. Women.

Later that day, Grant had been led to the lunch room where he usually met with Mary Jean. Grant had been dressed in a pleated tennis skirt and sleeveless tennis shirt. His golden hair was tied back in an aqua green scrunchy that matched the pocket on his shirt. He had on a delicate watch that he'd been given and a slender gold chain. His walk was a little awkward. He wasn't used to the pad he now wore between his legs.

"Hello," Mary Jean had said as the slender young woman she knew as Grant Steel approached.

Grant forced a smile and greeted her back. "I have some news," he said, sitting down next to her at the table.

Mary Jean tilted her head curiously to the side. "What is it?"

Grant swallowed, shifted his position and then smiled weakly. "I had my first period today."

Mary Jean reached out and took his hand. Grant, who had become extremely defensive about body contact with her once his change started, this time only gave her a squeeze. "Oh, you sweet dear," Mary Jean said. "How do you feel?"

Grant shrugged. "Relieved, angry, depressed. One minute I want to smash the mirror in my room, the next I'm crying on the bed. Most of all I think I feel a little numb."

"Millions of women have periods every day, Grant. Don't make it into more than it is. "You can deal with this."

Grant sighed. "It isn't just the... messiness of it.... it means, he looked down at his mid-section.. it means I am a woman. A female. It's like I have this part of my body that's a traitor, that's down there getting ready every month to make a baby. I don't want it to do that. I don't want the cramps and the pains and all the other things they told me to expect."

"I don't either, Grant. But it is really not that serious. You can manage."

"I know," Grant said. "And I will. But right now I'm just an emotional mess. I feel like laughing and crying at the same time."

And then he did cry, allowing Mary Jean to take him against her and hold his head to her chest, softly saying "there, there. There, there now."

Gradually the tears subsided. Grant grew calm. Mary Jean realized that he'd fallen asleep, his soft body rising and failing in unison with her own breathing. She, herself, was feeling confused as well. She had grown to love Grant Steel when he was a man. She'd felt... good.. when he was around and had enjoyed making love with him more than anyone.

So why was it that deep down inside her, even as she rued the loss of her man and even as she shared his pain, some small part of her reveled in his misery? Some part of her felt good that he was now going to join her and all the other women as they endured their monthly rituals.

Part of her was glad, too, that Grant had his period at the same time she, Mary Jean, had. She kissed him softly on the head, rocking him back and forth. The fact that Grant's cycle had matched her own confirmed for Mary Jean something she'd suspected since Grant's transformation had reached its halfway point.

Mary Jean was the alpha female. Grant the beta.

"It's okay, baby," Mary Jean whispered to no one, Grant warm, soft and passive as a rose as she rocked him in her arms. "It's okay."

Finished trying his things on, his mind a riot of confusing images and memories, Grant emerged from the dressing room to find Mary Jean over by a rack of silk dresses. She'd already paid, her things were in a big paper bag that said J.C. Penney's on the side.

"You're already done?" Grant asked, gesturing toward the bag in Mary Jean's hands.

"Yup. I thought you'd fallen asleep in there."

"I'll just be a minute."

Once Grant paid for his things, Mary Jean steered him away from the parking lot side exit to Penney's and toward the entrance to the Mall proper. 

"Let's get lunch," Mary Jean said.

Grant crinkled his nose. "Here? I don't like mall food."

"I hear there's a new place that's supposed to make great salads. I thought we might try it," Mary said, grabbing Grant’s hand and pulling him along.

Grant followed unenthusiastically. Most of the food at the mall was very average in taste and very poor in terms of nutritional value. Some of it was nothing but fat and sugar. Grant had always prided himself on being fit, and he felt it was even more important now that he was a woman to watch his figure. Of course, his reluctance was compounded by the fact that the mall was also a place to see and be seen. He was no longer interested in either.

Plucking a pair of sunglasses from his purse, Grant propped them on the bridge of his nose, hurrying his steps to keep up with Mary Jean. Mary Jean was taller and had longer legs than Grant, so he always felt hurried to keep up with her. It had become an old routine. "Slow down," Grant said, "I'm getting winded."

"Sorry," Mary Jean said, slowing her pace. "Still mall-shy?" She asked, indicating Grant's shades.

"It's the best way for me to avoid eye contact with guys."

Mary Jean rolled her eyes. “Is it going to kill you if some guy comes on to you?”

"I'm saving them the trouble," Grant said.

Mary and Grant found the salad place, ordered. Grant sat down and was carefully spreading a napkin in his lap when he suddenly gasped, his mouth dropping open.

“What is it?” Mary asked, but before Grant could answer someone put his hands over her eyes and said, “Guess who, babe?”

“I don’t know, some dork?” Mary answered.

The guy laughed and, removing his hands, gave Mary a friendly peck on the cheek, sliding into a chair at the table without even asking. “How you been?” He said.

“Great, Percy, Great. You look great.”

“Who’s your pretty friend?” Percy asked, turning his attention to Grant, whose eyes went wide with panic.

“That is my friend, Grant,” Mary said.

Percy grabbed Grant’s hand in both of his and held it firmly, staring right into Grant’s eyes. “My God you’re beautiful.”

Grant giggled prettily, dropping his eyes even as his cheeks flushed. Mary noticed that he didn’t try to pull his hand away, but just squirmed, finally whispering, “thanks” in a small voice. “I, um, love your band.”

“Your friend is shy,” Percy said, glancing at Mary with a big smile. She gave him a little nod of approval, and Percy turned his attention back to Grant, putting a finger under Grant’s chin and pushing his head back, making Grant look him in the eyes. “There she is,” Percy said, grinning. “Nice to meet you, bright eyes.”

Grant giggled again, and said, “Stop,” hooking his hair behind his ear but maintaining eye contact.

“Stop telling you how pretty you are? Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re embarrassing me?”

“I’ll stop if you agree to come to my concert tonight.”

“Concert?”

“Wake Up is playing a gig at The Roseland Ballroom. It’s really huge, and it would mean the world to me to look into the audience and see those big, bright eyes of yours smiling up at me.”

“I think we might have to be somewhere….” Mary said, wanting to bail her friend out.

“What? No. We can, I mean, I can,” Grant said, smiling. “I haven’t been to a concert in so long!”

“Well, wing-girl, what do you say?” Percy gave Mary a nod.

“Sure,” she said, giving Grant a look.

“Give me your digits, and I’ll text you all the details,” Percy said.

“Okay,” Grant said, reaching for his purse, but Percy fished his IPhone out of his pocket and handed it to Grant. “Just type them in there. It’s easier.”

Grant nervously tapped his numbers into Percy’s phone, then handed it back, his face now a crimson red. Percy reached out and brushed Grant’s hair out of his eyes, cupped his cheek and said, “See you tonight, bright eyes.”

“Okay,” Grant answered, staring up at Percy with dreamy, distant eyes.

“Good seeing you,” Mary said.

“You, too, babe,” Percy answered, giving Mary another peck. He started to walk away, then stopped, looked back over his shoulder and said, “Wear something sexy.” And then he walked away without waiting for an answer from the obviously shaken little female.

“Omigod,” Grant said in the same girly, higher-pitched voice he slipped into when talking to Grant. “What just happened?”

“You tell me,” Mary said, grinning.

“I don’t know… I mean, he was like, and then I was like… and, ya know? And he’s tall, and he said…. And I was like, what? He probably thinks I’m a dork. I love your band? Who says that?”

“Eat your salad,” Mary said. “Cause now I have to help you find something sexy to wear tonight.”

Grant was still staring after Percy, watching him wander off into the mall, not really hearing Mary. “He called me bright eyes!”

“Yes, he did,” Mary said, fascinated. Grant had denied any interest in men, to the point part of her had grown pretty sure that he was in denial, yet she’d also felt that Grant Steel, super-stud and ladies’ man, would never give in to any new urges his female body might have. He’d rejected any and all advances any men had made toward him, and even while adapting and accepting a more feminine role at work, he’d always maintained a bit of a butch attitude, especially if any guys had started to show an interest.

But now she’s just seen him turn to putty and it all made sense to her, because Percy was as alpha as an alpha male could get, and Grant had no defenses against the feelings that being hit on by a stud like that had brought on. Grant needed a stud to come along and wake the man-girl he’d become to womanhood. He needed a man to brush away the lingering cobwebs of his masculinity and allow him to fully embrace his bright new life as a beautiful woman.

And Percy was certainly that man.

“Mary? Are you even listening?”

“What? Oh, sorry sweety. What was that?”

“What should I wear tonight?”

“Well, I have some idea about that, Grant. Let’s eat up and do a little more shopping.”

“I mean, I don’t know why it even matters or anything, right?”

“Eat! Eat!”

Grant started to eat, obviously distracted, chattering nervously, and then when they were almost done eating his phone buzzed, and he picked it up and stared at the screen, biting his lip. “He texted me,” Grant said, looking at Mary. “I feel so weird.” 

“You are weird,” Mary said, wiping her mouth. “Now, let’s go!”

“Wait, oh shit,” Grant said. “Am I? No, you don’t think?”

“What? No,” Mary said. “You always loved that band.”

“Yeah, right?” 

“Don’t overthink it. Let’s go. We need to get some good rock and roll groupie stuff.”

“Maybe not,” Grant said, collecting himself. “I can just tell him I changed my mind or something.”

 “No. You’re overthinking all of this. We both need to have some fun. Now, you said you’d go, so you have to keep your word.” Once again Mary grabbed Grant’s hand and dragged him to his feet. “Follow me.”

Two hours later, Grant hurried behind, his arms loaded with bags, as Mary raced to her car. “I’ll just dress at your place. Then, we’ll have plenty of time to get to the concert.”

“Okay,” Grant said. “I can’t believe this is all happening.”

As Mary and Grant got dressed, Mary put a glass of vodka in Grant’s hand and made sure her former boyfriend drank up. Grant wiggled his way into the ripped and distressed jeans Mary had picked out for him—jeans that hugged his nice, tight little ass and drew attention to his long, tone legs—a bra and loose fitting tank top, a pair of heels. Then, she bullied him into letting her do his face in sexy rock groupie make-up--- thick black lashes, glittering eyes shadow and lipstick—then masses of flashing bracelets on his slender wrists and loose necklaces that hung down and drew attention to his impressive cleavage.

“I look like such a slut,” Grant said looking at himself in the mirror, throwing back the last of his vodka.

“You look like someone about to rock out with his best friend,” Mary said, refilling Grant’s glass. 

Grant turned his back to the mirror then looked back and checked out his ass in the mirror. “These jeans fit great,” he said.

“Yes, they do.”

Grant’s phone buzzed, and taking another swig of vodka he picked it up and read the message, giving Mary a puzzled look. “It’s from Percy.”

“What’s it say?”

“Look outside?”

Giggling, Grant and Mary hurried to the front window, and pulling back the curtain Grant gasped, “Omigod.”

“That’s a sweet ride,” Mary said looking over the glossy black stretch limo. “Let’s go!”

Again she grabbed Grant and dragged him out the door. Soon, the two were laughing and drinking in the limo, singing along to the sound system as Wake Up’s greatest hits blared out, and then a thoroughly drunk and bleary Grant found himself stumbling from the limo, credentials draped around his neck and hustled through the crowd to a prime spot right in front of the stage. He and Mary high-fived and laughed, and Mary handed Grant a flask and he tossed back another shot of gloriously icy vodka. 

The opening act finished up, and when Wake Up charged out on stage Percy looked right into Grant’s eyes, smiled and then began to fingering the jagged opening riff of “Love for the First Time.” Mary and Grant squealed and hugged, then sang along, raising their long, slender arms over their heads and letting their hips sway to the music, and the air of the concert hall filled with marijuana smoke and Grant found himself getting horny as he looked up at the tall, handsome man with the guitar, such a badass, with the whole audience of thousands in the palm of his hands, and Grant forgot any shame he’d ever had about his new shape or strange new desires, and instead he began to feel this empty hunger and need to have Percy inside him, and he loved the new need and hunger.

Then, in the middle of one of their songs, while the base player, rhythm guitarist and drummer were chugging out a pulsing rhythm, Percy leaned down and reached out toward Grant, whose mouth fell open in surprise. He threw a glance at Mary who nodded and started pushing him toward the stage, and Grant reached up and grabbed Percy’s strong, calloused hand, and the big man lifted Grant effortlessly onto the stage as the crowd roared.

Grant felt Percy’s arms go around his waist, and he threw his own small arms around Percy’s neck, his soft breasts pressing against Percy’s hard, flat chest, and then Grant stared up into Percy’s eyes as the two slow danced there in front of thousands. Grant had never felt so… so perfectly feminine, and he found himself easily following Percy’s lead, enjoying the feeling of having the big, strong man guide Grant’s slender little body, and then Percy leaned down and kissed Grant as the crowd howled, and Grant’s back foot shot up in the air, and he pulled Percy down and kissed him right back.

“You’re a great kisser, bright eyes,” Percy whispered when the kiss ended and two roadies came out and started to lead Grant backstage.

Grant glanced back over his shoulder as he walked away, saw Percy checking out his ass, saw Percy finger the fret board on his guitar and strike a deep, powerful chord, and something in Grant broke free, and he turned and rushed back to Percy, throwing his arms around the man and kissing him again while the crowd went crazy.

Somehow, Percy kept playing the guitar even as he let one arm slip behind Grant’s back and he bent Grant backward, kissing him right back, and then held him there, smiling down at him and said, “You’re a hot little girl.”

Grant laughed, and Percy lifted him up and set him back on his feet. Grant’s knees felt weak and they bent inward as the roadies grabbed his elbows and dragged him from the stage. “I love you,” Grant screamed as tears poured down his face. 

“You just keep drinking, honey,” Percy said into his microphone. “And we’ll finish after the show.”

The crowd roared and Mary watched, shaking her head and smiling. She felt happy for Grant, and a little jealous that he was getting so much attention, but after all he’d been through it was good to see him cut lose, have some fun and finally fully embrace his new sex and life—and with such a hot guy, too!

I just hope he doesn’t get cold feet, Mary thought. He’s so close now. So close.

In the dressing room, Grant, blurry and flush with excitement, once again found himself reliving the past, thinking back to the big, powerful man he’d been, his slow transformation into womanhood, the days and weeks and months held captive, dressing in skirts and heels, learning to do his make-up while his body betrayed him day by day—getting smaller and rounder, soft, breasts blossoming on his chest, his hips getting round and soft, his voice softer and higher with each passing day.

And now here he was in a rock star’s dressing room, and he couldn’t wait to lay back, spread his legs and let the man take him, take his virginity, take whatever was left of the man he’d once been. I can say I was drunk, he thought smiling, playing with one of the necklaces dangling from his slender neck. Didn’t even know what I was doing.

But I do. 

His mind drifted back to the day the Chinese had handed him back over to America—he and Mary. They’d traded the two of them for two Chinese spies who’d been caught stealing technology secrets from Microsoft, but unlike most such trades, this one had been publicized. The Chinese had released pictures and video clips of Grant’s transformation, revealing to the world not only his physical transformation but his behavioral feminization as well. There was video of him learning ballet in dance class, singing arias in his new soprano voice, sitting at a mirror and carefully putting on his make-up. Listening attentively as the doctor explained his periods and how to use feminine protection. Walking in heels. Dancing in a tutu.

The whole world, all his friends and relatives, co-workers, everyone, had seen Grant turn from a stud into a fillie. And the video had been assembled to show him crying and complaining as well, frustrated and embarrassed as he turned into a woman. And it had ended with the image of a smiling Grant dressed in the outfit for his recital from Swan Lake, white flowers in his hair, and a voice promising the Chinese had no intention of turning the men in America into “docile little females like Grant Steel. As long as our nations cooperate, you have nothing to fear.”

For the big occasion, the Chinese had squeezed him into a pretty debutante’s ball gown in virginal white, pinned his hair up in a regal mass of curls and bows, put elbow length gloves on his slender arms, handed him a little white clutch and trotted him out to face the world media, cameras flashing as he smiled prettily and waved, then slowly began to cry and covered his face, running into the arms of the Marines who’d been there to take him into custody.

It had seemed like the worst thing ever, and he’d thought about killing himself so many times, but Mary had been there for him, day after day, urging him on, heckling him, constantly asking the same question as she forced him to look at himself in the mirror, at the pretty woman he’d become: “Are you man enough to be her?”

“Y, yes.”

“Are you man enough to be her?”

“Yes.”

“Louder!”

“Yes!”

“It’s not easy being a woman, Grant. Not at all, and we’re going to find out if you have the balls to be a woman.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Bullshit, and you know it.”

Day by day, he’d gotten used to being one of them, being female, dressing, living, working as a woman. Given his status and role as a spy, he’d been shielded from a lot of the crazy media attention that might have come with his situation. He was as off the grid as anyone could be in the modern world, with walls within walls protecting his address, email and contact information and the threat of federal felony charges against any media people who might violate the law and go after his information. 

So, the habaloo died down, and over time he grew used to the woman in the mirror, and people got used to the new Grant Steel, and eventually he was just a woman living her life, doing her job, going home and watching television. Grant had accepted that he was a woman and would live out the rest of his life as a woman, but he’d sworn that whatever else he accepted about his new body and his new life, he would never have sex with a man.

His body had needs, insistent needs. He’d never mentioned it to Mary, to anyone, but he’d find himself watching television and getting turned on by the guys, their deep voices, broad shoulders… he’d … explored himself, playing with his breasts, using his fingers and exploring his soft, wet slit, and though he often started off thinking about Mary, or some old girlfriend, or the body of a woman he’d seen in a Playboy when he was 16 and never forgotten, the women had a tendency to morph as his body got aroused, and they would turn into men and Grant would feel a thrill at the thought of having a man inside him.

And yes, one night he’d been listening to Wake Up’s first record, a record he’d bought when he was 16, and he’d been looking at the cover, a live shot of the band in concert, Percy with his shirt off, his hard, tattooed body slick with sweat, and Grant had found himself wondering what it would be like to have that man kiss him, hold him, make love to him. It was a shift, a dramatic one, as a guy he’d looked up to as a guy, a male role model, turned into a sex-object, and Grant had brought himself to a screaming climax as he listened to that record and looked at that picture and imagined being taken by a man he once wanted to be.

And now here he was in that rock star’s dressing room, a little drunk and stoned, his nipples hard, his crotch wet, and wanted very badly to offer himself to this man, to Percy, and to have Percy take him.

Grant drank some more, picked up a t-shirt and put it to his little nose, breathing in the masculine musk, sighing with pleasure. And then Grant felt someone grab his soft hips, pull his butt back and grind his groin into Grant’s ass, and Grant glanced back and saw Percy and he pushed his butt back and wiggled, squealing with delight.

They kissed, and then Percy lifted Grant off his feet, carried him to the couch and tossed him there. Percy looked down, smiling as he started to undo his belt. “God damn you are so fucking hot,” he said, letting his eyes drift over Grant’s body.

Grant reached down and the button at the top of his own jeans, wiggling as he pushed them down over his wide, round hips, and then Percy sat down on the couch next to Grant and cupped Grant’s breast, giving it a squeeze. Grant, flush with excitement and feeling drunk and adventurous, reached down and grabbed Percy’s member, feeling hard and throbbing in his soft hand and Grant’s eyes went wide and he whispered, “It’s soooo big.”

Percy grinned and said, “I call it The Python.”

And then he grabbed the bottom of Grant’s tank top and helped Grant out of it, and then in one quick, agile move he had Grant’s bra in his hand and Grant felt his soft, firm breasts swaying free. Grant started to reach up to cover his breasts, but Percy grabbed Grant’s slender wrists and pushed him on his back, pinning his arms above his head and kissing him until Grant saw stars. Grant felt so vulnerable there, pinned on his back, Percy’s member pressing against the soft inside of his thigh, and he was suddenly filled with fear, a terrible powerless fear. He struggled, whispering, “No, no.”

“What is it?” Percy said.

“I’m a…. I’m a virgin,” Grant said softly.

Percy reached down and let his fingers probe Grant’s slit, and then he looked at the stunning young woman and said, “I’ll be gentle.”

“I’m scared,” Grant whispered.

“It’s okay,” Percy said, caressing Grant’s smooth cheek with the back of his hand. “I know just what to do. Okay?”

“Okay,” Grant said.

“Just relax, bright eyes. Lie back and close your eyes.”

Grant closed his eyes, and he felt Percy straddle him even as Percy kept caressing his cheek. Then, Grant accepted another gentle kiss, and when it ended Percy said, “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Grant felt Percy slide into him, felt his body stretching to accommodate the man, a sharp pain as Grant felt his cherry break, and then Percy began to rock back and forth, in and out, and Grant gasped, grabbing Percy by the waist, and then Grant lifted his legs and started rocking his own hips, whispering, “Deeper. Deeper” as he two rocked, and Grant’s breasts bounced on his chest, and Percy began to thrust harder, press deeper, and Percy made a deep, guttural noise, and Grant cried out, and then even as Grant felt Percy release into his body he felt an explosion of pleasure in his belly that spread out to every inch of his soft skin and Grant screamed in ecstasy.

Percy finished and climbed off Grant, pinching Grant’s ass and rolling onto his side. Grant lay on his back gasping for breath, his smooth, soft skin drenched in sweat, and he stared at the ceiling in stunned amazement as the after-shocks of his first full female orgasm rolled through him. Grant ran his hands through his hair and then down over his full, heavy breasts- they seemed even more sensitive than usual, his whole body tingled, and he rubbed his legs together and touched himself gently as he replayed the whole adventure, the mall, the dance on stage, the love-making. How should I feel? He wondered. Should part of me be embarrassed? Ashamed? But… no. He didn’t feel any of that. All he felt was a desire to be with his man, so

he rolled onto his side and wrapped his slender arms around Percy, pressing his soft breasts into Percy’s muscular, sweat- slick back.

“Oh my God,” Grant said, kissing the man on the shoulder. “You were amazing.”

“Thanks, babe,” Percy said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Grant giggled. “Idiot.”

Percy just laughed, then turned in Grant’s arms, kissed him on the cheek and said, “Wanna go again?”

“Um, yeah,” Grant said. “Can you..?”

“Oh yeah,” Percy said, smiling. “I’m a freak of nature, babe. I can go three times, four on a good night.”

Grant smiled and gave his breasts a little shake. “Let’s hope it’s a good night.”

And it was.

Sometime in the morning, Grant held Percy’s hand and followed along in a bleary, rapturous daze as Percy led him to another limo. When Percy opened the door for him, Grant gasped. The limo was stuffed full of roses—red, white, yellow… he turned and put a hand on Percy’s arm. “For me?”

“Who else?”

“You, I mean, wow, I…”

But Grant never got to finish as Percy smothered him in a deep, complicated kiss, a kiss that shook Grant because it seemed to him, felt like—more than just a kiss. “I wanted to make sure your first time was special.”

Grant got into the limo, Percy followed, and Grant curled up on the seat and snuggled against Percy, putting his head against Percy’s chest. They didn’t talk. They didn’t need to. They just rode together, holding each other, and when the limo pulled up in front of Grant’s house, Percy waked Grant to his door and took his hands.

“The band leaves today for out next gig. Los Angeles.”

“Oh,” Grant said, staring up into Percy’s eyes—green with specks of gold. “So, I guess this is goodbye.”

“No. I want you to come with me.”

“Come with you? But, I mean…”

“I want you to be my girl, Grant. Come with me. Let’s get to know each other. See where it takes us.”

“But, my job, my friends…”

“I know. I know. And I don’t care.” He cupped Grant’s chin, tilted his head back and kissed him again, then holding him close said, “I’m falling in love with you.”

Grant blushed. “No. No. I just, I just can’t.”

“Tell me you don’t feel the same. Tell me you don’t have feelings for me, and I’ll walk away right now.”

“I do have feelings for you,” Grant said softly. “I do.”

“Then come with me. Or else I’ll quit the band and stay here to be with you.”

“Be serious.”

“I am always serious when it comes to love, bright eyes. One thing I know is that love, real love, is rare in this world, more rare then gold, diamonds. Love can’t be bought. And when I find love I go after it, and I’ll pay any price, make any sacrifice to be with you.”

“Okay,” Grant said, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Okay. But, there’s something I need to tell you. Something you need to know. And, I’m scared that when I tell you, you’ll hate me, and you’ll never want to see me again.”

“There’s only one way to find out. Tell me. Take the risk. Do it for love.”

“I used to be a man.”

Percy smiled and hugged Grant, holding him tight against his body, then he put his hands on Grant’s shoulders and looked down into his eyes, their faces so close their noses were almost touching, and he said, “I know.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Now kiss me, Grant Steel, and then pack your things because you and I are going on life’s greatest adventure together, and we can’t fail, because you and I, girl? We are a machine that lives on love.”

Mary had been shocked when she got his phone call that morning. She’d expected to get some juicy details of Grant’s first roll in the hay as a woman—or at least hoping that’s what she would be getting—but she never expected Grant to call her and chatter giddily about love and running away with Percy and—intertwined in all that what it had been like to go FOUR TIMES in one night.

Grant took a leave of absence from work and went on the road with his boyfriend, and of course now the media frenzy really began. How could it not when an international rock star suddenly started dating a hot, sexy girl who used to be a man? Grant called frequently, asking Mary’s advice on how to be a good girlfriend, how to keep Percy interested, how to fend off all the wild females who wanted to have sex with his boyfriend. And they talked about life and the good old days, and Mary was impressed with how much the two loved each other, and how their love helped them deal with all the attention and sometimes crude comments aimed at Grant, who after a few months started calling himself Grace, because, he said, it was only by the Grace of God that he’d found love and happiness as a woman. 

The Grace of God indeed, Mary thought as she stood staring at the magazine rack at the Barnes and Noble. There, on the cover of bridal magazine, was Grace Steel, with the headline Rock and Roll Weddings. He made a gorgeous bride, of course, and Mary couldn’t help but wonder if the scientists had seen the cover and how they felt about the perfect little female they’d created getting married, planning on having babies and making a family. Mary missed her friend and lover, the old Grant, but how could she not be happy for him?

Happy and a little jealous, of course. But, that was a little normal, she felt, for a girl who was going to be bridesmaid for her ex-boyfriend at his celebrity wedding.

I knew he had what it takes to be a woman. Looking at Grant in his tight wedding dress, a dress that showed off his wide hips and full, firm breasts, the pink blush on his cheeks, his hair and skin radiant. 

He is more than man enough to be her, I decided.  Much more.