Nemesis Visits

"Goddess? Ordained? Retribution? What?" I am practically gibbering.

"Yes, the Goddess, though you do not know her, many do and under many names. She has decreed punishment for you, Maxwell Thomas... this punishment."

"What? Punish me by turning me into some random, freaky fucking woman?" The fear inside me is bubbling over into anger as a defence against madness.

"There is nothing random or freaky about the woman you've become: the Goddess has allowed for you to be blessed with the second X chromosome that you might have had if a different sperm had fertilized your mother's ovum. The woman that you are today is the woman that you might have been, nothing more, nothing less; you are the -- shall we say, Maxine Thomas? -- that your parents might have raised had they birthed a daughter."

"Blessed with an X chromosome? You mean cursed, cursed by this Goddess to be some dowdy, repulsive, freakish cow," I wail, the tumult of emotions churning inside me now sliding from anger into tearfulness.

"Perhaps you must begin by expanding your understanding of what and who is beautiful and attractive, Maxine."

"What, like start fancying men? Is that part of the Goddess's blessing too, that I'll now be attracted to guys?"

"The Goddess did not require this change. Are you attracted to men, Maxine?" she asks and, as I stare at her, the swirling, eddying robe of shadows momentarily leaves her almost naked, her perfect and utterly desirable figure on view.

"What? No, of course not, I'm attracted to women... oh, shit, you've made me..." She gives a small smile.

"Are the words, 'nothing but a fucking rug-munching perverted slut!' what you're looking for, Maxine?" The words she uses reach back across the years and I recall her, and that skinny lesbian girlfriend of hers who slapped me.

"This is about her, isn't it, about Amber Taylor, for dumping her and calling her names when she turned into a dy... a lesbian."

"It's true, it is about her... and about Camilla, that 'skinny lesbian girlfriend'." What? Shit, she can read my fucking mind! Nemesis' look is cold and hard as she continues, "However, it's also for Cathy, whom you deceived; for Nina, the girl you humiliated for rejecting you, hurting her so deeply she tried to kill herself; for Leanne and for Ruth and for Harriet the secretary you got sacked. Shall I continue?" she asks but doesn't wait for my reply. "For Debbie, Claire, Jane and, of course, Marie the Intern... and Cindy, the woman that you..." she pauses, staring at me, and I swallow nervously, "...raped."

"I didn't... she wanted..." I stammer before the protests dry in my throat.

"And for those countless other women that you treated with contempt, abuse, as objects for your gratification or just casual sexism. These are all reasons and this is the Goddess's punishment." I sag, defeated and depressed. I cannot believe that this is real yet cannot pretend it is a dream.

"And how long has the Goddess decreed for this retribution and punishment?" I ask flatly.

"She has not done so: I will return when she bids me do so, no sooner. And now I will leave you." She starts to turn and her shadow robe thickens around her.

"Wait!" I cry out in sudden panic, "What about my job, my bank account, ID, clothes even... How will I live?" She pauses and closes her eyes as she remains motionless for a few moments.

"It is decided," she says and her hand traces a complex shape in the air. "There is clothing in the wardrobe, a birth certificate, documents and money on the table. And you may continue to live here for the time being; until, say, the third new moon. Unlike you, the Goddess is not cruel."

"But what about my job?"

"They employed Maxwell Thomas, not Maxine; you must find work for the person you are now." She withdraws into the corner and the robe flows out to become shadow once more until just the pale suggestion of her face remains. "Maxine, I will not bid you farewell or good luck for what happens afterwards is down to you and the choices you make henceforth. However, try to see this as a new chance, not a curse: perhaps then you can succeed and make amends for what Maxwell has done..."

CHAPTER 3: Girl Alone

I wake slumped on the kitchen floor, my eyes gummy and blurred, my head thumping and a foul taste in my mouth. The smell of vomit and piss invades my nose and as I finally manage to blink my eyes into focus I see the source of the smell on the floor and across my body; my still naked, still female body. I am filthy and I stink. The shaft of mid-morning sunlight shining on me doesn't make it look any better.

The empty vodka bottle attests to the source of my symptoms and the mess and, as I pull myself painfully into a sitting position on the cold tiles of the apartment's kitchen area, I realize that hours of drinking followed by even more hours of unconsciousness have cost me a whole day and night as I sought refuge for the nightmare that my life has suddenly become.

Sitting, blinking blearily in the bright light, I stare down at my cursed body and begin to understand that my future is down to me, that I have a choice, as Nemesis had foretold. There are bottles of whisky and rum and gin and brandy and who knows what else in the apartment, enough for several more days of oblivion, maybe permanent oblivion if I end up drinking myself into a coma or choking on my own vomit as I might have done last night. Or there is the shower and getting cleaned up, dressing in the women's clothes that have appeared in the wardrobe, stepping out and seeing if I can live...

I place my hand on the floor to try and stand, and it presses into the puddle of cold puke. Cleaning up this mess probably comes before stepping out. I make it to my feet and the priority list changes once again: I need water and painkillers before anything else. I take a few unsteady steps and lean on the worktop by the sink before taking a pint glass from the cupboard to the left and filling it from the filtered water tap. I use the first mouthful to rinse my mouth, spitting it into the sink, and then take a long drink.

I revive a little, though the headache remains. Painkillers are in the bathroom cabinet and I wonder if my balance is up to the long trek across open floor. I discover that the toppling sensation I experienced in my dream-that-wasn't-a-dream is because of the weight of these tits, my tits, I guess, though the piss and puke on the floor aren't exactly helping at the moment either.

No, I can't call them tits, it feels... wrong; it's what I called them before, what Max called them. I recall that it was almost always the first thing I looked at on any girl or woman: 'nice tits' or 'gorgeous, massive tits' or 'what a feeble pair of tits'. Well, now I have, what, 'disappointing tits'? No, I can't think of them as 'tits'. Breasts? A bit too medical. Wangers? Jugs? Knockers? No, no, no, absolutely not. Boobs? Yeah, I can go with boobs.

Fuck, my head hurts: I need those painkillers and I look down to see where to place my feet. Shit, my feet are covered with vomit and I cannot walk across the carpet in this state. I'm going to have to clean this up first.

It takes half an hour with a bucket and cloth that, luckily, I find under the sink. Of course, I've never had to clean up in this apartment: that's why I pay a cleaner, after all. As I move and bend and stretch I am constantly startled by the feel of my altered body -- the way my boobs bounce and swing, the width of my hips that my hands bump into each time I lower my arms, the absence of a cock between my legs...

Finally, I rinse my feet in a fresh bucket of water and dry them as best I can on the wrung-out cleaning cloth. I stand and survey the now clean floor and find an unexpected feeling of pride in the shining tiles. It occurs to me that my first useful deed as a woman was to clean up; perhaps this Goddess has a sense of irony.

I look across the kitchen island unit into the rest of the open-plan apartment and it appears, well, slightly strange as if the perspectives have changed. The worktop is different too and I wonder if I really am in a dream before the prosaic reality presents itself. The worktop feels higher and the room looks strange for the simple reason that, unlike Max, Maxine is not six foot one. At a rough guess, I am now four or five inches shorter. The brief flicker of achievement I have at working this out quickly passes as I realize that this is another nail in the coffin of the idea that this is all just some incredibly vivid dream: there is no way that I would have thought of how being shorter would make things appear.

I need those painkillers and reach out to grab the pint glass for some more water but my fingers just clip the glass, knocking it over. Damn. I'm going to have to get used to shorter arms too, I think as I mop up the spilt water and refill the glass.

The walk to the bathroom is not as hard as I feared now I am beginning to find my new sense of balance. If I had not already noticed, reaching into the bathroom cabinet would have told me that I am shorter. I swallow two painkillers and wash them down with more water before climbing into the shower where the play of clean, hot water over my soiled body feels wonderful as the semi-dried vomit and piss are sloughed away. The shower gel has a heavy, musky scent that was my, no, Max's favourite but that I now find quite unpleasant, particularly when I smell it on my amazingly soft, almost hairless skin. However, I have to use something to get clean, though I try to rinse the scent away as much as possible.

Unexpectedly, a sob escapes my throat and, moments later I am crying. I cannot recall the last time I cried -- I didn't when my parent's died so it was as a child, probably -- but I am in floods of tears as, somehow, this rejection of my old shower gel brings home that I am no longer me, no longer the Maxwell Thomas whose life I have lived for thirty-one years. I am Maxine Thomas and I have no idea what that means or who I am. I turn off the shower and step out to dry myself, still weeping. I head to my bed but as I bend to climb in I smell male sweat and cannot bear to lie there. I turn and head to the never used guest room where a clean bed awaits, made up in the over-optimistic anticipation that I might need to offer a bed to a friend one night. Ha! Max might have had mates but, in truth, not one single real friend, I realize.

I pull the covers over me and curl up in the foreign room, a guest in my own apartment. I feel utterly alone, lost and vulnerable in my strange new body as I cry myself to sleep.

CHAPTER 4: First Steps

The afternoon sun shining through the gap in the curtains wakes me. I feel curiously rested, relaxed and at peace as if the tears I shed have had a healing effect. I find I cannot resist touching and caressing my skin on my arm, savouring the soft smoothness of it as I hug myself while I lie curled on my side.

I roll onto my back and stretch luxuriously. My skin tingles and my hands roam more widely, exploring as I learn my new form more intimately. This self-caressing feels delightful, sensual... arousing, I realize. My hands cup my boobs; I had thought them small when I saw them in the mirror but they feel larger than I expected, as my hands cannot fully hold them. Of course: my hands are smaller now. Still, I find that I like my boobs more than I thought I did.

I find I like them yet more when my fingers brush my nipples: the tingling jolt that goes through me as they harden is amazing and unlike anything I've ever known... so, of course, I do it again. These new sensations kindle something else inside, down between my legs. There is no swelling to tumescence with this arousal but a feeling of shimmering warmth and excitement that draws my fingers down and parts my legs. My fingers trail through the dense but soft hair that furs my mound, downwards further to the valley hidden within. There is a slight dampness there so I try to push my fingers in only to stop immediately, surprised at how uncomfortable it is. Is this what sex is like for women: slight arousal, strange tingles and sensations, uncomfortable penetration? There must be more, surely. I stroke the edges of my... hmm, what word. Vagina? Ugh, no. Cunt? Maybe, in the throes of passion, but not now, like this. Pussy? No, that was Max's word. Cunny? Maybe... so I stroke the edges of my cunny and the lips gradually swell. It feels nice and my fingers run from end to end of my cunny; it is definitely wetter than a few minutes ago.

As my finger travels back up the wetness and swelling means that the fingertip is now travelling between the lips, which feels even better until, at the top of my cunny, I get a thrilling jolt that makes me gasp as my finger rubs over a small, harder lump. I rub again, a little firmer and oh fuck that feels amazing. My clitoris, I realize: I have found my clitoris and the feeling as I rub it gently is incredible.

I briefly slide my fingers down and find my cunny is now very wet and, not only does my finger slide in smoothly, it also feels wonderful. I'm amazed at how tight my cunny is around my finger but, of course, I am a virgin aren't I? This is the first time I have ever been penetrated. I start rubbing steadily, sliding the finger across my new-found clit and curling it to slide inside me to the second knuckle and then back. I increase the tempo and some seriously amazing sensations and feelings start firing off deep inside me.

I rub harder and faster, hungry for the feelings to continue and grow, when suddenly what feels like every nerve in my body goes wild and I am bucking and thrashing on the bed and crying out. There is a final, tumultuous bolt of pleasure that leaves me at the end panting, sweat glazed and utterly spent. "Fucking, fucking hell!" I gasp, smiling. I languidly raise my finger from my cunny and sniff it to inhale the smell of female sex, of my sex now. I always did like the smell and taste of cunny and, as I slip my finger into my mouth, I find that mine is no exception.

All the tales of how good the female orgasm could be definitely sold it short, and, whatever else happens in my new life, experiencing this is wonderful. I am almost moved to thank the Goddess... almost.

Hunger drives me out of bed together with a feeling that I can come through this. Nemesis said that I would stay like this until the Goddess was satisfied but satisfied with what? Must I suffer enough or learn or change or... I just don't know.

My small feet pad softly as I walk naked through the apartment, into what I cannot help thinking of as Max's bedroom and pull out a clean tee shirt from the drawer. Slipping it on, as expected I find it is way too big as a shirt but it does quite well as a nightie. On impulse I strip the bed and dump the bedclothes into the laundry basket; I don't know if I'll sleep in this bed or not, but I certainly won't with those stinking sheets and covers.

On the bedside table, I notice the mobile phone and it's flashing notification light. Seven missed calls and several texts, mostly from Jason but a couple from other colleagues. I don't need to listen to the voicemails or read the texts to know that they'll all be variations on 'Where the fuck are you Max?' probably getting increasingly angry. Well, Max has definitely left the building.

I surprise myself by making scrambled egg on toast in place of the fry-up I would normally opt for when forced into self-catering. Clearly, it is not just my sense of smell that has subtly altered. While I eat I listen to the voicemails and read the texts before planning what I should do.

The first text is unexpected as Jason seems to have sent it at 8:03 yesterday morning, almost an hour before I would normally be in:

WTF Max? All last night in the pub and you didn't tell me you were being seconded to the Hong Kong branch. You didn't even tell me you were applying for it. You can be a right cunt at times

What the hell? I hadn't applied for any post in Hong Kong; there must be some mix-up. The next text was more predictable.

What are you playing at, arsehole? You weren't that pissed last night so get your shit together and get in here.

I skip to the last text, once again from Jason and sent at 9:26 this morning, just two hours ago:

What?? Not in again? I'm fucking glad you're off to HK on Monday so I don't have to put up with any more of your shit. Have a nice life, you wanker

Where has this stuff about my moving to Hong Kong come from? I, Max, never applied for any posting to Hong Kong! There is something strange going on, I think to myself before I remember my new body and start giggling. "Something strange going on' you reckon? No shit, Sherlock!" I say out loud. There is a slight feeling of hysteria in my giggles and I fight to calm myself as I finish eating.

Once fed, I make myself a mug of tea (I really don't fancy coffee, curiously) and fetch the laptop, putting it on the small dining table. I start it up and log into the company email page: twenty-seven unread emails. I scan down the list and at the bottom of the unread emails are several from many weeks ago that I'm sure weren't there on Wednesday. I click through them, a cold feeling building in the pit of my stomach as I skim read. 'Thank you for applying to join the Project Nemesis team in Hong Kong...'; 'Congratulations on being selected for Project Nemesis...'; 'Your flight has been confirmed for Monday 27... departing 18:15 on BA0027... arrives 14:20 Tuesday 28... Hotel reservation in your name...'

I have never heard of Project Nemesis and I can only guess that this is Nemesis' work: the project name cannot be a coincidence. Apparently, as far as work is concerned, Max Thomas is on some special project for the company in Hong Kong. So far so good: I may yet have a job to return to when the Goddess stops being pissed off with me. I wonder if Nemesis has created some fake Max to go out to Hong Kong? No, don't go there, I tell myself; it doesn't help and it'll drive me nuts wondering stuff like that. There is, however, the need to placate Jason as he seemed royally fucked off with me and I'll likely be going back to work with him at some point. So, an email to Jason; I begin typing, my new, smaller fingers clumsy on the keyboard.

Jason, mate, what can I say?

I'm really sorry for screwing around with you by not showing up for two days -- I'm in a right f*cking state is all.

I feel the curious urge to tell him how I'm feeling but I know that our sharing of emotions to date has been no deeper than the question, 'Alright, mate?" and the standard reply, 'Not so bad. Yourself?' unless we opt for how hung-over we feel as an alternative.

It's all been a bit full on for weeks and I guess some part of me can't hack the pace keeping up with you, Jase.

Hmm, nice bit of flattery there. Okay, now to apologise and make my excuses:

I'm really sorry about not telling you about Hong Kong. I didn't want to say anything when I applied in case they told me to p*ss off. Then, when they offered the job, they wanted it kept hush-hush and after that, well, with that f*ck up with that Marie slut and everything, I've sort of put HK out of my mind

I'd like to say we should meet up before we go but I've a sh1t load of stuff to get sorted so there just isn't time, sorry mate.

Max

Some of what I've written, the language I've used, feels a little uncomfortable, perhaps more than a little knowing the trouble I'm in with this Goddess, but I need to go with words that the Max inside me uses. Before I can change my mind, I hit send. I don't know whether what I wrote will do any good. Oh well, Jason isn't exactly my biggest, most pressing problem right now.