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That. Was. Not. My. Voice.That voice was definitely feminine and sounded very young. I nervouslypulled my hand to my face, it was smaller, and my fingernails werepainted a light pink color. Painted nails could only mean one thing; Ilooked down and there was a body to match that delicate hand. There wasno mistaking the fact that I was no longer myself.My chest was marked by a pair of budding breasts. My shirt had beenchanged from a men's T-shirt to some sort of blouse. Looking furtherdown, I was wearing girl's jean shorts. No wonder why I felt weird onthe pile of clothes, my shorts lost about a foot of fabric and my nowexposed legs were touching everything.I ran my hands along my body. What I was feeling was feeling very real. And even if it was imagined, I doubt I could have imagined the sensationof my fingers touching my breasts through my top. Because it wasn'tlike anything I felt when I touched my chest as a man. This was noillusion.I started to panic. "Am I mad?" No,. "I told you that I ... That you still are my..." Slave?" Yes," I said, a bit embarrassed."Can't we let the matter rest? Let me in, please. The sun will rise in a moment, and I still don't want to be caught staring in."I shrugged. Last night I had told her that I expected her to accept her slavery, and she had left in a fury. At the time I had been consumed by desire for that power I had seen displayed in the slave market. Now it all just seemed silly."So," I said to her as she sat on the other side of my bed, "now you can tell me your name, maybe?" Maybe," she smiles pleasantly. If being in a room alone with a stranger bothered her, or if the dark looks the hostel watchman had given her had stung, then her partly amused, partly defiant manner did not betray it. "But I think that your tale has to be far more interesting than mine." Please begin," I said, determined to have my way. I had always been single-minded once I my mind was firmly fixed upon something, and this woman nourished.
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