Blurred Lines

PROLOGUE: WHAT THE HELL?

Imagine going to bed as a six-foot-two male in the mid-twenties with brown hair and blue-gray eyes and waking up in a female body. One that's much smaller than your own.

Such is my dilemma. How this happened, I've no idea. I can't even remember what I had last for dinner.

The kicker, though? Weeks have passed since I closed my eyes on a muggy summer night. I'm not sure how long it's been, but I've awoken to find that I now have breasts, a vagina, and I'm shorter. About a half a foot, maybe?

I'm also a tad plumper, whereas I used to be athletic. It mind-boggles me that someone has done this to me. I can't understand the why of it.

What have I ever done to anyone? Why choose this route of action for me?

A strangled sob slides past my lips. I grab the pitcher full of water sitting on the nightstand and hurl it at the mirror. The glass shatters, millions of pieces scattering across the floor.

I gaze at my reflection in the jagged pieces that remain glued to the mirror. My long brown hair hangs in a disheveled heap around my shoulders. A bright sheen of moisture lurks in my eyes, and my lower lip is trembling. I'm fighting the urge to cry, an emotion so foreign to me that I'm not sure what to make of it.

"You'll have to clean that up, dear," a sultry voice replies from behind me.

Turning, I find a leggy brunette with a knowing smirk on her face leaning against the doorjamb.

Her dark brown eyes are unreadable. She uncrosses her legs, the black silk skirt she wears pressing against her thighs. The fact that the outline of her underwear isn't visible lets me know that she's going commando.

"W—Who . . . are . . . you?" I ask in a voice that sounds nothing like what I remember it to be.

The brunette points to a chair to the left of the bed. "Have a seat."

I clear my throat and narrow my eyes at her. "What if I refuse?"

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "You don't want to."

"Oh, but . . . I do."

With deft fingers, she tugs a slim Beretta M9 semi-automatic pistol out from the waistband at the back of her skirt. She yanks the small stool standing in front of the sink forward and drops her slender frame onto it. Holding the gun in a firm grip, she points it at my chest and nods in the direction of the chair.

"Sit down, Jeremy," she says. "It's not an order."

A muscle twitches across my lower jaw. I follow her instructions, lowering myself onto the chair with difficulty. My legs refuse to bend, my knees popping from the effort. Sharp pains ripple deep within my vagina and rectum as my butt makes contact with the chair. Whatever they've done to me, it's gone beyond the normal surgeries a body can take.

"Good boy. Or should I say, girl?"

I glare at her, leaning back against the chair to alleviate the pain roiling deep within me. "Who are you?"

She smiles, a knowing glint flashing in her eyes. "I'm your primary care provider, Doctor Sarah Baker."

Her name means nothing to me. Nor can I recall ever having met her before.

"Where am I?"

"Dormer Island, just off the coast of Long Island."

The muscle across my lower jaw continues to twitch. "There's no such place."

"Oh, but there is, darling. It's a man-made island. One created by Joseph C. Scott. You remember him, don't you?"

The name rings a bell. I was given instructions to kill him, though I can't remember if I succeeded. All I can remember is preparing myself for the hit and going to bed.

"I . . . Yes."

Her smile broadens. "I thought you might. He sends his regards and looks forward to meeting you soon."

"What makes you think I want to see him?"

"He's the one who's made you what are you."

Anger courses through my veins. "Is he?"

She nods. "Yes. He's quite pleased to know that your transition from male to female has been a success. I'm sure you'll make us all proud, my dear."

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I'm not sure I like where this conversation is going.

"What do you mean?"

The brunette stands and makes her way over to me. She shoves her right leg between mine and forces my legs apart, causing a wave of pain to ripple deep into my abdomen. Leaning forward, she presses the tip of her pistol against my clitoris and swollen labia. She then slides it lower, pushing the pink lips apart to shove the pistol's tip into the vagina I now possess.

I bite my lower lip, trying to tamp down the scream that's slowly rising to the surface. The smooth metal encounters resistance. I'm too tight, and she knows it.

She nods with satisfaction, tugging the pistol's tip free of my depths. Crimson dots glisten across the shiny surface. The woman raises the gun and licks the barrel's edge, tasting the blood. Seconds later, her arm goes lax. She holds the weapon next to her right hip.

A wave of nausea rises to the back of my throat.

"You'll get used to having things, and people, inside you soon enough, sweetheart. I promise you that. I'm so sorry it's come to this, but all of this was necessary."

"Why?" I ask, doing my best to ignore the blood pooling around my bare feet.

"Why not? We can't have you running around killing every Tom, Dick, and Harry, Jeremy. Much less Joseph, now can we? You've messed up, dear. It's time you learned a much-needed lesson."

I bolt to my feet, uncaring of the fact that muscles further tear deep inside my vagina. "Damn you!"

She raises her arm once more, pressing the gun's bloodied barrel to the center of my chest. "Don't even think about it. I don't want to have to use this. Sit down, please."

Against my better judgment, I follow her orders. Never once, do I take my eyes off her.

The brunette takes a deep breath and smiles before lowering herself onto the stool. "We've high hopes for you. You don't want to let us down, do you?"

I ignore her taunt and say, "Why haven't you killed me? What's the purpose of all this?"

"I told you, we're teaching you a lesson. You'll thank us when the time comes."

"Not bloody likely."

She ignores me and nods at something in the distance.

A barely audible click alerts me to the fact that we're not alone in the room. We never have been.

I turn my head and catch sight of needle filled with a clear liquid hovering in the air above me.

A blue-gloved hand clutches the needle's barrel. It descends, the sharp tip sliding into the soft flesh of my neck.

"Sweet dreams, Jeremy," the brunette says, seconds before the darkness claims me.