In Claire’s dream, she was lying on her boyfriend’s bed, wet, naked, and anxious, waiting for him to return from the bathroom. The suspense of finally being fucked was killing her. She looked up and down her body as if she hadn’t seen it before - because she hadn’t. It was small, shorter than she felt like she was used to (how tall was she supposed to be? she thought) and, curvier. Gently with a finger, and then with her whole palm, she rubbed her nipples, feeling a warm, tingling fire building up inside her.. Somehow, even though this was her body, she wasn’t used to this - and yet, at the same time, it felt absolutely right, so right.

He returned with a smile, gleaming white from having just brushed his teeth. Claire knew from the smile that he was teasing her, just letting her build up anticipation while he watched. Claire realized as he stood there that she was still gently massaging her boob and now even bucking her hips, and realizing she was basically masturbating as her boyfriend watched only made the desperate heat in her back and her hips shoot up another 15 degrees. He came over and kissed her, and she pulled him into her with her arms, feeling so right - so right - as she let him lean in and place a hand behind her head. She was so ready, finally, and

Then Claire woke up - or, rather, Carl woke up. He jolted awake in his bed, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. It was late, still dark outside, and pitch black inside the bedroom. There was nobody else there - just him, alone, just him. He touched his rough palms in the darkness and then realized little tears were forming on the rims of his eyes. When he got himself to stop shaking, he fell back, head a jumbled mess, wondering what had happened. Then sleep overtook him.

***

Carl got to the antique shop early in the morning, before the owner, who was always late, arrived. He opened the store, setting out an old lamp in the window display to replace a vintage cupboard that had been sold yesterday. He rifled around with Hummels and moved a creaky cabinet he had been meaning to move, then settled into his position at the front counter. It was usually an hour or so before the first customers showed up, and several more before the owner would make an appearance - if she did, which was increasingly rare. So Carl spent his time like he always did, reading some chick lit while holding an issue of national geographic in front of it so that any curious customers wouldn’t be able to find out.

Reading books like these - books most would call pulpy smut - was a guilty pleasure of Carl’s. He had never told a soul, though the store owner, Mrs. Teawood, had a hunch. When he was living in his parent’s house, he never dared touch anything like them. They were supremely effeminate and honestly kind of misogynist, full of whiny heroines and lusty himbos who saved them from dangerous rapists and financial insecurity. Despite all this, he loved them dearly, but his mother would’ve killed him if she knew. He had only picked up reading them for real after getting kicked out of his parent’s place five years ago, finding a supply of them buried in a cardboard box in the back of the antique store. Now, 23, with no real education and stuck in a dead-end store for old bullshit, they were one of the few pleasures of his day. Reading through them, sometimes, even though he wasn’t terribly conscious of it, he imagined himself as the heroine, who sometimes saved the people of Jupiter from an incoming comet with the help of her buff boyfriend, or sometimes made a major business deal in Dubai with the help of her buff boyfriend, or sometimes got her pet dragon to return to the realm of magic with the help of her buff boyfriend.

He had gotten into them ironically, at first. He had a deep love of irony (he was a fan of movies that were so bad that they were good), and thought it would be funny to read them to see how bad they were. But then, without understanding really why, he found himself hooked. After months of reading through the massive trove of them in the store, he still denied to himself that he read them for any other reason than irony. And the sex scenes! Oh god, the sex scenes. Sometimes they were so awful that they made him laugh, but in the really good books they were actually really touching, and he sometimes found himself so wrapped up in a steamy collage of ass and abs and breasts that when a customer came up to the counter, he needed a moment to readjust to reality.

It was at the end of the workday, around 7:00, when he found himself in just such a scenario. The heroine of Love Me Radical was finally consummating her relationship with the hot, socialist chad who had tempted her away from her traditional, banker husband. Deep in the throes of their lovemaking, Carl felt a jolt of that sixth sense we all have - being watched. He looked up from his erotica and found a strange-looking woman in a top hat just staring at him with a bright smile. He jumped in his seat for a moment, then began profusely apologizing.

“I’m so sorry ma’am! So sorry for my rudeness. Sorry. Uh, how can I - uh, phew. How can I help you?” he finally spat out.

“Is the owner of this fine establishment here?” She said in a bright voice, not at all acknowledging Carl’s faux pas or her strange behavior.

“No, she hasn’t come in today. I can, uh, help you though. What’s your question?” Carl said. It was then that he really noticed how she looked. Her charcoal gray top hat was only piece of an entire get-up that shouted “magician.” She was wearing white gloves and a black blazer with a white pressed dress shirt and a scarlet red tie tucked into her charcoal gray vest. Waves and waves of silky blonde hair spilled out from beneath her top hat. Recovering from initial shock, he realized that she was really, really cute, and by all accounts, beautiful. She couldn’t have been older than twenty or so, and her small, cute smile together with her professional get-up exuded confidence. He also realized that as a single man, he should have something to say to a pretty girl like this, but he always felt awkward and creepy being forward with women. This thought just made him more flustered.

“Very well. I am,” she said, taking a dramatic step backward and throwing her arms wide, “the great and powerful magician Zarathustra! My specialties are rope tricks, vanishing, and hypnotism!” As she spoke, she struck exaggerated poses, and then, as if to taunt Carl, gave an extremely cute wink at the end. “I’ve come to sell my wares.”

Carl was completely dumbfounded. “Uh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . this is an antique store, ma’am. I don’t know if we-”

“Exactly! I have many magical artefacts from days of yore that I can distribute to the public desperately in need of some magic using the vessel of your store!” she said.

“Well . . . . . . . . . . . . . uhhhhhhhhhhh . . . . . . . . I guess? What kind of artifacts?” Carl asked.

“No, not artifacts, artefacts, my good friend. When you say it that way, it sounds cool and mysterious,” she said, wiggling her fingers in the air. Okay, gorgeous though she may be, this chick was fucking weird, thought Carl. And yet, he also found her kind of endearing. “Anyway,

Many artefacts are at my home, but here is one such beauty,” she said, fishing out a silver pocket watch from her breast pocket. Holding it in the palm of her hand, she thrust it out for Carl to see. It was much more than a silver pocket watch. On the front cover there was a large embossed heart colored with a swirling pattern made of purple, pink and black. Zarathustra started slowly rocking it back and forth in her hand, and Carl’s eyes transfixed on it. As it moved, the swirling pattern seems to move it itself, almost like a holographic trading card. The longer she did it, the more affixed Carl became, realizing that just the sight of the watch itself was hypnotic.

Zarathustra snapped her fingers, and Carl suddenly awoke from his reverie. He blinked a few times, realizing that he had been staring for so long that his eyes were dry. “See?” Zarathustra said. “Just the sight of this pocket watch is inherently hypnotic. Imagine the deep, dark slumber it could bring someone to when used in a proper manner!”

Carl picked at his eyes. “That is pretty cool,” he said, “but I’ll have to ask my boss. Not sure if she’d be interested in selling magical . . . artefacts.”

“Very well,” Zarathustra responded. “Please, take my business card then,” she said, producing a funky purple-and-yellow card, again from her breast pocket. She reached out her hand for Carl to take it. He went to grab it, but she wasn’t letting go. He pulled again, and then looked up from where he was standing only to find Zarathustra mere inches from his face. She was leaned so far over the counter that he could have reached out and kissed her. As soon as he looked at her, he met her eyes, and he felt like she was gazing into the depths of his soul. For a whole five seconds he stood there, frozen, transfixed by her gaze. Then, she released the business card, leaned back and gave a devilish smile.

“Please forgive my rudeness,” she said, “but I just had to take a look in your eyes. You seemed to me like a prime candidate for hypnosis, and I was totally right. You have a deep, buried wish in your heart that hypnosis can help you achieve, if only you’d let me hypnotize you.”

Carl wasn’t sure what to say. More than anything, he was stunned that this woman had the guts to openly psychoanalyze him. He didn’t have a deep, buried wish in his heart, did he? Well, he had a lot of wishes and aspirations, but few he could achieve. He wasn’t sure what she was talking about. Unless . . . no. Carl had been there in his thoughts before, and it was a very bad place he tried his best to stay very far away from.

“Sorry,” Carl said, placing the business card on the counter, “but I’ve decided we’re not interested.” He slid the card back over to Zarathustra.

“Just consider it,” she said, again with a cute wink. “My home address is on there. If you ever want to pick up some artefacts to sell, or if you want to be ~hypnotized~, just stop by.”

Reflexively, Carl looked down at the card, which contained her address. He looked back up to say no thanks once again, but when he did, she was gone. Completely vanished, as if she had never been there in the first place. What? Carl wondered if he had hallucinated the whole thing, but he looked back down at the card in his hand, which was still as real as it had been moments before, still bearing her address.

“Yeah right,” Carl said, motioning to throw it in the trash, but something stopped him. After all, maybe his boss would be interested. Mrs. Teawood was so old that she believed in all sorts of urban legends and folk tales, and maybe something “”””magical”””” would be intriguing to her after all. He resolved to throw it out after he asked her about it.

He went to put it in a safe place, but again a feeling of attachment came over him. He thought about her offer to hypnotize him. Thinking through it one more time, being hypnotized by a hot girl sounded like something he should probably do, right? He thought of his father, who probably would’ve pat him on the back for finally scoring an opportunity with the opposite sex. And it was her house, so maybe it was a covert invitation to sex, or something? Is that how hook-ups are supposed to, like, work? Carl was never really sure what to do when interacting with women. He had no female friends, and had only ever had one girlfriend, briefly in high school, who later turned out to be a huge dyke using him as cover. What was the normal, single, straight guy thing to think and do here? For some reason, the answers to such questions always mysteriously evaded Carl.

Sighing with aggravation, he decided it couldn’t hurt to slip the card into his wallet. He had to close up the store soon and didn’t want to lose his spot in his book, so he turned back to Love Me Radical, where the heroine was cumming hard and yelling “SUPPORT UNIONS!”

***

“Sorry bro, can’t tonight. Got a hot date. I’ll catch ya next week tho.”

Carl stared at the text from his only remaining high school friend and dropped his head. One by one the few people he had actually gotten close with in high school left his life, as they went off to college, drifted into marriages, and moved to pursue high-profile careers. Meanwhile, he sat in his cramped, dirty apartment on his stained bed, staring up at the manila ceiling and sighing.

It was his one day off from work, since the store was closed on Saturdays. That was when Mrs. Teawood did her gardening, even though Saturdays would hypothetically be a high-volume day for sales. She was set in her ways. Fortunately, Carl didn’t mind. Having Saturdays off was the “highlight” of his week, if you could call it that, though he often spent it stuck inside, scrolling through twitter, playing League of Legends, or reading. Every so often he was able to get together with Charlie and just hang out, but Charlie increasingly had “hot dates” (yeah right) that made him unavailable. Carl closed his eyes and laid on his side in bed, just decompressing from all that happened in the week. Angry customers . . . Teawood not showing up . . . the bathroom toilet overflowing . . . the list went on and on. He was hoping Charlie would be able to cheer him up, but it looked like he was shit out of luck. Worst of all, his disappointment turned into boredom - even what he usually did to pass the time didn’t sound appealing right now.

He laid there for some time with his eyes closed. Maybe thirty minutes? Maybe an hour? Maybe two? Eventually, completely starved for things to do, his mind drifting to the business card that strange magician had given him last week.

Carl wrestled it out of his wallet and looked it over. “THE GREAT AND POWERFUL MAGICIAN ZARATHUSTRA,” it said in raised lettering, and beneath it, “SPECIALTIES: ROPE TRICKS, VANISHINGS, HYPNOSIS.” Kinky. Below that, on the tacky purple and yellow pattern, was an address that almost felt like a joke, 777 Fate Ave, in a town only about ten minutes away from him by car, and a phone number. Maybe he should call her, he thought. What did he have to lose? Charlie had a hot date, and maybe he had a shot at one, too. On the other hand, she was so . . . weird. She was undeniably cute, but if he was being truly honest with himself, he didn’t feel positive that there was no chance she’d hack him into pieces, probably as part of a sword-in-the-box trick or something. And yet, even as he was telling himself that she was too weird, deep down, he liked weird. He sort of longed for more weirdos in his life, people who would at least have a chance at not dismissing him immediately due to their own bizarre quirks. He ran into some veritable weirdos at the antique store (it was part of the trade), but none he felt close to. But this, this was different. This was an opportunity.

That was it. With shaking hands and baited breath, he dialed the number. It rang twice, and then a cute voice responded, “Yyyyyyyello, this is the Great and Powerful Magician Zarathustra. May I ask who’s calling?”

He laughed, caught off guard by the ridiculous greeting. “Hi, this is um. Um. The guy. You know, the guy? Me?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. I am a magician, not a psychic,” she responded.

“Sorry, I meant it’s Carl. Not that you learned my name. But you spoke to me. At Teawood Antiques. Remember?”

“Ah, yes. Hello Carl. Have you called to procure one of my artefacts?”

“Um - no. Not the artefacts. I’m calling about the other things.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding surprised, “So you’d like to by hypnotized?”

He gulped. Her asking the question gave him cold feet, but he didn’t want to back down now. “Yeah, I guess. I’m sorta interested. I - I have nothing better to do. Well, I do have good things to do, just. Not now. Well, I mean, what are you doing tonight?”

“I’ll be hypnotizing you. Arrive no later than 8,” she said, and hung up.

***

Carl found himself shuffling his feet in front of the door to 777 Fate Ave, working up the courage to knock. Zarathustra’s home was rather strange, situated on a side thoroughfare of a main road between a therapist’s office and a baker. The house itself looked more like a storefront, with a sign repeating the details from Zarathustra’s business card and the same kooky purple and yellow design. On the second floor, two windows were guarded by satin curtains, and the front door in question was a large, dark red-brown oak with ornate patterns, like something from an old mansion. It completely clashed with the rest of the house. It was so strange, but you know, par for the course at this point, Carl thought.

It was chilly outside, and he was chilly in the light jacket that was the only jacket he owned, but still he was having a hard time since he got the sinking feeling in his stomach that he was making a mistake. Was this how a date felt? It had been so long that he honestly wasn’t sure. Was this even a date? It didn’t really feel like one. Was he deluding himself?

Before he could answer those questions, the door swung open. There stood Zarathustra, still in the same magician outfit, but with one crucial change. In place of her sleek black trousers from last time, she was wearing a way-too-short black ruffle skirt that ended mid-thigh and black fishnets. Combined with her fancy top, the look could only be described as jaw-droppingly sexy, and Zarathustra flashed a bright, surprisingly innocent smile that would make anyone, gay, straight, or anything in between, swoon.

Carl felt like this was the part of the night where he was supposed to get a boner, but he was just enthralled with the aesthetic beauty of her look. It was a beauty hopelessly above him, something that he felt like he was really only meant to admire from afar, but wanted to be close to, wanted to be a part of. And now she was right in front of him.

“Well, are you going to perform a trick where you stay alive inside a block of ice for 72 hours, or are you going to come in?” she said.

“Sorry,” Carl said, shuffling inside. The interior was thrice as strange as the exterior. Everything was decorated with ribbons, deep purple curtains, and thick shag carpeting straight out of the 70s. The living room was a mess of magic boxes, over-sized playing cards, ceremonial swords, fake guns, contraptions suspended by wire, oriental rugs draped over furniture, crystal balls, and piles and piles of books on magic, everywhere, organized in no discernible fashion, as if they were just picked up and put down whenever there was space. In the middle of the mess were two large cushioned armchairs, facing each other.

“I’m so happy you decided to come,” Zarathustra said. “It’s rare that I have visitors, and even rarer that I get to give them the gift of hypnosis.”

“Uh, no problem,” Carl said. “You look nice, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you. I just like to look professional, you know?” she said with a wink.

She invited Carl to sit in one of the two armchairs, and offered him a drink. She came back a moment later with a thick, crystal glass of ice water and a few sheets of paper.

“You’ll have to sign these,” she said, handing him the water and the papers with a ballpoint pen.

“What is this? A deal with the devil?” he asked.

She laughed. He felt good about that. It just felt good to interact with another human being outside of work. And beneath it all, maybe it was just companionship. He almost felt a longing just to be her weird friend.

“No, it isn’t. I’ve met the devil, and her contracts are awfully long and overly complicated.” Carl laughed in turn, although she said it with a completely straight face. “This is just some short standard legalese that says I won’t be held liable for the effects of the hypnosis.”

“What? But what if something bad happens? That hardly seems fair,” Carl said.

“The first law of hypnosis: You can’t be hypnotized into doing something you don’t want to do,” Zarathustra said. “If you wouldn’t murder someone normally, you can’t be hypnotized into murder. If you wouldn’t do something that would hurt yourself normally, you can’t be hypnotized into taking undue risk. And if you wouldn’t normally walk around for years with a command word stuck in your head that activates and triggers hysterical rage, then you can’t be hypnotized into that, either. Nobody can be made to do something by hypnosis that isn’t something, deep in their heart, that’s already part of them.”

“If it’s safe, then why do I have to sign?” Carl asked.

“Because nobody really knows what they do want,” she said. “The human heart is mysterious and profound. Everyone walks around with deep wishes stuck in their hearts, wishes buried so deep that they don’t even recognize them. That’s the magic of hypnotism - it brings those true wishes to the surface. But not everybody is happy when those wishes are fulfilled, even when it is what they want most in the world. It is a complicated and sad affair, but that’s life.”

Carl just listened, sensing that whatever Zarathustra was saying made some sort of sense, but he was having trouble following. Wasn’t hypnosis a parlor trick? “So how do I know something bad won’t happen to me? What happens if I don’t sign this?”

“Then I won’t hypnotize you,” she said. “You can leave at any time. And I am a skillful and practiced hypnotist. You have my word, as a magician, and a magician’s word is worth their blood. Nothing bad will happen to you.”

He looked down at the papers. He was still confused, and a little scared. Whatever was going on, Zarathustra was being vague and spooky about it.

But at the same time, honestly speaking, what did he have to lose? His life was pretty awful. He had lost his connection to his family a long time ago when he was kicked out of his parent’s home, he had essentially lost his last friend, he was stuck in a bad job with no real prospects for a way out, and turning to a wacked out stranger who thought she was a wizard for some basic human contact on a Saturday night. What did he have to lose, really? On a deep level, from the day he was born, Carl felt like he was walking around in a suit that was two sizes too tight, working on borrowed time. His body always felt strange and foreign to him, like he was born into someone else’s body. It made it hard for him to get out of bed in the morning, hard to brush his teeth, hard to go to work, hard to come home, hard to eat and hard to sleep. It was hard to relax, hard to be stressed, and hard to be neither. Whatever wish he truly held “deep in his heart,” as Zarathustra said, even if it was death itself, couldn’t possibly be worse than how things were going now.

So, with a sigh, he signed. Whatever would happen, he was going to take a risk - he had to, just for a single Saturday night, just to keep going. As he handed the papers to her, Zarathustra smiled, and it reassured him. He realized how nervous he was over something as silly as a hypnotism. And yet, here he was, nervous and reassured.

“Thank you,” she said. “I am honored that you’re willing to trust in me. I won’t let you down.” She lifted a nearby remote and hit a button that began to play a soft sound - the gentle lapping of waves on a beach. With the other hand she pulled out the special pocket watch from her breast pocket, and opened the face, revealing inside a swirl of purple, pink and black much larger and more mesmerizing than the cover was. There wasn’t even a clock face on the inside of the pocket watch, Carl noticed.

“Let’s begin. I want you to listen to the sounds and follow the pendulum as it swings,” she said, gently rocking the watch back and forth. Carl was instantly transfixed on it, watching the shiny glean of colors travel back and forth, back and forth, back and forth . . .

As he watched, he felt his whole body becoming heavy, and his eyelids begins to sag. With a loud yawn, he closed his eyes, and let himself sink into the chair. The sounds of the ocean waves lapped over him, and he noticed beneath the waves the hum of a mystical sounding instrument - he wasn’t sure to call it, but it sounded like a mandolin, or a theremin. The gentle rhythm of everything made him relax, far harder than he felt he had maybe ever relaxed before, and he felt himself sinking, sinking, sinking.

“Yes, that’s good . . . I want you to relax, let loose all the built up tension in your muscles. Sink deeper and deeper into my trance . . . listen to the gentle waves, listen to my commanding voice, listen to your body and sink, sink, sink . . .”

Carl finally felt like he had relinquished control, his body loosening up as he sank further and further. It was all surprisingly quick, even for a master like Zarathustra. Within ten minutes or so, he was miles below the surface of his body, totally limp, softly breathing and just listening to the soft, pleasant, beautiful sounds, and Zarathustra’s powerful, commanding voice. He wanted to follow it, no matter what.

“Yes, you really needed this,” she said, delighted that he had taken her up on her offer and that he had sunk so quickly. “Poor baby. Life’s been so unfair to you, hasn’t it? I can see it in your face, could tell from the moment I met you - things aren’t going too well, are they?” Carl didn’t respond. The only noise coming from him were his small, soft breaths as he latched onto every one of Zarathustra’s words. She was in total control.

“Your Mom and your Dad - I can see it in your memories - they were terrible. Disowning their own child after catching him cross-dressing . . . what ignorant, small minded people. You don’t have to worry about them anymore, because where we’re going, it won’t really be cross dressing . . .” Carl’s breathing picked up slightly in tempo, and Zarathustra saw small beads of tears form in the corners of his eyes. The words were getting to him, opening an old, old wound. But that wound had never really healed, probably would have never healed unless Carl met Zarathustra.

“I could see it in your eyes when I looked . . . There’s something you need very badly, very badly to make yourself whole. I want you to imagine a happy place, the place you most want in the world . . . it could be in the palace of memories, or in the land of dreams . . . the myth of the future, or the fantasy of the past . . .”

Tears streamed down Carl’s cheeks as he envisioned his dream from the week before. It was a dream that came to him often, where he was a woman, finally, in a body that felt right, felt like it belonged to him. Sometimes he was alone, sometimes not. Flashes of past dreams ran through his head, flashes of him as a girl in a sundress on a picnic during a bright day, flashes of him with kids he had given birth too, flashes of him as a woman on a bed, waiting for his - her? - boyfriend to come in and make love. He envisioned the heroines of the novels he read, often confident, beautiful, vulnerable, sexual, poetic, and courageous, flawed but lovable, unlike himself, flawed and unlovable. It was all so overwhelming that years and years of tears he hadn’t been able to cry let loose in silent rivers running down his face.

Zarathustra looked at him with a frown, feeling truly sad for the boy who was supposed to be a girl. She knew how it was with him, had known since the moment she looked inside his eyes what the deep, dark secret of his life was, buried miles inside his stony heart. Truthfully, though, she hadn’t even had to look in his eyes - it was written all over his face, all over his clothes, inscribed in every word that came out of his mouth. Zarathustra loved nothing more than to correct what nature and the gods had fucked up in their hubris. And so she soothed the scared little girl in front of her, whispering sweet words of love and affection: “It will be okay, Claire. Shh, shh, don’t worry, this horrible chapter of your life is all over now . . . shh, shhhh, I am here to help you, to support you, you will be okay, it will all be okay.” As she whispered this, the newly named Claire continued to cry, but this time she cried with silent heaves and heavy breaths. Knowing it was painful but necessary, Zarathustra kept her there for several minutes as everything drained out, every last piece of self-hatred and angst, every bit of darkness and self-denial. She needed Claire to detox from all the pain to clean herself out for what was to come next.

After what felt like forever, Claire was ready. She had no more tears left in her body, and her muscles had given out resisting long ago from exhaustion. Now Zarathustra could go to work. “You will be beautiful Claire, like you deserve,” she said softly. “Listen to my voice and to the rhythms. We are going to fix you. Listen to your body. Do you feel it? Do you feel how your skin is moving, softening, smoothing, shrinking?”

Claire felt her whole body adjusting as she listened to each of Zarathustra’s words. It felt really good, really really good. Over several minutes she shed height, falling from 6 foot to 5’ 8’’ and all the way to 5’ 4’’, making her a petite little lady. The gross buildup of years and years of body hair was all slowly receding, leaving her arms and legs with smooth, sparsely haired surfaces. Her nose itched as it scrunched up and shrank to a small little button, while her eyes grew a little larger and her lips became fuller and plumper. Her clean and beautiful face radiated warmth and happiness, as Claire felt a smile creep onto her lips.

“Let all that masculinity just drain out of you. You were never good at it anyway. It was like poison for you, destroying your body and your dreams. You deserve so much better. Let everything wash over you and let go. This is the new you now. Embrace it.”

Claire felt a soft tug on her scalp as the messy blonde shag of hair on her head began to lengthen. It reminded her of a childhood memory, when her mother brushed her hair, and how good it felt to be touched, to be groomed and cared for. That touch had been missing for so much of her life, and now she felt it return in full force as huge, beautiful locks of golden hair tumbled out of her scalp, falling over her new petite shoulders. She shifted her head slightly back and forth as it grew, feeling the softness of it brushing against her skin and shivering. Soon, her hair reached her mid back.

Zarathustra’s calm, repeated chanting grounded Claire as her whole body transformed. She kept saying “you will be as beautiful on the outside as I know you are on the inside, you will be as beautiful on the outside as I know you are on the inside . . .” and it felt so good, like waves of pleasure and just pure unadulterated euphoria washing over her brain. Was this what happiness felt like?

Claire’s back shifted, her weight falling into her hips, leaving a small little divot in her lower back, great for the hand of someone holding her tight. She felt her arms lengthen too, and a small, satisfying tug on each of her fingers as they became longer, and thinner. Even though with her eyes closed she couldn’t see it, she could feel as each nail shaped up into a smooth, manicured little beauty. Her feet did the same, tingling with heat as they shrank and years of awful gunk were washed away, replaced with perfectly even toenails painted a beautiful turquoise.

“It’s time, dear,” Zarathustra said, “this is the hardest part, but also the best part. Enjoy it.” She began to hum a low pitch as Claire felt two burning little spots of pleasure erupt on her chest, demanding her attention. It felt incredible, like an itch she couldn’t scratch for decades had finally be touched. As they grew Claire’s whole body filled with a hot arousal. Every nerve was on fire, every muscle beginning to tighten. It just felt so damn good to finally give up the facade she had been living and accept who she was. As her breasts grew, she felt down there finally begin to shrink, slowly pulling within her. She let out moan after sensual moan as she blossomed into a gorgeous and sexy woman, her boobs growing to a healthy weight that looked just right for her small body. She felt her ass too begin to grown as her boobs finished, slowly gaining in fat and filling out an hourglass shape. Fuck, Claire thought in her deep trance, I’m hot now. Claire’s penis gasped its last breath as it slurped inside of her, and her brain went haywire as her whole internal anatomy shifted, her ovaries nestling themselves inside her hips and her newly made vagina twitching with a frantic heat, begging to be rubbed, fingered, licked and fucked. Her clitoris sunk into place, already throbbing with pleasure and asking for more. With her body transformed, her clothes, now far too large and baggy for her, finally just gave out: they disintegrated entirely, leaving her naked, her swollen pink nipples and her new sex exposed to the open air.

She brought a hand to her nipples, rubbing them softly and twisting them until her body ached and buckled, her sensual moans slowly rising in pitch as her voice finally corrected itself to match the body it belonged to. Zarathustra considered her creation, smiling in delight as she saw Claire desperately try to pleasure herself. She was missing something, a certain je ne sais quoi, some small, final touch. Suddenly recognizing just the thing, Zarathustra ceased her humming as one small beauty mark erupted onto Claire’s left cheek. “Perfect!” Zarathustra said. “You’re done, at last Claire!” she said, watching as Claire slipped a finger into her pussy and furiously began massaging her clit. “You can thank me later. For now, when I say release, the hypnosis will cease, and you can live your new life.” Claire could only barely hear, awash in a flood of pleasures as her whole body flared up, each muscle tightening to its limit. “3 . . . 2 . . . . .”

“1! RELEASE!” Zarathustra commanded, and as she did, the speakers stopped their gently lapping music, and Claire began to rocket upwards back into waking consciousness as a monstrous orgasm tore through her body. It felt like an earthquake had overtaken her as every muscle shook with a sensual satisfaction, and tons of watery cum squirted wave after wave from her new pussy, while a thin dribble of drool dripped from her mouth and she felt her eyes roll deep into the back of her head. She moaned as it all happened, the orgasm rocking her body for a few whole seconds, before everything came crashing down back into reality. And like that, she was back, her eyes finally popped open, and she stared lazily and contentedly at Zarathustra with a tired smile.

The whole chair was covered in cum, but Zarathustra didn’t care. She just walked over to Claire and bent over, looking deep into her eyes. “Finally, I can see a light in there,” she said, with a wide, beaming smile. “I just knew there was a beautiful person deep down in there, waiting to break free.”

***

Two Years Later

Claire was waiting on her boyfriend’s bed, wet, naked and anxious, waiting for him to return from the bathroom. The suspense of finally being fucked was killing her, but she tried to keep herself under control, lest she get herself off before her boyfriend even had a chance to have some fun with her. To distract herself, she picked up her phone from the nightstand and shot a quick text to Za. “What you doing this weekend girlie?”

Zarathustra was in her house, drawing a magic circle out of pink Himalayan salt when she heard her phone buzz from inside the kitchen. She stopped, going over to find it, and reading Claire’s text message. She didn’t keep in touch with most who took her up on hypnotism, but Claire had been a special case. Freed from her self-loathing, depression, and crippling gender dysphoria, Claire had blossomed into a hilarious, kind, and creative woman with a killer fashion sense and a passion for justice. When Zarathustra first taught her the word “transgender,” she instinctively realized the word described who she was. Za thought back to that day, seeing the sparkle in Claire’s eyes as she said she wanted to do better for trans people everywhere who hadn’t been as lucky as her and encouraged Za to help her find and aid more eggs in the local community, to which Za complied. That passion and compassion led to Zarathustra keeping in touch, and the two girls had become fast friends. “I have a most exciting magical show!” her response read - a traditional magic show, which Zarathustra enjoyed as a fun pastime between her real projects. “I’d be honored if you and your gentleman would come to experience THE GREAT ZARATHUSTRA live!”

“Sure!! <3” Claire responded. She sent another text, saying “Zack and I will come see u killing it! : )”

It was then that Zack returned, and saw her on the phone. Looking him over, he wasn’t quite the man from the dreams Claire imagined so many years ago. His abs weren’t exactly washboards, and his hair got a little frizzy sometimes. Still, she loved him dearly, loved him much more dearly since he was real and funny and smart and supported her in everything she did. And he was well off in the dick department, so that didn’t hurt.

They had met 7 months ago, after Claire had gotten her GED. They shared an English class at the community college Claire enrolled herself in to get her life back on track and finally pursue an education - although she still wasn’t sure in exactly what, but she knew she had plenty of time to figure it all out. She didn’t mind too much being a little older than a lot of the students around her at the age of 25, but was surprised to find students 10 to 20 and even 30 years older than her in class, which both inspired her to do well and gave her hope for the future. Zack asked her out one day to a magic show, and flustered though she was, she said yes, and they’d been together since.

Claire could truly say she didn’t miss her old life - not her old job, which she quit shortly after finally becoming herself, nor her old friends and family, who wouldn’t recognize her anyway, nor her old apartment, which she abandoned for an even smaller and cheaper, but much cleaner and nicer apartment. She had gotten a job at the mall, bland but safe, at a smoothie shop. It still kinda sucked, but it was nevertheless a big improvement, and working to put herself through college was infinitely more rewarding than the drudgery she had been stuck in before.

She had embraced being herself, and found that parts of her personality she didn’t even know she had were finally able to grow, no longer hindered by being shut in a basement and starved of sunlight. She had begun drawing a lot, taking time to sketch everyday things around her house and her neighborhood. She wasn’t particularly good at it (yet), but she did like it, and it made her happy. And other parts of her that were always there got a chance to grow even bigger as she became the best version of herself. She joined a women’s book club in her town which read a LOT of trashy chick lit, which was still her guilty pleasure, although they occasionally slipped in some more vanilla fiction, like The Handmaid’s Tale, which she thought was a bit preachy, but she did enjoy. Still, her passion was really with reading about lusty heroines and their buff boyfriends working together to save the day and achieve their dreams.

As her own buff boyfriend leaned into her and pulled her into a sensual kiss, she thought to herself that even though her life was far from perfect, it was something now, at least. Yeah, that was exactly it - before, she didn’t even have a life to call her own. She wasn’t truly living; she was just going through the motions of a robotic existence, lost in the maze of her own mind. But now, on the other side of that maze, she had something unique, something special. She was someone. She was Claire.