The Verdict

"You may enter!" I hear a male voice emanating from a loudspeaker. The door in front of me opens and I move toward the individual standing in the middle of the room.

"You've been prancing around," he tells me in his Cajun accent. "Pleaser. My favorite. All-American. Do you remember when you first saw the list of heels?"

"Yes," I nod slightly.

"Tell me," the man asserts.

"It was a conversion table," I continue. "In inches, centimeters and millimeters. The table also said how much experience is needed for a particular heel height.."

"Very good," the man grins. "Very good indeed. Walking so much in heels, I'm sure you don't really remember how to walk in flats! I must admit, there is something unique about white girls.. maybe it's all those years of conditioning by the Romans?"

Five seconds of silence.

"Look at your hair," he gently touches my forehead. "Beautiful. Brunette, parted in the middle. All the way to your breasts, your hair is touching them.. and the curls." Eying my every move, he asked, "Have I not created you anew?"

"Yes," I blush. "You have."

"And do you remember why you are like this?" he continues.

"I have called you a fraud," I reply softly. "Someone with an insatiable lust for power."

"Yes," he grins. "You kept spreading rumors I am a dangerous cult leader who profits from the 2012 hysteria. Normally, I wouldn't care. But you.. you were a clever 23-year-old man, Paul. Managed a big company. So young and so successful! I knew you had to be punished for damaging my reputation!"

Five seconds of silence.

"Paul," the man pauses. "Tell me. What did I do?"

I lower my head and say, "You turned me.. into.. a woman."

"Yes," the Cajun's face is beaming with satisfaction. "Paul, you didn't believe me. You told me someone was going to find you. That you were too important to just disappear. That I wouldn't spend all the money on you. That it was just impossible to do this in a civilized society! Well, what do you think about it now, Paul? Did your perspective change?"

I do not know what to say.

"Yes, Paul?" the man keeps touching my hair, as if trying to encourage me to utter the words.

"Your power is even greater than I imagined," I reply softly. "I underestimated you. I was wrong."

'Yes," the man's eyes are filled with satisfaction. "Yes you were. I used your own fetish against you, Paul. You kept coming to this place, visiting the BDSM scene, thinking you can just pay and leave.. that, being the CEO, your privacy was secure. But you didn't know. You didn't know I'd been watching you, Paul.. using your own vices to capture you!"

"Yes," I lower my head. "You have given me much more than I bargained for.."

"Just look at your tassels and those white feathers, gently touching the middle of your thighs, Paul," he grins. "Your smooth skin, your six-inch heels, and then you are six-feet.. what a charming combination!"

The prophet looks around the room, then suddenly eyes me and asks, "Do you remember how you resisted the change with all your manly might?"

"Yes," I reply. "I remember it very well."

"At first, you thought it was just another chapter of the BDSM game, Paul," the Cajun affirms. "So I had to show you how wrong you were. I had to show you I was capable of much, much more than simple fetishes, dysphorias and other travesties. I had to show you what the prophet was, and - indeed - is, capable of."

I instinctively touch the feathered tassels.

"The beautiful part is," he continues. "I have seized your assets and used your own money to transform you, Paul! Not only have I taken your manhood, but also your wealth! Isn't this something only a true seer can do?"

"Yes," I acknowledge. "It is."

"Paul," the man continues. "Your womanly voice is perfect. Your Southern drawl is perfect. Your horseback riding skills are perfect. Indeed, you are what I have turned you into!"

I bend my knees slightly and say, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replies. "I trust you are more than eager to hear the verdict?"

"Yes, please?" I nod vigorously.

"The verdict is right here," the prophet hands me an envelope. "All you need to know is there, Paul.. you man with two assholes."

The prophet winks at me, grins, and walks away.

I start the "girlie prancing," as the prophet would call it.

Contradictory emotions within me are screaming to open the envelope. I finally succumb to my inner storm and read the following note,

"Dear Paul,

You have handled the pickup artists well. I have provided you with a new identity and the financial means to make sure you have a comfortable life as a woman. Do not try to reverse this process. You do know you cannot mess with hormones back and forth. You are twenty six now, and all the meticulous documentation is only going to help me in these difficult economic times to show others how powerful I am. Worry not, your identity remains a secret.

You can play chess now, show others what you are capable of by standing up for women's rights!

You can also describe your experiences, Paul. It will have a therapeutic effect, of that I am certain. I would never want you develop Stockholm syndrome! This is just not me.

Paul, remember that your girlie derriere still belongs to me. Literally and figuratively. Do not forget about that beautiful rose I have shoved up your lovely rear while girlie music kept playing in the background! Your cockiness has not gotten you very far.. so I would advise you to stop being cocky - because you just do not have what it takes anymore!

I also know you are never going to reveal this to anyone publically - the humiliation would be just too great!

Au revoir, mademoiselle Alice! Have a nice life in Louisiana!"

Holding the note in my hand, I leave the prophet's compound as fast as possible.