Going to town as Claudia is enticing, but there’s a couple problems to deal with, and they don’t involve what hangs from your chest. You’re not one to hang out, and neither does she. She tells you (literally, upon asking) about her date a couple years ago with one Frank Aberdeen, but neither his face, nor the place, nor any particular details come to mind.
This becomes a growing issue when you try to get more details from her. Claudia’s being very helpful telling you everything, but it’s second-hand information. You know she has a cottage, but no images about it come to mind; you feel it’s like a sanctuary to her, but nothing to prove why.
This peculiar lack of memories is startling enough that you feel forced to ask Merry aside for instructions. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” she says, effortlessly mimicking Tina’s mood.
“Be her! How am I supposed to be Claudia from descriptions alone!?”
She gives you a hard stare, then snorts. “Right. You need to get acquainted with her. For now, just ask what she does and try to remember how she greeted us.”
You’re unsure if you’ll ever mimic her poise, but you make an effort. To your surprise, your hands grab each other in a dainty pose, reflexively pushing your breast upwards and lifting your rear as you make slow and careful steps towards James. “Sorry about that. I was asking Miss Anderson here for details but she doesn’t seem to know.”
“Neither do I,” the guard confesses. “Like I said, must be a gas leak. I’ll write it up on the events board for the council to handle.”
Gas leak? That’s the second time you hear it. Why would an old library want with a gas pipe--?
The incinerator on the lower levels, you hear Claudia telling you. It is in disuse, but removing it is unadvised.
Even her mind's voice has a refined tone. Claudia feels out of place in a city like this – she deserves a finer place, like Stratford-upon-Avon. (Why that place? She loves Shakespeare.) But the musk of old books permeating the library makes her feel like home.
“Please do,” you tell him, wary of the repercussions. “And check the air vents as well. For now, this room and Study Room C will be closed down until we have more details.”
You turn to Merry and to your clone – creeping you with that silent, robotic expression – and extend your best attempt at a professional apology. “I deeply apologize for this unfortunate incident, and we will make every effort to remedy the situation.”
“It’s alright,” your distant cousin-turned-sister responds. “I should be the one to apologize for coming so late.”
“I would appreciate your consideration for future visits.” You turn to the guard, giving him further instructions. “Would you check on the other visitors while I resolve the situation with them?”
“Yes, Ms. Nicholls. Excuse me.”
Soon after he leaves, Merry glances out and slaps your shoulder. “Well done, girl!”
“I still have several things to do, Ms. Anderson.” (Your polite condescension is just a show, but you dig this air of authority.) “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
“Yeah, figures.” Merry slaps your clone – David, you remind yourself – and he jitters, giving an empty glare. She wraps her arms around your waist and surprises you with a hot French kiss. “So you never forget me, little brother. See you whenever.”
You’re once again too startled to notice they leave, and only Marshall’s call wakes you up from that stupor. “Ms. Nicholls?”
“Sorry,” you say with a sigh. “I was daydreaming. Let me...” You step away, ready to finish the task of organizing the books and do a final check-up before leaving. Perhaps stepping into the improvised theater on the nearby building would be a fine distraction, but you’re unsure you’ll finish in time.
--
The drive to your home feels extremely awkward. Not the Anderson’s house, mind you – your house, at the outskirts of Tyneside leading up to the woods in Keller Creek. On your car, a plain-looking beige sedan that has yet to fail you (and if it does, it’s always near a service station), going through a sparsely-traveled road. On your clothes, spun from fine silk and cotton, from an age not this own.
And of course, on a body not your own. And having Claudia’s breasts so close distracts you from the road, making you hot and bothered.
There’s a reason why a cottage came to mind when talking about her home – because it is a cottage, in Victorian style, on the top of a hill with a stone wall and a rose garden that, according to your new resident, she cares for tenderly.
It’s impossible for someone with her salary to have it (you know, since she confessed); she inherited this out-of-place cottage from a grand-aunt (a minor noble, to boot) that moved from Northern Ireland to America years ago, as a reward for your “admirable taste”.
As you enter inside, lighting the place, you feel an air of tranquility in tones of incense and potpourri. The living room is furnished with late 19th century pieces painstakingly maintained with varnish. The whole place feels like a time capsule – she has no television, no laptop or tablet, only an old and unused radio that could be a pendulum clock instead.
She doesn’t need to, as she’s an avid reader – judging by the bookmarked hardcover of Jane Eyre inside a crystal box on her side table. It’s the kind of book that should belong in a museum – from a printing of over 100 years ago – but she feels it would be best appreciated if read.
That’s not to say that Claudia is a complete luddite. The chandelier, for example, is electrical, glowing with a very soft white. Her kitchen, with a cast iron wood-powered oven and pots of herbs, spices and preserves (remember to buy peaches at the Farmer’s Market, she tells you, to preserve them), happens to have an electric kettle, fridge and toaster oven. And she has a tablet, but out of sight.
As you explore further, you learn the purpose of the four rooms within. Two of them are guest rooms, though they’re seldom used – Claudia rarely has visitors, after all. One, of course, is her bedroom, which right now feels inviting. But the last one...
You step into what looks like an atelier, with elaborate costumes of all kinds, and sewing materials, and headstands with red-hair wigs bearing exuberant styles. This is the “secret” alcove of lady Montresse, your “alter-ego” in The Occult Society of Gentlebodies of Tyneside – which, despite its fancy name, is basically a glorified roleplaying social club for “people out of time”.
You see the stand in the middle of the room, with a half-finished costume. You have – well, Claudia has – worked on it for several months now, paying special attention to the multiple layers: the undergarment, the petticoat, the corset, the overcoat and the gloves. A nearby headstand has a red-haired wig styled with long ringlets and a top bun held by a small braid, from which a gorget studded with rhinestones and Swarovski crystals hangs. When you ask what this is for, you get a strangely emotional response. For our next reunion. I will be the envy of everyone.
And she’s not wrong. Right now, you’re the envy of many people. You’re inside the skin of a beautiful, refined woman. She’s all yours. And when you wear that dress and put on that wig, you will be even more beautiful.
Your eye floats to a white box lying on the floor. It arrived recently (she informs you), and you’ve been expecting it for long. As you squat elegantly and open it, you see a large mound of flesh-colored rubber inside bubble wrap and a plastic bag. As you pull it out, you see what looks like a girdle, made out of silicone, with exaggerated hips and buttocks and an open crotch.
You feel shame in admitting that you had to purchase this from an online store (and one for crossdressers, to boot), but if this will give you the derrière you want and deserve, the money will be well spent. (And the crotch opening will let you pee easily!)
But there’s unfinished business to deal with. You move to her bedroom, with a bed fit for a queen, and an antique vanity and screen divider and a tall mirror that’s a twin of one in the atelier. You check her closet, after lighting the chandelier-esque lights, and notice an excessive collection of antique-style clothing. There’s rarely a piece that would be younger than the 1950s, other than a pair of business suits and some tight yoga pants hidden in its depths. Boots with stiletto heels of all styles – from ankle-high to a pair of over-the-knee – are organized neatly in a row, save for a space reserved for the ones you currently wear.
You undress, slowly, before the mirror, admiring her beauty up close and personal. You give yourself the sultriest look, as if she was trying to seduce you. You kneel before the mirror and flash a coquettish smile, framed by lips drenched in deep rouge.
You grasp your large breast and squeeze it, and your finger travels all the way into your labia. As you rub it, feeling the shock running all over your body, you look at Claudia’s face in the mirror, taunting her.
“Take a good look, Ms. Nicholls. This is what I’ll to do you – every day, and every night. Because you’re mine now. Because I...”
The feeling grows more intense, and you’re left breathless. It overcomes you, and in an ever rising voice, you declare who you are.
“I’m Claudia... I’m Claudia... I’m Claudia...!”
un: 
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