Kaleb Windsor was eighteen and at the prime of his teenage life. You would think he was all for sports, skirt-chasing or wild partying, or something to that effect. Sure, that was what he did whenever he could, but Kaleb was also into acting (and the glitz and glamour that he would expect from it, having his own spot in Hollywood), but the art of acting, to everyone else in the Windsor household, was girly.

In other words, it was unbecoming of the future successor to Windsor Corp. to actually want to go to acting school in place of an Ivy League college. It was gay. Yes, that was what it was. A Windsor heir was expected to do what heirs are naturally obliged to do, whether or not they liked it, and to deviate meant igniting certain conflict in the family, and not to mention a high possibility of frozen bank accounts.

To cut the long story short, Kaleb had gone on a hunger strike for four days (when other youth were busy working on sending out their college applications), melting the hearts of his mother and the servants on the first, and finally, his father's on the fourth. However, he relented only on one condition, because the rules of art and dramatics meant that he would have to also sacrifice the mucosal lining of his stomach. If he gave in so easily, then it would seem to the rest of the world he was not sincere!

Anyway, back to the point-- one condition only? Piece of cake, especially after one has endured extreme hunger in the name of pursuing one's dreams, passing time with the help of a million games of solitaire. That it would be terrifically easy was what Kaleb had imagined as well, but that was until he was summoned into the study and had the cards laid out before him.

"So," the chair swiveled around such that Norman Windsor faced the room and the rest of its occupants-- Marilyn, Kaleb's mother, and Kaleb. They both stood stiffly before his table as he continued with a scathing expression, "You want to be an actor?" At this point in time he lit a cigar, the crackling of the flame on his lighter seemed several decibels louder in the silence.

Kaleb nodded, now invigorated by hope that he could realize his one passion.

"An actor can be anything a script says he has to be," Norman blew out a steady stream of smoke, and rose from his seat. "An actor can become anything at all… Show me how good you are at it," he continued as he fingered the blinds, allowing several rays of sunlight to filter into the room, "This decision you will be making will be your lines."

Kaleb could have jumped for joy if he was not famished and close to passing out.

"Show me you can last through acting school… as a girl."

A dull thud reverberated throughout the room. Kaleb had quite girlishly, fainted, perhaps out of hunger, or maybe it was just the shock that knocked the senses out of him. It appeared that he had started to act almost immediately, if not for the fact that he really was out cold.

"I suppose that he is in agreement," Windsor Sr. chuckled, and waved at Marilyn to make the necessary preparations for his entrance to acting school. He knew his son—the boy could probably only last a week. "Send in a word to Joseph, we'd better reserve a place in Harvard for him, but let him have a little fun at this school of his before he comes crawling back."

-

Somewhere on the other side of the United States lived a girl who shared a similar aspiration and age.

To this girl, to act was to escape reality and herself. The best times of her life were spent in school plays and musicals, where she appeared with a different identity from her own. Her relations were her characters and never once did she have to apply herself. When she was not in a production, she masqueraded as a boy and was entirely convincing as one, so much so that her mother had to move them around the country out of pure embarrassment for her 'cross-dressing' daughter. 'Being' male seemed to make her feel stronger, more empowered. If she was not a boy, at least she could pretend she was, and she could pretend that she was invincible in more respects that she would ever be as a girl, and as a boy, she could fade into the background unnoticed. Raylaa did not want to be female. Females, to her, were weaklings, unable to fend for themselves when they were assaulted. Females like her. And since her entire life was a sham now, she might as well perfect it, so she worked herself to the limit, acing her modules (especially in Drama) for a scholarship to a famous acting institution – her ticket to permanent and flawless escapism from everything she has been associated with.

When people watch the news, they normally have some sort of glazed expression on their faces, because somehow, the reports were usually the same thing they heard about day before. So and so made a speech, some burglar was caught; the weather was reported, complete with channel switches every few minutes. What kept Raylaa's eyes glued to the small and dusty television set which made static-y noises every few seconds in her small dingy home, was a piece of news so similar to her own just about four years ago. If you would just tweak the dates and the names, and you will end up with the news report of Raylaa's half brother Edison's arrest following her rape, and this was what she had been running away from all her life.

As Raylaa curled up tighter and tighter on the couch, the muscles in her tensed with each passing second until they began to feel quite sour. She had wanted to press another button on the remote control, she had wanted to fling a cushion at the screen, and she had wanted so much to scream her lungs out, but she couldn't even move an inch, stuck with watching the entire scene flash through her mind, a television that she could not turn off.

Steam had risen from behind the shower curtain as the water drizzled onto her tired back. There had been a small, barely audible creaking noise from the door, then silence, just the sound of water on skin and trailing down in soft rivulets into the shower drain. Lost in reflections of a long day at school, Raylaa was oblivious to the intruder in the cramped bathroom and as she had turned off the faucet and reached an arm out for her towel, a cold and clammy hand grabbed it. A scream rang out, and in his drunken state, the then 22 year old Edison dragged her nude body towards his own as she pulled the shower curtains down in an attempt for support, but he overcame her like she was a useless ragdoll. Her struggling and shrieking was met with deafening, stinging slaps to her cheeks, rendering her even more determined to be released from his death grip. But it was futile, he was exceptionally persistent in his frenzy, pinning her to the tiled floor, and in that very moment whereby he pushed himself into her resisting flesh, the old Raylaa died, she was only 14.

He escaped after the deed, but not before knocking her unconscious with a ceramic pot of withered geraniums to the back of her head. Caught after five days on the run, Edison, who shared the same father as Raylaa, was sentenced to twenty years in prison. However, the damage he had caused could never be undone from his imprisonment.

Raylaa had somehow, in her strange way, decided that dressing as a boy would prevent her from being a victim once again. It would make her look 'neutral', since it was virtually impossible to rape a man; and so to her, dressing as one would mean that no one would ever touch her again in that way. Even prior to this, her father had liked to hit her whenever he lacked the money for a couple of beers or every time he decided that he did not like the expression on her face, and this contributed to her reinvention of herself into someone stronger. She had since gone to live with her birth mother after the arrest, and began her life as Ray, Ray Evans, a boy with cropped hair that was dyed black, and large clothing on his 5 ft 10 frame, the dark fabrics of his clothes hiding whatever feminine curves Raylaa would have possessed.

-

"Arrgggghhh!"

A bloodcurdling shriek was heard at Le Expressions as a smooth and silky-soft leg flew up from the spa bed. It went towards the assistant's abdomen, striking him with a swift kick that sent him sprawling into a peach-colored storage cabinet of sorts. As if waxing his legs were not enough, Marilyn Windsor had insisted that her son undergo a Brazillian wax in his transformation into a girl.

"Don't you think it's more, hmm, convincing if you did that complete wax thing for the… Ah…" Marilyn had tapped her rounded chin as she thought of a good word to use in place of crotch. Formerly hailing from a conservative Asian society, Marilyn, who was of Chinese heritage, was generally more old-fashioned when dealing with sensitive issues with her son. She quickly waved the word off and told Lena, the lady who owned the chain of beauty salons, spas and whatnot, which Marilyn herself frequented, that her son would like to have a full body wax.

"No, I would not like a full body wa-"

"Oh yes, he would like to have one very much. Thank you Lena," Marilyn had cut in swiftly, drowning out her son's enraged garbled sputter as she directed Lena away with yet another aristocratic wave of hers, jewels glittering on her fingers and wrists.

As for the poor assistant who was kicked, well, there was not much to go on, since he had to be assessed by a physician, and had to be given a sum of money as compensation after threatening resignation and a lawsuit to boot.

"Oooops," Kaleb said, incredibly relieved that all hell was over for now (until the natural cycle of hair regrowth surfaced, of course) as he slid into the driver's seat of his vintage Porsche roadster, after opening and closing the passenger seat door for Marilyn, referring to the little accident he had with the spa assistant. It was a fine vehicle, metallic silver with navy blue leather seats. Kaleb had liked to tell his friends, "A BMW for comfort, a Mercedes for class, but a Porsche is sex on wheels,"

Not that he really appreciated girls pausing at the side of roads to marvel at the amazing (and needless to say, a whopping seventy-thousand dollar) spectacle that was his car (with him in the driver's seat, an important factor we must not forget), since that distracted him a lot and almost caused him to rear into a tree once…. Anytime another woman is onboard would mean that less staring and dreamy smiles would ensue; but with his mother, it felt like he was really driving a battered Ford truck with mud stains splattered all over the windscreen and the body of the truck; no one paid him a second glance. If you knew how it felt to be the center of attention one second, and the next, a lamp post was more interesting, this was how it felt like.

"Take me to Dr. Taylor's, will you?" Marilyn's requested shakily, the usually-unnoticeable Mandarin lilt to her voice was apparent now that Kaleb had hit on the accelerator and was going down a stretch of road at a speed she was not very comfortable with.

"Sure," Kaleb replied flippantly as he turned the steering wheel with a hand idly, swerving the car sharply into the next street. Marilyn smacked his arm for pulling a stunt like that while she was sitting in the car, but the nagging was mostly on how much the roadster had cost his father and how hard he had to work and how he was being an ingrate. After a couple of traffic lights and right turns, Marilyn alighted before a boring grey building, bidding her son goodbye with a scowl for the rough ride, leaving him with all her newest facial treatment supplies from Le Expressions.

Whether Marilyn was there for a botox appointment or a follow-up to her previous liposuction session did not bother Kaleb one bit. He was more interested in going straight home to bed and then bury himself and his sore and hairless skin under the warm, soothing covers.

"Mmm-- yes," he nodded indulgently to himself, switching gears and lanes simultaneously, heading for home.

Several hours later, the lights to his room were flipped on most inconsiderately, and there was this sudden burst of brightness, together with the entrance of some people, indicated by the shuffling of feet upon the parquet flooring. Kaleb groaned, tossing a pillow a good few meters into the air, squarely hitting one of the 'intruders' in the face.

"Turn off the lights!" he groaned.

The comforter was pulled off of him, revealing a nude, hairless and semi-muscular body beneath; but thankfully, a strip of excess cloth from a nearby pillow's casing covered the important bits. Gasps from the intruders traveled to his ears, causing him to smile quite smugly as the comforter fell once again on him.

"Put on some clothes will you? What if your sister comes in and…"It was Marilyn.

Kaleb cracked an eye sleepily, looking towards the door at two men. Men?! Kaleb shot up in his bed, painfully aware of his current state of undress under his sheets, his grey eyes now as wide as plates.

"WHATAREYOUDOINGINMYROOMGETOUT!"

"Now, now," Marilyn placed a hand gently on his mussed up mop of dark brown hair, stroking it to pacify him, but it only served to annoy him further. "They are only here to aid you in your quest to go to acting school,"

"Firstly, GET OUT," Kaleb barked at the two strange men, and then continued in a more civilized manner, "Secondly, I am not a dog," He began stroking his own head because it looked awful when his mother patted it flat like that, putting a leg halfway out of his bed, "And, please, at least have the courtesy to knock first."

"Do you think I didn't try? You good for nothing, for eighteen years I toiled for you and yo-" Marilyn picked up a navy blue bedroom slipper and slapped his forearm with it.

"Yesyesyes… Mummy, I'm sorry, would you please let me get dressed, or would you like me to meet my new friends in the nude?"

He was dealt with another slipper-slap, but Marilyn was pacified for now, for the door closed behind her without a slam, leaving Kaleb with the privacy he needed to at least wear something. He muttered darkly about his outraged modesty as he threw on a crumpled white shirt and a black pair of trousers before heading downstairs to the sitting room.

"How many times must I tell you to comb your-"

"Kaleb Windsor," he interrupted, extending a hand to the first man. His hand was surprisingly delicate and smooth, and Kaleb noticed, they were both impeccably well dressed, and had nice shoes. It was a common conception that only gay men or married men wore nice shoes, so, they must be gay, since neither had wedding bands on.

All right now! Personal shoppers to spare him from shopping, eh? Kaleb stood there, just holding the first man's hand and assessing the situation until the man's handshake went limp, 'cause, y'know, our boy was just stared at by some homosexual men in his nearly-birthday suit just minutes ago. "I'm Giorgio and this is Edmund,"

"I'm here to take your measurements, and Edmund will be doing your hair, as I'm sure Mrs. Windsor would have explained," Giorgio finished, clapping his hands together at this as if to show how enthusiastic he was while Kaleb just looked on and listened in horror, his jaw dropping to the ground at two hundred miles per hour.

"They already know what's going to happen. Don't worry, now just stand there, be a good girl, and they will handle everything!" Marilyn trilled chirpily.

After Giorgio held his measuring tape to his arms, shoulders, waist and all that jazz, Kaleb was still standing quite stunned. He had momentarily forgotten that he was about to parade himself as a girl, and the reminder had so cruelly brought him back into the drab reality. A whiny sort of noise escaped his throat as he was ushered towards his mother's Beauty room, just one of the many rooms in the Windsor mansion as Marilyn smiled blissfully to herself, quite pleased that she had gotten herself another 'daughter' to doll up.

-

"What do you mean by you 'have to act as a girl'?" a quizzical voice belonging to Mason Delaney wafted from the telephone, which was currently on speaker mode.

"I meant what I said," Kaleb heaved a sigh and began to twirl the hair extensions on his head. They were dark brown like his actual hair color, but they fell in curly ringlets over his shoulder and down his back, making him feel as if he had a 3-pound weight on his head. However, hair twirling was addictive. It kept his fingers busy while he was doing nothing. Suddenly realizing that he was doing the very thing that he hated to see girls do, Kaleb corrected his actions, and took to sitting clumsily on his hands.

"Okay." Mason began to hum a happy tune that irritated Kaleb since he was facing such a tragedy while his best friend only had 'Okay' to say. "So, do you want to join us for a drink this evening?"

"I can't," Kaleb groaned, "What am I supposed to tell the whole world when they ask me why the hell I have curly long hair all of a sudden?"

"Just tell them?"

God, Mason was as dense as… Mercury or something.

"I can't, okay? Anyway I need your help here," Kaleb went over to his desk, where two translucent gobs sat, and picked them up, "I need something to fill these fake tits up,"

"Huh?"

"Come over now?"

"Kay," Click.

A couple of minutes passed, and a distant but familiar rumbling of Mason's Jag came closer down the road, and up into the driveway before dying away. Kaleb had taken to juggling the gobs while waiting, and when Mason finally burst into his bedroom, he was trying to bounce them off the wall.

"What the in the blue hell did you do to your hair?" Mason glided over in his trademark smooth way of walking; he began prodding a curl with his index finger, enjoying the look of annoyance on his slightly androgynous-looking friend. Kaleb glared icily at his friend and shoved him aside. "Hey, actually you look pretty hot."

"Would you like to eat my fist?" Kaleb scowled and flung a gob at Mason's gleeful face.

"Not really," Mason ducked, but in vain, he picked the wobbly rubbery object off the floor. "What was it you were saying about tits? Can't you convince your father? And is what you were wearing a wig?"

"Those are tits," Kaleb gestured at the gob he held, "Some silicone thing from the plastic surgeons'. Got to fill it up with something, but saline won't work… Too jiggly in my honest opinion and I don't want it to explode on me. Plus, you know my father, Mason, he rules with an iron fist."

"Is what you are wearing a wig?" Mason repeated detachedly, and began to squeeze the faux boob.

"You are such a pervert," Kaleb elbowed him out of the way as he reached for a glass of lime juice, "And no, it's not a wig."

"So what do you have to fill this up with?"

"I don't know. You are supposed to help me,"

"Right," Mason glanced around, and spotted a relatively large tube of hair gel. He grabbed it and began to squeeze the contents into the hollow faux boob through a small opening. Kaleb frowned at what he was doing—it would be a pain to get out of it didn't work.

"Got something to close it or something?" Mason looked around once it was filled. Kaleb glanced pointedly at two small white plugs on his desk. The blonde youth began to work on the other one as well. When he was finished he held them both to his own chest and began to massage them, much to the dismay of Kaleb, though it was a sign that it was an instant success.

"Ooh, you touch my tralala," he sang, an expression of sexual pleasure was plastered on his tanned face, and this little act was cut short by a splash of lime juice by Kaleb right at his slightly ajar mouth.

"Ey! Ay woz onlai tryin' ter herlp," Mason sputtered out some juice and dropped one of the boob-contraptions. It wobbled, bounced a few inches and went under the bed. Kaleb made a face, and went over to his walk-in closet, and absently picked out a t-shirt before flinging it at the now crouching Mason, who was busy trying to retrieve the silicone breast. It flopped onto his derriere, which led to him continuing his 'tralala' song.

"… my ding ding dong…"

"Thanks, but no thanks,"

"Anywho," Mason began to poke at one of them, "These are pretty real if you ask me. And that's saying a lot really, I mean, I've like felt down all the-"

"Yes Mason, I know," Kaleb cut in before he could finish his grandfather story on how he managed to feel up Amanda Wesson's blouse, and just about half of the female population at high school.

"Ah, you know what size these feel like?" Mason closed his eyes and concentrated on feeling the volume of each of the faux boobs, "I'd say a good C. I never knew you could be so well-endowed in both departments, brother, top and bottom. I must add that you must be the dream girl of all lesb-"

"Shut the fuck up Mase."

"I was just being honest!" Mason held up both his hands in surrender (still holding on to the boobs of course. He seemed to like them a lot).

Kaleb turned to face the opposite side of the closet, at the recently cleared compartments which were now filled up with girl's clothing and shoes. The delicate features on his face were furrowed in faint distress. Oh, the pains he had to go through just so he could become an actor. "Perhaps I will murder that old man if I walk out of school alive, but not before I am rich enough on my own to hire an assassin," he thought as he put on some heels that had glimmering studs on its straps and held on to a shelf for dear life. He had better put in some practice before he crashed headlong into a mirror or something.

"Hey bud, school starts next week, and I don't see how you will be able to go in your current state without a wheelchair," Mason quipped as he too came over to the walk-in closet, reaching immediately for a pastel blue bra.

"I'll show you," Kaleb grunted, and took a few hurried steps out into his room, knocking over some paperwork and an alarm clock as he went zooming forwards.

"That the best you can do?"

-

-

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A/N: Hey guys, I'm re-working on this story, and am in the process of condensing/altering the chapters. Stay tuned for the rest of the story. I really hope to be able to finish this story despite having left it idle for so many months. I just… don't want to end it on an anti-climax sort of mode, but I think I will figure things out! Just keep pestering me haha!