Duty,  Honor,  Country



                                                        by  Brandy  Dewinter



1.  Chapter -    Tradition?


The lines of uniformed bodies stood patiently in sunlight brightly
magnified by reflections from the acres of concrete ramp. They had
little choice, orders were orders. Private Sanford "Sandy" Beech, a
nineteen year old recruit in the infantry regiment, swayed a little in his
position near one end of the second rank, almost nodding off despite
the sweltering heat and the constant irritation of sweat dripping into
his eyes and trickling down his back. Unlike some of his colleagues in
uniform, Beech was reasonably well educated. He hadn't been able to
afford to go to college, hence his current "job". But he had been
blessed with parents who challenged him far beyond what public
schools required. At least, they had until they were wiped from the
earth by a drunken driver, another contributor to his present situation.
As he stood there feeling the sweat make his uniform gradually
disintegrate into a shapeless mess, he was reflecting on the history of
this particular military drill and how useless it was in today's army, a
thought that had been coming to him more and more as they waited.

Infantry inspection in ranks had started out when regiments were
raised and paid by their colonel, who was in turn paid by the general
(or more often prince) who had raised the army. The general would
inspect each man to make sure that the count claimed by the colonel
was correct and that none of the men were blind, or too diseased, or
too crippled. It also helped if each man had at least some sort of
weapon and either the colonel or the general would have to solve that
problem for the ones without. In time, when movement of blocks of
men became part of tactics, forming and holding lines became an
important military skill and a precise formation became part of the
inspection criteria. By that time, uniforms within a regiment had
become standardized though each regiment was unique. The general's
inspection in that era was to ensure that he could recognize the
regiment's uniforms well enough to direct it properly. That, in
conjunction with the military obsession for order and discipline, led to
inspection for neatness and a high boot polish, items not really helpful
in combat except as an indication of willingness and discipline to
follow orders. That willingness was indeed a military virtue, but
standing for over an hour in the hot sun on a burning plain of concrete
was hardly a vital combat skill. And now, uniforms were standardized
army-wide, weapons were issued from government arsenals, tactics
were based on highly-flexible formations and training would weed out
the physically inadequate. All of which made inspection in ranks
either uselessly boring (to those who couldn't or didn't use the time to
think) or actively irritating (to those who did). Beech would rather
have been challenged by some sort of combat exercise if he was going
to get hot and sweaty anyway.

Finally the troops heard the whopping sound of an approaching helo.
Sergeants surreptitiously glanced down their ranks to make sure none
of the soldiers were turning to gawk at the clattering machine, but the
unit was well- trained and held formation properly. The Blackhawk
sat down a hundred yards in front of the formation in a shower of dust
and gravel from the supposedly clean ramp and dirtied up the
once-spotless uniforms even more thoroughly. The Colonel stiffened
into a correspondingly even more rigid posture at this additional insult
to his men, but he, too, was well-trained and held his place until the
swirling rotors flattened out and quit pushing air and dirt around.
Then he stepped forward to the doorway as it slid back.

From where the men stood in formation it wasn't possible to make out
the insignia on the first man out of the helo, but it was clear that he
was wearing neat but not new camo BDUs, softened by wear into a
cooler and much more comfortable uniform than the formal Class A
uniforms of the regiment. He was surprisingly small, inches shorter
than their colonel, and slender. In addition to the more comfortable
uniform he was wearing bright aviator sunglasses, a violation of
enlisted uniform standards that was another irritation to the men
squinting in the sun. They forgot about him in the next instant,
however as he turned to help the other VIP occupant of the helo. She,
even from a hundred yards away decidedly she, needed the help. Her
tight, short skirt and spindly high heels made even the short jump
down from the helo an impossibility without aid. Six hundred men
from the regiment would have volunteered to help her down in a
heartbeat, five hundred and ninety six because they would have done
almost anything to get close to such a gorgeous creature, and the
other four to keep up appearances with their straight comrades in
arms. With that woman around none of the men were paying enough
attention to the officers to notice the quiet argument that had begun
even as the woman was helped to the ramp, but their attention was
jerked back to their own Colonel when the surprising order barked out.

"All men, remove your jackets and stand easy."

Now, that was a surprise. In the first place, you never took your jacket
off for an inspection, and in the second, stand easy? Inspection in
ranks was always done at attention. What was going on here?
Officers, Beech snorted to himself. They never make sense. But, like
the other men he removed his jacket and hung it over his arm. While
the troops were shuffling about the camo'd officer and his lady
companion were making their way to one end of the first rank. For
this formal (at least it started out formal) inspection the men had
been arrayed in order of height, with the shorter men on the ends and
the tall ones in the middle. The inspecting officer actually examined
the first men he came to, looking them over carefully and making
comments to the woman. A few were asked their names, a
semi-surprising event since generals sometimes did that as a means of
demonstrating interest in the men being inspected, however false or
transient. Surprisingly, though, in these cases the woman wrote the
names in a small notebook as though it actually mattered.

When the . . was he really a general? He wasn't wearing any rank
insignia. . . reached the taller soldiers he seemed to lose interest,
walking quickly past. Only at the other end of the first rank, once
again comprised of shorter men, did he seem to pay attention. Beech
waited in the second rank, near one end due to his 5'7" height. When
the . . . general . . . got to him he stopped and looked him over very
carefully. Beech couldn't quite make out the whispered comments to
the woman, but her eyes met his for a second and showed approval. If
Beech could have figured out what she liked in him, he could have sold
it for a week's pay to the men around him, but her eyes showed only a
hint of amusement to go with her approval, revealing no particular
interest.

"What's your name, soldier?" the general asked in a smooth voice
devoid of the expected parade ground rasp.

Snapping to attention, awkward while holding his jacket, he shouted,
"Sir! Private Sanford Beech! Sir!"

At the general's nod, the woman wrote it down in her book and they
passed on. Was it his imagination, or had that vision of feminine
loveliness actually smiled at him when he barked out his answer? Oh,
please come back and smile at me again, say something to me, inspect
me in ANY way that you want, Beech silently prayed, but the group
moved on. The rest of the inspection proceeded in the same
mysterious vein, close attention only to the shorter soldiers, particular
attention to the ones like the general and Beech who were slender,
virtually ignoring anyone even approaching six feet in height. In less
than fifteen minutes, though they had waited in ranks for almost two
hours, the inspection was over. The Sergeant Major barked out an
order to put their jackets on again and come to attention, then gave
yet another inexplicable, or at least unexplained, order.

"The following men will report to Hangar 12 immediately," he
announced, then began to read from what must have been the list
made by the woman.

Beech heard his name called along with about a dozen others and
proceeded to the hangar. The rest of the regiment was dismissed
behind him and the strange inspection was officially over.

A dozen men, plus or minus a few, seemed lost in the enormous
hangar. In keeping with the sacred army tradition of
"hurry-up-and-wait", they stood around aimlessly. Beech noted that
one of the men in the group was one of "them", a homosexual. As far
as Beech was concerned consenting adults could do whatever they
wanted in private, but that philosophical position didn't help him
when he tried to figure out how to react to "them" personally and so
"they" made him uncomfortable. He certainly didn't want to
encourage "them" and tried to keep interactions on a proper,
professional, but distant basis. He also never let one get behind him in
the shower. That was part of the problem. Adults could do what they
wanted in private, but in the army there was no privacy. None of the
other straight men among the dozen in the hangar wanted to get too
close to the one . . different . . man so there was a clear space around
him, another problem in an organization that depended on group
cohesion and camaraderie. Beech noted that his nameplate read, Fox,
and that triggered a memory that his name was Tim, or Jim,
something like that. Next, Beech looked for some more acceptable
object to occupy his mind while they waited and saw two MPs hulking
by the door to some sort of office in the hangar. But the big MPs also
made him uncomfortable. They all seemed to have this sneering,
angry attitude, sort of a "Just give me any excuse and I'll ram my
billy club so far up your ass you'll taste it" arrogance. In his mind
they were all bullies. Who'd want to go into that sort of specialty
anyway? Beech had seen his share of bullies. He'd always been short
and slender, and no one would ever call his features "rugged". In high
school, he had faced the unpleasant choice of wearing his hair short
and looking like a wimp, or wearing it long like everyone else and
looking effeminate. He had chosen long hair, eventually liking the feel
and swing of it enough to let it grow below his shoulders. It had
caused him problems, though, with honest, sincere people mistaking
him for a girl throughout his life until the army took care of his hair
length choice for him, along with most other choices. Unlike the kindly
mistakes his appearance caused, bullies had always called him "sissy"
when they didn't call him worse things. In true "self defense" he had
investigated martial arts. Beech had soon found out that his hands
were too small and bone structure too light for real karate, unless he
wanted to build calluses so heavy he wouldn't be able to bend his
fingers. However, he found in aikido the style he needed. It focused on
using an opponent's momentum against them rather than on striking
attack. By the time he graduated from high school, no one was calling
him sissy any more, at least, not more than once.

His reverie on Reasons To Hate Bullies was winding down when one of
the MPs called out, "Attention!"

The call was echoed with, "At ease," so fast none of the troops had
time to complete the motion. Turning around, they saw the general
and his lady friend entering the hangar. The tapping of her delicate
heels echoed in the open space, unimpeded by more than the faintest
breathing from any of the spellbound men within the room. Even the
striding general made no sound as he glided with surprising grace
across the floor of the massive building.

"Let's all go into the briefing room, shall we?" he asked. A courtesy of
course, since a request from a general compelled obedience almost as
irresistible as the ultimate motivator, an order from a sergeant.

"Make yourself comfortable," the general ordered. The group which
had seemed so small in the huge hangar now crowded the small office
as though their numbers had been multiplied several times over. There
were enough chairs, though, once the general and the woman walked
to the front of the room near a speaker stand.

"I've asked you all here to offer you a chance to volunteer for a special,
vitally important mission," he began. "It is very highly classified and
will involve significant hazard and personal discomfort. I know that
doesn't sound like much of a recruiting pitch, but I must emphasize
how crucial this is to the security of our nation and the safety of our
people. I will also tell you that I will be part of the team. I don't
consider this an impossible assignment, but it will be more difficult
than anything you have ever done."

Not much of a recruiting pitch, indeed! All of the soldiers were more
than familiar with the time-honored adage never to volunteer and this
seemed like as good a case as any for following that tradition. One of
them spoke up.

"What's in it for us, General?"

"I'm not a general," he corrected the man. "I can tell you that I am
on special assignment with orders from the President himself and can
effectively outrank any general around. That is an indication of how
important the President considers this mission. My own rank and
background are classified. Only those who volunteer will be told. Now,
as to your question. Nothing. If we succeed, you will never be able to
tell anyone what we accomplished. You won't get promoted. You
won't get medals. There's nothing in it for you except the knowledge
that you've helped in a mission so critical it may mean the difference
between life or death for millions of people. Or it may not. We'll be
trying to avert a danger that may not even be real. However, we think
it is real, terrifyingly real, and we must do what we can to protect our
country. The question is, do you want to be part of that 'we' ?"

Sometime during that hopelessly depressing speech, Beech had
partially tuned out the "general". The woman had finally removed her
sunglasses and Beech realized she had brilliant green eyes to go with
her corona of auburn hair. He felt himself falling into those eyes. He
had only seen eyes that clear and deep green in one other situation,
whenever he looked in a mirror. They captivated him, providing a
linkage to the beautiful woman that began to tickle his mind with
fantasies of other closeness, other sharing. Her eyes had roamed the
group impartially at first, but his staring drew her gaze to him just as
his gaze was trapped by her. Those emerald jewels showed a hint of
amusement at his open admiration, but also a hint of . . . what? . . .
desire? Did he imagine it or did were her eyes sending a message of
personal request to volunteer for this ridiculous mission? What could
possibly be so important?

Beech pulled his eyes away and looked at the camouflaged officer
again. He hadn't removed his sunglasses. They were decidedly
non-standard, almost wrap-around and completely hid his eyes, even
his eyebrows. His voice was still smooth and soft, his message still
hopelessly tied to outdated patriotic concepts.

"I'm not going to use the 'duty' phrase to get you to volunteer. I want
you to understand that we will be asking you to do things that are far
above and beyond the call of duty, at least, of the duty you already
owe by joining the army. Once you're part of the team, your duty to
your teammates will be greater than any ever required of ordinary
soldiers. You can withdraw now with honor intact. No stigma will be
attached to those not continuing from this point. Your country needs
you, though, your friends, your neighbors, even strangers. Will you
help me help them?"

What did motivate soldiers like these? In olden days, the hope for
glory could make men take incredible risks, but the officer had ruled
that out. Duty to comrades was a powerful force, elevating ordinary
men to extraordinary levels that they knew were not strictly required
of them. A soldier's sense of duty was part of what separated him
from civilians, even when no sergeant was watching. The "general"
had carefully ensured that the men knew their consciences could be
clear on that issue, though. Honor? The type of honor that mattered
was always internal, regardless of who was watching. Just why had
they joined the army in the first place? Was it always just another
job? Did they want to find out what they were made of, measured
against a standard that civilians couldn't even understand? Country.
The general had certainly pushed that button. Was it enough?

The slender officer who was still "the general" in the minds of the men
nodded unobtrusively to one of the MPs at the door, who immediately
hollered, "Attention!"

With conditioned reflex the group of men jerked to their feet. The
general quietly said, "All right. Those who are not going to volunteer
may leave now."

Beech was ready to leave with the rest but happened to glance at the
woman one last time, one possibly fatal time. Her sparkling green eyes
were made even brighter by incipient tears. Though there wasn't a
single specific change from the gentle amusement of before that Beech
could have pointed out, her expression was now worried, afraid that
the entire group would leave. Beech found himself falling into the
bottomless depths of those eyes instead of moving for the door, until
finally he realized that only three of their original dozen remained in
the room and the door was being closed behind the exiting MPs. And
that he was one of those three. So was the homosexual soldier, Tim
Fox. That made Beech even more uncomfortable because he knew in
his heart he always thought that "they" wouldn't be as brave as "real"
men, despite the history he knew of the sacred band of Thebes. Yet
here this "person" sat, volunteering for a hazardous mission without
apparent reward. The final volunteer was a blond soldier Beech knew
only as "Carp", a nickname from the "Clumsy Carp" character in the
comic strip. He had a reputation for being really hard working, really
motivated, and really clumsy. His nameplate read Anderson, but that
didn't trigger any further memories for Beech.

"Excellent," smiled the general. "Please, sit down again. Let me be
the first to thank you for your patriotism. As of right now, you have
all earned a nice letter of commendation from the President himself. It
will be placed in your personnel file and I expect it will make a
difference when you come up for promotion, or for consideration at a
special school you want. Congratulations."

Then he continued in a much less pleasant tone, though his voice was
still somehow soft and smooth, "But as of right now you also have one
last chance to back out, no penalty, no questions asked. You'll still get
your letter. However, we are about to give you your first briefing.
Once you receive it, you will be held to the strictest standard of
secrecy you can imagine. If you ever breathe a word of this, I'll see
that you're thrown under the worst stockade in the military, and you'll
never come out. You'll be passed your food through a hole in the wall,
and the orders to the guard will be that when the food is untouched
for 10 days in a row, the hole will be sealed. Don't make the mistake
of thinking I'm joking. If you don't think you can maintain that level
of secrecy, leave now."

None of the volunteers left, but all looked decidedly uncomfortable,
wondering even more what they had gotten themselves into. Beech's
eyes had again been drawn to the woman, but when he heard the
general's threat, he whispered to himself, "The man in the iron mask."
She understood his comment, knew that he understood the reference,
and smiled at him. This time there was no doubt. She had certainly
smiled, and certainly at him. What could they ask him to do that was
too terrible for that sort of reward? When it was clear that none were
leaving the general regained his pleasant smile and stood up, quickly
motioning the men to keep their seats.

"All right, let me introduce myself and my companion. I actually am a
General, General Merlin. I lied to those others because we never tell
anyone outside our circle anything that might give them even a hint of
our mission, or of the people involved. My permanent rank is major,
but the President has promoted me to two-star rank for the duration
of this assignment. It should come in handy when we deal with
administrivia and bureaucrats. That's besides the authority I have as
his representative, which is also real. My lovely companion is
Constance McLean. She's what we call a subject matter expert, for
part of your training."

"Over the course of the next year, more or less, we'll be training you in
several specialized skills for the mission. You're not the only regiment
we've recruited from, but you have had the best response. With your
additions, we now have enough to enter full-time training. We'll turn
you into masters of unarmed combat, with agility you wouldn't believe
is possible. We'll turn you into master thieves as well, with skills in
lock-picking and alarm neutralization. More than any of these, though,
you'll have to learn to disguise yourselves. Each of you, from the time
we reach the base, will form an entire new persona, one unrecognizable
to your best friends. That is the key to this mission. Connie will help
you in this area, and I am a testimony to how effective her skills are."

With that the officer stood up, removed his wrap-around sunglasses,
and pulled off his beret. To the absolute shock of the three new
volunteers, the "general's" eyes were as beautiful as any woman ever
born. High, carefully- shaped brows highlighted luminous blue eyes,
themselves framed by long dark lashes and shining pearlescent shadow.
As he pulled the beret away from his head, blond curls cascaded down
around his shoulders, bobbing softly as they settled into position.

"You will need to be able to disguise yourself as women to accomplish
this mission. That is why we chose only those who have a slight build
and are relatively short. Further, you will need to be beautiful women,
sensual, desirable, totally believable. I won't tell you just why, yet, but
it is as important to this mission as any other skill you will learn. It is
also the most highly classified part of your training. As of now, you
are committed. If you wash out of the training, you'll be put in a deep
hole until the rest of the team completes their mission. One of the key
mission objectives is that the target never know we were there. If word
gets out that the US Army was training female impersonators, our
entire mission is compromised, not to mention any team members who
are still in place. Do I make myself clear?"

The soldiers were too amazed to speak, but that question was so
standard following formal orders that their automatic responses took
over and all nodded. Their mouths hung open, their eyes bulged out,
but they nodded.

"Right," said the general as . . he? . . tucked his long hair back under
his beret and replaced his mirrored sunglasses. "Let's get moving. The
helo is standing by."



2.  Chapter -    Training?


The helo whopped its way to a destination so distant from the base
where Beech had been stationed that he wondered why they didn't
transfer to a different type of aircraft. After the second fuel stop,
hours later, he decided the general hadn't been joking when he said
this mission would involve extreme personal discomfort. And they
were just getting started. It didn't help that the windows on the
chopper had been blacked out. There was even a screen across the
back of the cockpit so that only the pilots could see forward. The
noise level was too high for light conversation, even with the
breathtaking Miss McLean, so they were forced to just sit there and
"endeavor to persevere". Long after dark the helicopter landed at a
small clearing in a wooded area, clearly much higher in elevation than
their previous base. It was cooler, for one, but it also had a crisp
cleanness that only seemed to be available in the mountains.

Few people realize that the US Army spends more money on training
than on procurement, more than on housing, more than on fuel, more
even than on food. They are expert at teaching soldiers whatever they
need to know to accomplish their military skills. This training base
could easily be concealed among the multitude of similar bases, even
from inquisitive bureaucrats. The new recruits were shown to their
quarters and told to get a good night's sleep. That revealed the first of
what would be many surprises about the base, though. Beech found
himself assigned to private quarters and unlike the standard enlisted
barracks, these quarters had a private bathroom that was much too
elegant to call a latrine. The bed was a frilly canopied confection of
lace and spun-sugar delicacy, the closet was big enough to walk around
in, and topping it all off, there was a fully-stocked vanity complete
with lighted makeup mirror. Though the army had taught him never
to pass up a chance to take a quick shower when facilities were
available, he knew it was likely to wake him up enough to make it
hard to sleep. Using the excuse of the order to get to bed, he quickly
stripped out of his still-sweaty Class A uniform and slithered between
the cool, slick sheets. In a moment, he was asleep.

At a surprisingly late hour, meaning the sun was already up, Beech,
Fox, and Carp Anderson were roused from their delicate beds by
Constance McLean herself. As she gently called to him, Beech realized
it was the first time he had heard her speak. Her sentences were fine,
idiomatic American English, but there was a lilt to her voice that
spoke of the Emerald Isle, a most attractive lilt. Beech responded as
any red-blooded American soldier would do, with a gallant reflex he
found hard to hide . . er . . no pun intended. He kept the covers
around his waist and nodded. After she left, Beech walked into the
oh-so-feminine powder room adjoining his bedroom where he found
shampoo and conditioner, razor and depilatory, all softly scented with
a flowery perfume. His morning shower took only a few minutes.
When he stepped out, he looked around for his underwear, expecting
to have to wear the same pair again until his personal effects caught
up with his abrupt departure. Instead, he found a pair of woman's
panties, colored a brilliant emerald green to match his eyes. They were
so thin and smooth they seemed to flow through his fingers like a
liquid, catching at the rough calluses on his army-toughened hands.
With no alternative he put them on and reached for a white robe he
also found. The robe was conventional enough, at least to look at, but
when he wrapped it around himself he realized it was much softer and
thicker than any he had ever worn. A sharp rap at his door started
him moving from conditioned reflex and he went into the hallway to
find Constance waiting with Fox and Anderson.

They were escorted to a large sitting room, decorated with a
scattering of couches and easy chairs. There were already another half
a dozen men waiting, all dressed in the thick white robes. Moments
after they arrived, another door opened and the general entered. At
least, from the neck down it looked like the general. The camo BDUs
were the same, but only the fact that they had seen him without his
sunglasses, and with his hair let down, identified him to the
open-mouthed recruits. This morning, the general had completed . .
his? . . makeup, adding blush and crimson lipstick. His? . . hair was
brushed into spun gold, caressing her . . um. . . his . . cheeks with
gentle whispers. She wore sparkling golden loops in her ears, and a
wide choker necklace. In a word, she was beautiful. Beech realized he
was having an increasingly difficult time remembering that this vision
of loveliness was indeed a man. The classic beauty displayed over the
androgynous BDUs shouted femininity so loudly it was drowning out
the memory of the male officer they had first met.

"Good morning, ladies," the traditional army insult came from the
same soft voice they had heard, but it now sounded sultry and added
to the compelling image. "Be seated."

"Today is the first day of your training for the mission. You will be
trained in three main areas; feminization, unarmed combat, and theft.
Of these, the most time-consuming will be the feminization training,
but as you can see from me, the results will be amazing."

At this point, one of the recruits raised a tentative hand. The general
responded, "Yes?"

"Excuse me, . . um . . sir . . but why train us to be women? I mean,
why not just use women?"

The general paused for a long moment, a delicate pout forming on
those glorious crimson lips. Then she nodded to herself and said, "All
right, I guess a little more background is in order. All of you know the
penalties if you breathe a word of this to anyone, ever."

"In a small but strategic country that I won't name right now, there is
a totalitarian leader who is literally insane. He has developed a
biological weapon of such virulence that it threatens all life on earth.
We believe he intends to release it at his death in the ultimate power
statement, 'Apres moi, le deluge.' Our mission is to extract that
biological agent and replace it with a harmless substitute. We must do
this so secretly that he never realizes it was done, or he will produce a
replacement. This dictator, call him El Supremo for now, has
kidnapped a harem of beautiful women and placed them in an outer
ring of defense around the only access to the laboratory where this
germ is kept. Unless escorted by El Supremo himself, all men in the
outer ring are shot on sight. The women have all been trained to do
this. Every now and then El Supremo releases what he calls a criminal
into the area, and any woman that doesn't immediately try to kill him
is punished so severely that few survive. For anyone to approach the
inner sanctum, they must appear to be beautiful women."

"On the other hand, to gain access to the inner sanctum and to move
around within it, one must be a potent, virile, biological male. Among
his other perversions, El Supremo likes to test his laboratory workers
for their masculinity. Fresh, live sperm is required to pass several
checkpoints. He believes that this two-layer defense, one lethal to men,
one impassable to women, provides an adequate barrier to
penetration. Our mission is to breach that barrier without letting him
know it was done. It will require us to pass as beautiful women, hence
the specialized training. Is that clear?"

At the questioners nod, the general resumed his briefing. "All right.
As of right now, you will begin your feminization training. From this
moment on, each of you is to pick a feminine name that is close enough
to your real name that you will respond automatically if you hear it.
We will all address each other only by these feminine names. We will
refer to each other only with feminine pronouns, and even think of
each other in that way. Unconscious mental attitudes have as much or
more to do with feminization than outward appearance. I have told
you that I am General Merlin, but my femme name is Marilyn. Pick
your names, introduce yourselves to each other, then report back to
your room in fifteen minutes. Your first instructor will be waiting."

Instead of leaving the room, he . . she smiled and walked over to
where the . . girls . . were sitting and asked them their names. Beech
felt he could stay with "Sandy" for his femme name, so that was easy.
The recruit nearest him was that "different" one, Tim or Jim Fox.
Though it made him uncomfortable, he decided he needed to follow
orders and so he introduced himself.

"Hello, my name is Sandy," he said, trying to soften his voice in
imitation of the general.

"My name is Jim, . . uh . . that is . . Jamie, or maybe J-a-y-m-i,"
stammered the other recruit. His hair was a nondescript brown, his
eyes, though, were large and a deep, rich chocolate. Beech found
himself unconsciously evaluating "Jaymi's" feminization potential and
felt that "she" could make a quite attractive woman. He wondered
what the others thought of his own, that is, "her" own potential.
Beech hoped that they could all be as successful as the general. With
their short, military haircuts and no makeup, it was hard to think of
any of them except as men. As the general circulated among the group
of recruits, the ones that had been introduced left for their rooms.
Well within the fifteen minute window, all were dispersed.

When Beech returned to his room, he found a casually dressed woman
waiting for him. At this point, he wasn't sure what to expect, perhaps
this "woman" was really a feminized man. She was dressed in a short
denim skirt and a sleeveless knit blouse. Her hair was medium in
length, and her makeup more subdued than the incredible magic
recently displayed by "Marilyn". Actually, she was rather plain, for a
young, fit woman. The only unusual things about her outfit were the
high heels she wore, a bit too formal for her casual appearance.

Her voice was low and gave no additional clues to her true sex when
she spoke in a tone that wasn't quite an order, but also wasn't quite a
suggestion, "You'll need to get back into the shower. We will be
removing all your body hair."

Beech stopped abruptly, not having absorbed what would turn out to
be even the first, easiest steps of what his transformation would entail.
However, he didn't protest. Instead, he followed the woman? into the
bathroom.

"My name is Karen. I'll be helping you with your body training, at
least the feminization part. You'll have other instructors for martial
arts training. The first step is to get rid of your body hair. Step into
the shower, spread your legs, and raise your arms to shoulder height."

These were definitely orders. "Karen's" rank was unclear, but since
just about everyone outranks a Private, Beech did what he was told.
He jumped though, when Karen started to spread a foamy cream all
over his body. He had seen the can before, recognizing it as one of
those depilatory chemicals, but he hadn't realized it would be used, so
soon, and so thoroughly. By the time Karen was finished, every square
inch of his body below the eyebrows had been lathered. Every.
Square. Inch. Beech's body had responded to her impersonal
ministrations as any young healthy man could be expected to respond.
As a result, it wasn't difficult for Karen to spread the cream over his
most intimate hairs. When she had finished, she grinned at him, the
first sign of other than professional emotion.

"Don't worry, if you hadn't reacted, you'd probably have washed out.
Now, stand still for a few minutes before you wash up."

She grinned again at her phrasing, then left the shower stall. Beech
stood there for an interminable time, feeling the cream first tingle,
then itch, then begin to etch itself into his skin like raw acid. He just
kept reminding himself that the general had warned of "personal
discomfort". After some timeless interval Karen returned and told him
to rinse off, making sure to get every spot of cream. This he did gladly,
even though the water must have come straight off the snowpack on
the mountains around. When he finally stepped from the shower,
Karen handed him another sweetly-scented lotion and told him to rub
down all the spots he could reach. Beech recognized the inherent
alternative, that she would rub the lotion into him, and part of him
wondered if that would be preferable, a consideration that once again
demonstrated itself in a visible response. Karen read his "expression"
as easily as if it had been broadcast on CNN, and laughed out loud.

"Listen, Sandy, you'll get plenty of attention, including sexual
attention. For right now, we need to get you dressed, at least in the
clothes that are my responsibility. By the way, that's the last time
you'll have to do that. That depilatory cream is special. Your body
hair won't grow again until a neutralizer is applied. See how well the
Army takes care of you?"

She led the shocked recruit back out of the bathroom where several
packages were placed on a table in the corner of the spacious bedroom.
Hanging from the ceiling was a trapeze arrangement, too small to sit
on or anything. Maybe it was for pull-ups. The army loved pull-ups
almost as much as it loved pushups.

"Grab the bar," Karen directed.

Beech didn't quite have to jump to reach it, but it pulled him up onto
this toes. He started to pull himself up, but Karen stopped him.

"No, just hang there for a minute while I get some measurements."

She made measurements at about 10 places from his armpits to his
knees, some around, some up and down, some seemingly random.
After she had the measurements, she consulted a table, then reached
for one of the packages.

"This will do for your first one, until we get the custom made one
ready."

"First what?" Beech asked, then dropped from the bar and shied away
as he saw what she was drawing from the package.

"No way!" he complained.

"It's either this or a stockade for about the rest of your natural life,"
Karen warned. "Now grab ahold of that bar again."

Beech complied, watching the item out of the corner of his eye like it
was a snake that might bite him. The item was a corset, bright red
with black striping. Karen had loosened the laces several inches, then
opened a series of hooks down the front. She wrapped it around him
and fastened the hooks. As Beech hung from the bar, only his toes
touching the floor, he began to relax a little, this wasn't so bad. It was
snug, but not too tight. Then Karen started tightening the laces in
back. And tightening them. And tightening them. Before long, Beech
was gasping for breath, and she still tugged at the now-straining laces.

Finally she relented, "All right, you can lower your arms, now."

Beech let go of the bar, thinking that this would make his breathing
easier. In reality, it just made the corset seem tighter. The corset also
made his posture remain even more erect than his sergeant had ever
managed to drill into him. He gasped, tried to twist and bend, and
generally examined the limitations imposed by his new prison. Maybe
that stockade wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Run the straps under your panties," was Karen's next order.

Panties. What a word to use on a soldier. That's what they were of
course, but what a word. The corset had four dangling straps and he
worked them under the thin material of his panties as Karen reached
for another box. From this one she drew forth gossamer thin
stockings, dark, with seams running from the lacy tops clear to the
toes. Karen handed them to Beech as though he knew what to do
with them. Of course he knew in general, but not specifically. After a
moment's fumbling, Karen helped him to gather one into a small ring,
then carefully draw it up his shining, smooth leg. He managed the
other on his own. She showed him how to position the garters and
soon he felt the tug and pressure of the stockings as they joined with
the counterbalancing pressure of his corset.

"All right," Karen said briskly, "one more item, then a little practice
on posture and moving."

The last item was really a pair, a pair of shining black high-heeled
shoes. Beech wasn't expert enough to determine how tall the heels
were, he just knew they looked awfully tall to him. They were
basically pumps, but there was an ankle strap at the heel. He bent to
put them on, but the corset drew him up abruptly.

"You won't be able to reach them until you learn how to move in that
corset a little better," Karen declared the obvious. "I'll put them on
you."

Apparently they had already determined his shoe size, so the shoes fit
fine. Well, actually, they fit terribly. There was no room for his toes,
and he felt as though his foot had been curved inside out. However, he
recognized that the length was appropriate for his foot, with the back
of the shoes just slipping snugly over his heels. In a moment Karen
had the ankle straps fastened and stood back.

"That's it, for now, move around a little."

Beech tried to comply, almost falling when he stepped out too far.
Karen quickly gave him some pointers and in a surprisingly short time
he was able to move about the room with some reliability, if not much
grace. A bit more practice and even grace began to appear as he tried
to comply with Karen's guidance to swing his hips more, to point his
toes, and to put one foot directly in front of the other. Before he
really got smooth, though, he complained.

"My feet are killing me."

"Those are only three-inch heels. Even mine are over 4 inches, and my
foot is shorter than yours. By the time we're done, you'll be dancing
in heels twice that high. But you can take a break for a minute. Here,
put this on."

She handed him another robe, this one shorter than the white
bathrobe he had worn previously. The robe was a brilliant emerald
green to match his eyes (and his panties). It was thin and silky and
threatened to go sheer at any second, though it was actually opaque.
It also threatened to reveal those matching panties with every
movement. It really was short.

"Time for breakfast. An army marches on its stomach," this time
Karen couldn't help but giggle. She moved to the doorway and
motioned Beech to follow her.



3.  Chapter -    Trans what?


Beech followed Karen down the hallway. He watched her as she glided
along in her towering heels and began to truly understand the
academic knowledge she had provided with her directions. He actually
became reasonably comfortable in his own tall spikes, especially once
he gained a little confidence in how much weight the thin heels could
actually support. By the time they reached the cozy dining area he
was hindered more by the pain in his feet from the unaccustomed
pressures than by any inherent balance or skill. In the dining area
Marilyn and Constance were already circulating among the arriving
recruits, each of whom was now dressed in a similar robe, though each
one had a unique color carefully selected to complement the
appearance of the trainee. The transformation in the general was now
complete, at least in appearance. Her beautiful face and shining hair
were accented by a short robe, towering heels, and slimming seamed
stockings just as the trainees wore (and Constance). Her elegant grace,
in gestures as well as in walking, could leave no doubt in anyone's
mind that the general was every bit as feminine as Constance herself.

Beech was pleased to see that he had mastered the sway required by
his high heels at least as well as any of the new trainees. He walked
easily into the room and looked around for the others from his
regiment. Jaymi Fox was just then entering, not as naturally as Beech
had moved perhaps, but clearly on track to learning this skill. Others
filed in and only the fact that Beech was watching for Carp Anderson,
(what was his femme name?) reminded him that the third soldier from
his regiment had not appeared. Marilyn must have been keeping count
as well, for she spoke quietly to Constance who moved off down the
appropriate corridor. In a few minutes she returned with Carp and his
instructor, practically carrying the reluctant recruit. He tried to move
on his own, but every other step his ankle turned, or his heel slipped,
or he caught his pointed toe in the carpet. When they finally released
him, he clung to the back of a chair, teetering precariously. "Clumsy
Carp" indeed.

"Very well, then," Marilyn said. "Let's get our food and be seated."

A delicious brunch had been laid out for them, complete with all
manner of meats, breads, fruits, and vegetables. A cook stood by to
make eggs to order as the group filed along the buffet. Beech gathered
up his usual breakfast fare sized for an active young man's appetite,
and added a sandwich more appropriate for lunch while he was at it.
He hadn't eaten since noon yesterday, though come to think of it, he
wasn't as hungry as he expected. The distraction of the food broke the
concentration of some of those who were just learning to walk all over
again, but Beech soon forgot the shoes he wore and just went through
the line. Marilyn was watching unobtrusively as the group moved
along and their eyes met briefly, then Beech received a smile of
approval for his success and a discreet wave of invitation to the
general's table. He swayed his way over to where Marilyn and
Constance were sitting and added his own tray to the table beside
theirs.

"With your permission, . . uh . . ma'am?" he stammered.

An instant of frown creased Marilyn's beautiful brow for a second,
then she relaxed. She knew it would take a while for them to get used
to the idea. "Sit down," came the order. "Sandy, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why don't you just call me Marilyn?" the general requested. "When
we're on the mission, we'll need to seem like friends, not soldiers."

"Yes, ma'am, I mean, yes, Marilyn," Beech replied, not much better.

The frown was again marring Marilyn's face as she watched Carp
struggle through the line. He clutched at the counter with each step,
barely managing to push his tray along. Beech noted the general's
glance and sighed.

"What's wrong?" Constance asked.

"Oh, it's Carp, I mean, Anderson," answered Beech.

"Carp?" now Marilyn was asking.

"That's just what we call him. It's from the comic character, Clumsy
Carp. I'm afraid he's not very graceful."

"I wish I'd have known that before we left your base," the general's
frown was in full force now, reminding them of her . . no . . with that
look, his command presence.

Constance caught the look, and gently reminded him, "Now, Marilyn,
that frown just doesn't work for you. Try a pout instead."

Marilyn's attention flashed back to "her" table companion with a
rueful smile, acknowledging what must have been one in a long series
of corrections. She changed her expression to one somehow more
feminine without being more happy. Truly a dainty pout rather than a
masculine frown.

"I still wish I'd have known," she complained.

"So do I, dear," Constance agreed, "but we didn't. Asking too many
questions would have taken too long."

Marilyn nodded, then turned back to the very quiet Sandy Beech who
was trying to disappear without moving while the elephants were
angry.

"Is there anything else we should know about those from your
regiment?" she asked.

Beech hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do about Fox. This whole
situation was so bizarre that he wasn't sure whether ratting on a
comrade was better than disobeying an order. Finally, though, it was
an order, or at least a question that required a full and honest answer.

"Ma'am," the formality recognizing Marilyn's authority, "the rumors
within the regiment were that . . um . . Jaymi . . Fox was . . um . .
homosexual."

"Exclusively?" demanded the general, once more surrendering
feminine mannerism to forceful directness.

"I don't know, um . . ma'am."

The general made as if to stand up, then calmed down. In a few
moments, the frown was once again replaced with a pout that could
have been devastatingly attractive, if Beech weren't so terrified.

"Well," Marilyn mused, "with what we're going to be doing, that may
almost be an asset. I'm afraid Donna will have to go, though."

Donna, that was Carp's femme name, Beech remembered, now even
more terrified as what sounded like a sentence of death was passed on
a new recruit on the very first day. For a Private to be sitting in
supposedly casual conversation with a General, one granted almost
unlimited authority by the President himself, made juggling hand
grenades seem tame and safe by comparison. A single poorly chosen
word and Beech might find out for himself just what happened to
non-performers, a judgment the general was obviously quite ready to
make. At another table, Jaymi ate his brunch in careless oblivion, at
least, as careless as he or any of the recruits could be while wearing
the unaccustomed corsets and heels. Beech wondered if he had
sabotaged both of the men from his regiment in the space of a minute,
and whether someone would sabotage him just as quickly.

Finally the brunch was over. Beech realized he was too full to eat
another bite long before he had cleared his plate. Another mistake.
The army allowed soldiers to eat well, but expected them not to waste
their food. The corset just wouldn't let him eat any more, though.
The general and Constance had selected light meals and ate all they
took. Looking around, Beech could see that virtually all of the new
trainees had made the same mistake. Marilyn stood, provoking a
disorderly rush by the trainees to stand in response, almost
catastrophic in some cases as they forgot the care required by their
high heels. Poor Carp was holding carefully to the table, all confidence
gone and whatever poise he might have hoped for gone with it. In a
moment new instructors were approaching each trainee and escorting
them away from their tables.

The one who came to Beech was as pretty as any woman he had ever
seen. But then, so was Marilyn. His suspicions were fully engaged as
he followed her down the hallway. He noticed that she was wearing
flats and he envied her the comfort even as he realized how stiff it
seemed to make her motion. His own hips were orbiting with
ever-increasing grace as he adapted to the demands of his new clothes.

The pretty girl leading him along looked over her shoulder and said,
"My name is Kathy. I'll be your instructor in makeup and hairstyles."

Beech had so many questions he couldn't have consciously picked a
single one, but one leaped uninvited into first place in a long line. "Do
the names of all the instructors start with a K?"

She laughed and nodded, "All of yours, in any event. No one gives
their correct names here, nor do I know yours. You might have noticed
that only Marilyn and Constance talked with you until after your
briefing and selection of new names. We've all been warned what will
happen if we pry into whatever your mission is. I don't want to know."

His next question was almost as pressing, building from a seeming
dilemma. He rubbed his hand over the millimeters of hair that was all
that basic training had left him and asked, "What sort of training do I
need for my hair?"

"You'll see," she giggled. Now that didn't make him feel any better,
not any better at all. They returned to his bedroom and he was
directed to the vanity.

"You will need to learn to wear makeup with special skill, since it will
need to cover any trace of masculinity as well as make you look
attractive. Pay close attention. I'll do one side of your face, more or
less, and expect you to do the other. You'll be graded at dinner on
how well the two sides match. If Marilyn can't tell which side you did
and which side I did, you pass."

That was the introduction to a long, detailed lecture on makeup.
Beech was motivated perhaps a bit more than most of the trainees,
having just watched as a sentence was passed on one of the recruits.
Perhaps he also had a knack for colors and shapes as well, because in a
short while he was matching the approach Kathy had identified, even
improving on it. He was so wrapped up in his task that the full impact
didn't really register. His face was transforming from that of a
somewhat delicately-featured man, to a young, amazingly pretty girl.

"Not bad," Kathy admitted, "now for the next step. What color is
your hair when it's grown out?"

"Black," he replied.

"Absolutely black, blue-black?" demanded his instructor.

"Well, no, in some lights there are brown highlights, maybe even red.
Or at least there were, when I let it grow long."

"How long have you worn it?"

"Over my shoulders, when I was in high school," he explained, leveling
his hands about even with his collar bones.

"Good, then you have a start on understanding hair care," Kathy
smiled, then reached for one of several tall boxes on the floor.

"I think we'll start with this one," she said as she pulled out a thick
mass of tumbling night, almost black, with just a hint of red. Beech
was turned away from the mirror when she put it on him for the first
time since Kathy needed to see how it would fit before she could tell
Beech how to do it. As a result, she was the first to see Sandy's total
appearance in makeup and wig. Her own concentration kept her from
realizing what was happening until she stood back to check the
alignment of the wig. It was at that time the full impact of the
changes in the recruit's appearance hit her so forcibly she gasped.

"What's wrong?" Sandy asked.

"Nothing," Kathy whispered. "Nothing at all."

Sandy turned to look in the mirror and her own gasp echoed the
astonishment of her instructor. A beautiful young lady looked out of
the mirror at her. Flawless makeup was applied so expertly it
appeared to be only the merest accent to pre-existing beauty, and the
glorious mane of dark hair tumbled to her tiny waist in rippling waves.
This was not an obvious man in corset and heels, nor even a
transvestite making a valiant effort to pass as a woman. This was an
outstanding example of femininity at its finest, clearly and
unmistakably a girl just on the trembling threshold of womanhood.

Beech didn't know the statistics that indicated most young men had
at one time or another experimented with women's clothes, usually
from a mother or older sister and only in private. He hadn't himself,
though, ever. The rapidly arriving shocks of this adventure had kept
his mind so focused on the mechanics of the new skills he was expected
to attain that he hadn't considered them from an erotic perspective.
The clothes didn't excite him, particularly, though he had responded
physically to Karen's intimate ministrations in the shower. All of the
sudden the impact of what he was wearing flooded through him with
desperate embarrassment accompanied by even more powerful arousal.
The gorgeous woman in the mirror excited him to the point of pain
and he grunted in a most unladylike way at the surprise.

And yet, there was pride as well, not only pride in a job well done, but
pride in her beauty. A woman's self image was strongly driven by her
sense of personal attractiveness, just a man's self image was
strengthened by being tall and powerful. Sandy saw her beauty and
wanted it to continue, wanted to remain a beautiful girl. That was an
urge that had never bothered her before. Beech lusted after the image
in the mirror as a man for a desirable woman. Sandy lusted after the
image in the mirror as though it were a precious jewel to be cherished,
and Sandy quickly regained control. She turned her head from side to
side, remembering and reveling in the silky whispers of hair tumbling
about her shoulders. She pursed her lips in a slow, sensuous kissing
motion, provoking a giggle from Kathy and an abrupt return to earth
for her soaring thoughts.

"Honey, you're going to have to be careful. You keep that up and
some of those boys out there will forget their own appearance and
have you on your back in a heartbeat," smirked the pretty instructor.

Heat flared to life in Sandy's cheeks again as she hung her head in
embarrassment. But her glance was drawn back to the incredible
image in the mirror and it was clear that this was beyond an academic
training exercise, way beyond. Sandy was going to have some real
work to do before she could understand and cope with the
out-of-control emotions flooding through her.

"All right, girl, stand up," ordered Kathy. "We're do back in the
sitting room in just a few minutes. Do you need to visit the facilities?"

Sandy nodded, sending ripples through the liquid night framing her
shoulders that so distracted her she entirely forgot the difficulty of her
high heels and tight corset. When she reached the bathroom, though,
she remembered enough to be grateful that her earlier instructor had
made her run the garters under her panties. She was able to take care
of business with minimal effort and was soon ready to follow Kathy
back to the rest of the group.

Marilyn was already in the room, talking quietly with Constance. It
appeared the elegant woman's name had been chosen to indicate the
permanence of her position beside the beautiful general. This time
Sandy was the first of the recruits to reach the gathering. That
focused Marilyn's attention on the green-eyed brunette, a
discomforting situation for Sandy. It also focused Connie's attention,
one that was decidedly welcome. Sandy was trying to sort out all the
conflicting emotions rampaging through her when Marilyn moved close
enough to talk.

"Excellent, Sandy!" the general complimented her. "You are
spectacular!"

"Thank you, ma'am," Sandy said automatically. It wasn't until the
words were out of her mouth that she remembered the general had
asked to be addressed as Marilyn. Even then, it was another heartbeat
before Sandy realized the 'ma'am' had been automatic. Marilyn was
entirely too pretty to be a 'sir'. Sandy's instructor escort had
disappeared discreetly as soon as they reached the room, so she was on
her own once again with an officer at least 17 ranks higher than her in
the chain of command.

"I didn't know you were left-handed. It's not in your file," Constance
mused.

"Ma'am?" Sandy responded, not understanding the comment.

"You're left-handed, aren't you?"

"No, ma'am," denied Sandy. "What makes you think so?"

"Well, all the instructors were told to do the left side of the trainee's
faces, allowing them to try and match it on the right side, except for
left-handed students. All were to be allowed to try and match the
makeup approach on the side that's easiest for the hand with the most
dexterity."

"Yes, ma'am, that's what Kathy did. She did the left side of my face,
and I did the right."

Marilyn joined the conversation, "But the right side of your face is
even more beautiful than the left."

"If you say so, ma'am. Thank you," Sandy agreed, not sure of the
significance of the remarks.

The significance became apparent as the next trainees entered the
room. As with the high heels (had that only happened a few hours
ago?) there was a spectrum of success at the new skill. Some recruits
had achieved a passable application of cosmetics on their assigned
side, but none had achieved the levels of artistry defined by their
instructors, none but Sandy. Some had not had much success at all.
Eyeliner was streaked, lashes were clumpy, blush was stark and poorly
blended, lipstick straggled anywhere between the nose and the chin.
The clownish appearance of the less successful again brought a frown
to Marilyn's beautiful brow. She must have been working on that,
though. The endearing pout she had used before had been merged
with her stern frown to a new expression that demonstrated delicate
concern. It was not as intimidating as the previous scowl, but
elegantly feminine and entirely appropriate for a den mother in charge
of young ladies.

Once all of the recruits had arrived (now numbering eight without
Carp), Marilyn announced that the bar was open. One shouldn't make
such an announcement if one were between a group of young soldiers
and the bar. There was a most unladylike surge toward the
"refreshments", sufficiently aggressive to tumble one neophyte female
impersonator from "her" towering heels. Sandy was just as interested
in the refreshments as anyone, but some instinct made her glance at
the general before joining the stampede. She saw that frown of
irritation once again disturbing Marilyn's amazingly pretty face, and
recognized that they were all, always, being evaluated.

A small, wistful smile tugged at the corners or Sandy's lush lips. At
sadly resigned expression peeked out from behind her long lashes. A
tiny sigh (all that the corset would allow) lifted her shoulders within
the thin robe as she decided to wait for the rush to dissipate before
moving forward. Those delicately feminine mannerisms, caused as
much by her introspective thoughts as by any deliberate intent, were
devastatingly attractive to those around. Her better-than-expert
makeup combined with her glorious cape of richly dark hair and added
to those gentle signals of regret to make her seem somehow fragile and
innocent, a dewy-eyed damsel in distress. Almost by reflex, the two
white-coated waiters that were in the room moved toward her.

"Can I help you, miss?" the first one asked, barely nudging out the
other hovering server. These men knew that the trainees were
cross-dressers, not natural women. Some of the recruits were
pathetically far from passing as women, and all were known to be part
of the program. Nonetheless, the image of vulnerable, almost childlike
femininity sparked a response within them too deep for conscious
thought. This delicate flower needed their help and they almost fought
each other for the privilege of providing it.

Sandy was drawn from her reverie by their solicitous offers and smiled
at them, another devastatingly effective attraction. She was about to
order the beer she would have gotten at the bar, but once again she
looked over to see Marilyn and Connie watching her. Instead, she
asked gently for a glass of white wine. The first waiter forced his way
with casual indifference past the other similarly-dressed but not
similarly-attractive trainees and returned with her glass of wine. Being
feminine had its advantages, Sandy realized, and she decided to play
with it for a moment. When she took her wine glass she looked into
the waiter's eyes, then dropped hers just enough to let her long lashes
dance seductively.

"Thank you," she said softly, letting her fingers brush lightly against
his rough hand. His response was a blush even more fiery than the
ones that periodically affected Sandy. He stammered and seemed to
find his feet of irresistible fascination as he fidgeted back and forth.
When he finally raised his eyes he met Sandy's eyes, their emerald fire
twinkling now with amusement. He ducked his head again, then
backed away without actually turning, nearly knocking over a small
table and then bumping into a none-too-stable trainee. Sandy's
amused smile followed him as he stumbled away, then she casually
turned to find a place to sit and give her feet some relief from their
unaccustomed pressures.

Once again she found herself in the essentially-private company of
Marilyn and Connie who had moved over while the mini-drama was
being played out.

"You handled that very well," Marilyn complimented her.

"Thank you, . . Marilyn."

"Even better. Being called 'ma'am' all the time make me feel old," the
general said with a smile as she took the green-eyed recruit's arm and
steered her toward a small grouping of easy chairs. Marilyn recognized
that Sandy had special talents in the vital skills they were learning, so
much so that it would be worthwhile to make her feel as comfortable
as possible in the role. With some trainees, stern measures or even
dismissal would be required, but it was clear that Sandy was going to
do her very best without threats. In her case gentle encouragement
would have the greatest chance of helping her complete the training.

"So," continued Marilyn, "what do you think of the first day?"

"I don't know what to think," admitted Sandy. "Even when you told
us that feminization training would be part of the job, I never
envisioned anything like this."

The young brunette continued with surprising frankness, as though
talking to herself rather than the Commanding Officer, "I'm surprised
to find I like it. I've never done anything like this before, ever. At
first, I was too busy to think about it hardly at all. Now that my
mind is catching up a bit, I find that I'm enjoying this. I liked the
power I had with just a smile to make that poor boy feel awkward.
I've never had that kind of power before. I suppose I shouldn't have
teased him like that, but it felt . . wonderful."

"Were you sexually attracted to him?" Connie asked with brutal
directness.

"No!" came the instant denial, then it was softened by an honest
self-examination, "at least, I don't think so."

"Don't you know?" persisted Connie. "Are you physically aroused?"

"Yes ma'am," Sandy answered the direct question, "but I've been that
way ever since I looked in the mirror with my makeup and long hair. I
don't know why, I just am."

"That's fine," Marilyn gentled the young girl. "It's to be expected.
These are confusing times for all of us. You're doing fine. I'm sure you
realize that you're the most promising of the present recruits, at least
so far. Keep up the good work and you'll be able to help us out
tremendously. Finish your wine and go on into the dining room
whenever you're ready. It's informal tonight."

With that Marilyn stood up, her constant Constance beside her, and
they began to circulate among the less- successful trainees. Sandy
stood as they left, then once standing went to the dining room. As she
stood the crumpled hem of her thin robe stayed high on her swiveling
bottom and she plucked ineffectually at its inadequate length. She
realized she would have to take care to keep it smooth whenever she
sat or it would never hang straight. Sipping at her wine, she strolled
around before sitting. This was her first chance to relax for a moment
since she had awakened that morning, especially with a slight amount
of privacy. The dining room was well lit through large picture windows
and she could see that they were indeed in the mountains, though
none she recognized. The barracks looked more like a fancy resort
lodge than a typical army installation, though with one glaring
discordant note. In the distance, Sandy could see a high double-fence,
each barrier topped with vicious razor wire. No one would be leaving
the compound without permission. It might as well have been a
prison, perhaps a comfortable one, but just as confining.

By now a couple of other trainees had been passed by the command
pair and allowed to enter the dining room. Sandy's group time had
been so monopolized by Marilyn and Constance that she hadn't really
met any of the other recruits. They had already started to form their
own friendships and she knew she would soon be ostracized unless she
made a special effort, so she smiled brightly at the first ones to enter
and moved toward them. She had already started her motion when
she realized that one was Jaymi Fox.

Among a group of real women, especially pretty ones, there would
have been a jealous pecking order established, from prettiest (at least
in her own mind) to plainest. Perhaps a couple of pecking orders as
cliques formed. These "girls" though, had been selected from men
(boys, really) who had been at the very bottom of the social order
among their peers. Short, slight, not terribly athletic, not terribly
handsome by the standards of men, these recruits had always wished
for attention from others, especially from pretty girls. Even Fox had
longed for the attention of pretty girls for casual friendships. When
the prettiest among them, one who also had the general's favor,
approached with a smile, their return smiles were instantaneous.

"So, Jaymi, who's your friend?" Sandy started the conversation.

"Carol Stevenson, this is Sandy Beech," Jaymi performed the
necessary social duties, triggering the obligatory snort that Sandy
always heard when the pun in her name was sounded out. "Sandy, this
is Carol. Sandy and I are from the same regiment."

Carol was a bit taller than Sandy, probably 5'10", one of the tallest of
the "girls" to be accepted into training. Her hair, or wig, was a bright
copper flame surrounding a sea of freckles that her makeup instructor
had wisely left showing. Despite her best intentions not to be catty,
Sandy thought how much prettier her own green eyes would have been
when framed by all that red, but Carol was stuck with "only" crystal
blue jewels. Each of these three recruits had mastered enough of the
cosmetic arts to create a really beautiful appearance, one that would
have passed anywhere as female. As they fell into a discussion of the
techniques they had learned they moved easily (despite their heels) to
one of the tables and sat. Only Sandy remembered to smooth the brief
hem of her robe before she sat, though the others noted her motion
and immediately stood, then sat again more correctly. Within
moments the first course of dinner was before them and they began to
eat. All had learned the lesson of small portions for compressed
stomachs so they carefully put aside their salads when only half
finished. Their judgment was rewarded by a main entree with a
sizzling Filet Mignon, sized much smaller than their experience would
have indicated would be needed to fill them up, but just right under
the circumstances.

By the time they finished, the last pair of recruits were staggering in,
shepherded by Marilyn and Constance. Staggering for more than one
reason. These stragglers had demonstrated the least success with their
makeup, but were among those with the least success at walking in
heels, also. In addition, they had made full use of the open bar. These
two soldiers would have had a difficult time walking a straight line in
combat boots, let alone the spindly heels they actually wore. The
frown on Marilyn's face was bordering back into the masculine zone
when she finally got them seated safely. Sandy knew that at least two
more recruits were about to wash out of the program, and it was still
only the first day.

Before the general and her companion took their own seats, they came
over to the table with the three most- successful trainees and
congratulated them once again.

"Sandy, Carol, Jaymi, you've done well today. How was your meal?"

"Fine, Marilyn," Sandy answered as the unofficial leader of the
beautiful trio.

"Is there anything special you need tonight?" Constance asked, clearly
fulfilling an executive officer role for the general, whatever her real
position might be.

"No, ma'am," Sandy declined, "except, it will be nice to get these
shoes off, and this corset."

"Yes, it will," giggled the general. Yes, actually giggled, an amazingly
feminine mannerism that the trio knew must have been acquired
through training. That instant of insight did more to warn them of
the additional things they needed to learn than any lecture from their
officers could have achieved. Despite Marilyn's mirth, the three
recruits were suddenly somber as the implications of the extent of
their transformation began to sink in.

"If you're done, feel free to wander about the lodge. Don't go outside,
yet. Of course, you can go to your rooms and get some sleep whenever
you want," offered Marilyn.

It wasn't sleep that interested them as much as getting out of their
corsets and heels, so all three of the stunning recruits stood and made
their way to their rooms. Once inside, Sandy glanced around for an
instructor, but the room was empty. She made her way to the powder
room and completed a bit of immediate business, then tried to decide
how to get out of her outfit by herself. Her feet hurt too much to just
wander around the lodge in hopes of finding an instructor. After a
moment, an idea came to her, one that she wasn't sure she wanted to
try. Instead, she took off her emerald robe and bent down to the ankle
straps on her shoes, or at least tried to bend down. The corset pulled
her up far short of reaching the little buckle. The logical choice was
then to take the corset off first, but she couldn't figure out the knot
while reaching around her back and looking in the mirror. Finally she
decided she would have to try her first idea, however distasteful.
Putting her robe back on, Sandy went out into the hallway and made
her way to Jaymi's room. She knocked tentatively on the door, then
stood fidgeting. With no warning the door was opened and Sandy was
suddenly face to face, in private, with one of "them."

"I'm sorry to bother you," Sandy said quietly, "but I'm having trouble
getting out of these shoes and the corset. Could I ask you to help me?"

"Certainly," Jaymi replied, stepping back into her room. Sandy
hesitated yet again, but stepped forward. Her nervousness was obvious
and Jaymi picked up on it immediately. She was used to that, though,
and she decided to try and help Sandy through her dilemma.

"You're not really comfortable around me, are you?" asked Jaymi.

A denial started to form on Sandy's ruby lips, but it was stilled before
any real answer was made. She slowly nodded her head and, for the
first time, let her eyes meet the deep brown ones that waited patiently
for her response.

"Would it help you to know I'm really bisexual? I just like making
love with people, holding and hugging and sex in all its flavors. Well,
not all flavors, they're some things that are too far out even for me,
but mostly anything consenting adults want to do that's clean and
doesn't hurt anyone is interesting to me. What about you?"

Now Sandy's embarrassment flared to nova temperatures. She was
sure her long hair would ignite from the heat on her cheeks. Her eyes
fell and she fidgeted, but didn't say anything.

"You're a virgin!" Jaymi exclaimed with sudden insight.

"Yeah, what of it?" Sandy answered pugnaciously, for a moment all
feminine mannerisms submerged below a defensive shell.

"Nothing," Jaymi gently assured her, "or at least, nothing bad. I
think that's just fine. Of course, some day I hope you find out what
you're missing, but there's plenty of time for that."

The green-eyed beauty studied Jaymi's face for any sign of ridicule,
but only found friendship and acceptance. Sandy began to realize that
the conditioning implanted by society wasn't necessarily accurate, at
least not in every case. This person wasn't some alien creature with
psychotically destructive propensities that might blow up in her face.
She was just another recruit in an incredible situation. They had more
in common than in conflict. Sandy tried out a tentative smile, grateful
for the lack of derision in Jaymi's attitude.

"Besides," Jaymi continued with an answering grin, "in this crazy
situation, you're more likely to get turned on by me dressed like a
woman than I would be by you, if I were exclusively homosexual."

"I know," giggled Sandy," some of those 'girls' are so gorgeous I keep
forgetting what's under their robes."

"Some of US girls, you mean," Jaymi countered. "None are prettier
than you."

Sandy blushed again, this time from a host of emotions too complex
for a simple label. She knew it was true and part of her was ashamed
that she, a man, could look so feminine. But part of her was proud
that she could look so pretty. That thought spiral threatened to
capture her thoughts and an introspective look settled on her delicate
features. Jaymi interrupted her, though, before she could withdraw
into her own mind.

"Now, let me help you with your corset. Then you help me with mine."

With no further thought of the implications of undressing in front of
one of "them", Sandy quickly removed her robe and twirled around so
Jaymi could reach her laces. It took a minute or so for Jaymi to figure
out the knot. That triggered a little sub-processor thought trickling
through the back of her mind, one that she didn't even consciously
recognize for a moment as she struggled with the laces. After a
moment, she had it undone, though, and was starting to ease off on
the taut strings. Sandy gave a sigh of relief that was so heartfelt
Jaymi couldn't help giggling, which triggered Sandy into her own
light-hearted laughter. She smiled with genuine friendship now at
Jaymi, and twirled her finger to indicate Jaymi should turn around
now. Sandy had her own troubles with the knot, trying to puzzle out
the complicated tangle.

After a few seconds, the idea that had been stirring in the back of
Jaymi's mind leaped to the forefront and she exclaimed, "They did
that on purpose!"

"Huh?" Sandy grunted, a most unladylike response excused by her
concentration on the knot.

"That knot is really complicated, right?" asked Jaymi.

"Yeah," Sandy confirmed.

"I bet they did it that way on purpose, to make sure we needed to help
each other. I hope the other girls realize it and help each other out."

"You're probably right, now hold still. I think I have it figured out,"
directed Sandy as she worked an end through the twisted laces. In a
few moments Jaymi was heaving her own sigh of relief, prompting
another giggle duet that fed on itself until both were shaking with
mirth.

"Can you get your shoes by yourself?" asked Jaymi.

"Yes. Thanks for your help. I'll see you in the morning," Sandy
answered, realizing as she did so that she was truly looking forward to
seeing Jaymi in the morning. In her own mind, that might just have
been the biggest lesson of the day.



4.  Chapter -    Trapped?


A sharp rapping at the door to Beech's room started an equally-loud
hammering within his chest as he struggled through a moment of
disorientation the next morning. The delicate femininity of his room
seemed doubly out of place after the Spartan barracks that had been
his recent home. Once his heart was down from his throat, Beech
called out and Kathy entered the room.

"Up and at 'em, girl," she directed. Beech didn't feel much like a girl
that morning. He had carefully removed his wig and hung it on the
tall form, then removed his makeup. His instruction the previous day
had included cleansing and moisturizing and other aspects of skin
care, and he had complied as fully as he could before going to bed. No
pajamas had been provided so he had slept in the emerald panties, a
fact that disturbed him again as he began to get out of bed with the
trim instructor still watching.

"Oh, go on," Kathy laughed. "I've seen about as much of you as there
is to see. Don't bother showering this morning. We have a workout
first."

Beech quickly took care of the essentials and returned to the bedroom
to find shiny black tights and an emerald leotard waiting for him. He
dressed in the unfamiliar but not unexpected clothes and was soon
following Kathy out of the room and down the hall. Other recruits,
now six in number, and their instructors were converging in an
exercise yard just outside the lodge. The field was lush with grass, but
there were mats and aerobic steps spread around. In moments, all the
trainees were lying on the mats with their instructors pulling on legs,
arms, shoulders, necks, and everything else that moved.

"Ladies," announced the chief instructor, an appellation that seemed
much less appropriate than the previous evening, "all of you will have
to achieve the flexibility and grace of beautiful women. You may think
this is easy, but I assure you that it is not. Give it your best effort and
you'll get through the pain faster."

Pain? In moment the truth of that warning became all too apparent
as the personal trainers pushed harder and harder against the
tightness of the recruits' muscles and joints. The strength imparted
during basic training now worked against them as they tried to relax
taut, hard muscles. The instructors were relentless, though, and all
the recruits were soon aching from the forced stretching.

"All right, everybody up!" the chief instructor ordered. She was one of
those impossibly fit young blondes that they always use as aerobics
instructors, probably named Ashley or Amber or something suitably
stylish. That stereotype turned out to be all too true as she cranked
up a boombox and had the recruits start bouncing along with the
music. This facet of the training was as much dance as exercise and
the personal trainers were as relentless at pointing out graceless moves
as they had been at loosening up tight muscles. In just moments the
team was sweating in a way that women had somehow learned to
overcome. It wasn't clear that this could be trained out of the bodies
of the team, so they were going to get into such good shape that they
wouldn't raise a sweat under any exertion the mission might require.
At least, that was the plan.

After some interminable time, Amber (or was it Ashley?) called a halt
and had them walk to another area of the compound, a few hundred
yards away. Waiting for them there was the first male instructor they
had seen, or at least, the first one that was recognizably male. He was
a bit over six feet tall, with a bushy black mustache, and he stood in
the center of a large mat about twenty feet on a side.

"All right, ladies," his tone indicated disdain and ridicule, the first
person who had not been sympathetic to their androgynous
appearance, "I'm your martial arts instructor. My name is El
Supremo, at least, as far as you're concerned. It's my job to teach you
how to handle yourself without weapons. Let me make it clear at the
start that I fight dirty. Marilyn has told me that anything that will
heal within a year is fair game, as long as no scars result. You can heal
a LOT in a year. Let me also make it clear that the only way you
graduate from my class is if you can kick the shit out of me. Since
none of you are likely to graduate, I expect we'll be seeing a lot of each
other over this year and that I'll end up sending your sorry butts out
into the field half-trained, but that's the breaks. Now, who wants to
be first?"

Right, like anyone was volunteering to get beat up. Beech was
especially bothered. Like all good martial arts instructors, those that
had taught him aikido had made it clear that martial arts were not a
path to being a bully, but a way to achieve peace in the face of danger.
This "El Supremo" character was the antithesis of that creed. Part of
Beech was angered by the heresy, but part of him was intimidated by
the arrogant confidence of the instructor. Clearly, this was not going
to be a pleasant class. In a coincidence that was clearly well-planned,
Marilyn and Constance had seemingly wandered up just as the
instructor began his harangue.

One of the recruits was even more intimidated than Beech. Beech
couldn't really remember this member of the team very well. Clearly
he had succeeded at the heels and makeup well enough to survive the
first day's attrition, but nothing special came to mind about him. His
hair was a medium brown and the primary color of his clothes was a
soft rose that wasn't unusual among the remaining recruits. The
worried candidate started shaking his head, slowly at first, then more
and more emphatically.

"No," came first a mutter, then a clear statement, then a shout, "NO!
I am not getting kicked around by another bully. I don't care what
kind of prison you put me in, I'm not getting pounded again."

This young man, like all the team, was slender and short. He seemed
more fragile, though, as though the external limitations were only a
facade on an even less capable spirit. His repeated denials became
even more frantic until finally Marilyn stepped up to him and in a
strong, masculine voice they had never heard from her before shouted,
"Attention!"

Trained reflexes captured the whole team (interestingly enough,
including the instructors) and the terrified boy stopped his babbling in
shocked silence as all came to attention. Marilyn's eyes never left the
young trainee. When he finally pulled himself together, she patted him
softly on the shoulder and then turned to address the group as a
whole, once again in a soft, feminine tone.

"I think we'll delay today's unarmed combat training for a short while.
All of you follow me. Oh, at ease, just stroll along with me."

She started down a path deeper into the woods surrounding the
compound. The other recruits followed along uneasily. The scene with
the panicked response of one of their number had unnerved the entire
team and they walked as though they were picking a path through a
minefield, waiting for the next explosion.

Marilyn and Constance seemed unconcerned, but they had already
shown that their minds were always evaluating the team members,
always aware of their actions. After about ten minutes of gentle
strolling they approached another double razor-wire fence surrounding
a reasonably conventional barracks building, an exercise yard, and a
few small sheds.

There was a uniformed guard at the only visible gate, the first
normally dressed soldier they had seen since the helicopter pilots had
left. Marilyn led them up to the gate and stopped, then turned to
those following her.

"This is what happens to those who wash out. I'm not showing you
this as a threat, but as a promise. It's not especially bad, at least, not
for those who merely wash out of the training. I wasn't kidding,
though about what will happen to anyone who breaks security.
Nonetheless, this is the only way out for those who can't complete the
training. The only way. In the meantime, talk to those who are
already inside."

With that she nodded to the guard, who blew his whistle. Three men
came tumbling from the barracks building and by now it was no
surprise to see that they were Carp Anderson and the others who had
failed to measure up. They were dressed in conventional BDUs,
though with no insignia showing. Marilyn ostentatiously stepped
through the group of trainees, taking a place behind them so that they
could move forward at will.

Beech was the first to respond. Perhaps his sympathy for the
distressed recruit was a little less than the others, since he had faced
his own bullies in a more self-reliant manner, refusing to just take
abuse. Or perhaps it was just that he already knew Carp Anderson
and wanted to talk to him. In any event, he stepped closer to the
outer fence and spoke, "Carp, how're you doing?"

"Not too bad," Carp replied, ducking his head in shame before his
peers. "This place is okay. The barracks is more like a BOQ than an
enlisted man's barracks, and they let us have movies for the dayroom
TV. They even told us we can send for correspondence courses while
we're in here."

"How long will that be?" the question came from several sources.

Constance answered from the back of the group, "Until the mission is
completed, and such additional time as is required to ensure the
success of the mission is not compromised."

The three inside the wire ducked their heads again, reminded of the
predicament that held them. One of the outside recruits voiced a
concern that Connie's words had raised, "But that could be forever."

"Yes," now Marilyn responded, bluntly, unequivocally. Turning to the
recruit who had panicked at the hand-to-hand training site, she said,
"Go on in. You'll find clothes inside."

She then turned and started back up the path they had traversed.
Beech watched the dejected ex-team member walk to the gate the
guard was opening. His tights and leotard looked sadly pathetic, just
as his slumping shoulders and drooping head. Beech realized, as he
turned to follow Marilyn, that he still couldn't remember the boy's
name, neither his femme name nor his real one.

In a few minutes they were back at the mat area. The instructor, "El
Supremo" was still waiting, dancing a private kata to focus his mind
and make use of the time. As the team straggled behind Marilyn, she
walked straight onto the mat and up to the instructor.

"All right, asshole, you just cost me a team member. Better now than
during the mission, but you owe me," the hard language was strangely
incongruous coming from the gorgeous transvestite. She had put her
makeup on that morning, and it appeared the blonde curls were her
own. In her tights and multi-colored leotard she looked for all the
world like a young woman challenging a brutish beast of a man.

The man nodded to her, then stepped into position. They faced each
other, made a formal bow, then set themselves. The instructor struck
a formal pose, hands a bit above waist level, feet diagonally strong,
legs partially bent. Marilyn just stood there, casually. Beech thought,
"she's gonna get killed." He was surprised to find that bothered him.
He hadn't had much contact with officers in his time in the army.
Mostly they were just inspecting one thing or another, and usually
finding fault. The power they wielded was intimidating, but distant.
Still, Marilyn had shown interest in them, shown superb mastery of
the skills she demanded of them, shown strength of character and of
leadership with an ability to make fast, sure, accurate decisions. She
was respectable, that was the word. Beech realized he respected her
greatly, a respect that was increased by her willingness to face this
danger first, leading from the front. Somehow, that made her the
representative of them all, and it was wrong for her to take lumps on
their behalf. Her pain was their pain, and they weren't helping. These
thoughts took only an instant, but that's all there was.

El Supremo exploded into motion, diving forward to catch Marilyn's
hair in one meaty paw. With the other hand, he slapped her face,
hard. Even with his open hand it was clear that his blows rocked the
slight transvestite. A clenched fist would probably have broken her
jaw. The team gasped at this abuse of their leader, a gasp that was
soon echoed by another gasp as she fell backwards onto the mat,
pulling the man with her own hair, then with her hands as they found
a hold. The beefy man found himself lifted over her bunched legs, but
unlike the conventional technique where a leg is placed in the stomach
of the attacker, Marilyn's slender foot was planted firmly in his crotch,
very firmly. His grunt sounded even over the collective shock of the
watching trainees, and his reflexive attempt to block her foot caused
him to lose his grip on her hair. This left Marilyn fully in control, and
she used that control to accelerate his motion into a whipcrack so hard
it lifted her off the mat, a good thing since the impact of his crashing
body surely registered on seismographs around the country, and
anything in contact with the ground near his body would have felt
some noticeable shocks. The boom as El Supremo hit the mat sounded
so loud they wondered if his back had broken, a "concern" that was
immediately alleviated by his rapid motion to cuddle himself into a
ball, clutching his crushed manhood. He obviously couldn't breathe,
but the observers couldn't tell whether that was because the wind was
knocked out of him, or just due to the pain in his crotch. Not that
they cared.

General Merlin stood up from the mat. None of them, probably not
even Constance, could have told exactly what change had transformed
Marilyn into Merlin. There were no describable physical changes
except the red blotch on his face where he had been slapped, and a
trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Yet it was as clear that
this was a man as it had been undeniable that Marilyn had been
feminine.

"That's another reason we chose men for this mission. If and when the
time comes to fight, we expect you to fight. No mercy, no rules, no
hesitation. When the time comes, there won't be room for the
nurturing aspect of femininity, just the killer instinct of a man. If you
don't have that instinct, you might as well join the others in the
barracks compound, because there's no room for you on the team."

As they watched, another magical transformation occurred, before
their eyes yet indescribable.

Where General Merlin had stood, now Marilyn smiled at them, the
smile distorted by a lip that was already thickening. They had been
told that the transformation they needed was more internal than
external, but now they believed it, convinced by the incredible effect of
Marilyn's appearance.

"Besides," she said with a smile and Marilyn's gentle voice, "El
Supremo is wrong. You're all going to learn to kick his butt. If he
won't show you how, I will, and I'll use him to demonstrate. Won't I
asshole?" This last was delivered to the still-huddled man, who
nodded feebly.

"Well, that's enough on unarmed combat for today, I think," Marilyn
continued. "Let's go back to the lodge."

They followed along behind her until they were in the sitting room
again. To their surprise, she ordered them into formation, standing at
attention. Her orders were delivered in a soft, friendly tone, but they
moved as quickly as they would have for any foghorn-voiced sergeant.

From somewhere, Constance had obtained a notebook (she was dressed
like the rest of them in clothes that left no room for pockets). Connie
followed Marilyn down the line of trainees, their bodies revealed more
than concealed in the skin-tight outfits. At each recruit Marilyn
stopped and looked even more carefully than at the inspection that
had resulted in their opportunities to volunteer. She had the recruit
turn around, slowly, then conferred in a quiet voice with Constance.
They would make some decision and Constance would make a note in
her book, then they moved on. As they approached Beech, he could
hear part of their words. They seemed to be grading the recruits.
Most of the grades were B's, maybe B+ or B-. When they got to him,
though, Beech was sure he heard Marilyn say, "C". He thought he had
been doing well. What made her grade him down? Since he was at the
end of the line (now five recruits long), Marilyn and Constance moved
in front of the assembled team after passing him.

"At ease," Marilyn said with an ever-more-lopsided smile. "Now I'm
going to ask you to volunteer again. I want you all to know that I
appreciate what you've done so far. While I can't let you go and
compromise the mission, or the security of the team members who are
sent on it, I'll try and make your time as comfortable as practical if
you choose not to take the next step. I'll also tell you that I will make
the same step I'm asking of you. Our masquerade as women must be
foolproof, with the one critical exception that we can't lose our virility.
In order to succeed, we're going to need to modify our bodies a bit,
nothing really permanent, or at least, not so unusual you won't be
able to live with it.

She continued with a statement that was shocking even though they
realized the inevitability of it had been lurking in their minds, "We
will need to get breast implants, and take hormones to get our nipples
to grow. We'll also do some minor things that increase the credibility
of our female image, like getting our ears pierced, getting some
collagen implants in our lips to make them fuller, and for those who
need it, a little work on our cheeks and jawlines. Surgery can remove
what it adds, and eventually the effects of the hormones will fade,
though our nipples may remain slightly enlarged. When I mentioned
personal discomfort, I know you weren't thinking of surgical
modifications, so I consider this a separate commitment on your part.
No one will be punished for deciding not to proceed, except that you'll
not be part of the team. You've seen what that entails. Now, who is
willing to proceed?"

They were still in line and the trainees realized that Marilyn had taken
an extra step away from them before delivering this additional surprise
that wasn't really a surprise. That created a space between just big
enough to allow volunteers to step forward. What a coincidence.

Again, Beech was the first to move. He couldn't have said why he
volunteered to have his body modified. He was a 19-year-old man, boy
really, and he had been through a series of hammerblow shocks to his
concepts of who he was and what he was that would have excused a
lot of confusion in more mature men. He just knew he wanted to be
part of Marilyn's team. He stepped forward and came to an even more
rigid attention than before, the incongruity of a short- haired man in
brightly colored tights and leotard totally lost in the moment. His
action spurred others to move, first Jaymi Fox, then Carol Stevenson,
then a blond guy he didn't know. Only one man refused to step
forward, another average-looking trainee who hadn't been very
noticeable to Beech until now. After a moment to make sure the man
had made his decision, Marilyn nodded. Her eyes notified the lone
recalcitrant to move out and he executed a sharp about-face, then
marched out the door toward the path to the barracks compound.
Now there were four.

"Very well, thank you for your support," Marilyn said with her
lopsided smile. "Now go to your rooms and get showered and dressed.
We'll have brunch when you get back. After brunch, we'll cycle
through interviews with the doctor, and I'll also want a private
interview with each of you. Connie will have the schedule. You're
dismissed."

When Beech returned to his room he found three instructors waiting
for him. Kathy shepherded him into the powder room where the
shower was already running. As he washed his body, Beech was
amazed at the smooth sensual feel of his hands as they stroked his
hairless legs and chest. He didn't know how fast body hairs could be
expected to grow out, but Karen's comment that no hairs would grow
until some sort of neutralizer was applied seemed to be supported by
his smooth chin and cheeks. His whiskers had never grown very fast
and he could often skip a day shaving even within army standards, but
his face felt as smooth as his legs, not even a hint of roughness. The
stubble on his head didn't take long to wash either, so in moments he
was stepping from the shower. Kathy once again handed him lotion to
use, then a tangle of flesh-colored straps that Beech didn't recognize.

"I've got some good news and some bad news," Kathy said with a
grin. "The good news is that you get to wear regular girl's clothes
today, a skirt and a blouse. The bad news is that you have to make
sure your manhood doesn't show. This is called a gaff. It's used to
hide your genitals. I'll show you how to wear it. It's my understanding
that it's not too comfortable, especially until you get used to it. It's
also pretty personal, but I'm the one that has to show you."

Her grin indicated she wasn't terribly sympathetic, which did more
than anything to convince the skeptical trainee that she was a genetic
girl, especially once he finally had the infernal thing in place. No man
or boy who had experienced this could be quite so callous. His
testicles had been massaged back up into his body cavity and the gaff
held his cock so tightly he couldn't have managed an erection if his life
depended on it. Hopefully the effects were reversible when the thing
was removed. After he was tucked away, Kathy handed him a fresh
pair of emerald panties and led him from the powder room.

Back in his bedroom, Beech was directed to the lacing bar and a new
corset was wrapped around his waist. This one must have been
custom made. The dominant color was his signature emerald green,
accented by white lace. As Kathy pulled the laces he could feel that it
was even tighter than the previous corset, yet somehow more
comfortable. The increased tension was more evenly distributed with
no particular points of pressure. It was just as hard to breathe,
though, maybe worse. He needed help with his stockings (still dark,
with slender seams), and with his shoes (still strapped to his ankles,
and even taller than before). A few tugs here and there and Kathy
was finished with him. However he didn't go to the vanity, yet.
Instead, he was directed to his new instructor.

"Hello," she greeted him, "my name is Krystal. I'm your instructor in
fashion and feminine deportment. Today you get some real clothes,
not just a robe. After a little while, we'll start selecting clothes for you
that fit your personality and style, but today, all the trainees will be
dressed in skirts and blouses."

With that she picked up an emerald poet's blouse, all flowing sleeves
and floppy collar. It exaggerated every gesture Beech made when he
tried to control the fluttering material. Next, Krystal reached for a
short denim skirt, very short. It was also very snug, as Beech found
out when she started to work the zipper. It had slid over his hips
pretty easily, but the zipper pulled it tight, especially at his
tautly-imprisoned waist. He was back to the incongruity of stridently
feminine clothes below a stubble-headed boy's face. That was Karen's
cue to take charge of his preparation. There wasn't much for her to do
with his makeup. He had learned his lessons well, and soon the young
female Sandy was appearing behind the seemingly minimal artistry.
Karen helped him with his wig, though, showing him enough to keep
it looking good throughout the day. It was clear that all the trainees
would let their hair grow so learning how to put on a wig was not in
itself a vital skill. Once it was in place, though, the recruits needed to
know how to care for it just as though it were permanent.

Transformation complete, Sandy stood up and smiled at her helpers.
"Thank you," she said softly.

Neither Kathy nor Krystal had seen her transformation before. They
just stood open-mouthed, looking at each other with unconscious
comparison and realizing that with the possible exception of Karen,
Sandy was the prettiest among them. And Karen didn't have Sandy's
gorgeous mane of richly-dark hair, nor her tiny waist, however forced
that smallness was. Their shocked appraisal, even envy, was so
apparent on their faces that Sandy giggled in delight. She hugged
Karen quickly in wordless thanks, then lifted one delicately-shaped
eyebrow in question.

"What's next?"

"Oh," replied Kathy as she recovered from her amazement, "you need
to go to brunch. Go ahead."

Krystal added, "I'll be in the study room at the opposite end of the
hall. When you're free of your other appointments, come by and we'll
start to talk fashions. I also want to listen to you speak for a while so
we can work on feminizing your voice. Your soft tones are a good
start, but phrasing and inflections have a long way to go."

Sandy nodded and turned for the door. When she got to the dining
area, she found for once that she wasn't first. Jaymi Fox was already
there, her blouse in the dark wine red color that had been selected to
set off her chocolate eyes. Carol Stevenson arrived next, her makeup
skills as effective, yet subtle as she had displayed the night before. It
was apparent she was going to capitalize on her crystal blue eyes with
a matching royal blue poet's blouse that made her copper hair seem
incredibly fiery. Unlike the smooth waves that fell to Sandy's waist,
Carol's hair was tightly curled and dropped only to her collar. It
seemed to fit her, somehow, bouncing like coiled springs in a way that
promised a volatile temperament that did justice to the promise of her
hair. The last of their team arrived shortly after, the blonde that
Beech hadn't really met yet. She was stunning in a lean, elegant way,
dressed in a black blouse that made her golden hair glow like a halo.
All the trainees betrayed a little hesitation as they walked in their
higher heels. They were learning that the increment from three to four
inch heels was a great a challenge as the increment from flats to three-
inch spikes. How would they ever manage the six-inch towers that had
been promised?

The four remaining trainees moved together in a mutual desire for
companionship. Sandy smiled at the girl she didn't yet know very well
and introduced herself again, "Hello, I'm Sandy Beech. I know we met
before, but I must admit I don't remember your name."

The blonde smiled automatically in return, chuckling a little at the pun
that had named Sandy long before this mission, then dropped her eyes
in embarrassment. "No one seemed to like the name I chose anyway.
My real name is Stan White, and I was going to call myself Sharon,
like Sharon Stone, but the others said I just didn't look like a Sharon."

"Well, you're certainly pretty enough," Carol joined in, but your
femme name should be obvious."

The others looked at her without comprehension. Carol let them
wonder for a moment, not noticing that Marilyn and the ever-close
Constance had walked up behind them as she paused.

"I think that Stan White should become the elegant, yet vivacious
blonde Vanna White," she laughed.

All the team members, except the newly-christened Vanna, burst into
one or another expressions of mirth ranging from the refined chuckle of
the always-elegant Constance through girlish giggles from Carol and
Sandy. It was clear that Vanna had her name, and this time Sandy
knew she would have no trouble remembering it. They moved to the
brunch, not a buffet this time, but places set around a single round
table large enough for all six. Servers arrived with the first course,
small in portion since they all knew the limitations imposed by their
corsets. Marilyn deliberately kept the conversation light, but made a
point of addressing each of them by their femme names at every
opportunity. That drew from them a reciprocal use of her name,
rather than ma'am, and soon their previous training in how to address
a female officer was being overridden by the new standard. The meal
was the first really relaxing time since they had arrived at the
compound, all the more surprising since half of their number had been
eliminated within little more than a day.

As the brunch drew to a close, Constance spoke up in her executive
officer voice, "May I have your attention, please, ladies? It's now just
after 11:00. You may all have the time until noon to relax and repair
your makeup after the meal. Carol, you're due to the infirmary at
12:00, then Jaymi, Vanna, and Sandy at one hour intervals. There are
signs starting just outside the lodge to show you the right path. It's a
couple of hundred yards away, so you'll all get plenty of practice in
your heels, but the path is paved and I'm sure you can make it. We'll
do the interviews with Marilyn in the lounge where we had our
cocktails last night, in reverse order, so Sandy, you'll be first. Any
questions?"

"When will we be operated on?" Vanna asked.

"That will depend on the doctor's evaluation," Constance explained,
"but you can expect it within the next few days."

The silence that followed indicated that no other questions were
forthcoming, so Marilyn stood up. The team followed suit and soon
were dispersed to their rooms. Sandy had no trouble bringing her
makeup back to the understated magic that made her seem like a
delicate flower. Since she had a few moments to spare, she sat in an
easy chair in her room and propped her aching feet up. They certainly
weren't used to these heels, yet. Walking a couple of hundred yards
(and back) over a paved path didn't sound like a lot of fun, but she
could see that it wasn't unreasonable. Anyway, she didn't have to do
that until later in the afternoon. She felt herself almost dozing off in
the chair and roused with a start to check the time. Just enough to
comb her hair into shining perfection and sway with the sensuous
grace made necessary by her heels and corset toward the lounge.

Marilyn waited for her, all alone. This was the first time that
Constance had not been hovering near the breathtaking blonde. She
seemed vulnerable, an impression heightened by the swollen lip that
marred her perfection. A little closer look and Sandy could see
puffiness about her eye that promised to darken into a spectacular
shiner, if it hadn't already and been covered by cosmetic magic.
Marilyn sat in an easy chair, legs crossed elegantly and with perfect
femininity. Her own skirt was just as short as those worn by the other
team members, but somehow she had managed to tuck it under her in
a way that hinted at forbidden fruits without revealing them.

"Come in, Sandy, right on time. Get yourself a soft drink if you'd like."

The suggestion triggered a raging thirst in Sandy's throat, or perhaps
it was just dry from the tension of the meeting. What would this
interview involve? Sandy had thought she was doing well, but she had
distinctly heard Marilyn assess her with a C earlier, while all the other
girls were somewhere in the B range. The green-eyed beauty walked
over to the snack area and got a soda to give her a moment more to
compose herself, but the stall was over all too soon and she found
herself settling into a chair near Marilyn, remembering at the last
instant to smooth her own brief skirt into place.

"So, Sandy, tell me what you think now about our situation."

"I don't know what to say. It's been an unbelievable couple of days,"
Sandy replied carefully. Then after a pause, she continued, "Frankly,
I'm worried about making the grade. If we've lost this many in only
two days, how will I ever last out a year?"

"You're doing fine," assured Marilyn. "In fact, you're doing the best
of all the new recruits. That's one of the things we need to talk about.
You're an obvious leader among the girls. I'm planning to announce a
promotion for you at dinner this evening. You're going to be formally
recognized as third in command behind myself and Connie."

Sandy's surprise must have showed on her face. She had expected this
interview to be a dreaded "counseling" session, telling her to improve
or face banishment to the barracks compound. Instead, Marilyn was
praising her. The shock of her unexpected promotion took her breath
away, even the little that was allowed by her corset, and she sagged
back in the chair.

"What's the matter?" asked Marilyn solicitously.

"Nothing, it's just, well, I thought you were disappointed in me,"
Sandy answered.

"Whyever for?"

"Well, earlier, when you were grading us girls, I heard you say the
others were all in the B range, maybe B+ or B-, but I heard you say I
was a C. I didn't know what I had done wrong."

Marilyn's laugh burst out a little too forcefully for the delicate
femininity of her appearance, but it was too much for her to contain.
She laughed until she finally took a sip of her lemonade, wincing as
the tart mix touched her tender lip, then she calmed down enough to
speak.

"Oh, Sandy, you're so precious. Nothing could be further from the
truth. I wasn't grading you like a school teacher. I was deciding just
how much to enhance your bust. You're going to get full C cup tits,
girl. You'll be spectacular. I'm afraid the other girls will end up
somewhere between elegant, like Connie, and tomboyish. They're all
going to be beautiful, but on the lean side. It shows in their face and
in their motions. We'll need to accept that and build on it, so they'll
be average in bust at most, maybe a little small. You, on the other
hand, have already shown a natural talent for this that's amazing.
We're going to turn you into the shapeliest, most sensual girl on the
team. You'll be curvier and prettier than any of the others. The plan
was to have a variety of looks to make sure we blended in. Connie has
convinced me to go the blonde bombshell route, and I'm already
practicing my airhead routines. You, on the other hand, are going to
be so hot that men will be consumed if they approach, but just like
moths to a flame they will be compelled to move closer. I think we'll
work a little sadness, a damsel-in-distress look into your style. You
used that with terrific effect last night with the waiter. Believe me,
Sandy, dear, you're doing wonderfully."

With this assurance, Sandy relaxed and recovered a bit. She took a sip
of her own drink, then smiled at Marilyn, "You really think so? I'll be
beautiful?"

"You're already beautiful," Marilyn confirmed, "but you're going to be
unbelievable. Let's see, your instructor in fashion and feminine
deportment is, um, Krystal, right?"

Sandy nodded, noting for the first time that Marilyn had no notes or
other aids to memory. It was clear that there was a highly-capable
mind behind those shining blue jewels. The thought of Marilyn acting
out an airhead persona, like Marilyn Monroe had done so often, raised
a twinkle in Sandy's eyes as she envisioned this Marilyn in some of
those old movie scenes. Then she paid attention as Marilyn went on.

"Tell Krystal what I just told you. Tell her I want you to be sensual
but not cheap. Vulnerable in a way that invites protectors. But tell
her I want eyeballs to snap whenever you enter a room. She'll know
what I mean. In the meantime, don't worry about washing out. We're
actually at the team size I wanted. We've thrown some shocks at all of
you right up front to weed out those who don't have the right desire.
That's what's most important, that and a little talent. The girls that
are left all have what we need, you most of all. From here on out we'll
help you through the rough spots."

"Does that include that El Supremo instructor?"

Marilyn's face took on a sharper look, and Sandy knew she was about
to be tested again as the blonde asked, "Did you notice anything
unusual about that situation?"

The pretty brunette hesitated a moment before answering. She was a
lot happier now that Marilyn had explained where she stood, but
Sandy knew that she and all the trainees would be continually
challenged, mentally, physically, every way that Marilyn and
Constance could devise. This question was on her powers of
observation at a level beyond simply recounting the facts. When she
had her thoughts together, she replied, "Well, that's the only
instructor that has been disrespectful, and the only one that you've
treated disrespectfully. It's obvious from naming him El Supremo that
he's supposed to represent our target. It appears that we're supposed
to learn that he's not so tough after all. Not easy, that fat lip must be
pretty uncomfortable, but not a superman either. I can see the tactic,
but he's still pretty intimidating. Of course, now that I've seen you in
action, you're pretty intimidating yourself."

Marilyn's face assumed an amazingly vacant look, then she giggled
and tossed her head to one side, "Moi? Intimidating? Why I don't
even know what that big word means. I'm just, like, you know, a girl,
you know? No way am I, like, what you said."

Now it was Sandy's turn to break out into uncontrolled laughter at the
ditsy airhead imitation Marilyn was presenting. It wasn't perfect, yet,
but it was devastatingly funny. She looked like deciding what color to
paint her nails was a major life decision. Then, just as quickly, the
sharp look was back in her eyes.

"We've all got a lot of things to learn. Remember what I told you, the
mental and deportment aspects are even more important than the
physical ones, and those will be tough enough," Marilyn said as she
stood.

Sandy stood with her and reached to shake her hand. Instead of
reaching out her own hand, Marilyn leaned forward and gave Sandy a
quick hug and an air kiss, a much more feminine response. Once again,
Sandy was amazed at the breadth of skill that their leader possessed.
She walked back to her room shaking her head at the task before her,
but re-energized to do her best by the pep talk she had received.



5.  Chapter -    Tragedy!


The trainees settled into a routine that was too busy to be
monotonous. Every morning, they worked out at stretching and
aerobics, then faced El Supremo. All the trainees sported bruises at
various times, yet all found within themselves the toughness to face
the bully and overcome him. Sandy's aikido background allowed her
the easiest time in this area as well and her position as leader among
the enlisted recruits was solidified by her demonstrated competence.

They always ate brunch rather than breakfast, always wearing their
corsets to keep their stomachs too compressed for large meals. As a
result, and as a result of the hormones they started taking, they lost
muscle mass, especially in their upper bodies. The team members,
including Marilyn, cycled through the infirmary for their various
surgeries. In the end, as promised, Sandy developed the shapeliest
body, though Marilyn followed a close second. The others started to
develop their own personas, each unique, each attractive. Constance
owned the refined elegance personality so thoroughly that none of the
other recruits tried that path. Her most devastating weapon was a
coolly-amused smile. It could make any man around feel clumsy and
inadequate. Marilyn had the airhead blonde down with hilarious
creativity. She trained herself to use almost exclusively one-syllable
words, mostly 'like' and 'you know' and 'cool'.

Jaymi chose the tomboy route, remaining androgynous in a
surprisingly effective way. She was clearly female, or at least appeared
to be, but she kept her hair cut in a shorter style and had the leanest
shape of the team. This apparent rejection of femininity was curiously
inverted to appear not a deliberate choice, but as though she had
grown up in a convent and wasn't sure what it meant to be truly a
woman. It triggered the masculine protector instinct and at the same
time offered the ego-reassuring opportunity to show an innocent girl
what a man could do for her without fear of failing standards set by
experience. She was the classic hothouse flower just waiting to bloom.
Only Sandy really knew that she was also the most sexually
experienced of them all.

Carol, with her flaming hair, chose the wanton route. Every sentence
carried a sexual innuendo. Every motion flaunted her new figure,
though it was only average. She chose the shortest, tightest skirts, the
lowest necklines, the brightest makeup. It made her look easy without
quite being cheap. Not a hooker, just a highly-sexed young woman
that enjoyed giving and receiving pleasure.

Vanna, though also a blue-eyed blonde, chose the intellectual path.
She dressed conservatively, except for her higher- than-normal heels
and seamed stockings. Underneath, her lingerie was always lacy and
delicately feminine, though, and she somehow managed to let glimpses
of it show. Her persona was that of a woman too busy for sex, brisk
and industrious, yet still yearning for it. One imagined that she read
romance novels in the privacy of her home, dreaming of elegant dresses
and of strong men before once again leaving for work. It offered the
opportunity to fulfill fantasies that had been building for years, if only
the thin crust of ice-maiden defense could be breached.

The most effective of them all was Sandy, though. Under Krystal's
expert tutelage she had first learned feminine gestures and movements.
Now when she reached to shake hands, it was with a gentle wrist and
with her palm down, offering as much to let her hand be kissed as to
be grasped. She chose enticing clothes that claimed to be conservative
with skirts just above the knee and modest necklines. Yet the clothes
were in fact quite revealing, with high slits in the skirts and
devastatingly-effective lace panels in the tight blouses that threatened,
no that promised, to reveal hidden delights with every breath, with
every whisper of wind, though only for an instant. It was impossible
not to watch her, to try and catch that brief glimpse that was sure to
appear at any moment. Then she took it further, developing a sensual
motion that always ended up with a hip thrust just far enough to
reveal the curve of her perfect thigh, always had her looking through
long lashes or an errant wave of lustrous hair at those around her, a
demure expression belied by the grin that lurked within those emerald
gems. She wore her wig for the longest time among the team, only
giving it up when her own hair reached toward her waist in shining
waves even more beautiful than the false hair she had finally
abandoned. She trained her voice to be light and musical, delightful to
hear. Her expertise with makeup kept her always at the dewy-eyed
edge of innocence, at one moment appearing barely 15, at the next
perhaps 20. If this damsel were ever in distress, men would come
running from far counties to seize the chance to help her, and she
learned a delicate pout that always made her seem slightly distressed.

That impression became more real than she wanted it to be when they
finally got to learning the skills of thievery, especially lock-picking.
Though she managed to work the problems that challenged them, it
was always laborious and slow. Jaymi, on the other hand, could open
most padlocks, handcuffs, doors, whatever almost as fast with a
paperclip or a hairpin as with the designed key. The two teammates
spent long hours together trying to bring Sandy's skills up to the
necessary standard. At times she felt she would never get it well
enough to play her part in whatever plan was lurking behind Marilyn's
ditsy disguise. When they all got long fingernails, Sandy almost
despaired. Marilyn found her sitting by a picture window late one
evening, sobbing silently.

"What's wrong?" the blonde asked gently, no trace of airhead
emptiness about her.

"I just can't get the hang of lock-picking, and now with these," she
said waving her scarlet spears in frustrated speechlessness. "I'm afraid
you'll wash me out."

"Don't worry about it," Marilyn consoled her. "You'll do well enough.
We're a team, remember? I want everyone to have enough skills to fill
in for those who might not make it, but there are several of us who
can pick locks well enough. I've already figured out other tasks for
you. I want you to try your best on lock-picking, just like you do on
everything else, but I won't count on you for that particular skill
except as a backup plan, just as there are things where others will back
you up. Trust me, I told you we'd help you through the rough parts."

"Really? You mean I'm doing okay?" Sandy begged for reassurance.

"Really. You're doing okay," Marilyn declared. Sandy forced a weak
smile through her tears, then hugged Marilyn like the big sister she
had become. The two pretend women, or woman and girl, just held
each other for a moment. Finally Marilyn stirred enough to let Sandy
know she wanted to be released, and the two stood side by side
looking out the window.

"What is your plan for us?" Sandy asked, trying to get the
conversation off its intensely emotional level.

"I can't say, yet, there's still some intelligence data we need. But I can
let you in on another secret. We're all going to get a pass this
weekend."

"What?" Sandy couldn't believe it. In ten months, they had never left
the compound. To the best of her knowledge even Marilyn and
Constance had never left. The girl's training in feminization, thievery,
and unarmed combat was nearly complete. All could pass anywhere as
women, desirable, beautiful, sensual women. At least, they thought
they could. Sandy realized as soon as she heard Marilyn's words,
though, that lurking deep in her heart was a fear that real men, or real
women, would see through their disguises.

"This weekend we're all going out on the town. Dinner, maybe a few
nightclubs. We'll call it trolling for boys, and see how many each of us
attracts. My money's on you, actually, but," and her personality
changed with a toss of her golden curls, "I'll like, you know, try my
best. Maybe some cute boy will like me. Wouldn't that be like, totally
awesome?"

Sandy giggled in appreciation of the compliment, and of the joke.
Fooling a roomful of horny men would be a real challenge, one that
each of the girls would need to face someday. It looked like the test
would come soon.

They were excused from physical training the next day, including their
hand-to-hand combat class. Sandy realized that El Supremo had been
taking it easy on them lately. None of the girls sported bruises, at
least, none that would show. He had not been so lucky. All of the
team could regularly make him pay for any damage inflicted, with
compound interest and penalties. Still, he soldiered on, trapped as
much in his role as they were in theirs. He had become pathetic in
their minds, not terrifying. Just as Marilyn planned all along.

The girls spent their time preparing for their night out. By this time
they had learned to move as well as could be expected in their corsets.
After all the figure training, they felt more comfortable with them on.
They wore heels almost all the time now, usually at least 5 inches in
height. In fact, just as the corsets had shrunk their waists, the
towering spikes worn constantly outside the brief stretching period
every morning had resulted in enough shrinkage of their ankle tendons
that they were more comfortable in heels than flats.

Early in the evening they gathered in the lounge for an informal
mutual inspection. Their respect for each other was too great for the
pettiness of pecking orders, but they still needed reassurance in their
own beauty, gained in part by realizing their differing approaches were
all valid and effective. Though not part of a deliberate plan, it was
clear that they had formed into two basic styles. One group composed
of Marilyn, Carol, and Sandy emphasized a fun-loving, exuberant
style, while the other group, Constance, Jaymi, and Vanna, were living
examples of refinement and elegance. All were clearly party girls out
for a night on the town, though. Skirts were high and tight, heels were
very high and very slim, makeup was sparkling. Purses were arranged,
documentation was checked against their new identifications. They
gravitated together according to their personas and went to the two
cars that they would use for the night's excursion. In order not to look
too structured, they would actually act as two groups tonight, on
similar schedules but not really together. The rendezvous at the
restaurant and night clubs would appear coincidental.

Marilyn's head-tossing chatter and Carol's constant innuendoes kept
Sandy giggling helplessly for the entire trip to town. It was only as
they approached it that she realized she hadn't even known what state
they were in. It turned out to be Montana, if it mattered. They had
reservations at the restaurant, but there was a short wait so they
fluttered into the bar like a flock of light-hearted doves. Their more
reserved compatriots trailed by a few minutes but soon ended up in
the same area.

"Heads up, girls," Marilyn whispered, "show time."

Her comment had been triggered by a too-casual drift toward their
table by a couple of unaccompanied men. Though the ladies were
dressed very nicely, all in skirts or dresses, this was Montana and the
guys heading their way were in simple jeans, boots, and sport coats.
They were, or were pretending to be, cowboy types. Pretense or not,
they had the lean, sun-weathered look of outdoor experience, just old
enough to be clearly men and no longer boys.

"Good evening, ladies," began the taller one, perhaps 6'4" with dark
curls peeking from beneath his wide-brimmed hat and from the open
collar of his shirt. "I hope y'all don't mind if we intrude on your
group, but we just wanted to try and keep you out of trouble."

Carol responded to her cue before the other could speak, "And just
what makes you think we want to be kept out of trouble?" The lift of
one carefully-shaped brow accented the sparkle in her eyes, an effect
that almost went unnoticed as her tongue languidly licked at her
shining lips.

Sandy ducked her head and blushed, but let her emerald eyes peek
from beneath her long lashes at the other cowboy, also dark-haired,
but "only" about 6 feet tall. In her towering spikes, Sandy thought
that he was just about right. He picked up on her interest and joined
the conversation, "Then perhaps it would be better to say we want to
keep ourselves out of trouble. In this town, it's against the law for
unescorted ladies to buy their own drinks and any menfolk in the
vicinity are held accountable, right Ben?"

"Well, I'm not sure they actually passed that ordinance, but they
should have," his friend played along. "My name is Ben Johnson, and
my friend, Steve Hill and I would be pleased if you'd let us buy you a
fresh round."

"But there's only two of you, and three of us," Marilyn said, as though
she had just done the math and couldn't make things work out. Carol
responded with a stifled giggle and Sandy did her blush and duck
again.

The cowboys grinned, too and Steve said, "Well, Miss, we won't worry
about that, if you won't."

Marilyn's sunrising smile let them know she was happy not to worry
about things, but it fell to the more-forward Carol to complete the
introductions. Just then their table was called, giving them a graceful
excuse to leave before things went any further. The other trio hadn't
had quite as much luck and were still alone, a situation the cowboys
clearly considered another opportunity, but the other tables were
called and soon the entire team was seated in reasonable proximity.
Eyeborne messages flew between the tables, congratulations, envy,
taunting challenges, all conveyed with the near-telepathy of close
companionship. They all ordered lightly, flirted in their various styles
with the waiters, giggled together, and enjoyed the attention of all the
interested men (which was all of them) and all the jealous women
(ditto). Soon the meal was over and they were heading back to their
cars. Someone had clearly performed an earlier reconnaissance mission
because Marilyn drove directly to an obviously popular nightclub.
Something about the group (hardly a surprise, they were spectacularly
beautiful) moved the gatekeeper to wave them to the front of the line,
and they were soon inside.

"Well, ladies, we're committed," Marilyn whispered, or actually
shouted over the pounding music but only loud enough to be heard by
her two companions, "first one to get an invitation to dance gets out
of El Supremo's class tomorrow."

Then she swayed into the room with a bright, empty smile on her face,
wiggling "like Jell-O on springs" in the manner made famous by her
namesake. Carol launched herself with her own blatant strut, heading
directly for the bar and those hovering nearby. Sandy alone paused at
the entrance, a tactic that turned out to be the most effective. Her
seemingly-casual pose still highlighted her shapely figure with the
promise of nearly-exposed treasures. Her indecision just inside the
entrance justified a soft pout to indicate her distress, and would-be
knights flocked to the fair damsel in droves.

"Hello, you must be new here. Let me find you a table," the first
suitor offered.

"I already have a table right over here," the second upped the offer,
"let me get you a drink."

"A lady like you shouldn't hide behind a table, you need to be
dancing," asserted a third, offering to fill that need with a gentle touch
at her elbow and a sweeping gesture toward the dance floor. His claim
was delivered just as the second trio of ladies entered the club. Jaymi
decided to violate their pretended ignorance of each other and reached
out to take Sandy's purse.

"Go ahead, girl, I'll watch your things."

"So will I . . urp," said one of the suitors, a comment stifled by an
elbow to his ribs by a more gentlemanly colleague.

Not much more gentlemanly, since his eyes had been riveted on
Sandy's "things" since she had entered the club. She allowed herself to
be led off to the dance floor and was soon swaying to the fast, dynamic
rhythm. In moments Marilyn appeared with her own escort, though in
her case jiggling was a better characterization than swaying. The
other girls soon appeared with their own masculine companions, each
struggling to accept an unfamiliar role within the constraints of their
selected persona. Each succeeded, maintaining an uncompromised
image of feminine beauty despite the sensory overload of loud music,
vibrant motion, and the stress of relating with men in a
previously-forbidden way. Only Jaymi had already overcome this last
problem, and it was Jaymi that had the easiest time when the tempo
of the music suddenly changed from hard rock to a gentle, slow ballad.
The men reached for their targets without hesitation, not noticing the
hesitation on the part of the girls in the general discontinuity of the
tempo change. The girls noted it though, and struggled with the
unfamiliar sensations of a man's strong hand on their waist, another
holding the wrong hand gently lifted.

Unfortunately for the men, but not for the women, those suitors who
had been out-maneuvered for the first dance cut in quickly on the
second, and the girls were allowed an extra second to compose
themselves. They smiled in accordance with their natures, vacantly for
Marilyn, coolly-amused for Constance, shyly for Sandy, and so on.
Their partners, multiple partners, led them through the motions
inspired by the music with unquestioned acceptance of their
impersonations. It seemed someone must have tipped the band off to
stick with slow songs for a while and the ladies found themselves
surrendered to a series of suitors as more and more men cut in.
Finally, they began to feel the strain of their towering heels and began
to ask to sit down. Carol was first, her knee-high boots sported heels a
full six inches tall, and it was a wonder she could even walk. Marilyn
wore delicate sandals that seemed hardly supported by the thin straps
cradling her feet and followed soon after. The other girls excused
themselves as well and were soon seated at neighboring tables, drinks
magically appearing from unknown benefactors. The music quickly
picked up to a faster, louder style and the team members had to shout
to be heard even when close together.

"Well, you win," Marilyn laughed to Sandy, "first dance invitation,
first drink invitation, first everything I guess."

"Not everything," Sandy giggled in return, "it appears Jaymi's
previous experience prepared her for this evening better than the rest
of us."

"What do you mean?" asked Marilyn, though Carol leaned over
closely to hear as well.

"Didn't you see what happened when her partner led her to the dark
corner over there?" Sandy teased.

"No! What happened?" her tablemates chorused.

"Well that tall, dark and handsome hunk who had his arms wrapped
around her, kissed her most thoroughly, thank you very much."

"Oh, I never thought of that," Carol gasped.

"Really? You should have," Sandy warned. "With your attitude,
you'll be lucky if they stop with a kiss. Or will it be unlucky?"

Carol's automatic denial was lost in a burst of sound, but a thoughtful
look appeared in her eyes, one that found a mirror in Sandy's and in
Marilyn's. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments,
trying to absorb an unexpected potential newly-discovered in this
night's endeavor. It made them uneasy, an uneasiness made worse by
their realization that the idea was not as unappealing as they had
been brought up to believe. They had been living a feminine lifestyle
for so long that their attitudes had shifted, they now felt softly
feminine and appreciated the strength and masculinity of the men who
had held them. It filled a void that had appeared as an unintended
consequence of their masquerade, a void they didn't even know existed
until the issue was raised. Each wondered what she would have done if
they had been the one to find themselves in a dark corner with an
amorous suitor. Each recognized deep within her heart a wistful
longing to know what it would have been like, a longing that warred
with their more conscious attitudes on forbidden practices.

It was too much for one night. Even Marilyn's composure was shaken
by the thought. She caught Connie's eye and with some secret signal
indicated that it was time to go. The two trios gathered up their
things and went to the door. The cars, parked down an alley from the
nightclub, seemed a whole lot further from the door now that their
feet were tired. Carol was treading very lightly, balancing on handrails
whenever she could do so discreetly. Marilyn wasn't much better and
she hesitated at the doorway to the club before she could make herself
start the long journey.

Sandy noticed their pain and offered, "You two are hurting too much
to make the walk. I'll go get the car. In fact, tell the other girls to
wait, too. We can all squeeze into one car and I'll drop them off by
theirs on our way out."

She started down the alley alone, not much better in her sky-high
pumps than the others. Her steps were short and the click of her heels
sounded many times as she moved toward the car.

Perhaps she was too tired to pay proper attention, but the first sign
that something was wrong was when she saw a shadow flicker to one
side, then another in front of her. She tossed her head around to look
behind and saw another shadow moving between her and the lights of
the street. A man stepped out from between a couple of parked pickup
trucks and spoke to her.

"Oh, mama, you shouldn't be alone in a bad place like this. I think
you need a protector, someone to keep you warm, someone to hold you
tight."

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Sandy replied, pretending to ignore the
menace in his voice, the unwanted familiarity in his offer.

"Yes, woman, you are fine, mighty fine," the man agreed as he moved
closer. His eyes directed his companions to move in and Sandy was
expertly surrounded. These street thugs had clearly done this before.
The leader looked for fear in her eyes, the fear that was as much a
part of his reward for this attack as any money he might hope to gain,
any physical pleasure he might plan to take. He didn't find it in
Sandy's eyes. He saw a feral gleam that frightened him, instead. To
cover up his fear he spoke more sharply.

"Listen, bitch, no high-and-mighty woman like you comes into my turf
without paying a toll. I think those pretty lips want to give me a kiss,
a long, deep, slurpy kiss."

With that he started to reach for his zipper, grinning with an
indication of the sort of deep kiss he wanted. With the other hand he
reached for Sandy's head, obviously intending to force her to lower it
to his intended recipient of her attention. He didn't get quite the
response he expected. Instead of the back of her head, or perhaps her
hair, his hand met her teeth. She snapped at him with enough force to
take a chunk of meat out of the base of his thumb. As he shouted in
surprise, she took his extended arm and "helped" him into the thug on
her right. The two slammed into the fender of one of the pickups, one
rapping his head against the window hard enough to star the glass,
the leader giving the unrelenting metal a kiss as deep as he had
intended to receive. They slumped to the ground in a tangled heap.

By this time Sandy was already moving against the third attacker.
Her spiked heel drove sharply into this one's crotch, spearing through
jeans and whatever, then withdrawing tipped in blood for inches along
it's length. Her long red nails speared his eyes with maiming accuracy,
and he paid a price greater than he had intended for her before he
dropped to the ground, trying to scream but too devastated for lungs
to support the sounds he wanted to make. She knew there was at least
one more of the gang behind her and was trying to turn when the back
of her head detonated in a flash of unbearable light, then darkness.

When a tiny candle of awareness dimly started to flicker in her mind,
her first impression was of pressure on her cheek. Then she realized
she was lying on her face in the alley. A massive hammer beat a
relentless rhythm within her head as she tried to get her thoughts
together. It seemed natural to use her arms to lift herself up, but
something was wrong with them. Her fractured consciousness
gradually absorbed the fact that her wrists were tied, and that another
strap held her elbows cruelly touching. Some motion or change in the
tension of her body must have alerted one of the gang members, for
she felt herself being lifted to her knees.

"All right, bitch, you're gonna pay for hurting my buds. Open those
pretty lips. Bite me and I'll cut your tits off and feed them to you,"
this threat reinforced by the wave of a shiny blade that reflected a
distant light. A thick cock was forced between her teeth as her jaw was
held open. It began to saw in and out with brutal force, driving deeper
down her gagging throat with every stroke. She felt her gorge rising as
reflexes were triggered to try and reject this unwelcome intruder, but
before her stomach ejected its contents toward the penetrating flesh,
that flesh ejected its own thick contents, spewing in rapid pulses.
Another reflex warred with the rejection and she swallowed instead,
temporarily forcing a downward flow. She struggled to breathe as her
throat was jammed with the rough invader, beginning to lose
consciousness again as she was deprived of air. Before she passed out,
the cock was withdrawn and she slumped forward, gasping to try and
draw air into lungs compressed by the now-dangerous corset and
limited by the unnatural position of her bound arms. Another hand
grasped her jaw and lifted her from her slump, another cock was
suddenly before her unfocused eyes. Before this one began its own
assault, however, another set of hands was grabbing her waist.

She heard the voice of the gang leader and looked over her shoulder to
see him standing behind her. His obviously- broken nose dripped
blood, and at least one tooth had been broken, spilling additional
blood down the man's chin. Blood of another sort was in his eyes.

His swollen lips made his voice barely intelligible as he growled,
"You're gonna pay, bitch. I'm gonna hurt you now, hurt you bad." He
flipped up the hem of her skirt, casually tearing the slit to extend it
enough to expose her pale ass to the dim light. Her delicate lace
panties were ripped away, but the staggering leader seemed too blinded
by his rage to notice the thin, flesh-colored strap of her gaff. He had
exposed his cock by this time and aimed it at her exposed anus.

"Hey man, don't you want her other hole?" one of the gang asked.

"No," the leader grunted, "this one will hurt a lot worse."

"How about a little lubrication from this end?" the surprisingly
solicitous thug asked.

"No lubrication for this bitch, unless she chooses to add a little blood
to the mixture," was his response. His thick dick hammered at her
vulnerable bottom, finally forcing a small penetration that was rapidly
enlarged. Liquid fire filled her as the tender tissues were ripped to
make room for the massive invader, adding the predicted blood to the
motion. She was distantly aware that her jaw was again forced open as
a gang member took advantage of an unoccupied orifice.

It is a popular misconception that great pain causes people to black
out. Unless disruption of the brain is directly involved, pain causes a
complex chemical soup to flood from glands throughout the body.
This soup causes many responses, not usually including
unconsciousness since the body needs to be able to take action to stop
the pain, if it can. If it can't, it suffers. That does not mean that
awareness remains, though, only consciousness. Sandy's world shrunk
to the pain in her distorted jaw, the continuing explosions in her
hammering head, and to the white-hot nuclear flame that was slowly
consuming her from the depths of her innermost core. It was a dim
awareness that was only gradually penetrated, therefore, when she
realized that the pain in her jaw had lessened, and that while the fire
in her rectum was undiminished, the sense of overwhelming fullness
was gone. Sounds began to trickle back into her world and she heard
something that should have made sense to her.

"Sandy, Sandy, come back to me, Sandy. Come on girl, you can do it.
Come back to me, Sandy."

She felt her arms being released, and then hands, gentle hands, lifted
her to her feet. The voice continued and she opened her clenched eyes
with lazy slowness to see Marilyn's face before her. Except, it wasn't
right. Marilyn was supposed to be smiling, yet this face showed a
terrible scowl. Sandy tried to smile to show her what she should be
doing, but something was wrong with her mouth. It hurt enough to be
noticed even among the pains wracking her body, and a small
whimper escaped from her tortured lips. That was enough to let
Marilyn know Sandy was coming out of her stupor, though, so the
next words were to the other team members.

"Jaymi, gather up her things. Carol, go get one of the cars. Vanna,
you get the other. Constance, check to see if any of these pigs are still
alive. Now move!"

The women quickly complied with their assigned tasks. Somewhere in
Sandy's befuddled mind she absorbed snapping sounds, though she
didn't know what it meant. She just knew that she hurt and that
Marilyn was holding her and that she hurt and that her friends were
with her and that she hurt.

A quiet, "All dead," from Constance was also registered and filed away
without understanding as the first car pulled up and Sandy was gently
helped inside. It was clear that Marilyn intended them to go back to
the compound, and to the infirmary there. Jaymi drove with abandon
too extreme to be merely reckless, but they were soon pulling up to
the gate. The guard saw them coming and had it open as they
approached, some instinct triggered by the controlled panic of her
breakneck driving. Jaymi didn't slow her pace until she locked the
wheels to slide to a stop at the infirmary, blaring her horn to get
anyone inside to help.

Marilyn had been keeping Sandy awake during the drive, not trusting
the blackness that might claim her if she slipped away. With one look
the doctor began barking out orders for meds and procedures that
were incomprehensible to the team members, but his sure confidence
spoke of competence and they surrendered their wounded comrade to
his care. He tried to stop them from following his medical team inside,
succeeding with all but Marilyn. Once they were in she gave him such
information as she had. They missed the damage caused by the blow
to her head for a moment, her thick hair had distributed the impact
widely enough to prevent any break in the skin. A bruise was already
forming on the skin though, warning of a possibly more dangerous
bruise within. Her lips were split and swollen, but no worse really than
she had received from the gentle ministrations of El Supremo, so the
doctor decided his first priority was repairing her tortured anus. He
also didn't trust the possible effects of forced unconsciousness, so he
operated to stitch the torn tissues with only a local anesthetic, a balm
that was hardly noticeable amid the shrieking pains that still assailed
her. She began to drift in and out of awareness again, stressed beyond
her ability to withstand. It was exhausted sleep that claimed her,
however, not true coma, and the doctor let her rest once her vital
signs showed her condition.



6.  Chapter -    Tranquil?


When Sandy awoke the next day, her first impression was pain. The
trauma of the previous night was almost too much for her mind to
accept. Her memories were distant, disjointed, disconnected. She
remembered enough to understand the source of the pains that
assailed her and deep shame added its burden to the load she carried.
The transformed soldier wept silently in her bed, sure what she
perceived as her weakness had betrayed the team, and Marilyn. The
nurse noticed her stress on the monitors and was soon at her side.

"Now just relax, honey, you're fine now," she tried to reassure the
sobbing girl.



   Sandy couldn't speak to answer her, her throat was as choked as any
intruder from the night before had made it. She just shook her head in
helpless negation and let the tears run down her bruised cheeks.

"Do you hurt bad?" the nurse asked. "The doctor said I can't give you
anything unless I call him. Do you want me to call him?"

Sandy just wanted to be alone in her misery, so she gave another
negative shake and looked away at the blank wall. The nurse went
back to her station and called the doctor anyway. He happened to be
talking with Marilyn about Sandy's prognosis. The blonde team
leader overheard enough of the conversation to realize that Sandy was
awake and Marilyn was on her way to the room before the doctor even
hung up. Once at her bedside, Marilyn just leaned over and gave
Sandy a long, warm, gentle hug, cradling her in her arms. Sandy
turned to Marilyn's breast like a child to her mother and shook with
deep sobs that were too overwhelming to allow recognition of how the
motion was aggravating the physical pains that assailed her.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay. You're okay now," Marilyn murmured
monotonous assurances that meant no more, and no less, than the
gentle stroking of the girl's hair. The doctor stood quietly by as the
two teammates shared a closeness that was more than comrades in
arms. After an interval that seemed forever, yet was only a few
minutes, the wracking sobs diminished and Sandy's crystal green eyes
looked up to meet the brilliant blues of her comforter.

"I'm so sorry, Marilyn," she whimpered.

"No. You're not," Marilyn declared with deliberate flatness, an
absolute, unequivocal order from a general to a private. It shocked
Sandy, as it was supposed to do. She pulled back further to get a
better look at Marilyn and saw fierce determination in those eyes that
had moments ago seemed so softly comforting.

"You performed magnificently," Marilyn continued. "Two of those
pigs were out of the picture, a third would have been for long enough
for you to get away. There aren't more than three or four soldiers in
any army that can take on three street thugs while wearing 5-inch
spikes and a tight skirt, let alone beat the crap out of them. All of
those who can are part of our team. Your only problem was that there
were more than three of the pigs, and that's not your fault, it's mine.
I didn't let the team work together, I sent you out alone. But I do
have a job for you, and I expect your best efforts, just as you have
always given me your best efforts."

The doctor looked like he wanted to intrude, but Marilyn was sure
Sandy needed the emotional reassurance that she was still valuable to
the team, and personally to her leader, more than any physical
comfort. She held him off with a glance that revealed the strength of
will that had gotten her this job in the first place, then waved him out
of the room.

"Since you earned the right not to participate in our El Supremo's
class today," Marilyn began with a reminder of the happy time before
the tragedy, "I'm going to get you started on the next phase of our
training. Beginning later this morning a language instructor will come
in. Don't tell any of the other girls, yet, but you may be able to tell
from the language where we're going. I'll tell you now, it's not a
Latino country and the dictator doesn't really call himself El Supremo,
though he likes the equivalent in his language. I expect you to become
our language expert since you'll have some idle time on your hands for
a few days. I won't insult you by telling you to do your best to get
better, but we need you looking beautiful before we can go on the
mission, so keep that in mind also. Any questions?"

Sandy's wide eyes betrayed her shock at the sudden turn of events.
She had felt broken and useless, only to be complimented and
confirmed in absolute terms as still part of the team. Motivation takes
many forms, but Marilyn had learned to push Sandy's buttons with
sure reliability and the green-eyed brunette was lifted from the depths
to the heights with a couple of simple orders, most of which promised
hard work and struggle, followed by danger. Well, Marilyn had picked
her team carefully, more carefully than most of them knew. She stood
up slowly, knowing that jiggling Sandy's tortured body was to be
avoided if possible, then turned to leave.

As she did, she heard a quiet voice from Sandy, "Thank you."

Marilyn nodded abruptly as though it were only to be expected that
she would properly use the resources of the team, and that Sandy's
role was just as reasonable. She didn't turn back, though, because the
film that filled her sparkling blue eyes would have destroyed the image
of command she had used to snap Sandy from her despair. She strode
as quickly from the room as her towering heels and habitual wiggle
would allow, looking now for the doctor. He was allowed to tend to his
patient, an embarrassing but necessary interlude that would be
repeated many times over the next few days. Sandy recovered quickly,
though. Her renewed sense of purpose was supported by visits from
her friends. They smuggled her treats from the dining room, some of
which extracted a painful price a day or so later when their remnants
worked their way to their ultimate destination, but Sandy loved them
anyway. The language training occupied her for several hours each day
and she still practiced at her barely-adequate lock-picking skills
whenever she had a moment to spare. After a week she was allowed to
return to her room. She still didn't move with the liquid grace she had
shown before, but she looked better, the bruises gradually fading, the
cuts on her lip slowly shrinking.

In her room she found an article from a local paper about the
aftermath of her assault. Five gang members had been found dead in
an alley, all with broken necks. One also had a fractured skull from
being crushed against a truck window, one was blinded and almost
castrated from some sort of penetrating trauma. One had a broken
nose and teeth from sometime before he received the deathblow to his
neck. Signs of sexual assault indicated that a rape in progress had
been broken up, with fatal results for the attackers. The paper
reported that the strength of the retribution indicated that some
group of men must have been involved in the rescue, since women were
not considered capable of applying such force. The police were looking
for a woman accompanied by at least a couple of men, and possibly
another woman. If anyone had seen anything in the alley, please notify
such and such, etc. An editorial was clipped to the article that
expressed due concern about vigilantism, but expressed no regret that
the gang members had been dealt with so severely.

After another week she was physically healed, and in another she had
re-learned her feminine skills. The pain of her assault lurked in her
eyes, though, adding to the damsel-in-distress appearance in a way
none of them would have wanted, but which was nonetheless
impossibly effective. She was more desirable than ever, more certain to
invoke help from any men she encountered who had even the faintest
sense of chivalry, or of true masculine responsibility.

All quiet times must come to an end, though, and when she was as
fully recovered as she was likely to get, Sandy returned to the
unarmed combat mat against El Supremo. Everyone, most of all
Sandy, was shocked at her new lethal effectiveness. She managed to
hold a potentially killing stroke by only the barest of margins, at the
last second flattening a hand that would have crushed a larynx into a
resounding slap. It scared her, terrified El Supremo, and got her
excused from further practice. It was clear that her reflexes had
chosen the path of attack rather than defense when confronted by a
masculine threat, and that her skills had not been lost through the
trauma. Her problem, if it was a problem, was control. There was a
fierce anger within her now that made her deadly in a way none of the
others could match.

That wasn't the end of the surprises for the day, however. Marilyn
finally told the rest of the team of their destination and they had the
first briefing on their actual attack plan. It was deceptively simple.
They would merely allow themselves to be captured as harem slaves.
All initial captives were kept inviolate until El Supremo (as they
continued to call him) got around to initiating them, something that
might take months. Until that happened, they could wander through
the harem at will. The turnover was so great that new faces would not
be unusual. Converging on the only entrance to the hidden biowar lab
at a specified time when the technicians were asleep, they would gain
entrance and effect the switch of the harmless agent for the deadly
brew. There was a problem, though. From a source that Marilyn
wouldn't reveal, it had been learned just how El Supremo's technicians
delivered their fresh, live sperm to gain passage within the inner
compound. Girls from the harem were chained at strategic spots
throughout the lab, blindfolded to prevent them from seeing what was
going on. Hidden within a mitten covering their bound hands was a
button to open their assigned interior door. The doorways were
reportedly like airlocks, possibly with exactly that purpose, and only
one man could pass at a time. The chained girls were trained to push
their concealed button only when a man ejaculated into their mouths,
with the usual deadly penalties for non- compliance. The problem was
that there was the possibility that one of the true harem girls would
realize that there were unauthorized intruders and compromise the
mission. They could kidnap this theoretical observer from her captors
and keep her from revealing their presence, but they couldn't trust her
to work the door properly.

One of the team, any one of the team, would have to be prepared to
replace a door sentinel. That meant they would have to be prepared to
function as oral receptacles for sperm until relieved. The compelling
logic of this situation did nothing to overcome the revulsion of the
team members, except for Jaymi.

"Listen, girls, I've been there, done that. It's not so bad. I know that
some of you have wondered about me all along. Sandy knew about me
from the start. I've swung both ways with men and women, and the
only true erogenous zone in anyone is the one between their ears. If
you truly want to please someone you love, or even lust after, then
you'll accept any non-painful physical action you can do to give them
pleasure and it will be a pleasure of its own. As soon as you accept
that sucking a guy's cock can be a pleasure, then the nature of the
physical act doesn't matter any more. I don't expect to enjoy blowing
some guy I don't know while I'm bound and blindfolded, but that's
because it's forced, not because of the cocksucking. If we need to do
this, we can."

With that, the longest speech the normally reserved Jaymi had ever
delivered to the team, she sat down. The others were as shocked by
the uncharacteristic outburst as by the revelation of propensities that
had been only rumors. It was an amazing coincidence, or perhaps a
sign of the intimate closeness their long teamwork had created, to see
multiple throats gulp as Jaymi's words triggered a reflexive response in
the other team members.

In the next instant, all the team members, even Marilyn, were looking
at Sandy. She had the greatest reason of any of them to fear and hate
this approach. Her introduction to oral sex had been a brutal rape,
one that could traumatize anyone into such a psychological rejection
that it would be impossible for her even to try. Yet, if she could make
the mental adjustment to the openness of mind expressed by Jaymi,
could the others do any less? They watched as memories of her assault
flowed behind her eyes, the pain visible in ways too subtle for those
not part of the team to see, but glaring obviously to the tight-knit
group. Then her eyes went to Marilyn, who looked back with
unjudging patience, another silent communication telling Sandy that
Marilyn would back up whatever decision she made. Finally, Sandy's
eyes turned to Jaymi. The dark-eyed bisexual had never been intrusive
on any of the team members, accepting herself even if they would not.
That patience, really trust, had gained her the trust of the other team
members in a way that aggressively forcing acceptance of her chosen
lifestyle could never have achieved. Sandy met Jaymi's eyes and
couldn't reject the gentle philosophy of the quiet lady, no longer one of
"them" in any way that mattered, now just another one of "us."

"All right, Jaymi, what do we need to do?" Sandy asked quietly.

Jaymi looked at Marilyn for confirmation that Sandy's acceptance was
a team decision, and at a silent nod turned back to the group. "Well, I
guess it depends on what we want to achieve. We can make this
mechanical, in a way that never touches us where we live, or we can
learn to do it right, as an opportunity to pleasure our lovers. Even real
women sometimes choose to be mechanical, but I'll tell you what, if
you approach it as an act of love, it'll be more enjoyable for you as
well as for your partner. I guess I think we should pair off and just
practice a little. If you've been on the receiving end of a good blowjob,
you'll figure out what to do. If not, well, let me know."

Another collective gulp passed through the team. Marilyn glanced at
Constance, and if the team had been paying close attention they
would have seen a slight frown of negation flicker across Connie's
elegant features, followed by a equally subtle nod from Marilyn.

"Very well," Marily resumed control of the briefing, "we'll do as you
suggest. I guess I'll need a partner, too, but we can worry about that
later. We all accept the wisdom in Jaymi's approach, but I think a
little privacy is still in order. I'll leave it to you to work out any
details. Now, let's get to work on our language lessons."

With that the training continued. No one was surprised to find out
that Marilyn already had good skills in the target nation language.
She had always led from the front. Sandy had made good use of her
time as well, so the team had two tutors to go with the formal
language teachers provided by the army. They made good progress
over the next few weeks, not becoming fully fluent which wasn't
required, but gaining enough skill to eavesdrop effectively on any
conversations they heard, and to read signs that might be significant.

That evening as Sandy was preparing for bed, she tried to decide what
to do about the strange challenge she had accepted. It was pretty
apparent that Carol and Vanna were going to work something out
between themselves, which left Sandy partnered with Jaymi. That
prospect didn't bother her as much as it once would have, which
bothered her in a different way. The rape had been ugly, no aspect of
it ever approached pleasure, ever triggered an iota of desire within her.
But she remembered the thoughts of being kissed by a man that had
been arisen within her when she watched Jaymi getting kissed. She
knew that living in the persona of a woman constantly for almost a
year had affected her in more ways than showed externally.
Submitting to a man in a loving relationship was not nearly as
repulsive as it once would have been, and Jaymi appeared to be a
quite beautiful young woman, which pushed a lot of buttons that a
normal-looking man would not. It was a confused, neither fish nor fowl
relationship that was so outside the norm for their background that
there were no easy rules to follow, no standard answers to quote.
Sandy did realize, though, that it would be up to her to make the first
gesture. Instead of cleansing her face, she freshened her makeup to its
highest standard, brushed her tumbling mane into shining liquid night,
climbed up on sky-high feathery mule slippers and slipped into a
floor-length emerald nightgown with her trademark almost sheer,
almost revealing, now-you-see-it-now-you-don't design. She made her
way to Jaymi's room and knocked quietly.

"Come in," she heard from inside.

The door handle turned in her hand and she stepped in to see Jaymi
also dressed beautifully, also carefully made up.

"I hoped you'd come," the dark-eyed girl told her guest.

Her response was tentative nod, a fidget, an unconscious flirtation
with a now-habitual toss of long dark hair, but no words.

Jaymi walked to Sandy and offered a gentle hand. Sandy's hand raised
almost of it's own accord and she felt herself drawn toward the bed,
then seated beside Jaymi.

"You really are a virgin, aren't you?" Jaymi asked.

"Not any more," came the bitter reply, surprisingly bitter, she thought
she had put that behind her.

"That's not what I mean. You've never made love with anyone, have
you?"

Sandy looked away, but shook her head.

"Let me show you what it means to make love, tonight," offered
Jaymi. "You don't have to do anything but relax and enjoy. When
you're ready, some other time, you can decide what it means to give
love, as well as to receive it."

"Does it have to be love?" Sandy asked.

"It doesn't have to be the live-our-lives-together sort of commitment,
but it's best if your partner's pleasure is more important to you than
your own. That's as good a definition of making love as I know."

With that, Jaymi slid off the bed to kneel at Sandy's feet. She raised
the hem of the emerald nightgown to reveal matching lacy panties. At
her urging, Sandy lifted her hips and the panties were slid down her
smooth legs. Another urge and the gaff followed. Sandy was still too
confused for a full arousal, but in moments a stirring occurred as
Jaymi gently helped her testicles descend into a more comfortable
position. It was easy to imagine that Jaymi was a pretty girl, and only
a girl, forgetting what the internal plumbing hidden behind her own
feminine clothing really looked like. Sandy immersed herself in this
fantasy, forcing down the whisper in the back of her mind that this
was supposed to be wrong, forbidden, repulsive. She closed her eyes
and leaned back on the bed.

The gentlest touch of graceful fingers almost hid the first
butterfly-wing kiss of soft lips. Sandy found herself focusing on the
sensations, trying to decide just exactly what Jaymi was doing to
cause each particular sensation, not so much to learn how to do it as
to appreciate the full nature of the sensation. As a slick tongue added
its contribution, highlighted by a slight cooling as the deposited liquid
evaporated, Sandy began to respond as any healthy young man would
respond. His/her erection grew to its not- inconsiderable fullest with
stepping increments in time with the accelerating pulses of her/his
heart. When Jaymi's ruby lips finally encircled the tip, Sandy gasped
in a confusion of emotions too interlocked to sort out, and too
consuming to need distinction. Under Jaymi's increasingly energetic
devotions, Sandy's confusion melted away into driving need, more
intense than any that she/he had felt with his/her own manipulations,
more demanding than breath, more demanding than thought itself.
His world compressed to a small universe centered on his stimulated
flesh, then detonated in an explosion as great as that forming the
galaxies, at least to his overwhelmed senses. Sandy hovered on the
edge of consciousness as he felt himself empty his seed into Jaymi's
willing mouth, then began to recover as his senses brought his universe
back to the range perceived by mortals.

For the first time in months, Beech felt embarrassed to look so pretty.
The swell of his shapely bosom, the smell of his makeup, the taste of
his lipstick, all seemed wrong. He wanted to get out of the beautiful
nightgown, to rip off his scarlet nails, to purge himself of every trace of
femininity and be a man again. He sat up to see Jaymi's gentle smile
turn to concern as she registered the self-disgust apparent on the
young man's still-beautiful face.

"Sandy, what's the matter?" Jaymi asked.

"This is wrong, all wrong, I shouldn't be doing this. I'm not a girl, I'm
a man. This is just wrong," Beech asserted.

"Now take it easy," Jaymi demanded. "You're just feeling the
aftereffects of all those hormones your body just dumped into your
system. Haven't you been masturbating at night?"

"What? Of course not!"

"Why not?" Jaymi continued her interrogation. "You're young,
healthy, full of a normal sex drive as you've just amply demonstrated."

"Normal, right," Beech snorted. "Dressing in makeup and high heels
isn't normal."

"This isn't about clothes, at least not only about clothes. It's about
being all that you can be. You're in the Army, and that's what you
signed up for," Jaymi tried to make a joke of it.

It worked. Beech couldn't help laughing at the ludicrous extension of
the standard Army slogan. Perhaps the chemical cocktail that had
flooded his body was gradually being absorbed, but he passed the
point of self-disgust and began to recover his self-respect. With an
almost visible wrench of transition, Beech became Sandy again. She
smiled at Jaymi with her accustomed demure attractiveness and urged
her dark- eyed friend up to sit beside her.

Thank you," Sandy said. "I needed that."

From the quantity, I guess you did," laughed Jaymi.

This embarrassed Sandy again, but in a funny way, and she started
giggling as she gently wiped a spot of cream from Jaymi's lip. "I
wasn't talking about that," Sandy claimed, then got pensive again as
her glance flickered down to the almost revealed triangle at the
bottom of Jaymi's shorty nightgown.

Jaymi sensed her unease and relieved it immediately, "Not tonight,
dear. Not until you're ready. Get yourself back together and go to
bed. We'll have time."

Sandy nodded gratefully as she pulled her underwear up toward her
hips. Before she completed the motion she stopped, took her gaff all
the way off with a sigh of relief, and pulled just the now-distorted
emerald panties into place. She swayed back to her tall slippers with
accustomed grace and moved toward the door, escorted by the patient
Jaymi. At the doorway, though, she stopped and turned to her friend.
Somehow, it seemed wrong to just walk away after the things that had
happened tonight. Without letting herself have long enough to think
about it, Sandy wrapped her arms around Jaymi and lowered her
painted lips to those of her companion (lover?). They kissed with
more friendship than passion, at least, that's how it began, but Jaymi
had always been prone to acceptance, to love with her close friends,
and in moments her desire was becoming apparent in the energy she
was pouring into the kiss. Sandy felt herself respond, but a part of her
was still not ready for that, so she pulled back, gave Jaymi one more
quick peck as a promise for later, than left.

The next morning it was apparent that they had not been the only
ones to experiment with a more intimate relationship. The glances
Carol and Vanna were exchanging had a lot more heat than they had
shared before, a lot more interest. Marilyn noted this and worried that
the forced closeness would cause her team members to lose
perspective, but she also had read of the Band of Thebes and knew
that commitment to a lover/comrade was a powerful spur to military
virtue. Perhaps it was just because she hadn't achieved her own
opportunity the night before that was making her testy, she decided.

Marilyn's observation of Sandy and Jaymi actually led her to the
wrong conclusion about them. Jaymi was bright and cheerful,
attentive to Sandy in a non-possessive but clearly devoted way. Sandy,
on the other hand, was distracted, still trying to come to grips with
the conflicting emotions within her. Perhaps it wouldn't have been
such a overwhelming impact if she had enjoyed a more fulfilling sex life
previous to that night, but that was not the case. To Marilyn, though,
it appeared as though Sandy shared her lack of fulfillment, and that
Jaymi was smugly satisfied, as though the donor and recipient of the
previous night's pleasure had been reversed. Trusting her team to
work the problem, they went through their normal workouts, dressed,
and began the day's rehearsal.

Marilyn had obtained a reasonably detailed description of the internal
arrangement of both the harem and the hidden biowar lab. The idled
soldiers who had washed out of the team had been building a replica
in a corner of the training base, complete with simulated airlock doors
and bondage equipment. Soon every team member was familiar with
the layout and knew where the key passages were. Sandy and Carol
were assigned the primary tasks of being distractions, either in the
harems, or as they escaped. They would also act as guards during the
break-in. Jaymi was the premier lock picker, backed up by Marilyn.
Vanna was assigned the job of shepherding the false culture to the
replacement point. Constance wouldn't be able to penetrate the inner
sanctum, of course, since she wouldn't be able to make a live sperm
donation. She would be the external guard. They wouldn't need to
take their own weapons since the harem was decorated with a variety
of deadly devices to allow the harem girls to deal quickly with any
male intruders.

Their capture and delivery to the harem was one part of the plan they
couldn't control directly. El Supremo had long since ceased worrying
about the opinion of the rest of the world and ruthlessly controlled the
press within his own nation. He ignored all requests for aid in finding
the small groups of beautiful women that seemed to frequently
disappear in his area of the world. As a result, and because the groups
of girls that were likely to sightsee in his depressed country were often
rebellious and unwanted at home, the disappearances were not
common knowledge. Marilyn decided they would again separate into
their like- personality trios and just wait to be picked up. The key
skills were part of each team, at least well enough to proceed.

Rehearsal, language practice, dinner, all normal activities proceeded
normally. Finally, as their evening meal drew to a close, the girls
dispersed to their rooms. Once again Sandy found herself dressing up
her makeup and selecting a flattering nightgown. Once again she
found herself at Jaymi's door. Once again she knocked and was bidden
to enter.

"Hello," Sandy said quietly. Jaymi nodded in return.

"Are you ready for this?" Jaymi asked, her calm smile showing
patience, and acceptance.

"I think so," Sandy said.

"May I make a suggestion?" offered Jaymi. "Why don't we just hold
each other, and maybe snuggle a little, and maybe even share a kiss or
two, just to get ourselves in the mood?"

In some ways this was worse for Sandy, it made it personal, it made
Jaymi a real person and not just an appendage to be exercised. Yet in
other ways it made it better. Jaymi's fundamental philosophy was
that people in love should love to please each other, the act was not
the end in itself but a means to be a good lover. What they had
wasn't love like the romance novels talked about, but it was a
closeness that built on the camaraderie of tight military groups, added
the isolation and interdependence of their unique training regimen and
added still further the desire that each still felt for beautiful examples
of the gender they had been raised to be attracted to. Kissing a
woman as pretty as Jaymi was not a hardship. Sandy had been used
to thinking of her as a woman for so long that the incongruity seemed
to be in Jaymi's plumbing, not in Sandy's attitude. After a pause too
short to show reluctance, Sandy moved forward and wrapped her arms
around Jaymi, to receive a matching squeeze.

"You really are a special person," Sandy whispered in Jaymi's ear.

"And so are you," Jaymi answered. "I don't discriminate because of
gender in my lovers, but I am very discriminating in all other ways. I
demand that those I share my love with be tender, compassionate,
loving, and warm-hearted. Like you."

The words were part of the standard method lovers had developed
over generations to assure their partner that this was more than an
animal exercise, more than a passing biological urge. They worked,
though, just as they had worked before. In a few minutes the hugs had
warmed and lips were seeking lips. This time Sandy didn't hold back
when Jaymi let heat flow into her kiss. She went with the energy and
returned it, finally urging Jaymi back onto her bed. This time Sandy
kneeled at Jaymi's feet. She had already noticed that Jaymi had
removed her gaff. Only her dark red panties covered a bulge that
demonstrated the true gender Jaymi had been born to. Covered but
not concealed, the hardness of Jaymi's masculine package was too
demanding to be hidden. Sandy struggled to develop an image of the
encounter she could live with. Should she try to deny her own nature
and become as feminine as possible, or should she capitalize on
Jaymi's beauty and treat this as a strange feature on a special
woman? In the end, no simple answer sufficed. Jaymi was Jaymi, and
Sandy was herself, accepting Jaymi's beauty and her cock, as part of
her lover, justified in themselves. It was only later that she realized
her own hidden tool had remained quiescent, helping by stillness not
to disrupt the complex part she played.

By the time Sandy was finally ready to culminate her act, she had
become sufficiently accustomed to the idea that it seemed right
somehow, no longer something to worry about. She knew how much
pleasure it could give, and that was her objective, giving pleasure. Of
course, she wasn't skilled. With infinite patience, Jaymi coached her
through techniques that were effective without requiring excessive
penetration. In time, not a long time since Jaymi was quite excited by
Sandy, the short-haired brunette was erupting into the long-haired
girl's mouth with energy and passion. Ironically, the sodomizing rape
Sandy had endured had already exposed her to the taste and texture
of semen and she swallowed without additional mental anguish. She
softly sucked the last traces of cream from Jaymi's diminishing
member and finally sat back, actually quite smug at the near-coma
that seemed to grip Jaymi. It was a moment or two before Jaymi's
eyes fluttered open to look at her grinning friend.

"Did I do okay?" Sandy asked with wide-eyed innocence, a pretense
that fell to a giggle she couldn't contain.

"No," denied Jaymi, then laughed at the instant hurt in Sandy's eyes
as she continued, "you did terrific. I know you've never done that
before, at least not with your heart set on giving pleasure. What I
don't know is how you learned to do it so well, so fast."

"I had a good teacher," Sandy purred as she slid up beside Jaymi to
snuggle. Jaymi let a hand gently drift down in the beginnings an offer
to reciprocate, but Sandy intercepted her hand and just held it,
whispering, "Tonight was my night to give you pleasure. Let's just
enjoy being together for a little while before I leave."

Jaymi nodded, then slid back onto her bed so that they could both lie
comfortably.

No one but Marilyn knew the timeline for their mission, but they
practiced as though they had all the time in the world, and no time at
all. The team practiced the actual assault until each member could do
any other girl's job, picking up at any point in the task. They also
continued their nightly practice as well, until the novelty had given
way to a deeper, more fulfilling sense of sharing. Sandy was once again
preparing herself for an evening's "instruction" when she heard a
knock at her door. She smiled in anticipation. The ever-patient Jaymi
hadn't come to her room before. Checking her incredible appearance
one last time in the mirror, she went to the door and flung it open with
a brighter smile than her normal damsel-in-distress persona employed,
then almost squeaked in surprise. Marilyn was standing there.

"Hello," Marilyn said in an unknowing echo of the timidity Sandy had
experienced. "Is someone expecting you?"

"Um . . no, not really," Sandy replied.

Marilyn knew what the 'not really' meant, but instead of turning
away, she asked, "May I come in?"

"Of course," replied the dark-haired girl as she stepped back. Marilyn
followed her into the room, then stood uncertainly, a most unusual
condition for the forthright team leader.

"I'm sure you can guess why I'm here," the blonde began to explain.
"I need a partner for the 'special' training you girls have been sharing.
I wondered if you would be willing to be my partner for the night. I
don't think Jaymi would mind."

Sandy was too surprised to answer. Not that the prospect was
uninteresting. Marilyn had always been pretty in a more classic way
than the subtleties employed by Sandy. Thanks to the sophisticated
training she had received from Krystal, the younger girl had learned to
be devastatingly attractive, far and away the most desirable on the
team. Yet to the perceptions of the young, unsophisticated boy that
still lived within her, the intensely feminine, blue-eyed blonde Marilyn
had become was the epitome of beauty. Nonetheless, it's not every day
that a general, however beautiful, comes to a private's room and offers
oral sex.

Perhaps with a more sophisticated interior to go with her polished
exterior, Sandy would have been able to work through genteel
responses, positive or negative, to Marilyn's suggestion. Instead, she
was just flustered and incoherent for a few seconds. In the end,
though, it was inevitable. The sexual stimulation she had been getting
at least on alternate nights had her hot and bothered before Marilyn
even appeared. Regardless of external appearances, it boiled down to
a beautiful person offering a horny twenty-year-old a chance at a
blowjob, and rejection was not very likely. With a shy nod that had
become her typical answer to most questions, Sandy accepted.

Marilyn took the younger girl by the hand and led her to the bed,
calling on her charm to put Sandy at ease. She giggled with her
airhead bimbo voice and said, "I've been, like, practicing, you know,
on some totally awesome sex toys, so, like, I think I have the basic
idea, you know, but I'm, like, sure there's nothing like the real thing."

Sandy's not-so-hidden response pulsed in the front of her nightgown.
It was clear that she wasn't wearing her gaff. It was also clear that the
idea of the jiggling, giggling, blonde playing with some sort of sexual
aid was incredibly erotic to the unsophisticated girl, as Marilyn had
expected. Her grin grew wider at Sandy's astonished gasp and visible
pulse, and she took charge of the situation with less concern.

"Now, you just lie back and, like, relax. I'll do all the, you know,
work," Marilyn directed with another giggle accenting the thought
that it was 'work'.

Sandy let herself be swept along with the flow, soon feeling Marilyn's
gentle, but unique ministrations bring her erection to its full, young
vigor. The blonde's technique was different than Jaymi's, more
mechanical, more intellectual if that can be applied to such an
intensely personal act. But it was definitely skilled. Whatever books
Marilyn had studied had certainly been accurate on how to stimulate
the male member. In only moments, Sandy was gasping and beginning
to climb her peak. Marilyn backed off to avoid a too-quick
culmination, a tactic which elicited a moan from Sandy that was so
heartfelt it was funny to the experimenting team leader. She quickly
resumed her motion, different enough to start Sandy on a new
escalator rather than just continuing on the old one. This time,
Marilyn decided to try out her 'special' techniques, and let her lips
gradually move further and further down Sandy's rigid shaft.

Sandy felt the change. It even registered on her diminishing awareness.
As the tip of her cock began to penetrate Marilyn's tight throat,
Sandy realized that she was receiving something that even Jaymi had
never learned to give. In a moment, when she felt Marilyn's lips lightly
caressing the still hairless skin at the base of her shaft, she had to lift
her head and look at the image. Marilyn's blonde curls bobbed lightly
as they framed her face, the stretched oval of her ruby lips covering
the target of her ministrations so thoroughly that Sandy might have in
fact been as feminine as she appeared. Then Marilyn did something
tricky with her throat and Sandy exploded. The transition was so
abrupt that Sandy almost bucked Marilyn off onto the floor. The
young brunette's back arched into a hard bow, her heels lifting off the
floor as her body was supported by her straining toes and thrown-back
head and nothing in between. Marilyn rode her like a champion,
though, and kept up with every pounding convulsion. When Sandy
eventually returned to the real world, Marilyn let the shrinking live
sex toy slide from her lips. A smug smile that was the mirror of those
her team had previously displayed lifted her lips as she felt that
satisfaction that a lover has when they know they've been good, very,
very good. Or very, very, bad depending on your perspective.

By now Sandy had come to grips with their strange situation enough
to bypass any sense of shame or revulsion at unusual gender roles. She
just enjoyed the pleasure of good sex, giving or receiving, so Marilyn
was spared seeing the dismay that Jaymi had once evoked. When
Sandy's eyes finally flickered open, she looked at her leader/lover with
new appreciation and a smiling offer of her own. Marilyn's first
response was to reject the offer, hiding any rejection of Sandy herself
behind giggles and persona.

"That was, like, so cool," the blonde bubbled as she started to stand.
"If I'd have known that was so much, you know, fun, I'd have done it
sooner."

Sandy intercepted her, gently grasping her hands and pulling her to sit
on the bed.

"You don't have to do this," Marilyn said, her trained voice tones still
high and sweet, but her attitude adult and controlled.

"No, I don't have to do this, but I want to, I need to," Sandy said.
She slid to her knees before the blonde and pulled at the hem of the
concealing nightgown. Marilyn was still "fully" dressed, including her
gaff, so it was took a few moments of gentle caresses before her hidden
member was standing to attention. Like the good soldier to which it
was attached, it was firm, yet soft to the touch of tender fingers, of
glossy lips, of flickering tongue. Sandy was pleased in a way that
didn't diminish her affection for Jaymi to be able to also pleasure
Marilyn. A part of her found it amusing that she had so much power
over an officer so much higher than her in rank, a power that became
compelling as she began to lift the groaning blonde to higher and
higher levels of excitement.

It was another unforeseen result of Sandy's brutal rape that her throat
had already felt penetration to a depth most women cannot support.
Once she had put the horror of the attack behind her, the
not-quite-unfamiliar sensations of taking more and more of Marilyn's
cock down her throat were a little less shocking, a little more
endurable. Then they were not just endurable, but enjoyable as Sandy
adjusted to the intimacy, not enjoyable for the pure physical sensation
which was still warring with reflexes evolved over eons, but enjoyable
for the sharing of love with a person Sandy had come to respect more
than any other in her life. The time came when her own ruby lips were
leaving their own delicate mark on the smooth skin surrounding the
base of Marilyn's shaft, a triumph that filled Sandy's green eyes with
joy even as Marilyn's blue eyes rolled back into ecstasy. The tricky
little thing that Marilyn had done came to Sandy's mind and she tried
to decide what it had been. What else do you do when something is in
your throat? She swallowed around the thick member that filled her.
Her peristaltic motion milked Marilyn's cock and was just as effective
as when the tables had been turned. Maybe more. Where Sandy had
been a bucking bronco, Marilyn was a taut spring cranking in ever
more tension. A small, high shriek from almost beyond the range of
audible sound squealed from the woman's elegant throat as her back
arched so high it appeared her blonde curls were headed for her
high-heeled slippers. Before they joined, Marilyn's being collapsed into
an arrow of expulsion, spurting silently and invisibly straight into
Sandy's stomach. Later, Sandy was to realize she never even got a
taste of Marilyn's cream, it was so far past her taste buds when
Marilyn finally surrendered it.

Gradually the tension in Marilyn's back released and she settled back
on to the bed. When Sandy was sure that she had milked her leader's
nectar as fully as she could, she released her captive and gently lowered
the hem of the blonde's nightgown over the dwindling incongruity,
restoring Marilyn to unblemished femininity. It was a moment or two
more before Marilyn's eyes flickered in another unconscious parody of
the actions the team had been learning together.

"Wow," she breathed, triggering a smile from Sandy.

"Wow, yourself," Sandy replied. "You are one HOT woman!"

"Hot and bothered, anyway," giggled Marilyn. "Well, I guess I'm
ready for this mission."

"Are we?" asked Sandy, suddenly serious.

"Yes," Marilyn confirmed quietly. "Get a good night's sleep. I'll stop
by Jaymi's on the way and let her know you won't be coming. We're
leaving the day after tomorrow."



7.  Chapter -    Trance?


True to Marilyn's revelation to Sandy, the team departed two days
later. They traveled in their trios by separate airlines and routes, but
arrived in the country nearest El Supremo's after two more days. The
girls wandered around as tourists for a while, gradually approaching
the city nearest the border to El Supremo's poor nation. This was the
city from which most of the abductions had occurred. The teams
made a habit of their actions once they reached their target city, each
trio usually going to the same restaurant at the same time for supper
and by the same route. It was only a matter of time before they were
kidnapped, and it turned out to be not very much time.

Marilyn's soft voice whispered a warning to Carol and Sandy as they
walked to their hotel one dark evening, "Here they come. Remember,
nothing fancy. We can struggle, but don't really win."

She had seen shadows converging in the predatory tactic that had
worked with such terrible effect on Sandy. The other two saw the same
flickers in the dim light and tried to maintain the light-hearted
attitude they had been demonstrating. They might not have been
completely successful, but the attackers continued their advance so
their acting skills were sufficient to meet the need. El Supremo's
minions left nothing to chance, with two men assigned to each of the
three women. Their approach showed the efficiency of long practice.
One man grabbed a woman's arms, then, as she opened her mouth to
scream, another popped a ball gag into place and it was quickly
cinched tight. Once silenced, they proceeded to add additional bonds
at their leisure. In seconds it was all over. Each girl was shackled with
fur-lined leather cuffs at her wrists. A wide strap pulled her elbows
cruelly together. Only the flexibility they had worked so hard to
obtain allowed their elbows to touch without tearing shoulder
ligaments. Other straps were drawn about their ankles and just above
their knees, leaving them completely unable to move, barely able to
breathe, yet padded from any damage to sensitive feminine skin. The
final indignity was a soft but very effective blindfold, leaving them
isolated in their helplessness. Or so the captors thought, this team
would never be completely helpless. When the flurry died down the
team could hear one of the soldiers muttering curses.

"Shut up," another voice commanded.

"This red-headed bitch bit my fingers, and tried to unman me with
those boots she's wearing," the muttering voice complained.

Another voice with laughter in its tone replied, "Then keep your
fingers out of the mouth that bites, you fool, and you never were
enough of a man to miss anything important."

"I'll put something important in the mouth without teeth all right, if
this bitch gives me any more trouble."

The bound women could sense a sudden stillness in their captors,
except for the two that were joking. The command voice spoke again,
this time fierce with menace, "Listen you fool. Don't even talk about
that. You're new, but I was here the last time someone was caught
violating one of Maximum Leader's captives. Sometimes he waits at
the harem when the girls are delivered. This time, he sensed
something and had the captives examined, cunt, ass, and stomach. He
found traces of man-seed in one of the women, it might even have been
her boyfriend's from before she was taken. Maximum Leader didn't
care. He had the entire capture team castrated and blinded, then had
their hands cut off. Then he let them loose in the harem. I understand
they took a long, long time to die under the tender care of the harem
girls. You treat these women like fragile dolls or I'll kill you myself."

Well, Sandy thought, that's at least a little assurance we won't be
harmed right away, although the painful pull at her elbows, the
cramps that had already started in her distended jaw were constant
reminders that no harm did not equate to comfort. They next heard a
crackle as though from a radio. Static prevented them from really
making out the other end of the conversation, especially in a foreign
tongue, but the affirmative tones of the leader from their end indicated
success. In a few minutes a vehicle pulled up and the women were
piled into the back. Once again, no harm was shown not to be the
same as no pain as they were unceremoniously dumped in random
positions on top of the soft bodies that were already inside. Squirming
to try and find a less-uncomfortable position with their knees and
elbows welded together wasn't too successful, but it was enough to
confirm that the other trio had also been kidnapped. Bound, gagged,
and blindfolded, they began their journey into El Supremo's country,
or as he had his own men call him, Maximum Leader.

Even in their sensory isolation, it was obvious when they crossed the
border. The roads got worse. It was just as obvious when the got near
the palace that Maximum Leader maintained. The roads got better.
Rank has its privileges. The ride took hours, or days, or some
indeterminate time that they couldn't judge in their darkness. But
eventually the vehicle stopped and the six members of the team were
being slung over masculine shoulders and carried to a place where they
were set carefully on their feet. They had to struggle to maintain their
balance in their bondage, teetering on still-towering heels without the
opportunity to move even their toes to readjust their equilibrium.

A woman's voice started speaking to them, in moderately-accented
but perfectly-understandable English, though devoid of emotion in a
monotonous litany that bespoke excess repetitions. "Welcome to the
service of Maximum Leader. You have been chosen by your beauty for
the privilege of easing the terrible hardships imposed on our Maximum
Leader by his unending toils for his people. Our rules are simple.
First, keep yourselves beautiful. It reflects poorly on me if Maximum
Leader finds his servants inadequately attractive. You will find
cosmetics, clothes, exercise facilities, and whatever else you need. Each
of you already knows that beauty is as much an internal as an external
condition. If you mope or sulk or act unattractively, you will be
unattractive. This is not permitted."

"The second rule is that you must keep yourself inviolate except with
our Maximum Leader, and with him you release yourself completely
for his pleasure. Only when allowed by the Maximum Leader will you
enjoy your bodies. When he requests relief from his terrible strain, you
will be provided to him and you will please him. Utterly. Any
hesitation to comply with any need he expresses is not permitted."

"Third, you will destroy any man you see who is not in the company
of Maximum Leader. You will find adequate weapons in the area to
assist you, but if necessary you will use teeth and nails and your own
bodies to attack. Hesitation or concern for your own persons is not
permitted."

"There are other rules for special services that will be explained as
they apply."

"Penalties for breaking these rules are immediate, harsh, and usually
fatal. Penalties for even attempting to leave the service of Maximum
Leader are as harsh and as protracted before being fatal as we can
devise, and we have had long practice. As of this moment, your old
lives are over. Welcome to your new lives."

Hands removed the blindfolds from the new harem slaves. Their eyes
went to the source of the message they had just received to find a
woman that was not nearly as boring as her voice has indicated. Her
age was indeterminate, clearly older than the team, but whether 40 or
90 was impossible to tell. She was petite in a way that invoked the
image of a hard kernel of diamond, all that was left when any softness
had been chipped away. There was also an arrogance about her, one
that said she had such absolute power over others that her whim was
equivalent to a god's. It glittered in her black eyes, an unashamed
arrogance that said her eyes were a true window to her black heart.
Small wonder that most new girls would be intimidated, but the
closeness of the team resulted in a common assessment of her that was
different than most girls. Though they didn't know of their
community of thought at the time, as each girl saw their harem
mistress the thought ran through their minds of the equally-arrogant
first comments of the eventually-pathetic instructor they had known as
El Supremo. It firmed their resolve far beyond anything this woman
hoped to accomplish in diminishing their self-respect.

Once the new captives were able to see, the woman continued, "I am
Skuda. Do each of you understand these rules and agree to abide by
them? I remind you that disobedience is not permitted, in any event,
but you will be granted greater freedom if you promise to do your best
to obey."

She looked first to Marilyn, even with the flawless perfection of her
makeup she was clearly a little older than the near-teen team members
and probably the de facto leader of the captives. Marilyn nodded
abruptly. At that point a harem girl that had been standing to the
side came forward and began to remove her leg bindings and the cruel
strap around her elbows. The harem mistress looked at the others in
approximate age order and received a nod from each, finishing with
Sandy. Each was released enough to walk and to avoid the extreme
discomfort of the elbow binding, but none were freed entirely from
their bonds.

"You will wear your gags until tomorrow morning, also your wrists will
remain bound. This is to allow you time to contemplate your new
situation and to let you know the tiniest aspect of the discomfort that
will be yours for any disobedience. At dawn, any girl in the harem is
allowed to release you. Dismissed."

With that, the harem mistress and all the hangers-on who had been in
the room simply left. The team stood for a moment, jaws aching, arms
trying to flex with the small additional freedom granted. Then, with a
shrug, Marilyn turned to follow the departing women. It was already
past midnight, surely. Dawn was only a few hours away. The new
residents wandered around through the rest of the night, apparently
aimless. No one would expect them to try and relax on their first
night, especially with the ever-increasing agony in their jaws and with
their awkward arms. In fact, rather than helplessly wallowing in their
suffering, the team was reconnoitering the palace just as they had
originally planned, though with a little less ease. Even Carol,
constrained by the six-inch heels on her boots to an infinite series of
tiny strides, covered all of her objectives. After additional eons a dim
glow appeared in the sky, and finally a sliver of sun. Each girl found
an unbound woman to remove her final restraints and gratefully
stretched before finding an equally necessary set of facilities. They
were able to hide their uniqueness easily enough before taking
advantage of the scattered cosmetics to repair the ravages of their
capture. Selecting appropriate nightgowns from the arrays of clothing,
they found each other again, then retired to a convenient bedroom to
catch up on some sleep.

The harem mistress seemed to have forgotten them when they got up
that evening. It was important to keep a low profile so they worked
out, dressed beautifully, and ate quietly, all to send signals of
acceptance and lack of threat. However, it was reasonable for the
newest slaves to find comfort in each other's company so their many
whispered conferences were actually detailed planning sessions. All
was as they expected. The only unknown was the exact schedule for
those in the biowar lab to retire on any given night. It wouldn't do to
break into the lab and find technicians everywhere. They spent a few
days trying to get a lead on what went on behind the door they knew
led to the lab.

Finally, Marilyn gathered the team together and said, "It's tonight.
The techs will vacate the key lab and should be out of the hallways by
11:00. There's a big VIP shindig tomorrow and everything is supposed
to be neat and tidy. We'll meet at the entrance at 11:30. Bring only
silent weapons. Any questions?"

"How did you find that out?" Vanna asked.

"Sorry, you don't need to know," replied Marilyn.

There was a hurt look in Vanna's eyes, mirrored in the other four
enlisted members of the team. After all they had been through
together, keeping secrets seemed wrong. But, as always, Marilyn was
doing what was best. Tonight was a time for military precision,
military discipline. Acting out their strange roles had often required
informality and a camaraderie that was normally forbidden between
enlisted and officer. Tonight, they were back in the Army.

It shouldn't have been surprising to find out that all the available
clothes available were in vibrant colors, all the shoes were delicate and
uncomfortable, all the skirts too tight for easy fighting. The girls chose
the best options that they could find, short skirts with high slits in the
darkest colors to be found, and went barefoot. They met at the
antechamber to the biowar lab on schedule to see the first of the
chain-girls that guarded the entrance. She slumped in her bonds, a
tight blindfold concealing her eyes, a tight mitten surrounding her
fingers and locked to a chain so short she had no choice but the kneel,
or perhaps lie on the floor. As expected, there was a wire leading from
her mitten to the door.

Constance took up her position at the external door to the
antechamber. Since she couldn't pass the gate she would safeguard
their position at this point. The others looked at each other, then
Marilyn squared her shoulders and stepped to the chain-girl. Without
a word, since though she could lower her voice her accent might be
revealing, she gently lifted the blind head of the chain-girl and stepped
before her. Raising her skirt (invisible to the chain-girl) she placed her
incongruous tool between the bound captive's lips. Like an
automaton, the girl began sucking and stroking on Marilyn's erection.
In moments, she was rewarded, if that's the right term, with Marilyn's
seed. Almost as a reflex, her hands clenched and the airlock door into
the inner sanctum opened. Marilyn darted through the opening, not
sure how long the opportunity would last. It turned out not to be a
problem as long as she moved steadily, since the weight of her feet on
the floor of the airlock triggered the door to close behind her. Once she
was in place the inner door opened and Marilyn looked out on the first
corridor in the biowar lab. She had decided that they would gather in
this area to make sure that everyone made it through before moving
on, so it was a tense few moments until the next members of her team
made their own way through the airlock, each paying a unique deposit.

"All right," Marilyn said as Sandy finally passed through. "We're in.
Quickly now, and quiet."

They padded off down the corridor. None carried guns since there
were no silenced weapons in the harem, but all had an edged weapon
of lethal capability. Vanna had demonstrated a talent for
knife-throwing almost as spectacular as Sandy's talent for cosmetics
and looked like an incredibly beautiful new species of porcupine with
all the sharp edges protruding from her clothes. The first person they
saw was another blindfolded chain-girl, posted outside the entrance to
the techs' rest quarters, according to a sign on the wall. Her mouth
looked bruised, a sign of how many men had passed so quickly and so
brutally through her portal. Still, it looked like their information was
correct and that the techs had indeed retired for the night. The
graceful assault team passed noiselessly by the slumping girl, close
enough to realize she was sobbing quietly to herself in her blind
isolation, but helpless to relieve her from her sentence.

Unknown to the team, Constance was no longer at her station. As
soon as the Sandy had passed through the first airlock, Constance had
departed for the main part of the harem. She passed quickly through
room after room until she finally got to a room that none of the team
had entered, the room where survivors of punishment were "stored"
until they either lived or died. Inside, she moved to a dark-haired girl
that moaned fitfully in her sleep.

"Connie," Constance whispered, "Connie, wake up."

When the sleeping girl's face turned toward the dim light from the
hallway, it could be seen that she was still as beautiful as the
standards set for harem slaves. The damage to her had been kept
away from her face. If she healed, it would be to once again take her
helpless place in the harem. More importantly, it could be seen that
her face was a mirror of the one bending over her. She was the image
of Constance, so similar that it could be seen in an instant that they
must be twins. In another instant, though, you could see that they
weren't quite twins. The Connie that was lying down was somehow
softer than the one leaning over her. Her face had more gentle curves,
still elegant, but not quite as sharply-featured. Her chin was a more
delicate pixie point, her neck just a bit more slender and swan-like. It
took a minute for her eyes to focus on the face bending over her.
When they did, she jerked back.

"Who are you?" she demanded, whispering rather than shouting out
of some reflexive concurrence with the tension in Constance.

Who wasn't really Constance. The most elegant member of the assault
team smiled and in a voice that none of the team had ever heard said,
"What's the matter, Connie, don't you recognize your own brother?"

"Daniel? What are you doing here? And why are you dressed like
that?"

"I've come to get you out. There's no other way to move around in
here, so I decided to become you. I've got some friends to help us, the
ones you've been sending your data to. Now, can you move?"

"For a chance to get out of this hellhole, I'll fly," the real Connie said,
but she winced as she tried to sit up.

Daniel helped her to her feet, asking, "What did you do to get
punished?"

"Well, you know I've been making minor infractions in order to get
assigned chain-girl duty so I could see what goes on inside. I left my
hair disheveled this morning thinking I'd get another stint in the lab.
Instead, that Skuda bitch decided I needed more of a lesson. I think
she broke two of my ribs."

With the help of her disguised brother, she gingerly rose to her feet.
With broken ribs, he couldn't even lift her, or throw her arm over his
slender shoulders. He could just offer her an arm to lean on as much
as she could. They made their slow way back through the rooms
Constance, that is Daniel, had traversed so quickly, eventually coming
once again to the ante-room to the biowar lab. The real Connie
slumped to the floor out of sight, and Constance was back on guard.

Inside the lab, the team had reached the portal to the germ storage
facility. Another blindfolded chain-girl guarded the entrance, but her
hands were not concealed in a mitten. They were bound with wide
cuffs behind her back and her elbows were pulled together with a strap
like that used on new captives. Her knees were splayed around a small
stool that was partially hidden by a widely-draped skirt, her only
clothing. Silent glances among the team members revealed no obvious
explanation, so Marilyn once again approached the strangely-erect
captive. Her mouth was already at an appropriate level so Marilyn
brushed her renewed erection against the full lips of the bound girl. In
a motion so fast it had to be a reflex more than conscious thought, the
lips of the girl surrounded Marilyn's member and started an action
made perverse by the circumstances, regardless of how loving it could
be in other worlds. In moments, the team commander's virility was
again demonstrated and the door began to open, without any
movement of the girl's hands. They could see her slump a little,
though, as the door revolved. Marilyn passed through quickly and
Vanna, who had managed to conceal the replacement vial within her
upswept hairdo took her place.

The chain-girl's slump had returned to that strange erectness as the
door of the airlock cycled shut again and she performed her unwilling
duty on the second team member. Vanna was finished quickly, it
would take all the team a little while to regain the skills as true lovers
after these mechanical experiences, and she was soon in the doorway,
once again activated in some way they couldn't determine. It was as
Jaymi stepped up to take her place that the problem occurred.

The girl seemed to gag on Jaymi's erection, rather than just accepting
it. She struggled back with her head, still strangely stiff throughout
her body, until Jaymi stepped back.

"Who are you?" demanded the blindfolded girl. When she received no
answer she asked again, "Who are you. I know you're not Maximum
Leader, and he told me that if ever more than two men tried to pass
and he was not one of them, that I was to yell for help."

"That tears it," Carol whispered.

Sandy looked at the girl more closely. The green-eyed brunette had
noticed that the girl wasn't yelling, just demanding an explanation.
She probably didn't want to yell for help, but was afraid not to say
anything in case this was some sort of a test. They had two choices,
they could enlist her help, or they could render her unconscious, and
they still didn't know how the door was being worked.

"Listen," Sandy whispered, "we're here to get you out. We need
something from inside this lab, then we'll take you with us, if you'll
help."

"We'll all be killed," gasped the girl, but she still didn't raise her voice.

"Not if you do what you're told," Sandy insisted. "Now, we need to
let another of us into the room. Can you just release the door?"

"I don't think so. The trigger is my, well is in my, um, well, there's a
thing stuck up inside of me, and when I suck a guy off, I squeeze. They
told me if I just squeeze without the right reason, they'll kill me."

"There's no one here but us, and we're here to help. Just let our
person pass, and we'll work on getting you out of here."

"No, I still don't trust you. No one gets by that doesn't, well, you
know."

"All right, then, do it," Sandy said in disgust at the poor girl's
confusion. Here she was involved in the ultimate disobedience, yet
clung to small obediences as though that would make a difference if
she were caught. It didn't make any sense, at least, not to those who
had so far escaped the depravity of Maximum Leader's training
methods. Nonetheless, Jaymi stepped back into position and was soon
paying the necessary toll.

Once she was inside, she quickly explained to Marilyn what was going
on. There wasn't a corresponding chain-girl on the inside of the
doorway, but there was enough of a passageway between the inner and
outer doors of the airlock to guarantee no one could trip the exit door,
then return inside. When no one else came through the door
immediately, Marilyn realized that Sandy and Carol were going to stay
outside while the inner team worked to extract the deadly culture.
That wasn't quite the plan, but taking care of the guard-girl was
probably the right priority for them. She wished she had Sandy's help
deciphering some of the signs to make sure they found the right
agents, though. In a few minutes, she had decided which cabinet held
the key virus and Jaymi was making short work of the lock. Vanna
switched the vials, no one but Marilyn realizing how much work had
gone into having a correct-looking replacement. The other two were so
used to Marilyn's miracles they didn't give it a thought. In a few more
minutes, they were exiting the inner lab.

"Boss, we've got a problem," Sandy began, using an unaccustomed
masculine tone of voice. "This station is different from the rest. The
girl here, her name is Jennifer, is held to her stool by an inflatable
dong that swells up inside her when the door cycles and traps her in
place. It deflates when she squeezes the infernal thing hard enough,
but she won't do it unless someone feeds her. The way I see it is this.
We need to trip her one more time (Sandy was talking of the poor girl
as though she were as mechanical as she acted), and then get her off
her throne. One of us will have to take her place or she'll talk, sooner
or later. Whoever takes her place will be stuck here until a
replacement arrives, squatting with whatever that thing is inside her."

"Now, guess which one of us gets that pleasant duty," Sandy's tone
was light, but there was a lurking horror in her eyes. The team
members looked at the blindfolded chain girl and saw long, dark hair
that only Sandy also possessed. Her curves were also a bit more
developed than any of the team except Sandy. The blindfold would
hide enough of Sandy's face that it was possible she could replace
Jennifer, but clearly not possible for any of the others to do so.

"I can't ask you to do that," Marilyn declared.

"I know, so I'm volunteering," Sandy said, now only the words
seeming to be light-hearted, even her tone was betraying the dread she
was trying to conceal. There was only one possible way for one of the
team members to take that device inside herself while sitting on the
stool, and it wasn't up a slickly-lubricated woman's vagina. Of all the
team, only Sandy had a chance as a convincing replacement, but only
Sandy had been penetrated anally in an ugly, demeaning, nearly
deadly rape. The scar tissue in her tortured bottom would never again
stretch without pain and she would surely be stretched by a
mechanical device that wasn't constrained by merely human
dimensions. A shudder too heartfelt to hide shook her slender body,
sending ripples through her long hair that accented it far beyond the
amount necessary to show her concern to her sensitive team mates.
But she squared her shoulders in something reminiscent of coming to
attention, then stepped before Jennifer.

"All right, sister, do your thing. When you're done, get off that pole
and I'll take your place."

The fear she felt at what was to come almost prevented Sandy from
succeeding at the interim task, and she was afraid she'd have to ask
for another to pay the toll, but in Jennifer's confused mind this was
her responsibility, and she managed to find a rhythm that worked for
the young soldier. Or perhaps her realization that this was necessary
to get her released from her position gave her added incentive. In any
event, Sandy was soon doing what was required. When Jennifer left
her seat, the device that was placed in the center of the stool didn't
look too bad, a bit larger than a thick finger. It was at least somewhat
lubricated by Jennifer's juices, though she had long past ceased to be
stimulated by it.

"How much bigger does this thing get?" Sandy asked.

"Quite a bit," Jennifer answered nonchalantly, no longer personally
involved.

"Oh joy," sighed Sandy, then moved over the disgusting device. She
had removed her top and was already wearing Jennifer's uniquely wide
skirt. Lifting the skirt clear of the protruding member on the stool,
she slowly lowered herself down onto the perverse bondage implement.
She struggled to make her tormented muscles relax and accept the
thing, but it took a long time before she felt the stool under her
violated bottom.

"How is it?" Marilyn couldn't help asking.

"Not too bad," declared Sandy with an feeble attempt at a reassuring
smile. "Somebody trip the door and then you guys get out of here."

When the door started to close, the mechanical phallus inside Sandy
started to grow, and to grow, and to grow. At first, she just closed her
eyes and tried to maintain an outwardly calm demeanor. As it grew,
so did her pain. Soon it was too much to contain and she grunted out
a small sound of dismay, then a harsher moan, then a desperate gasp
as inelastic scars pulled away from softer tissue. Hidden beneath her
skirt, the first drops of blood began to leak down.

"Marilyn," Sandy whispered, "promise me that you'll get out of here.
Don't wait for me, just go. I need to know this will be worthwhile."

"We'll make it," Marilyn promised. "All of us will make it."

Sandy's eyes were closed in her attempt to marshal her strength
against the suffering she had chosen to accept. She didn't see the look
of fierce determination in Marilyn's eyes, nor the equally adamant
nods from her teammates. There was no way the team would leave
without her. Without hesitation now that they were committed,
Marilyn got the team ready to proceed.

"Carol, you figure out some way to control Jennifer. I want her bound,
blindfolded, and gagged. She might give us away at any time. Jaymi,
you switch her bonds to Sandy. Make sure you get them tight enough
to look right. Sorry, Sandy."

Sandy nodded absently, still consumed with her internal torment. The
device had grown within her until she had no choice but to hold her
lower body stiff and erect. When Jaymi reluctantly bound her wrists
and cinched the elbow strap tight, the full extent of the bondage
became apparent. With her elbows and shoulders pulled cruelly back
and her lower body rigid, Sandy had no choice but to sit primly erect,
as though eager to fulfill her duty. The blindfold was placed over her
still-shut eyes and she descended even deeper into dark damnation.

The rest of the team plus their captive moved quickly back to the
entrance to the biowar lab and cycled out through the airlock. Along
the way, Marilyn had Carol steal a guard's uniform. Outside, they met
the one they knew as Constance. A brief flicker of a glance from
Marilyn and an even briefer nod from Constance passed a
communication the others didn't even know to look for. It didn't take
a rocket scientist to recognize the situation from inside, one unknown
girl bound and gagged, one team member missing. Yet it was just as
obvious to Constance that the team had succeeded in their primary
mission, otherwise they wouldn't have come out at all.

Silently, Marilyn motioned them away from the helpless guard-girl and
when they were in a private place gave her orders, "Carol, you put
Jennifer somewhere safe. We'll be taking her with us, but I don't trust
her at all. We're going to have to find a replacement for Sandy and get
her into position."

"There's no time," Jaymi complained. "They're going to be moving
around in there in less than ten minutes."

"I know, Sandy will just have to wait until we can work something
out," Marilyn replied with just enough asperity in her voice to remind
the team that she was concerned about their missing teammate, too.

No one knew what Sandy suffered while she waited. No one else had
to endure it and so gain first hand knowledge of the ordeal. But in a
larger sense, no one else could have understood even if afflicted with
the same torture. Only Sandy had experienced the brutal anal rape
that had so scarred her heart and her soul with trauma. The screeches
of pain from her tortured rectum ripped through her body with every
pulse of her heart. The drip of blood lowered her defenses still further,
weakening her when she needed all her strength. Still, she endured.
She survived. Her mind tried to retreat into another world, and that
of any of her teammates might have done so. But the very trauma
that made this so terrible for Sandy also may have saved her. Sandy
had passed through this fire already, once. Some kernel of sanity held
her together with the knowledge that she had survived this, and could
do so again. Her mind danced along the borderlines of reality with
thoughts of cosmic predestination, as though forces greater than
human had forged her for this moment of truth, where the fate of all
life hung in the balance on her ability to use the temper of her
previous experience to combat the conflagration of this ordeal. Then
another shriek of pain would pass and she couldn't think at all. Her
world drew in as it had done before, awareness leaking away even as
the lights began to come up outside her covered eyes.

Only a tentative thread of connection to this world remained when she
heard footsteps nearby. They had the characteristic clomp of
masculine feet in masculine shoes so she knew it was not her
teammates with a rescue. Despair warred with panic for control of her
being but the adrenaline surge that resulted also cleared her mind and
she showed no outward sign of her inner turmoil. The footsteps closed
and paused nearby.

"Ah, Maximum Leader, this one is even more beautiful than the last.
Is she new?" a voice asked with a curious mixture of respect and fear
that the speaker was trying to disguise with outward casualness.

"What? Oh, I don't know. I just specified lots of dark hair and lots of
soft curves for today. She seems adequate in that respect. Tomorrow I
may specify curly blonde hair and perhaps bigger nipples. This one
seems a bit disappointing in that area, don't you think?" This voice
was nasally, with an undertone of shrill whine like an overheating
bearing. They spoke in the language of Maximum Leader's country,
ignoring the captive girl as though she were only a machine, a pretty
machine, but not one with a mind inside.

"Ah, Maximum Leader, none of those who worship you are
disappointing. This little jewel is magnificent."

"Perhaps I'll let you have her after I am done with her. Now that you
mention it, I don't seem to remember her. She seems western, perhaps
one of those cursed Americans. I especially enjoy my time with
American girls, they're so unused to suffering."

Switching to English, he spoke directly to Sandy, "You, girl, do you
speak English?"

She nodded silently, receiving a harsh slap in return that threatened to
tear her off her perch, leaving the anchored half of her body behind.

"When I speak to you, you will answer me," growled the invisible bully.

"Yes, Master, I speak English," Sandy gasped through her freshened
agony.

"Have I had you, yet?" Maximum Leader demanded.

"No, Master."

"Then why are you here? Skuda generally leaves new girls alone until
I finish with them."

"I was inadequate at maintaining my appearance two days ago. She
had me take a place as guard-girl, then received complaints that I was
inadequate in that area as well. Now I am here," Sandy finished flatly,
as though resigned to her fate.

"What makes you so inadequate?" demanded the whiny voice.

"I am inexperienced, Master."

"Completely inexperienced?" now a note of interest was rekindled in
the gloating tones.

"Except for my duties as guard-girl, I have had no experience with
men, Master," confirmed Sandy, continuing to build a story that
confirmed her apparent innocence.

An implication of her story suddenly occurred to Maximum Leader
and he flew into a rage, "Do you mean to tell me that Skuda set you
up on that stool without letting me take your virginity?"

Sandy did not need to answer. Another of the sets of shuffling
footsteps had been walking around her, examining the device that held
her captive. Whoever that was had realized Sandy's position did not
quite correspond to the design of the stool. He also spotted the slowly
spreading pool of blood beneath the helpless girl and pointed it out to
the group.

"It appears that your inestimable Skuda has found a solution to the
problem. This girl is enjoying your gift in an unusual way," he
announced. The entire group walked around behind Sandy, never
quite lifting the concealing skirt enough to discover the true mystery
of her situation.

"Ah, I should have known," chuckled Maximum Leader, "though that
device was never intended to be used that way. I expect this girl will
be more pleasing in her duties from now on."

The group of men laughed in a way they probably felt was manly and
powerful, but sounded to Sandy more like little boys' cruelty as they
tried to burn ants with a magnifying glass. Without another word one
stood before her and she felt a demand for admittance at her lips. She
complied with the demand and serviced the first of those in the group.
The torn muscles of her rectum could barely squeeze the device enough
to trigger it, but she managed that also. Before it had shrunk enough
that escape would have been possible even if she were alone, the man
had tripped the airlock and the intruder was once again swelling
within her. She found that despite the unceasing agony, there had
indeed been some saturation of nerves, for the short relaxation allowed
them to reset before the maximum distention was again reached,
renewing agony that had only seemed to be the ultimate her body
could generate. Another and another cycled through the door, always
demanding to pay the perverse toll. Each partial cycle of her internal
tormentor added further shrieks of torture to her damaged body,
added additional flow to the blood now dripping steadily from her.

In a hidden niche just outside the lab ante-room, the rest of the team
was developing their plans. Now that the lab was active, they would
have to rescue Sandy with subterfuge rather than stealth. Finally,
Marilyn reached a decision.

"All right, Connie, it looks like it's time."

Her response was initially just an equally cryptic nod, but Constance
stood up and to the amazement of the remaining team members
pulled off her glorious auburn hair. Her dress soon followed and in
moments the one true female in their team was revealed to be as
masculine as any of the acknowledged cross-dressers. More so,
actually, for Constance had no trace of mammary development, and
her, no, his own hair was cut in a masculine, actually military style.

"Sorry that we had to hide this from you, but my name is really
Daniel McLean, not Constance. I'm the one that convinced Marilyn
that this sort of masquerade was possible, and my continued success
was proof that even experts in cross-dressing, like all of you, could be
fooled. It also provided an emergency capability that couldn't be
revealed inadvertently by the rest of you. This is that emergency."

Daniel took the guard's uniform they had stolen and put it on. From a
portion of the hair of "Connie's" wig and a few things they found in
available cosmetics, Daniel soon had heavy eyebrows and a drooping
mustache that made the transformation as credible as his earlier
masquerade. He stood in the hidden niche while Carol and Jaymi went
to get a replacement for Sandy. They didn't know how good the
likeness would have to be, but there were several girls with long, dark
hair and good figures to choose from and they selected an unfortunate
candidate quickly. Bondage devices were sprinkled around the harem
for the convenience of Maximum Leader or the harem mistress, so in
moments they had a blindfolded, bound, and gagged victim to present
to the waiting impostor guard. When the coast was clear, they quickly
escorted him and his charge to the ante-room where Daniel now paid
the necessary toll and took his unnamed replacement deep into the lab.

When he got to Sandy's location he saw the spreading flow of blood
immediately, and the terrible pallor of her face. Her more-or-less
human, more-or-less masculine tormentors had long departed, but the
inhuman mechanism within her was still demanding its constant agony.
Sandy hovered on the edge of consciousness, each time her mind tried
to slip away, her slouching body would shift on the massive protrusion
within her and fresh shrieks of fire would shout within too loud to
allow oblivion. This time she didn't notice the approaching footsteps.
No one else paid particular attention either, changing of guard- girls
was at the whim of the harem mistress, not their concern. When
Daniel got close, he leaned down to whisper to his tortured teammate.

"Sandy, wake up, Come on Sandy, I've come to take you home."

Later, in her disjointed memories, Sandy would only remember one
word of that statement. Home. Nothing else mattered. She roused
enough to open her eyes and see a man standing before her, a guard.
Some portion of her inner strength roused at the cruel joke and she
forced herself to alertness. That alertness caught the genuine concern
in Daniel's eyes, though she still didn't recognize him. After another
whisper, and a start of shock that she could have done without,
Sandy's heart began to climb from the well of despair that her
suffering had been digging, inch by rocky inch. It wasn't an easy
journey, not the least of which because her only escape required a
continuation of the depravity that had gotten her there.

"Sorry, Sandy, but we need to make this look good. You don't have to
take me all the way, just give me a few strokes and then release the
door," Daniel offered, as he made another offer through the opened fly
of his pants.

He didn't know that the damage to her anal ring had made it almost
impossible for her to apply the pressure necessary to trip the
mechanism. It took several minutes before she finally managed to
squeeze hard enough for the door to open. Her body collapsed on its
stool as though all of her substance were inflated by the pressure in
her intruder and leaking away with it. As soon as he could, Daniel
lifted her gently off her instrument of torture. He would have liked to
clean it up so that the new, essentially innocent, guard-girl would be
spared any risk of infection, but there wasn't any opportunity.
Instead, he directed the new girl to her duties in the stern,
uncompromising tones expected of a guard. The unnamed woman
shuddered at her situation, but took her position, blindfolded, bound
tightly, now impaled on a despicable perversion. At least, she should
be replaced soon. As far as the harem mistress knew the original girl,
Jennifer, had been in place all night. Sooner or later she would send a
replacement, a curly- haired blonde with big nipples, assuming
Maximum Leader had followed through with his planned choice.

The rules dictated that returning guard-girls be bound, gagged, and
blindfolded on their trip back to the outer harem, but Sandy didn't
even know of her condition. She had finally passed out, mostly from
lack of blood, but also from exhaustion so intense her mind could no
longer maintain even a tiny spark of awareness, even when being
rescued. Daniel took her quickly back to the exit to find the team
guarding the door. His transformation was reversed, only a slight
irregularity in his wig caused by the contribution to his mustache
revealing any change from the day before.



8.  Chapter -    Trail's End?


Marilyn decided they would make their escape attempt just before
sundown. After dark the guards would be too suspicious of any women
approaching them so that was out, yet soon after a dusk assault they
would have the shelter of darkness to hide them from pursuit as they
escaped from the harem. None of the girls had the slightest qualms
about killing anyone or anything that supported this monstrous
regime. In truth, they would welcome a chance to hurt a few of those
sadists, or at least those who supported the sadistic, self-styled
Maximum Leader.

Tall Carol led the way. She sashayed along in her six-inch heels with
an extra dip and wiggle in every step. Marilyn followed,
demonstrating the complex motion of Jell-O on springs that was sure
to catch men's eyes. They walked casually up to the guarded gate
covering the exit from the harem. The arrogance of the harem
mistress, along with making gruesome examples of a few escapees, had
intimidated most of the women in the harem to the point where
escape truly was unthinkable. This was not as surprising as it may
have seemed. During the Korean War ruthless prisoner of war policies
had enabled half a dozen guards to control hundreds of prisoners, more
than the number of bullets carried in the guards' guns. If a riot had
started, a mass escape attempt, most of the men would have been safe.
But someone would have had to take the first step (and probably die).
Similar intimidation had been used to control the harem girls and
made escape unthinkable in the guard's minds as well, especially when
other thoughts filled all available thinking capacity. Marilyn and Carol
giggled together, urging Vanna to hurry up and catch them, though
each was exactly in position. At the key point Carol dropped an
earring and bent over to pick it up, her long legs accentuated by
incredible heels and an almost-non-existent skirt. The guard's eyes
followed her motion as though directly connected and probably never
saw the instantaneous flash that ended with one of Vanna's knives in
his throat.

Now they were committed and speed was of the utmost importance.
Unfortunately, speed was something they didn't have. Even as Vanna
retrieved her knife and took up the guard's weapon, Marilyn was back
at their starting point gathering up the gagged Jennifer. The girl was
cuffed but not otherwise restricted in motion. At least she could be
expected to move on her own. It wasn't so easy with Sandy. She was
still very weak from loss of blood and from the damage to her body.
Though she did her best, Jaymi was carrying her as much as escorting
her, a job that Jaymi would not allow anyone else to take. Constance
had returned to his Daniel persona complete with guard's uniform, but
surprised everyone other than Marilyn when he appeared escorting his
sister.

"All right, everyone, listen up," Marilyn directed, "this is the real
Connie McLean. She's been our source on the inside. We're taking
her, too. Unfortunately, she's been beaten and has broken ribs, so
she's going to need help. It's all or nothing from here. I don't have to
tell you that if they capture us, there's no hope. Let's go."

With that they left the harem building. It seemed too easy, somehow,
but those in a totalitarian state get so used to using and accepting
intimidation they get lazy and forget that some people will not be
intimidated. The team shepherded their weaker members through the
grounds to the motor pool where Jaymi soon had a van going. Daniel
drove to the outer gate and said he was taking the truck to make
another pickup for the harem. They let the gate guard get a glimpse
of the gagged Jennifer and he accepted the authority of Daniel's
uniform as though it were a passport. Maybe it wasn't fair, it
certainly wasn't sporting when another of Vanna's knives carved his
life away as well, but that gate guard was the only witness that could
have reported that one of those leaving the compound was a man.

The death of the first guard was soon reported and the absence of
several harem girls was soon discovered. It wasn't a surprise to find
that six of the girls had recently been abducted and presumably knew
each other. No corresponding relationship was identified for the other
two escapees, but the word went out to search for eight young women
at least one of which was injured. That might have worked in a society
where people were treated equally. In Maximum Leader's country,
though, those wearing the uniform of his elite guards obeyed no rules
but their own, answered no questions but those from their own
officers. Daniel, in his liberated uniform was a searcher, not a
searchee. He forced his way past roadblocks on the authority of his
uniform alone without letting anyone inspect the interior of his van.
Of course, the search was for escaping women, not for a man who
might have women hidden in the back of his van. If one of Maximum
Leader's officers suspected him, they were history, but no one else
could even question him. Soon they were at the border, and once
across the pickup was quick.

With typical foresight, Marilyn had positioned their doctor and a
support team in the neighboring country. No one not already familiar
with their unique physiques needed to be involved in any medical
examinations. Since the girls had never tried to hide being Americans,
they were able to openly accept transportation in official U.S. vehicles
and fourteen hours after they escaped from Maximum Leader's
captivity, they were back in their Montana compound.

Jennifer knew only that one of the team, Daniel, had masqueraded as
a woman to gain entrance. She thought that some team of men had
actually rescued her from inside the lab, then given her to the girls for
their joint escape. She was warned that if her story ever came out,
Maximum Leader's agents would pursue her even into the U.S. and
kidnap her again, a more potent threat than any prison sentence for
violating national security. She ended up in the witness protection
program with a new identity.

The real Connie never knew the team's secrets either. She also
accepted a new identity, as did Daniel. The team was not as reluctant
to see him go as they might once have been. His aloof, coolly-amused
distance had seemed to be chosen just to give all members of the team
a unique persona, but it had also kept him from ever forming the
depth of friendship shared by the others. Of course, the fact that he
had kept a secret from those who should have been closer than family,
whose lives depended on mutual trust, hurt the others as well. They
still liked and respected him, but trust, well that was just too fragile
to be resurrected. Those who had washed out of the training were
returned to regular army units, though they were told they would be
monitored for some unspecified time to ensure they never
compromised security. The risk was reasonable. After all, if Maximum
Leader ever realized his diabolical brew had been neutralized, he could
come up with another one. Their own lives depended on keeping quiet,
again a more potent threat than any prison sentence.

So it was a group of five that gathered one evening in the lounge a few
nights after their return. Sandy was nearly recovered from her ordeal,
though there was an image of pain that never left her eyes now. It was
heartbreaking in a way that made her seem as though some past
incident had forever ripped her innocence from the young woman.
Now she seemed even more in need of protection, even more the
dewy-eyed damsel in distress. Pretty close to the truth, actually. Like
Sandy, the others had all maintained their cross- gender personas even
after the conclusion of the mission.

"Well, ladies, we've come a long way," Marilyn reminisced with a
smile. The nods from her team were more an invitation to continue
than an interruption.

"We need to make some decisions. I say, 'we' because these are not
orders. Consider it another chance to volunteer. We have an invitation
that we can answer in three ways, the invitation is from the President.
He and the First Lady want to meet us. Since he's the
Commander-in-Chief that part is pretty much of an order, but they've
requested to meet us in our femme personas. That's optional. The
first choice we each have to make is whether or not we want to meet
them as we are, or dressed like men. We don't all have to make the
same choice, either. It's up to each of us."

"Second, even if we dress as women for the meeting with the
President, each of can choose to go back to looking like our normal
gender after that. There won't be time to complete the surgical
changes before we meet the President, but I'll arrange the necessary
procedures soon after for those who want them. However, I've been
authorized to offer you the chance to continue as you are. You
obviously can't go back to regular army units so your enlistments will
be canceled with honorable discharges and we'll provide you with new
identities like we did with Daniel."

"There is a third choice. The President has indicated he would like the
team to continue. He seems to think our unique capabilities might be
valuable in other situations. If we choose to do this, then we'll all
remain in the army as a special force. This is not part of the earlier
commitment you made when you volunteered. You've all met that
with outstanding success. I won't even trot out the same arguments
again, about Duty, or Honor, or Country. You know them already.
You also know our capabilities and can make your own judgments on
whether you think the nation can use us, maybe even needs us."

"Well, that's the situation. Our meeting with the President is set for a
week from tonight. How are we going to look? What are we going to
tell him?"

Once again all the girls turned to Sandy. Especially now that
Constance/Daniel was gone she was the de facto second in command
of the team, more for the respect the others gave her skills and
judgment than for any specific authority. More than that, though, she
had suffered the most in the team and had the most reason for moving
on to some other lifestyle.

There was a moment of introspection in her look, a bit wider window
into the pain that had held her showed for a second in her deep-green
eyes. Then that pain was replaced with a sparkle of happiness they
hadn't seen much lately. The fifteen-going-on-twenty-five girl with
shredded innocence became a fifteen- trying-to-be eighteen girl headed
for her first school dance when she stood and giggled, "Well, I don't
know about the rest of you, but I saw the most darling evening gown in
the catalog and I'm ordering it before the rest of you get the chance."

Then she was a bit more serious for a moment. "Marilyn, none of us
are the same as we were when you scooped us up. You told us once
that internal characteristics were more important than external ones
in making this work. You were right, as always. Inside, I don't feel like
a man anymore, and I don't want to go back to being a man. I also
don't feel like a woman, at least, not in all ways. We're unique, each of
us and as a group. I only know I love you and I'm not ashamed to say
so. I love all of you. If you'll have me, I want to stay part of the team."

With that, she stepped to where Marilyn was seated and urged her to
stand with a gentle touch of slender fingers. They embraced in a way
that was more than men could do, more than women even allow
themselves to enjoy. Emerald eyes smiled into brilliant sapphires as
the rest of the team crowded around. The relationships in this team
were going to play havoc with traditional military order and discipline,
but any of these girls would kill or die for any of the others, and they
all knew it. No one better get in their way.

It's hard to imagine a meeting with the President being an anti-climax,
but it couldn't compare with the emotional impact of the decision the
team had made to continue. Still, the Cinderfellas all had a ball at the
ball. When they got to the White House they could almost hear
eyeballs snap as the Marine guards watched one gorgeous woman after
another climb from the official limousine. They all played out their
parts in the personas that were now more real than whomever they
had once been. Carol vamped the guards and got a blush from one
almost as bright as her hair and a grunt of near-pain from another.
Sandy managed to drop a delicate lace hanky and almost caused a riot
as would-be helpers raced to retrieve it. And that was just at the
entrance portico. They eventually got themselves sorted out and into
a procession that would have been regal if they hadn't all been
smirking so much. Of course, Marilyn's jiggling and Carol's sashaying
didn't quite invoke an image of majestic dignity. Jaymi had some of
that, though, and Vanna defined the term, until she let just a bit of
lace show through a slit in her long gown. Only Sandy really looked
royal, the perfect princess come to the palace to be presented to the
king. The flowing gown she wore captured her trademark peekaboo
style, promising a glimpse at a treasure more precious than
"commoners" possessed. It had one unexpected consequence.

The First Lady was livid. She had heard about these troops who had
made such a great sacrifice for their country and decided the properly
tolerant, liberal thing to do would be to invite them to the White
House in all their pathetic finery. It would show that she wasn't
judgmental about poor, misguided people that didn't meet society's
norms. Instead, when the troop of gloriously beautiful woman arrived
she was sure she had been tricked. Someone had taken advantage of
her famous tolerance and substituted real woman of surpassing beauty
to make her look foolish, not to mention rather plain. Someone's head
would roll over this. Of course, these beautiful girls must have been
pawns of those who had chosen to embarrass her. The First Lady
knew that really pretty women couldn't compete in a man's world,
couldn't possibly have a mental capacity on a par with their stunning
appearance. She, herself, was just about as pretty as you could be and
still be smart. At least, in her opinion. In all her planning it had never
occurred to her that parading a bunch of pathetic transvestites
through the White House would have destroyed the security necessary
for mission success.

She whispered her anger to the President, who accepted her judgment
with a barely-suppressed sigh of relief. His own response to that sort
of feminine beauty had been long reported in what he considered the
hostile press. It bothered him, though, that these were men and he
wasn't supposed to be attracted to men. When his wife decided they
must have been real women, he felt less guilty. In fact, there might be
another opportunity here, maybe five of them. Of course, both were
consummate politicians so they greeted their guests just like any others
at the formal dinner. Their plans for . . . whatever . . .would wait.

At least the President, or his aides, had remembered to maintain the
masquerade at the public portions of the formal dinner. The members
of the team were among a host of guests from various areas, not even
identified as members of the military. No one suspected they might
have earned their way into the President's presence. Instead, they
were considered part of the window dressing of glitterati sprinkled
around to make things more elegant.

When the team reached the President in the receiving line, he said to
their blonde leader, "You must be Marilyn. I must say, you don't look
quite like I expected."

"Indeed, Mr. President, just what did you expect?" she countered,
arching an elegant brow.

"I don't know," he stammered.

Marilyn could see the anger in the First Lady's eyes and in a moment
of clarity that would later seem so obvious it should be unremarkable,
she understood why. Leaning close to the President, she whispered in
his ear using her masculine voice, "You might want to tell your wife
we're no competition for her. We're just soldiers with special skills,
and we like to think we are quite skilled at what we do."

The shock on the President's face when he heard that incongruous
voice was too deep to be concealed, though he laughed a second later
as though Marilyn had told him a dirty joke or something. His wife
picked up on the interplay and looked at the team leader, then the rest
of the team much more closely.

"I find it very hard to believe you're what you say you are," she said
coldly.

"That could be a problem, ma'am, since we're not in the habit of
revealing our 'distinguishing characteristics'," Sandy grinned from her
place next in line. She had offered her delicate hand to the President
with that motion that induced a kiss more than a handshake, and he
had almost found himself complying. He managed to turn that into a
bow, one that seemed a little distracted since his eyes were glued to a
panel over Sandy's bosom that threatened to go transparent if she
breathed, and she was definitely breathing. The fire-haired Carol that
was next in line was the one to whisper in the First Lady's ear with
something that was convincing, in tone or in content. The First Lady's
eyes went wide at whatever Carol said, then she looked at Sandy with
a great deal more respect than anger, adding perhaps a little fear.

White House protocol experts had arranged suitable dinner
companions for each team member, or at least suitable for their
appearance. They found themselves distributed along the table
amongst bureaucrats of various agencies. Each girl was behaving quite
demurely, even Carol. The lecherous old goats with whom they were
paired were being forward enough, ever more so as the evening wore
on. When junior officers appeared to escort the team to the
President's office, the girls turned to the handsome young men with
such joy and alacrity that another layer of credibility was added to
their already-impenetrable disguises as women.

As they entered the Oval Office, they couldn't help looking around at
this archtypical seat of power for American citizenry. Their flickering
glances absorbed the three other occupants of the room along with the
paintings and furnishings of the Chief Executive's office. Two of those
occupants were known, the President and First Lady. The third was
unknown to any of the team but Marilyn. This third person was a
man that they might have seen a thousand times, or never. At first
glance, he appeared completely ordinary, average build, average
height, neutral coloring. It was only on second glance that they
noticed his almost-inhuman precision. He wore a standard dinner
tuxedo that was perfectly tailored to his trim form instead of any
military uniform, but he had the look of military training, if not
current service. He stood with perfect balance, not at a rigid military
attention, but poised without fidgeting, shoulders symmetric, head
erect, as though an engineer had designed him. He said nothing,
though. There really wasn't time if he had wanted to.

The First Lady launched an immediate attack, "All right, I want to
know who put you up to this. You are obviously real women. Also
that long-haired girl is too young to even be in the army, and no one
so innocent looking could possibly have suffered as that red-haired
woman said she did. I won't stand for someone trying to embarrass
me, I mean, the President like this."

"I'm afraid we all know what you mean, dear, but that's for the voters
to decide," a voice curiously without power declared. There was an
echo of power, though, as if the voice could have had power, or
perhaps should have, or perhaps had access to so much power it could
be heard in even the flattest of tones.

"Sam," the President continued, "do you know what's going on?"

The precise man answered, "Well, Mr. President, I didn't hear what
Carol said to the First Lady, but I can guess. First, ma'am, let me
assure you that these are all genetic males, all fully equipped with
male genitalia. They do an amazing job of appearing as women and it
helps to maintain the illusion by referring to them as women, but they
are truly men. I assume that Carol told you something about Sandy's
ordeal on the mission. If necessary, I can produce the medical records
to confirm the injuries that were inflicted upon her. It is a tribute to
her skill and her strength of spirit that she can still appear innocent
after what she has suffered. I assure you that not many could, whether
born male or female. The success of Operation Seahorse was a team
effort, but she certainly made a major contribution. She, or in her
alternate persona he, is Sanford Beech, an army private and currently
20 years old."

When the operation was named a glance of confusion flickered among
the enlisted members of the team. Surprisingly, this provoked an
instant's imperfection in the perfect neutrality of "Sam's" face as a
responsive flicker of smile creased the corners of his eyes. Instead of
commenting, though, he looked at the President for further orders.

The President's orders were for his wife, though. "Dear, why don't
you go back to the party and keep the guests happy. Offer my regrets
and tell them I'll be along in a few minutes."

The angry frustration in her eyes as her assertions about the team
were blandly dismissed boded ill for whichever servant or underling
she first encountered outside the office, but she did as the President
requested and left the room. Once she was gone, the President turned
on the famous smile and moved from his desk to a more-casual
arrangement of sitting chairs.

"Please, um, ladies, sit down. Can we get you something to drink? I
apologize if my manners are a bit . . uneven. I've never before had a
chance to interact with such skilled . . is it cross-dressers?"

Sam replied, and the girls found out something about themselves in
his answer. "Actually, Mr. President, according to the standard
literature, it would be most correct to refer to the team as she-males.
They constantly maintain a female appearance, more than just interim
cross-dressing as transvestites do. Yet they do not consider themselves
true women trapped in men's bodies and are not preparing for Sexual
Reassignment Surgery as transsexuals do. Isn't that right, ladies?"

None of the others knew enough about the standard terms to agree or
disagree, except perhaps for Marilyn, so they mostly just shrugged and
tried to understand what he had said for themselves. They didn't even
know this guy that was talking, let alone know if what he said was
right. Sam picked up on their confusion and the instant of smile
flickered at the corners of his eyes again. This time, instead of waiting
for further questions from the President, he continued.

"Mr. President, I'll make you a bet. I'll bet that none of the team
besides Marilyn had ever heard of Operation Seahorse until I
mentioned it, and that none of them knows who I am."

Marilyn smiled at this comment, though the President's face mirrored
the confusion on the rest of her team. "You're right, Sam. They had
no need to know," the team's blonde leader said.

"I don't understand what you mean," the President said.

"Since I was the only point of contact outside the team," explained
Marilyn, "I was the only one who knew the code name for our mission.
I was also the only one who knew our controller, Sam Gates."

Sam picked up the discussion, "That's one of the things that makes
Marilyn so effective for the team. She takes security seriously. If
someone has no direct need to know, she doesn't tell them. Period."

"Very well," the President responded. "Now, Sam tells me he thinks
the team should continue and that you have consented to do so. I'm
inclined to agree, but I have to admit I'm not sure why. You obviously
represent a unique capability, but I'm not sure how we might need or
use that uniqueness. I don't expect we'll have many more missions
quite like the one you just completed. For the sake of all of us, I
certainly hope not."

"We hope never to see another mission like that one either, Mr.
President," Marilyn replied for the team, backed up by four vigorous
nods. Their attention turned to Sam Gates, who had masterminded
the creation of the team in the first place.

"Mr. President, the experts don't agree on just how much of a
person's attitudes and characteristics are created by the culture in
which they were raised versus how much is genetic. Nonetheless, it is
true in our culture that men can be and usually are more ruthless than
women, and more determined in mission accomplishment. They have a
greater willingness to sacrifice themselves for their country, as opposed
to defending only their children. Their plumbing is a less-important
aspect of their manhood than their inner drive. This team is a group
of beautiful women with the strength of will that typifies men. They
are also physically stronger than typical of beautiful women, which is
just one more advantage they can offer over teams that are female.
Whether they ever need to demonstrate their virility in the line of
duty again is not the only reason for sustaining this capability."

"I see," the Commander-in-Chief agreed. "Very well, you have my
support. What shall we call this little secret?"

"I was thinking it might be appropriate to call them the 'She-Male
Independent Tactical Expedition.' SMITE for short. When you have
the need, they can smite the enemies of our country," Sam offered,
another instant of smile flashing.

"Why Sam," Marilyn laughed, "you do have a sense of humor after
all."

The President stood and walked back to his desk where a pile of
documents waited.

"Attention to orders," Gates said sharply. Old reflexes were triggered
and the SMITE team found their bodies moving to formal positions,
though the flowing gowns and soft curves kept them from duplicating
the sharp precision Gates demonstrated. The President picked up the
first document and spoke formally.

"General Merlin, for your actions in the recently completed mission,
you and three of your team, Carol Stevenson, Jaymi Fox, and Vanna
White are awarded Silver Star medals for conspicuous gallantry. Of
course, these are all awarded in your real names, but you won't be able
to tell anyone how and when you won them, and your records are now
assigned to Sam's care and keeping. I'm sorry you won't receive the
real honor due you, but you know the reasons why that's not possible."

Then he turned to Sandy. He walked over to her and smiled at the
pretty princess. It had finally sunk into his unconscious as well as
conscious mind that this lovely young lady was really a man under her
captivating finery, so his earlier reactions were no longer a problem,
but it's just not possible for a man to look at someone that pretty,
appearing that innocent, and not smile.

"Sandy Beech," he couldn't suppress his own obligatory snicker, "for
your actions, there's really no reward, no honor that would be
sufficient even if we could make them public. As the standard phrasing
goes, you went far above and beyond the call of duty, suffering in ways
that are so foreign to our way of life that those who weren't there
cannot even begin to appreciate your sacrifice, let alone show their
appreciation properly. Nonetheless, it honors me to be able to present
to you, the Congressional Medal of Honor. Your citation is sufficiently
vague that I was able to let a few legislators see it without
compromising security. Needless to say, it had my highest personal
recommendation. In some ways I don't think I ever understood the
concept of Duty, Honor, and Country that motivates the military
mind until in my own mind's eye I saw you accept the invasion of your
body by that despicable device. I know that I could not have done it,
not even for the life of my nation. I respect you. Thank you."

Sandy's blush looked so perfect on her young face that even Marilyn
almost forgot this was really a twenty-year old male army private.
When the President reached to shake her hand, her delicate gesture
once again almost had him bowing to kiss her slim fingers. Once again
he recovered though, and then smiled at the memory of his earlier
interest. That was the end of their interview. He suggested that they
return to the dinner, but all the girls were saturated with the intensity
of maintaining a perfectly feminine persona in such a glittering
environment, not to mention the thought of once again returning
within reach of the lecherous bureaucrats. They headed to their
limousine instead, though Marilyn trailed behind and spoke with Sam
Gates. In a few minutes she caught up and they embarked on a short
trip to a local hotel.

"Team meeting in ten minutes," Marilyn announced. "Get
comfortable, then come to my room."

The team assembled as ordered, then a glorious smile brought
Marilyn's face to life as she made a further announcement that was
really no surprise, "Well, we've got another mission. Everybody get a
good night's sleep, then we SMITE the wicked again."

Finis