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