Archive-name: Changes/sabrina.txt

Archive-author: Leigh De Santa Fe  - (c) 1990

Archive-title: Making of Sabrina Turner





     Turner looked around the van and wondered what "special

project" they had in mind for these men. They had been selected

from prison camps with obvious care but to Turner's eye the only

thing they had in common was their prisoner of war status. On

second glance, he noticed that they were all young, (some hardly

shaved) handsome and slightly built. In all other ways they seemed

a random collection of prisoners chosen across rank, across all

branches of the services. But Turner knew they had been selected

with care. At the camp he had been taken from the guards had

laughed uproariously as he and Private Ford, his cellmate, had

boarded the van. Turner had wondered then what they knew about his

destination.

     The van soon left the rolling hills near the camp and began

climbing up steep mountain roads. When it stopped Turner heard the

sounds of metal gates opening. He could see through a crack in the

canvas that they were on the grounds of a large walled estate.

Fifteen minutes later the van stopped in front of an enormous

castle. It was an awesome example of gothic splendor built in the

13th century with fairy tale turrets rising into the sky.

     Presently the flap was pulled back and three soldiers trained

machine guns on the prisoners as they departed the van. That wasn't

odd. The fact that they were all women was. A fourth woman, who

seemed to be in charge, conferred with the driver of the van. She

was in her mid-30s, a sullen beauty with glossy brunette hair

pulled back in a bun. Unlike the guards who wore standard olive

drab the brunette was dressed in a black evening gown, attire that

seemed more menacing than absurd. She kept a close watch on the

prisoners as they filed noisily past her into the entry hall. One

soldier made a fresh remark with a guard and was promptly kicked

in the ear by the woman in black. After that it was silent. When

they were assembled in the marbled entry hall the brutal brunette

addressed them. She motioned to a guard who gave the command,

"Kneel." Once the twenty soldiers were at her feet she began to

speak.

     "You are about to embark on an interesting journey. You have

been selected for a special experiment and if you are obedient you

may find it to your liking. Those who are not will find it quite unpleasant.

Look around you, gentlemen and say goodbye to your

friends. You will not be seeing them in this form ever again," she

said cryptically and then turned on her heel and strode off.

     Before they were permitted to stand again a strange thing

happened. At the top of the long stairway that wended its way into

the entry hall there appeared a woman in a red strapless evening

gown. Holding the railing with both hands she leaned out over them

creating suspense about her dresses' ability to contain her

pendulous breasts. With tousled blonde hair falling into her face

and her blank expression she looked as though she had been roused

from a debauched affair and was not quite aware of where she was.

She stood up and slowly, lasciviously brought her hands up from her

waist to her bosom, cupping her breasts as if she had just

discovered them, as if touching them brought her a new ecstasy. She

had succeeded in captivating her silent audience below her when two

guards appeared by her side and took her by the arm and led her

away.

     Then the prisoners were led down a dark hallway and deposited

one by one in their cells.

     Their cells as it turned out were actually rooms of the castle

that had been refurbished for their new inhabitants. Or rather

unfurbished. Turner's room was large with high ceilings and its

supreme feature was a built-in full length mirror. There was a

wardrobe and a bed. He stood at the threshold examining the room

when he felt the sharp jab of a gun barrel in his back. He fell

forward into the room and the door slammed shut behind him.

     He lay for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief to be alone

after many months without solitude. Then he got up and opened a

door next to the mirror. It was a large pink tiled bathroom with

an ornate tub and expensive fixtures. There was also a dressing

table with mirror. This seemed an odd addition to a prison cell.

     He then checked the drawers of the dressing table which were

empty and the wardrobe. It was empty as well. He drew a bath.

     Just as he was sitting down in the lukewarm water he heard

footsteps. He pulled back the shower curtain in time to see a

female guard taking his dirty uniform away. She smiled at him slyly

and said, "Your new clothes will arrive shortly.'' Then she was

gone. Turner frowned and sank back in the tub. The water was

already cool and the room was getting colder as night fell. There

were no towels and as he emerged from the bath tub he was decidedly

cold.

     The marble floors under his feet were ice cold and he sat on

the bed to contemplate how he could warm himself. The bed had been

stripped when his clothes were taken and there were no drapes to

wrap his naked body in. Absently he rechecked the wardrobe to see

if any new clothes had been left for him.

     He was surprised to see a satin dressing gown with fur trim

at the collar and hem hanging from the wooden pole. He took the

gown off the hanger and put it on. It didn't seem to matter that

it was an extremely feminine garment. It was the only clothing

between his skin and the freezing room.

     He stood for a moment and looked at himself in the mirror. He

was tired, hungry and cold and the ridiculous image in the mirror

was less absorbing to him than the intricate scrollwork that framed

it. His mind was thus engaged when the door opened and the brunette in black

walked in, flanked by two guards.

     Dressed warmly in overcoats, their breath was visible as they

burst out laughing at Turner's pathetic attempts to warm himself.

     "We have good news for you. Your new clothes have arrived. I

hope you will find them to your liking," the brunette said with a

slight grin. "Sophia and Lola will assist you with them in the

morning. For now you must make do with your dressing gown which I

must say looks charming on you," she laughed. Then they were gone.

     Turner had barely heard them so dazed was he from hunger and

lack of sleep. He lay back on the bed and collapsed into a fitful

slumber. He dreamt he was standing on a long wooden table in a

large dining hall. The blonde woman in red sat at his feet and

stared blankly up at him holding her breasts. He wore the fur-

trimmed dressing gown.

     He awoke to find a guard methodically drawing a razor down his

leg. His mind couldn't form a question over so absurd a scene so

he just stared in disbelief at her. She smiled at him and continued

her job.

     "They are quite lovely," a voice above him said. He turned to

see a guard standing over him. She was indicating his legs which

were now smooth and hairless. For a military woman she was

remarkably feminine with straight auburn hair that curled under as

it reached her shoulders and thick bangs that covered her eyebrows.

In another context Turner might have described her as "luscious"

or "delicious" and indeed her smooth apple cheeks and cherry lips

invited comparisons to desserts. Her manner, however, could not be

described as sweet and yet it wasn't entirely devoid of feeling

either. She seemed more like a strict tutor than a cruel captor.

     "I am Sophia and I'll be assisting in your lessons. I'm sure

you'll do very well here. Your psychological profile indicates a

readiness for . . . change. Now we have much distance to cover in

the next few months so listen, observe and learn and you will be

treated fairly," she said humorlessly. Turner had no idea what was

going on and before he could ask, his instructor said, "Please

follow me." She turned and walked into the bathroom.

     As she walked away from him, her heels clicking briskly on the

marble floor he realized how lovely she was. Her drab uniform

seemed purposely cut to reveal a sensuous feminine form. He wanted

to reach out and touch her. Without remembering he was following

an order he got up and walked to the bathroom with an eagerness

borne of six months of sexual deprivation.

     She was there waiting for him, a razor in one hand and a

riding crop  in the other. "Sit down," she said pushing a straight

back chair toward him with her foot. And then very matter of

factly, "Put your hands around your back. Now we can begin your

lesson," she said as her companion clicked a pair of handcuffs

around his wrists.

     Turner looked up expectantly at the lovely face. "Stop smiling

like an idiot," she said, hitting his face with the back of her

hand.

     "That's better. Don't smile so much. It disfigures you, makes

you ridiculous. Learn to be beautifully sad. At this moment you

disgust me. The Head Mistress has told me you disgust her as well.

But, like me, she would like me to raise you up above your puny

insignificance. Look at yourself, you are a pathetic picture," she fumed,

rapping him across the groin with her crop , then opening the

dressing gown to reveal his penis.

     "You have been shorn like a lamb. Your tiny cock seems

shrunken without its mat of fur."

     He looked in horror at his genitals. They had been shaved as

smooth as his legs and his cock did seem shriveled and naked. Tears

welled in his eyes. She laughed and flopped his penis around with

her crop as though it were a dead fish on the beach.

     "Yes, the Head Mistress is not at all happy with you now but

we will change all that. I am here to see that you regain the power

you have lost . . . if you want to. If not . . ." her voice trailed

off into menacing silence. Then suddenly her face was very close

and Turner could smell her cologne. "Now listen you worm, from now

on I will be the teacher, you the student. You won't speak, or even

breathe without my permission. You are part of a special project

and if you fail then I fail and I don't fail," she shouted at him.

The short bursts of breath hit his face punctuated with spittle.

Then, unexpectedly, she kissed him slowly on the lips. When at last

their lips parted she smiled at him. "I give rewards for

obedience."

     "Now you were brought here for one reason: to give pleasure.

That is all you are good for. To give pleasure." Turner watched her

lips move. They seemed more delicious than anything he had ever

seen. He had no idea what she was talking about.

     "The Head Mistress has been given one assignment: to provide

attractive companions for our leaders whose tastes favor girls with

. . . added attractions," she said, caressing his penis with her crop . "These companions must be beautiful, attentive to the needs

of their suitors and above all interested in giving pleasure. Do

you understand?, Mr. Turner. Answer me. Do you understand?

     Turner stared up at her like a child and nodded.

     "Good. Now the Head Mistress has been very generous in

providing you with some new clothes. I think now is the time to try

them on. Are you cold?"

     Before he could speak she had left the room. She returned

shortly with a uniform in her hands. "This will be your uniform for

now," she said dropping an olive drab bundle in his lap.

     "You will find it warm and comfortable. Please put it on."

Lola unlocked the cuffs and helped him stand. "Arms up. Put your

arms up," she shouted when he hesitated. Then she pulled the

uniform down over his head, putting his arms through the sleeves

with difficulty. It was threadbare wool and very uncomfortable

despite what she had said. The fabric chafed against his newly

shaved skin as she pulled it down around his waist. It was not a

warm garment at all but light with a very coarse nap. It seemed too

open at the bottom. He looked down at his legs and was confused.

There were no pant legs, just a loose tube of fabric. He turned to

her and said, "What is this? It's a . . . " Sophia looked at him

blankly. She knew what he was thinking but feigned ignorance for

a moment.

     Then she said, "Look at yourself Mr. Turner," pointing at the

mirror. Turner slowly brought his head around and stared into the

mirror.

     He was wearing a woman's uniform. A dress. It was military

issue with padded shoulders but it was a dress, nonetheless. Sophia

laughed at his confusion. The laughter struck him like a blow as the words he

couldn't comprehend before became clear. He felt tears

welling up in his tired eyes. Soon the image in the mirror was

obscured by a veil of tears. Then it disappeared altogether as he

began to weep openly. Sophia watched him for a moment and then put

her arms around him.

     "You don't like it? It is plain, that's true. But it's very

becoming. I think you look very striking, don't you agree Lola?"

     She brought his chin up with her hand and kissed him for the

second time that day. Despite his weariness and bewilderment his

body responded promptly to the affection that he had lacked for so

long. When her hand found his groin it furthered his excitement.

But as his cock grew hard she began rubbing the rough fabric

against his sensitively aroused flesh. She seemed oblivious to this

as she kissed him more passionately and continued to flay his penis

with the abrasive skirt. He grasped her hand weakly but she threw

it off and resumed her tortuous lovemaking. Finally he cried out.

     She stopped. "What's the matter, don't you like me," she asked

coyly. His penis throbbed with pain. Each spasm of its contractions

touched the tight skirt like a lit match. Sophia waited a moment

and then grabbed his shrinking cock again and gave it a few more

painful twists. When he had doubled over with pain she pushed him

into the chair.

     "I don't understand men who can't make love even for a few

minutes. Especially one so deprived as you," she said turning to

check her lipstick in the mirror. Lola burst out laughing and

departed.

     Turner stayed in the chair for an hour, the slightest movement

causing his chafed cock unbearable pain. The thought of taking the

garment off was unthinkable until the pain subsided.

     He stared at the mirror which faced him. The dress had large

shoulders and was loose in front where a woman's bosom would

normally fill out the contours. The sleeves were short exposing his

arms to the cold. He decided that he would be better off without

it if he could only raise the skirt over his wounded cock. Finally

the cold tile on his feet drove him back into the bedroom where he

could at least lie quietly on the bed.

     He lay on the bed for another half hour before he noticed the

room was again becoming colder. Slowly he walked to the wardrobe

to retrieve the dressing gown. It was gone. It had been replaced

by a full-length satin slip. His fingers gratefully felt the

smooth, soft fabric and he began to remove the scratchy tunic that

caused him so much pain.

     Slowly he drew the dress over his head. After five minutes he

had rid himself of its rough bondage. He took the slip off the

hanger and pulled it on. It provided no warmth but his body

luxuriated in its silky smoothness.

     The slip was black and fell to just below Turner's knees.

Looking into the mirror his eyes followed the two thin black straps

over his white shoulders to the lacy black filigree across his

chest. It seemed like a strange dream. With a sigh borne of

exhaustion he fell back on the bed and stared blankly up at the

ceiling.

     He thought of his wife. He imagined her watching him silently

from a corner of the room and for a moment he felt her presence so

strongly that he had to force himself to look over and prove that she wasn't

actually there witnessing his degradation. Then the cold

overtook him and he gingerly bent over and picked up the military

dress and drew it over his shoulders like a blanket. He slept.

     The cold woke him in the middle of the night and he found the

uniform had fallen on the floor. Without much thought he pulled it

over his head and found it tolerable over the smooth black satin.

He drifted back into tortured sleep and the next thing he felt was

Sophia's crop on his buttocks.

     "Get up, get up . . . Miss Turner."

     Turner opened his eyes and saw Sophia and Lola staring at him.

Sophia whispered something to Lola and they laughed for a moment

before she prodded him in the groin with her crop .

     "I said get up!"

     Turner swung his legs over the edge of the bed exposing the

lacy hem of his slip. Lola pointed this out to Sophia who smiled

and said, "Who told you to put this on? I didn't tell you to put

this on. This is a woman's slip. Are you trying to tell us

something, Miss Turner." Sophia turned to her friend. "Lola, I

think we have another star pupil on our hands. Such a precocious

little tart." And then to Turner she said.

     "Strip, Miss Turner. Strip." Sophia said striking him with her crop . Turner rolled off the bed and tried to remove the uniform

which was impossible on his knees. "Lola, help her up. She's too

weak." Lola pulled him up on his feet and rudely jerked the uniform

up over his head. The slip rode up, exposing his shaved penis and

the straps fell off his shoulders.

     "Remove everything, bitch!" she yelled. He pulled the slip off

and put it on the bed.

     "Now put your uniform back on, dear," she said, her voice

regaining it's strange serenity. Turner's upper lip began to

tremble as he bent down to pick up the garment that had tormented

his penis the day before. Once again he pulled the coarse garment

over his head. Sophia smiled.

     "Now we can begin our day. Come."

     Turner followed Sophia out of the cell and down the dimly lit

corridors of the castle. After a few twists and turns the corridor

opened up into a large open room, the prisoner's dining room.

     The dining hall was enormous with long wooden tables in rows.

It was filling up from all corners of the castle with prisoners

each accompanied by two female guards. Most of them wore the same

drab frock that Turner wore. But a few had sweaters and pants.

     Turner examined these men carefully. He assumed they had

collaborated to be awarded with warm, masculine clothes. But as he

drew closer he observed that beneath the tight sweaters they were

wearing brassieres and their pants were tight with special padding

in the buttocks that added womanly curves to their hips. Instead

of the bare feet that prevailed among most of the prisoners these

special few wore shiny black high heels. If they had collaborated

they were rewarded in a strange way.

     The prisoners sat far apart from each other so that eye

contact was difficult, conversation impossible. The food, a thin

porridge, was placed before them and they ate hungrily. It was the

first food they had seen in three days. Sophia and Lola sat across

from him cheerfully remarking on the abundance of young "lovelies."

     Far across the room he recognized his old cellmate, Ford. He was one of the

"lucky" ones wearing a sweater in the cold drafty

room. There was something odd about his face Turner thought. It

seemed strangely white. Moments later Ford was marched out of the

dining hall. As he approached Turner's table Turner saw that Ford's

face was powdered, his cheeks rouged and his lips painted bright

red. Underneath the sweater he was indeed wearing a bra whose cups

provided a buxom profile as he walked past Turner on unsteady

heels. From his ears hung two garish rhinestone earrings which

contrasted starkly to Ford's close cropped hair. At the last moment

Turner averted his eyes because he could see tear drops colored

black with mascara hanging tenuously beneath Ford's eyes. It

reminded Turner of a circus clown parodying a woman. He watched him

until he disappeared down one of the hallways.

     After the meal Turner was led back into the room where Sophia

ordered him to disrobe and face the mirror. After an hour of

shivering silence Sophia said, "Miss Turner, it is time for your

bath."

     Lola drew another lukewarm bath which quickly turned from

tepid to cold as he was forced to sit in the water for an hour and

a half. When Sophia gave the signal at last Lola had to help Turner

up he was shivering so badly.

     He was then shaved again. This time without the anesthetic of

sleep. But Lola was fast and skillful with the razor and mercifully

he was covered with hot towels prior to shaving. Not, he realized

later, because of any concern for his comfort but simply to get a

more thorough shave. As before his whole body was depilitated, from

chin to toe. His groin still smarting from the painful chafing he'd

received from Sophia's "lovemaking" he watched anxiously as Lola

quickly denuded his genitals of stubble.

     After it was over the thought of putting on the rough uniform

produced a wave of despair. When Sophia ordered him to put it on

he thought of balking. His strength had returned somewhat since his

meal and for a moment he believed he could overpower them. But that

passed when he stood up and realized he was close to fainting.

     He bent over slowly to pick up the uniform when Sophia said,

"Wait. Lola, bring Miss Turner her lingerie. We saw how much he

admired Miss Ford's bosom. And the uniform must be very coarse on

his delicate skin." Lola left and returned with a black brassiere

and a pair of black silk panties.

     Turner watched dully as Lola put his arms through the straps

of the brassiere. He looked up at Sophia and managed to ask weakly,

"Why?"

     She looked as though she understood his bewilderment and when

she bent over him he thought she was going to whisper an

explanation to him. But she was merely stooping to fill the cups

of the brassiere with gelatin-filled bags and when she spoke it was

another caustic aside.

     "This is a training bras for little girls. You will wear this

under your uniform from now on. With the padding, of course. If I

find you are not wearing your brassiere and panties all clothes

will be removed permanently."

     They left and Turner sat in the chair and wept. Through his

tears he glimpsed his shaved body in black lingerie in the large

mirror. He turned away in disgust. Finally as the cold became

unbearable he drew the uniform over his head and went to lie down.

                           *    *    *



     Six months passed without a break in his dreary routine. He

was fed in his room now and never allowed out to the dining hall

and the company of his fellow prisoners. Except for the twice

weekly ritual of shaving which he had begun to look forward to as

a relief from the boredom he was alone. Little was said at these

meetings. Lola would shave him as Sophia smoked cigarettes and

admired herself in the mirror. No new clothes were brought to him

nor anything at all to occupy his mind. The mirror became a source

of fascination to him. He sat in bed for hours at a time in his bra

and panties and watched himself. Drifting.

     One day as he stared at his reflection he noticed with horror

that the cups of his brassiere were filling out not with the

gelatin bags but with his own swollen chest. He rushed to the

mirror, tearing the halter off and examined his chest. No longer

hard and flat, it was soft and with two pink buds clearly

protruding. He felt them with his hands. They almost filled his

palms. He looked at his profile and as his eyes traced the contour

of his body he noticed that his buttocks were somehow different

too. Wider and softer, as if they were padded, his thighs were no

longer the lean, masculine sinews he had six months ago. He grew

frightened and angry as he stood before the strange body in the

mirror. As he stood examining himself with growing rage the door

swung open and Sophia walked in.

     "Miss Turner, you are not wearing your bra . . . " she paused

to examine his recent development. Then she smiled and said, "and

now you really need it. Put it on."

     Turner bent over and picked up the bra. "I think we've done

you a great honor, Miss. Once you were a speck of dust in olive

drab but now you are quite special. What other soldier can boast

a pair of lovely, young breasts. I find your nipples much too small

but that will change. In six short months you have gone from

nothing to a promising girlhood. In even less time you will blossom

into alluring womanhood. Now the panties. Oh, we are going to have

to get you new panties, you are bursting out of those. I hope you

appreciate the silk and satin. It is not easy to procure. Your wife

would envy you . . . if she recognized you." Turner rushed at her

but she was ready for him and stepped aside, kicking him as he

passed. He fell down hard on the marble but before him the door

stood open and he leapt up and ran down the hall. The corridor was

long and empty but at the far end he noticed a door opening into

darkness. He went in, closed the door and listened to his heart

beating in his ears. Cautiously following a dim light he found

himself at the end of yet another corridor. It seemed to be lit by

a series of large windows along one side of the wall. Pale

illumination passed through the windows creating rectangles of

light on the opposite wall. And within these rectangles figures

seemed to dance. As his eyes grew accustomed to the halflight he

proceeded down the hall to the first window and was astonished to

find a half-dressed woman staring at him through the window.

     Quickly darting back into the shadows he pressed his body flat

against the cold stone walls. Then, very slowly, he peeked around

the corner. The woman was still there. But she didn't seem to see him. Wearing

only a bra and halfslip she turned this way and that

as if she were looking at her profile. Then it dawned on him. It

was not a window at all but a oneway mirror and it wasn't a woman

but another male prisoner in transition to womanhood.

     He grew sick and slumped to the floor. Then he thought of his

captors and he got up and continued to make his way down the hall

of mirrors.

     Each "window" seemed to offer a more disheartening tableau of

humiliation. In one a nubile young "lady" sat at her vanity

applying lipstick with painstaking care. In another a sweet young

thing stalked the mirror wearing only a pair of high heel shoes and

a pair of earrings. This vamp's face was delicately made up and his

tousled hair was tied up with a black bow. Turner watched as the

tall beauty walked toward the mirror with rouged lips parted in

pouty insouciance then turned on his heels and walked away throwing

backward glances of sexual allure that seemed aimed directly at

Turner in the shadowy hallway. Further down the hall, a third

picture window offered a comely blonde trying on bra after bra.

Hooking and unhooking them with an unseemly precision, he stopped

occasionally to put his hands on his hips and strike girlish poses

which inevitably led to his hands sliding up to cup his newly

formed breasts and fingering his nipples through the lacy fabric.

     Each of these "maidens" seemed unabashed in their enjoyment

of their reborn bodies, their delicious new curves and wardrobes

of silk and lace. By the time he reached the fourth window he

thought nothing could shock him. He was wrong.

     In the fourth window a young prisoner sat in straight-backed

chair facing the mirror. He was naked except for a pair of calf

length high heeled boots. Hennaed hair fell past his shoulders in

thick, pleasing curls but unlike the other prisoners his face was

not made up. Even so his features exuded a feminine petulance. And

like the others his chest displayed a lush bosom. In fact his

entire body had the soft and pliant affect that captivity had

wrought on all the prisoners. The only visible sign of his former

gender lolled between his legs, a startling afterthought. The once

handsome young man stared blankly past the mirror now, arms folded

as though he were waiting for something to happen.

     Something did. The door to the cell opened and in walked two

female guards and an imposing young officer. The hennaed beauty

turned crimson as he vainly tried to cover his breasts and groin.

The three newcomers laughed. Then one of the female guards took

the chair from the hapless creature and gave it to the officer who

sat comfortably as though he had just arrived at the theater. Then

he spoke to the guards briefly and they left, leaving behind a

small suitcase they had brought.

     The officer studied his captive. Both had been officers at one

time, wearing different tunics, fighting on opposite sides but

equals on the battlefield. Here the stakes were considerably

altered. One was now an officer and a . . . lady. In place of

combat boots were heels, in place of hardened muscles, an

uncomfortable voluptuousness that only added to his air of

innocence. With his cheeks flushed and his heaving bosom he might

have been a startled nymph had he not also possessed the

embarrassing third leg which seemed to shrink away to nothing

between his soft thighs. The officer spoke. And the "lady" responded. She walked

to his

side still tremulously covering her breasts and privates. From

inside his coat he produced a flask which he offered to the "lady."

This presented her with an indelicate problem: which erogenous zone

should she expose. She opted to display her breasts as she grasped

the flask and took a generous swallow. The officer then took the

flask, put it back in his coat and spoke again. This time the young

lady responded by turning slowly around, reluctantly modeling her

new physique. He offered her another drink. She took the flask and

emptied it. Then the officer opened the suitcase and removed a

black lace brassiere which he handed to the hennaed beauty. She

turned her back to him to put the halter on but he said something

to her and hesitantly she turned to face him. Slowly her hand left

her groin and simultaneously a deep blush blossomed across her

chest and spread up into her cheeks. She stood exposed before the

officer. He waved his hand and she put hers through the straps,

fastening it with a nonchalance that almost contradicted her

embarrassment.

     Turner glanced down the corridor to make sure it was empty

then he turned back to the fascinating spectacle. The officer had

retrieved a bottle of amber liquid from the suitcase. He poured a

tumblerful into a small glass and again offered it to the young

lady. Again she downed it. He poured himself a drink and began to

talk to the lady. His manner was decidedly less imperious than

before and Turner surmised that he was praising his guest's charms

because for the first time a sheepish smile crossed her face. She

still stood with her hand over her crotch but a growing casualness

was evident in the way she shifted back and forth on her feet.

Finally she approached him and apparently asked for another drink.

He obliged and as she handed the glass back to him her free hand

swung coyly away from her groin. He poured one last glass of the

liquid, took a sip and then handed the rest to her. A lewd grin

appeared on her face as she took the glass and drank it down.

     Then she abruptly walked towards the mirror and for a moment

Turner had the sensation she could see him watching her. She

stretched, putting her hands behind her head and pulling her hair

up off the nape of her neck in a gesture that seemed intended to

ignite the officer. Her hands moved to her hips, then up to her

chest where they played over her soft breasts.

     The officer said something and she returned to his side, not

at all the shy, little waif but with a decidedly wanton swagger,

she seemed to be challenging him, dangling a baited hook between

her legs.

     The officer accepted the challenge by smiling and reaching out

to stroke her inner thigh with the back of his hand. He then moved

freely up to fondle the all but vestigial organ of the young

warrior turned wench. She ignored him and looked into the mirror,

as though studying her beauty in a new light. But finally her eyes

began to flicker and then closed as the officer's determined

manipulation brought an unsurprising result.

     Turner felt himself responding in kind though he fought it.

Turning to listen for his pursuers all he could hear was his own

heavy panting echoing in the darkened corridor. He turned back to

the scene.

     The young "girl" was now fully erect and massaging her breasts in ecstatic

communion with her delicious new body. The officer

meanwhile had discontinued his own massage and had walked to the

door, opening it for a pair of guards. One of them carried a camera

and proceeded to take pictures of the maiden. The other carried a

satin robe with ermine collar. She waited until one or two pictures

had been taken the threw the robe over the naked shoulders of the

captive. Too drunk to respond quickly to this turn of events she

slowly became aware of the presence of others and her hands left

her breasts and loosely fastened the robe around her waist. The

officer came up behind her and whispered something into her ear.

She laughed and gave him a simmering sidelong glance. Then smiling

broadly she walked to her vanity and picked up a brush and a

lipstick. Taking these to the large mirror she stood a few inches

from Turner and ran the brush through her abundant hair with the

greatest possible drama and then pinned it up. She applied the

lipstick, a vivid deep red, in a similarly overwrought manner,

taking care to examine her look closely and finding it pleasing,

smiled coquettishly. Her smile startled Turner who felt it was

directed at his own hidden self behind the mirror. Before any more

secret communiques were delivered she turned to join the officer

who now slipped his arm around her waist as though it had been his

intention all along merely to escort his lovely captive to a

candlelit dinner within the castle walls.

     The two guards watched them exit and then turned and strode

over to the mirror. In moments the mirror had slid away and they

were staring down at Turner's weeping frame.

     "You been a bad girl, Miss Turner. Haven't you?"

     Turner stared at his feet.

     "I said you've been a bad girl, Miss Turner. I want to hear

you say it. Now!" the guard grabbed Turner beneath the jaw and

lifted his chin so that they stared at each other eye to eye.

     "I . . . I've been a bad . . . girl." he said between sobs.

     "That's better and usually we punish bad girls, Miss Turner

but we're not going to punish you. In fact you're going to have a

special treat. We're going to let you dance. We're going to let you

dance for all your . . . girlfriends. Come."

     Turner followed the guards back to the dining hall. As he

walked between the long wooden tables he became aware of eyes

staring at him. For a brief moment he thought they were guards.

Then he realized they weren't wearing uniforms but were dressed in

a broad, almost absurd assortment of feminine clothes, evening

gowns, skirts and blouses, lacy nightgowns, dirndls. And all of

them were undergoing the disturbing transformation from soldiers

into soft, harmless women.

     He was so overcome with shame that he seemed oblivious to the

cold gun barrel prodding him forward. Waves of nausea coursed

through him as his scantily clad figure became the object of every

eye. He found his arms instinctively folded over a new source of

immodesty, his handsome bust, enshrined revealingly in black lace.

     "Miss Turner," Sophia shouted, "Now that you have commanded

the attention of your girlfriends perhaps you would like to

perform. I'm sure they would all love to see how gracefully you've

grown into your brassiere. Or maybe you would like to dance for

them. Get up on the table so everyone can see your extraordinary

figure. Go on. Get up," she said gaily. Turned advanced along the table slowly,

his head against his chest. "Much too sad, Miss.

Please kick your heels up. High. Higher. That's it."

     Turner thrust his legs into the air as if they were controlled

by a puppet master. His arms fell to his sides. He became aware of

a strange new sensation. As his feet bounced off the table, his

petite new breasts rose and fell independently of his chest.

Occasionally he would see the sad faces of his fellow prisoners

turning away from the humiliating spectacle which they shared in.

One face did not look away but instead smiled bravely at him. It

was Ford and his expression was one of support not betrayal. From

the beginning it was obvious that Ford had been a gifted student

of femininity. Now his blonde hair, grown out past his shoulders,

had been styled, his face was expertly made up and the tight black

sweater covered a more developed feminine form than Turner

displayed. A string of white pearls around his neck seemed

completely in keeping with his demure demeanor and outwardly he

resembled the perfect example of feminine composure. A pang of

jealousy arose in Turner as he observed the serenity with which

Ford bore his glamorous burden. He seemed to accept his painful

transformation with such aplomb that it was not painful at all.

     "That's enough dancing for one day. Please return to your room

now," Sophia finally said. Turner stepped off the table, his eyes

so fixated on Ford that the guards had to prod him with their guns

to move him back to his room.

     After his momentary escape Turner sat for hours and wondered

about what was happening. His mind went back to Sophia's words that

first week. "Special project . . ." " . . . who like girls with

special additions." He glanced down at his penis curled limply

under his sheer black panties. It dawned on him at last that were

to be courtesans, prostitutes with penises, concubines with cocks.

     Now in the days following his adventure in the darkened

corridor behind the mirrors he was bewildered and confused by the

new emotions and paradoxes his changing body had thrust upon him.

     He couldn't look at himself in the mirror anymore. It was too

painful to see his body bursting out of the lingerie like it

belonged in it. He touched his cheek and realized he had not been

shaved for two weeks and still his skin was smooth and soft.

     His hair which had not been cut since his arrival now fell

limply past his shoulders and in those unavoidable glimpses of

himself in the mirror he saw not the firm, hard body he had arrived

with but a soft, female body with a soft, feminine face framed by

long, unkempt brunette hair.

     Once glimpsed the image stood fixed in his mind, an

unforgettable vision of such fascinating power that he couldn't rid

himself of it no matter what he did. It revolved in his mind like

a statue of venus. And despite his efforts he found himself

secretly examining it from every possible perspective without ever

actually looking at himself in the mirror.

     Lying in bed with his eyes shut, his hands would unconsciously

seek his breasts and cup them with a strange forbidden pleasure

that he found more and more difficult to resist. Sophia and her

taunts were forgotten in these reveries. They had withdrawn before

the larger spectacle of his transformation, the seduction of his

own body.

     Finally he could stand it no longer. He must look into the mirror. For now

it was not simply his reflection, it was a glimpse

into his future. As frightening or despairing as it might be, the

unfamiliar body in the mirror was now his destiny.

     He approached it quietly as if it were a sleeping nymph, not

to be disturbed by his coarse curiosity. With his back to the

mirror he unhooked his brassiere and swung quietly around like a

ballerina. When at last he stood before the mirror he moved slowly

in a semi-circle before it, studying his new contours as if he were

going to draw or sculpt them. His hands moved gracefully from his

breasts to his hips in a delicate arc. He felt a strange love for

his new form. A love he had never even considered when his chest

was flat and hard, his hips narrow and lean.

     Now without shame, or remorse but only with an abiding

interest he turned and turned in an endless series of poses, some

gross, some coquettish, some of raw female sexuality, some of

unconvincing male posturing. He stood before the mirror and pushed

his penis back between his legs and imagined. With his rounded

bosom and the triangle of wiry fur at his groin he resembled a

tousled virgin. Deep inside an innocence was reborn and mingled

with mischievous lust. As he toyed with his new image he found his

sex rising in interest. Merely by putting his hands behind his head

and sweeping the hair up off the nape of his neck he commanded the

attention of every sexual impulse in his body. Each pose, however

subtlely distinct from the one before it, renewed him with fierce

excitement. The mirror became his lover from whom he coyly hid his

charms or to whom he boldly invited with lewd displays of unabashed

sexual vulgarity. In this way he seduced himself and at last

collapsed on the bed his knees weak with lust. His energy thus

spent he fell into a deep untroubled sleep.

     He dreamed of his wife. They lay in bed together, embracing

in sleep. And then he was hovering over the bed watching himself

and his wife. As he became aware that his wife's hand lay over his

own soft breast, that it wasn't his former body lying there beneath

him but his current feminine form that his wife so lovingly

caressed, he was filled with an overwhelming happiness. Then he was

at home, standing before the bathroom mirror and looking at his

face, studying it. His hair was long but unlike its current state

of dishevelment it was styled in a comely pageboy. Then he noticed

Sophia and his wife behind him, watching him with loving eyes,

smiling at his prettiness. This vision, like the first, filled him

with undiluted bliss and he fell into deep sleep.

     The following morning when he went into the bathroom he found

a solitary lipstick standing straight up on the dressing table. The

shining brass tube stood out in the austerity of the tiled room

like a bullet of gold. Turner thought of that first meeting in the

dining hall when Ford had walked past him with his lips painted

bright red and the blonde on the balcony with her ruby lips. Then

he had fought off nausea. Now he felt like a child at Christmas.

He reached out for the tube.

     It was cool and smooth to the touch. For years he had watched

his wife put on lipstick and had never paid any attention to the

object itself, never held one in his hand. Now it seemed more

precious than anything he had ever owned.

     Again his mind went back to the other prisoners. Virtually all

of those he'd seen on his excursion behind the mirrors wore make-up. Yet he had

been given no cosmetics. Why? Something like

indignation arose in him. His cheeks flushed with anger when he

thought of his deprivation.

     Now in the cool morning he held the brass tube in his hand

like a sacred talisman. He removed the brass top. Suddenly, as if

he had unleashed a strange, forbidden power, he was trembling with

excitement. Then, every muscle tingling, he turned the base causing

the bright red bullet to emerge from his dark cave. He brought it

up to his lips and found his hand was shaking. Taking deep breaths

he calmed himself. Then, with great care he spread the cool red

balm over his lips.

     "How lovely you look, Miss Turner," Sophia's voice called out

casually from behind him. He dropped the lipstick and felt his

entire body burn with embarrassment. In the mirror he saw Sophia,

Lola, the head mistress and another woman he didn't immediately

recognize. A pretty blonde. It was Ford.

     Sophia approached him and ran her fingers through his hair.

"You shouldn't resist your impulses to be pretty. Miss Ford didn't

and now she is the loveliest girl here. It's time your natural

beauty was enhanced by a visit to the salon. Miss Ford is having

her hair done so she will accompany you."

     Turner looked at Ford's reflection in the mirror. Their eyes

met for a brief second and then Ford glanced away. He wore a plain

blue shift and his face was not made up. His straight blonde hair

fell smoothly over his shoulders, still wet from his shower. Even

without makeup he now resembled a woman more than a man, more than

the soldier that had been his companion months ago. He couldn't

take his eyes off Ford, so fascinating was his transformation from

a young boy from Iowa to this enchanting blonde beauty.

     Once again this daydreaming was disturbed by Sophia's cold

hand on his shoulder. "Come on girls, you don't want to be late.

Get into your dress, Miss Turner."

     Soon they were walking down the corridor to the salon. Ford

leading the way in a mincing gait. As Turner watched his hips

swivel and sway he thought absently of reaching out to touch it.

But these thoughts were disturbed when Sophia reached out and

pinched his own derriere and it became clear that his soft round

buttocks provided a tempting target of their own. His heart sank.

     They reached the salon: a large white room with a row of shiny

stainless steel chairs with black leather seats facing a long

mirror. It smelled of peroxide and shampoo.

     They were seated, then strapped tightly into the chairs and

left alone. This was the first opportunity Turner had had in six

months to be alone with a fellow prisoner and yet for all his

loneliness and longing for conversation he sat silently, staring

into the mirror and trying to avoid Ford's eyes.

     It was Ford who broke the uncomfortable silence. "Is this your

first time in the Salon," he said softly.

     "Yes," Turner said looking at Ford closely for the first time

in months. The limp blonde hair once close cropped above his ears

now fell in pale tendrils around his face. He tried without success

to conjure a vision of Ford in the days before he had a woman's

bustline. Instead the brief but indelible images he had glimpsed

over the past months reappeared. The frightened and crudely made

up figure that had passed his table at his first meal and much later, the demure

maiden in pearls that had looked up at him

sympathetically during his humiliating dance. Neither of them

resembled this wan waif lost to himself in a body that pushed

dramatically at the seams of the plain cotton dress.

     "How many . . . " Turner began haltingly.

     "Six or seven. The first time is the hardest." Ford looked

down. "It's difficult to see yourself . . ."

     "As a girl?" Turner finished.

     "As a pretty girl," Ford corrected. " . . . and there's

something else too." Ford said turning his head toward Turner for

the first time.

     "What?"

     "The guilt over feeling good at the way you look. And you

will look good. Try to prepare yourself for it, sir."

The reflexive appellation, absurd in this strange context, brought

a shy girlish smile to Ford's pale features. Turner returned the

smile but inwardly he recoiled. Ford's surrender to his own beauty

seemed quite natural and at the same time repulsive. Would he

capitulate so easily? He could prepare for battle but how could he

brace himself for surrender to his own body.

     At that moment the door opened and three women walked in. A

guard and two young women in white smocks. They were quite gay and

seemed to be in the middle of an animated conversation. Taking no

notice of Turner and Ford they continued their conversation while

picking up their combs and attending to the business of styling

hair. The guard sat sullenly by the door.

     At some point Sophia walked in and stood over Turner's chair

for a moment. She whispered something to the hairdresser who

promptly wheeled the chair around so it no longer faced the mirror

and resumed brushing out his hair.

     Turner sat in the chair while his hair was washed, combed and

cut and then meticulously rolled in large curlers. Out of the

corner of his eye he could see similar things happening to Ford.

But they did not speak.

     The hairdressers chatted amiably though, only once addressing

a comment to the two captives. After Turner's hair had been trimmed

the hairdresser held his head in her hands and said, "Handsome,

eh?" And her companion amended, "Lovely," and they laughed.

     After his hair had been dried by his hairdresser she removed

the curlers and brushed the soft curls out while cooing soft

soothing compliments.

     Though he couldn't see himself in the mirror as the curlers

were taken out and his hair fell freely once again he could feel

the soft, wavy curls brushing his cheeks and coursing freely over

his shoulders. He was terribly curious to see what he looked like.

But it was not to be. Not yet.

     Sophia arrived with two more women in smocks. Beautiful,

delicate young girls with large cases of cosmetics which they

proceeded to unpack.

     Seeing them sizing up his face and selecting various powders

and cremes, Turner knew the ordeal wasn't over. Ford meanwhile was

finished and had been freed from his chair.

     In place of the limp locks was a cascade of lustrous blonde

hair that parted in the middle and fell in a smooth curl to Ford's

shoulders. Thick bangs brushed his eyebrows and completed the delicate frame for

his soft features.

     As he was led back to his room Ford turned and gave Turner a

hesitant smile. Then his eyes slid past Turner into the mirror

behind him. For a moment Turner watched his expression as Ford

examined his coiffure. Ford cocked his head to allow his hair to

roll over one shoulder. Turner was shocked. It was a feminine

gesture of vanity. He blushed with shame at Ford's capitulation to

womanhood. And yet in the next moment he was tormented with

curiosity about his own looks.

     A subtle shift occurred as he watched Ford leave the salon.

Since their arrival at the castle Turner had viewed Ford's

metamorphosis with many emotions: revulsion, dismay and

occasionally lust. Now something new had been added to this

turbulent mix: envy. Though he would have denied it vehemently

there was no doubting that as he watched the lovely blonde turn

back to smile at him, her creamy blonde hair swirling over her

shoulders, part of his complex feelings included a desire to look

as good as Ford did, as pretty and as feminine.

     His attention shifted to the two girls who were now waxing his

already smooth legs and arms. Cheerfully they went about their task

with no more regard for him than the hairdressers.

     As they finished the depilitation they began to discuss

Turner's face. They seemed to be developing a strategy for make-up

application. Then, having decided on a plan they tied Turner's hair

back with a red ribbon and proceeded to apply make-up.

Occasionally, they wordlessly directed him to close his eyes or

move his head up and down.

     An hour later they were putting their things away when Sophia

walked in. "Bellissima. Excellent work, girls." She kicked the

chair with her foot and it swung around so that for the first time

in three hours Turner faced the mirror.

     Even though he had spent much of the past three hours

imagining what he would look like he still wasn't prepared for the

transformation he stared at in the mirror. His hair, once short and

straight, now fell away from his head in billowing hennaed waves.

His face belonged to someone else as well. Someone with delicately

arched eyebrows and dark wine-colored lips. He searched in the

mirror for something he could recognize but even his eyes seemed

a different color when surrounded by soft brown shadow and

mascaraed eyelashes.

     They had invested his face with a glamour that was larger than

life. A face which possessed a serene sadness and which fascinated

Turner as though it was not his face at all but the face of a

smoldering Hollywood starlet. He observed the face without moving

his eyes or mouth for that would acknowledge in some concrete way

that the lovely features were his own. He now understood Ford's

brief moment of enchantment as he left the salon. The mirror which

had been their only friend and lover for months now made its final

claim on his soul. Slowly he moved his head to one side, letting

his hair caress one shoulder. The lovely woman in the mirror gently

mimicked him. Then her long lashes closed and when she opened them

her lips had formed a lustful pout. He forgot himself and his hands

pulled against their restraints as he tried to touch his hair. He

longed to fill his hands with the soft permed waves, to pull them

back tautly behind his head, to sweep them up in back, to pose inŠa thousand

different attitudes of feminine abandon. It was through

the fog of this trance that Sophia's voice distantly reappeared.

     "You've been such a lovely, complacent girl today the head

mistress has decided to reward you for your cooperation. Lola,

bring me Miss Turner's reward."

     Lola approached with a bundle of neatly folded clothes.

     "Since you have been so submissive we have decided to return

your old uniform to you, cleaned of course. Put it on."

     Lola unfastened his bonds and he stood weakly after his many

hours in the chair.

     "Lola, help Miss Turner undress. I hope you will find it more

comfortable to be back in your familiar uniform."

     As Lola pulled the drab dress up over his head he wondered

what this game was all about. Sophia motioned for him to remove his

brassiere and panties as well. Then she directed him to put on his

the G.I. uniform. As he pulled on his underwear he immediately

realized that this was no reward but a more subtle form of

humiliation designed to point out how much he had changed. The

pants were now impossibly tight, his pliant feminine buttocks

filling the seat like giant teardrops. His shirt could not be

buttoned across his buxom chest. Even his feet seemed too dainty

for the polished stiffness of his combat boots.

     Turner stood up after tying his shoes and looked at himself

once again in the mirror. With his breasts peeking slyly through

his shirt and his pants impossibly tight he looked like a starlet

in GI drag at a USO show. He pictured himself both as the ripe

starlet and as the audience for this bawdy parody of life in

uniform.

     "It doesn't fit too well, does it? Perhaps we can take it in

or rather let it out," Sophia remarked, running her hand over his

bursting buttocks. "For now Lola will escort you back to your

room."

     As they walked back to the cell they came upon the entry hall

where he had stood many months before. His uniform had fit then.

     When they had arrived in the main hallway Lola told him to

wait. After five minutes or so he could hear a commotion outside.

Another van was arriving. Soon the large wooden doors opened and

new prisoners began slowly to file in under the watchful eyes of

guards.

     Turner now became the glamorous center of attention as the new

arrivals noticed the shapely beauty in fatigues. He remembered the

blonde in red at the top of the stairs. His predecessor it was now

clear was another ravishing testimony to their skill at turning

hardened soldiers into winsome girls. It was a cunning stunt. And

now he was the stunning cunt that greeted the new guinea pigs with

the blank stare of a bored model. But he wasn't bored. He was numb.

Some of the braver men let loose with wolf whistles and one said,

"Hey, I didn't know this camp was co-ed." The Head Mistress clapped

her hands and the men directed part of their attention to her

standard cryptic speech which Turner understood only too well now.

     Then Lola began to lead Turner back to his cell while the

prisoners walked behind him en masse to the dining room. The

whistles resumed along with lewd offers which the guards made no

effort to silence.

     When they reached Turner's room Lola told Turner to wait by the door while

the prisoners filed past, so near that he could feel

the warmth of their breath. All of them stared at him as though he

were a gigantic candy bar. They couldn't take their eyes off the

curves protruding through the open shirt. He felt himself turn

redder than his rouged cheeks while the last tangible part of his

manhood shrank beneath his tight pants.

     When they all passed Lola pushed Turner into the room and

locked the door. He walked to the mirror and stared at himself.

Then he lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Only then did

he notice the pink gauzy canopy over the bed. He jumped up and

found other changes in the room. The marble floor now had thick

Persian rugs and the dresser drawers in the bathroom were open and

overflowing with lingerie.

     He ran to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. It was full

of dresses, evening gowns, robes, blouses and skirts. On the floor

were a half dozen pairs of new shoes, shiny black with pointed toes

and wickedly high heels.

     Turner felt weak with excitement. It had been so long since

he had the simple pleasure of looking at something besides the

mirror and the four walls of his room. For a few moments he fought

the feeling that it was Christmas morning and he was surrounded by

presents. Then he kicked off his clunky male shoes with

unrestrained glee and rushed to the bathroom leaving a trail of

male clothes along the way.

     By the time he stood before the dresser he wore only his

jockey shorts which now looked quite ridiculous stretched over his

plump buttocks. He pawed through the drawers until his fingers

settled on a lacy black brassiere which he hastily put his arms

through. Then he pulled the cups down over his breasts and hooked

the eyes behind his back just as he had been forced to do for

months. But now there was no hesitation in his fingers and his

skill at fastening the bra surprised him.

     Soon the jockey shorts lay on the floor and Turner wore

instead a pair of black panties and a silk half slip. His heart

raced as he pushed through the hangers in the wardrobe searching

for the right garment. He felt like a blind man who could suddenly

see. But it wasn't just sight. It was the wonderful feel of the

fabrics, the pull and stretch of nylon and the weight of his

breasts captive in lace, the comfort of clothes that fit his

altered frame, the pure sensuousness of sensations that had been

denied for so long.

     Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he thought he detected

movement across the room but it was only the mirror's reflection

of his silk slip trembling against the back of his shapely legs.

He stepped back from the wardrobe and swooned as he examined for

the first time the devastating effect of all the elements of

femininity together at last. The potent combination of hennaed

hair, red lips and black lace seduced him and he walked to the

mirror transfixed by his own beauty. He made a stunning woman and

each step he took toward the entrancing image brought her closer

not only in distance but also nearer to the surface of his being.

His skin tingled as he put his hands on the swiveling hips. His

lips now pouted freely, his eyelashes batted wickedly as he gazed

at his breasts heaving beneath black lace. He thought for a moment

of the "girls" he had watched from behind the mirror, then thought about being

watched himself by hidden observers but curiously these

musings had no effect on the lewd posturing that was now

transporting him into a world of indelicate female sensuality. Just

the way his hair fell over his shoulders was enough to dissolve any

thoughts of peeping toms.

     In fact, the very idea of someone watching behind the mirror

began to excite him. Just as he had once suspected the "girl" in

the tableau vivant could see him cowering in the dark, he now

created his own audience behind the mirror and looked past his

reflection to their lustful gaze. Gathering his abundant curls up

in one hand, he pulled his hair up off the nape of his neck, the

other hand he placed demurely over his crotch and was almost

startled to feel the contours of his rapidly inflating member

beneath his half slip. This interesting discovery quickly melted

into his consciousness and became part of the display for the

conjured audience behind the mirror as both hands began to inch the

silky slip down past his thighs. As it fell noiselessly to the

floor he assumed a look of astonished innocence at the unveiling

of his beckoning member. A look which quickly turned into a

lascivious smile as his painted fingers curled round his cock and

proffered it to the spectral viewer.

      The door swung open with a bang and there in the doorway

stood a young male officer. Turner instinctively covered his

genitals. In the mirror he watched the officer close the door and

then walk across the room toward him. He spoke. "Turn around."

     Turner bent over to pick up the slip but the officer stopped

him. "No, don't put that on. Just turn around."

     The cockiness was gone, the brazenness evaporated and he

turned meekly, still covering his nakedness.

     "Do you like being a woman?" the officer said casually.

     "I'm not a wo. . ."

     "Oh, but you are," the officer interrupted. He reached out and

touched Turner's lovely styled tresses.

     The pretty prisoner began to weep softly as the officer's

fingers moved down his shoulders to the top of the brassiere,

pulling his forefinger along the inside of the cup then moving

further down to the nipple which he squeezed tenderly. "Yes, you're

a woman now. And very lovely too." he whispered as both hands now

continued their violation of his heaving bosom. Turner trembled

violently as the officer's attentions fell still further, gently

but firmly peeling Turner's hands off the genitals they hid.

     "You really are very beautiful you know," the officer remarked

as he held Turner's testicles in his hand like bird's eggs and then

rolling them softly between thumb and forefinger. "Very beautiful."

Turner felt his chin being elevated by the officer's free hand till

he was forced to look at him eye to eye. Tears smudged his makeup

and his hair fell forward into his face in a tousled tangle. He was

never more achingly beautiful.

     "You are a pretty girl, aren't you?" the officer asked again.

     "Yes, yes, yes . . ." Turner whimpered quietly.

     "Yes, what?"

     "Yes, I am a . . . pretty girl."

     Turner's knees gave way and he slid to the floor sobbing as

tears clouded his eyes. A moment later when he recovered his

composure the officer had departed and in his place Sophia stood. "What have you

done with your uniform?" Sophia said from the

door way. She walked slowly across the room to Turner's side.

"Didn't it fit you anymore?" she said, caressing his ripe buttocks

with her riding crop . "Well, that doesn't matter. We have a new

uniform for you now. Lola, show Miss Turner her new uniform."

     Lola put the new "uniform" on the bed. Turner stood up and

watched as Lola carefully placed several items on the bed: a short

black satin dress with puffed sleeves and elastic neckline, a push-

up brassiere, garter belt and stockings, full length evening gloves

and a bundle of white tulle petticoats.

     "You've been invited to a party but you haven't much time,

Sabrina. Get dressed now!"

     At first Turner didn't know who Sophia was addressing but he

soon realized that he was Sabrina. He removed the lacy black bra

and put his arms through the straps of the push-up. It lived up to

its name by creating voluptuous cleavage out of the raw material

his feminized chest provided. The dress was low cut enough to

display every bit of his generous bosom. This was the first time

he'd worn a dress that was designed to maximize his feminine assets

and he felt a deep shame at his forced immodesty that was mingled

and mitigated by a strange notion of pride arising from his

obvious, there was no other word, beauty. He wore no panties or

corselette so the petticoats rustled noisily against his bare skin.

So stiff were they that his black skirt stood straight out from his

torso leaving him with the distinct feeling that he was exhibiting

more than his feminine charms.

     "Now the shoes," Sophia said. Lola had brought a special pair

with extremely high heels. Turner had to sit on the bed while Lola

slid them on his feet.

     She then fastened a black ribbon choker around his neck. This

necklace seemed the capstone of his exotic servitude. But there was

more. His long hennaed tresses were swept up and fastened with a

pin. Two dainty curls were allowed to dangle over his bare

shoulders. And then Sophia affixed a small white hat to his upswept

hair.

     "Stand up, dear," Sophia said. Turner stood up unsteadily and

immediately fell back on the bed. Lola then helped him gain his

footing and he took a few tentative steps. He was halfway across

the room when he glimpsed himself in the mirror. He was caught

totally off guard. Turning to face himself squarely in the mirror

he was the picture of sexy obsession. As he stared at this lovely

creation he lost himself yet again in admiration of the delicate

beauty he radiated. He forgot his awkwardness in the heels and

walked up to the mirror as though he'd been raised in them. He

forgot about Sophia and Lola and he turned to model his scanty

"uniform" in the mirror.

     This daydream was broken by Sophia's hand on his shoulder. She

was almost solicitous as she said, "Come, Sabrina, the party is in

progress." He turned away from the mirror and followed Sophia

through the empty corridors past an unfamiliar door which led down

a spiral staircase lit by torches. Sophia noted with great

satisfaction that Turner's girlish form cast seductive shadows of

monstrous femininity on the cold stone walls. At the bottom of the

stairway another door opened on to a short hallway with a rough

hewn oak door at the at the far end. When Sophia reached the end of the hall she

turned to look at Turner and said, "When you walk

through this door you will never again be the same."

     Then she looked at him with a critical eye as though he were

a creation of hers that was ready at last for unveiling. As Turner

stood before her she tried to remember what this vision of

femininity had looked like as a man. There was no trace of him

here. The soft brown hair, the roundness of his hips, and the

shadow of cleavage emerging from the tight bodice of his black

satin dress were all part of his body but they resembled little the

hard muscle, and close cropped hair that had arrived so many months

before.

     But more than that, Sophia thought, it was an impatience in

Turner's eyes that most transformed him. They revealed an eagerness

to pass through that door to something mysterious and shockingly

different, something full of pleasures that promised a great deal

and delivered nothing but whose sweet promises beguiled one again

and again.

     Sophia swung open the door and the hallway was flooded with

blinding light. She pushed Turner across the threshold and he

walked more by instinct than vision onto a stage. He could vaguely

discern faces looking at him from a darkened amphitheater. Suddenly

a gloved hand appeared around his waist pulling him gently but

insistently toward the center of the stage. He turned to look at

the owner of the hand. It belonged to a handsome blonde woman in

a strapless gold lame gown. She smiled at Turner lewdly. Then under

her breath she said, "Smile, darling. This is your moment."

     Before he could register what she meant he was startled by a

raucous, jovial voice from a microphone. The words were garbled but

he did hear the words "Miss Sabrina Turner." When he registered

surprise a faint ripple of laughter emerged from the darkness.

     The voice was still speaking when his blonde companion reached

down and pulled up his fluffy white petticoats with a gesture of

exaggerated delicacy. This exposure of the last remnant of Turner's

manhood drew applause from the audience.

     Then another gloved hand appeared to lead him away. This time

from a woman in a purple sequined gown with black hair piled high

on her head. She escorted Turner to a line up of "girls" in

outrageously feminine garb of one sort or another.

     Turner looked at them. They had been friends or at least

fellow soldiers once, now they were unrecognizable as the men who

had departed from that van months ago. They were now a chorus line

of gorgeous girls with long, beautiful hair, shapely figures in

sumptuous female clothes.

     Turned watched as the next arrival slipped through the door

in a state of what appeared to be "girlish" innocence but what was

actually utter bewilderment. She was a petite brunette in harem

garb. Her gauzy skirt was transparent in the bright lights

revealing a pair of slender legs and more. While she stood for her

brief moment in the lights, photographs of a soldier in khaki

fatigues were projected on a huge screen behind her. Then a

succession of pictures of a naked man followed by slides of the

same man wearing a brassiere and panties, then a photograph of the

man, his hair grown down past his shoulders, cupping his naked

breasts in his hands, a look of amazement on his face. The last

picture showed a "woman" sitting on a bed. Naked except for a lacy black bra

which has been pushed up on one side so that her hand can

massage the nipple, her white powdered face in profile against the

dark paneling is straining upward in a passionate arc of sexual

ecstasy. Her other hand is unceremoniously rubbing a stiff cock.

Her own, of course. While this picture remained on the screen the

blonde escorted the confused harem girl, her ringlets already

becoming limp under the hot lights, to center stage. Then with a

leering smile to the audience she lifted the gauzy skirts exposing

the gorgeous legs and the flaccid pink member to the cheering

crowd. The harem girl in her effort to turn away in embarrassment

revealed the same torrid profile displayed on the screen behind

her.

     After the audience reaction had subsided the unseen announcer

made a few comments and introduced the "girl" by her new female

name "Samantha Field," the voice said and then the queen in purple

emerged to escort the ravaged harem girl to her place in the line

beside Turner.

     One by one they were brought out, glorious debutantes in drag.

A torch singer, a milk maid, a redhead in a purple peignoir, a

flamenco dancer with oily spit curls, a Southern belle, a Lana

Turner lookalike in a tight sweater and more. Each one thrust into

the bewildering limelight, each one contrasted with her

"developing" self on the screen and each one exposed at the end of

her stay on stage by the gloved hand of the blonde in gold lame.

     The "girls" were unfailingly taken aback when they found

themselves facing an audience in their feminine garments. They

stood with their knees knocking, their hands often covering their

heaving bosoms if too indelicately revealed or their crotches if

that seemed too immodest and sometimes both as they tried to

protect themselves from the unseen eyes which violated them. They

were in an actor's nightmare, cast suddenly in roles without lines,

roles which they felt ill-equipped to play despite their voluptuous

bodies, tantalizing dress and exquisite coiffures. But despite

their awkwardness nothing about them appeared to be male. They did

not seem like men in humiliating female clothes but more like girls

who had been forced to grow up in a day, in an hour, in a minute,

forced into a passionate sensuousness that had nothing to do with

their souls but which their bodies radiated nonetheless. Then as

the illusion of girlhood and innocence was established by their

trembling presence the cruel blonde imperiously uncovered their

male genitalia, shaved and rouged but still unmistakably masculine.

And that incongruence of feminine beauty and male sex seemed to

drive the poor creatures into the greatest despair. The admission

of their maleness after having so wantonly displayed their ripe

bosoms, rounded bottoms and gorgeous legs seemed now to be the

tawdriest kind of revelation. When this ritual had been observed

and the woman in purple sequins emerged at their side they walked

like zombies to the line up and revived only slightly when the

spotlights left them to focus on the next beauty.

     Then something odd happened. A ravishing creature in a red

peasant blouse and billowing skirts stepped into the light. Her

long blonde hair fell sinuously over bare shoulders and her bosom

emerged lustily, nipples erect beneath the silky chemise.

     As the mistress of ceremonies approached her she brushed by

and walked to center stage by herself. Then with defiant thrusts of her hips she

began to hike her dress up. As the skirt began to

rise above her knees the crowd began to murmur, then clapping broke

out until the voice on the microphone was drowned out completely.

     Turner was able to hear the words "Miss Paulina Ford" through

the din just as Ford reached the climactic moment of truth. The

crowd became silent as the gypsy girl revealed a shaved pudenda but

no cock. The she dipped slightly in a graceful curtsey, spreading

her legs in the process and a big healthy cock flopped out from

beneath her white legs. For a moment he stood there, his smooth

white legs rising to a distinctly manly torso. Then the audience

grew frenzied as Ford reached down and grabbed his limp cock,

brandishing it like a weapon while he sashayed back and forth on

stage. The defiant blonde beauty with the stunning bust striding

before her captors, displaying with a mad passion the last proud

vestige of her manhood; it was an image that burned across Turner's

eyes.

     Meanwhile the slide show of transformation, which had provided

a backdrop of humiliation for the other "girls" whose three

dimensional presence was often less compelling than the candid

pictures of their feminine metamorphosis, now had a very different

effect as they flashed behind Paulina's brazen performance. It was

as though they had been chosen to enhance her achievement rather

than to provide a cruel counterpoint. Even her earliest photos

reveal a precocity, a femininity that seemed to blossom almost from

the moment of her arrival, as though she had been waiting to shed

her male skin and emerge as a blonde beauty.

     In one picture, taken very early on, she stands before the

mirror, hands on hips in a distinctly unmasculine pose of sexual

invitation. Her hair, though short, seems gamine rather than manly.

She wears a bra and half slip. In the ensuing photos it seemed

obvious that her captors sensed her gifted nature and had bestowed

many of the accoutrements of femininity that Turner had only

recently been privy to. From the beginning "Paulina" had access to

a wide array of bras, dresses, heels and even hats and make-up

which she had evidently enjoyed playing with and mastering. Most

photos show her primping and playing with her femme toys before the

mirror but a few disclose the presence of others. In one picture

the beauteous Paulina sits contentedly in a chair while a pair of

female hands brushes out her longish blonde hair. In another she

stands before the mirror wearing only brassiere and heels. Her hair

is piled high and her makeup is exquisitely applied. She is turned

away from the mirror as though she were looking back at someone,

perhaps for approval, for her face is a combination of girlish

expectation and saucy pride in her bosomy profile. Her cock is

erect.

     If the Paulina's own audacious performance hadn't been in

progress in the foreground these last photos would have brought

gasps from the audience. Like the other slide shows the final

photos conclude with a masturbatory reverie but unlike the others

it is clear that Paulina is not pursuing a solitary pleasure but

rather performing for a audience. Lying back on acres of pink

satin, her long blonde hair arrayed dramatically over a pillow,

fulsome breasts bulging beneath a black lace peignoir, smooth white

legs opened wide, and shiny black heels digging into the bedding,

she might appear to be the very picture of feminine sexual ecstasy were it not

for a delicate but hard penis trapped in her loving

grasp. Her smile suggests an exhibition and her eyes betray the

presence of an audience who she plays to with evident pleasure. And

though she might appear to be an odalisque pleasurably resigned to

the humiliating rigors of concubinage, her face also suggests its

own tyranny, as though she knew that her fingers tweaking a nipple

through lace or a prolonged caress of her cock might be producing

slavery of another sort in the unseen viewer or viewers.

     But all this was academic to her present audience who had no

time to register the erotic subtleties the photos revealed. Now

their attentions were focused on Paulina's dance. A dance quite

different from Turner's in the dining hall, a dance full of

suggestive insouciance and lewd posturing, a dance which suggested

a joyful reconciliation of male and female and through that wedding

the discovery of power. Rumblings in the now quiet audience

suggested her captors were uncomfortable with what was plainly

becoming a rebellious affirmation of her dual sexuality. At an

unseen signal from the audience the two mistresses of ceremonies

approached Ford tentatively, obviously unprepared for such

defiance. Then suddenly they grasped her firmly by the arms and led

her off stage. She immediately went limp, forcing them to carry her

like a damsel in a faint and giving even her unscripted departure

the appearance of melodramatic performance. 

     The show resumed. A baffled soldier in antebellum drag was

brought out and exposed for the pleasure of the audience. But the

laughter wasn't so confident.

     After the last "girl" made her humiliating debut they were led

off stage to an anteroom where they were crowded up against each

other, heel to heel, bosom to bosom. It was the first time the

vanload of soldiers had faced each other as girls. There was no

room to run away, hardly any room to look away. Suddenly it was

very quiet and it distressed Turner when his petticoats rustled

noisily against the gauzy skirts of the harem girl beside him. The

antebellum belle had the worst of it. Everywhere her wide hoops

turned she created unavoidable confrontations with her feminized

compatriots who tried in vain to ignore her and themselves.

     But it was impossible. Impossible not to see the loveliness,

the softness, the femininity. Impossible not to acknowledge the

changes that had taken place in their bodies. Impossible not to

stare at the cleavage of the "girl" standing next to you, knowing

that her bosom mirrored yours, that her lips were your lips, her

hips, your hips. And impossible not to feel the horrible sense of

defeat at the spectacular success of the transformation. 

     A strange thing happened then. As their eyes inevitably met,

a curious electricity flowed one to another. Communication beyond

speech passed between them all at once and tears began to well up

in their mascaraed eyes, painted lips began to tremble and breasts

to heave. They fell into each others arms seeking comfort and

hoping to comfort. Tears fell freely and sounds of broken sobs

filled the silent room.

     Sabrina held the harem girl close and they rocked back and

forth to the rhythm of their muffled whimpering. The entire room

full of crinoline and lace, tulle and satin, velvet and leather now

seemed to sway and moan in a dance of loss. In a way it was the

ultimate surrender to femininity. They cried together and consoled each other

like losers at a beauty pageant. Like girls.

     Finally a door was opened at the far end of the room and the

"girls" filed out into an enormous ballroom, their debutante

reception. They now faced, for the first time, the audience who

presumably they were destined to serve and service: the officers

whose "special desires" were the driving force behind the

diabolical scheme which was about to come to fruition.

     The "girls" were lined up to be examined by the officers who

emerged from the darkness to select their favorite "dolls." Sabrina

watched them anxiously, afraid of what might happen when one of

these sleek, young officers made advances. Running away was out of

the question. There were guards posted everywhere.

     One by one the "girls" were paired off by officers who

introduced themselves and then gently led them by the arm over to

tables laden with food and liquor. Suddenly the young officer who

had manhandled him earlier that afternoon appeared by his side.

Turner stared at the floor in shame but he could feel the officer

slipping his arm around Turner's slender waist.

     He led Turner off to the buffet table. When they reached the

table, Turner looked up at his tormentor for the first time. He was

astonished to see how nervous the officer was. It was immediately

apparent to him that the officer was now at his mercy. Entranced

by Sabrina's beauty he had become a foolish overwrought bundle of

nerves.

     As soon as this realization had sunk in, another strange thing

happened. A sensation of confidence and power radiated throughout

Turner's transformed body, a feeling he hadn't felt in the many

months he'd been captive. But there was something new about this

power. This strength would be lost if it was expressed in any

conventional manly way. It was absurd to consider overpowering his

tormentor in 4 inch heels. Especially since he wielded considerably

more power simply by allowing his tongue to moisten his upper lip

with a furtive sensuousness.

     As he batted his eyelashes once or twice experimentally he

could see the officer grow weak with mad lust. Then with a graceful

motion of gloved hand to chin it all clicked in. The finishing

touch to the months of physical changes, the carefully styled hair,

the make-up, the heels, the petticoats. It was the part of his

feminine costume that he had tried on only in his daydreams. The

unseen part that had excited him when he put the lipstick to his

lips for the first time or when he first glimpsed his hidden beauty

in a sidelong glance.

     Suddenly a feeling of complete freedom came over him. He felt

as though he could have slapped the officer across the face with

his gloved hand and walked to any exit without fear of reprisal.

He knew that was impossible but at least his heart was now free.

And that was an important first step.

     The officer was now taking his cues from the slightest motions

of Turner's body which had undergone a subtle metamorphosis. As

smoothly as he pulled an errant sleeve up over a bare shoulder he

had become Sabrina Turner, discovering along the way that the

slightest feminine gestures--toying with a curl or smoothing his

petticoats--caused an enormous seismic reaction in the officer who

had earlier demeaned him. He seemed to lose control in direct

proportion to Sabrina's ascendancy over Turner's own body.  As a result of her

little manipulations the officer hungrily

grasped under her petticoats for some tangible demonstration of her

concern. Improvising like mad she grabbed his eager hand and shook

her head. "Not here, darling," she said in voice that would have

startled Turner an hour earlier. Now its soft and soothing contours

were the natural expression of his total grasp of femininity.

     The officer withdrew. Then with a knowing smile he grabbed her

hand and made for the exit. Sabrina Turner now wondered what he had

unleashed as the officer pulled her as fast as her heels would

carry her toward some strange new adventure.



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