Sapphire's Place - Valerie Hope's

Shown the Way

by Valerie Hope

"Justin. Wake up, Justin."

He groaned feebly, trying to roll away from the cruel light assaulting his comfortable darkness. His hands were restrained, as were his legs. He had no choice but to open his eyes.

"Where " he managed through cracked and swollen lips.

"We found you. Three days ago. It's taken us that long just to find out who you are."

"Klaus. Where's Klaus?"

The imposing silhouetted figure only shook his head. "Your partner didn't survive, Justin. I'm sorry. You have my deepest condolences."

Justin coughed, and it awakened fresh agonies in his chest and neck. Cool hands reached from the sunlit haze around him and tried to ease his pain.

Poor Klaus. A good cop. Didn't deserve to die. But that was the way of the badge, these days. You have to know what you're getting into when you sign on the dotted line. You weren't there to protect and serve anymore. It was a war out there, and Klaus had been a good soldier. Like himself.

"Where am I?"

"You're resting in St. Ambrose's ICU. You were shot up pretty badly," the man said.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No," the silhouette said, stepping forward. He wore military fatigues and his hair was cropped short in the style of the modern soldier. His left pectoral bore the ribbons of many, many campaigns and the scar which descended from his left eye to the base of his jaw was yet another testament to his valorous service. "I'm Colonel Bream. You don't know me."

"What do you want with me?"

"I heard about what happened to you and your squad. I thought I could come and discuss a few things with you."

"What things?"

The Colonel gestured to a chair just inside Justin Abbott's field of vision. "May I sit?"

Justin managed a feeble nod. The Colonel sat heavily, betraying fatigue. He held out a hand and an unseen aide placed a folder into it. The old soldier leafed through it casually.

"Detective Sergeant Justin Washington Abbott, Metro Police Rapid Response. Twice decorated for valor in the face of danger. Wounded seven times - eight, now - in the line of duty. Due to receive the Municipal Cross for dedicated service to the people of Metro South commonwealth. Joined the Metro Force in 2003 after four years' service in the Army as an infantryman. Promoted from patrolman to detective in eight years. Very impressive. Of late, placed in command of Third Unit Rapid Response Team in accordance with Federal legislation against the cartels. Your last assignment was to gut the courier system of the Malaggio cartel."

"I almost had the sons of bitches, too," Justin spat. "We were set up. Somebody tipped Malaggio and his boys off. We were taken down like rookies."

"I know, son," the Colonel said. "Only six of your unit survived."

Justin shut his eyes to keep back tears of frustration and anger. Six left out of twenty-four. So many good men and women lost. "Who?" he choked.

"Jerry Cabot, Everett Keith, Marlon Tompkins, Larry Kelly and Peter Karanikov are in ICU, in about the same shape as you. Gene Delveccio is still unconscious."

"That's my whole fire team," Justin said. "What happened to the rest?"

"When you penetrated the warehouse the Meraggios moved in outside. They eliminated your entire perimeter with a chemical attack."

"That bastard gassed my boys," Justin said bitterly.

"They didn't live long. Mop-up was quick. The perimeter teams weren't the real target. Apparently, Giancarlo Meraggio has a personal score to settle with you."

"I personally captured over half his annual income last year," Justin said. "He swore he'd take me down. I didn't let him get close. Until "

The Colonel put a warm hand on his arm. "Rest easy, Detective."

"Tell me the rest," Justin said softly.

"He'd rigged the warehouse. The counterfeiting presses and the labs you found were all fakes. You led your men into a bomb. To your credit, you managed to get your fire team into the office, which had its own ceiling and concrete retaining walls. It's the only reason you and your boys are alive. Klaus Mueller and Tommy Duncan were closest to the doors and they didn't make it. The rest of you sustained major injuries but were alive. The Metro Force carried you out in body bags to make it look convincing."

"So Meraggio thinks I'm dead," Justin said.

"We hope so," Bream said. "But that's not why I'm here."

Justin struggled to sit a little higher, tired of looking like an invalid. "Then why?"

"I'm recruiting," Bream said. "You and your men are all honorably discharged under Article Nineteen. You're pulling your pension as we speak, Detective. And under conventional rehabilitation, you and your men aren't going to be back in action unless it's pushing papers. But the Army has avenues that the Metro doesn't. I'm offering you and your men a chance to take another shot at Meraggio."

"Explain," Justin said, obviously interested.

Colonel Bream was very matter-of-fact and brisk. "You realize that you have lost both your legs, Detective?"

Justin knew. Somehow, he'd known while he was asleep. He'd thought that if he hadn't mentioned it, hadn't looked down at them, then it hadn't happened to him yet. No more running in the mornings, no more racing Jerry and Marlon up the stairs to the briefing room on Friday. He sighed heavily - no use bitching about it now, so Meraggio had taken his legs away - and nodded.

"All of your men are similarly injured. Everett Keith is gone from the waist down, dependent on dialysis simply for survival. Peter Karanikov lost his arms and his sight. Marlon Tompkins is paralyzed from the neck down and is breathing on a respirator. All of you can be repaired to a certain extent, but only after years and years of conventional rehabilitation."

"Define conventional rehabilitation."

"I mean medical science as it stands right now," Bream clarified. "Even the best geneticists and surgeons in the world can't grow you new legs. I'm sorry."

"And you have an option," Justin asked skeptically.

"You may not consider it as such, but it does give you an opportunity to be whole again and also to get another shot at Giancarlo Meraggio."

"I'd sell my soul to the Devil himself for that," Justin said bitterly.

Bream reclined, handing the folder back to his aide. "Be careful what you wish for, Detective."

There was a long pause. Justin finally broke the silence. "Go on. I'm listening."

Bream sat forward and regarded Justin over steepled fingers. "Are you familiar with the name Shamir ibn Rakad al-Hassra?" he asked.

Justin beetled his brow. "He's suspected of funding the cartels when they first formed in the late 90's," the detective said. "He's untouchable. Lives in a fortress in the Caribbean and has a standing army all fanatically loyal to him. Believes that his work is going to rid the world of the United States for the glory of Allah or some idiot shit like that. Nobody can prove it, but the rumor is that he runs the four cartels somehow - Meraggio for counterfeiting and fraud, Luccese for drugs, Nkembe for slavery and gunrunning and Mendoza for slavery and gambling. Some of the real freaks in Washington still think that al-Hassra has some kind of 'master plan' and he's using the cartels to bring it about."

Bream nodded. "And the Federal government wants to know what that plan is. And we want al-Hassra killed and all his cartel heads either dead or in prison."

"No can do, chief," Justin said. "al-Hassra can't be extradited and he can't be dug out. There's no way for the U.S. to pull it off."

"That's why God created Covert Ops, son," Colonel Bream said simply.

Justin wasn't amused. "So you want to send some spooks in and take him out. Where do me and my boys fit in?"

"We need you to do it," Bream said. "You know more about how the cartels work than anyone in the country. You've fought them all at one point or another. You know how they keep themselves informed and how they keep themselves supplied."

Justin laughed a bitter laugh. "Us? Wasn't it you who just told me that we're shot to shit and most of us are in pieces?"

"Yes, son, it was," Colonel Bream said patiently. "What if I told you there was a way for you to get a whole new body?"

"I'd say you need to consider smoking something legal," Justin said.

Bream motioned and the aide stepped from beyond the haze of his vision's limits and dropped an impossibly overstuffed file folder on Justin's bedside.

"Project Hierophant," Bream said. "An initiative begun in the 1980s involving cloning and recombinant DNA. A first stab at eugenics, some said, creating a more pure and efficient human being for the future. It was the real reason behind the Human Genome project at the turn of the century. Project Hierophant is the fusion of about six different areas of genetic science. Now it's advanced past the prototype stage, but we have to have volunteers. There are too many ethical and moral problems to just draft people. Half our research team would walk away if they thought for an instant that we'd coerced anyone. I approached you and your men because they had the least to lose.

"I checked," Bream went on. "None of you have any family or connections, no wives and few prospects. You're the perfect candidates."

"To become some kind of superheroes? It sounds really cool, Colonel, but it doesn't get us any closer to al-Hassra. Unless you're counting on making us look Middle Eastern and training us to speak Arabic and shit like that."

"He'd never trust you enough to let you close," Bream said. "al-Hassra is paranoid about who he lets close to himself, even in that fortress of his. He's guarded almost every minute of every day, particularly when the cartels are near him. Sending you in like that would mean you'd have to be in the military force on the island and you'd be kept far from where anything important was going on."

Justin's brows lowered. "So how are you planning to get us close to this puke?"

Bream's tone was controlled and even. "He takes his pick of the slave trade as they're brought through to serve as his household staff."

"So we'd be what? Butlers? Shoeshine boys?" Justin asked.

Bream cleared his throat. "You'd be his harem," he said simply.

Justin didn't grasp it straight away. "What, you mean al-Hassra's homosexual? I thought that was some kind of sin against Allah or whatever Holy shit! You can't be serious."

Bream only nodded.

"You want to make us all into chicks?" Justin asked.

"Not ordinary 'chicks,' Detective," Bream said. "In addition to having all your skills, memories and intelligence, you'd have physically perfect bodies. Immune to most infectious diseases, enhanced strength, senses, stamina - you'd probably be more efficient soldiers than you were before the attack. We'd see to it."

Justin sank back in the bed. "But "

"Over half the world's population is women, detective," Bream said. "They don't seem to think they have it so badly. And you'd be doing your country a great service in addition to getting a chance to take down Meraggio and his boss for all time."

"The other boys?"

Bream looked through his clipboard. "Keith and Tompkins have agreed. They said that they didn't have the equipment to be called men anymore anyway, so they don't have anything to lose and they get a shot at Meraggio.

Karanikov is still thinking it over, as is Cabot. Kelly said he wanted to wait and see what you said about it before he made a decision, and as I said earlier, Delveccio is still unconscious - although I feel that he's going to go the same way as Keith and Tompkins, since he too will be paralyzed from the neck down and is missing one of his legs."

Justin stared at the ceiling. "How soon do you need your answer, Colonel?" he asked.

"ASAFP," the Colonel said "You'd be in the Project for three months before you were ready to move. If al-Hassra does have some kind of 'master plan,' then we're working against the clock anyway."

Justin closed his eyes. "Put me down in the 'still thinking about it' column," he said. "I'll have an answer for you by 0900 tomorrow."

The Colonel stood "It may be your only chance to get even," he said.

Justin ignored him.

* * *

The Colonel and his aides came back at 0900 sharp, as Justin expected. Justin was being moved by a horde of none-too-gentle nurses into a more suitable position for talking.

"Good morning, Detective," Colonel Bream said brightly. "You look like hell."

Justin managed a wry smile. "I feel like hell, thanks."

"Sleep well?" the Colonel asked.

"Not a wink," Justin answered. "Dreams."

"An unfortunate side effect of combat," the Colonel said with eyes that spoke volumes. Justin knew in that instant that the Colonel was a victim of sleepless nights himself.

"China?" Justin asked quietly.

"Quangxiu Province," he answered just as quietly. "But that's not why I'm here."

Justin sighed just as his ruined body was lowered into place and the nurses dismissed. He fixed the Colonel with his hundred-mission stare. "I have some conditions, and some questions."

"Understandable," the Colonel said. He raised an eyebrow towards his chair of the previous day, and Justin nodded in response.

"Can you guarantee the success of this procedure?" Justin asked, tapping the folder for Project Hierophant that the Colonel had left with him overnight.

"No," the Colonel answered. "But we've tested it. It's not lethal, or really dangerous anymore, not like it was six years ago. The real problem has always been the psychological effects on the subjects. They tend to develop emotional and mental disorders at a frightening rate."

"Have you ever changed anyone's sex before?"

"No human," Bream said. "We will have some of the top experts in gender psychology in the world attached to the project if you go through with it, however. No effort or expense will be spared for you or your men's safety and well-being."

"Good," Justin said. "Is the process reversible?"

Bream shrugged. "We simply don't know. We've never tried before. Medically, I believe it might be. But the human psyche is a fragile thing. I don't know if it could survive the trauma of two transformations. As it is, only the remarkably strong and resilient can survive one transformation without ill effects."

"What happens if something goes wrong during the procedure?"

"In all likelihood, you'll die," Bream said. "We're effectively going to chemically transfer your brains into new bodies. If that chemical balance is skewed, somehow, then the new body simply won't wake up when we revive it. It will be painless for you and your men. You'll go to sleep, and if you wake up it will be in a new body."

"What're the odds?" Justin asked.

"About a 5 in 6 chance of surviving the physical procedure and about a 2 in 5 of keeping it together mentally afterwards. But those are rough figures and they're based on old results.

The project personnel get better every single time they run the procedure on a subject. Every subsequent project learns from its predecessors. You and your men will benefit from nearly 40 years of testing and experimentation. It's the best shot we can give you."

Justin nodded. "What happens afterwards? After the mission, if it's successful?"

Bream nodded, expecting the question. "You will all be provided with identities and an income at government expense. You can keep the option of serving your country if you like, or we can debrief and release you as private citizens. You can return to your homes if you wish or relocate. The government will take care of it all through the Witness Relocation Program."

"Good," Justin said. "Now, supposing we go through with it and one of us cracks up during the mission. What then?"

Bream gave the most important answer he'd given all morning, The one which Justin would base his decision on. "You're in command of your unit, Detective. You decide what it is your unit will and won't do by situation. You'll have your mission and the rest of it is at your discretion. Your service record is more than exemplary enough for us to trust you implicitly in the field."

Justin nodded. "I'm glad you see it that way."

Bream chuckled. "And I'm supposed to believe that you would have volunteered if I hadn't given you that exact answer?"

Justin returned the chuckle. "Guess soldiers don't change, no matter what uniform they're in," he said. "Okay. I just have two conditions."

"What are they?"

"This has to be a unanimous decision by me and my men. One stays out, we all stay out. We're two men short of a full fire team, and we've all worked together before. We don't have the time to both learn everything we need to learn, go through the project and train up two rookies. Even shorthanded, we can work together better than we ever could with new personnel."

Bream smiled. One by one, he laid signed documents in Justin's lap, naming them off as he did so. "Marlon Tompkins. Everett Keith. Jerry Cabot. Peter Karanikov. Gene Delveccio - he woke up this morning at 0600. The only one left is Larry Kelly, and he said he'll sign if you sign."

Bream passed an unsigned, blank release form to Justin with a pen. The Detective looked at them as if they were live snakes for just a moment, then steeled himself with an effort and took the pen in his hands. A new life, a chance to walk again, a chance to get some revenge on that sack of slime that had killed his command.

Only at the cost of his gender and his identity. He closed his eyes and saw Giancarlo Meraggio, wearing a $3000 suit paid for with the blood of his comrades and his friends.

He signed the document.

Bream took it instantly, passing it to an aide with a whispered instruction to go to Kelly immediately. He looked at Justin proudly, and even with a touch of fear in the respect. Any man who would sell so much just for revenge

"You mentioned a second condition," Bream prompted.

"Yeah," Justin said. "Can I be a redhead?"

* * *

Justin had been glad to see his men, just for an instant, before he was put into life support for the trip to Fort Craig, a top secret medical and training facility in the Tennessee mountains. They were battered and broken, missing pieces, but they were still his boys. Except that they wouldn't be for much longer. Justin barely made out the outline of the cargo door of the helo they were moving into through the tiny little window in his containment unit - called 'tin cans' in military parlance - and then only got the sensation of movement and acceleration.

A voice came over the intercom built into his tin can after about thirty minutes. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant," someone said over the connection.

"Lieutenant?"

"Your new rank in the United States Army. If you can feel, we've placed something under your left hand. That's a Bible. Now, if you'll repeat after me: I, Justin Washington Abbott, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

Justin repeated the oath and closed his eyes. No longer a cop, then, and back to being a soldier. It wouldn't have bothered him, ordinarily, to just be plain old Justin Abbott and let people tag him however they wanted, but soon he wouldn't be Justin Abbott anymore.

"We're going to put you to sleep for a bit, sir. We'll be giving you mild sedatives over the remainder of the flight to keep you still more than anything else," the voice said. "Also, Project Hierophant is going to begin you on a program of somnolent learning to help ease your transition to your new body. Just go to sleep and we'll start trying to teach you some of the things you need to know."

"Roger that," Justin said. "Go ahead."

He began to feel drowsy and heavy just as he heard a voice over the intercom, seeming coming out of the very air around him, accompanied by strange, atonal music which made Justin think of Thanksgiving at his mom's house. "There is nothing wrong with being a woman. Your capabilities as a soldier and a human being are not decreased in any way. Women are superb combatants, organizers, commanders and technicians. Being a woman can be a very joyous thing."

* * *

Justin awoke to a feeling of movement. He opened his crusted eyes to see fluorescent lights marching by in an endless line through the little window of his tin can. He felt like he weighed a ton - the effects of the sedatives, he knew - and he began to feel the first real effects of the fear that he'd suppressed up until this point. He wished that there were someone there he could see and talk to, someone he could be strong for so he wouldn't have to acknowledge the fear and panic he was feeling.

He chuckled, breaking the fear's hold. He'd wanted to bolt and run. He wouldn't have gotten far on stumps, he told himself wryly. And get two feet from that IV tube and you'd be one sick little gimpy puppy. Hell, at least he wouldn't have to worry about that anymore soon. He didn't care how great they looked in stockings and heels, just as long as he had legs again.

He thumbed the intercom switch. "Where the hell am I?" he asked. "How are my men?"

The orderly peeked through the little window in curiosity before speaking. "You're at Fort Craig, uh sir. You landed about an hour ago. Your men are fine, sir. They're right behind you. Everybody's groggy but the vitals are strong."

"Good," Justin said. "Thanks, son."

"You're welcome sir."

Justin closed his eyes in hopes of getting some real, non-drug-induced shuteye before the party started. He was snoring lightly by the time he passed through the molybdenum steel gates which shut Project Hierophant away from the rest of the world.

* * *

Dr. Abell Norman surveyed the seven bodies floating in the nutrient goo which kept them biologically alive, just waiting for host intellects to be implanted to animate them. He rubbed his graying beard thoughtfully and then shook his head as he returned his attention back to Colonel Bream.

"I feel like a teenager drawing naked women in the back of his history book," he said. "I can't believe you sent me pictures from Playboy magazine to start the specifications from."

Bream chuckled. "al-Hassra has very specific tastes in women. We have to be sure that he picks our people to be closest to him."

"I don't see how he can turn these away," Norman said, returning to his notes. "They will be fully mature and ready to receive in another nine hours, Colonel. The modifications and enhancements you suggested are all in place and appear to be biologically responsive."

"Excellent work, Dr. Norman. We'll have your subjects prepped by 1600, and you estimate that the new procedure will be concluded for better or for worse by 1900."

"Correct," Dr. Norman said.

Bream did a quick time-table in his head, thinking aloud. "We'll move them to the new sleeping units by 2000 hours, then, and by 2100 they should be ready to meet Dr. Richardson, don't you think?"

Norman nodded, checking over his notes against a table printed on a clipboard. "They should all be in REM sleep by then," he said. "We can't determine the exact hour - we can't put them all out because the new bodies have enhanced resistance to drugs - but that's a good rough estimate."

"I'll be interested in seeing how Dr. Richardson works," Colonel Bream said.

Norman chuckled. "I met her yesterday," he said. "She's very good."

Bream cocked an eyebrow. "How good?"

"She could talk you into heels and a miniskirt if we gave her the time, Colonel."

* * *

He found awareness. Somewhere - it didn't matter where. It seemed safe. A pool of light in an endless darkness. Feet stepped on something firm, lungs breathed something and the heart beat. Alive was all that mattered.

"Hello," a voice said, emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once. "How do you feel?"

"I don't," he replied.

"Don't you? And why is that?"

"I think I'm dead," he replied.

"Oh, no, you're not dead. But neither are you truly alive."

"What do you mean?"

"You're somewhere in between. Somewhere a little of both."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"The question is, who are you?" the voice replied.

"I asked first."

"I'm a friend," the voice replied. "Can you trust me that far?"

He looked around at the endless blackness beyond the hard-edged pool of white light. "I guess I don't have a choice."

"Not so," the voice said. "You always have a choice. You could surrender."

"I'm not very good at that," he said.

"Can you tell me your name?" the voice asked.

"Justin Abbott. Lieutenant Justin Abbott."

"Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, great," Justin said. "Where am I?"

"Where do you think you are?"

Justin chuckled. "You must be a shrink."

"What makes you say that?" the voice asked.

"A normal person would have just answered me."

"You're very perceptive," the voice said. "Although I'm not sure how to feel about not being classified as a 'normal person.' Yes, I am a psychologist. I'm here to help you."

"I'm not crazy," Justin finished.

"Everybody is a little crazy," the voice said. "I just have to make sure you're the right kind of crazy. And saying that you're not crazy, well, that tells me that you have something to hide, Lieutenant."

"Who doesn't?" he asked.

"Touch�," the voice said. "Why are you hiding things?"

"Because they're nobody's business but my own."

"Ever consider talking to someone about them?"

"Nope," Justin said.

"Any reason why?"

"Because I can take care of myself. I don't need other people interfering."

"You don't like other people very much, do you?"

Justin shrugged. "Some of 'em are all right, I guess. Others I can give or take. Too hard to tell which is which."

"So you don't trust anybody."

"Roger that," Justin said. "It's worked for me so far."

"It just seems kind of lonely, that's all," the voice said.

"The world's a lonely place," Justin offhanded.

"Don't feed me bullshit, Lieutenant," the voice said. "That's a pat answer, a rehearsed line. Give me the straight truth. Are you lonely?"

"Yeah, I am," Justin spat. "What's it to you? Wanna fuck or something?"

"No, but you obviously do," the voice said. "We were talking about trust and all of a sudden you're talking about sex. It must be on your mind pretty heavy to make that leap. How about it, Lieutenant? You horny today?"

He smirked. "I'm horny every day," he said. "Comes with the territory."

"How, then, do you expect to get laid if you don't trust anyone? It must not work very well if you're lonely all the time."

"Fuck you."

"When's the last time you got some, Lieutenant?"

"Go to hell," Justin spat.

"No, really. When's the last time you got laid? A week ago? A month?"

Justin's voice was acid. "Three years," he said. "You happy?"

"No, I'm not happy," the voice said. "That's terrible. A man who is so lonely and so horny not having any way to look after his own needs. It's tragic, really."

"Yeah, a real tragedy," he said. "Get to the point."

"I was just thinking that maybe if you opened up a little, tried to trust somebody, maybe you'd be able to fill that void."

"I have a perfectly good right hand," Justin said. "And it's better than a broken heart."

"Have you had your heart broken before, Lieutenant?"

"Who hasn't?" Justin shot back. "I notice we're talking a whole lot about me. What about you? You're just some goddamn voice in the dark, I don't know you. I don't trust you. And I'm supposed to tell you my life story? Fat fucking chance, voice."

The voice chuckled. "Fair enough. Ask me a question, then."

"When's the last time you got some?"

"Two nights ago. I'm very happily married."

"Goody for you," Justin said. "Did you come?"

"Several times. My turn," the voice went on. "Why did you sign that paper?"

"Because it's a chance to have legs again. It's a chance to get back at Meraggio, maybe even kill the motherfucker," he answered.

"Oh," the voice said. "That's all?"

"What else would there be?"

"I dunno," said the voice. "Maybe you wanted to know what it was like to be a woman, for instance."

"Don't be stupid," Justin said. "I was born a guy. I was raised a guy. It's all I know."

"Didn't you ever wonder, though, what it must be like?"

"I guess so," Justin said. "Once or twice, when I was a kid. I never really thought about it."

"Tell me something," said the voice. "When you were a kid and you wondered what it would be like. What were the things you wondered about?"

"Sex," Justin said with finality.

"What it felt like to be with a man, you mean?"

"Not really," Justin replied. "I wasn't interested in men. I just wanted to know what it felt like, I guess. Like I said, I really didn't think about it much."

"Did you wonder what it would be like to look good? To turn men on like girls turned you on? To look and dress like the women in the magazines?"

"Nope, nope and nope," Justin said.

"Then why did you ask Colonel Bream to be a redhead?" the voice asked.

Justin snorted. "It was a joke. You know, humor? Surely you've seen pictures."

"Cute," the voice said. "But you had to have thought about it, when you were thinking it over the night before. What kind of woman you were going to be."

"All I was thinking about was the chance to kill Giancarlo Meraggio. If I have to be a chick to do it, then I'll be a chick. If I had to be a fire hydrant to do it, then I'd be a fire hydrant. I don't care what it costs me so long as that fat fuck dies screaming."

"Did you think about it, the night before? What you'd look like?"

"Sure. A little."

"What did you come up with? Did you have a 'dream girl' in mind? Somebody from your past, maybe, or somebody you remembered from a movie? You can tell me. I won't let anyone know."

Justin relaxed a little. It was more the reaction that he'd get from his boys that kept him from answering with complete candor, really. He'd never liked being the butt of the joke, and like all cops, respect was something very important to him.

"Okay, sure," he said, sighing. "Yeah, I had a thought. But it was only that - a thought. I didn't dwell on it, I didn't think about it for more than about a second, nothing."

"Who was she?"

He blushed a little. "She was a Playboy centerfold back in the 90s, named Tylyn John. She was hot as hell. I thought she was the best looking woman I'd ever seen, and I thought that if I had to look like a woman I could do worse than looking like her. And that was it, okay?"

"But she held on long enough for you to ask to be a redhead. Tylyn John was a redhead, right?" the voice asked.

"It was a dye job, but yeah," he said. "I only asked that question because a) it was funny and b) I like redheads. Is there any crime in that?"

"No crime," the voice said, "I'm just interested. Do you mind if I'm interested?"

"Shrinks are never interested in anything that doesn't get them the dirt on the head they're shrinking," Justin said.

"Well, look at it this way, then," the voice said. "You and your men are all going to be women. Every last one of you. So how can I use this 'dirt' against you? When you're a woman, do you think you're going to be a 'fag' if you want to look good?"

"If I want to look good for men, you mean," Justin shot back.

"No, if you want to look good for yourself," the voice said. "You said it yourself. If you have to be a woman, you at least want to be a beautiful woman. You could do worse. That means being a beautiful woman like Tylyn John is as good as it gets for women."

Justin held his head. "I don't wait. You're talking in circles."

"I have to. I'm a shrink. It's in the bylaws."

"Do you or don't you want to be a beautiful woman?" the voice asked.

"I guess I do," Justin said.

"So why are you worried about being called a 'fag?' Or people laughing? Or wanting to look like a centerfold? Aren't centerfolds for the most part beautiful women?"

"Yeah," Justin said, still confused.

"And you said it yourself. You want to be a beautiful woman."

"I never said that," Justin accused.

"Sure you did. Just a second ago. I asked, 'do you or don't you want to be a beautiful woman' and you said 'I guess I do.' That says to me that you want to be a beautiful woman, and it doesn't even take a degree from Berkeley to figure it out."

"You're twisting my words around."

"I'm not interested in your words," the voice said. "I'm interested in what you're feeling. So you want to look like Tylyn John. Big deal! She's a beautiful woman. Gorgeous face, sexy body, hair any woman would kill for. I'm looking at a picture of her right now on the computer, as a matter of fact. You have excellent taste."

Justin could remember clearly getting that magazine when he was in college and being absolutely dumbstruck at the picture of such a gorgeous woman. The look on her face made it seem like she had the pictures taken especially for him.

"What are you thinking about, Lieutenant?"

"The first time I saw a picture of her," he said absently.

"How did she make you feel?"

"Horny," he said. "And I don't know the word for it."

"Try," the voice bade.

"Unworthy, I guess," Justin said. "Not good enough. Inadequate and unattractive."

"No way a guy like you could ever get a girl like her."

"Basically," Justin said.

"So did you think that she was better than you?"

Justin sighed. "I guess so."

"You did say that you felt inadequate and unworthy of her," the voice said. "Doesn't that mean that you thought she was better than you were?"

"Yeah," Justin grunted. "She was better than me. She could have anybody. She'd never waste a second glance on a guy like me. I could whack off to her picture all I wanted and it was never going to get me the chance to even be in the same room as her. And I knew that all over the country there were pathetic little shits like me in bathrooms all over the place jerking their dicks and thinking the same thoughts that I was. She wasn't just better than me. She was better than anybody."

"Any man, you mean. Any pathetic little shit jerking off in a bathroom," the voice said.

"Yeah," Justin said, disgusted.

"So tell me something," the voice said. "Imagine for a minute that you were Tylyn John. And you were all in costume and makeup and having your picture taken for the centerfold. What do you think you'd be thinking about?"

Justin chuckled again, deep in his throat. "Probably about what I was doing to all those geeks out there stroking to my picture."

"And what would that feel like?" the voice prompted.

"I think I'd get off on it," Justin said. "Kind of a power trip thing."

"You like the idea of having power over men?" the voice asked.

"Yeah," Justin said. "It's kinda cool to think about. And a little scary."

"You'd rather be the centerfold than the pathetic geek?"

"I was the pathetic geek," Justin said roughly. "It wasn't much to brag about."

The voice seemed amused. "But what about being the centerfold? What do you think that was like?"

"I dunno. Tense, kinda. Driven to be that gorgeous, and still trying to protect yourself from the geeks who can't stay on their side of the fence."

"But at the end of the day, do you think Tylyn John went to bed satisfied and happy?"

Justin thought for a while. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. She gave a lot of relief to a lot of lonely men out there. Power trip aside, it was a pretty decent thing she was doing."

"I agree," the voice said. "I like that idea, a lot."

"So do I," Justin agreed.

"So if I told you, Lieutenant, that you had it in you to be the centerfold - that you could be every bit as glamorous and sexy and beautiful, that you could have men out there all over the place spanking the bishop just at the sight of you, that you could have that power trip and spread all that joy, like she did, what would you feel?"

Justin grunted. "I dunno. Proud. Excited, a little. Happy."

"You wouldn't feel like a 'fag?'"

"I guess not," Justin mumbled.

"And do you think you'd be better than you were before? Better than the pathetic guy in the bathroom with the dirty magazine?"

"I'd have to feel better than I was before," he said. "Girl like that can have anybody she wants. You'd never catch her diddling herself in a bathroom with a magazine. She wouldn't have to. All she'd have to do is slip into something slinky, fluff up her hair and go down the street. She wouldn't make it two steps before some man would be ready to saw off his right arm for the chance to do anything she wanted him to do."

"So you're saying being a beautiful woman makes you feel better and more in control of your fate than being a man did?"

Justin couldn't believe what he was saying. "Yeah. I guess I am."

* * *

Dr. Elena Richardson sat back from her console, rubbing her eyes and groaning. "He's tough," she complained, massaging her neck. "Real damn tough."

"She," Colonel Bream corrected, "and yeah. All of 'em are as tough as they come. That's one of the reasons why we picked 'em."

"If he - she - keeps up this kind of resistance, even to PADI therapy, it might throw your timetable," Dr. Richardson said simply.

"Unacceptable. How much exposure can a human being take to Psychic Adjustment through Dream Induction before problems arise?" Colonel Bream asked.

"Dr. Michaelis at Johns Hopkins believes no more than three hours per day."

"Then Lieutenant Abbott gets three hours per day," Colonel Bream said. "They can't just physically be women, Doctor. They have to be women down to their marrow, or the whole mission will be a wash. We're relying on you. Can you bring her around?"

Richardson sighed. "I don't know, Colonel. I wish I could give a definite answer."

Bream put a hand on her shoulder. "Doctor, this is extremely important. Don't hurt the Lieutenant, but work on her as hard as you're able, as much as you're able. She has to be ready. The team is useless without a strong leader."

"I understand," Richardson said.

"What about the others?" Bream asked.

Richardson consulted her notebook. "Nothing unexpected. All of them have the same outlook concerning fantasy. Their fantasy creatures are unattainable and godlike. They can all be made to feel like they've been elevated, that the existence they will have will be better than the ones they came from, and give them a psychological buffer against any disorders that may arise - 'it can't be that bad because I've never had it so good.' But we have to give them some sense of self before they wake up. Some kind of identity."

"Is it something that they need to be convinced of?" Colonel Bream asked.

"Not necessarily."

"We can give it to them hypnotically."

"That may be our best bet," Richardson said. "If they don't argue with their identities then they won't stand as much of a chance of risk when they start to accept who they've become. Dr. Briggs and Dr. Colton-Smith will have a much easier time then."

"Do it, then," Colonel Bream said. "Thank you, Doctor. You're doing your country a great service."

"I just hope I'm doing the same service to those brave men in there," she said. "They're in for one hell of a ride."

"Braver than I am," Bream commented. "So, what is next?"

"Well, once they have identities, once they have a point of reference, we can start to help them rebuild their manner of interaction with the world. Psychologically, we'll have to regress them to girlhood and re-raise them at an accelerated rate."

"Is that as dangerous as it sounds?" Colonel Bream asked.

"It would be," Dr. Richardson said. "But you haven't met 'Mommy' yet."

* * *

Lieutenant Abbott could faintly remember hearing things during sleep, but none of them really stood out as memorable. Gummed and crusted eyes opened to a large room, populated with strange, egg-shaped capsules which were open on one side to expose very comfortable-looking beds. In each bed rested a very beautiful woman, sitting up in the midst of a tangle of pink satin sheets and quilted coverlets, hair tousled in a most alluring way. All of them had very confused looks on their faces. A long-faced woman with kind eyes helped the Lieutenant sit up. Coughing up a throat full of foul-tasting crud, the Lieutenant sat unsteadily and rubbed eyes that didn't seem to be focusing as they should. Strange weights and balances struck the Lieutenant. Something wasn't right.

"Who are you?"

The long-faced woman smiled as she pressed a pneumo against the Lieutenant's shoulder and pressed the trigger. There was the hiss of a needle-less injection as she said, "My name is Dr. Lea Briggs, my dear. But most people call me Mommy."

The Lieutenant smiled hazily. "You got it, Mommy."

"Can you tell me who you are?" Mommy asked gently.

The Lieutenant blinked. "Of course I can. My name is Lieutenant Justine Washington Abbott, United States Army. Commissioned yesterday. Before that I was Detective Sergeant Justine Abbott of the Metro South Police Rapid Response Team."

"And these other women, around you?" Mommy asked.

Something in Justine's head was making it hard to think. She found she was more interested in the softness of the sheets around her than she was in Mommy's questions. When she spoke next, her voice was girlish and muzzy and unconsciously sultry. She made a pouty little-girl mou� as she screwed up her face in concentration.

"They're the other members of my team," Justine said. She pointed to a statuesque blonde with cover-girl looks. "That's my second, Sergeant Lori Kelly. We went through basic together before the China War in 2001. Good woman. The best."

"And the other members of your team?" Mommy asked, smiling. Justine liked it when Mommy smiled. It made her feel good.

Justine pointed, this time to a tall and lithe black woman with mocha skin and long, impossibly curly hair. "Communications, Sergeant Marlee Tompkins. If it can talk to another person, whether it's a scrambled satellite burst transmission or a tin can on a string, then Marlee can make it work."

Then she pointed at a short, curvy brunette with bee-stung lips and a curtain of dark curls across her china-doll face, a willowy girl with huge blue eyes and short-cropped platinum blonde hair and a jaw-drop gorgeous raven-haired beauty with pale skin and sparkling green eyes. "Those are my grunts. Great girls, tough as nails and twice as sharp. Evelyn - 'Eve' - Keith, Jeri Cabot and Gina Delveccio. And that sorry sack of shit -" she pointed to a tall, curvaceous goddess with hair so blonde it was white and ice-blue eyes "- is our Demolitions and EOD specialist, Petra Karanikov."

"They are wonderful girls," Mommy said proudly. They all beamed.

"Aren't they pretty?" Mommy prompted.

Justine nodded happily. "They're beautiful."

"And so are you, dearie. Have you looked?" Mommy pointed upwards towards a small mirror above the bed. Justine looked up to see a tall, pale-skinned woman with wide green eyes and sensuous, kissable lips, a luscious expanse of cleavage peeking out of the pink satin sheets clasped around her chest, and a lush, shiny mane of straight red hair. Something tugged at the back of Justine's mind, a picture of a woman who looked like her, posing on a motorcycle wearing high-heeled shoes, but she couldn't bring it into focus.

"Aren't you a beauty?" Mommy asked.

"I can't believe how pretty I am," she said, touching her face. "Look at me."

"Well, girls, what would you like to do first?"

The regression drug, which slowed their thought processes down to about the level of a five-year-old, had them babbling with excitement. Finally, Petra's thickly accented voice rose above the throng with, "Justine is the boss. She should decide."

"Well, Justine?" Mommy asked. "What would you like to do first, dear?"

Justine blushed and giggled. "I want to learn to walk in high heels," she said, thinking of the woman posing on the motorcycle.

* * *

It was strange to Colonel Bream, watching what had been brave, wounded soldiers yesterday sitting stark naked except for high heels in a circle on the floor, playing with dolls and singing and giggling, all under 'Mommy's' watchful eye. Dr. Briggs had only used the drugs as a starting place and was basically regressing them through girlhood with the force of her will. She'd had to spank one or two of the girls for acting unladylike, but she apologized and hugged them close afterwards, drying their tears and rewarding them with chocolates or pretty ribbons. It was amazing. The new women were blank slates and Briggs was rapidly taking them through girlhood, teaching them the things they needed to know to be women in the space of hours.

'Mommy' Briggs was busy lecturing them on how important and good their mission was. Petra Karanikov and Lori Kelly were bouncing a ball back and forth when Lori finally used her bubbly cheerleader voice to ask, "What about boys? Will there be any boys on our mission, Mommy?"

All the other girls giggled behind their hands.

Mommy smiled. "You girls are a team," she said, "but you'll probably meet some boys before you're done. Do you like boys, Lori?"

"I don't know. Maybe if they're nice to me."

"Some might be. Some might not."

Mommy stood. "That's why I want you to meet someone, girls. But we can't sit around in our skins for her. We all have to get dressed. Come on, girls."

The girls leapt up with lightning speed (a combination of excitement and enhanced muscles and reflexes) and ran to their sleeping cubes. It amused Colonel Bream to see that Lori Kelly and Justine Abbott took the time to make sure their dolls were covered and resting comfortably in their beds before they opened the little wardrobes beside their medical units. Good. They took care of their charges before they took care of themselves. He wondered if it was because of the maternal instinct that Dr. Briggs was trying to engender or because of their previous command experience. He suspected it was a little of both.

"What do you want us to wear?" Eve Keith asked.

"Justine?" Mommy asked, deferring to the officer in command.

"We're soldiers right now," Justine said. "We should all wear the same thing, like a uniform."

"Can we wear something pretty, Lieutenant?" Marlee Tompkins asked hopefully.

"Okay," Justine said. She took charge like a leader born. Digging in the little closet cube, she discarded several outfits before pulling out two separate hangers. She looked for a while and made her decision. "I like this one."

Lori Kelly stepped up into the role of second easily. "You heard her, girls. Find your uniform and get busy."

All the girls dug through and found the matching outfit in their wardrobes without questioning. It was a replica of a school uniform, with a snowy white blouse, blue wool blazer and a plaid pleated skirt. Attached to the hanger also was a small purse, shoes, knee socks and a hair bow in the same plaid as the skirt.

Jeri Cabot was the first to speak up. "I'm having trouble, Lieutenant."

"With what?" Justine asked. Lori moved to Jeri's side without thinking.

"I can't undo these buttons with my long nails," Jeri said. "What am I doing wrong?"

"May I?" Mommy asked, deferring to Justine. The commander nodded.

"You're trying to go too fast," Mommy said. "Use the tips of your nails and the pads of your fingers, like I showed you earlier. Remember what I told you about your nails?"

Jeri thought a moment. "They're weapons," she said.

"That's right," Mommy affirmed. "The doctors here made them extra strong for you so you can't break them. But they're sharp, too, and they can tear the silk of your pretty blouse. So remember, if it's something you don't want to hurt, you have to be gentle and go slowly. Everybody?"

"If it's something we don't want to hurt, we have to be gentle and go slow," all the girls chorused. Jeri attempted again and undid the buttons on her blouse first try. She smiled a triumphant smile as Lori clasped her fondly on the shoulder.

"Now, girls, here's something you haven't learned yet," Mommy said. She held up a garment that would be completely new to all their experiences. "This is called a bra."

* * *

Justine surveyed her troops carefully. With instruction from Mommy, they'd gone through each of the garments in their wardrobe, learning about each one, how to put them on and take them off, how to wash them and care for the delicate fabrics. They'd ended with the uniforms they'd chosen.

Although she wasn't aware of it in her regressed state, all her girls as well as herself were total fetish dreams - seven gorgeous, statuesque women all dressed in silk blouses, blue wool blazers and blue-and-green plaid skirts with knee socks. The shoes were ostensibly Mary Janes, but they had a two-inch platform and a seven-inch heel to keep the training for heels going. These women would have to be in heels constantly through the ninety days of their training, since all of al-Hassra's slave girls were required to be dressed provocatively at all times, and Justine's unit would have to be able to perform their duties wearing everything from stilettos and evening wear to bikinis or hoop skirts, bustles and corsets.

Mommy led the girls back to the center of the room and introduced her 'guest.' Dr. Hannah Colton-Smith was a stunner, a tall and tanned blonde with a winning smile and a captivating intelligence shining from behind the deep brown eyes. She looked at the girls admiringly, hands clasped in front of her hips. Her voluminous lab coat hid her body well, but couldn't entirely disguise her lush curves.

"Girls, this is Dr. Colton-Smith. She's going to start teaching you a little about boys."

"Hello, girls," Dr. Colton-Smith said. "I'm very happy to meet you all. You're all as beautiful as Dr. Briggs told me."

The commander stepped forward, extending a hand. "I'm Lieutenant Justine Abbott. These are my team: Sergeant Lori Kelly, my second in command, Sergeant Marlee Tompkins, my communications and ECM specialist, Sergeant Petra Karanikov, Demolitions and EOD, and Privates First Class Jeri Cabot, Evie Keith and Gina Delveccio, fire support."

Dr. Colton-Smith looked amused. "A pleasure," she said.

Mommy gestured for everyone to be seated. The girls sat in a half-moon around the two standing women. Dr. Colton-Smith took the floor.

"As Mommy said, I'm here to talk to you a little bit about boys and girls and the things they do together," she said. "I'll be here every day to talk to you, and answer your questions and explain what I can. But you have to all make me a promise. That you won't be embarrassed or ashamed of yourselves. If you don't ask questions, you'll never learn anything, and you have to

"Sorry, sergeant," Gina mumbled, focusing.

"Can you make me that promise?" Dr. Colton-Smith asked.

"I promise," all the girls said.

"All right, then. Would you girls all please take off your panties, then?"

There was a moment of tense giggling, but all the girls soon slid their panties down their legs and sat with their skirts up above their thighs. Dr. Colton-Smith unbuttoned her lab coat to show that she too was bare from the waist down except for stockings and shoes and she sat on a tall stool so that she could point her private parts at the assembled girls.

"This is your vulva," she said. "Girls, I want everyone to touch their vulva. Now, watch my finger and touch your own parts as I show them to you. These are the labia majora, or outer lips. If you spread them apart, you'll see here the labia minora, the inner lips. This is the vagina, and just above that is the urethra - that's where you pee. And just above that is your clitoris. Touch it gently, now feel that? That's where a lot of your sexual pleasure is going to come from.

"Now, who knows some other names for these things?" she asked.

Lori raised her hand. "Pussy," she announced.

"Right. That's a good one. Boys like it when you call it that. Boys like to hear girls talk in an unladylike way, it makes them excited."

Evie Keith raised a long-nailed hand. "Would a boy like it if I said 'cunt,' then?"

Dr. Colton-Smith smiled. "I bet he would. Now, if everybody will look down at where their vagina is and do like I'm doing, you'll see that after a moment you'll start to feel a little wet down there. It's normal - don't be ashamed. You want that to happen."

* * *

The girls went out to physical training that afternoon after a quick lunch - they ate like birds, all of them, but Dr. Norman had told Colonel Bream that was to be expected - and did standard military PT in addition to beginning training in gymnastics and ballet as well. In a manner that was almost a cultural stereotype, Petra Karanikov took to the gymnastics and ballet automatically, loving every second. She couldn't keep from pirouetting down the hallway as they returned.

The regression drugs had been re-administered after PT and they had another session with Mother in how to act and behave like young ladies. The training was taking very well and she was very pleased at the responsiveness of her trainees. She was very kind and careful to do a lot of touching and hugging before they went to the next session, since if anyone was going to start to show the signs of cracking up, it would be during the next session. She told all the girls as a group and also individually how much she loved them and cared about them, and how proud she was of what wonderful young ladies they were becoming. After the two hours, the girls were led into the showers for a quick clean-up and then followed a hard-faced female officer into a theater-like area with seven seats.

All the women were ordered to strip down to their skins. Justine did as ordered, folding her clothes neatly the way Mommy had shown her and shivering a little in the cold air of the theater. Her big nipples stiffened as her flesh pebbled a little, While she kept moving slightly from foot to foot.

The hard-faced officer gave them all small bags and told them to dress in what they were provided. Justine's eyes widened a touch at the contents, but she didn't say anything as she did as she was ordered. She wrapped the white lace merry widow around her waist, getting used to the strange boning pattern as it made her stand up very straight and pulled in her waist to an even tinier diameter. Slow and easy, Mommy had said, and she managed to get all the hooks through the little eyelets on the back, even with her long nails.

She couldn't suppress a little tingle of pride at the size on the tag in the bra cups - 36D, nice big breasts which made her look fantastic. After that she rolled up the gauzy white stockings and slid them up her bare legs - it felt like a caress and she loved the way they felt hugging her legs, all slick and warm - and attached them to the little ribbon garters on the merry widow. They dug into her rounded, soft buttocks a little but it was kind of a sexy feeling.

Justine found herself getting a little wet as she slipped her little feet into the white patent platforms - something about her past remembered them as 'stripper shoes,' with the high platforms and the long, tapered heel which looked so sexy and feminine. As she settled her long-nailed fingers into the satin opera gloves and fastened the little satin ribbon choker around her slender neck, she felt every inch the beautiful woman. Pictures flashed in her mind of the woman posing on the motorcycle and it brought fresh dampness in the area between her thighs.

All around her the team was finishing their dressing. Lori was dressed in a skimpy red satin teddy with black lace trim and adorable black vinyl go-go boots which made her long, trim legs even curvier and her large, spherical breasts even larger. The teddy had a little lace-trimmed slit which let the lips of her pussy bare. She couldn't resist stroking it a little with her fingers, sticking out of the little fingerless black lace gloves covering her hands.

Marlee was in a leopard-skin teddy that pushed together her luscious brown boobs (they were bigger than Justine's, she was sure), matching gloves which covered her forearms and hooked over her middle finger with a little elastic loop so that her hands were bare.

Petra was in a white satin corset which pulled in her already tiny waist and made her tits look positively enormous. She wore white patent-leather boots that came to her mid-thigh and white satin opera gloves like Justine's.

Jeri was in black lace, a little lace halter black lace-topped thigh-high stockings with her platform heels.

Gina wore a little green lace basque which cinched her waist and left her 38DD breasts free, and green stockings hung on to ribbon garters. Her black platforms with the seven-inch heel made her cute little butt stick out just a little, but in a cute and sexy way.

Evie was in a pink satin bandeau which hugged her athletic body and displayed her curves to an extremely sexy effect. Pink thigh-highs and pink five-inch stilettos completed the outfit along with pink satin gloves with a really cute fringe on them. Justine's pussy was nearly dripping from seeing how beautiful they all were. It was like having an itch she couldn't scratch and it made her prance from foot to foot.

Dr. Colton-Smith's voice came over the intercom. "How does everybody feel?"

"Sexy," Lori said first, and the other girls agreed.

"I feel like I could be a centerfold, I'm so beautiful," Gina added. Justine lowered her eyes at that.

"Would everyone please take their seats? Make yourself comfortable."

Justine slid into the strange, egg-shaped chair. There were indentations for her head and legs in the deep warm padding and she settled into them comfortably. There was a little hum from the chair and Justine could see little attachments sliding into place around her face and in front of her body.

"You're all lovely young ladies," Dr. Colton-Smith went on. "But part of our duty is to teach you how to be women as well. Now, I want all of you to remember that we love you and care about how you feel. Does everybody see the big red button by their right hands? That's the 'stop' button. If at any time this gets to be too much for you, you can press that button and everything will stop. Stay where you are, and I or Dr. Briggs will come right down and talk with you to find out what's wrong. But I also want you to know that it's perfectly okay to like what's going to happen to you. It's part of being a woman. Everybody here wants you to get the most out of this program and succeed in your mission. Don't be ashamed or embarrassed. Just do what feels natural."

What feels natural. Justine swallowed her unease and tried to relax, to do what felt natural.

"Now, we're going to restrain your legs. It's so you won't accidentally hurt yourselves. Don't be threatened. You can reach down and unlock them yourselves if you want."

The uniformed officer fastened shiny silver cuffs attached to the chair padding around their ankles. The insides of the shackles were padded as well, and it wouldn't take much for Justine to slip her feet out of the over-wide circlets. She relaxed.

"Now, girls, I just want you to relax and feel good. Be comfortable, enjoy your new clothes and how you feel and how you look. We'll start the show in about thirty seconds."

Justine could faintly hear a hiss and smelled something a little akin to roses and drain cleaner. It filled her nose and stung her eyes a little bit, but that passed quickly. And in a few seconds she began to feel sexy. Not just sexy, but extremely sexy. The padding of the chair almost seemed to be caressing her skin somehow. She shifted her weight a little and it sent thrills of pleasure up and down her spine. She gasped and bit back a little girlish moan, sinking straight white teeth into her full, soft bottom lip.

The machinery above her head lit up a little and she felt a stripe of heat across her eyes. Warm, pulsing sensations flowed through her body as she felt a tiny earpiece rotate out and position itself over her ear. Soft, sexy music was playing through it.

Pictures began to form in her mind. Strange pictures, pictures she hadn't ever had in her mind before. She saw images of men. Naked men. They flew by too fast for her to get really good impressions, but she found herself able to pick out the things she liked. Strong shoulders. Nice hair and eyes. Tight butts and abdominals. And big penises.

Penises - Dr. Colton-Smith had told her that men liked it better when she called them cocks. Or dicks. She concentrated on them, fascinated by their size and their shape and how they were suddenly making her feel. She'd never really liked them or thought about them much before, but now. They were making her hot and wet down below, and she was starting to moan a little and writhe inside the chair padding.

This isn't right, her mind said. This is all wrong.

"No, it's not," a voice replied in her ear. It was the voice from the dream, the strong voice that had argued with her and made her think about those things she'd never had to think about before.

"I'm a man, dammit," Justine said. "You might have done some things to me, but in my mind and in my heart I'm a man."

"Do you feel like a man?" the voice asked.

"Yes," Justine said firmly. "It doesn't matter what body I wear, my heart and mind are always the same."

"Tell me, Justine, what did you do today?"

Justine tried to force her mind away from the images of all the cocks she was seeing. "I got up early and learned to walk in heels. Then Mommy sat us all down and started teaching us about periods and keeping ourselves clean. After that we got to play for a little while. She taught Lori and I how to care for our dollies."

"And this sounds like what a man does with his time?"

"What have you done to me?" Justine nearly wailed.

"We're helping you. We gave you a new body. Now we have to make sure you have the mind and heart to belong to that new body."

"You've tricked me. Drugged me. Dammit, this isn't my life."

"It is now," the voice said. "It has to be."

A different image flashed in Justine's mind. A sultry, green-eyed beauty with pouty lips and a tousle of thick, soft red hair. Big, firm tits in a white lace merry widow, white stockings and white heels. White satin gloves, the long kind.

"This is you, Justine. You."

"No," Justine said, but her voice was weak and unconvinced.

"Yes," the voice said firmly. "Your body. Your face. Your tits."

"I didn't know it was going to be like this. I didn't know you were going to make me into a damned fag."

"Tell me something," the voice said. "The woman you see. Do you think she's a lesbian?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Do you think she is?"

Justine shook her head to try and clear it. She couldn't stop herself from thinking about cocks. Big ones, small ones, fat ones and skinny ones, bent ones and straight ones. And there was a hole in her middle, a big emptiness that was starting to drive her crazy.

"Do you think she's a lesbian, Justine?" the voice hammered.

"No," Justine said. "She's not a lesbian."

"What makes you think so?"

Justine was fighting harder, trying to keep the images in her head at bay. "I don't know. Just a feeling. She doesn't seem like that kind of girl. Maybe she might like a little fun with another girl every now and again, but she's no dyke."

"She doesn't seem that kind of girl?" the voice asked.

"Yeah," Justine grunted, fighting for control.

"You mean you don't seem that kind of girl."

"I'm not a girl," Justine said stubbornly.

"Put your hands on your chest, Justine," the voice said. "Do it now."

Justine let her satin-covered hands snake up her torso and come to rest on the sensitive mounds of her breasts. The lacy cups of the merry widow were making her nipples hard little points of pleasure that spread warm curlicues of tingling sensation through her body that seemed to flow straight into the void between her legs that was starting to ache.

"What do you feel?"

"My tits," Justine said. "Mmm, that feels good."

"And between your legs? What's there?"

"My pussy."

"Did you touch it today?"

"Yes," Justine said. The ache between her legs was driving her crazy.

"How did it feel?"

"Strange. Like touching my balls. I had to be careful with the long nails, though," Justine said.

"Tits. Pussy. Long nails. These don't sound like things a man would have."

"But I'm a man," Justine argued.

"How can you be, Justine? You have a pussy. You touched it. It's real. Men don't have pussies. They can't touch their own and know what it feels like."

"I know they can't."

"So how can you be a man?"

"In my mind."

"Tell me about your pussy, Justine," the voice said more calmly. "Do you like how it feels?"

"Not right now," Justine said.

"Why not?"

"It's all wet. And it aches."

"Aches how?" the voice seemed a little concerned.

"It's so empty down there. Like there's a hole in my middle. I can't sit still from it."

"Would you like to have that hole filled, Justine? To not be empty inside?"

Justine couldn't imagine the relief of it. "God, yes," she breathed.

"How would you like it filled?" the voice asked.

"Why the hell should I care?" Justine hissed. "Fill the fucker up with cement for all I care. Just make it stop."

"I'll make you a deal, Justine. If you can tell me what you want, I'll help you fill that hole."

"I want the emptiness filled," Justine panted. Her back was arched and her hands were kneading and caressing her tits now. Her lips were parted and she was wetting her lips with a very soft tongue.

"Not good enough," the voice said. "You have to tell me what you want it filled with."

Justine knew what the voice was fishing for, the answer was flickering in her mind with every other thought she had. But she couldn't bring herself to say it out loud.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," the voice said. "You can say it. No one else will know, I promise you. Just tell me what you want to be filled with."

Justine took a deep breath and stepped off the ledge. "A cock, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now? I want to be filled with a big, fat, hard cock."

The chair adjusted a little to spread Justine's legs a few more degrees. She could hear the humming of little motors and suddenly something smooth and warm and spherical was pressing gently against the wet entrance to her vagina.

"I told you I could help you fill it, Justine, and I will. And yes, I am happy. I'm very proud of you. That took a lot of courage."

"Just shut up and stick it in me," Justine growled.

"Do you think you can just tell whoever it is what to do like that? Who do you think you are?" There was a whirring of motors and Justine felt the hard invader nuzzling her emptiness retract. She wanted to cry out in frustration. She wormed down on the seat as far as she could, trying to press herself back down onto it, but it was too far away.

"Dammit!" she cried in tortured exasperation.

"You spent all day learning how to behave like a decent young lady," the voice said. "I watched you. You can't just bark orders to me, honey, I'm not one of your soldier girls. If you want that cock inside you, you have to learn to ask for it like a lady."

Justine growled. "Fuck you, then."

"Keep that up and you'll never get what you're after," the voice replied. "Maybe I'll just let you stew in your own juices for a while, see how you like being left high and dry."

"And maybe I'll press the panic button," Justine shot back.

"Go ahead," the voice said calmly. "Do it, and you'll be released and led back to your room. No chance to do anything. And I can see to it that your hands are restrained so that you can't even diddle yourself. Of course, diddling yourself would be kind of pathetic, wouldn't it, with a perfectly good cock waiting for you here?"

Justine's mind was screaming at her. No, diddling herself wasn't any good. She wasn't going to go back to the way it used to be, locked in a bathroom with a dirty magazine. She was better than that, now. She wanted to be filled. She needed to be, dammit. It was maddening, driving her crazy. And the voice was right - the answer was right there, waiting. Be sensible, she told herself. Which is more important, her stupid-ass pride or actually being able to go to sleep tonight without writhing on the bed like a worm every time her hips pressed together a certain way?

"Okay, you win. I'll play nice," Justine said.

"I don't believe you, Justine. You don't just give up like that. I know better."

"I need it, okay? I need it bad."

"Need what?" the voice asked.

"Cock," Justine said breathlessly.

"You won't get it from me unless you ask me properly."

The stubbornness reared its head again. "Fine. Fuck you. I don't need it that bad. You're not tougher than me."

The voice seemed concerned, and a little amused. "No, I'm not," the voice said. "I don't have to be. It's not a question of tough, pretty little Justine. It's a matter of me having something that you want and you being too stiff-necked to just ask for it. Because you're acting like a self-important, hardheaded man."

"I am a man."

"Of course you are. A man whose pussy is aching for a cock inside it."

The images in Justine's head were making it steadily worse. Now she was getting images of the cocks driving into women's pussies and the women crying out in pleasure. Justine was positively squirming against her seat now. Desperation was starting to sink in.

"There are two ways to solve this, Justine. The man's way and the woman's way. The man's way, you sit there and gut it out and go to bed on fire like you are now, if not worse. Or the woman's way, you measure what you want against what you have to do for it and try to find a compromise."

Justine thought a moment. "I'm not going to beg for you," she said.

"I don't want you to. It's demeaning. I just want to hear you ask me. Not demand anything, not try to take it. I have it and you don't. That's just the way it is. You have to find a way, now. You have to bargain and compromise."

"Bargain with what?" Justine asked.

"Well, have you stopped to consider that maybe you have something that I might want?"

Justine was flummoxed. She thought as best she could with a rolling fuck-show going on in her head and a hard-on the size of Miami going on down below. "Would you like it if I tried to make you come?" she asked finally.

"I'm flattered," the voice said, "and I'd love to. Unfortunately, this is neither the time nor the place for that. Under any other circumstances, sweetie, you'd have a deal."

Justine smiled. So she did have something to bargain with. Herself. That was a good thing to know. But it still wasn't getting her what she needed inside. She thought some more, trying to take into account what she'd learned about the voice prior to this moment. It took some time because of the maddening ache in her middle and the show in her head, but she started to puzzle some things out.

"How about if you give me what I want, I promise on my honor to stop hiding things from you. I won't make you dig for a single oyster. I'll answer all your questions straight up and to the best of my ability."

"Now, that is tempting," the voice said. The motors whirred and the firm, warm invader was back at the entrance to her pussy again, pressing insistently and pleasurably against her wet emptiness and making her ache all the more for the closeness of what she needed.

"Phrase that offer the way a woman would and you've got yourself a deal," the voice said.

"Please," Justine breathed. "I need it so bad. I want it. You can have all the information you want from me. I won't hide anything from you again, I won't fight you anymore, if you just give me that cock."

With a slow, insistent pressure, the thick cock pushed its way a little deeper, coming into contact with the girl's hymen. A painful tightness in her middle made Justine flinch a little, but she was way too far gone to let it stop her now.

"Please," she breathed between pants. "Fuck me with it."

The invader pushed onwards, this time a quick thrust, and she felt a half-breaking, half-tearing feeling in her middle that made her yelp and brought tears to her eyes. But the excessive lubrication inside her and the desperate need which drove her caused her to slip further down on the pole inside her, filling herself to the cervix with the smooth, warm pole until she felt the soft, cushioned 'balls' of the thing slide warmly against the soft crack of her ass. She gasped in pleasure and shock as her body adjusted to the length and width inside her.

"Do you like that?" the voice asked.

"Yes," Justine managed in a high falsetto gasp. "God, yes."

"Here are the rules, now, Justine. You have to run the show, like a woman would. I won't do anything that you don't ask me to do, understand? That's rule number one. You ask me to do it how you want it and you'll get it. Rule number two is that I'm going to ask you questions while it's happening and you have to answer them honestly. Hold back on me, or lie to me, and everything stops. Understand?"

"Yes," Justine panted. "Please. Just fuck me. Fuck me slow and deep."

The cock began to piston in and out of her slowly, nearly withdrawing from her before sliding deliciously back into her all the way to the hilt. Justine ground her hips against the thrusts, finding that if she pivoted just so she could get some contact with her clitoris on the pull-out that made her lightheaded with pleasure.

"Faster," she gasped. "God, please. Fuck me faster."

The cock picked up speed, and the delicious friction between its shaft and her clit increased in frequency. Justine felt a strange feeling starting to build in her belly as she massaged her big tits and writhed against her mechanical lover.

"Tell me, Justine, do you like your new body?"

"Yes," she panted. "It's beautiful. It's too good for me. I don't deserve to have such a beautiful body. But I love it. It's amazing. I love how soft and smooth my skin is, and my long hair. The long fingernails make me feel so sexy. And I love having big tits. Sometimes, when no one is looking, I rub them together and it feels incredible."

"What about your pussy?"

"Fuck me faster, please," Justine managed, her voice just a husky, breathy whisper now. "I didn't know it could feel like this. I used to not even want to look at it, even when Dr. Colton-Smith was making us examine ourselves. But now I love it. It feels so good. I love my pussy."

"Is there anything you don't like?" the voice asked.

"I miss being tall, but the heels help," Justine gasped. "And I'm a little scared of having a period. And God, I miss smoking."

"Who say you can't smoke?" the voice asked, chuckling.

"I figured this was a hospital," Justine panted, grinding her hips against the thrusts and starting to yelp a little on the particularly deep ones. The thrilling, cup-brimming-over feeling was building and building inside her, centered on her belly but flowing like water all through her entire body. "All these doctors. I figured asking for a cigarette would get me shot."

"Do any of the other girls smoke?" the voice asked.

"Lori used to, so did Gina, Evie and Petra. I guess they figured they couldn't either."

The voice sounded supremely amused. "We'll get you some cigarettes," it said fondly. "See, Justine? Sometimes gutting it out just gets you frustrated when the simplest answer is just to ask for it and you'll have what you want."

"God, I can see that now," she said, grinding and bucking against the cock burying itself inside her.

"How do you like that cock now, Justine?"

"It's wonderful. I love it. It feels so good."

"Do you like how it's making you feel?" the voice asked.

"God, yes."

"What would you do to feel like this again?" the voice asked.

"Anything," Justine gasped. She was starting to whimper a little, a prelude to a climax. Dr. Richardson knew she had to coincide her most important question-and-answer with the orgasm or all the work tonight would be for nothing. With an adjustment to a switch, she turned down the frequency of the little electric shocks she was sending to Justine's clitoris to slow her approach to orgasm a touch. All around her, in the control room, six other behavioral psychologists specializing in gender disorders were talking to their own women, who were all having a similar 'good time' in their respective chairs.

Richardson touched another control and motors whirred as she put her whole attention back on Justine. In Justine's chair, another prosthetic cock lowered from an apparatus and positioned itself near Justine's panting lips. "Would you suck a cock to be able to feel like this again?" she asked Justine.

In answer, Justine took the thick member in her gloved hands and began licking the tip of the surprisingly lifelike organ, slipping the crown of the thing between her soft, full lips with a wet smacking sound as she began to slowly stroke it at the base. Between licks and wet kisses to the organ, she moaned, "I was a fool to fight this. I want to feel like this forever. I'll suck for it. I'll take it between my tits or up my ass, in my hand or in my mouth. They can come all over me. I'll rub it on my tits or eat it. I don't care. I just want to feel like this."

In response, the cock in her hungry mouth began to spurt out fluid designed to mimic the consistency, temperature and taste of real human semen. True to her word, Justine drank it all down, except for the few jets that escaped her mouth and shot across her sweat-sheened face and onto her hands. Justine moaned in a pleasure she hadn't expected - the biological addition of a ring of sexual nerve endings- similar to those in her vagina - to her mouth and tongue had added a very real, very sexual pleasure to the act for her.

"You just sucked a cock to orgasm, Justine," the voice said.

"I know," Justine panted. The cock was picking up speed and she could feel the cup-brimming-over feeling getting stronger and stronger. She felt like she could feel every individual hair on her head. She felt so free, so alive. It didn't bother her that she'd just drank down a mouthful of come from a cock. It had felt good, dammit. All the shit he'd thought before didn't matter any more. Wasn't that the lesson, after all? Be open to the new stuff, things are changing, all the stuff you thought before may or may not be true? Sure, a year ago Justine would never have dreamed of sucking a cock. But things had changed, and it was okay, and it was really kinda sexy and felt good. Justine got the impression that a lot of the things she used to think were fucked up were going to turn out to be really pleasant.

The cup brimmed a little higher. Justine heard herself start to whimper and felt herself clutch her tits tightly in satin-clad fingers as she bit her bottom lip again.

"And you're about to come, too, from having a dick in your pussy. You have semen all over your face and in your hair, and you're wearing white lace lingerie and high heels. I can show you what you look like right now if you want," the voice said.

"No need," Justine gasped. "I know what I look like."

"You're beautiful right now, did you know?"

"I feel beautiful," she said. She was very close now. The cup would brim over any second. She began to reach for it, her breath coming in increasingly higher-pitched gasps.

"And are you enjoying all of this?"

"Yes," she said, barely able to form words the pleasure was building to such intensity. If it stopped now, Justine knew, she'd surely shatter into a million pieces and die.

"Why is that, Justine? Why are you enjoying it so much? Because you're a fag?"

"No," she gasped.

"Then why? Tell me why, Justine."

The pleasure was roaring through her mind like whitewater, and something seemed to break inside her and soon it was pouring all over. Her next words came out in a crescendo of panting screams:"Because I'm a WOMAN!"

The dam burst and she screamed, clutching her tits and arching her back, her head thrashing in the thick, soft pillow of her red hair and her eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Slowly, the tidal wave of pure pleasure subsided and her screams regressed back to hoarse, throaty moans as she relaxed into something resembling a red-haired, lace-clad puddle. The mechanism retracted from her and disappeared into the seat again, leaving Justine sitting bonelessly in a very large puddle of her own juices.

"My God," she breathed.

"I'm going to hold you to our bargain, Justine," the voice said kindly in her ear.

"I gave you my word," Justine purred. "I'm good for it."

"I know you are. You're a good woman."

"A good woman," Justine repeated, tracing little circles around her still-erect nipples. "I like the sound of that."

* * *

Colonel Bream sat down at the table across from Drs. Norman, Richardson and Colton-Smith with a wide smile on his face. On his side of the table sat Dr. Briggs, a very attractive redheaded Army Captain in uniform, and a severe olive-complected woman in a business suit and glasses that none of them had ever seen before. The women in training had been making huge strides in the past weeks, regaining their cohesion as a unit under Dr. Briggs' patient tutelage. The only mental disorders that had arisen among the unit were mild cases of nymphomania in Gina, Lori and Justine which were being treated with self-esteem and image therapy and a tendency towards obsessive-compulsive disorder in Petra Karanikov towards gymnastics and dancing.

The training regimen was varied and strange, but the women were soaking it all up like sponges due to 'Mommy's' approach and the regression drugs they were still administered every morning and afternoon. Dosages had been adjusted to lessen the amount of regression over time - when at first the women were kept at the emotional and mental levels of five-year-old girls, now they were kept at the levels of thirteen- or fourteen-year-old young women. The women gossiped freely about boys and seemed utterly unashamed of their newfound sexualities.

As Dr. Colton-Smith had expected, all of the women were bisexual and their true attractions remained centered on women, but the focus had shifted from a desire to possess to more of an admiration. Some of the women had made clumsy overtures to each other, but Dr. Colton-Smith had quashed that quickly. The unit was more important than wet panties.

Over the last weeks the women had been trained extensively in all the covert ops work they'd need - covert communication, hand-to-hand, survival, espionage, tracking and disguise.

The disguise training had led naturally into the training supplied by Maria Kincaid and John Martin, the first a famous Hollywood makeup artist and the second an equally famous West Coast hairstylist.

In four days they'd progressed from wig heads and prosthetic faces to each other to themselves, and now the women - with the newfound feminine vanity they'd discovered - didn't even go to the rifle range without their hair styled elaborately and their makeup flawless. All the women carried purses now with all the necessary equipment for touchups and quick fixes. And they'd grown together enough as a unit to be able to comment on one another's personal styles favorably, starting to draw acceptance from one another about their beauty and sex appeal.

"I'm impressed beyond words, doctors," Colonel Bream said fondly. "You truly are miracle workers. You'd have no idea that these beautiful creatures were once as rough-and-tumble a group of cops as ever drew breath. And in addition, I have to commend Captain Anderson and crew for whipping them into a very fine unit of soldiers."

Captain Susan Anderson, sitting on Colonel Bream's side of the table along with the newest addition to the team, nodded in pleasure at the compliment. Colonel Bream was sparing with praise, and to get such a compliment from the lips of the man Himself was a rarity to be treasured.

"I'd like to hear reports now," the Colonel said. "Dr. Norman, medical report?"

Dr. Norman cleared his throat and removed his glasses. "We're still concerned about the tendency to hypoglycemia - a recessive gene in the original body configurations that passed through the preliminary screen. We need a few more tests to determine the nature of the deficiency, but we feel like we can easily find a workaround. Our only other concerns at this point are the excess body heat they generate because of heightened metabolism and when they use their enhanced strength and reflexes over extended periods. It's not biologically dangerous - the effects are simply an increased risk of dehydration, like a low-grade fever - but it will make them more susceptible to infrared tracking or targeting in a hostile environment."

"We're hoping that the heat problem isn't going to be a factor in the mission, but continue to look into it. If you can think of some kind of a course of drugs which might lower the chance of dehydration, it would be a help to them in the field. Anything else?"

"I'm not sure I can medically approve of distribution of cigarettes to the women," he said darkly, eyeing Dr. Richardson, "but I have to admit the relative stress levels among the women have decreased significantly now that they're allowed tobacco. I'm keeping a careful watch, however. The biological resistance to disease grown into the host bodies does not include an immunity to carcinogens. The minute something seems out of kilter, I'm pulling the plug on the whole thing."

The Colonel hid a smile and turned to his own side of the table. "Dr. Briggs, socio-developmental report?"

"The girls are progressing ahead of the projected curves. At this rate we'll be able to stop regression therapy in ten more days. But that could translate to 'growing up too fast,' in a sense, if we rush them through the process of identity formation. These girls are going to have to go through a great deal in the next few days, something that could break them apart as a unit if we're not careful. I'm considering a few days of extreme regression after the next course of therapy, to give them a 'second childhood.'

The key to this is Lieutenant Abbott. She'd have to remain where she was, developmentally, in order to serve as a mother figure for the unit. Which means that she has to be in good shape when it's all over for her or she won't be able to hold up the weight of the whole unit. And to be honest, Colonel, I don't know if she's equal to the task. Her sexual awakening was traumatic and she's fumbling around looking for something familiar to hold on to."

"Explain," the Colonel said.

"There's nothing in her world that she knows anymore. She's gone from TV dinners and beer cans and boxer shorts and football games to a world of cosmetics and clothes and boys and penetration. There's nothing familiar for her anymore. She's trying hard to find ties into her old life.

That was the reason for her nymphomania - she liked to lose herself in sex, to forget anything that happened to her outside of sexual contact, so she didn't have to concern herself with figuring out who and what she was. As a man, Lieutenant Abbott was always in control. Justine is far from in control of her own fate, and it scares the hell out of her. She hides in whatever she can lose herself in, and sex was the most pleasurable experience she found."

"Suggestions?"

"None at this point," Dr. Briggs said sadly. "We're working on it. I'll report when we have something solid. Give us another day or so."

"It's critical, Doctor. Justine Abbott is the key to this entire team. The other women look to her and take their cues from her. None of them would have accepted their femininity as readily if she'd continued to fight it. We need her desperately."

"I understand," Dr. Briggs said, her careworn face long. She cared deeply for Justine.

"Dr. Colton-Smith, how about psychosexual development?""Proceeding well," she answered. "The biggest hurdles are past us - acceptance of their sexual needs and desires. That's hard for natural-born women to accept sometimes, and these ladies have grasped it wholeheartedly. We were lucky to create an environment where shame and ostracism were non-issues, so that there was no repression inherent in the development. They've been encouraged to express themselves sexually. None of them have any real problems admitting attraction or desire towards males, now.

The next stage will be a self-esteem builder as well as a push along the psychosexual development path. We'll be training them in the arts and substance of giving pleasure as well as simply receiving it. I'm bringing in a team of sexual surrogates from the West Coast tomorrow to begin that phase, as well as introducing the concept of seduction. I have a whole panel of experts for that phase of training."

"Excellent," Colonel Bream said with an ironic smirk. "The country's tax dollars at work. The conservatives would drop kittens if they only knew. Dr. Richardson, identity development?"

Dr. Richardson finished scooping her salt-and-pepper black hair into a sleek ponytail before she spoke. "Hard work, but fruitful. None of the subjects think about themselves as men anymore - some even project backwards into memory and remember themselves as girls when they grew up. Femininity has been universally accepted and without the negative results from last time - they're confident and beautiful women, and I believe they're all at peace with their new identities.

The problem is the lack of identification with these identities, as Dr. Briggs said. They're unfamiliar. They know they're women, but they have no idea how to be a woman. It's difficult in this environment, shut away like this - they have all the tools they need to be women, but they don't know how to actually go out there to do it. Which is why I'm going to start allowing them limited access to the base outside. Social interaction - under supervision, of course - will speed that part of the development along immeasurably. These women need to get practical experience with femininity so that they can develop personality, which is just the fine details of identity.

It's like bringing a picture into focus. It's becoming more and more important. They need the opportunity to meet people and form relationships, have crushes on boys, feel rivalries with other women, all the things that young girls know about from attending school. They need the opportunities to buy things according to their personal tastes, have possessions that aren't issued, so that they can start developing some individuality.

"The clincher is going to be the personnel who they interact with. With the regression therapy still in full swing, these women are going to come across as either cock teasers or ditzy bimbos of the highest order. We'll need to have good solid control over the participants outside the gate to keep anything from going south on us."

"I'll approve that," Colonel Bream said. "I'll personally string up anybody who fucks with these ladies. Just tell me who needs shooting and I'll pull the trigger, doctor."

Dr Richardson chuckled and closed her folder. "My word on it, Colonel."

Bream turned to his uniformed subordinate. Captain Anderson, your combat readiness evaluation?"

"Fine troops all," she said proudly. "Every one of them smart, streetwise, and tough as hell. And their unit cohesion is remarkable. They're turning into real sisters out there. I'm going to move up the schedule a pace, start the specialization training in two days and move them onto a maintenance regimen outside of that. They don't need any more basic military training or covert ops training. It's time to give these ladies some specific jobs. They're ready, and they're veterans.

All the developmental concerns aside, these ladies all remember being blown apart by that piece of trash Meraggio and they're ready to hear a plan of how to take him down, sir. I think we should start giving it to them."

Colonel Bream nodded. "I agree, Captain. Go ahead with the specialization training. Lastly, I trust you all know Elise Murray, who consulted with us originally?"

Mumbled pleasantries were passed as the woman in the business suit leaned forward.

"Ms. Murray is going to add some additional training to the regimen, and I want her in very close consultation with all of you. This part of the training was overlooked at first, but we've come to believe that it may be vital. I've put her in charge of implementing it. Ms. Murray, if you would?"

The stern-faced woman leaned forward. "It came to our attention, in watching these women, that their attitudes towards interaction were still far too aggressive to be convincing as women, particularly in the role you expect them to use as cover during the mission. Colonel Bream and I have come to call this phase of the training 'helplessness training.'

"Natural born women are used to a certain degree of helplessness in their lives. Whether it's catcalls from a construction site or someone assuming that they're not strong enough to carry a package by themselves or to open a door with a bag of groceries in her hand, most women have come to screen out the degree of helplessness they face on a day-to-day basis. Not so these women. They would be just as likely to tear the head off of a man who tried to carry a package for them as they would to accept the situation gracefully and not let it matter. Supposed fragility and weakness can also aid them in their mission, since no one will expect the kind of strength, speed and ferocity that such beauties will be able to deliver.

"But making them knuckle under to helplessness can also undo all of your hard work to date, as well as sapping their effectiveness as soldiers. What I'm suggesting is to expose them to helplessness and show them through behavioral therapy and conditioning that they can exist in a 'helpless' situation without resorting immediately to violence or flight. That they can find ways to exist and work inside it without tearing it all down."

"Interesting," said Dr. Richardson. "How do you intend to do this?"

"I'll expect to be carefully monitored by everyone, of course, but I have my ways," Ms. Murray said with a slowly spreading smile. "Perhaps you could have figured it out better if Colonel Bream had addressed me by my proper title right at first. I prefer to be known as Mistress Elise."

* * *

"Clear," the range master announced on the PA as the buzzer sounded. Justine lowered her pistol and ejected the clip, sliding the yellow-tinted glasses up onto her head into the lush red hair. The glasses met some resistance, since she'd used a lot of gel on her bangs this morning to get some lift and volume, but finally they settled into the shiny, soft nest and Justine started disassembling the weapon for cleaning.

A blonde dynamo tore into the range then, grabbing Justine by the shoulder and spinning her to face the other. Petra had her ice-blue eyes lined in thick black and her pale lashes coated with mascara so that her eyes were the only dark patches in her icy pale face. Her snowy hair was arranged in an elaborate upsweep which was at odds with her drab fatigues. Justine was sure that under the uniform Petra was wearing her customary leotard and tights, since it took armed resistance to keep the girl off the ballet floor or the uneven bars. She was smiling ear-to-ear and her dramatic eyes were wide with excitement.

"I'm surprised you're not dancing," Justine said calmly. They'd agreed as a unit that when they weren't in military training they would leave rank behind. She found she liked it better when her friends and comrades called her 'Justine' as opposed to 'Lieutenant.'

"I was," she said in her thick, breathy Russian accent. "But I just got some news, and I had to tell you."

"What news?" Justine asked.

"We have leave," Petra said excitedly. "Under supervision, but off-base!"

"That's fantastic," Justine said, feeling her own excitement grow. "But why?"

"We have some really demanding and difficult training coming up, so the Colonel thinks we needed a day off before we dive in. We're ahead of schedule, so everybody else figured what the hell. We have one day's liberty in town."

Justine hugged her friend. "God, what the hell am I going to wear?"

Petra giggled and bounced up and down. "Who cares? I'm going to have all new clothes when I come back anyway. I'm going straight to the stores."

"On the pay you're drawing? You'd be lucky to afford a pair of shoes."

Petra grinned, and it wrinkled her nose in the most adorable way, making little half-moons out of her incredible eyes. "I've been pulling police pension for nearly a month, now, with no rent or car payments. You don't think I can't shop? Just watch me, tovarisch."

"Watch, hell," Justine said, threading her arm around Petra's slim waist. "I'm going to be right there with you, girl."

* * *

It turned out that even with the police pensions, the Colonel offered a little stipend as well - a small token of his admiration of their hard work. So all the ladies stepped off the civilian charter bus into the parking lot of the crowded mall with quite a bit of cash in their respective handbags, chattering gaily about what they were looking for and trying hard not to notice the slack-jawed stares they were getting from the male patronage of the facility.

Dr. Briggs and Dr. Richardson were in the train, as well as two male sentries in civilian clothes who were there to just keep eyes open. Anyone who tried anything with these ladies would consider themselves lucky if the guards got to them first. Dr. Briggs had personally seen the petite little Justine Abbott bench-press three hundred pounds as if it were nothing, her biologically enhanced musculature designed to exert that kind of force and more even before something like adrenaline kicked in.

The mall was packed due to the nearing holiday season, and to Dr. Briggs' delight the girls just dove right in, staying in a tight knot as they blazed a trail from one store to the next, pausing to look in the windows or to go in and fly into a frenzy of sorting through racks or occupying changing rooms with arm loads of potential purchases.

Petra Karanikov, true to her word, started the landslide by making the first purchase, a pair of white knee high velvet boots with a tall spike heel and a white angora miniskirt to match.

Taking their cue from the demolitions expert, the other ladies were soon loaded with sacks from stores all around the mall. Dr. Briggs noticed they kept to the stores which catered to younger women - in keeping with the age regression therapy - and most of their clothing tended towards the revealing, tight and sexy. Amusingly enough, Lori and Justine, the leaders of the group, tended towards the sexiest and most suggestive clothing, spending their money on things like bustiers, leather and vinyl, all skin-tight and baring. It seemed that they liked being 'out front,' as it were, and liked to dress the part.

Most interesting of all to Dr. Briggs was they way they handled the attention they received. Everywhere they went they seemed to attract males in droves, all flirtatious and trying their damnedest for just the merest hint of interest from the beautiful women. Dr. Briggs feared mostly that they would consider these men as acting like fools and reject them forcefully, or answer the typical male posturing by showing them up physically.

Although clearly not as comfortable as they should have been, all the women reacted calmly, and patiently. Every overture from a man was greeted with a smile or a funny, off-hand comment, perhaps even a return flirt to keep the volley going for a while. But they only let it progress to a certain point before the men met with polite, sweet - possibly even regretful - refusal which left no visible hard feelings.

The only 'tell' that the women had was the way they ate. No waist-watching for these lasses, with their heightened metabolisms and the near-constant physical workout they received every day, these women passed by the salads and low-cal sandwiches and dove straight into double cheeseburgers, hot dogs, chili fries and ice cream without a second thought.

Dr. Richardson made a mental note to speak to the ladies about that, suppressing a twinge of jealousy at Gina Delveccio eagerly diving into a double-fudge sundae immediately after an extra-large order of gravy fries and a cheese steak. The Dr. looked down at her garden salad with a little distaste.

"Not really fair, is it?" Dr. Briggs asked.

"No, Lea, it isn't," she replied, looking away. "But I can't begrudge them a thing right now. I really can't."

"I know," Dr. Briggs said, her eyes sad. "So much work, so much patience, so much of everything they've given, and in a few weeks we effectively sell them into slavery and prostitution. In all likelihood they'll lose their lives in defense of this country who'll never know who they are. If I stop to think about it too long, I lose all my heart."

"You can't let yourself think about that, then. The better the women we help them become, the easier it will be for them to survive what's to come," Dr. Richardson said firmly. "We have to give them all the tools we can."

"I know," Dr. Briggs said, sighing heavily. "I just wish I could convince myself that I'd see them all again after this is over."

Dr. Richardson gave her colleague's hand an affectionate squeeze before piling her trash on the tray and standing. The girls were gathering up and making motions to the mall, ready for another excursion. With a grin, Dr. Richardson noticed Marlee Tompkins touching her nose gingerly, perhaps regretting the golden ring she'd had pierced into her left nostril. But it was very fetching against her caf� au lait skin, Dr. Richardson had to admit. All the girls were showing excellent - if flashy - taste in everything.

Dr. Richardson's earpiece buzzed quietly and she tapped her wristwatch to open the channel.

"Dr. Richardson, this is Bravo One, do you copy?"

"Clear," she replied. "Go ahead, Bravo One."

"We found quite a few likelies, ma'am. Please advise."

Richardson tapped her chin with a manicured finger for a moment, then replied, "Have them be at the Red Rose at 1900, Bravo One. We'll put them into a social situation and see what happens."

"Roger that, Dr. Richardson. Red Rose on Oakmont Avenue, 1900 hours. We'll get the place filled."

"Remember, Bravo One, the women you find in this situation are more important than the men. Just make sure you have those bases covered well. If there's a doubt, then throw her out. Understood?"

"Clear," Bravo One responded. "We're on it."

Dr. Briggs emptied her tray into a garbage can, one eyebrow raised inquisitively. "What was all that about?" she asked.

"Oh, just setting up a little dinner date," Dr. Richardson laughed. "I thought the girls might like to show off some of those new clothes before they had to go back to base."

Dr. Briggs smiled. "I hope your plan works," she said wryly.

"It should," Dr. Richardson said calmly. "It's high time that these ladies had a coming-out party of sorts, and I think tonight is as good a night as any."

* * *

There was barely room on the bus for the women and men of the 'raiding party' (as Justine was calling it now) and all of their assorted purchases. Lori, Gina, Petra and Justine were crowded close to the windows so that they could get in a quick smoke, puffing on their slender white cigarettes (no 'cowboy' brands for these lovelies, Dr. Richardson wouldn't hear of it - only the specially made, slim and long 'ladies' varieties in order to reinforce their femininity) and blowing the smoke in long plumes out the windows through full, glossy lips.

All of the women were wearing new clothes and hairstyles, each undeniably feminine in style but also indicative of the individualism which they'd all be striving to express. Dr. Briggs and Dr. Richardson were thrilled. She picked up the P.A. and made her announcement to the populace of the rocking bus.

"Okay, ladies, in honor of your liberty, I've taken the liberty of arranging a little outing for the lot of you. I thought drinks, dinner and dancing at the Red Rose would be a good way to wind up the evening."

"Is this a nice place?" Petra asked, eyes sparkling at the prospect. As much as she loved dancing, Dr. Richardson had been sure that she would be the first to pipe up in favor. Petra had chosen 'club clothes' for the ride back, a black velvet sweater that hugged her curves deliciously but left her midriff bare, black and grey 'snake-skin' pants which were tight enough to see a pulse through and black platform boots with a blocky heel.

"It's the Red Rose," Marlee said, explaining. It's the hottest club in the city. I used to live here, before I joined the force. It was a big deal then, and all I've heard says that it's only gotten hipper since then." Marlee had chosen a white sleeveless ribbed sweater with a high turtleneck and a white leather skirt which bared a lovely expanse of creamy thigh. White calf-high boots with a four inch heel completed the outfit, and her elaborately styled up-do and silver jewelry made her look quite elegant.

Gina Delveccio elbowed Marlee gently in the ribs, laughing. "I only want to know if it's going to be a target-rich environment, if you know what I mean," she said. The dusky-skinned Italian beauty was wearing dramatic makeup and her hair was in a long, thick braid down her back, making her look sleek and sexual in her deep purple sequined minidress and platform 'go-go' heels. Her large breasts were pushed together and up with a wonderbra under the strapless dress and a thick golden chain followed the luscious contours of her cleavage. She'd just finished painting her nails to match the purple of her dress and was blowing on them as she finished her cigarette.

"Oh, I imagine there will be a few here and there," Lori said, smiling and blushing prettily. She was still having a hard time admitting attraction to men, but she definitely felt it strongly - Dr. Colton-Smith suspected that Larry Kelly had been a closet homosexual before his transition, and Lori Kelly was still adjusting to being able to express attraction to men openly and without fear of any kind of reprisal. She was dressed provocatively, in a tube-top in shiny silver Lycra and form-fitting black vinyl pants with black patent stiletto heels. Her hair and makeup were just this side of trashy, which was quite in vogue with the way modern teenage girls were styling themselves.

Evie Keith spoke up next, looking around with big bright eyes at the other passengers of the bus. She was still rather tomboyish, which was something that the doctors were working on, but she still looked every inch the woman in her tight jeans, stylish ankle-high suede boots and midriff-baring 'girlie' tee-shirt in a pale pink with an adorable little red heart nestled between her generous breasts. She'd chosen very subdued makeup, nothing flamboyant, and she looked a little uncomfortable after having been ogled so shamelessly in the mall. Dr. Richardson made a mental note to work with Eve personally to make sure she enjoyed being - and looking like - a sexy girl.

"We should see what the Lieutenant thinks, right, girls?" Eve asked.

"Yeah, how about it, Lieutenant?" Jeri Cabot echoed, playing idly with a lock of her short platinum blonde hair with a long-nailed finger. "Can we go?" She wore extravagant jewelry - huge hoop earrings that set off her long, slender neck, rings on nearly every finger and a clinking assortment of necklaces and bracelets. The rest of her was covered only with a little 'cold shoulder' black party dress - long sleeved wool with a turtleneck and two keyhole cutouts over her shoulders, baring soft and tanned skin. She wore thigh-high black suede boots with a four-inch heel to complete the ensemble.

Justine took a long, sexy pull from her cigarette and brushed a stray lock of luxuriant auburn hair out of her eyes. She was in dramatic evening makeup, her eyes colored dramatically and heavily and her lips a bright red. She wore her hair loose and windblown, which complimented the pale green tube dress and bolero jacket she'd chosen. The garment hugged her curves deliciously and left nothing to the imagination - Dr. Richardson was very pleased to see that she'd opted not to wear panties to keep from spoiling the line of the skin-tight dress, and she suspected Justine had foregone a bra as well. Justine slid easily into the role of command.

"You're a good bunch of girls, and you deserve some down-time. I say if Colonel Bream in all his wisdom has decreed that we need a night on the town on the government nickel, then we should take the money and run."

This was met by general cheers and applause, but Justine's emerald green eyes never left Dr. Richardson. The Lieutenant seemed to suspect that something was up, that they were not as far away from their training as they thought they were. Dr. Richardson broke eye contact as quickly as possible so not to betray her real reasons.

* * *

Marlee's intelligence had been spot-on. The Red Rose was every bit as hip as she'd promised and then some. They began in the bistro and dined on steaks and seafood - the girls once again gave in to the demands of their heightened metabolisms and had quite a feast, running the tab up shamelessly by ordering the most expensive items on the menu and washing it all down with several bottles of expensive wine.

After dinner they adjourned to the bar and the dance floor, which was connected to the restaurant by a long covered walkway.

The music thumped and the lights strobed, leaving the enormous multi-level dance floor alternately bathed in garishly colored light and close to pitch black. Chains could not have restrained Petra from heading out when she saw, and to everyone's surprise Eve and Marlee weren't far behind. They took up places which would accord them maximum visibility and started dancing together in a tight group, swaying and undulating their nearly-perfect bodies in sensuous time to the music. In moments they had a very tight cluster of admirers surrounding them, dancing to the music with them. The three girls appeared to be having the time of their lives.

Gina and Justine made a beeline for the bar while Lori secured a table near where the doctors and base personnel were sitting. They returned with drinks and surveyed the room, looking for likely prospective sites for a fun time with one eye while keeping a sharp eye out for potential 'situations' with the other. You could make a cop into a woman, Dr. Richardson thought fondly as she watched, but you can't make a woman not be a cop.

After a short while of looking, Gina, Justine and Lori went hand-in-hand to the dance floor and began to writhe and move to the music as well. Dr. Richardson checked her watch - even with the heightened metabolism, the metacoitogen was working true to form. Metacoitogen, a very secret drug developed five years ago by French pharmaceutical companies, was apparently the aphrodisiac of choice of al-Hassra among his household playthings.

It worked in around an hour and supposedly stayed potent for nearly twelve. Although effective on males, it was doubly effective on females, since it triggered the hormonal response in women which led to extreme sexual arousal more effectively. Also, males tended to be able to control their extreme arousal a lot better than females, just because of societal inhibitions learned during puberty.

Richardson and Colton-Smith had begun exposing the women to the drug in micro-doses for some time, just to get them used to the effects and still be able to concentrate and focus. The wine they had drunk at dinner would be their first exposure to a dosage near what they would experience in the al-Hassra compound. It was imperative that they build an immunity to the substance as best they could in an abbreviated amount of time - every drop and crumb they consumed in the al-Hassra fortress would be laced with this stuff in order to make them willing slaves of the Household.

All of the women were moving with an unconscious sexuality, an animal grace that hinted at the carnal. And they were rapidly becoming more and more susceptible to the male pheromones that peppered the air in their nostrils. Dr. Richardson, trained well to observe these things, noticed all the telltale signs of arousal in all her charges after about thirty minutes.

Keying open her microphone, she whispered, "Green light. Send 'em in."

From various positions on the dance floor, men and women began shifting position neatly to gain nearness to Gina, Lori, Eve, Petra, Marlee and Justine. The six women were soon cocooned in a net of dancing bodies, all briefed and constrained under the limitations given to them by the military personnel who'd recruited them. The soldiers saw nothing - only a minor change in the faces which swam in the light around them. Their sexuality was still internalized. They were focusing on themselves and their own sexuality - using this phase of the process to turn themselves on.

Dr. Briggs was leaning forward intently, watching the women. This was very important.

At a whispered cue from Dr. Richardson, one of the men - a tall, athletic young man with a thick mane of dark hair - danced closer to Justine, who had been tagged by the doctors as the toughest nut to crack. Two female dancers moved into position behind Justine innocuously.

"Hey," he said loudly, giving her a winning smile. "I'm Nick."

"Justine," the Lieutenant replied, still absorbed in her dancing. The light sheen of sweat she wore made her look absolutely radiant and completely sexual.

"I haven't seen you here before."

"I'm new in town," Justine said, meeting his eye and sizing him up. The old never-say-die cop instincts sized the man up quickly while the new, unfamiliar feelings were appraising him by different criteria altogether. "A friend said this was a cool place."

"So what do you think?"

She allowed herself a toes-to-scalp glance of the young man and smiled. "I'm really starting to find it interesting," she said with a suggestive pursing of her lips.

They danced for a while with no conversation, focused on one another and getting closer and closer to one another, their eyes locked. Justine was trying to keep some semblance of control, Dr. Richardson could tell, but her body was becoming more and more difficult to gainsay.

"You're a hell of a dancer," Nick finally said.

"So are you," Justine replied. "I'm not as good as my friend, though." She gestured to Petra.

"I hadn't noticed," Nick said, his eyes never leaving hers.

Justine swallowed. This guy was starting to get to her. She had that nagging itch beginning in her middle and it was getting more and more demanding.

"So, Nick, what do you do?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

"I'm a mechanic by day, a racer on the weekends. Motorcycles," he said.

"Sounds fun," Justine said.

"What do you do, besides look gorgeous and dance like an angel?" Nick asked.

She blushed a little. "I work at Fort Craig," she said. "I'm a press secretary."

"What does a press secretary do?" Nick asked.

"She looks gorgeous and dances like an angel," she replied flippantly.

"Then I'd have to say you were qualified for the job," he said, dancing closer. He was so close now that they touched. Justine had to check the urge to grind her dampening kitty against his thigh as she swayed to the beat.

But God, how she wanted to. Fear crept into the arousal a little. She didn't like this guy taking control like this. A wild urge to deck him and send him sprawling rose in her and she backed off a little, right into two women who were dancing behind her.

"I'm sorry. Excuse me," Justine said.

"Don't worry about it," one of the women said. She looked over Justine's shoulder. "Damn, girl, you picked yourself a winner tonight."

"Think so?" Justine asked.

"God, I'd cut off a boob for a night with him. He's gorgeous," the other piped in.

"I just met him," Justine offered weakly.

"So?" the first one said. "Nobody says you have to marry him, Red. I just want to jump him. There's no crime in that, is there?"

"The only crime is letting that piece of heaven go home un-fucked," the other said.

Justine cut a quick look over her shoulder at Nick. "Guy like that could have anybody he wanted," she supplied.

"Looks to me like he picked you, sweetheart," the second one chimed. "Live a little. Take him back in the coat room and have your way with him. Sometimes the chance you're looking at could be your only chance for a long time, y'know what I mean?"

Justine nodded absently. "He is pretty cute," she mumbled.

"And he's got a hard-on for you, too, sweetie," the first one said. "He can't take his eyes off of you. But, I don't guess I can blame him. You're as gorgeous as he is."

Justine blushed. "Stop," she said.

"Oh, please, don't even pretend you don't know," the second one jibed. "You didn't spend all that time on how you look because you think you're an ugly duckling. You came in here to go hunting, right? So there's your deer. Go get him."

Justine grinned. "The coat room, you say?"

"It's as good a place as any," the first one said.

Justine turned back and resumed her dance, edging her way closer and closer to Nick. "What were you girls talking about?" he asked innocently.

"They were just congratulating me," Justine purred, moving so that her breasts just grazed his arms as they moved, "on getting such a hottie to dance with me."

"Li'l ol' me?" Nick said in mock flattery.

"Knock it off," Justine said. "Like you don't know you're hot as hell."

She danced in very close, slithering between his arms like a velvet snake. Her lips were inches from his as she whispered, "How about you and I make a quick trip to the coat room, Nick?"

"Now?" he asked, still masterful. It irritated Justine a little that he was still playing coy - he had to want her as badly as she did him, and she hated playing the slut.

"Do you want to fuck me or not?" she snapped, her irritation showing.

His eyebrows rose in amusement. "My, my, you are one hot little girl tonight, aren't you?" he said, backing off. "Maybe I should give you some time to cool off."

Justine gritted her teeth. She knew he wanted her to play the game, so he could feel like he'd conquered her. She wished she could pop him in the snout and tell him to go to hell, but her body was thrumming like a guitar string and she knew he had something she needed.

Something she needed.

Dr. Richardson had nailed it. Justine remembered. It was a matter of making him want her as much, taking her own kind of control of the situation. She had something to bargain with - herself - and she could use it to get what she needed.

"I don't think you want me cooled off, baby," she purred, sliding a long-nailed hand up the inseam of his trousers, stopping well shy of his package. "I think you like me all heated up like this."

Suddenly she stopped, backed up. "Or maybe I should just turn around and look for somebody else who knows when he's got a good thing going."

"I don't think we should go that far," Nick said, half-joking and half-pleading.

"Or maybe you'd like me to get one of these fine women here and take her back there. If you're a good boy, I can even let you watch while I eat her pussy. Would you like that?"

Nick's pants were suddenly becoming very crowded - his dancing was definitely favoring his left leg, where his lengthening penis was relentlessly taking up residence.

"So, how about it, Nick? Do you like me hot, or do you like me cold?"

He stepped up to her, running his hands down her sides to squeeze her ass deliciously in time to the music. She could feel his hardness against her thigh. She'd actually done that to him! Amazing. A very profound sense of power settled over her, knowing that she had the ability to make a man play her game like that, that she could arouse him just by being who she was - a beautiful woman. Her head swam with it.

"No doubt about it," he said throatily, "I like you hot."

"So, baby, you want to go help me look for my coat, then?"

He took her hand in his forcefully. "Like you wouldn't believe."

* * *

Dr. Briggs toasted Dr. Richardson with a glass of champagne from the bar shortly after they watched Gina Delveccio select her boy-toy for the evening and head back to darker and more secluded areas. It had all gone off without a hitch - all the women had the opportunity to realize their power as objects of desire and exercise it over a man. Justine had been the first, and the rest had fallen like dominos. Strange that they'd given in to their desires in order of rank - Justine first, Lori second, Petra and Marlee next at nearly the same time, then Eve, Jeri and Gina.

Even Dr. Richardson was impressed with the changes that had come over the women as they exited wherever they had chosen for their respective trysts. In addition to a healthy sexual flush and a sheen of sweat, they carried a haughty, almost regal look in their eyes - the first real sense of their own power as women. They surveyed the dance floor and the crowded bar proudly, looking unattainable and indescribably desirable, knowing full well that they could easily have any man there that they put a mind to having.

"Excellent," Dr. Richardson said, not able to suppress a smile. "We'll start their training in seduction first thing tomorrow. Now that they've had a little taste of what they can accomplish, they'll need the skills to finish out the raw ability."

Dr. Briggs was awestruck, looking at her 'girls' with a newfound sense of wonder. "I think you may be right," she said, upending her drink.

* * *

Hardly what you'd think of as training experts, Colonel Bream thought in wonder, but I guess they're skills that need to be cultivated. He shook his head and cleared them into the main training room.

The women, regressed to an emotional age of about eighteen, were sitting in desks, waiting for the arrival of the new training personnel, and never really expected what they got. First was a slightly overweight, grandmotherly hippie in a shapeless beige dress and a salt-and-pepper braid all the way to her waist.

Another was a beach-bunny blonde nymphet with enormous breast implants and nearly in costume, so revealing was the little black dress she wore with the skyscraper platform heels.

Yet another was a long-faced woman with thick glasses and a case full of videodiscs under one arm. The last was Mistress Elise.

"Girls, I'd like you to meet your new trainers. They'll be teaching you skills which will be very valuable to you in your mission," Dr. Briggs told the assembled soldiers. "Ladies, if you would be so kind as to introduce yourselves?"

The hippie lady offered a bright, guileless smile. "I'm Linda Mendoza," she said.

She cleared her throat and opened her mouth again, and this time the voice that emanated was the most velvety, sinful sound any of the women had ever heard. It slid across them like a hot caress.

"I'm also known as Syndee Sin, probably the most famous phone-sex operator in the country. I'm here to teach you sweet things how to talk dirty."

The buxom blonde stepped up. "I'm Tawnee," she said. "I'm an exotic dancer and feature entertainer. I'm here to teach you girls how to move and dance so that you can make dicks hard."

The long-faced woman grinned lopsidedly. "I'm Martha Danner," she introduced herself. "I've directed about thirty movies like Erotic Nights and Murder in Red Silk. I'm here to show you how I directed some of the most popular film sirens of the last two decades and help you adopt some of the mannerisms and body language they use."

And finally, Mistress Elise. "I'm Elise. I'll be showing you how to interact with the men you'll most likely meet on the mission. I'll take over the last part of the training, and mine will last the longest. All the other training should only take a few days."

Dr. Briggs sat next to Justine. "Who would like to start?" she asked.

All of the ladies sat except for 'Syndee Sin,' who stepped to the lectern and asked, "Now, would each of you ladies please tell me your names and where you were from so that I can hear your voices?"

* * *

It had been a long but productive week, all told - all of the girls were now moving, talking and acting like total sexpots after the patient training of Syndee Sin, Tawnee and Martha Danner. The girls had really enjoyed that portion of the training - it helped reinforce