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This story is for enjoyment only. It may be reposted or archived in any free location, but not used commercially. It's not for children. Please take due care to keep it from those who aren't mature enough to understand that it is fiction, not advocacy of a particular lifestyle. ______________________________________________________ Duty, Honor, Country by Brandy Dewinter Chapter 1 - Tradition? The lines of uniformed bodies stood patiently in sunlight brightly magnified by reflections from the acres of concrete ramp. They had little choice, orders were orders. Private Sanford "Sandy" Beech, a nineteen year old recruit in the infantry regiment, swayed a little in his position near one end of the second rank, almost nodding off despite the sweltering heat and the constant irritation of sweat dripping into his eyes and trickling down his back. Unlike some of his colleagues in uniform, Beech was reasonably well educated. He hadn't been able to afford to go to college, hence his current "job". But he had been blessed with parents who challenged him far beyond what public schools required. At least, they had until they were wiped from the earth by a drunken driver, another contributor to his present situation. As he stood there feeling the sweat make his uniform gradually disintegrate into a shapeless mess, he was reflecting on the history of this particular military drill and how useless it was in today's army, a thought that had been coming to him more and more as they waited. Infantry inspection in ranks had started out when regiments were raised and paid by their colonel, who was in turn paid by the general (or more often prince) who had raised the army. The general would inspect each man to make sure that the count claimed by the colonel was correct and that none of the men were blind, or too diseased, or too crippled. It also helped if each man had at least some sort of weapon and either the colonel or the general would have to solve that problem for the ones without. In time, when movement of blocks of men became part of tactics, forming and holding lines became an important military skill and a precise formation became part of the inspection criteria. By that time, uniforms within a regiment had become standardized though each regiment was unique. The general's inspection in that era was to ensure that he could recognize the regiment's uniforms well enough to direct it properly. That, in conjunction with the military obsession for order and discipline, led to inspection for neatness and a high boot polish, items not really helpful in combat except as an indication of willingness and discipline to follow orders. That willingness was indeed a military virtue, but standing for over an hour in the hot sun on a burning plain of concrete was hardly a vital combat skill. And now, uniforms were standardized army- wide, weapons were issued from government arsenals, tactics were based on highly-flexible formations and training would weed out the physically inadequate. All of which made inspection in ranks either uselessly boring (to those who couldn't or didn't use the time to think) or actively irritating (to those who did). Beech would rather have been challenged by some sort of combat exercise if he was going to get hot and sweaty anyway. Finally the troops heard the whopping sound of an approaching helo. Sergeants surreptitiously glanced down their ranks to make sure none of the soldiers were turning to gawk at the clattering machine, but the unit was well- trained and held formation properly. The Blackhawk sat down a hundred yards in front of the formation in a shower of dust and gravel from the supposedly clean ramp and dirtied up the once-spotless uniforms even more thoroughly. The Colonel stiffened into a correspondingly even more rigid posture at this additional insult to his men, but he, too, was well-trained and held his place until the swirling rotors flattened out and quit pushing air and dirt around. Then he stepped forward to the doorway as it slid back. From where the men stood in formation it wasn't possible to make out the insignia on the first man out of the helo, but it was clear that he was wearing neat but not new camo BDUs, softened by wear into a cooler and much more comfortable uniform than the formal Class A uniforms of the regiment. He was surprisingly small, inches shorter than their colonel, and slender. In addition to the more comfortable uniform he was wearing bright aviator sunglasses, a violation of enlisted uniform standards that was another irritation to the men squinting in the sun. They forgot about him in the next instant, however as he turned to help the other VIP occupant of the helo. She, even from a hundred yards away decidedly she, needed the help. Her tight, short skirt and spindly high heels made even the short jump down from the helo an impossibility without aid. Six hundred men from the regiment would have volunteered to help her down in a heartbeat, five hundred and ninety six because they would have done almost anything to get close to such a gorgeous creature, and the other four to keep up appearances with their straight comrades in arms. With that woman around none of the men were paying enough attention to the officers to notice the quiet argument that had begun even as the woman was helped to the ramp, but their attention was jerked back to their own Colonel when the surprising order barked out. "All men, remove your jackets and stand easy." Now, that was a surprise. In the first place, you never took your jacket off for an inspection, and in the second, stand easy? Inspection in ranks was always done at attention. What was going on here? Officers, Beech snorted to himself. They never make sense. But, like the other men he removed his jacket and hung it over his arm. While the troops were shuffling about the camo'd officer and his lady companion were making their way to one end of the first rank. For this formal (at least it started out formal) inspection the men had been arrayed in order of height, with the shorter men on the ends and the tall ones in the middle. The inspecting officer actually examined the first men he came to, looking them over carefully and making comments to the woman. A few were asked their names, a semi-surprising event since generals sometimes did that as a means of demonstrating interest in the men being inspected, however false or transient. Surprisingly, though, in these cases the woman wrote the names in a small notebook as though it actually mattered. When the . . was he really a general? He wasn't wearing any rank insignia. . . reached the taller soldiers he seemed to lose interest, walking quickly past. Only at the other end of the first rank, once again comprised of shorter men, did he seem to pay attention. Beech waited in the second rank, near one end due to his 5'7" height. When the . . . general . . . got to him he stopped and looked him over very carefully. Beech couldn't quite make out the whispered comments to the woman, but her eyes met his for a second and showed approval. If Beech could have figured out what she liked in him, he could have sold it for a week's pay to the men around him, but her eyes showed only a hint of amusement to go with her approval, revealing no particular interest. "What's your name, soldier?" the general asked in a smooth voice devoid of the expected parade ground rasp. Snapping to attention, awkward while holding his jacket, he shouted, "Sir! Private Sanford Beech! Sir!" At the general's nod, the woman wrote it down in her book and they passed on. Was it his imagination, or had that vision of feminine loveliness actually smiled at him when he barked out his answer? Oh, please come back and smile at me again, say something to me, inspect me in ANY way that you want, Beech silently prayed, but the group moved on. The rest of the inspection proceeded in the same mysterious vein, close attention only to the shorter soldiers, particular attention to the ones like the general and Beech who were slender, virtually ignoring anyone even approaching six feet in height. In less than fifteen minutes, though they had waited in ranks for almost two hours, the inspection was over. The Sergeant Major barked out an order to put their jackets on again and come to attention, then gave yet another inexplicable, or at least unexplained, order. "The following men will report to Hangar 12 immediately," he announced, then began to read from what must have been the list made by the woman. Beech heard his name called along with about a dozen others and proceeded to the hangar. The rest of the regiment was dismissed behind him and the strange inspection was officially over. A dozen men, plus or minus a few, seemed lost in the enormous hangar. In keeping with the sacred army tradition of "hurry-up-and-wait", they stood around aimlessly. Beech noted that one of the men in the group was one of "them", a homosexual. As far as Beech was concerned consenting adults could do whatever they wanted in private, but that philosophical position didn't help him when he tried to figure out how to react to "them" personally and so "they" made him uncomfortable. He certainly didn't want to encourage "them" and tried to keep interactions on a proper, professional, but distant basis. He also never let one get behind him in the shower. That was part of the problem. Adults could do what they wanted in private, but in the army there was no privacy. None of the other straight men among the dozen in the hangar wanted to get too close to the one . . different . . man so there was a clear space around him, another problem in an organization that depended on group cohesion and camaraderie. Beech noted that his nameplate read, Fox, and that triggered a memory that his name was Tim, or Jim, something like that. Next, Beech looked for some more acceptable object to occupy his mind while they waited and saw two MPs hulking by the door to some sort of office in the hangar. But the big MPs also made him uncomfortable. They all seemed to have this sneering, angry attitude, sort of a "Just give me any excuse and I'll ram my billy club so far up your ass you'll taste it" arrogance. In his mind they were all bullies. Who'd want to go into that sort of specialty anyway? Beech had seen his share of bullies. He'd always been short and slender, and no one would ever call his features "rugged". In high school, he had faced the unpleasant choice of wearing his hair short and looking like a wimp, or wearing it long like everyone else and looking effeminate. He had chosen long hair, eventually liking the feel and swing of it enough to let it grow below his shoulders. It had caused him problems, though, with honest, sincere people mistaking him for a girl throughout his life until the army took care of his hair length choice for him, along with most other choices. Unlike the kindly mistakes his appearance caused, bullies had always called him "sissy" when they didn't call him worse things. In true "self defense" he had investigated martial arts. Beech had soon found out that his hands were too small and bone structure too light for real karate, unless he wanted to build calluses so heavy he wouldn't be able to bend his fingers. However, he found in aikido the style he needed. It focused on using an opponent's momentum against them rather than on striking attack. By the time he graduated from high school, no one was calling him sissy any more, at least, not more than once. His reverie on Reasons To Hate Bullies was winding down when one of the MPs called out, "Attention!" The call was echoed with, "At ease," so fast none of the troops had time to complete the motion. Turning around, they saw the general and his lady friend entering the hangar. The tapping of her delicate heels echoed in the open space, unimpeded by more than the faintest breathing from any of the spellbound men within the room. Even the striding general made no sound as he glided with surprising grace across the floor of the massive building. "Let's all go into the briefing room, shall we?" he asked. A courtesy of course, since a request from a general compelled obedience almost as irresistible as the ultimate motivator, an order from a sergeant. "Make yourself comfortable," the general ordered. The group which had seemed so small in the huge hangar now crowded the small office as though their numbers had been multiplied several times over. There were enough chairs, though, once the general and the woman walked to the front of the room near a speaker stand. "I've asked you all here to offer you a chance to volunteer for a special, vitally important mission," he began. "It is very highly classified and will involve significant hazard and personal discomfort. I know that doesn't sound like much of a recruiting pitch, but I must emphasize how crucial this is to the security of our nation and the safety of our people. I will also tell you that I will be part of the team. I don't consider this an impossible assignment, but it will be more difficult than anything you have ever done." Not much of a recruiting pitch, indeed! All of the soldiers were more than familiar with the time-honored adage never to volunteer and this seemed like as good a case as any for following that tradition. One of them spoke up. "What's in it for us, General?" "I'm not a general," he corrected the man. "I can tell you that I am on special assignment with orders from the President himself and can effectively outrank any general around. That is an indication of how important the President considers this mission. My own rank and background are classified. Only those who volunteer will be told. Now, as to your question. Nothing. If we succeed, you will never be able to tell anyone what we accomplished. You won't get promoted. You won't get medals. There's nothing in it for you except the knowledge that you've helped in a mission so critical it may mean the difference between life or death for millions of people. Or it may not. We'll be trying to avert a danger that may not even be real. However, we think it is real, terrifyingly real, and we must do what we can to protect our country. The question is, do you want to be part of that 'we'?" Sometime during that hopelessly depressing speech, Beech had partially tuned out the "general". The woman had finally removed her sunglasses and Beech realized she had brilliant green eyes to go with her corona of auburn hair. He felt himself falling into those eyes. He had only seen eyes that clear and deep green in one other situation, whenever he looked in a mirror. They captivated him, providing a linkage to the beautiful woman that began to tickle his mind with fantasies of other closeness, other sharing. Her eyes had roamed the group impartially at first, but his staring drew her gaze to him just as his gaze was trapped by her. Those emerald jewels showed a hint of amusement at his open admiration, but also a hint of . . . what? . . . desire? Did he imagine it or did were her eyes sending a message of personal request to volunteer for this ridiculous mission? What could possibly be so important? Beech pulled his eyes away and looked at the camouflaged officer again. He hadn't removed his sunglasses. They were decidedly non- standard, almost wrap-around and completely hid his eyes, even his eyebrows. His voice was still smooth and soft, his message still hopelessly tied to outdated patriotic concepts. "I'm not going to use the 'duty' phrase to get you to volunteer. I want you to understand that we will be asking you to do things that are far above and beyond the call of duty, at least, of the duty you already owe by joining the army. Once you're part of the team, your duty to your teammates will be greater than any ever required of ordinary soldiers. You can withdraw now with honor intact. No stigma will be attached to those not continuing from this point. Your country needs you, though, your friends, your neighbors, even strangers. Will you help me help them?" What did motivate soldiers like these? In olden days, the hope for glory could make men take incredible risks, but the officer had ruled that out. Duty to comrades was a powerful force, elevating ordinary men to extraordinary levels that they knew were not strictly required of them. A soldier's sense of duty was part of what separated him from civilians, even when no sergeant was watching. The "general" had carefully ensured that the men knew their consciences could be clear on that issue, though. Honor? The type of honor that mattered was always internal, regardless of who was watching. Just why had they joined the army in the first place? Was it always just another job? Did they want to find out what they were made of, measured against a standard that civilians couldn't even understand? Country. The general had certainly pushed that button. Was it enough? The slender officer who was still "the general" in the minds of the men nodded unobtrusively to one of the MPs at the door, who immediately hollered, "Attention!" With conditioned reflex the group of men jerked to their feet. The general quietly said, "All right. Those who are not going to volunteer may leave now." Beech was ready to leave with the rest but happened to glance at the woman one last time, one possibly fatal time. Her sparkling green eyes were made even brighter by incipient tears. Though there wasn't a single specific change from the gentle amusement of before that Beech could have pointed out, her expression was now worried, afraid that the entire group would leave. Beech found himself falling into the bottomless depths of those eyes instead of moving for the door, until finally he realized that only three of their original dozen remained in the room and the door was being closed behind the exiting MPs. And that he was one of those three. So was the homosexual soldier, Tim Fox. That made Beech even more uncomfortable because he knew in his heart he always thought that "they" wouldn't be as brave as "real" men, despite the history he knew of the sacred band of Thebes. Yet here this "person" sat, volunteering for a hazardous mission without apparent reward. The final volunteer was a blond soldier Beech knew only as "Carp", a nickname from the "Clumsy Carp" character in the comic strip. He had a reputation for being really hard working, really motivated, and really clumsy. His nameplate read Anderson, but that didn't trigger any further memories for Beech. "Excellent," smiled the general. "Please, sit down again. Let me be the first to thank you for your patriotism. As of right now, you have all earned a nice letter of commendation from the President himself. It will be placed in your personnel file and I expect it will make a difference when you come up for promotion, or for consideration at a special school you want. Congratulations." Then he continued in a much less pleasant tone, though his voice was still somehow soft and smooth, "But as of right now you also have one last chance to back out, no penalty, no questions asked. You'll still get your letter. However, we are about to give you your first briefing. Once you receive it, you will be held to the strictest standard of secrecy you can imagine. If you ever breathe a word of this, I'll see that you're thrown under the worst stockade in the military, and you'll never come out. You'll be passed your food through a hole in the wall, and the orders to the guard will be that when the food is untouched for 10 days in a row, the hole will be sealed. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm joking. If you don't think you can maintain that level of secrecy, leave now." None of the volunteers left, but all looked decidedly uncomfortable, wondering even more what they had gotten themselves into. Beech's eyes had again been drawn to the woman, but when he heard the general's threat, he whispered to himself, "The man in the iron mask." She understood his comment, knew that he understood the reference, and smiled at him. This time there was no doubt. She had certainly smiled, and certainly at him. What could they ask him to do that was too terrible for that sort of reward? When it was clear that none were leaving the general regained his pleasant smile and stood up, quickly motioning the men to keep their seats. "All right, let me introduce myself and my companion. I actually am a General, General Merlin. I lied to those others because we never tell anyone outside our circle anything that might give them even a hint of our mission, or of the people involved. My permanent rank is major, but the President has promoted me to two-star rank for the duration of this assignment. It should come in handy when we deal with administrivia and bureaucrats. That's besides the authority I have as his representative, which is also real. My lovely companion is Constance McLean. She's what we call a subject matter expert, for part of your training." "Over the course of the next year, more or less, we'll be training you in several specialized skills for the mission. You're not the only regiment we've recruited from, but you have had the best response. With your additions, we now have enough to enter full-time training. We'll turn you into masters of unarmed combat, with agility you wouldn't believe is possible. We'll turn you into master thieves as well, with skills in lock- picking and alarm neutralization. More than any of these, though, you'll have to learn to disguise yourselves. Each of you, from the time we reach the base, will form an entire new persona, one unrecognizable to your best friends. That is the key to this mission. Connie will help you in this area, and I am a testimony to how effective her skills are." With that the officer stood up, removed his wrap-around sunglasses, and pulled off his beret. To the absolute shock of the three new volunteers, the "general's" eyes were as beautiful as any woman ever born. High, carefully- shaped brows highlighted luminous blue eyes, themselves framed by long dark lashes and shining pearlescent shadow. As he pulled the beret away from his head, blond curls cascaded down around his shoulders, bobbing softly as they settled into position. "You will need to be able to disguise yourself as women to accomplish this mission. That is why we chose only those who have a slight build and are relatively short. Further, you will need to be beautiful women, sensual, desirable, totally believable. I won't tell you just why, yet, but it is as important to this mission as any other skill you will learn. It is also the most highly classified part of your training. As of now, you are committed. If you wash out of the training, you'll be put in a deep hole until the rest of the team completes their mission. One of the key mission objectives is that the target never know we were there. If word gets out that the US Army was training female impersonators, our entire mission is compromised, not to mention any team members who are still in place. Do I make myself clear?" The soldiers were too amazed to speak, but that question was so standard following formal orders that their automatic responses took over and all nodded. Their mouths hung open, their eyes bulged out, but they nodded. "Right," said the general as . . he? . . tucked his long hair back under his beret and replaced his mirrored sunglasses. "Let's get moving. The helo is standing by." Chapter 2 - Training? The helo whopped its way to a destination so distant from the base where Beech had been stationed that he wondered why they didn't transfer to a different type of aircraft. After the second fuel stop, hours later, he decided the general hadn't been joking when he said this mission would involve extreme personal discomfort. And they were just getting started. It didn't help that the windows on the chopper had been blacked out. There was even a screen across the back of the cockpit so that only the pilots could see forward. The noise level was too high for light conversation, even with the breathtaking Miss McLean, so they were forced to just sit there and "endeavor to persevere". Long after dark the helicopter landed at a small clearing in a wooded area, clearly much higher in elevation than their previous base. It was cooler, for one, but it also had a crisp cleanness that only seemed to be available in the mountains. Few people realize that the US Army spends more money on training than on procurement, more than on housing, more than on fuel, more even than on food. They are expert at teaching soldiers whatever they need to know to accomplish their military skills. This training base could easily be concealed among the multitude of similar bases, even from inquisitive bureaucrats. The new recruits were shown to their quarters and told to get a good night's sleep. That revealed the first of what would be many surprises about the base, though. Beech found himself assigned to private quarters and unlike the standard enlisted barracks, these quarters had a private bathroom that was much too elegant to call a latrine. The bed was a frilly canopied confection of lace and spun-sugar delicacy, the closet was big enough to walk around in, and topping it all off, there was a fully-stocked vanity complete with lighted makeup mirror. Though the army had taught him never to pass up a chance to take a quick shower when facilities were available, he knew it was likely to wake him up enough to make it hard to sleep. Using the excuse of the order to get to bed, he quickly stripped out of his still-sweaty Class A uniform and slithered between the cool, slick sheets. In a moment, he was asleep. At a surprisingly late hour, meaning the sun was already up, Beech, Fox, and Carp Anderson were roused from their delicate beds by Constance McLean herself. As she gently called to him, Beech realized it was the first time he had heard her speak. Her sentences were fine, idiomatic American English, but there was a lilt to her voice that spoke of the Emerald Isle, a most attractive lilt. Beech responded as any red-blooded American soldier would do, with a gallant reflex he found hard to hide . . er . . no pun intended. He kept the covers around his waist and nodded. After she left, Beech walked into the oh-so-feminine powder room adjoining his bedroom where he found shampoo and conditioner, razor and depilatory, all softly scented with a flowery perfume. His morning shower took only a few minutes. When he stepped out, he looked around for his underwear, expecting to have to wear the same pair again until his personal effects caught up with his abrupt departure. Instead, he found a pair of woman's panties, colored a brilliant emerald green to match his eyes. They were so thin and smooth they seemed to flow through his fingers like a liquid, catching at the rough calluses on his army-toughened hands. With no alternative he put them on and reached for a white robe he also found. The robe was conventional enough, at least to look at, but when he wrapped it around himself he realized it was much softer and thicker than any he had ever worn. A sharp rap at his door started him moving from conditioned reflex and he went into the hallway to find Constance waiting with Fox and Anderson. They were escorted to a large sitting room, decorated with a scattering of couches and easy chairs. There were already another half a dozen men waiting, all dressed in the thick white robes. Moments after they arrived, another door opened and the general entered. At least, from the neck down it looked like the general. The camo BDUs were the same, but only the fact that they had seen him without his sunglasses, and with his hair let down, identified him to the open-mouthed recruits. This morning, the general had completed . . his? . . makeup, adding blush and crimson lipstick. His? . . hair was brushed into spun gold, caressing her . . um. . . his . . cheeks with gentle whispers. She wore sparkling golden loops in her ears, and a wide choker necklace. In a word, she was beautiful. Beech realized he was having an increasingly difficult time remembering that this vision of loveliness was indeed a man. The classic beauty displayed over the androgynous BDUs shouted femininity so loudly it was drowning out the memory of the male officer they had first met. "Good morning, ladies," the traditional army insult came from the same soft voice they had heard, but it now sounded sultry and added to the compelling image. "Be seated." "Today is the first day of your training for the mission. You will be trained in three main areas; feminization, unarmed combat, and theft. Of these, the most time-consuming will be the feminization training, but as you can see from me, the results will be amazing." At this point, one of the recruits raised a tentative hand. The general responded, "Yes?" "Excuse me, . . um . . sir . . but why train us to be women? I mean, why not just use women?" The general paused for a long moment, a delicate pout forming on those glorious crimson lips. Then she nodded to herself and said, "All right, I guess a little more background is in order. All of you know the penalties if you breathe a word of this to anyone, ever." "In a small but strategic country that I won't name right now, there is a totalitarian leader who is literally insane. He has developed a biological weapon of such virulence that it threatens all life on earth. We believe he intends to release it at his death in the ultimate power statement, 'Apres moi, le deluge.' Our mission is to extract that biological agent and replace it with a harmless substitute. We must do this so secretly that he never realizes it was done, or he will produce a replacement. This dictator, call him El Supremo for now, has kidnapped a harem of beautiful women and placed them in an outer ring of defense around the only access to the laboratory where this germ is kept. Unless escorted by El Supremo himself, all men in the outer ring are shot on sight. The women have all been trained to do this. Every now and then El Supremo releases what he calls a criminal into the area, and any woman that doesn't immediately try to kill him is punished so severely that few survive. For anyone to approach the inner sanctum, they must appear to be beautiful women." "On the other hand, to gain access to the inner sanctum and to move around within it, one must be a potent, virile, biological male. Among his other perversions, El Supremo likes to test his laboratory workers for their masculinity. Fresh, live sperm is required to pass several checkpoints. He believes that this two-layer defense, one lethal to men, one impassable to women, provides an adequate barrier to penetration. Our mission is to breach that barrier without letting him know it was done. It will require us to pass as beautiful women, hence the specialized training. Is that clear?" At the questioners nod, the general resumed his briefing. "All right. As of right now, you will begin your feminization training. From this moment on, each of you is to pick a feminine name that is close enough to your real name that you will respond automatically if you hear it. We will all address each other only by these feminine names. We will refer to each other only with feminine pronouns, and even think of each other in that way. Unconscious mental attitudes have as much or more to do with feminization than outward appearance. I have told you that I am General Merlin, but my femme name is Marilyn. Pick your names, introduce yourselves to each other, then report back to your room in fifteen minutes. Your first instructor will be waiting." Instead of leaving the room, he . . she smiled and walked over to where the . . girls . . were sitting and asked them their names. Beech felt he could stay with "Sandy" for his femme name, so that was easy. The recruit nearest him was that "different" one, Tim or Jim Fox. Though it made him uncomfortable, he decided he needed to follow orders and so he introduced himself. "Hello, my name is Sandy," he said, trying to soften his voice in imitation of the general. "My name is Jim, . . uh . . that is . . Jamie, or maybe J-a-y-m-i," stammered the other recruit. His hair was a nondescript brown, his eyes, though, were large and a deep, rich chocolate. Beech found himself unconsciously evaluating "Jaymi's" feminization potential and felt that "she" could make a quite attractive woman. He wondered what the others thought of his own, that is, "her" own potential. Beech hoped that they could all be as successful as the general. With their short, military haircuts and no makeup, it was hard to think of any of them except as men. As the general circulated among the group of recruits, the ones that had been introduced left for their rooms. Well within the fifteen minute window, all were dispersed. When Beech returned to his room, he found a casually dressed woman waiting for him. At this point, he wasn't sure what to expect, perhaps this "woman" was really a feminized man. She was dressed in a short denim skirt and a sleeveless knit blouse. Her hair was medium in length, and her makeup more subdued than the incredible magic recently displayed by "Marilyn". Actually, she was rather plain, for a young, fit woman. The only unusual things about her outfit were the high heels she wore, a bit too formal for her casual appearance. Her voice was low and gave no additional clues to her true sex when she spoke in a tone that wasn't quite an order, but also wasn't quite a suggestion, "You'll need to get back into the shower. We will be removing all your body hair." Beech stopped abruptly, not having absorbed what would turn out to be even the first, easiest steps of what his transformation would entail. However, he didn't protest. Instead, he followed the woman? into the bathroom. "My name is Karen. I'll be helping you with your body training, at least the feminization part. You'll have other instructors for martial arts training. The first step is to get rid of your body hair. Step into the shower, spread your legs, and raise your arms to shoulder height." These were definitely orders. "Karen's" rank was unclear, but since just about everyone outranks a Private, Beech did what he was told. He jumped though, when Karen started to spread a foamy cream all over his body. He had seen the can before, recognizing it as one of those depilatory chemicals, but he hadn't realized it would be used, so soon, and so thoroughly. By the time Karen was finished, every square inch of his body below the eyebrows had been lathered. Every. Square. Inch. Beech's body had responded to her impersonal ministrations as any young healthy man could be expected to respond. As a result, it wasn't difficult for Karen to spread the cream over his most intimate hairs. When she had finished, she grinned at him, the first sign of other than professional emotion. "Don't worry, if you hadn't reacted, you'd probably have washed out. Now, stand still for a few minutes before you wash up." She grinned again at her phrasing, then left the shower stall. Beech stood there for an interminable time, feeling the cream first tingle, then itch, then begin to etch itself into his skin like raw acid. He just kept reminding himself that the general had warned of "personal discomfort". After some timeless interval Karen returned and told him to rinse off, making sure to get every spot of cream. This he did gladly, even though the water must have come straight off the snowpack on the mountains around. When he finally stepped from the shower, Karen handed him another sweetly-scented lotion and told him to rub down all the spots he could reach. Beech recognized the inherent alternative, that she would rub the lotion into him, and part of him wondered if that would be preferable, a consideration that once again demonstrated itself in a visible response. Karen read his "expression" as easily as if it had been broadcast on CNN, and laughed out loud. "Listen, Sandy, you'll get plenty of attention, including sexual attention. For right now, we need to get you dressed, at least in the clothes that are my responsibility. By the way, that's the last time you'll have to do that. That depilatory cream is special. Your body hair won't grow again until a neutralizer is applied. See how well the Army takes care of you?" She led the shocked recruit back out of the bathroom where several packages were placed on a table in the corner of the spacious bedroom. Hanging from the ceiling was a trapeze arrangement, too small to sit on or anything. Maybe it was for pull-ups. The army loved pull-ups almost as much as it loved pushups. "Grab the bar," Karen directed. Beech didn't quite have to jump to reach it, but it pulled him up onto this toes. He started to pull himself up, but Karen stopped him. "No, just hang there for a minute while I get some measurements." She made measurements at about 10 places from his armpits to his knees, some around, some up and down, some seemingly random. After she had the measurements, she consulted a table, then reached for one of the packages. "This will do for your first one, until we get the custom made one ready." "First what?" Beech asked, then dropped from the bar and shied away as he saw what she was drawing from the package. "No way!" he complained. "It's either this or a stockade for about the rest of your natural life," Karen warned. "Now grab ahold of that bar again." Beech complied, watching the item out of the corner of his eye like it was a snake that might bite him. The item was a corset, bright red with black striping. Karen had loosened the laces several inches, then opened a series of hooks down the front. She wrapped it around him and fastened the hooks. As Beech hung from the bar, only his toes touching the floor, he began to relax a little, this wasn't so bad. It was snug, but not too tight. Then Karen started tightening the laces in back. And tightening them. And tightening them. Before long, Beech was gasping for breath, and she still tugged at the now-straining laces. Finally she relented, "All right, you can lower your arms, now." Beech let go of the bar, thinking that this would make his breathing easier. In reality, it just made the corset seem tighter. The corset also made his posture remain even more erect than his sergeant had ever managed to drill into him. He gasped, tried to twist and bend, and generally examined the limitations imposed by his new prison. Maybe that stockade wouldn't be so bad after all. "Run the straps under your panties," was Karen's next order. Panties. What a word to use on a soldier. That's what they were of course, but what a word. The corset had four dangling straps and he worked them under the thin material of his panties as Karen reached for another box. From this one she drew forth gossamer thin stockings, dark, with seams running from the lacy tops clear to the toes. Karen handed them to Beech as though he knew what to do with them. Of course he knew in general, but not specifically. After a moment's fumbling, Karen helped him to gather one into a small ring, then carefully draw it up his shining, smooth leg. He managed the other on his own. She showed him how to position the garters and soon he felt the tug and pressure of the stockings as they joined with the counterbalancing pressure of his corset. "All right," Karen said briskly, "one more item, then a little practice on posture and moving." The last item was really a pair, a pair of shining black high-heeled shoes. Beech wasn't expert enough to determine how tall the heels were, he just knew they looked awfully tall to him. They were basically pumps, but there was an ankle strap at the heel. He bent to put them on, but the corset drew him up abruptly. "You won't be able to reach them until you learn how to move in that corset a little better," Karen declared the obvious. "I'll put them on you." Apparently they had already determined his shoe size, so the shoes fit fine. Well, actually, they fit terribly. There was no room for his toes, and he felt as though his foot had been curved inside out. However, he recognized that the length was appropriate for his foot, with the back of the shoes just slipping snugly over his heels. In a moment Karen had the ankle straps fastened and stood back. "That's it, for now, move around a little." Beech tried to comply, almost falling when he stepped out too far. Karen quickly gave him some pointers and in a surprisingly short time he was able to move about the room with some reliability, if not much grace. A bit more practice and even grace began to appear as he tried to comply with Karen's guidance to swing his hips more, to point his toes, and to put one foot directly in front of the other. Before he really got smooth, though, he complained. "My feet are killing me." "Those are only three-inch heels. Even mine are over 4 inches, and my foot is shorter than yours. By the time we're done, you'll be dancing in heels twice that high. But you can take a break for a minute. Here, put this on." She handed him another robe, this one shorter than the white bathrobe he had worn previously. The robe was a brilliant emerald green to match his eyes (and his panties). It was thin and silky and threatened to go sheer at any second, though it was actually opaque. It also threatened to reveal those matching panties with every movement. It really was short. "Time for breakfast. An army marches on its stomach," this time Karen couldn't help but giggle. She moved to the doorway and motioned Beech to follow her. Chapter 3 - Trans what? Beech followed Karen down the hallway. He watched her as she glided along in her towering heels and began to truly understand the academic knowledge she had provided with her directions. He actually became reasonably comfortable in his own tall spikes, especially once he gained a little confidence in how much weight the thin heels could actually support. By the time they reached the cozy dining area he was hindered more by the pain in his feet from the unaccustomed pressures than by any inherent balance or skill. In the dining area Marilyn and Constance were already circulating among the arriving recruits, each of whom was now dressed in a similar robe, though each one had a unique color carefully selected to complement the appearance of the trainee. The transformation in the general was now complete, at least in appearance. Her beautiful face and shining hair were accented by a short robe, towering heels, and slimming seamed stockings just as the trainees wore (and Constance). Her elegant grace, in gestures as well as in walking, could leave no doubt in anyone's mind that the general was every bit as feminine as Constance herself. Beech was pleased to see that he had mastered the sway required by his high heels at least as well as any of the new trainees. He walked easily into the room and looked around for the others from his regiment. Jaymi Fox was just then entering, not as naturally as Beech had moved perhaps, but clearly on track to learning this skill. Others filed in and only the fact that Beech was watching for Carp Anderson, (what was his femme name?) reminded him that the third soldier from his regiment had not appeared. Marilyn must have been keeping count as well, for she spoke quietly to Constance who moved off down the appropriate corridor. In a few minutes she returned with Carp and his instructor, practically carrying the reluctant recruit. He tried to move on his own, but every other step his ankle turned, or his heel slipped, or he caught his pointed toe in the carpet. When they finally released him, he clung to the back of a chair, teetering precariously. "Clumsy Carp" indeed. "Very well, then," Marilyn said. "Let's get our food and be seated." A delicious brunch had been laid out for them, complete with all manner of meats, breads, fruits, and vegetables. A cook stood by to make eggs to order as the group filed along the buffet. Beech gathered up his usual breakfast fare sized for an active young man's appetite, and added a sandwich more appropriate for lunch while he was at it. He hadn't eaten since noon yesterday, though come to think of it, he wasn't as hungry as he expected. The distraction of the food broke the concentration of some of those who were just learning to walk all over again, but Beech soon forgot the shoes he wore and just went through the line. Marilyn was watching unobtrusively as the group moved along and their eyes met briefly, then Beech received a smile of approval for his success and a discreet wave of invitation to the general's table. He swayed his way over to where Marilyn and Constance were sitting and added his own tray to the table beside theirs. "With your permission, . . uh . . ma'am?" he stammered. An instant of frown creased Marilyn's beautiful brow for a second, then she relaxed. She knew it would take a while for them to get used to the idea. "Sit down," came the order. "Sandy, isn't it?" "Yes, ma'am." "Why don't you just call me Marilyn?" the general requested. "When we're on the mission, we'll need to seem like friends, not soldiers." "Yes, ma'am, I mean, yes, Marilyn," Beech replied, not much better. The frown was again marring Marilyn's face as she watched Carp struggle through the line. He clutched at the counter with each step, barely managing to push his tray along. Beech noted the general's glance and sighed. "What's wrong?" Constance asked. "Oh, it's Carp, I mean, Anderson," answered Beech. "Carp?" now Marilyn was asking. "That's just what we call him. It's from the comic character, Clumsy Carp. I'm afraid he's not very graceful." "I wish I'd have known that before we left your base," the general's frown was in full force now, reminding them of her . . no . . with that look, his command presence. Constance caught the look, and gently reminded him, "Now, Marilyn, that frown just doesn't work for you. Try a pout instead." Marilyn's attention flashed back to "her" table companion with a rueful smile, acknowledging what must have been one in a long series of corrections. She changed her expression to one somehow more feminine without being more happy. Truly a dainty pout rather than a masculine frown. "I still wish I'd have known," she complained. "So do I, dear," Constance agreed, "but we didn't. Asking too many questions would have taken too long." Marilyn nodded, then turned back to the very quiet Sandy Beech who was trying to disappear without moving while the elephants were angry. "Is there anything else we should know about those from your regiment?" she asked. Beech hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do about Fox. This whole situation was so bizarre that he wasn't sure whether ratting on a comrade was better than disobeying an order. Finally, though, it was an order, or at least a question that required a full and honest answer. "Ma'am," the formality recognizing Marilyn's authority, "the rumors within the regiment were that . . um . . Jaymi . . Fox was . . um . . homosexual." "Exclusively?" demanded the general, once more surrendering feminine mannerism to forceful directness. "I don't know, um . . ma'am." The general made as if to stand up, then calmed down. In a few moments, the frown was once again replaced with a pout that could have been devastatingly attractive, if Beech weren't so terrified. "Well," Marilyn mused, "with what we're going to be doing, that may almost be an asset. I'm afraid Donna will have to go, though." Donna, that was Carp's femme name, Beech remembered, now even more terrified as what sounded like a sentence of death was passed on a new recruit on the very first day. For a Private to be sitting in supposedly casual conversation with a General, one granted almost unlimited authority by the President himself, made juggling hand grenades seem tame and safe by comparison. A single poorly chosen word and Beech might find out for himself just what happened to non-performers, a judgment the general was obviously quite ready to make. At another table, Jaymi ate his brunch in careless oblivion, at least, as careless as he or any of the recruits could be while wearing the unaccustomed corsets and heels. Beech wondered if he had sabotaged both of the men from his regiment in the space of a minute, and whether someone would sabotage him just as quickly. Finally the brunch was over. Beech realized he was too full to eat another bite long before he had cleared his plate. Another mistake. The army allowed soldiers to eat well, but expected them not to waste their food. The corset just wouldn't let him eat any more, though. The general and Constance had selected light meals and ate all they took. Looking around, Beech could see that virtually all of the new trainees had made the same mistake. Marilyn stood, provoking a disorderly rush by the trainees to stand in response, almost catastrophic in some cases as they forgot the care required by their high heels. Poor Carp was holding carefully to the table, all confidence gone and whatever poise he might have hoped for gone with it. In a moment new instructors were approaching each trainee and escorting them away from their tables. The one who came to Beech was as pretty as any woman he had ever seen. But then, so was Marilyn. His suspicions were fully engaged as he followed her down the hallway. He noticed that she was wearing flats and he envied her the comfort even as he realized how stiff it seemed to make her motion. His own hips were orbiting with ever-increasing grace as he adapted to the demands of his new clothes. The pretty girl leading him along looked over her shoulder and said, "My name is Kathy. I'll be your instructor in makeup and hairstyles." Beech had so many questions he couldn't have consciously picked a single one, but one leaped uninvited into first place in a long line. "Do the names of all the instructors start with a K?" She laughed and nodded, "All of yours, in any event. No one gives their correct names here, nor do I know yours. You might have noticed that only Marilyn and Constance talked with you until after your briefing and selection of new names. We've all been warned what will happen if we pry into whatever your mission is. I don't want to know." His next question was almost as pressing, building from a seeming dilemma. He rubbed his hand over the millimeters of hair that was all that basic training had left him and asked, "What sort of training do I need for my hair?" "You'll see," she giggled. Now that didn't make him feel any better, not any better at all. They returned to his bedroom and he was directed to the vanity. "You will need to learn to wear makeup with special skill, since it will need to cover any trace of masculinity as well as make you look attractive. Pay close attention. I'll do one side of your face, more or less, and expect you to do the other. You'll be graded at dinner on how well the two sides match. If Marilyn can't tell which side you did and which side I did, you pass." That was the introduction to a long, detailed lecture on makeup. Beech was motivated perhaps a bit more than most of the trainees, having just watched as a sentence was passed on one of the recruits. Perhaps he also had a knack for colors and shapes as well, because in a short while he was matching the approach Kathy had identified, even improving on it. He was so wrapped up in his task that the full impact didn't really register. His face was transforming from that of a somewhat delicately-featured man, to a young, amazingly pretty girl. "Not bad," Kathy admitted, "now for the next step. What color is your hair when it's grown out?" "Black," he replied. "Absolutely black, blue-black?" demanded his instructor. "Well, no, in some lights there are brown highlights, maybe even red. Or at least there were, when I let it grow long." "How long have you worn it?" "Over my shoulders, when I was in high school," he explained, leveling his hands about even with his collar bones. "Good, then you have a start on understanding hair care," Kathy smiled, then reached for one of several tall boxes on the floor. "I think we'll start with this one," she said as she pulled out a thick mass of tumbling night, almost black, with just a hint of red. Beech was turned away from the mirror when she put it on him for the first time since Kathy needed to see how it would fit before she could tell Beech how to do it. As a result, she was the first to see Sandy's total appearance in makeup and wig. Her own concentration kept her from realizing what was happening until she stood back to check the alignment of the wig. It was at that time the full impact of the changes in the recruit's appearance hit her so forcibly she gasped. "What's wrong?" Sandy asked. "Nothing," Kathy whispered. "Nothing at all." Sandy turned to look in the mirror and her own gasp echoed the astonishment of her instructor. A beautiful young lady looked out of the mirror at her. Flawless makeup was applied so expertly it appeared to be only the merest accent to pre-existing beauty, and the glorious mane of dark hair tumbled to her tiny waist in rippling waves. This was not an obvious man in corset and heels, nor even a transvestite making a valiant effort to pass as a woman. This was an outstanding example of femininity at its finest, clearly and unmistakably a girl just on the trembling threshold of womanhood. Beech didn't know the statistics that indicated most young men had at one time or another experimented with women's clothes, usually from a mother or older sister and only in private. He hadn't himself, though, ever. The rapidly arriving shocks of this adventure had kept his mind so focused on the mechanics of the new skills he was expected to attain that he hadn't considered them from an erotic perspective. The clothes didn't excite him, particularly, though he had responded physically to Karen's intimate ministrations in the shower. All of the sudden the impact of what he was wearing flooded through him with desperate embarrassment accompanied by even more powerful arousal. The gorgeous woman in the mirror excited him to the point of pain and he grunted in a most unladylike way at the surprise. And yet, there was pride as well, not only pride in a job well done, but pride in her beauty. A woman's self image was strongly driven by her sense of personal attractiveness, just a man's self image was strengthened by being tall and powerful. Sandy saw her beauty and wanted it to continue, wanted to remain a beautiful girl. That was an urge that had never bothered her before. Beech lusted after the image in the mirror as a man for a desirable woman. Sandy lusted after the image in the mirror as though it were a precious jewel to be cherished, and Sandy quickly regained control. She turned her head from side to side, remembering and reveling in the silky whispers of hair tumbling about her shoulders. She pursed her lips in a slow, sensuous kissing motion, provoking a giggle from Kathy and an abrupt return to earth for her soaring thoughts. "Honey, you're going to have to be careful. You keep that up and some of those boys out there will forget their own appearance and have you on your back in a heartbeat," smirked the pretty instructor. Heat flared to life in Sandy's cheeks again as she hung her head in embarrassment. But her glance was drawn back to the incredible image in the mirror and it was clear that this was beyond an academic training exercise, way beyond. Sandy was going to have some real work to do before she could understand and cope with the out-of-control emotions flooding through her. "All right, girl, stand up," ordered Kathy. "We're do back in the sitting room in just a few minutes. Do you need to visit the facilities?" Sandy nodded, sending ripples through the liquid night framing her shoulders that so distracted her she entirely forgot the difficulty of her high heels and tight corset. When she reached the bathroom, though, she remembered enough to be grateful that her earlier instructor had made her run the garters under her panties. She was able to take care of business with minimal effort and was soon ready to follow Kathy back to the rest of the group. Marilyn was already in the room, talking quietly with Constance. It appeared the elegant woman's name had been chosen to indicate the permanence of her position beside the beautiful general. This time Sandy was the first of the recruits to reach the gathering. That focused Marilyn's attention on the green-eyed brunette, a discomforting situation for Sandy. It also focused Connie's attention, one that was decidedly welcome. Sandy was trying to sort out all the conflicting emotions rampaging through her when Marilyn moved close enough to talk. "Excellent, Sandy!" the general complimented her. "You are spectacular!" "Thank you, ma'am," Sandy said automatically. It wasn't until the words were out of her mouth that she remembered the general had asked to be addressed as Marilyn. Even then, it was another heartbeat before Sandy realized the 'ma'am' had been automatic. Marilyn was entirely too pretty to be a 'sir'. Sandy's instructor escort had disappeared discreetly as soon as they reached the room, so she was on her own once again with an officer at least 17 ranks higher than her in the chain of command. "I didn't know you were left-handed. It's not in your file," Constance mused. "Ma'am?" Sandy responded, not understanding the comment. "You're left-handed, aren't you?" "No, ma'am," denied Sandy. "What makes you think so?" "Well, all the instructors were told to do the left side of the trainee's faces, allowing them to try and match it on the right side, except for left- handed students. All were to be allowed to try and match the makeup approach on the side that's easiest for the hand with the most dexterity." "Yes, ma'am, that's what Kathy did. She did the left side of my face, and I did the right." Marilyn joined the conversation, "But the right side of your face is even more beautiful than the left." "If you say so, ma'am. Thank you," Sandy agreed, not sure of the significance of the remarks. The significance became apparent as the next trainees entered the room. As with the high heels (had that only happened a few hours ago?) there was a spectrum of success at the new skill. Some recruits had achieved a passable application of cosmetics on their assigned side, but none had achieved the levels of artistry defined by their instructors, none but Sandy. Some had not had much success at all. Eyeliner was streaked, lashes were clumpy, blush was stark and poorly blended, lipstick straggled anywhere between the nose and the chin. The clownish appearance of the less successful again brought a frown to Marilyn's beautiful brow. She must have been working on that, though. The endearing pout she had used before had been merged with her stern frown to a new expression that demonstrated delicate concern. It was not as intimidating as the previous scowl, but elegantly feminine and entirely appropriate for a den mother in charge of young ladies. Once all of the recruits had arrived (now numbering eight without Carp), Marilyn announced that the bar was open. One shouldn't make such an announcement if one were between a group of young soldiers and the bar. There was a most unladylike surge toward the "refreshments", sufficiently aggressive to tumble one neophyte female impersonator from "her" towering heels. Sandy was just as interested in the refreshments as anyone, but some instinct made her glance at the general before joining the stampede. She saw that frown of irritation once again disturbing Marilyn's amazingly pretty face, and recognized that they were all, always, being evaluated. A small, wistful smile tugged at the corners or Sandy's lush lips. At sadly resigned expression peeked out from behind her long lashes. A tiny sigh (all that the corset would allow) lifted her shoulders within the thin robe as she decided to wait for the rush to dissipate before moving forward. Those delicately feminine mannerisms, caused as much by her introspective thoughts as by any deliberate intent, were devastatingly attractive to those around. Her better-than-expert makeup combined with her glorious cape of richly dark hair and added to those gentle signals of regret to make her seem somehow fragile and innocent, a dewy-eyed damsel in distress. Almost by reflex, the two white-coated waiters that were in the room moved toward her. "Can I help you, miss?" the first one asked, barely nudging out the other hovering server. These men knew that the trainees were cross- dressers, not natural women. Some of the recruits were pathetically far from passing as women, and all were known to be part of the program. Nonetheless, the image of vulnerable, almost childlike femininity sparked a response within them too deep for conscious thought. This delicate flower needed their help and they almost fought each other for the privilege of providing it. Sandy was drawn from her reverie by their solicitous offers and smiled at them, another devastatingly effective attraction. She was about to order the beer she would have gotten at the bar, but once again she looked over to see Marilyn and Connie watching her. Instead, she asked gently for a glass of white wine. The first waiter forced his way with casual indifference past the other similarly-dressed but not similarly-attractive trainees and returned with her glass of wine. Being feminine had its advantages, Sandy realized, and she decided to play with it for a moment. When she took her wine glass she looked into the waiter's eyes, then dropped hers just enough to let her long lashes dance seductively. "Thank you," she said softly, letting her fingers brush lightly against his rough hand. His response was a blush even more fiery than the ones that periodically affected Sandy. He stammered and seemed to find his feet of irresistible fascination as he fidgeted back and forth. When he finally raised his eyes he met Sandy's eyes, their emerald fire twinkling now with amusement. He ducked his head again, then backed away without actually turning, nearly knocking over a small table and then bumping into a none- too-stable trainee. Sandy's amused smile followed him as he stumbled away, then she casually turned to find a place to sit and give her feet some relief from their unaccustomed pressures. Once again she found herself in the essentially-private company of Marilyn and Connie who had moved over while the mini-drama was being played out. "You handled that very well," Marilyn complimented her. "Thank you, . . Marilyn." "Even better. Being called 'ma'am' all the time make me feel old," th