In Pursuit Of Politcal Correctness free porn video

Disclaimer: This story contains adult language, themes, and the like; it should be viewed only by those of legal age. All other usual disclaimers for stories sent to this newsgroup apply -- we already know them, so there's no reason to retype them here. Any resemblance to anyone, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. Reposting on archival sites is permitted with the following provisions: (1) I am notified when such a posting is made, (2) this story may NOT be posted to any pay sites -- it is given freely and must remain free. Comments may be sent to: [email protected] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- In Pursuit of Political Correctness Copyright (C) 1998 by Chilli TNG In Pursuit of Political Correctness by Chilli TNG ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's Forward: I drive a lot. Most of those who know me know this, and know that I enjoy listening to various radio talk shows and CDs while on my travels. Occasionally, I am given a "book-on-tape" or "book-on-CD" as a form of alternative distraction from my normal aural diet of movie soundtracks and conservative talk. It was while listening to one such gift that the idea for this story slammed into my cerebral cortex. I started to laugh. And, the more I thought about this new idea, the harder I laughed. I damn near ran off the road (okay, it was late, and I was tired, and things strike me as being funnier than they really are when I'm tired). Granted, I have a sense of humor that's more than a bit off plumb, but I thought I had a pretty funny idea. I suppose that you want to know to what had I been listening, and I suppose that I'll just have to tell you. I was listening to "The Official Politically Correct Dictionary and Handbook," by Henry Beard and Christopher Cerf, as read by Christopher Cerf. Specifically, I had just put the tape in and was listening to Cerf's dedication of the tape to the former Donna Ellen Cooperman, who, after a year-long battle through the New York State court system, won the right to be known as Donna Ellen Cooperperson. This seemed obscenely absurd to me, and struck me as bordering on the incomprehensible. "Can political correctness be taken too far?" I thought to myself. Well, synapses fired, neurons altered their paths, and a small little bud on my cerebral cortex was appropriated for the task of analyzing my question; it started fermenting along the "what if" path of taking political correctness to the extreme. To this already heady concoction was added my predilection for puns and wry humor. The resulting brew is the story you're about to read. I sincerely hope you find it enjoyable -- it may not be as funny as I'd hoped when I first had the idea, but I think it's a good story nonetheless -- and trust you'll forgive any "pun"-tificating you may find along the way. In other words, dear reader (and Henry, Christopher, and especially Donna), "This bud's for you." And, in case anyone's keeping track of what authors listen to while writing, here's the scoop: "Army of Darkness" Soundtrack, by Joseph LoDuca and Danny Elfman. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Author's Dedication: Writing is often a lonely task; late nights, early mornings, cramped lunch hours -- you learn to take advantage of whatever spare moments you can. So, when you find someone with whom you can share the process, it's a special time. I'm dedicating this story to a very special person who shared with me and gave me some valuable insights, suggestions, comments, and moral support while I was writing this latest work: To Janice, with whom I've shared some deep, profound, fun, and silly conversations, and who floored me with a one word critique . . . "Brilliant" -- thanks for your suggestions, for reminding me of a major plot hole, and for the puns; kindred spirits are few and far between, and I'm glad I found one in you. I hope you like the final product. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Time: January, 1995 Chapter I: Andy Lawrence couldn't believe his eyes. The handsome running back stood, his square jaw agape, one hand running through his curly dark hair, as he read the letter from the college business office for the umpteenth time. "This can't be happening," was all he could think as he looked at the monetary figure contained in the letter. Sure, he'd been having a good time at school when he should have been studying, but that was no reason for the school to yank his scholarship. And just because he was failing every class he was supposed to be attending was no reason for the school to be demanding that he pay back his scholarship monies. The figure wasn't huge - - "more than a dollar and less than the national debt," as the coach had said when Andy signed his letter of intent -- but it was far, far larger than Andy or his family could produce by the date the letter demanded, if at all. "I am totally screwed," Andy thought. He wasn't alone in this thought, either. All across campus, some sixty seniors who heretofore had been receiving scholarship monies and who were performing poorly, from an academic stance, received similar notices. And none of these students were happy. The scholarship payback plan had been introduced by the new college president, Dr. Charmayne Anemone Valerian, Ph.D., M.D., Ed.D., D.D.S., and D.V.M., as a means of curtailing the ever-increasing costs incurred by the college. At least, that's what Dr. Valerian told the Board of Regents. However, Dr. Valerian had other plans, and plans within plans, along with plans within those plans within plans; plans that the stodgy regents could never have conceived, let alone comprehended. Dr. Valerian was an astute administrator. She was also a firm believer in being politically correct; in that pursuit, she was an early forebearer of "The Cause." She had devoted the last ten years of her life to purifying herself, mind, body, and soul, through the theories of political correctness. In that time, Dr. Valerian had had many revelations. For example, she realized just how much she hated her first name; she found it too feminine, too demeaning, and too degrading, so she simply stopped using it, preferring to use its initial, instead. All of her diplomas had been reprinted, at considerable cost, to instead read "C. Anemone Valerian," effectively eliminating all references to her detested first name. Her most profound revelation, though, combined itself with many of her other, more minor revelations and epiphanies, and had led Dr. Valerian to one inescapable, incontrovertible conclusion: for the good of the nation, the world, and even personkind itself, every individual needed to become politically correct. Such an endeavor would not be an easy one, she realized. Sacrifices would need to be made, leaders overthrown, overdue library books returned, enemies crushed and defeated, policies overturned, thoughts changed. She was an army of one -- a strong one, to be certain, but still only one. She needed to enlist others in her army. She needed volunteers . . . and she would get them, even if they had to be forced into volunteering. So, barely twenty-four hours after Dr. Valerian had distributed the scholarship payback notice, she had the following sign posted all across campus: +-------------------------------------------------+ | WANTED: CHROMOSOMALLY CHALLENGED INDIVIDUALS | | TO PARTICIPATE IN STUDY OF SOCIOCENTRIC, | | ETHNOCENTRIC, GENDERCENTRIC, SPECIESCENTRIC, | | AND PATRIARCH-CENTRIC PHILOSOPHIES. BENEFITS | | INCLUDE TUITION, FEES, BOOKS, AND WAIVER OF | | OUTSTANDING DEBTS TO THE COLLEGE. | | SERIOUS VOLUNTEERS ONLY NEED APPLY. ROOM L-13. | +-------------------------------------------------+ Twenty-four hours and five minutes after the payback notices were distributed, the line of volunteers was beginning to form at room L-13. Every volunteer was accepted, their paperwork was completed, and their questions about the study were cheerfully ignored. All that the volunteers were told was to report to the medical studies lecture hall in the Weinman Science building later that evening. Over lunch, Andy Lawrence sat with several friends and discussed the recent turn of events at the college. "What in the hell is going on?" he wondered aloud. "I mean, come on. Everyone knows this is a party school. I only came here to play football, and everyone knows that, too; the teachers, the coaches, the administration, even the students know it. All except for that bitch Valerian." "Fuckin' a," echoed his friend Bubba Simpkins, a defensive tackle with beady eyes and a body thick with muscles, whose accent clearly indicated his New Jersey heritage. "Who gives a flyin' one 'bout grades, anyway? All I needs ta know I learnt on the field. We took dis school to da championship three years runnin'; da school owes _us_, not da other way 'round!" Marty Lewis, a good-looking man cut from all-star quarterback cloth, spoke next. "Well, like it or not, they got us by the short hairs. I had my old man's lawyer read the fine print on my signing letter; there was some shit about maintaining at least minimum academic standards to continue to qualify for the scholarship money. Basically, if we don't put up, they shut up. And my old man's pissed enough at me for failing pottery class three times that he's not gonna pay the bill. My only chance is this half-assed study." He waived a copy of the sign at the group at the table. "Anybody got any idea what this shit even means?" As Marty asked his question, Stacey Young happened to be walking by and overheard the conversation. Stacey was in line to be class valedictorian; her grades were perfect, and she had been making some good money on the side by tutoring many of the jocks that were now at risk of being expelled due to their poor grades. She knew Marty, and Bubba, and Andy, as well as everyone else seated at the table; most of them had been students of hers at one time or another. Stacey was a bookworm, and looked the part. Not that she wasn't attractive, but she didn't help herself to look as nice as she could. Her long auburn hair was usually unkempt; her clothing was unflattering and baggy; she never wore makeup. She was quite insecure with herself and chose to hide behind her intellect and her rapier wit; much of this explains why she had never had a date. As Stacey walked past, she couldn't resist pausing to join in with the conversation. "Marty," she quipped, "it means they're looking for a bunch of Neanderthal-like throwbacks. You guys should do nicely." "Feelin' frustrated?" Marty shot back as Stacey sat down. "Or is it just that time of the month?" "Damn right I'm frustrated," she said, "but not in the way your little gutter-mind works. If you guys get thrown out, I lose a large part of my income. I'm not here on a scholarship like you jocks are, you know. I'm working as hard as I can to keep my grades up and make money to pay my tuition." "You should sign up, too," offered Andy. "If they let you in, your tuition's covered." "I don't fit the bill," Stacey replied. "I'm not 'chromosomally challenged' like the rest of you." "What the hell do you mean by that?" Marty said, his anger starting to flare. "It means that I'm a woman, you goof," she said. "I've got two X chromosomes; you've only got one, therefore, you're 'chromosomally challenged.' You don't have to be a genius to figure that out." "You could pass for a guy, though," Andy said. Stacey looked at Andy in shock, a hurt look clearly evident on her plain but pretty face. "Andy, you moron," Bubba said, "look what you done; you gone and hurt da dyke's feelin's." Stacey stood abruptly, knocking over her chair in the process. Her cheeks red with embarrassment and anger, tears rolling from her emerald green eyes, she took her tray over to within three feet of the conveyor, then threw it the rest of the way before she stormed out of the cafeteria and headed for a nearby restroom. "Hey Stacey, wait up!" Stacey paused at the restroom door, then turned, her vision still clouded with tears, and saw Dawn Rummell running up to her. Dawn was the flip side image of Stacey -- blonde, vivacious, sparkling blue eyes, stunningly dressed, impeccably coifed, and professionally made up. Dawn was also Marty Lewis' girlfriend and was, predictably, the head cheerleader; she had also been the only woman sitting at the table before Stacey walked by. "What . . . do . . . you . . . want," Stacey choked out between sobs. "I want to apologize for those assholes," she said as the two girls walked into the restroom together. She produced a tissue from somewhere and began to wipe Stacey's cheeks. "They can be so totally crass. They spend too much time thinking with their dicks." Stacey laughed a bit at that, and Dawn continued. "You know as well as I do that, if their brains were explosives, they just might collectively have enough to fart with. I know they didn't mean anything by what they said." "But that doesn't make it hurt any less," Stacey said, her lips still quivering. The two women stood there silently for a few moments. Then Dawn looked at Stacey with a more appraising eye. "You really are pretty," she said, breaking the awkward silence. "You don't have to lie, Dawn. I know how I look. That's what made Andy's statement hurt all that much more. I could pass for a guy." "Not with these puppies," Dawn said as she pulled the fabric of Stacey's shirt tight, outlining Stacey's more than ample bosom. "Ray Charles wouldn't even mistake you for a guy." "Stop it!" Stacey squeaked. "Why hide 'em? Damn, if I had a rack like yours, I'd wear the lowest-cut, most revealing tops. Guys would be lined up for blocks to date you!" "That's why I hide them," Stacey said, her voice quiet but firm. "I want to be thought of as more than a nice set of tits. You should, too." "But you could have the world!" "And I want the world. But I want it my way, on my terms. I want a good job where my skills, not my body, are what get me work." Stacey began to sob again. "I've dreamed of being a lawyer all my life. Now, it looks like I'm not going to be one, though. I can't afford to finish school, not without the money I make tutoring." "Then maybe you should apply to this study, like Andy suggested." "Dawn, I know you're not an airhead, but you just don't understand. They're looking for _guys_ in that project, not women." Dawn took Stacey by the shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes. "Look; you need to decide what you want to do. If you really want to try it, I'll help you look like a guy. It won't be easy, but I can do it. It may be your only chance to stay in school and graduate." Stacey stared at her shoes for a few moments. "Why would you want to help me?" she finally asked. "Look, I know we're not 'best buds,'" Dawn said, a genuine smile on her sexy face, "but I think of us as friends. You've helped me out before and never asked for anything in return. I want to help you because I admire you. Because you might be able to help Marty get his grades back in line. Because you're smart. And because you've got a chance to make it in 'the man's world' and, when you do, maybe you'll remember who your friends were." Stacey looked at herself in the mirror and tried to picture herself as a man. She just couldn't do it, as hard as she tried; the image of herself looking masculine just wouldn't appear in her head. The image that did appear, though, scared her more -- she saw herself with several children, standing in front of a stove, while her husband verbally abused her. She was terrified of not being able to get a job, and she feared that she'd wind up "barefoot and pregnant" unless she graduated from college. "Alright," she said, "I place myself into your capable hands. Make me look like a man." Chapter II: Stacey had been sitting in her room for over an hour, waiting for Dawn to arrive. "I just need to get a couple of things," Dawn had said, "then I'll be right over." Stacey couldn't imagine what things Dawn would need, especially things that would take over an hour to obtain. She was just about to call off the whole crazy idea when she heard a knock at her door. "Damn, Dawn," Stacey said as she opened the door, "what took so long?" "I had to get some things, I told you," Dawn replied as she began pulling various items out of the bags she'd hauled in with her. "Now sit down and take off your sweatshirt and bra." "Uh, why?" "We're going to start by binding your tits, then you're getting a haircut." Resignedly, Stacey lifted her bulky sweatshirt up and over her head, then tossed it to the floor. She then reached behind herself and undid her plain white bra and tossed it on top of her sweatshirt. "Shit, Stacey, I thought you looked great before, but you're positively huge. How big are you, anyway?" asked Dawn as she stared at Stacey's large breasts. "38D, but I wear a 34B bra to make them look smaller." "It doesn't work. But this will. Lift up your arms and we'll make 'em really small." Stacey did as she was instructed. Dawn began to wrap a large stretchy bandage around Stacey's chest. With each wrap, her breasts appeared to shrink until, finally, she was neatly bound. Stacey marveled at how much better her body felt without the overhanging weight of her breasts pulling down on her shoulders. She also found it a bit hard to breathe. "Does it have to be so tight?" she asked. "Yes," came Dawn's abrupt reply. "Now, quit complaining. Put your arms down now." Stacey did as she was told. "That feels pretty good, except for the tightness, but I'm kind of used to that, too." "I bet," Dawn said, "with that tiny bra you've been wearing. I'm surprised you don't have horrible back spasms." She wrapped a plastic cape around Stacey's shoulders and fastened it behind her neck. "Here," she said as she handed Stacey a package of unfiltered cigarettes. "Open those and start smoking 'em, two at a time." "But I don't smoke," Stacey replied. "The new Stacey does. They'll make your voice go lower temporarily." Stacey did as instructed once again. She took tiny little puffs on the cigarettes, held the smoke in her mouth, then blew it out. "No, no, no," Dawn said as she grabbed a cigarette from Stacey. "You've got to inhale. Like this." She demonstrated, drawing in deep lungfulls of smoke, then exhaling a billowing blue-white cloud. Stacey tried to mimic Dawn's actions, but began coughing horribly. "Yuck, how could you do that?" Stacey asked. "You go to enough bars, you learn to smoke pretty quick. Nothing breaks the ice faster with a cute guy than asking him for a light. Keep at it; it gets easier." Stacey did keep at it, and soon was no longer coughing, although her eyes were still watering. Dawn made Stacey smoke the entire pack of cigarettes, two at a time, before continuing on. "Now its time for your haircut," Dawn said as she plugged in a set of hair clippers and popped them on. The loud "brrrrr" sound made Stacey jump and she stared at the clippers in horror. "You're not going to shave me, are you?" she croaked, her voice somewhat lower and huskier from the cigarette smoke. "Don't worry," Dawn said, "you'll love it." With that, she brought the clippers to Stacey's forehead and pulled them back through her hair. Two foot long strands of hair began to slide to the floor; the hair remaining on Stacey's scalp was about an inch and a half long. Dawn continued to mow away more and more of Stacey's long hair, clipping first the left side, then the right side. Once the bulk of Stacey's hair had been removed, Dawn changed guards on the clippers to a slightly shorter version and went over the sides and back of Stacey's hair once again. When she had finished, Stacey was left with a very fashionable longish version of a crew cut . . . well, fashionable for a young man, that is. Dawn left Stacey looking at her new hairdo while she prepared the next part of Stacey's transformation. Taking a few strands of the clipped-off hair, Dawn passed them through the clippers over and over and over, creating a large pile of very short clippings. Once that was ready, she had Stacey sit back while she applied some liquid adhesive to Stacey's upper lip, chin, cheeks, and neck. "What is that?" Stacey asked. "It really stinks." "It's called spirit gum," Dawn said. "Makeup artists use it to glue things on to people. This one has a matte finish, so it will be invisible when it dries." "What are you gluing onto me?" Stacey questioned. "Stubble. You didn't stand close enough to the razor this morning, 'bud.'" With that, she picked up a small ball of the little clipped hairs and began to tap them along the drying adhesive. The hairs stuck and stood out from Stacey's skin; it looked for the world as if Stacey were now growing a beard. Stacey stared at her reflection in the mirror. What had been impossible for her to imagine a couple of hours previous was now rapidly taking shape before her very eyes. More than that, she thought that she'd be able to pull this off. Dawn soon finished applying the hairs, leaving Stacey with the perfect illusion of a three-day growth. "Just one more thing," Dawn said, "then you can get dressed. Put this on." She handed a bag to Stacey, who reached inside and removed the contents. "What the hell is this?" she said. "It's your 'package,'" Dawn replied, using a terrible New York accent to emphasize "package." "Drop your pants and underwear and pull it on." Stacey did as she was told, and pulled the jock strap into place. "What's in the pouch?" "A twelve-inch dildo, bought special for you, 'stud.' Here." She handed Stacey a pair of men's underwear. "I hid these from Marty the last time he visited," she said. "What did he wear back to his room?" Stacey asked as she examined the underwear. "A pair of my pink lace panties," Dawn replied with a laugh. "I made sure they were the frilliest ones I had, too. Now, hurry up; we don't have a lot of time." Stacey pulled the rough cotton briefs up and noticed how well they conformed around her fake crotch. She then pulled on a pair of jeans and a moderately tight shirt. Once fully dressed, she allowed herself to take in her new image in the mirror. The image that greeted her back was one of total maleness; from the top of her head to her stubbly chin to her flat chest to the bulge in her crotch, she appeared male. The only hint to her former gender was her soft eyelashes, which Dawn dismissed as just being a case of "Bambi" eyes, claiming that women found that "cute" on guys. "You better run," Dawn said. "I heard the registration for that program ends at 4 p.m., which only gives you a half hour." "Shit," Stacey said as she grabbed her keys and I.D., stuffing them in her pants pockets. "Here," Dawn said as she tossed another cigarette pack and a lighter to Stacey. "Keep up the image." "Right," Stacey said. "Dawn, thanks so much." She started to hug Dawn, then, in light of her newly adopted gender, she kissed Dawn lightly on the cheek. "Gotta run. I'll let you know what happens." And, with that, she flew out the door and ran as quickly as she could to room L-13. Stacey made it to L-13 with a few minutes to spare. Fortunately, the line was depleted, and only one person stood in front of her. Unfortunately, that person was Marty Lewis. Stacey froze when she saw Marty standing there. "He's gonna recognize me," she thought, and her heart began doing triple beats in her chest. Her tightly bound chest. "What am I worried about?" she thought. "Dawn did a great job with this disguise; Marty will _never_ recognize me now." With that thought in mind, Stacey swaggered up behind Marty; she found it much easier to swagger now with a twelve-inch dildo wedged into a pouch strapped between her legs. "How's it goin'?" she asked Marty in the deepest voice she could muster. "Alright," Marty replied without so much as a second glance her direction. "How they hangin'?" "Low and free," she replied, using the phrase she'd heard many other guys use with each other. Marty stood there, not saying anything, so Stacey also chose, wisely, to not say anything either. Guys, she reasoned, just didn't bother with small talk. Marty soon went into the room, then, a few moments later, Stacey was summoned in as well. She was given a huge document to read and sign. It was printed with the tiniest print she had ever seen, and was filled with a bunch of legalese; fortunately, pre-law was Stacey's major, so she understood nearly everything she was reading. Some of the more esoteric terms and phrases were new to her, but she felt confident that she understood the gist of the document. Some of what she read worried her; she'd never heard of a study that sought to protect itself from possible participant death before. She was also amused to note that the typical male pronoun was nowhere to be found in the document, having been replaced with the female one. Fortunately, nowhere on the document, nor in anything she had to sign was Stacey required to specify her sex, so she was not worried about her little deception. She was given a card with a magnetic strip on the back and was told to report back for the start of the project at seven that evening; the card, she was told, would allow her access to the currently vacant and normally locked Weinman Medical Sciences building. "Does this mean that I've been accepted to the project?" she asked as she examined the magstripe card. "That's right, kid," the secretary behind the counter informed her. When Stacey tried to ask additional questions, she was simply ignored. With a mumbled "Thanks," she got up and headed back to her room. She lit another cigarette as she dialed Dawn on the phone. "Just what I needed," she thought to herself as she exhaled a plume of smoke skyward, "another costly habit," and made a mental note to stop smoking as soon as the project got started. "Hi," said the too-perky voice on the other end of the phone, "this is Dawn." "Hi Dawn," Stacey said in as low a tone as she could muster. "Um, who is this?" Stacey laughed. "Dawn, it's me; Stacey." "Hi. I didn't recognize your voice. How did it go?" "I'm in, thanks to you." "What kind of project is it?" "They wouldn't tell me. It seems pretty 'hush-hush' for some reason. But I'll know more tonight; there's a kick-off meeting at seven over in the medical studies lecture hall in the Weinman building." "That creepy old place? Be careful; I hear it's haunted." "Just because it's been closed since the scandal two years ago doesn't mean that it's haunted. I just hope they got rid of all of the cadavers that sick doctor was humping before they locked it up, or that place is gonna stink!" "Ewwwwww!" They both giggled at that thought. "Dawn," Stacey said, "thanks again for your help. I can't believe this crazy scheme worked." "I can; you've got a nice 'Miami Vice' thing goin' there with that stubble, and the haircut just sold it. There aren't too many women secure enough in themselves to go around impersonating men." "Or men secure enough to be impersonating women," Stacey added. "Wroooong! There are tons of men who make really good money impersonating women." "No!" "Truth! They're a big draw in Vegas, Atlantic City, lots of places. Anyway, I've gotta run; I'm meeting Marty for dinner." "Ask him how his interview went -- he was standing right in front of me." "You're kidding!" Dawn squealed. "Didn't he recognize you?" "Not a chance. Please, don't tell him. I really don't need any more grief from those guys today." "No problem. Call me tonight." "You bet. I need to know how to get this shit off my face." "Simple," Dawn said with a laugh just before she hung up. "Shave it." Chapter III: Marty met up with Andy and Bubba as they were walking towards the supposedly abandoned Weinman Medical Sciences building. The three men didn't talk much, but there was an undercurrent of tension each one could feel. They all knew that this study was their one last chance to stay in school, and each was terrified of being rejected. As they approached the building, Andy noticed that someone had vandalized the sign in front of the building. "Guys, check it out," he said as he gestured towards the sign. "Someone's changed the name from 'Weinman' to 'Weinfem.'" The three young men laughed at the spray- painted "correction" on the sign. They noticed several other guys walking towards the building; there were also several guys standing around outside the doors. One in particular looked familiar to Marty; with a quick flash of realization, he recognized the guy as the one who'd been standing behind him in line earlier in the afternoon. "Hey, dude," Marty said as he approached. "Glad to see you got in, too." "Hey," said Stacey, who put her cigarette in her lips then extended her hand to shake Marty's. "No shit," she croaked, forcing her voice into lower and lower ranges. "I really need the money." "Us, too," said Bubba. "I'm Bubba, Bubba Simpkins" he said as he extended his hand. "Stan Jackson," Stacey said around her cigarette. "Andy Lawrence," said Andy as he, too, reached out to shake Stacey's hand. Stacey was completely freaked out; she was terrified that one of these guys, all students she had been tutoring, would recognize her. But Dawn's makeover artistry has been perfect, and none of them saw through her disguise. "We'd better get in there," Marty said. "It's almost seven." "I'll catch you later," Stacey replied. "I just want to finish my smoke." "We'll save you a seat," Andy offered as the three men walked on into the building. Stacey took two final drags off her cigarette, surprised at how much she was savoring the smoke, then trotted off into the building to join the rest of the volunteers. She entered the lecture hall just as the lights were being turned off and the presentation was beginning. She quickly took a seat towards the back of the hall, even though she noticed Andy waiving towards her as she came in. When she sat down, she realized that she was sitting on something other than the seat cushion. She stood and reached underneath her; there was a small bag on the seat. There was just enough light left for her to read by, so she was able to read the instructions on the bag. "Please enjoy the enclosed snack as soon as you sit," the bag read. Stacey could see the others in the room happily munching on something, so she went ahead and opened the bag. It did indeed contain a small, dense, very dry cookie. Stacey tasted it and found that it was pretty good and, even though she had just had dinner and was not particularly hungry, she wolfed down the rest of the cookie. As the lights dimmed, a hush fell over the group of assembled volunteers. The room grew so quiet that the faint noise of cooling lightbulbs was noticeable. A single light appeared at the front of the room; bathed in that light was a tall, attractive woman. She was dressed in a dark, very proper skirt, white blouse, and a dark jacket that matched the skirt. On her feet were sensible shoes with just a slight heel. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back, almost severely, into a tight bun. Her face was unburdened with makeup, nor did it really need any. Large glasses imparted her with a sense of mystery, as the lenses were tinted dark and obscured her eyes. Her lips seemed a trifle thin, although, from the faint lines at their corners, it was evident that she liked to smile. "Volunteers," she said in a strong, melodious voice that the audience found instantly captivating, "thank you for coming. I am Dr. C. Anemone Valerian, and you are about to embark on the greatest journey of your chronologically impoverished, chromosomally challenged lives. "We live in an era of rampant racism, rampant sexism, rampant ageism. Everywhere I look, I find examples of the effrontery society has placed on all personkind through the trappings of phallocentric, patriarchal thinking. It is my intention, through this study, which I will womage personally, to alter, adjust, and transmute each and every one of you, so that you, too, will become politically correct. "During this study, some of you may become terminally inconvenienced, through no fault of my own, but through your own vertically-challenged-comings. Those of you who complete the study, however, will find yourselves in the enviable position of continuing the vital work I have begun. Are there any questions so far?" The majority of the audience simply sat in silence, transfixed by Dr. Valerian's hypnotic voice. Stacey, however, was appalled. She had never in her life heard such absolute nonsense. She felt sorry for the idiots sitting around her; she knew that they had absolutely no idea what had just been said. And she doubted that anyone else noticed Dr. Valerian using the word "womage" when she should have said "manage." But, try as she might, Stacey couldn't bring herself to speak. Not only that, she realized with a start, she couldn't move at all! "I didn't think so," continued Dr. Valerian. "By now, you may have realized that you are feeling a bit strange. If you are not feeling strange, I want you to raise your right hand." No one in the audience moved, although many of them moved their eyes from side to side. "Excellent," Dr. Valerian said and, for the first time that evening, she smiled. "Now, just so none of you worry yourselves into autoeuthenasia, let me assure you that the paralysis you're now experiencing is for your own good and is designed to help ensure the transformation you will make will be as pleasant as possible. The little 'snack' you all consumed has effectively placed many of your bodily functions into hibernation. For the next several weeks, you will not need to eat, drink, urinate, or defecate. Yes, you will lose weight, but, since many of you currently have an alternate body image, that is for the best. Now, on to step two." With a loud clap of her hands, Dr. Valerian summoned forth from the darkness a group of featureless, sexless beings. "For the duration of the study," she said, "these drones will be looking after you. Right now, they will circulate among you to prepare you for the second step of your liberation from the yoke of male-dominated society. This will require the placing of a number of electrodes directly into your brain. To maintain as sterile an environment as possible, each of you will need to be shaved. Don't worry about being temporarily among the hair disadvantaged; by the time we get to step eighty-seven, you will all have glorious amounts of hair. Now just relax and let the drones do their work. Oh, you may feel a little 'pinch' as the electrodes are inserted, but the discomfort will go away after a day or so." The drones quickly made their way through the assembled volunteers, first shaving them, then inserting a bundle of wires into various portions of each volunteer's skull. From what Andy could see, the entire process looked to be pretty painful. Many of his teammates were within his field of vision, and he'd never seen any of them cry before now. He heard a group of drones behind him and felt the clippers begin to run over his head, sending his formerly tousled brown curls to the ground. He then felt an odd warmth move across his head as the drones lathered, then expertly shaved his scalp. As the first electrode was inserted, Andy realized exactly why he had seen tears in the other volunteers' eyes; the pain was excruciating. Andy had been kicked in the balls many, many times, and he found that pain far less intense and much more pleasurable to the white-hot agony he was now enduring. Yet, throughout the entire procedure, he never even twitched. Much the same applied to Marty and Bubba, but, for Stacey, this was torture beyond imagination. She had already given up two feet of hair for this damn study, and now, she was being forced to relinquish the last two inches. Silently, she cursed Dawn for talking her into this crazy scheme. She retreated into her mind and imagined that it was Dawn, not her, who was being clipped and shaved. By the time the electrodes were being inserted, Stacey had disassociated herself with the entire event and barely felt the searing pain. As the drones filed back into the darkness, Dr. Valerian began to speak once again. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?" she asked, then laughed. "Now, for step three. I will be showing you a series of images here on the screen. A customized computer system will monitor your responses to the images you see. Appropriate responses will be rewarded, while inappropriate responses will be punished. "This type of treatment used to be known as . . ." She paused, then spat out the words ". . . shock treatment . . ." as if their very utterance put a horrible taste in her mouth. "But," she continued, her voice again controlled and hypnotic, "the more enlightened term is 'aversion therapy.'" A series of images began to appear, too fast for the conscious mind of the volunteers to comprehend. But their subconscious, on the other hand, interpreted these images instantly. When an image of large, firm, female breasts was displayed, any volunteer who had any kind of sexual response received a stimulus that made the electrode insertion seem as gentle as a lover's kiss. If seeing an image of businessmen in a meeting evoked feelings of male superiority, another negative stimulus was applied. A moment after the stimulus, good or bad, was applied, a message detailing the appropriate thought response would be displayed that remained visible long enough for the conscious mind to read it; it then flashed up again quickly, reinforcing the message to the subconscious. So, following the image of the bountiful female breasts, the message "Wofem are not sex objects" would be displayed; following the image of the business meeting, the message "Wofem deserve to be in power" would appear. On through the night, the next morning, the next night, and the two days that followed, images and responses continued to be presented to the paralyzed volunteers. Gradually at first, then with increasing frequency, the automatic responses which had been ingrained through a lifetime of male dominance and oppression were worn away and replaced with thoughts appropriate for an enlightened, politically correct person. Throughout the entire step, Dr. Valerian had monitored the subconscious responses of volunteers. She was pleased, for the most part, with the results. There were a few anomalous readings, she noted, especially from the volunteer at the back of the room. A few non-traditional responses were to be expected, she knew, but this subject's responses were frequently correct the first time. She suspected that he might in fact be gay, and made a note to monitor this subject more carefully as the program continued. Chapter IV: It was the third week of the project, and Dr. Valerian was just about to complete step nineteen. "Who is this?" she asked as a picture of Gloria Steinem was displayed on the screen. "Our she-ro," the volunteers shouted out in unison. "And this?" she asked as a picture of Hillary Rodham Clinton replaced that of Gloria Steinem. "The smartest wofem in the world," sang out the volunteers. "What do you see here?" she questioned as a picture of a poodle on a leash was displayed. "A non-human animal companion," was the uniform response. "Who provided the non-human animal companion?" Dr. Valerian asked. "A speciesist oppressor," the group shouted. "So what does that make the non-human animal companion?" "A survivor of speciesism!" "Excellent!" beamed Dr. Valerian. "I am proud of each and every one of you. You're all special, each in your own way. Now, relax while I prepare to progress into step twenty." While most of the volunteers simply closed their eyes and did as they were instructed, one lone volunteer remained alert. Stacey could have sworn she'd heard something a second ago, and she was looking all around, trying to locate the source of the noise. Most of her body was still frozen in place, but she had use of her eyes, lips, tongue, and jaw now. She heard the sound again, and this time, she recognized it for what it was . . . someone was inside a ventilation duct. Too terrified to call out, Stacey instead offered up a silent prayer to whoever was in the airduct that they would be found and saved from this slice of hell on earth. There was a louder banging, just behind Stacey's head, as someone kicked out the ventilation grate then dropped into the room. "Oh my God," she heard a voice say behind her. The voice sounded familiar to Stacey, but it had been a lifetime ago when she'd heard it last and couldn't place it. The more she thought, though, the more she remembered, until, at last, she remembered who had that voice. "Dawn?" she whispered. "Is that you?" The figure came walking up from Stacey's right. "Stacey?" "Oh God, it is you, Dawn." Stacey began to cry. "You've got to get help." "What is going on here?" Dawn asked. "You shaved your head? What are those wires? Why don't you get out of here?" "You are in serious trouble here, Dawn," Stacey said. "You've got to get out and get us help. Now!" "Not before I get some answers," she replied, her face a study in concern and worry. "You, Marty, Bubba, Andy, and a whole bunch of other guys all disappeared weeks ago. I've been worried to death. I'd finally had enough and broke in here to see if I could find you guys. Now what is going on?" "It's Dr. Valerian," Stacey said. "She's craz . . . craz . . . craz . . . emotionally different! She's been holding us like pris . . . pris . . . clients of the correctional system, talking in euphemisms, remaking us into her politically correct image. Please, Dawn, get help now!" Stacey felt a strange tingle, and realized with mounting horror that she could no longer move her mouth or tongue. She couldn't even speak. She was unable to warn Dawn about the shadow creeping up behind her. "I'll be back with help in five min-uuurp!" Dawn said as she'd started to leave. From behind, Dr. Valerian appeared, electrode in hand, and deftly inserted it into Dawn's skull. Dawn twitched a bit, her eyes rolled back into her head, then she fell to the floor. The strange tingling left Stacey a moment after Dawn hit the floor, and she found her voice once more. "Dawn!" she cried, even though she knew the shout was pointless. Dr. Valerian walked over and stood directly in front of Stacey. "I'm impressed," she said genuinely. "I have no idea how you've withstood my enlightenment techniques, but I'm not about to achieve a deficiency now. No, my volunteer, you will complete the program, as will your friend here." "You mean she's not dea . . . dea . . . terminally inconvenienced?" Dr. Valerian smiled down at Stacey. "No, merely cerebrally challenged. But I can fix that later. Right now, I'm curious about you. How have you been able to maintain your sense of self throughout the aversion therapy procedure, the retraining, and the testing? I've noticed that many of your responses are non-standard, which leads me to believe you're gay." Stacey let out a loud laugh. "Some mad scientist you've turned out to be!" "I'm not mad," Dr. Valerian shouted back, "but I am getting a trifle angry. Now tell me how you did it!" In response, Stacey simply smiled. Slowly, Dr. Valerian smiled back, but it was not a smile that imparted any sense of well-being, friendship, or compassion. "A challenge," she said. "I like a challenge. But you won't." She spun on her heel and headed back to the front of the room. "Drones," she called, gesturing towards Dawn's prone body, "pick up that piece of organic biomass, prepare her for the wiring harness, then find her a seat. The rest of you, pay attention; we're moving on to step twenty." Chapter V: Dr. Valerian was quite pleased with the progress her volunteers had been making with their reeducation. They had all made tremendous strides in the past two months; all, that is, except for that annoying volunteer at the back of the room. He still remained a bit of a mystery to Dr. Valerian. He continued to provide answers to questions that appeared to be correct the first time, before any negative reinforcement could be applied; this, she theorized, was the reason he was still able to maintain a sense of self. She had found it necessary to alter her reeducation procedures slightly for her latest volunteer, that headstrong pre-womon who had broken into the science building in an admirable but futile attempt to rescue her missing friends. Of course, Dr. Valerian had known the pre- womon's approximate whereabouts from the moment she had entered the science building and triggered the silent alarms. Dr. Valerian had not put as much thought into reeducation techniques for females as she should have, she now realized, but her impromptu techniques were proving most effective with the new volunteer. Today, she realized, was going to be a turning-point for her volunteers, and she wanted to prepare them for step forty-nine. "Volunteers," she began, "over the past two months, you have grown tremendously in your thoughts and perceptions of society. You have demonstrated a willingness to learn, to discard your previously ill-conceived ideas and ideals, and to instead recognize the ultimate superiority of political correctness. "You have recognized that 'male' and 'lame' are just two different ways of arranging the same four letters. This is a profound realization, one that took me several years to discover. It is the linchpin for the remaining steps in your transformation. "To fully embrace politically correct doctrine, you must all recognize that it is 'lame to be male.' Therefore, you must all relinquish your current genders; from this point forth, you will all be considered wimmin." Marty sat, transfixed as usual by Dr. Valerian's voice. As he heard that he was going to give up his manhood, part of him shouted for joy. He had come to realize, over the past several weeks, just how oppressive and domineering white males had been on society. It sickened him to think of how much of what he used to believe had been fabricated by sexist, melanin- impoverished, non-wimmin oppressors. He knew that he had been suffering his entire life from testosterone poisoning, and he welcomed the opportunity to change for the better. But another part of him, buried deep down in his psyche, screamed, "Don't let her cut off your dick!" Bubba stared at Dr. Valerian, tears running down his cheeks. He wondered how he could have been so blind before. Dr. Valerian had shown him how inappropriate and offensive his old ways of thinking had been, and he felt tremendous shame and regret. When he heard her say that he was going to be allowed to change genders, his tears of shame turned into tears of joy. He was being given a second chance, and this time, he was going to get things right. Andy was going through a catharsis similar to Bubba's. He was the youngest of nine, all male. His father, he now realized, had been a terrible oppressor to his mother, whom Andy now revered as a domestic incarceration survivor. His brothers had all been oppressors-in- training, as had he. But that was all about to change. Soon, he would be a womon, just like his mother, but, unlike his mother, who seemed to be resigned to the oppression placed upon her by her legalized rapist, Andy knew what signs to look for, and knew how to respond to oppressive treatment. Dr. Valerian had taught him these things, and he loved her for it. Stacey, who still maintained some degree of individuality, simply thought to herself, "Won't Dr. Valerian be surprised when she learns I'm already a woman?" And, she noted with a degree of self- satisfaction, that she was still using the term "woman" instead of Dr. Valerian's preferred "womon." "I'm gonna hold on to who I am for as long as I can," she thought with grim determination. And Dawn, thought by Dr. Valerian to be the only genetic womon among the group of volunteers, felt mixed emotions. She found herself agreeing more and more with Dr. Valerian's teachings and concepts. She realized that she had been wrong to flaunt her incredibly sexy body to get the things she wanted, but only because she had to demean herself in the process. She was learning to think of herself as a person, not just a nice set of tits and a pretty ass. But she also felt sorrow from these teachings. Dawn really liked having sex, and she felt that she'd have to give up sex to stay true to her new training. And, she realized, she was really going to miss Marty's wonderful cock! The drones began to circulate among the volunteers and injected each with a large syringe. The volunteers found themselves feeling sleepy, and, as they drifted off to sleep, they heard Dr. Valerian talk to them. "Volunteers," she said in her most soothing tones yet, "you have just been given the first of many injections you will receive during the remaining phases of the study. This first injection will be the most shocking to your systems, which is why I included a strong sedative with the other chemicals and reagents now coursing through your systems. "The purpose of these initial injections is to correct your genetic defects, erasing your inadequate Y chromosomes and replacing them with the more desirable X. As you might suspect, this will be a radical change for many of you, and does carry with it a degree of risk. But, I'm pleased that you all signed the release forms for the study, thereby insulating me from responsibility in these risks. "I want to applaud your courage, as you drift off to sleep. Sadly, some of you may not wake back up, but you should take heart in the knowledge that those wimmin who survive will carry on 'The Cause' and that your sacrifice was for the improvefemt of all personkind." Dr. Valerian left the podium area and began to walk along the seated volunteers. Several drones followed her as she examined each volunteer. She observed the expected signs of the genetic remapping in most of the volunteers -- it was marked by a distinctive rippling and bubbling of the volunteer's body as each cell was examined and its chromosomes dismantled then reassembled without the offending Y chromosome in the mix. It was a radical procedure, to be certain, and often led to problems with the volunteer. Of the sixty-seven volunteers in this study, Dr. Valerian estimated that as few as nine and as many as fifty would fail to achieve their wellness potential and would have to be discarded. All of the volunteers, except for the latecomer, had received the first transformation injection. Dr. Valerian had never given this first injection to a womon subject before, since there was no reason to alter a womon's genetic composition. Therefore, she was not surprised to see that Dawn's skin was not demonstrating the physical signs of the initial injection. She was surprised, though, to note that the rippling effect was much less evident on that unique subject at the back of the room. After several hours, the effects of the initial injection had run their course, and Dr. Valerian was able to determine its overall impact on the volunteers. She was pleased to note that only twenty-two had been rendered terminally inconvenienced by the procedure; that figure was well within her projected estimate. The drones removed the bodies to a separate room where Dr. Valerian would be able to dissect them at her leisure and determine the actual cause of their nonviability. Additional injections were administered, over the course of several days, each injection representing another successive step through Dr. Valerian's study, and each one providing some degree of genetic alteration to the volunteers. None of these subsequent injections produced so radical a reaction within the volunteers as to render them nonviable. These latest injections were designed to assist in the resculpting of the volunteers' bodies into those more appropriate for wimmin. Of course, Dr. Valerian had added a series of subtle variations into the mix, so that the wimmin she was creating were unlike any whom had come before her. Dr. Valerian was able to put her multidiscipline education to good use with these variations. For example, she used her knowledge of dentistry (as evidenced by her D.D.S. degree) to genetically ensure that the volunteers all had dazzling, perfect teeth, and that these teeth were incapable of acquiring cavities. She also used her knowledge of non-human-animal physiologies (putting her D.V.M. degree to good use) to subtly alter the volunteers' teeth, providing them with the ability to secrete a chemical through micro-fine channels in their otherwise perfect teeth in a fashion similar to the way snakes deliver venom into their prey. She also altered the volunteers' pheromone glands, enabling them to exude scents, at will, which no unaltered human animal, regardless of their sex, would be able to resist. Less bizarre effects of the injections imbued the volunteers with the shapely forms of wimmin. Dr. Valerian understood the great risk she took by making the volunteers physically attractive; she knew that giving the volunteers attributes that would be pleasing to lookist oppressors was somewhat contradictory to her goals of political correctness. But, she also understood that those lookists who would oppress the volunteers would be more receptive to indoctrination into the ranks of those who are politically correct if they also found the volunteers irresistibly attractive. This was, after all, a war, she reminded herself, and, as her mother used to say, "You'll attract more flies with honey than with vinegar." As the physical attributes of the volunteers began to blossom, Dr. Valerian noted that one volunteer still had not begun to exhibit any signs of transformation -- her "challenge" volunteer. This volunteer still had not shown any sign of breast development or of penile reduction. If Dr. Valerian had bothered to undress any of the volunteers, especially her "challenge" volunteer, she would have discovered Stacey's "secret." Unfortunately, that thought never occurred to her; it never crossed her politically correct mind that a womon would ever disguise herself to look like a testosterone-poisoned oppressor. So, she simply ordered additional injections for this volunteer. Soon, the volunteers would be at step ninety-five of her one hundred step project. And after the one hundredth step, her army would be ready to unleash upon the world! "Political Correctness on a global scale," Dr. Valerian thought to herself. "That accomplishment shall surely earn me the Nobel Prize." Chapter VI: As the physical transformation steps of the study drew to a close, Dr. Valerian cut back on the sedatives that had been administered to the volunteers and allowed them to regain consciousness. She also provided them with the antidote to their chemical paralysis, although she maintained the volunteers' immobility through one of the two electrodes still embedded in their brains. The other electrode was her fail-safe device. Should any of the volunteers not pass successfully through step ninety-five, Dr. Valerian was ready to render them nonviable, since they certainly had failed to achieve their political correctness potential. Once all of the volunteers had regained consciousness, Dr. Valerian spoke to them. "Volunteers," she began, a wide smile showing her perfectly white teeth, "congratulations! You have successfully made it through the transformation. Your inferior Y chromosomes have been wiped from your systems, and you have all been remade, perfection personified. "You are now wimmin." Dr. Valerian stepped back a pace from the podium and began to applaud. The drones, located throughout the auditorium, mimicked her actions, and the room was filled with thunderous clapping for the volunteers. As the applause died down, Dr. Valerian approached the podium once again. "I'm certain," she began, "that you are all curious about your new selves. So please, stand up, remove your old clothes, and examine yourselves. The drones and I will pass among you and collect your old garments; new clothing more appropriate to your new personas will be provided shortly." Andy stood on shaky legs and began to remove his clothing. He'd never noticed that it had been so ill-fitting before. His shirt was too tight in places, and much too long. And his jeans, he noticed, were extremely tight in the butt, yet the waist was inches too large. Even his shoes were too big. He stepped out of them easily, not even needing to kick them loose. As he unbuttoned his shirt, the realization of his transformation hit him. The sight underneath his shirt left him in awe. He now possessed two of the most perfect breasts he'd ever seen, even when compared to those poor unfortunate lookism survivors on display in the pages of "Playboy." And, instead of feeling lust at the sight, he instead felt pride. "My body is perfect," he thought to himself as a smile spread across his face. In a rush of self-discovery, he quickly undid his belt and unzipped his pants, letting them fall to the floor around his feet. His hands, now featuring ten delicate fingers, ran across his flesh. His smooth, hairless flesh. He felt the generous new curves of his soft bottom, the unbelievable narrowness of his waist, and, most astonishing of all, the taut smoothness of his new genitals. As the drones came by, Andy bent down and picked up his old clothing and handed it to them. One of the drones handed Andy a large hand- held mirror. Hesitantly, Andy brought the mirror up in front of him so he could see the last part of his transformation that had previously been hidden from view. "My face," he said as tears began to form at the corner of his eyes. "I'm . . . I'm beautiful." And he was. His jaw, formerly square and powerful, was now slightly pointed and elegantly curved. His cheekbones were now high and fair. His nose, which had been broken several times, was now slim and dainty, almost pert. The eyebrows, which had formerly been heavy and brooding, were now thin and wholly feminine. Andy reached up and ran his dainty fingers through his new mane of dark brown hair; before, he'd had fairly curly hair, but now, it was more wavy than curly, and it cascaded in sexy sheets over his shoulders and part-way down his back. As Dr. Valerian passed by, Andy couldn't resist giving her a tearful hug. "How can I ever thank you?" he sobbed. "You've given me the most wonderful gift I've ever received." Dr. Valerian smiled back at Andy. "What was your name, dear?" she asked. "Andy -- Andrew -- Lawrence." "From now on, you are Andrea Lawrence, or Andi to your friends." As she continued on to the next volunteer, Dr. Valerian caught a whiff of Andi's new scent. Even though she was prepared for it, it still surprised her just how much more alluring Andi seemed to be as her genetically- enhanced pheromones kicked in. "I've surpassed even my wildest expectations," Dr. Valerian thought to herself. "These volunteers will be irresistible to men and wimmin alike." Bubba was having a difficult time standing. He had lost so much body mass that his old clothing hung from his new frame like a tent. He finally kicked off the pants and pulled his shirt down over his shoulders and onto the ground. He felt light as a feather and full of glee. He actually jumped up and down several times, overcome with the joy he was now experiencing. As he jumped, he became acutely aware of his new body. His large breasts, currently untethered by any type of foundation garment or brassiere, bounced up and down uncontrollably, actually striking him in the chin once. He ran his hands all over himself, exploring every smooth inch of his new physique. Before his transformation, Bubba had been heavily muscled and quite lean, although he tipped the scales at well over three hundred pounds. Now, he doubted that he weighed a third of that, but he was pleased to find that he was still nicely muscled -- "toned" was the term that came to his mind. Bubba eagerly accepted the mirror offered to him by the nearby drone. The first sight of his new features caused an audible gasp to issue from his sensuous new lips. His new eyes were huge, almost luminous. Blond hair ran down his shoulders like ringlets of spun gold. His face now had a cuteness to it that instantly reminded him of both a five-year-old girl and of that nineteen-year-old cheerleader he'd deflowered to celebrate setting the all-time quarterback sacking record for the school (the memory brought with it a pang of guilt, and Bubba vowed to find that cheerleader and apologize to her for his terrible, oppressor-like behavior); his was now the face of a "Lolita," and Bubba was transfixed. From the moment that Dr. Valerian had told them they were going to become wimmin, Bubba had never imagined that he would become this feminine. "What do you think?" With a start, Bubba realized that SHE was standing before him. "Oh, Dr. Valerian," he gushed, quickly lowering the mirror, "I don't know what ta say. I see myself in the mirror an' can't believe it's me." "What was your name?" "Bubba Simpkins. Bubba Reingold Simpkins." "Hmmmm," Dr. Valerian said, laying a finger along her jaw as she thought. "What can we name you now? I don't believe that 'Bubbette' will do you justice. I have it; from now on, you will be known as Barbara Regine Simpkins." Barbara again jumped up and down with joy. "I love it," she giggled. "It's perfect." She took Dr. Valerian's hand in both of hers and looked Dr. Valerian directly in the eye. "Thank you for giving me this second chance." Two rows away, Marty was having some difficulty removing his clothing as well. He'd worn a rather tight pull-over shirt, and now found that his new proportions wouldn't allow him to pull the shirt up over his head or, like Bubba -- Barbara, he reminded himself -- pull the shirt down past his shoulders. Instead, he busied himself with removing his pants and then exploring his lower half. He was not disappointed. He now found himself what his mother would have called "zaftig" -- a well-proportioned womon, to be certain, but one with a little extra "meat" on her bones. His legs were shapely and curvaceous, and they led up to a beautifully full tush. He looked behind himself at his large buttocks and knew, instinctively, that he'd look absolutely ravishing in a tight little thong bikini bottom. He now possessed what his old, unenlightened self would have called a "bubble butt," and he was thrilled. A drone came by and assisted Marty with removing his shirt by simply cutting it off of him. Marty was now able to examine his upper half in more detail. His skin was now smooth and hairless; well, not quite hairless. His formerly hairy chest and stomach were now transformed, having the faintest trace of downy hair. The hairs were almost invisible to the eye, but were quite notic