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Suzy Q By T. D. Coskren For those who are under age, are offended by transgender themes, or have the misfortune to reside in some benighted place where censorship would ban this offering, I can only suggest that you turn elsewhere for your reading pleasure. (The first problem will be fixed by waiting; the third, perhaps by voting?or moving. For the second, there's no problem. Just go away.) This story is set in my "Campesina" world, where a technology only slightly beyond what exists today can transform a subject (willingly or unwillingly) to a different person. If anyone wishes to write the stories of Yasmin and/or LaTreena, I won't object, but please keep within the parameters of the technology, as sketched here. I've already given a tiny part of Rosita's adventures (in "Campesina"); the rest of it's in my novel (about 330,000 words?too big to post), which I'm trying to get published. (Any ideas?) Late in the afternoon of May 13, Samuel Patrick Quinn set down his calculator and took a break. His stress-and-strain class at the university in Monterrey was giving him more stress than he could calculate. Even with a test coming up tomorrow, he couldn't keep cramming. He was bushed, and he needed some rest and relaxation. Anyone who claimed that classes in a Mexican university were easy had to have his head examined. Differential equations were differential equations, and the only difference between Monterrey Tech and a stateside university was that he had to do everything in Spanish. It didn't make it easier, even if he was fluent in the language. With a feeling of relief and anticipation he logged onto Yahoo, then clicked onto his usual chat room. He regularly escaped the heat and foul air of Monterrey by disappearing into the fantasy world of the Internet, where he could become anything or anyone he wanted. During the few months of his Mexican residency he had become several wildly different people. For each, he had invented a biography and created a life style. Photos accompanied each persona. The first was basically himself under an alias: "Robert Bailey", a 21-year-old American of English ancestry, born in the small town of Paris, Kentucky. He was 5' 6", 138 lbs, brown-haired, near-sighted, and undistinguished in appearance (almost baby-faced). A typical techie, he was good in math and science, interested in science fiction, hunting and fishing, folk music, and spectator sports (especially University of Kentucky basketball and the Cincinnati Reds). A second persona revealed a fantasy identity. Godfrey Dunthorpe was a debonair, wealthy, and macho 29-year-old English stockbroker and sports enthusiast from London. The photo posted on the Internet showed a handsome man with wavy blond hair. His 210 lbs was well distributed over a rugged 6' 3" frame. His pastimes included tennis, sports-car racing, skiing, and rock-climbing. He was visiting Monterrey to challenge the sheer limestone cliffs of the Sierra Madre south of the city. His third persona was Susana Quintana, a 17-year-old girl, 121 lbs. and 5' 3", with a buxom figure and a pretty face framed by long blonde hair. Sam described her as a Cuban expatriate of pure Spanish (Galician) extraction. She liked rock music, pretty clothes, jewelry, and men. She spoke only Spanish and worked as an exotic dancer (under the name Suzy Q). Her ambition was to marry and raise a family, if only she could find the right (rich) man. Sam's chats in Susana's persona were vapid and shallow; she was a "dumb blonde" . Suzy was inspired by a dancer he'd watched in a local dive, El Guacamayo. Of the three personas, Susana aroused the most interest among the chat-room denizens. Since he had invented her three months earlier, he had amused himself by showing her off to a series of would-be boyfriends. The most persistent had been one Jose Enriquez, who offered to fly her to Aruba for a week of partying, scuba-diving, and "other fun". He hadn't said where he lived or what his business was, but he hinted that he was independently wealthy. "Susana" refused, of course, but without cutting him off; Sam enjoyed stringing the foolish suitor along. A week ago he had been surprised by a package in the mail for "Susana". It contained a round-trip ticket to Cancun, a skimpy red bikini, a simple but obviously expensive black evening dress (size 7, to fit the measurements Sam had given), high-heeled black Italian pumps, and diamond earrings. A note accompanying the gifts pleaded with "Suzy" to accept them, and to repay the donor by accompanying him to Cancun. The note further said that Senor Enriquez had set his heart on dancing with Senorita Quintana, who would look radiant in the humble gifts he was bestowing on her. It closed by noting that "I am a persistent man, Senorita, and I intend to enjoy your company. I promise you, you will take pleasure from the sight of your own beautiful face adorned by these sparkling baubles, and of your exquisite body lending its dancer's contours to these simple coverings. It is futile to try to refuse me. You might as well relax and enjoy my hospitality sooner, rather than later. I promise, you will come to look forward to our dates. You may even find the man of your dreams and begin your family." Sam again refused, secure in the anonymity that the chat room promised. He never stopped to wonder how Senor Enriquez had gotten the address of his prospective inamorata, and what that implied for the security of the chat room. A couple of weeks later, on May 31, Sam was studying alone in his room. A knock announced the arrival of a deliveryman with a prize Sam had won. A peek through a spyhole showed a short dark man carrying a large box. He opened the door. The man entered, put the box on the floor, and complained of the heat. Sam offered him a drink, which was accepted on condition that Sam share it. They toasted Sam's luck in winning the contest (which Sam didn't remember entering). After a couple of minutes of conversation, Sam became a little dizzy. He swayed in his chair, but didn't pass out. Somehow he had entered a dreamlike state. The visitor asked Sam, "Are you all right?" When Sam answered "Yes" in a monotone, the man smiled and told him, "I fear I have taken advantage of your hospitality, Senor. I dropped a little powder in your drink. It's tasteless but potent. You'll do whatever I tell you, won't you?" Sam agreed. His guest told Sam that he had a few questions, but first, Sam should open the box. Sam obeyed; he seemed to have no choice. The box contained a skimpy two-piece dancer's costume in red satin, hung with tassels and covered with glittering sequins. It was only slightly less revealing than a G-string and pasties. "This is for Suzy Q," the visitor said. "Tell me, Senor, where is she?" Sam told him that Suzy Q was imaginary, but the next question was, "Who, then, sent all those messages to Senor Enriquez?" "I did." "Then you're Susana Quintana, true?" "No, I am, I'm Sam Quinn. There isn't any Susana Quintana." "You sent the messages. Therefore you're Susana Quintana, unlikely though that may appear at the moment. Admit it, Senor. Tell me that you're Susana Quintana. Tell me." "I, I am," He tried to deny it, but his voice disobeyed his will. "I am Susana Quintana." "I'm pleased to meet you at last, Senorita. I'm Jose Enriquez, of course." Sam felt terror beneath the enforced lassitude that afflicted him. "I promised to dance with you in my arms, and I won't be denied. I admit, it'll take a little preparation a year, I estimate but then I'll escort you to a nightclub here in Monterrey. You'll be very pretty then, in that simple black dress I gave you. I expect you'll ask for help in finding work, in return for the pleasure of your? ummm? your company. And I will help you. One of my associates needs a talented and pretty girl who could wear this little costume I brought. As I said in my letter, you might even find the man of your dreams and begin your family." His tone became offended for a moment: "I was quite disappointed to find that you're a cheat and a liar, Senor Quinn." He became friendly again: "No matter. I'll make an honest man of you. I'll see that your fiction becomes fact." He chuckled and amended his statement. "I'm afraid I misspeak. As long as Sam Quinn walks the earth, he'll be a liar and a cheat." He switched to Spanish: "Pero tu te haras recta." Sam translated easily: "But you will become honest." The gender of the adjective was feminine. "But enough. You must be bored by my monologue, and you aren't holding up your end of our conversation." He clapped his hands. Two more men entered, carrying a coffinlike box. His visitor ordered Sam to lie down in it. Suddenly he could move easily, obeying without hesitation while his mind screamed at him to flee. The box, which proved to be padded, wasn't uncomfortable.. He lay there unresisting as Senor Enriquez gazed down at him, then ordered, "Put him to sleep now. One day's dose should do it. I'll see that he doesn't wake again until we're ready." Turning back to Sam, he commented, "I'll see you shortly, Senor. Sweet dreams." One of the men lifted his arm and injected it with a colorless solution. The room began to spin as the lid was lifted onto the box. He was left in darkness until a tide of deeper blackness overwhelmed him. When Sam awoke, he found himself seated in an overstuffed chair in an unfamiliar room. At first he couldn't remember how he'd arrived, but the sight of Jose Enriquez quickly reminded him. He tried to protest, but his abductor cut him off: "Yes, Senor, I understand your confusion. Let me enlighten you. You're in one of my homes, on a Caribbean island. It doesn't matter precisely where; you won't be leaving for some time." He gave a nasty little laugh and added, "In one sense, you'll never leave. Senor Quinn will die here." Then he cocked his head and asked, "Is there anything you'd like to know? I'll answer to the best of my ability." Sam shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that seemed to shroud his thoughts, then asked, "Why? What do you want with me?" He remembered that Senor Enriquez had been searching for Susana Quintana and added, "Your Suzy Q isn't real, and no amount of badgering me will produce her." His voice was hoarse with disuse. "A well-chosen word, 'produce'. That's precisely what I intend to do. No, my sweet little Suzy isn't real. But she will be. I intend to 'produce' her. I've been given a blueprint, and she will fit every specification." Then he backtracked: "Or almost every specification. You're three inches taller than Suzy. I could arrange to remove the three inches, but as a dancer you'll need your legs as long as possible. But otherwise, You were kind enough to send me a photograph. That's what you'll look like in one year." "But, I, That's stupid. You can't do that." "Let me tell you a little about myself, Senor. I'm a wealthy man, wealthier than you can imagine, with resources beyond your dreams. I fear, though, that the wealth has come through methods that your government dislikes, and I've been forced to develop means to keep my affairs, and my identity, hidden. Among those means are elaborate ways to disguise myself and those who work for me. Plastic surgery, organ transplants, genetic manipulation, You wouldn't believe the changes that can be made in a body!" His enthusiasm was almost contagious. "Not yet, anyway. However, you will believe them. You will experience them. I'll transform you into Susana Quintana, a sexy exotic dancer from Havana." "No! That's not possible! Please, I'm sorry! I didn't," Senor Enriquez softly said, "Shut up." Suddenly Sam's voice cut off. He closed and opened his mouth, but no sound came. He was mute. Enriquez went on: "That brings me to another matter. I originally made my money in drugs; but chemicals are such a crude means of affecting the mind. They're still useful, of course, and I still use them, but direct stimulation or inhibition of the brain is so much more elegant, and Doctor Ibanez in Honduras is a genius in that technique. Senor Quinn, let me fill you in on what's happened over the last six weeks." He reset a switch out of Sam's sight. Sam found his voice. "Six, six weeks?" he croaked. "Yes, it's July 12. You've been unconscious a month and a half. My doctors have already begun to reshape you to Suzy. You see one minor detail: I can tell you to shut up, and make it stick." He moved his switch again, and Sam sat speechless. "I control many functions of your brain, Senor. Speech is one, as you see. Muscular control is another. You cannot move your limbs, true?" Sam was unrestrained, and he tried to get up. It was true: his arms and legs were paralyzed. "I can do much more, as you'll discover." Suddenly Sam became violently sick, retching uncontrollably. It cut off, but it was replaced by agonizing pain throughout his body. He tried to scream, but he was still mute. The pain faded, to be replaced by a terror beyond anything he had ever experienced. In a moment it was also gone, leaving him with a deep-seated horror, which he somehow realized was his own natural reaction to his helplessness. Enriquez smiled. "Not pleasant, is it? Doctor Ibanez is brilliant, Senor. He developed this technique for a cousin of mine. Incredibly tiny probes are implanted in the brain and activated by radio impulses. Some act directly on centers in the brain, and others simply monitor brain activity. You carry these implants. And of course I also have a wide spectrum of drugs at my disposal. You've already experienced one of them. Metrazine can be administered orally or by injection. It acts on the frontal lobes and leaves the subject without any will of his own. He'll obey any order, no matter how repugnant. If I say so, he'll gouge out the eye of his closest friend or his own. Repeated dosages cause a permanent change in personality. It renders the recipient compliant and submissive. Of course, I prefer my women that way." He pulled a cord: a bell rang, and a white-coated man entered. He appeared to be Irish or Scots, in his mid-20's, with a full head of red hair. "This is Doctor Morales. He's a Mexican national and a mestizo, 41 years old. A bit of plastic surgery, gene manipulation, and other tools gave him a new appearance, no? It was necessary; I'm afraid he's wanted by several police departments. He has new fingerprints, too. He's truly a new man." He turned to Doctor Morales. "Give Senor Quinn the metrazine, Doctor. Then I'll release him." The doctor gave Sam his shot, then waited about 20 seconds. Senor Enriquez glanced at his watch, then told Sam, "Stand up." Sam rose, weak and dizzy after six weeks of sleep. "Take off your shirt." He complied. He struggled to break the hold of the drug, but to no avail. "Now your undershirt." Again he obeyed. "Now look at your chest and feel where it's sore." There were slight bulges on Sam's chest, and the nipples seemed a little swollen. When he felt the bulges, they were sore. Enriquez smiled slightly. "Your new breasts, Senor. Six weeks is quite long enough for the effects of hormone treatment to begin to take effect." To his horror, Sam realized that his captor was right: he was beginning to develop breasts. "Now put your clothes back on, and Bernardo Baca will show you to your quarters. Tomorrow we'll begin training you. Good night, 'Susana'." He rang the bell again, and a servant entered. He accompanied Sam to a small cabin, where he left the captive alone. He recovered from the drug in half an hour, after which he tried the doors and windows. They were secure. He threw himself on the bed and tried to think of anything he could do, but it seemed hopeless. After another ten minutes he realized he was hungry. A quick check of the cabin revealed that he had everything needed to prepare his meals. He made supper, then quickly fell asleep after eating, in spite of his predicament. In the morning he awakened and fixed breakfast. At 8 o'clock a knock announced the arrival of a visitor. He opened the door (now unlocked) to find a large black woman. Her round face had a flat nose, thick lips with magenta lipstick, and a slightly protruding jaw. Gold hoops dangled from her ears, and her coarse black hair was done in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her ample breasts and wide hips were covered by a maid's uniform: black with white lace trim, a white apron, and a white cap. "I be here to clean yo' room, Mistuh Sam," she announced in a clear soprano. "Yo' gonna have lots to do wit'out you gotta worry 'bout dat too." Her accent was vaguely West Indian, but he didn't think that was quite right. "Very well," he told her. "Come in." She bustled in and began to clear away his breakfast dishes. "Yo' new here, mon," she told him. "Aftuh dis, yo' gonna be too busy to watch me, I t'ink. Mistuh Jose, he got plans for yo'." What did she know about what was planned for him? Maybe he could pump her. "Yes, I suppose, but I don't, I really don't know what's going on." She giggled. "No, mon. Mistuh Jose, he tell yo' a little, but not ever't'ing. But yo' know enough. Yo' prob'ly gonna work fo' Mistuh Jose, I t'ink." She sobered. "Dat what happen to most ob de men come here. Dey be changed, an' den dey go work for him." "Changed?" He sat on a rattan chair as she started washing dishes. "How do you mean?" "Oh, I t'ink yo' knows a little, mon. Diff'runt ways. Some a little, some a lot. Yo', now, I t'ink he got big plans fo' yo' Yo' be change a lot, mon." She picked up a glass. "You have the advantage of me, I'm afraid. I'm Sam Quinn. And you?" "Oh, I be LaTreena Fipps. I jus' be de maid for Mistuh Jose." "Pleased to meet you, Miss Fipps." She giggled again. "My mon, he be unhappy yo' callin' me 'Miss'. I be Missus Fipps." Belatedly he noticed a gold band on her pudgy finger. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Fipps. But like I said, I don't know much yet. Now what kind of changes are you talking about?" "Yo' be Sam Quinn now. When Mistuh Jose, he let yo' go, yo' be someone else." She sobered. "Yo' not be likin' it at firs', mon, but pretty soon it ain't so bad. Mistuh Jose got ways of makin' yo' get used to it. An' de work he gib you he see dat yo' good at it. When he turn yo' loose, yo' even like it. By then, yo' almos' forget who yo' was." She finished drying the dishes and began to put them away. "How do you know all this? Are there other prisoners here?" "Prisoners? Jus' you, now. But there be others in past. Lots. He use changes to punish dem what cross him. Or sometimes to reward. Wimmin git a purty face, or a man git strong muscles." She dropped her eyes. "But mostly he punish. He git lots ob workers dat way. Workers what ain't gonna complain, nor run away, nor slack off." She shut the kitchen cabinet and headed for the bedroom. He followed her. She was a golden opportunity to dig for information. Maybe she could even be persuaded to help him escape. "So no one here's being punished now?" he asked. "Except me, like you say. And he intends to change me into someone else, them make me work for him. But then I won't run off? That seems pretty unlikely." "No, mon. Yo' ain't never gonna run away." She picked up his pillow and put it aside, then began to make the bed. She was an efficient worker. He decided to change the subject. "And what about you, LaTreena? Where are you from? Jamaica? Or maybe the Bahamas? I don't know accents very well, and I can't place yours, but I'd guess you're from somewhere in the West Indies." She giggled. "No, mon. Yo' ain't never gonna guess." "Not the West Indies?" But that accent, and that name, "All right, I give up. Where?" "New Jersey." "New Jersey? But," He thought briefly. "Your parents, then?.. They were immigrants." "No, dey was borned in Trenton." "West Indian ancestry?" "Italian." She tucked in his coverlet. "Italian? But," He shut up. He was beginning to sound like an echo. No Italian parents would name a daughter "LaTreena". And she was black. Her skin color, her face, A horrible thought struck him. "You, Did Enriquez punish you?" "Yes, mon." He stood and faced her. "Why? And who were you?" He was afraid to hear the answer. "He punish me 'cause I cotch five ob his drug couriers. Once 'pon a time I be wit' de Federal po-lice, workin' for DEA." Her face was somber. "T'ree years ago no, four I be James Ricciello." She sounded the name out carefully, as though it were unfamiliar. "But dat a long time ago. Now I jus' be LaTreena Fipps, Mistuh Jose's maid." He collapsed back into the chair. "But how,?" She shrugged. "He tell me, chemicals, drugs. De doctors, dey change my face. My skin, dey make it turn black. Dey do sumpin, make me wan' eat a lot, I get fat like you see. An' dey do t'ings to my head. I fergit lots ob stuff. I don' know nuttin' 'bout drugs, or po-lice work, or, or nuttin'. Dey tell me I got a sixt' grade education now. 'Cep' I don' read so good." Illiterate too! "Why don't you run away? You said he doesn't keep you prisoner." "I don' got no place to go. Nuttin' I can do. I be jus' a maid." Then she cheered up. "Besides, I got me a mon here. Mistuh Fipps, he be a good mon." "But you were a man! A white man! What,? How can you,?" She shrugged again. "I be a mon a long time ago." Only three, maybe four years, Sam thought. "I no be a mon now." It was too obvious, from her dulcet soprano voice to her massive bosom. "But I be needin' a mon, jus' like any gal." Her face broke into a smile. Perfect white teeth gleamed in her broad black face. "Like I say, he a good mon! He keep me satisfied!" She finished with the bed and headed back to the kitchen, where she picked up a broom and began to sweep. Sam followed her. "But you can't be happy like this! You can't be satisfied with the life of a black peasant girl!" "I got to be. It all I got now, mon, satisfied or not." She smiled again. "Besides, like I tol' yo', when Mistuh Jose turn yo' loose, he see dat yo' accep' what he gib yo'. Maybe yo' be likin' sumpin' else mo' like what yo' was but it not so bad. It seem like it right fo' yo'. An' besides, pretty soon yo' almos' fergit who yo' was." Her smile widened. "Especially when yo' wit' yo' mon!" She finished sweeping. "Yo' see soon enough. Yo' gonna be pretty, Mistuh Jose tell me. Yo' gonna be a dancer what de menfolk like to watch. An' yo' gonna like de menfolk too." She pointed down at her heavy body. "Yo' be lucky. He gib yo' a pretty body. Nice tits, like de menfolk want. An' a pretty face. He show me yo' new face. Yo' like it, after a while. Yo' want to be pretty. Fo' de menfolk, so dey treat yo' good." She opened the front door and left. Her last words were, "Yo' gonna be surprised, 'Suzy'!" Half an hour later a slightly built man entered the room carrying a small traveling bag. "I am Pierre DuChamp, Senor. I'm going to teach you to dance." "The hell you are! Let me out of here!" Sam advanced on the man. DuChamp pressed a button in his pocket, and Sam collapsed. His legs refused to work. DuChamp advanced and gave him a shot. In a moment Sam arose, but he was told to stand still. He obeyed. "Now strip. Everything." Again he obeyed. DuChamp extracted a pink and frothy ballerina's dress from his bag and handed it to him. "We expected a bit of rebellion, Senor, and I came prepared. Put this on." In spite of his effort to resist, Sam pulled it onto his body. "Look at yourself. Silly, no?" He was right. "But those hairy underarms and legs, They will never do. Shave them." He handed Sam a straight razor and shaving cream. In twenty minutes, Sam's legs and armpits were as smooth as any girl's. DuChamp looked at him with approval. "Much better. You will keep them shaved." He sat and ordered Sam to pirouette. He did, awkwardly. As he turned, DuChamp told him, "You are going to obey me completely, my foolish friend. Any disobedience will bring punishment, and then you will obey anyway. This time, you really get off easy, because you were going to have to shave in any case. Keep turning. Up on tiptoe, now! And smile!" The dancing master ran him through exercises in his cottage all morning. Any slackness, real or perceived, brought pain, and Sam bent every effort towards pleasing his taskmaster. At noon they broke for lunch, and he was allowed to put his own clothes back on. During the afternoon they resumed. Sam didn't consider disobeying again, and he was rewarded by a feeling of euphoria. It was much more pleasant than the pain and sickness of the morning. He was free during the evening, and this time his room was left unlocked. A quick examination of his surroundings showed that he was on a small tropical island, occupied by a large rambling building and his own isolated cabin. Surf broke on reefs a few hundred yards offshore, and dense brushy woodland covered the interior. He couldn't see the mainland. He approached the main building, but he began to feel nauseated when he came within 500 feet, and he turned back. Obviously his brain implants would keep him wherever Jose Enriquez wanted. After dark, he returned to his room. It was stocked with reading material, all in Spanish, and he lost himself in a steamy romance. After a week of hard work dance practice moved to the big house, and he didn't see LaTreena again he was taken to another room of the building. Senor Enriquez met him there. "I hear you're doing well. You have some talent for your new career." "I do what I must. You're insane." Sam felt a touch of nausea as Enriquez reprimanded him: "Don't be disrespectful. Call me Senor Enriquez, or just Senor. Otherwise you'll regret it. In fact, I insist you call every man you meet by that title." "OK, Senor." Sam couldn't defy this man, who held such power over him. "Tomorrow you'll begin your language lessons. You speak Spanish fairly well for a norteamericano, but I want you to speak it like a native. A native Cubana, in fact. For the next few weeks, Spanish and dancing will occupy your time. Do you understand?" "Yes, Senor." "You seem to have adapted well to my requirements. You even keep your legs shaved without the necessity of a reminder." Sam was glad he hadn't defied his captor on that point. "Of course, I'm keeping you a little drugged. That helps. But are you resigned to your new life? You may speak freely." Sam was dismayed to find that he was being drugged, but he didn't protest. "Senor, I'm not 'resigned', as you put it. It's crazy. It's impossible too. Please, let me go. I'm sorry I, I teased you on the internet. But, well, it's crazy! There's no way I could become your 'Suzy'. Even if I were a woman, I couldn't do it! I'm an American. And I'll never be a real dancer." "We will see, Senor. I'm told you're learning quickly. And as far as your sex, You're becoming more feminine, day by day, week by week. Your breasts are developing nicely, true? You'll never reach LaTreena's proportions, but it won't be too long before you fill out that cute little costume I got for my sweet Suzy." Sam squirmed. The soreness had remained constant, but the swelling had increased, and his torso was slightly girlish. "But that's a superficial matter. Breasts don't make a woman." "Of course not. Much more is needed. Indeed, there's already more. Your armpits and legs are feminine as well." "Of course they are! You make me keep them shaved!" "And your face?" Sam realized he hadn't shaved his face since he'd arrived. There was no mustache or beard. No stubble at all. He raised a hand to his chin. It was baby-smooth. "What the hell,?" "You have a girl's face, I fear. Smooth and soft. Your beard and mustache are gone. A combination of a chemical treatment to remove existing hair follicles, and a bit of genetic engineering. You'll never need to shave your face again. And speaking of genetic engineering, have you noticed your hair? On top of your head, I mean. Look in the mirror." Sam turned and looked closely at his hair. It was lighter near the roots. "Your hair's becoming blond, Senor. As per your description of Susana. It's growing a lot faster too." He recalled the photo he'd sent: Suzy had strawberry-blonde tresses cascading over her shoulders. "Another week or two, and that bit of genetic engineering should take full effect. I won't need to do anything about your complexion. You already have a fair skin. Poor Senor Ricciello needed a lot more work." He smiled. "You should be quite attractive when it grows out." Then he added, "Don't cut it. If you do, you'll quickly find yourself more feminine afterwards, not less." Sam's hair was already over his ears. He'd been thinking of doing just that. "Another matter: have you noticed that your, umm, your male response is reduced?" It wasn't reduced, it was gone. Moreover, his genitals seemed smaller. "Yes, Yes, Senor. Please, Senor , Have mercy. For the love of God, have mercy!" "No, you've had your last erection. But don't worry. As Susana you'll be interested in your partner's masculinity, not your own. Now, you've been here a week conscious, that is. At irregular intervals you'll be blessed with further tokens of womanhood. By next year you'll fit your description of sweet little Suzy. Consider yourself lucky that you described a very pretty girl. You may go." He returned to his room. In the morning he awoke to find that his earlobes hurt. They were pierced. Pearl studs adorned his lobes. A matching necklace lay on his dresser. He left it there, but didn't attempt to remove the studs. His language lessons began the following afternoon. His teacher was an attractive young woman from Havana, Dolores Martinez. She insisted that he concentrate on his accent, slurring his letters (almost to the point of inaudibility for "S"), abandoning what she called his "plosive" English consonants, and using pure vowels instead of his English diphthongs. Also, he had to speak only Spanish from then on. "You 'll learn more quickly with total immersion, Senor. You'll see." He'd be punished for any use of English. To make certain he wasn't tempted, only Spanish-speakers (many of them Cubans) could talk to him. Senora Martinez told him that the Fippses had gone to another residence of Senor Enriquez. A week later his male self-image received another blow. When he awoke and went to the sink to brush his teeth, the mirror showed him a pretty face. He'd been sedated while asleep, and his lips had been injected with collagen. He had a permanent pouty look. Worse, they had been tattooed with a rose- colored dye while he was sleeping. He had a girl's lips. Kissable lips. In addition, his hair was completely blond. Strawberry blond. The mass of his hair had been dyed to match the roots. With his pearl studs and his smooth cheeks, he no longer looked male. Sam rushed to the big house, but he didn't head for his lesson. Instead he found a servant and demanded to speak to Senor Enriquez. The servant ushered him to the padron, and he protested loudly, "You, you can't do this to me! You," His voice disappeared. As he opened and closed his mouth in vain, Senor Enriquez replied, "You are disrespectful, Senor. And you're speaking English, which is forbidden. I won't listen to you. Go to Ricardo Barrameda, down the hall, second door on the left, and tell him to punish you." He pointed to a door. Sam tried to plead, but without a voice he couldn't even beg. Suddenly he was terrified. He began to feel sick. He hurried from the room, through the door indicated. Two doors down, he began to knock, but stopped. He couldn't do this! He had to run! But where. As he stood there, he began to retch, and started to stumble away. The door opened. Senor Barrameda looked at him and asked what he wanted. Sam's voice returned, but he refused to obey his order. "N, nothing!" he stuttered, and tried to escape. His legs collapsed, and he passed out. When he awoke, he was sitting in a chair in an unfamiliar room. It looked like a doctor's waiting room. He was still paralyzed, and he was wearing a pink sweater rimmed with white lace and decorated with seed pearls. It was snug enough to show two slight bulges where his breasts were growing. Jose Enriquez stood over him. Sam tried to plead, but his voice was gone. Enriquez told him, "You learn slowly, my friend. By now you should know: disobedience isn't a good idea." He leaned down, gave Sam an injection in his arm, then looked at his wristwatch. In one minute he told Sam, "Stand up. And be quiet." Sam obeyed. "Now, you crossed me in two ways. You raised your voice to me, and you disobeyed me. I'm going to punish you now. For the next six hours you'll do anything I tell you." Sam's terror couldn't break the trance. "Listen carefully. You're in a clinic in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. Two doors down the street out the front door and to the left is a beauty salon. You will go there and ask the girl to give you a makeover. Your hair, your face, your nails, Tell her to make you pretty. Use your judgment, but choose whatever makes you look most like your idea of Suzy Q. You'll have to keep using whatever makeup she advises, from now on. That's your punishment for raising your voice. When she's done, return here. I'll give you more orders." He gave Sam a handbag with more than enough money to pay for the treatment. Sam followed the instructions. The city street was busy, and he knew if he could just force himself to run, he could escape this madness. He kept telling himself that as he found the beauty salon and entered. A young woman asked, "What can I do for you, Senorita?" "I, I want a makeover. My hair, my face, my nails. Please, make me pretty." The tenor voice startled the woman, and she peered closely at Sam, but she didn't comment. "Very well. Come with me." For two hours Sam submitted to the ministrations of the shop's experts. Under their tutelage he chose bright red lipstick and nail polish, dusty green eye shadow, and a curly showgirl perm. At the end he was shocked at the result. Sam was gone. He was a teenage girl. The manicurist giggled as he paid, telling him he was the prettiest girl they'd turned out that day. He walked back to the clinic under the admiring glances of the local men. At every moment he told himself to flee, but he opened the clinic door and returned to Jose Enriquez, who admired his Susana. "They did an excellent job, Senorita. I think you agree: you're rather attractive already. But more is to come. The second part of your punishment will make sure everyone sees you as just another teenage girl. Now you will walk through there," he pointed at a swinging door "and you will tell the woman on the other side that you want to sing soprano." He chuckled at Sam's reaction, expressed only in his eyes. "No, you won't lose your cojones. Not yet. Only your tenor voice. Doctor Mejias specializes in throat surgery. He's worked for me before, and he'll give you a nice high feminine voice. When you see him, ask him to make it really high. Be polite, and ask him nicely. Tell him these words: 'I'm still a man now, but I want to be a girl. Please, give me a girl's voice.' Do you understand?" "Yes, Senor. I understand." "Give him this note when you see him." He handed Sam an envelope. "Now go." Sam got up and passed through the door. A receptionist sat behind a desk. She asked, "What can we do for you today, Senorita?" "I want," He tried desperately to run, or at least to shut up, but the words came out inexorably. "I want to sing soprano." His voice made it clear that he was male. The nurse giggled. "You look very pretty Senor! Yes, you've come to the right place. Have a seat, and I'll get Doctor Mejias." The doctor appeared in three minutes. "What have we here? Juanita tells me I have a man who wants to sing soprano. Is that true?" His gaze took in the pretty made-up face, the earrings and permed blond curls, the pink sweater snug over two nascent breasts. "You certainly should be singing soprano." "I want," He tried again to shut his mouth, then gave up. The compulsion couldn't be broken. "Please, I want a high voice. Yes, I'm still a man, but I want to be a girl. Please give me a girl's voice." He handed the doctor the envelope he'd been given. The doctor opened it. "I see. Senor Enriquez is offering to pay for my work. He says to do whatever you want, and hang the cost. Very well, Senor, come with me." He seated Sam in a chair and tilted it back, but he didn't start his work yet. "I need to know precisely what voice you'd like to have, so I want you to listen to a few samples and make your own choice. I can come very close to whichever you pick." He turned a knob, and a woman's voice said, "Buenos dias, Senor. Como esta usted?" Her tone was a low and sultry contralto. The doctor asked, "Is this what you're looking for?" Sam considered the instructions he'd been given. "No, Senor. Higher. Really high." The doctor pushed a button and another voice spoke the same words. The woman had a high soprano, like a young teenage girl. It fit Sam's instructions as he understood them. "Yes, I want to sound like that." He almost strangled on the words, but they forced their way out. "I warn you, Senor, this isn't reversible. Once I raise the voice, no one can lower it. And this isn't a woman, but only a girl. Her voice matured as she grew older. For you, it'll stay like this forever. You'll never sound like an adult. Even an adult woman." "Yes, that's what I want. I want, Make me sound like that girl. Forever. Please, Senor." Doctor Mejias looked at him with ill-disguised contempt. "Very well Senorita. That's what everyone will call you when I'm done. Or maybe just muchacha." He shrugged. "Be it on your own head. I'm being paid well to do as you say." The doctor pushed a button, and two green-clad assistants came through a door. That was the last thing Sam saw before a needle went into his arm, and the world went black. Sam awakened in his own room. Senora Martinez sat there watching him. "Ah! You're awake at last. How do you feel?" "I," His voice squeaked. "What,?" It wouldn't come down. "Speak Spanish, Senorita. Your punishment is finished for the moment, but you don't want to incur another one, do you? Now, how do you feel?" He tried to collect his thoughts. Yes, he had been threatened with punishment. What had they done? He couldn't remember. His thoughts were too muddy. "I feel," He squeaked again. "My voice, What?" "You have a soprano voice, Senorita. Quite high. I'm afraid you don't sound much like a man any longer." She giggled. "In fact, you don't really sound like a woman. You sound like a young girl." He swallowed, then tried again. "What, what did they do?" His voice was high and breathy. She was right: he sounded like a girl. Then he recalled: he had asked for a girl's voice. "They operated on your throat. Your vocal cords are shorter and thinner, and your larynx is smaller. Your Adam's apple is gone. Look at your neck." Her alto voice was much lower than his. It was true. His neck rose smoothly with no bulge. From the neck up, he was a girl. His hair was noticeably longer, too, and he had received another perm. "It's August 20. You were unconscious for three weeks, to let your throat heal. And look at your chest. That three weeks made a difference there too, true?" It had. His breasts had inflated. He had two soft mounds beneath his shirt, and his nipples were visible. Not large: only A cup, he guessed. But they looked grotesque on him until suddenly his perception shifted and they looked normal, on the girl he had become. Without thinking he clutched at them. The nipples were sensitive. Very sensitive. They stiffened immediately. It felt wonderful! Senora Martinez giggled again. "That feels good, doesn't it? Wait until a man does it. Senor Enriquez says he's making you extra sensitive there. Right now any touch there's wired directly to your pleasure center; but after today only a man's touch will activate it. Now, let's return to your lessons. You sound like a girl; you need to sound like a Cuban girl." He spent the rest of the day practicing Spanish, but he was distracted by a craving to reactivate the pleasure he'd felt so briefly. He found himself unable to keep himself from stroking his breasts surreptitiously. Each touch left him almost intoxicated. He had been receiving pleasure stimulation regularly as a reward for his dancing, but this was much stronger. He refused to think about needing a man to get the same stimulation in the future. That evening Senor Enriquez told Sam that a young peasant, Juan Sosa, would accompany him to the beach. "You'll call yourself 'Suzy'. You look like a girl, you talk like a girl. For tonight, you are a girl, and you'll respond like any young girl to a welcome suitor. You'll try to please him." Sam knew better than to protest. "She" was given a thin bra and a panty girdle that protected her crotch. The now-diminished male apparatus was tucked away. She made her face up, then donned a thin cotton dress, peach-colored with a floral pattern. Juan appeared and led her away, his arm around her and his hand cupping her breast. Although she couldn't resist anyway, the activated pleasure center filled her consciousness, and she didn't even want to escape from this man who made her feel so good. As they walked to the beach, Juan whispered, "What's your name, querida?" "I, I call myself Suzy," she replied, then gave a quick high giggle. Sam was shocked by the reaction. The giggle was followed by a frisson of added pleasure, which drove out the shock. Juan leered at her. "You are beautiful, my sweet little dove. I'm grateful to the padron for this chance to enjoy your company." He led her to a blanket laid out on the sand and in the light of the rising full moon Juan took "Suzy" in his arms and kissed her. She was plunged into rapture that overwhelmed her initial aversion, and she responded passionately. Juan fondled her breasts, driving her to heights of ecstasy. For half an hour they petted and necked, until the peasant reluctantly took her back to her room. "Don Jose tells me I can see you occasionally, querida. Will you like that? Tell me you'll be my own little Suzy." He stroked her stiff nipple through the thin fabric. "Yes. Oh, yes!" she squealed. "I'll be your little Suzy." Sam was willing to agree to anything to regain the bliss he felt. "Suzy" laughed again, a high silly giggle. In the house, Jose Enriquez heard the sound through a bug carried by Juan. He chuckled. That giggle, induced by a jolt to a tiny region of the brain, would be reinforced by pleasure until it became a habit. Next day Sam remembered the previous night's amorous adventure. He was ashamed of his response, and at the same time he wanted more. He couldn't get any pleasure response by his own efforts, and against his will he wanted a man to hold and to fondle him again. He couldn't understand it. Even drugs shouldn't have made him respond so enthusiastically. He determined to fight harder. He had to obey by now he knew better than to attempt any rebellion but he had to control his own feelings. He wasn't "Susana Quintana". He recalled what LaTreena had told him: "Mistuh Jose, he see dat yo' accep' what he gib yo'. Yo' like it, after a while. Yo' want to be pretty. Fo' de menfolk, so dey treat yo' good." LaTreena certainly had accepted it. But he was stronger. He'd make sure he never became the airheaded dancer he'd invented. But he still looked forward to his next date. His dancing lessons changed a little. He had to wear a pink leotard. His new breasts jiggled noticeably as he moved, and the snug garment made them obvious. His genitals were tucked away, and he knew he'd be taken for a girl by any who saw him. His voice was completely in accordance with his newly girlish appearance. Like Senora Martinez, DuChamp referred to him as "Senorita". He thought Senor DuChamp treated him a little differently, too. He didn't know whether it was due to the increasingly curvaceous figure, or the breathy soprano voice, but the dancing master seemed to treat him more like a true female. He detected a gleam of appreciation in the Frenchman's eye. It wasn't reciprocated. After his afternoon language lesson was finished, he attempted to see Senor Enriquez again, but he was refused. His servant Bernardo told him, "Not yet, Senorita. Soon, though." Sam tried to remonstrate, "I'm not 'Senorita', Senor Baca. I'm Senor Sam Quinn. I know I don't sound like it, but I am. You saw me when I arrived. You know I'm right." It was difficult to insist with a straight face that he was Senor Quinn, in a girlish voice that belied the claim. "No, Senorita. Not any more. Your name's being changed to match your new appearance. From now on, you'll be called Susana Quintana. Or Suzy Q. By order of el Padron, you have to accept and acknowledge the name. Will you defy him?" He laughed, then echoed Sam's own concern: "You don't sound much like a 'Senor' either. Now tell me, little girl: what's your name?" Sam knew better than to fight. "Very well. I'm Susana Quintana." But he reserved the right to call himself "Sam" in private. Soon he suffered another change. He awoke to find that his feet hurt when he got out of bed. He had trouble walking flat-footed, and he could ease his pain only by tiptoeing. His Achilles tendon seemed to be the source of his difficulty. DuChamp knocked on his door as he ate breakfast. The dancing master explained his problem. "Your feet are altered, Senorita. Your Achilles tendon is shorter. The operation was a month ago, and you've healed sufficiently to walk without injury. I fear that, from now on, you'll need to wear high heels in order to walk without pain. Four-centimeter heels should be possible, but I think you'll prefer six-centimeter heels. Maybe even seven. They'll definitely be more comfortable. I brought a selection to replace your old shoes." Sam looked at his new footgear. Pumps, mules, boots, all had heels from one to four inches high. He tried one-inch red pumps. They eased his discomfort a little, but Senor DuChamp was correct. He could only tolerate two-inch heels. Two-and-a-half was better, but he needed at least three-inch heels for comfort. That morning he began to adapt his dancing to his new footgear. His feet hurt a little, but DuChamp assured him it was temporary. Sam's routine continued unchanged for two more months. His breasts continued to swell. They reached a full B cup, he estimated. The doctors who attended him told him his transition into womanhood was much more rapid than the puberty of a normal female, due to his massive hormone doses. His hips and ass broadened a little as well, and his waist was shrinking. All his pants were tight around the hips and loose around the waist. His shirts bound uncomfortably around his breasts. He kept wearing male clothing anyway, donning skirts and dresses only when necessary, for his trysts with Juan. One morning he pulled on his slacks and they split a seam. He tried another, and they held, but he knew his male clothing didn't fit any longer. He almost looked forward to the dance lessons, when his leotard stretched to accommodate his new curves. The fact that his feminine shape was revealed by the leotard didn't really matter. Even in a man's shirt and slacks, his contours were clearly womanly. His real problem in the dance lessons was that his breasts, unsupported, bounced uncomfortably. He could see that DuChamp was fascinated by their motion. The other men began to pay attention to him as well, in spite of their knowledge that his sex was really male. Appearances, it seemed, mattered a lot. Worse, he found himself behaving like a silly female. He couldn't stop himself from giggling. When he was allowed to go on his dates with Juan, he didn't even think of behaving differently. All he wanted was the surge of pleasure that the peasant gave him. He was well and truly addicted. When he arose on the next morning, he found a new wardrobe in his closet. His old clothes were gone. In their place he found flowered print slacks in bright colors and shirts with ruffled collars and buttons on the wrong side, And skirts, short to long, And dresses. He checked his dresser. One of the drawers was filled with lingerie, another with pantyhose. He even had new glasses. A feminine pair, pink-rimmed and set with rhinestones, was on the dresser. A note was on his bed: "Susana: Come see me." It was unsigned, but no signature was necessary. He desperately wanted to plead with his captor, but he didn't want to beg in a skirt. His final choice was a flowered pink sleeveless top and matching pink slacks. Under them he wore white cotton panties and a cotton bra. He was pleasantly surprised at how much more comfortable he was, freed from the ill-fitting male clothing. Two-inch pumps, red with open toes and a single strap, slipped onto his feet; he preferred to endure the discomfort of the low heels. After he fixed his face, he put on the diamond stud earrings that he had first been given, and on a whim added the pearl necklace. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was a cute girl! No wonder the men were attracted to him. The thought gave him no pleasure. He had to persuade his tormentor to release him, before this went any further. Senor Enriquez was delighted at his appearance. "You are becoming quite pretty, my dear. My Suzy Q is beginning to appear, I think. Do you agree?" "No, Senor. With all respect" he couldn't afford to anger the man "I disagree. I know I look like a girl." He looked down at his bosom, lending its curves to the snug pink top. "I sound like a girl." His thin and breathy soprano lent his words verisimilitude. "But I'm not a girl. I'm not a Cubana. I'm a northeamericano. I can't be anything else." "Soon your body will be transformed completely, Senorita. Will you admit then that I've found my Suzy Q?" "No, Senor. Even if I were a real woman and that's not possible, I just look female I wouldn't be a Cubana. It simply isn't possible. He chuckled. "My dear Suzy, I've just begun to create you. Your body's doing nicely. Soon it'll be finished. Already it pushes you into the arms of your boyfriend, no?" Sam blushed. When he was allowed to go on his "dates" with Juan, he couldn't think of anything but the surge of pleasure that the peasant gave him. He was well and truly addicted. "And DuChamp tells me you're becoming a skilled dancer. Next year you'll be able to find a job at any night club. But you say your mind is still that of the norteamericano I took here. Perhaps, but that's changing too. Read your description of Suzy Q. That'll be an accurate portrait body and soul when I'm finished." He laughed and told his victim, "You already like men, no? Come here, muchacha. Sit on my lap." Sam obeyed. Senor Enriquez fondled his breasts through the thin fabrics. Sam's eyes widened and he gasped in pleasure. He tried to suppress his reaction, but it was hopeless. Enriquez stopped briefly and asked, "Do you want me to stop? I will if you insist." The girl in his lap couldn't resist. "N,no. No! D,don't stop! Please!" "I'll continue if you kiss me. You want to kiss me, don't you?" Sam didn't answer directly, but pressed his mouth hungrily against Enriquez's lips. He responded by fondling a breast again as he thrust his tongue between Sam's lips. Sam exploded with pleasure beyond his dreams. Enriquez withdrew and asked, "You really think you're still a norteamericano in your head? I think you wanted to be that little Cuban slut you described. "Susana Quintana" versus "Samuel Quinn", It's the same initials. You already were her in your mind. I'm doing you a favor by sending you the rest of the way." Confused, Sam pulled back. "I, No! I'm a man! I don't, I didn't,!" But his soprano voice betrayed him. And his reaction to Enriquez's offer to stop shocked him. He was acting like a slut. He began to weep. Amused, Enriquez offered Sam a handkerchief. "That's all right, Suzy. Have a good cry. Just like a woman, of course." Sam tuned his head away, and Enriquez pushed him off his lap. "I'll send Juan over this evening to comfort you," he declared. "I know he makes you feel better." Then he looked at Sam critically. "I said that you're a pretty girl, and you are. But you can be even more attractive. You're using makeup, but you need more skill, my dear. It'll be invaluable to you in your new career. I'll send one of my maids to teach you." He stood. The interview was over. For several weeks nothing further seemed to happen. Sam recovered from the traumatic visit with his captor, telling himself that it was just a momentary weakness brought on by drugs and those infernal brain implants. He assiduously applied himself to the makeup lessons. It wasn't difficult; he enjoyed the meticulous application of various cosmetics to his face (under the effect of an implant). He found that he liked wearing dresses and skirts, too, and the slacks went unworn. Juan complimented him on his appearance, and he couldn't bring himself to resent the comments (drugged and buoyed by artificial euphoria as he was), only giggling in delight. However, further changes were being imposed, unknown to Sam. Late each night he was taken, unconscious, to a room where another set of doctors wired him to a machine and injected him with an exotic drug with an affinity for the neurons that stored memories. A combination of the drug with an electric shock effectively erased whatever memory that was held in his mind at a given moment. He was put into a drug trance and ordered to recall specific items. They began with his true name, and followed with the names of his family, his social security number, his birthplace, his birthday, and other items that could be used to identify him. Each disappeared. When they were done, they replaced the missing information with a piece of information more appropriate for Susana Quintana, a Cuban girl. He was returned to his room, to awaken the following morning with no recollection of any losses. Senor Enriquez recalled "Suzy" three days after Christmas and asked him to be seated. He complied nervously, spreading a long pink-flowered skirt beneath him as he sat. "Maybe you're right, Senorita. Perhaps you'll never adapt to such an alien life, and I should allow you to return." He held up his hand as the "girl" in front of him brightened. "But are you really an American citizen? Tell me, where were you born? Quickly now!" "I was born in, in Havana!" he replied. "In Havana? Tell me then, how is it you claim to be an American?" Before his confused guest could straighten out his thoughts, he went on: "And what's your name, my dear? Your full birth name? And your age. Tell me." "My name is Susana, No, it's, it was," But it was gone. His memory insisted that his name was, and had always been, Susana Quintana. He was bewildered. He knew he'd been a man an American student at Monterrey Tech. He was still a man, if badly injured. But the name of that man was gone. He'd been born in, His memory lied to him, insisting "Havana". "Come now. I insist. Your full birth name and your age, Senorita. Tell me." Aware now that somehow he had lost his identity, "Suzy" began to weep. Through his sobs he tried to insist, "No! I'm not Susana! I'm," But it was lost. Again Senor Enriquez ordered him sternly: "Your full name, Senorita, and your age and birthplace, or I'll punish you. And look at yourself in the mirror as you answer me." "My, my name is," He forced himself to answer. "Senor, my full name is Susana Patricia Quintana Lopez. I'm seventeen years old. I was born in Havana. But, but that's wrong. It's a lie!" He tried once more to dredge his true name from the depths of his memory. There was nothing. He stared at the mirror, transfixed. Looking at him was a shapely blonde teenage girl, pretty even in her misery. He knew her. She was Susana Quintana. Suzy Q. Nothing else. He recalled inventing Suzy on a hot and dull afternoon in Monterrey, and choosing her birthplace as Havana on a whim. But now she stared back at him from the mirror. "Born in Havana, you say. What about your family? Your father, your mother?" Suzy tried to answer. He saw his family in his mind. But their names, His father was, It was gone! He knew it wasn't really Julio Quintana. Nor was his mother Ana Maria Lopez de Quintana. A pair of faces came into mental focus: Suzy's Cuban parents. For just a moment she was seized by grief. They had died just a year ago, and she'd had to make her own way, alone. She had been dancing since then, No! She?no, he!?was an adult American male, not a teenage Cuban girl! "I, I don't know. I don't remember!" But he did! He just remembered falsehoods. And they were falsehoods beyond the biography he'd invented. "Tell me, Suzy." "I," He gave in. "My, my parents are?were?Julio and Ana Maria Quintana." "Of course they are. But then, you aren't a norteamericano." Enriquez smiled slightly. "Or a norteamericana. You're a native-born Cubana, and a naturalized Mexican citizen." His smile broadened. "My cousin's doctors' work again. A man named Ibarra found a way to erase what you know and to substitute something else instead. Julio and Ana Maria are now your parents, just as Susana is your name. Your new identity isn't so alien after all, is it?" He puffed on a cigarette. "I'm afraid you might have a problem returning to your old life. You don't look much like the engineering student I found in that dormitory room. You don't even know his name or birthplace. If you ever try to claim his identity, La Migra won't be easy to persuade, will they?." Enriquez chuckled. "No, you're going to live the rest of your life as Suzy Q. You are your own creation, come to life. No one else. Soon?two years, five years?you'll accept it." Suzy looked at the image in the mirror. Shoulder-length blond curls tumbling over bare shoulders, the smooth clear cheeks of a teenage girl, rosy lips set in a permanent pout, firm rounded breasts and a slender waist, Not to mention the silly high voice, and the habitual giggle. No, he couldn't pass as, as whoever he had been. Enriquez smiled and dismissed his captive. His metamorphosis was nearing completion. The next step was the final and irretrievable loss of what remained of Suzy's masculinity. It came on New Year's Day. Of course, it had long since become diminutive and nonfunctional. Nevertheless, she wept bitterly. After she recovered from the initial shock, though, she realized that it wasn't quite as shattering as she had expected. The months of seeing a girl in the mirror had slowly changed her self-image, and subconsciously she had known that the pitiable remnant of an appendage had been totally incongruous and forever useless. The slit in her crotch, bordered by fleshy lips and surrounded by a triangle of golden fuzz where her shaved hair was growing back, seemed so much more appropriate. Her hips were broader as well; when she awakened on February 11 after six weeks, Doctor Weiss told her he'd remodeled her abdomen and her pelvis. She consoled herself with the thought that at least she couldn't get pregnant. She knew enough about transsexual operations to realize that her apparent vagina had to be a sham. She didn't really have a full complement of female plumbing, and she couldn't get pregnant. But she had to admit, it was a convincing replica. And there was no doubt: she was definitely not male. Not any more. She received a reminder (as if she needed it!) every time she sat to pee. Because she needed time to heal completely, the dance lessons were suspended. The extra time was used to tutor her more intensively in Spanish. Drugs were used to assist her memory, to impart a true Cuban accent to her speech. During the night, she was taken to the laboratory, where the doctors also began to work on her English. Night by night, it was eroded away. Her vocabulary, her grammar, They slowly disappeared. The gradual loss went unnoticed. She thought in Spanish now, and she hadn't had an opportunity to speak English in months; all her books were in Spanish. During the reduction of her English to a pitiful broken remnant, they also erased selected portions of her education. Mathematics beyond elementary arithmetic, physics and chemistry, biology, all technical subjects, were obliterated. Geography and history were decimated. She was left with a substandard high-school education, inadequate for any decent job. Even her reading ability was attacked. She remained literate, but at a sixth-grade level. This loss too went unnoticed. The editing had the unfortunate side effect of lowering her IQ by about 15 points. The doctors continued to edit her personal memories as well. She learned an entire new biography, as the life of the anonymous norteamericano faded into obscurity. When asked who she was, she replied "Suzy Quintana" with a happy giggle. Her parents had been Julio and Ana Maria Quintana; she had a sister Maria and a brother Jose, still in Cuba. When she thought about it, she knew these "facts" to be fictions, but they leaped to her consciousness anyway. She accumulated a store of girlhood memories: birthday parties (especially her quinceanos two years earlier), her First Communion, a favorite doll , To herself she insisted, "I don't care what lies they put in my head. I'm not a Cubana, in spite of those memories he stuck in my head me. I'm a norteamericana." It didn't occur to her that she thought only in Spanish now. "When he lets me go, I'll return home and pick up my life again. Even if I can't return to my former identity, I can become a success as a woman." Her figure finally stabilized at 35/24/36. She was too heavy, her captor told her, especially for an exotic dancer. "You need to diet, Suzy. Your figure has to be a little more slender." He chuckled as he told her, "I'm afraid you'll need to watch your weight for the rest of your life. Just like most women." By March 8, and with the assistance of appetite-suppressant drugs, she lost 15 pounds, mostly from her hips, waist, and thighs. Her breasts, hemispherical with prominent pink nipples and areolae, remained at a generous C cup. She resumed dancing. Her lithe and athletic body easily returned to the old schedule. DuChamp had slowly introduced more erotic routines, and she innocently became adept at the graceful removal of her clothing. Soon she was unselfconscious in nothing more than a G-string and pasties. She felt a general a