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Whore by Vickie Tern I was still groggy when my eyes opened, but I managed to blink a few times and then keep them open. No use, I was still hallucinating. I still imagined I was surrounded by beautiful girls. Each time I opened my eyes there they were. Five or more beautiful, scantily clad young women seated across from me at a big sunny table in a big sunny kitchen. Chatting casually together while eating toast and cereal and drinking coffee. Doing all the usual things girls would do when they're having breakfast together, touching each other, giggling, passing the jar of honey. They all had long, loose, wavy hair, though they were mixed blondes and brunettes, and one of them was redheaded. What seemed odd for girls having breakfast together, they all were wearing lipstick and eye liner, very little but just enough so their faces looked ... as perfect as their long, scarlet-tipped fingernails. Flawlessly beautiful! Not to be believed! Not because they were all gorgeous. I've seen gatherings of gorgeous young women like these, during college outings and once when a cousin took me backstage where a whole chorus line was about to go on stage. But none of them looked like these! No way! These girls were practically naked! Wearing almost nothing. Sitting around, all of them in their ... wearing only ... brassieres! Everywhere under their pretty faces I saw delicate satin straps on their dainty shoulders and below those, pink female flesh, transparent lacy cups bulging with abundant breasts. Overflowing, creamy encased globes pushing dark-tipped nipples way forward. I could have reached out to touch those nipples, they were that close. Yet these girls were sitting around being as nonchalant as if they were wearing bikini swim wear or terry cloth covers by a swimming pool, not their most intimate of undies! The two immediately opposite me happened to look toward me, then glance at each other, then again look at me. One smiled directly at me as if to reassure me, while the other watched as if merely curious. Two others girls nearby seemed lost in their own thoughts, daydreaming at the crumbs on the plates in front of them. Maybe they'd been talking to each other and then stopped? An utterly naked girl at the far end of the room -- my God not even wearing a bra! -- was curled up on herself, deep in a paperback novel. Maybe she was wearing panties at least -- I couldn't see -- but one naked boob was jutting straight out and staring at me, while the other seemed as absorbed in her book as she was. The sun shone in. It was a lovely morning. But unlike any morning I'd ever known! "Well, I see Katie's finally awake," the smiling girl said to the other one, turning her head slightly toward her. "I guess so," said the other, lifting a cup of coffee to her red lips and sipping, all the while continuing to watch me. "Right on schedule." 'Schedule'? That sounded odd. Not wrong but ... well, odd. My eyes closed again. Heavy. Just to rest, but now my mind stayed awake. The second voice continued in its smooth, soft, flute voice, "This is always such a fun time, you know, Melanie? I remember when ... who was it, Audrey? When Audrey came around ... well, you've never seen anyone so delighted with herself! She couldn't keep her hands off any part of her. She'd become everything she'd asked for." "Oh, Brooke, Audrey'd always wanted to be the girliest of all girls! She loved everything feminine, so of course she was pleased with herself." That was the smiling one talking again. Her name was Melanie? She smiled indulgently, then went on. "Audrey lived in a cloud of perfume as sweet as candy, in her own bubble. Couldn't care less when she finally found out how come and what it all meant. Even after she'd thought about it a while. She once told me why she was so always so happy. 'Which would you prefer, for goodness sake?' she asked me. 'Flogging real estate in some dingy sales office somewhere and getting cheated by the sales manager? Or spending all your time making yourself pretty and enjoying yourself with people who really appreciate you, and actually getting paid to do it?'" "Well," Brooke replied, "Eventually that stockbroker, whatsisname, the guy who used to visit her here regularly, every week or so, he appreciated her enough to carry her off and make her his one and only. You know what, Melanie? I heard from someone that he knew her from way back and that he'd paid her way here, advanced all the money for her training, specified what kind of girl she should end up as and everything. That he was gay but wanted to appear respectable so he found himself the right kind of boyfriend and then ordered up the whole thing." "You do hear things," Melanie replied. "I heard something like that's true of Katie too. That she was sent here by some couple who wanted her out of the way until she was completely reformed and rehabituated, and that they paid for the whole thing in advance. And now that it's done, now that she's completely what they want, next week she's going back to wherever she came from to live as her new self for the rest of her life. That's what I hear. Could be, it's happened before." Brook looked directly at me. I stared back blankly. "It's likely. You know, I'll miss her. I really will. Katie's always been so nice to everyone. Always ready to help out whenever anyone's got a problem. Some guy wants a two-girl sandwich, there she is ready to work with you, under, on top, alongside, suck his cock, whatever, and she never even asks for her share of the fee. She's really so sweet! And I mean all the time she's that way!" Melanie glanced at me as if I wasn't there. Wherever I was. "Well, Brooke," she said. "Remember, that's how these transitioning girls get conditioned to be. The drugs make them seem simpleminded, eager to please. You know how it is -- our clients like girls who're naive, maybe even a little ditzy, but even so, dedicated to the basic pleasures, you know? Eager to do anything to make a customer feel good. Yes, Katie's sweet, I grant you that, she's a doll. She does sometimes remind me a little of Audrey that way. But Audrey really was a ditz, I don't think she was ever anything else, while our girl Katie here, now and then she's shown she's got a mind of her own. It pops up sometimes. For instance, months ago she insisted that she'd be the one to decide when she'd swallow a man and when he'd squirt into her somewhere else. Can you imagine? 'If I like him maybe he can cum into my tummy and maybe he can cum into my guts,' she told me. 'Maybe neither.' That's what she said, plain and simple and there was no arguing with her. I'm curious to see if that's the real her, now that she's off her meds. We'll soon know." She looked at me again. "Katie got fussy about that? That's odd. I swallow or squeeze guys off all the time. That's my job, after all, it's what I do! What's the big deal?" I was almost all the way awake now. This talk was as strange as any I'd ever heard. Yet Melanie and Brooke seemed vaguely familiar, and this kind of talk seemed reassuringly familiar, too, as if it were just more of the same breakfast gossip and chitchat I'd been hearing here every morning. No different from any of the talk on any of the other mornings. The many other mornings. But how many mornings? And where was 'here'? Had I really been here before this morning? I mean, Jesus, that's right! It's morning! It isn't last night any more, that's for sure! And this place is not where I was last night, that's even more sure! My mind began racing, and immediately began to feel addled! I'd better take this slow, I was thinking. This is not the Casino where I sat down last night to play the slots, to kill time while Russell and his buddies were hitting the blackjack tables and Barbara, my wife Barbara, she was upstairs in our room. She didn't care to gamble, she'd said -- she liked only sure things, so she'd stay and finish her novel. And that's what she did. I'd watched Russell play a few hands, then went off by myself to feed coins into the one-armed bandits. How much did I have to drink last night, for God's sake? I couldn't remember even the first one! I blinked and opened my eyes again, and this time I looked around. No, no way was this the hotel, or its Casino, or anywhere else I'd ever been! No way would I have forgotten this place! There in front of me were those same luscious babes, the ones called Melanie and Brooke right across the table in front of me and a few others around me. All variously finishing breakfast. All nearly naked, all stunning women, each with long full hair draped on bare shoulders, falling over their backs or their boobs. All of their boobs soft and generous, rising high above overstuffed brassieres. Except for that girl at the end who wore no brassiere at all. Her abundant breasts hung there, tipped with distended nipples, her shoulders naked, not covered even by a wrap or a dressing gown. She wore nothing! Everywhere I looked I saw smooth pink flesh and alluring dark eyes and red lips and fingertips. And large, full breasts barely contained in their satin cones. All of them belonging to girls utterly at ease with each other, as unashamed to be underdressed as women would be in a harem, or maybe as suite mates in a college dorm. How come? I mean, not even my wife exposes her body this casually, not even to me, especially not while she's eating! Certainly not at breakfast! There's always a bathrobe, or a wrapper, or a negligee, or a peignoir she once called one of those things. Even when coming out of the bathroom, a towel! Something! But these gorgeous women, these babes, they were wearing only different kinds and colors of bras -- smooth, silky, shiny, lace-edged, lace-covered, rosy, pale green, white, flesh-toned. Push-up, demi, full-coverage, I recognized the styles from when I'd been a kid and studied the brassiere ads. No robes or scarves, nothing to preserve even a vague pretense of modesty. Their naked arms and shoulders seemed all the more naked because of those colorful cups on their chests, all of them filled full and spilling over. Where was I? How did I get here? What was I doing in a place like this with women like this? No way did I dare close my eyes again! Nor did I want to! I did look away for a moment, embarrassed, and then I looked back at them, at Melanie and Brooke in particular. They were still there. There really was nowhere else to look! I finally noticed yet another girl standing at a kitchen counter with her back to us, apparently waiting for a toaster-oven to go 'ding.' She stood casually, weight on one leg, one hand resting on her out-thrust hip. Dark hair hung down her back almost as far as the band of her scant pale purple panties, the same shade as her pale purple bra strap. Was that what they call a thong, that thin waist band with a thread attached that rose out of the crack between her arched, fully rounded, bubble-shaped buns? Those luscious buttocks? From that I surmised that the others in bras were also wearing matching panties, or maybe also matching thongs. So when one of them stood up at least I wouldn't be facing a bare beaver, wondering what one says to a girl in a bra who's standing in front of you with a bare beaver. Except for that girl on the end -- was she as bare-pussied as she was bare-breasted? So here we were. In a place where everyone goes to breakfast wearing underwear and nothing else, and everyone feels there's nothing to hide. Why was I here? There was a faintly floral scent in the air. Body powder or cologne? The natural smell of all that perfumed hair and skin? Probably. I was now fully awake but still concerned that I was hallucinating. That I was imagining myself in the middle of one of those full color double spread brassiere ads! Maybe I'd fallen asleep at my desk while studying a Victoria's Secret or Playtex catalogue and playing with myself? Maybe I wasn't awake, I was only dreaming I was awake? I shook my head, which did feel peculiarly heavy, as if I hadn't yet raised it up. Yet I was sitting erect. I reached up to rub my eyes. Then looked yet again. No change. Yes, there they all were, same as before. Maybe six or seven gorgeous women with perfect faces, their hair impeccably groomed, even their fingernails, clad in nothing but colorful, form fitting undies, naked skin everywhere, lounging relaxed over their coffee and altogether unconcerned that there was a man in their midst and that the man was me! A few were now looking at me mildly, but saying nothing. The girl in a thong standing at the far end of the table had turned to watch me return to consciousness, and inspected me more intently than the others. I saw she too had magnificent boobs, with a deep cleft between them. My God were huge boobs the price of admission to this enclave? Did Barbara, my wife, did she know I'd somehow ended up here? The girl leaned slightly forward toward me and broadened her smile by way of encouragement. She was encouraging me. Or so it seemed. Was she coming on to me? "Hi, honey," she said. "You OK? You know where you are yet?" I tried to speak. At first nothing. Then, "You're all wearing brassieres." I said in an odd, husky squeal. Wow! How much had I drunk last night? Where was I really? Was this a live photo-shoot for those bra catalogues? A movie set? A sorority breakfast? No, these girls were all past college age, mid-late twenties or a touch more, though they all did seem to be as poised and at ease and as comfortable with each other as if this was just one more sorority. They were old friends and acquaintances sitting around in the kitchen finishing breakfast? Who'd believe this? Was this somebody's joke? Why was I here? How did I get here? The standing girl's perfect pink lips parted in an even wider smile. "Duh!" she replied gently, and smiled even more broadly. "Yes, we're all wearing brassieres. That's what girls wear. You too, honey! You think we should all go around sagging?" I stared back at her, unable to reply. My tongue was too heavy. "You too, honey," she repeated. She seemed to be enjoying my confusion. She stared at me gently but steadily, as if she'd just told me something I should know, something important, and was waiting for me to understand it and reply to her. Me too? I glanced down at my chest. Sure enough, I was also wearing a brassiere! Mine was a pale salmon shade covered in lace as it curved down and around to hold up my ... they were ... no avoiding it, my generous ... breasts. My God, I had huge breasts jutting from my ...! Bursting out from my bra's confines. Is that what they were? I clutched at them! Soft breasts! More than generous -- they were mountainous! I stared into the deep, dark cleft just under my nose. I had breasts! Big boobs barely held up by a salmon-colored, lacy bra. My God! "We all need bras for support when we're not being naked for some other reason," she added when she saw no hint of understanding in my face. "All of us! I love yours, Katie. When someone's as well-endowed as you are, the strength of an underwire is practically essential ...." But I no longer heard her. A streak of fright shot through me and I half rose from my chair. They rose with me! "Ahhhhhh!" I cried out in a high-pitched scream, my heart suddenly pounding. Oh, my God, what is this, are these things real? I reached for them with both hands and hefted them. They were me! I felt my hands lift them! They were real! And heavy? "Ohhhhhhhhhh!" I sounded out yet again, this time as a wail. I had to be asleep! I tried to stand! Those things really were heavy! They bobbled. I sat down again, still holding them, one on each hand. The standing girl in pale purple turned to address the other women. "For God's sake, you people," she said in a disgusted tone. "Stop playing games with Katie! That's mean! Can't you see she's terrified?" Then she said to me in a commanding tone, "Just sit back down, honey. Sit!" That's what I was doing. So that's what I did. "Good girl!" she said reflexively, as if I were a pet dog, and smiled to herself. Then looked faintly apologetic. "It's all right, honey," she continued. "You're fine. Rest easy. You've been with us a long time now, months and months. You just haven't known it, that's all. Your name is 'Katie' now, whatever it might have been somewhere else long ago. Now that you're really with us, you'll soon understand everything else you need to know. Soon enough!" She nodded, to reassure me she spoke the truth. "Don't call her a good girl, Gina," the girl reading a novel at the other end of the table commented, not bothering to look up. "She may be good but she isn't a girl." That girl had thick, brown hair that framed her face and divided to tumble down her back and over breasts that were aimed like missile warheads in their satin casings. "She's still got her penis. So she's really a 'girlyboy,' that's what Mrs. Eliot calls crossovers. That's what he is, I mean. A she male. He's still got boy bits." She sighed, reached out, and began spreading jam on her toast. "Not that they're much use to her any more." Melanie spoke up. "Oh, her cock works just fine when the right girl offers the right kind of opening. We've all tested it, remember? Anyhow, Mrs. Eliot told us not to call any of our crossover girls 'shales'! It isn't polite! She said we should treat Katie the same as before, same as any of us, 'cause that's what she is! The same way we treat each other!" This seemed to amuse the dark haired stark nude at the end of the table. "You mean bitch about her all day the way we do with each other?" She put down her coffee cup. "Strictly speaking, she won't be one of us till she's got a cunt like the one they gave Audrey," she stated firmly. "Or the ones we were born with." "What she's got works well enough," Melanie said. "Pole in front, hole in back. Those gay guys who used them last night had no complaints! Neither do any of the women. Katie gives as good as she gets." "She'll be one of us when she's fucking her fair share," the nude truculently replied. There was a cynical, slightly resentful edge to her voice. "When she's earning five big ones a night every night of every week, give or take, same as the rest of us." "Oh, Lara, you're such a grump!" Melanie said. "Don't you know? She's done better than five a night for months! Practically since her conditioning ended, her conversion, whatever they call it, since they put her in with us. She's brought in way more than her costs I hear. That's why Mrs. Eliot says it's finally time for Katie to wake up and smell the coffee and move on -- everything's been paid up in full and more, everyone's been paid off, and what I hear is, her people want her back. I don't know about you, but I'll miss her." She looked at me, concerned. "Are you feeling better now, honey?" she asked me. "Do you remember me? I'm Melanie." I didn't know what to say. The toaster went "Ping!" "Here's more toast ready!" said the standing girl in the pale purple bra and thong with the perfect ass. "I'll take one, Gina, if it isn't too much trouble," a girl to my right said. Gina took down a plate and gave her a piece of toast, then passed another one over to me. I stared at it and then at her, wide-eyed. My heart was still racing! I mean, I was a man with breasts! A monster! Yet no one seemed to see anything wrong. Gina's own huge breasts leaned over the table. "Spread some jam on that toast real thick, Katie. Now that you're off your meds you'll want lots of sugar to help you get back to normal. Whatever's normal for you now." She smiled. Reassuringly? "Yes, that's mostly carbs and calories, but you could do with a bigger tush if that's where your carbs and calories happen to settle." She waggled her own glorious buttocks to prove it. Katie? They were all calling me Katie? That wasn't my name! Close, but my name is Cody. Cody Wilmott. I'm Cody Wilmott. And I'm on an all-expenses paid vacation. I'm on a resort town on a trip my wife Barbara won in some beauty shop raffle. When we arrived we ran into Russell. And his friends. So I went with them to the Hotel Casino. How did I get here? And what about these things on my chest? I shook my head to clear it. My God, my hair was as long as theirs! I lifted my hands to push it off my face and saw my long scarlet fingernails. They also looked like a girl's! They were a girl's! Gina turned to the other girls and picked up their argument. "Katie's one of us and that's that! Just look at her. We all have our specialties and she has hers, that's all. She's a girlyboy and that's her specialty, like Melanie says. A chick with a dick, a girl with a little something extra. All set and accustomed, I guess it's been a year now, so it might as well have been a lifetime. You all know she loves her work and she's good at it, that she has lots of steadies who keep coming back and that's the proof. Men and women both. This last week for her will be different only one way. She'll do her job as usual, same way she's always done it. But now for the first time she'll know she's doing it. Maybe she'll really put her mind to it, her own mind, and really enjoy it. Maybe her reflexes will take over and she'll do it despite herself! That's the only difference!" She tossed her head and turned away again to put jam on an English muffin, then emphatically, bit into it. Brooke mock-pouted. "She's aware of everything now? That's too bad. I preferred her as a bimbo. I mean, when was mindless, I'd ask her to do something for me, anything, and then she'd do it, for hours if I didn't tell her to stop. I mean, anything! It was so delicious!" She wriggled in her seat, remembering. Gina shot a look at Brooke. "I'm sure whatever anyone asks, she'll be as good at it as she ever was," she continued. "Everyone loves her. Johns and Janes, both kinds of clients, because she's got what they both want. She's more popular than our chief gay guy Nelson, and you know how all of our gay clients dote on Nelson, how they can't seem to get enough of him. Well, months ago Katie and Nelson made up a kind of a team. Nelson would take on the supposed tough guys who come here, the leather and muscle men, and in a few hours he'd reduce them to fairy dust, I mean he'd turn them into real mincing femmy ponces. Then Katie would take them on and remind them again what girls are for, especially girls who are boys, and make them feel like real men again. Then they'd go home to their partners or boyfriends or wives or whoever it is they live with, and they'd feel really proud of what they've done and can do. That they'd learned to love swinging both ways. That's why they always come back for more." "Sometimes their wives send them here to learn how to really please a woman," Melissa said. "Katie's taught lots of guys how to send someone over the moon. Also how wives can send husbands into orbit, or whoever they're sleeping with. Whatever's wanted." She and Gina both nodded at me appreciatively, as if they were both reassuring me of something. I could only stare back. What they were saying about this 'Katie' sounded vaguely familiar, not at all disturbing. It was all of it complimentary. Yet strange. "You know," Gina said. "It's funny. Remember how Katie once turned a guy bisexual in only one night, Max I think his name was? Remember him? No? Well, a friend of his told me just yesterday that Max was talking in his sleep and his wife heard him ask a 'Katie' to suck his dick. She figured out that this 'Katie' was a whore, a piece of ass he'd had on the side, no threat to her marriage but good for intimidating him. Then she heard him ask Katie to fuck his ass 'again' and cum inside him 'again.' Well, that was news! In the end she decided to act furious, so for the sake of peace Max confessed everything. Then what else could he do to calm her down? He went out and bought her an expensive necklace, a peace offering, that was a lot cheaper than a divorce. She accepted it, and to show there was no resentment she went out and bought a strap on to use on him, and also a dildo he can use on himself when she's busy with a boy friend and won't be home till late. Max still comes here now and then for a refresher round with Katie." I remembered something vague. The name 'Max' brought to my mind an eager little man and a sweet feeling in my cock and my ass both. Yes, we'd fucked each other. 'Katie' was seeming more familiar to me now too. Melissa agreed. "With Katie any man can have it both ways. No need to choose. Women who don't know their men are bisexual think Katie's only a cunt where their philandering husbands wet their dicks, nothing more, nothing to worry about. They don't dream that Katie's also a fat prick sliding in and out of their husbands' assholes, and that their men love it and keep coming back here for more. Then there are the women who come here for the same thing, because Katie's a woman herself and knows how to make them feel marvelous. She gets proposals of marriage from both sexes, did you know that? Mrs. Eliot's always explaining to her clients that she's already married and that her wife wouldn't want her to marry anyone else. And that anyhow, she's only on loan here -- she still belongs top her wife." "She's bent some strictly straight guys, gotten them ready for Nelson to work with," Gina added. "You know how Nelson explains it? 'When Katie's dick gets in a crack, Not one of her lovers ever goes back.' Lesbians love her too. You know that Red Hat Club that comes here sometimes, those older women who do a Girls' Night to get fucked every month or so, their men think they're going to see a show or something? It's become a routine. Katie does a slow dance for them -- she's as seductive as anyone now that she has those wide hips -- and then she takes them into her room one by one and ... well, you know. They know too, or if they don't they sure find out! A few of the married ones then send their husbands here to learn how to do whatever it is Katie does, so Katie does it to their husbands and they get to love it too. So they both keep coming back on their own. Some of them think she's a woman who's using a pre-heated strap-on dildo of some kind. Though why anyone would want a dildo that goes soft now and then baffles me." "Lezzies do get pretty excited about her," Brooke said. "No need to wonder why straight women too -- I mean, hot is hot! Only two weeks ago Penny Garrison, you remember, the auto industry widow? She thought that once she paid her money she was entitled to ride Katie's cock all night. She sure did try! We had to unhook her forcibly and carry her out to a taxi and send her away still wriggling! I mean, Katie had other women and other men standing outside her door waiting their turn!" Melanie nodded. "I saw them, I thought there'd been a fire drill or something." Gina took a last sip of coffee. "People do find Katie attractive," she said. "But even when she's just lying around the lounge being voluptuous, hanging out, word gets around. Lots of customers look at her and decide to stay for a second go round, if not with Katie then with one of the rest of us. We all owe her. We will miss her!" She looked down at me and patted my shoulder reassuringly. My naked shoulder, like theirs, my bra strap tugging on it, like theirs, supporting heavy boobs like theirs. I was one of them. One of the girls. No one seemed to doubt it. Yet even if I was this Katie they were talking about, I recalled little of what they described. I felt like an impostor. Yet, also, I felt comforted. They respected me for being good at my job, whatever that was. Sex work? It certainly sounded like sex work! Was this place a brothel? Gina then spoke directly to me. "You'll be fine, babe," she said. "You still have those embarrassing things dangling below, but for you that's an advantage. And they're still in working condition -- they still make and squirt prime white stuff your customers can feel proud to carry away in whatever their openings. Men or women, they treat your semen like trophies!" She grinned to herself, as if recalling something. Then, "So Katie, I know this can be confusing. Just finish your breakfast and we'll talk and pretty soon I'll take you in to see Mrs. Eliot, and she'll explain everything that's been happening to you and what's in store for you. And answer your questions. When you see yourself in a mirror I'm sure you'll have a question or two you'll want to ask her." She glanced away mischievously, stifling a smile, then back at me. "I'm Gina, by the way. The head whore here. Mrs. Eliot likes to call us 'Personal Service Consultants,' PSC's, that's pronounced 'pussies.' But being a pussy doesn't change what we do, only the fees." I'd been sitting still, listening quietly while my head was returning to a semblance of its old familiar self. Until I could grasp what was going on. This was someone's idea of a joke? I now looked directly at Gina. I need to take charge of this ... situation somehow, I was thinking. Find out what's happening and what I can do about it. But with this ... these ... these things on my chest? I looked down at them and then hefted them, one in each hand. They were real all right, and heavy, I needed that bra to help me carry them. And my fingernails were red, and long! Women's fingernails! "I'm sorry," I started to say. "I appreciate what you're ... " and then I stopped short. My hand flew to my mouth. Was that my voice, that high, squeezed, little girl falsetto? "I've ... ooooh, my voice is so different!" She looked amused. "Is it really? It sounds the same to me, same as for months. Really cute, sweetie. I guess you've been so zonked you haven't listened to yourself. A sweet bimbo sound was what was your sponsor wanted, so that's what you've got. Men love fucking big girls who sound like little girls. A few changes in the shape of your glottis when your vocal cords were being tied off and your jaw was being reshaped, then a bit of training with a voice coach, and now it's perfect! Simple and sweet and clear and innocent! It did take over a month for the fog in your throat to clear up, but the doc was sure you'd be fine and he was right. "You changed my voice?" The answer was obvious in the high pitched squeal with which my question ended. I sounded like an excited six year old asking for a cookie. "Not me, honey. The medical people. That was one of your surgical enhancements. One of many. Really, it was a favor to you after everything else they'd already done! Imagine a sweet young dollface like you who sounds like a linebacker gargling gravel. You'd be a freak! But now your voice matches your face perfectly, it's just darling, the voice of a child who hopes some day she'll grow up to be a big girl and then discovers she already has!". I was still thinking slowly, but even so I'd about decided where I was. Some kind of whore house certainly. A high class bordello offering special services to men, women, and mixed and matched men and women, no doubt for high class fees. One such service, apparently, was feminizing men and making them into whores when paid to do so. This had been done to 'Audrey' and also to me. And how many others? I'd been physically altered, then conditioned, made into a whore in body and soul over a considerable period of time. A year she'd said? Unawares, I'd been trained to give pleasure as a woman or a man to men or to women. And apparently I'd been very good at it. It would appear I've been fucking and sucking a lot of people of both sexes, and they me. Though I now had no memory of any of it. I didn't even know how I felt about it. The other girls took it all in stride. They'd seen it before. I'd been a man and now I was a 'girlyboy' as Melanie said, that's all. Not the first man turned girl to live and work with them, and probably not the last. I'd been given one of the special services the place offered to people who wanted them and could pay for them. I was a cock with boobs and a cunt. No, no cunt, but an opening further back that could function as one. And had done so. I wriggled my bottom experimentally. Sure enough, my anus felt different, stretched out maybe, but ... well, reassuring, comfy. It seemed well-adapted for -- yes, fucking. I'd been fucked there many times, I could sense it. My conversion may have been expensive, but apparently my ass had reimbursed the costs. And it had felt good. I smiled at Gina and then concentrated on spreading marmalade on my toast. I had to think this thing through carefully. How long had I been out of action? Or rather, how long had I been engaging in this kind of action? And why? Why me? What was this? How come? Arranged how? By whom? Whorehouses provide all kinds of sex-related services for money, but always for money up front. Whoever arranged these alterations of my body and my mind had also arranged for the house to use my services until they were fully repaid for their trouble. What for? Was I now a capitalized business investment? Did they ask whoever runs this place to share the investment against a expected future return for both of them? Did they plan to rent me out, convert me into a call-girl, a fully amortized income-producing property? If so, I knew I'd have a say in it for sure! So what the hell was this? Why did anyone do this to me? I'm a lawyer, or anyhow I was one until unawares I took on this older profession -- the old joke has always been that they're the same profession, though I'm sure I gave a lot less satisfaction as a lawyer. Anyhow, I'm accustomed to getting to the point quickly, so I began to concentrate. Follow the money. Who was most advantaged by me turning into a whore and turning tricks? The whorehouse surely -- if they'd advanced the costs of my conversion, they'd paid themselves back with my earnings, with interest. But converting men into women and women into whores seems to be only one of the services they provide, preliminary and incidental to the main source of their income, which is providing sex to 'clients.' They do it for people who want to be converted, apparently, as well as people who want someone else to be converted. But it would work only if kept confidential, so they'd do it only for clients who could be trusted to keep it confidential. Who could these clients be in my case? Who was advantaged? It had to be some one person or group of people who wanted me out of the way. To change a person's identity is a preferred way to get him out of the way, short of killing him. To change his gender, even better. To make him a whore, better still, because then he could be useful, self-supporting even if he found his new profession distasteful. In this case, whoever had done this to me knew that if I was ever liberated, or if I ever escaped, I'd be reluctant to expose exactly what had happened. I'd feel too ashamed. Moreover, if I did try to blow the whistle, who'd believe me? I'm now a transvestite with breasts, a whore, a scum bag for hire, a whore house PSC, a 'pussy'. How could I claim I was once a respectable member of the legal community? Especially when I have no memory of the time spent here. Spent how? Apparently whoring, servicing men and women and gays and straights, whoever came my way. No way would anyone believe me! I'd end up in jail for prostitution, or soliciting, or failing to provide a duly appointed officer an adequate bribe. Or for something else. Lunacy, if not chicanery. Did it really happen? Yes. The girls here had seen it, for them it was just one more of those things that happen, like a sunny day or a broken fingernail. Should I believe them? Yes. Just look at these boobs! I couldn't help but look at them -- they filled my lower peripheral vision no matter where I looked. I couldn't see my crotch or my feet -- they blocked the view! Think harder! Who might be advantaged by my ... transformation, my absence from my usual haunts, my home and office and so on? Well, there's Barbara, my wife. Our marriage was going none too well when I last saw her. She'd accumulated and displayed all sorts of discontents I'd thought we could straighten out when I finally got less busy. But she knew nothing of whore houses, certainly nothing of this house's special medical services, the sex reversals. Truth be told, she'd never been an especially sexual person at all, not with me nor with the guys she'd gone with before me, before she agreed finally to marry me. Moreover, she was an equal partner in our law firm -- she had nothing to gain from getting me out of the way, removing my income-generating capabilities. I kept the books, and I knew even if she didn't that I billed many more hours, that I brought in much more money than she did! If she'd put me here to be rid of me she'd lost out, at least financially. All right then, were there any opposing litigants who'd be advantaged by putting me out of the way? None I knew of -- I'd need to check, but I could think of none. Our practice didn't include life and death decisions, not for corporations nor individuals. Just petty lawsuits and contracts. The usual legal stuff, mostly uncontested. That left my old buddy Russell, the last person to see me as I once was, if I remembered right. So he'd be the first person for me to look up when I got out of here. I'd have to move on him carefully, because he's no fool, and he's a gambler -- he doesn't mind taking chances. As I thought more about it, I saw how he could easily have instigated this whole thing. But why? To get me out of the way so he could make moves on Barb? Yes, he's always admired Barb, and he'd made no secret of that, not even from me. Then to cheat her of whatever money she could gain from my absence? That too. Yes, Russell was my suspect number one. But as of when? "Gina," I said in my piping little voice. "If you don't mind saying, how long have I been here?" She looked at me, evaluating something. "Just about a year," she said casually. "A half-year in the medical wing becoming a girl, and the rest of the time in this building, working with us. Enjoying it I must say, learning your new skills and practicing them. You're now as good at it as any of us, utterly devoted to whatever the cock or cunt you happen to be servicing." "I see," I said, though I didn't at all. "It's instinctive," Gina replied, sensing my uncertainty. "You'll see. When the moment comes, you'll always know what to do. Finished with your breakfast? Come along then, Mrs. Eliot told me she wants to see you when you finally come fully to yourself. You'll need to put on a dress first though -- she doesn't like us showing up in her offices in our work clothes, our bras and panties and heels. She won't even accept a cover like a negligee or peignoir. Business is business and proper is proper, that's what she believes. So we'll stop by your room for a suitable clothing. We can talk along the way." I stood up and looked down and saw for the first time that like Gina I was indeed wearing panties matched to my bra. Also salmon in shade, also lace trimmed. Moreover, I saw that I had a girl's wide hips and narrow waist, and a quick hand-check confirmed that I had a girl's well-rounded buns too! My God! Even if my huge boobs were removed my figure would remain female and nothing but! But unlike the other girls I had a bulge in my crotch. Again I checked -- a cock and balls, well-contained by tight panties but apparently unaltered. And from what they'd said, functioning! Thank God! That may be the only part of me they haven't altered! "See ya later, honey," Melanie said, wiggling her fingers cheerily. The others also looked up brightly at me as I left, nodding their farewells and then returning to their own conversations and thoughts. They'd all long ago accepted me as one of them, though I myself hadn't known it. Not as a respectable lawyer but a whore, and very good one too. A fellow worker and colleague, at times a friend. I was a stranger to myself, but not to them. I sighed, realizing they were more right than I was. ii. "First we'll stop at your room so you can change. I don't suppose you remember where that is?" Gina smiled indulgently. "No matter, just follow me." As we left the breakfast room we entered a wide, generous hallway, not at all like the hotel corridor I somehow expected. More like the capacious passageways of a palace. This was a huge, luxurious mansion! I felt odd to be walking through a strange house in only my bra and panties -- and that thought itself felt odd, that they were MY bra and panties. Gina was dressed the same way but seemed unconcerned -- apparently bras and panties were the uniform of the day. My legs looked long as well as smooth, and my calves were subtly curved, and I saw bright red toenails peeking out from the tips of my shoes. The effect was incredibly seductive. I felt myself beginning to harden, and decided to distract myself by asking Gina a question. Any question. "How large is this place?" I inquired. "When you're dressed, I'll give you the grand tour if you like. The whole compound -- we call it 'the Estate' -- was once a luxury resort. It's quite a few acres, with a pool, tennis, a golf course, a salon, just about everything anyone with money might want when they're in the mood to relax. Including sexual companionship -- that's us, and the primary reason people come here. This is the main mansion, the largest of them, but there are other buildings like this one on the property -- a medical facility, a residence for staff and management, and another building we call the Stud Farm -- that's where the male Personal Service Consultants live and work. Like us they're experts in pleasing people sexually, but their people are those who prefer sex with men. We're the PSC 'pussies' and they're the PSC 'pissers.'" "Why wasn't I put in with the male PSCs?" I asked. I couldn't bring myself to call them 'pissers'. A closed-mouth smile crossed her face. "Honey, look at you! You've been shaped and ... ahhh ... re-educated to be a girl. Pretty is what was wanted for you, and pretty you are. And just wait till you see how your reflexes kick in the next time there's a man or a woman lying naked next to you, maybe pushing a finger in and out of your bum. How you'll go wild the way any girl would, and even orgasm like a girl. Anyhow, even as a man you'd never have qualified for the Stud Farm. You'd have had to be handsome and horny all the time, with an outsized cock that's ready, willing and able to satisfy anyone or any thing at any time. Some men are born like that. Not many. And no surgeon can graft a big cock onto someone with a weenie, not one that works, not yet anyhow. The guys who work here can make an eighty year old grandmother feel like a teenage slut on prom night, and then a few hours later outlast a nymphomaniac. Could you even at your best?" "No." I had to admit it. When I was younger I could go and then go again. Now I needed time to recover. And while my penis wasn't smaller than most, it wasn't larger either. A woman taking a vacation from her husband with me wouldn't find she'd travelled very far. "But as a girl? You're gorgeous! You can fuck all night and love it! Once you became a girlyboy there was no way could you live with them. Can you imagine what your life would be like if you lived with those guys? They'd be pumping cum into your guts all day long, with no time allowed for the stuff to leak out again." Gina seemed sensible and inclined to be friendly. I wondered how far I could trust her. "Has your name always been Gina?" I asked. That is, was she too once a man? It was obvious from the crease in the tight panties that disappeared between her legs that she was not a man now. There was a generous camel toe. She knew what I was really asking and smiled at me. "Yes, honey, it happens I'm really Gina and I always have been. From birth, not just here. I love fucking girl style, and I've been doing it ever since I found out that boys like to do with girls what girls like to do with boys, and I'm one of the best." Then she paused, intent to make a point. She put both hands on my shoulders. "But you need to be clear about something, honey. You are not a man and you will never will be a man again. You are Katie now, though a Katie with balls and a cock, and given what they've done to you you'll be a Katie forever. So give up on imagining you're a guy. You'll be much better off, you'll feel much better about yourself, if you can start imagining that you've always been Katie. You see your body? Distinctly a girl's, as sultry and provocative a girl's body as a girl's body can get, because that's what the doctor ordered. And you'll never have another. So get used to it." I stared at her, struggling to find a flaw in what she was saying. Nothing came. She saw, and continued. "I hear you once had a guy's name with a similar sound. Oh yes, 'Cody,' wasn't it? Well, Think of Cody as passing phase in your life, no more than that. A dream. He's gone." She gazed at my large breasts, then directly into my eyes. "You've way outgrown him, honey. And believe me, you're way better off!" She grinned. "You've already got what most men want, and any time you want it most men will give you what most women want." I still had lots of questions. I used to cross-examine, so I tried for "yes" or "no" answers, the kind that are least ambiguous and least disturbing. Beginning with questions to which I knew the answers. Gina, as it turned out, was a friendly witness, and didn't hesitate to elaborate on her answers. "This is a whore house I'm in?" Gina winced. "Please," she said. "Not a house, a resort for people who can afford it. As I told you this building is the main mansion and there are three others. Some of the people who live and work here don't see each other for weeks at a time. You were in the medical building for months and months before they put you in here with us and you started earning your keep, and none of us even knew." "Earning my keep by whoring." Now she looked severe. "Katie, if you aren't going to be nice, I'm not going to talk to you at all. And you'll find that Mrs. Eliot isn't very good at explaining anything she doesn't want you to know. No, not by whoring. By providing personal services to our clients, to men and to women, personal services including sexual services. By making them feel good. By giving pleasure to people who appreciate our skill and our dedication to their well-being, who also appreciate our confidentiality. We are the best. You are too -- you're so well-trained you probably aren't even aware of the things you'll do when aroused." I didn't think so, and said as much. She smiled at me, then continued, amused, "Well, sweetie, for example, do you know that right now you're walking with a very tantalizing sway to your hips? Any man watching your rear end undulate couldn't help but come in his pants. And look how daintily you're carrying your hands? If you were a man you'd be instantly thought effeminate, a faggot, but as a girl you're delightful, adorable. The way you hold yourself, the way you move, men can't wait to sink themselves into you. And women feel good when you sink your cock into them because despite that very cock they can't help but think you're no threat or challenge but instead, one of them, as smooth and curved but with a marvelous heated dildo as an added attraction. A super-special girl! Ahh, here we are. Your room." She opened a door and we entered a padded boudoir, salmon-colored like my undies, the walls hung with satin. In the middle of the room was a huge bed on a platform backed by an outsized headboard with carved cupids blowing trumpets. The place reeked of elaborated, sexy femininity. Also of heavy perfume. "Do those trumpets sound a fanfare whenever anyone climaxes?" I asked, in order to show that I wasn't impressed, though in fact I was. I then added, because I had to confess it, "This is way over the top." "No, the trumpets don't sound. Because given what you do to people in here, no one would ever get any sleep. Take a client into this lair and they're overwhelmed before they begin. Man or woman, they turn to jelly and their inhibitions evaporate, and when they lie down on that bed they're eager to be spread or eaten or sucked or fucked, whatever you have in mind. You have no idea how many hours of bliss you yourself have enjoyed on that bed. Now, over there 's your vanity and a mirror -- sit down and fix your make-up while I pick out an appropriate dress for you." I did as directed, sat down, and for the first time stared into a mirror. My God! She was right! There was no Cody anywhere in what I saw! I saw a woman who was very much a woman, adorable, with wide, deep-shadowed eyes that were innocent but with a hint of mischief in them. With a delectably small chin, and a delicately up-tilted nose, and straight long hair falling to brush her shoulders. Her expression looked childish, almost helpless. Yet, the way I held my head seemed challenging. 'Try me' I seemed to be saying. 'Come hither if you're man enough.' Sultry. Yet also perky, as if I enjoyed everything life and wanted to share the fun with others. "That's right," Gina said, amused to see me tilt my chin higher to magnify the effect. "You're a little girl domme. Incredibly seductive. Men come crawling toward you begging to suck your pussy, and then feel fortunate when instead you allow them to suck your cock." My mirrored reflection also revealed that my pale pink lipstick was the long lasting kind, undamaged by breakfast, those two slices of toast and marmalade and that cup of coffee. My lips were as neat as they should be. Maybe coat them, give them a uniform satin look? Since I was already seated I picked up a pale shade of lipstick, close to the one I had on, and deftly gave my mouth a few swift swipes. Now I did look perfect, I saw with satisfaction as I compressed my lips. Thank goodness my eye makeup -- pale eye liner and shadow with just a touch of mascara -- was permanent and wouldn't smudge. I'd have to add to it some evenings, but there was no need to do so now. Now how did I know that? How come I knew that? "See?" Gina asked quietly. "As I said, you're beautifully trained, and it's now all instinctual. You can't remember ever touching a lipstick in your life, I bet, but pick one up and you can work magic with only two or three strokes. To you a lipstick is a fairy wand. And I could tell by the way you stared into your eyes that you know they need no attention. We all use long-lasting make-up, stains and tattoos that never come off. We don't want to smudge our customers, leave clues on their cheeks or cocks for their wives to discover." She went to a closet and took down a pale orange shift with a scoop neckline, not too short, the hem half-way down my thigh. Youthful and cheerful. "Here, this sort of matches your undies, and it'll go well with your heels." Heels? I looked down, amazed to see that the whole time I'd been wearing heels. Incredibly high heels! Gina looked amused. "You hadn't noticed your shoes, hon? Just discovered you're wearing them? Five inch open toe stilettos? Sexy? Irresistible? You can see for yourself that from your toes on up you're ... well, elegant. Your insteps curve so far backward they seem to be having orgasms. But that's not my point. Can you guess what my point is?" "No," I said. "What's your point?" "Have you noticed how you walk?" I stopped short, walked toward her, turned to walk toward a full length mirror on the back of a closet door, and then came toward her again. "What about how I'm walking?" "You are teetering on tippy toes atop stilts strapped to your feet, and yet doing it with a ballet dancer's grace. That takes years to learn, and even so most women can't tolerate heels as high as yours. Yet you're doing it without a thought or a glance. It's second nature to you. Katie may have been in a trance when she walked in them from her room to our breakfast area, but Cody's awake now, and even so, he never noticed." I looked down. She was right. I hadn't noticed. My high, high heels required extraordinary balance and trained ankles, yet I was walking in them as comfortably as if they were carpet slippers. "If your bottom wiggles seductively, and your legs navigate easily in those kinds of shoes, and you aren't even trying, imagine how skillfully your lips and tongue will do their job when they're called on to suck a dick. Or how gracefully you bend to open your asshole to that dick, then settle onto it, then squirm until the poor man you're bringing off can't stop cumming into your guts. Or how easily your tongue finds and lifts the hood around a woman's clit, and then oh so delicately touches that little nubbin, and then wraps around it and ... oh, what that's like! Really, Katie, you're so very good at so many things now. You've done them so often and so well during the past months you can't not do them well. And you really do love cock -- that's why guys line up to get into your room and look dazed when they leave." She looked around. "Let me prove it, just a moment," she said, disappearing into my closet again. "Here," she said as she emerged with her hand held out. "Seen one of these before?" She was holding out a perfect replica of a penis, a jelly dildo, erect but not too large, no way challenging or threatening. Rather, it seemed inviting, reassuring. Familiar. I leaned toward it. It was smooth, luminous, translucent, a beautiful replica, its surface taut and rippling with folds of skin and veins as if it were a real penis. My tummy felt a peculiar anticipation of something, a yearning. My lips pursed as I leaned further forward. Gina laughed and hid it behind her back. I looked up at her, disappointed. Yes, up, I was on my knees! I'd gone to my knees to ... to take it into my mouth! To suck on it? Yes, I'd wanted to lick it, suck on it. Desperately! "See, honey?" she said gently as she helped me back to my feet. "A man sees a dildo like this as an amusing curiosity. But a girl has a special feeling about it. Leave you alone in a room with a cute guy and you'd have no problem at all figuring out how to pass the time. He'd be the one with the problem -- you can be insatiable, you know that? You once nearly fucked a college boy to death, a fraternity make-out king at that. When we finally got him so he could stand up by himself he had to go straight home, and I hear that since then he's found religion and hasn't gone near girls. Boys yes, but not girls." I tried to calm myself, leaning back against the wall as if relaxed. "For how long have I been like this?" I asked her. "When did I start giving ...personal services? "How long have you been such a sex pot? From the first day they brought you here to join us. Six months ago, maybe? You were pretty well recovered from surgery by then, your voice and face and figure and so on, and the hormones they'd been shooting into you had given you the complexion of a porn star. You were a beautiful, wide-eyed, innocent Barbie doll. The first month you were here Zena helped you adjust, she's an expert in hypnogogic conditioning. She remade your mind and your instincts and desires the way the doctors remade your body. Taught you all the basics -- make-up and skin care, dressing, movement, posture, chit chat, teasing, flirting, domming, subbing, everything. How to walk with your rear end undulating like a snake in heat. You know. "No, I don't know." I was beginning to think I didn't want to know. Gina paused, then grinned. "When you were still a man, or you thought you were, did you ever pose the way you are now, leaning back against a wall with your hands supposedly trapped behind your butt, your chest and pelvis thrust way forward as if daring someone to come at you and shove something into you? Supposedly helpless? The way you are this moment while you listen to me? That's how we tend to stand when we're negotiating a price with a guy. Relaxed yet eager. They can't resist." I straightened myself at once, and stood erect. Gina continued. "It's an irresistible pose. Give your torso or hips the faintest wiggle when you're like that and men can't wait to drop their pants. Do you think that's accidental? Let's go. It's getting to be time for your appointment." We started down another corridor. The dress I now wore felt extremely comfortable, moving over my body as my body moved. I liked it. Why should anyone ever want to constrain a crotch in pants? I felt affectionate toward my breasts -- they were me, soft, and they filled out my dress so nicely. So suggestively. How could anyone prefer a flat, hard, bare chest? Well, kissing a flat, hard chest might be fine, but having one? More hypno-conditioning? Like wanting to lick and suck that dildo, feel it swell in my mouth. Swallow its juices? Was that also conditioning? "This Zena taught me how to give blow jobs?" I asked as we moved through the corridors. "No, that was on-the-job training with actual clients, honey. Learn by doing. It seems you have a natural talent. Mrs. Eliot paired you with one of us whenever a client asked to play lucky Pierre. You'd watch and first you'd do whatever we did. Then you'd put your imagination and ingenuity into it and do more than that. You learned incredibly fast. Show you just once how men like their balls licked and in no time you'd have them so ecstatic they'd be licking your balls. You're tireless, Katie! You can lick dripped honey or whipped cream off men or women all day, or do the butterfly flutter on them, or the figure eight with one finger in their anus, or rim them, or straddle them -- you can go on till dawn! You wear out every man you come near!" "I see," I said. I had no memory of any of this. "And am I still ...ahhh, learning?" "No, babe, two months ago you were fully certified as a pussy, a fully qualified Personal Service Consultant." "You mean an accomplished whore, don't you." Gina glanced at me, hurt. "You still feel resentful, don't you! No. sweetheart, I don't mean that. You need to understand, we aren't ashamed to be 'whores' or 'prostitutes,' people who provide sex for money. But others are, so we don't use that terminology. It's quite hypocritical, really. Everyone on the face of the earth earns their living by providing some kind of service other people want, meeting other people's needs and desires, renting out whatever talents and skills or fingers and bodies they've got. How is a surgeon performing open heart surgery different from a woman performing a blow job? One takes longer to learn, maybe. But both are life-enhancing. Whores are professionals committed to improving the lives of those who come to them for help. So why discriminate? Some people are perverts. They think physical pleasure is bad, so if they hire people to provide them with physical pleasure they feel ashamed. Well, they should be ashamed to feel ashamed!" I grinned. Gina grinned back, aware she'd said something profound but also silly. "Katie, you have your regular clients and so have I. Yours are mostly gay men but quite a few are straight, and some of them are women who come here for the Stud Farm and then find they prefer a chick with a dick. You've had so many clients and brought in so many fees that you've long since repaid your conversion costs -- there may even be a surplus. I suspect that's why Mrs. Eliot agreed to let you rejoin your old self and return to your sponsors. You're fully trained as contracted, and the Estate employs girls, it doesn't exploit them. There's such a thing as common decency, after all! Ah, here we are." She turned into a corridor and stopped. I just stood there. "Contracted?" I asked. Was I getting to the heart of this predicament? "Sponsors? Contracted with who?" She turned back toward me. "Katie baby," she said with deep sympathy. "I haven't seen your paperwork. You want to thank someone? It could be anyone! Maybe a business partner who wanted you out of the way? Friends, because you lost a bet or they were playing a practical joke and didn't know these procedures are irreversible? Wives, to neutralize a husband if he's a tyrant, or make him more understanding of women and their needs? Husbands, to improve a wife's sexual responsiveness? That's not usually good idea, because when a wife returns from here she's pretty adventurous, likely to find her husband boring. Mothers sometimes send grown children here to learn to support themselves, maybe to make themselves eligible for more desirable marriages. Don't you know who sent you here?" "I didn't know I was sent. I knew nothing at all until a little while ago at breakfast." This really seemed to amuse her. "Some months ago I heard a rumor that you'd volunteered to come here, that you wanted this change so you'd be more acceptable to your wife and her boyfriend. Better able to service them so they'd be more willing to keep you on." "Me? My wife? Her boyfriend? That's not possible! She has no boyfriend!" "Here we are," Gina said, ignoring my last outburst. "Just through those double doors. Mrs. Eliot's expecting you. I'm not dressed properly or I'd accompany you. When you're done you can follow your nose back to your room and then to the lounge -- you'll find them by instinct. Trust all your instincts -- they're well-trained." She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. "One more thing," she said. "You may think you're cunning and clever and all, but you're really just sweet. And out there in the world not everyone appreciates a sweet girl. You have options. You don't have to leave here. If you'd like to stay, discuss terms with Mrs. Eliot and make your own deal. I'm sure she'll mention that we can always use a well-seasoned talent like yours. I'll be in the lounge." She turned and left. I watched her go, that gorgeous ass swinging down the corridor, then turned to learn what this Mrs. Eliot could tell me. She rose as her secretary showed me in. A middle aged woman in a tan suit with bright eyes and short, well-coiffed hair and a professional smile. "Come in, Katie, and welcome -- I do love your dress, salmon is definitely your color!" She motioned me to an upholstered chair alongside her desk. The desk was bare except for a computer screen and a keyboard. Nothing else, no papers or folders, no "In" and "Out" baskets. She was a clean desk executive, the kind who works from the data in her head or on a computer. Not likely to leave paper trails to be disclosed or subpoena'd -- the Estate's records were no doubt kept coded on some inaccessible server somewhere like Thailand or Qatar. I'd learn nothing I wasn't told. "Katie, I have sad news for us but happy news for you," she said, looking at me pleasantly. "Your sponsors will be here in five days, this coming weekend, and on Sunday you'll go home with them to resume the rest of your life or begin another. They want reassurance that you're ready to join them and fit in. If you do what they expect there'll be no problems.