Ten Months For Olga Turlovna free porn video

Ten Months for Olga Turlovna PART 1 - Purgatory Prologue What does it actually mean to be man or woman, male or female? Am I a female because I have breasts, ovaries, and a pussy, even if it feels like the soul of a man is looking out from behind my eyes? If a doctor examined me and discovered I possessed those physical attributes I've just described, they would certainly record my sex as female, but would my gender be the same? Gender depends more on how I appear to other people, people such as you. According to the World Health Organisation, for each human being our "sex" refers to the biological and physical characteristic that defines us, such whether we possess X or Y chromosomes, or whether we have testicles or a womb. But our gender is less straightforward. Our genders are defined by the roles, behaviour and attributes that society considers apply to men or women. Gender is a social construct, something imposed on each of us from outside, rather than something physiologically innate within us. If I look like a woman and wear a dress, you will probably still describe my gender as female and expect me to behave in certain ways. If I look like a man, you might assign a different gender to me. Society may see me as one gender, even though I might consider myself fulfilling all the requirements for a different role. The cultures we all live in impose on us expectations that go with our gender, so each one of us is judged and labelled against those criteria. If we're men, then we're supposed to be strong, hunter- gatherers, courageous, and ready to fight. If we're women, society expects us to be gentler, maternal, more reserved in our sexual conduct, and we're valued more if we're physically attractive. These are deep thoughts to begin my tale, but rest assured no such issues of sexual politics worried me back on that day when I sat waiting to board Flight 252. All I thought about that morning in late summer, ten months ago, was deciding which of the girls I could see I'd most like to fuck. The sun was already hot, and as warm days encourage women to wear less I'd been pleased to see the sunshine. Golden beams of the morning light shone through huge windows into the crowded departure lounge where I sat, at London's Heathrow Airport. The proximity of so many sweaty people radiating body heat pushed those parts of the room in direct sun towards being stiflingly oppressive. I was waiting for a flight to the continent, just another business traveller amongst the many that would be making journeys on that day. I felt a sense at such times, that I was endlessly and futilely toiling, like a hamster in a wheel, and the feeling reminded me that I didn't particularly enjoy my life. I travelled frequently, and the repetitive boring cycle of waiting, flight, hotel, customer, waiting, flight, was a necessary evil of my sales rep's job. There had been nothing at all unusual occurring during my morning. Nothing unusual ever happened to me. I had learned many ways to help pass the idle periods during my frequent travel, including keeping a novel in my briefcase, but I hardly ever read while in airport terminals. I preferred to save my book for use on the plane, because when waiting in the lounges to board I could indulge in the more enjoyable pastime of people- watching. Specifically, I wiled away the minutes discreetly studying the attractive women one could hopefully find in Europe's airports. I'd developed a routine for this form of entertainment, spending an initial spell cruising in a departure lounge, before fixating on one or two females, choosing them as the lucky individuals I'd most like to bed. Then with my selections made, I'd stalk my winners, nonchalantly positioning myself where I could watch them for as long as possible, and building an extended fantasy around the completely unaware girl. So sitting back in the heavily padded seat I occupied that morning - just one person in a line of occupied chairs in that sun-lit room, I'd repeatedly take advantage of the moment when some beauty that I'd noticed looked away, and then I'd move my eyes over her body. For each target, I took in their faces, their breasts, their backsides, their legs, appraising the girl in minute detail. A foreign-looking, delightful blonde piece in her late twenties had particularly caught my attention that morning. I knew she wasn't British - as a connoisseur of the female form I'd developed a knack of telling the difference between the girls from my native UK and the girls from overseas. I'm sad to admit on behalf of my nation, this was often because the foreign girls would be slimmer, or less pasty white skinned, and they'd be more stylishly dressed. It was her flamboyantly unusual outfit that first drew my attention to the blonde - she had loose exotic trousers on, the kind of thing an Arab belly dancer would wear in a harem, although this girl was a Caucasian and not a woman from the Middle East. She was slim and tanned, with honey coloured long tresses, bleached paler by the sun and woven into a neat plait like Lara Croft's. Garnishing her body were mountains of jewellery - cheap silver bangles that enhanced the ethnic look she was going for, and an extroverted necklace of large amber beads. She had a nice pert pair of tits, which strained against the orange vest she wore on her upper body. During her wait for the flight, the blonde read a high-fashion magazine which took up her full attention, making it easier for me to watch her. I could see that putting together an outfit like hers had taken imagination - this wasn't just a stupid piece of white trash I was studying. She must have personality, character, and that potential in her attracted me almost as much as the initial lure of her body. I tried to construct an erotic daydream based about her being a westerner in eastern clothing, visualising her as the sensuous slave, intelligent but obedient, devising new ways to please her master somewhere deep in the desert. I adored women. I could never get enough of looking at them, be it staring at the real-life creatures around me, looking at images of them on TV, or viewing the naked photos that filled my computer's hard drive. I thought about women all day, often finding myself unable to stop constructing elaborate fantasies even during important meetings, especially if there was someone remotely attractive present I could unknowingly enlist to play the star. Global travel with my work enabled me to compare girls in different parts of the world. Familiar with the city I was flying to, and with the lust I've described ever present in my mind, I had already made plans to indulge my desires by a visit to a strip club at my destination. I was anticipating my evening with relish, knowing I was only hours from having some naked goddess gyrating on a table in front of my face. I knew that later still, after the club, in a neat hotel room I'd finish my day by masturbating over the pornography on my laptop, my imagination fuelled by the reality I'd seen earlier. I wasn't a good looking guy, so the ethnic blonde girl I was spying on wouldn't have looked at me twice. Therefore, before you condemn me too much, understand that my lack of looks meant unfortunately for me, nudity provided by professionals was all I could get. I'm not trying to justify my behaviour to you, but it might be an explanation for why I was so fixated by the female form Maybe if I'd had a bit more action in my heyday, all this obsessive perversion would have been out my system. Perhaps if so, that day in the departure lounge, I would have been thinking then about my sales budgets, or orders, or customers, like so many of the other businessmen in shirts sat around me undoubtedly were, instead of imagining a scene in a tent in Arabia, with the blonde chained at her sheik's feet. I could only guess what it must feel like to be as desirable as she was. My penis was stirring in my trousers as I fantasised about her, but before my sensual thoughts could result in tumescence I was interrupted by the blaring ringtone of my mobile phone. Instantly, almost everyone around me looked up at the unpleasant sound. I recognised the number and answered quickly, eager to end both their distaste at the garish noise, and my embarrassment at causing the racket. "Mate!" a familiar male voice went enthusiastically. "Mate..." I replied, trying to keep my voice down to avoid further annoyance to my companions. Even the blonde had looked up momentarily from her magazine, allowing me the honour of making eye contact with her for just a split second. On the phone was my friend Phil, my drinking buddy and fellow connoisseur of the female form. "Where are you?" "Departure lounge" There was a pause, and then a laugh as he knew me quite well enough to guess what I'd be doing before he interrupted. "So what's the talent like?" It was a forward question, but Phil was like that. Confident and outgoing, he said what he thought. Able to push people easily into giving an answer, Phil would have made a better salesman than I was, but fate had cast us into other roles. I looked around again. "I think I found a winner," I said, fixing my eye for a moment back on the blonde ethnic piece. She had returned to reading her style magazine, oblivious to my discussion about her. But just at the moment I declared my conclusion, my view of the blonde was blocked by a tall, slim, classy looking brunette moving between the aisles of seats in front of me, with tight black leggings clinging to her endless limbs. She had her back to me, so I could stare openly at her straight dark hair flowing half way down her back to that utterly perfect behind. In the crowded room she passed right before my face, and the urge to reach out and grasp her rump was almost painful - I could actually see the muscles of her cheeks flexing as she edged sideways. There were no lines of any underwear visible through those leggings, and I wondered if she was wearing anything, even a thong, underneath the clinging black material. Inside my trousers, I felt my penis twitch again. "Hang on a moment," I said, "We have a late candidate." Phil and I had bantered like this since we'd been students together. With both of us being such admirers of female beauty, our drunken nights out usually degenerated into drooling over one girl, and then the next. The women we watched were always younger, attractive and infinitely unobtainable, so there had never been any advancement in our routine over many years. Even Phil's brief marriage had made little difference to our outings. I'd half expected him to find someone else when his wife tired of his philandering - he could strike up conversations with women easily, and they reacted well to his natural dominance and authority, but after his divorce, beer and lack of exercise had taken its toll. His overweight frame meant he never progressed beyond the initial discussion with the kind of girl he'd be willing to go with. The only women he liked were out of his league. "Nine, I think," I said, my coded reply giving Phil the brunette's score out of a maximum ten. It was a custom of ours to rate a woman under various categories, our debates on their scores had filled many an evening. "Yes," I told him, "I'm having a dilemma now." I would have given the brunette a ten based on her body alone, but her face was slightly too long and angular to make her completely perfect to me. The brunette girl in the leggings I'd just assessed had sat herself at the other end of the aisle from me, beyond an elderly couple. She rummaged in a Dolce and Gabbana bag, her dark hair falling forwards to mask her face like a curtain. I wondered about her life, and when was the last time she'd been fucked. Had she ever allowed a man's cock between those buttocks I'd so admired? What fantasy could I build around her? She looked like a dancer, so perhaps I could imagine her forced into stripping, in the hot, glaring spotlights of a seedy bar because she was short of money? "So when are you back?" Phil asked, interrupting my thread. "Thursday," I answered promptly. "I'd like to go for beers on Friday night," he told me, assuming automatically I'd follow along. "Absolutely," I agreed, naturally compliant, and happy to go with him anyway. It would be the high point of my weekend. "Cool." Phil summarised. "Give me a call when you get back, and we'll fix up the time." He rang off quickly, and I returned to my girl watching. Phil was talkative enough when we were out drinking, but he hated phone calls, so when we weren't actually face to face our conversations were always brief as we could manage. I liked that about him. The brunette in black leggings had started reading a book. I decided that given the choice, I'd rather screw the blonde than her. Yes, the brunette girl had the nicest body, but the blonde's intelligent face and her more exotic dress made her my selection as the one I'd like to bed. A career woman in a light grey business suit comprising jacket, blouse and skirt had also caught my eye. She was probably in her thirties, a little older than the other two, but she'd kept herself in good shape. I loved these business women types. Yes, she was so cold and formal on the outside, but that didn't mean she could do anything to stop me spending a whole meeting mentally undressing her, and imagining fucking her in a cheap hotel. The career woman sat, frigid as those like her always were, with her legs demurely crossed, tapping away on a laptop. Flowing down onto the shoulders of her suit were curls of almost-black hair. She wasn't as slim as the other girls I'd noticed, but I don't imply she was overweight in any way - she just had a lush fullness about her. Her big breasts were gorgeous. The smart blouse she wore under the jacket gaped slightly as she leaned forwards, and through the tiny opening between the buttons I could see a flash of her white bra. I smiled, feeling my cock continue to stir. She'd absolutely hate it if she knew I could see something through that gap. I gave her eight out of ten. If this woman was at the classy end of the spectrum, then the flight attendants who arrived after we waited a while longer were at the other end of the scale. Despite being dressed just as smartly as the career girl was, their excessive makeup and the slightly orange tan of the attendants betrayed their true backgrounds. Trashy girls - I adored them too, the ones from the sprawling housing estates who saw sleeping with a rich man as their best ticket up the social ladder. So many women in the world, and so little time - I wanted them all. I watched the flight crew cruise past the seats, and then I noticed there were people already standing, waiting for the check-in staff to reach the desks. I found their desperation pathetic, as I disliked so much of humanity, quite sure that these people didn't really have an urgent need to get on the aircraft slightly before everyone else. But even though I hated such pushy passengers, I instinctively stood as well, to join their queue. I too wanted to get my bag into one of the overhead bins while there was still room, rather than face the embarrassment of inconveniencing people while I retrieved it from elsewhere in the plane. Luggage storage is just one example of the kind of little thing I worry about, the kind of concern that a more alpha-male wouldn't have considered. A real man wouldn't have given a damn about troubling everyone else, as long as he got what he wanted. A member of the airline crew with a short, brunette bob typed into a keyboard for a couple of minutes, distracting me from any thoughts about my nature. I saw the sign above the crew's desk change to "boarding", and once again I noted the name of the flight, 252. 1 - Departures I'd flown many times before, so at the first shakes of the airplane that day, I didn't pay much attention. It was just a little turbulence, and nothing to be scared about. The cabin crew also ignored it - they were busy moving down the narrow aisle between the seats, steering the top-heavy rectangular trolley as they served drinks. I was squashed next to an overweight businessman in a canary yellow shirt who was trying to read a German newspaper. The exotic looking blonde girl who kept me occupied in the lounge had sat several rows in front of me, but I could only see the top of her head above the seat backs. It left the female cabin crew as the only eye-candy in my range, so not feeling like reading and with little else to do, I watched them serving. From the selection of female flesh on offer, a blonde woman with closely cropped hair and a pretty face was my main interest. She was a little short for my usual taste, and had slightly stocky legs, so I wouldn't have been considering her if one my choices from the departure lounge were available. This blonde attendant only scored a five or six, but she'd be better than nothing. The aircraft was jolted again - the lurch a little stronger this time. People ignored it - the businessman next to me continued to read his newspaper. It was a broadsheet, so he needed to fan his arms wide to read it, leaving his paper partly spread in front of me. He didn't seem to care about the invasion of my personal space. I tried to get the gist of the news stories. The flight attendants moved along the aisle, "Would you like a drink Sir?" There were more bucking jolts of turbulence - a first, a second, then a third, more violent than the earlier ones. The familiar chime of the "fasten seat belts" alert sounded, accompanied by a warning sign which illuminated above my head. I watched as the cabin crew packed the drinks trolley temporarily away and moved unhurriedly back to their seats, still relaxed. The voice of one of the staff made an announcement over the tannoy, beginning, "The captain has illuminated the fasten seat belts sign, please return to your seats..." All the while the lurching movements continued, repeatedly giving me the unpleasant weightless sensation of my stomach lifting. The next shake of the plane was so severe that there were some nervous chuckles, and I could hear an uncomfortable intake of breath from the man next to me, who finally looked up in irritation from his paper. I noted that he had such a big paunch he could barely see his knees. There was a small jolt, and another, and three more in close succession. Then there was a lurch so intense, that for the first time I thought something had to be wrong. I'd never felt turbulence like this before in all my flying experience, and even the flight attendant sat at the front was beginning to look slightly concerned. People clutched at the arms of their seats next, as the jolts became still more severe. I could hear gasps now. The pitch of the engines was starting to fluctuate - no longer holding the steady drone, as if they were struggling to run. The pilot increased the power, making it noisier in the cabin, until the whine was almost deafening. The turbulence went on for another minute or so, with the intensity of the shaking continuing to build, on and on. Each time I thought it couldn't get worse, the movement became even more violent. Then there was a strange singing sound, as if a synthesised sample of a choir was being played at full volume, the noise loud even over the droning engines. The mysterious noise was there in an instant, releasing sound like a stereo suddenly switched from mute. Simultaneously, at the front of the cabin a glowing white light abruptly burst forth and hovered in midair. The size of a football, it was intensely bright, like a miniature sun. The orb was stationary, suspended in the middle of the aisle a couple of feet below the ceiling. Its form wasn't completely defined and static - I saw rippling at the edges, as if with a heat haze. If I looked away, its afterimage remained in my eyes. All hell broke loose then as people panicked. Some people were screaming. I can't remember if I was one of them - the sound was so deafening it was impossible to single out individuals making the noise, so I may well have been yelling my lungs out. By then the plane was shaking and pitching like a bucking bronco, although that motion had become less terrifying to us than the unexplained light. I'd have been thrown onto the ceiling if I wasn't strapped into my seat, and there was rubbish, drinks and various detritus that hadn't been fastened down flying everywhere round the cabin. Like most of the passengers I had my gaze fixed in incomprehension on the sun-like disc. My first thought was it must be ball lightning - St. Elmo's fire, but it seemed too bright and too still for that explanation. As I stared at it, transfixed with terror, the ball started to expand - first two feet in diameter; then four feet; then ten feet. The rate of spread accelerated as it grew. If I'd been able to think coherently, I'd have recalled the grainy recordings of the blast expanding from a nuclear bomb, but in my terror I didn't analyse the alien object, I just wanted to get away from it. The people nearest to the orb had already been engulfed in its blazing glare. It was so bright I couldn't see if they were writhing in agony or even still moving. They were gone to whatever fate was about to overtake me. Some of the passengers were unfastening their seatbelts to try and get away from the sphere, but with the aircraft pitching so intensely they were instantly thrown against the ceiling, the floor, or into other passengers. Someone across the aisle from me had a smashed and blooded face, presumably from the impact with something loose in the cabin. The blonde ethnic girl I'd liked so much at the terminal had already vanished into the blinding light. I'd maybe never see her again alive, but there was nowhere to run, so I could do nothing but sit frozen with fear, immobile as I waited my turn. My thoughts raced, with memories and regrets of a life I might have been about to leave. Hardly anyone had desired me. I'd never been worshiped, the way I'd admired the blonde a few rows ahead. If I'd known it was my last day, I wouldn't have spent the precious hours on a sales visit. I'd wasted so many precious moments. Then, an instant later it came, washing over me like a wave. I could see nothing but white light - a glare so intensely bright I had to shut my eyes. My face felt warm, but strangely, not unpleasantly hot. I wasn't burning. Even more surprisingly, I couldn't feel any shaking inside the sphere, and thinking back now, it might have gone completely silent. All of these thoughts passed through my mind in fractions of a second, their speed accelerated by adrenaline, before I felt myself start to move. My only recollection of what happened after that is of a sensation of falling forward into blinding white - I'm not even sure if I was still in my seat or moving freely. My final thought was, "I'd wish I'd been beautiful," and then, for a while, there was nothing. 2 - Arrivals I came back to consciousness slowly, groaning in expectation of an imminent, agonising, pain that never arrived. Hearing a woman's voice, moaning simultaneously with my own protestation, filled me with profound relief. Her voice meant there were people alive, people that could cry out. Even more importantly for me, I had heard her, which meant I wasn't dead either. We both weren't dead. Whatever had happened to the plane, there were still people alive who had come through the experience. Yes, we had been through a crash, but we were the survivors. The worst was already behind us. As if emerging from a tunnel, starting from the pinpoint triggered by her voice, gradually my awareness of my surroundings spread outwards. It began by my realising I was still in a seated position; my arms folded round my waist, my torso slumped forwards almost into the safety-card crash position. Next I noticed the seat I was occupying was hard and uncomfortable, not like the firm, but padded, airline seat. After that I became aware of a warm breeze that tickled gently against my neck, and I fixated on that, puzzled. A warm breeze... that made no sense - why was I outside in the open air, in a warm breeze, and not aboard flight 252? Perhaps I'd been dragged, stunned, from the airplane, but then if I'd survived an incident so severe, why did nowhere on my body hurt? I couldn't even feel an ache. I understood then, that these questions were only unanswered because my eyes were closed, so I snapped them open abruptly, my drooping head meaning I was left looking down at my knees. If I'd hoped for quick explanations, opening my eyes had the opposite effect, as my comprehension of reality took a dive rivalling the one I'd experienced inside the orb of light. What I could see, was that I was no longer dressed in the functional dark-grey work trousers I'd worn on the flight, with their neatly pressed cotton fabric wrapping my meaty, muscular thighs. Barely covering the tops of my now-bare legs was a miniskirt, a very-short, stonewash-denim, tarty-looking miniskirt, just long enough to hide my underwear, but disguising little more. Those exposed legs I could see were not chunky, hairy, and masculine, but slim and feminine, with satin skin that was utterly smooth, and abruptly it was obvious that they weren't my legs I was looking at. It was a revelation so profound; I couldn't understand how I hadn't noticed instantly. "What?" I thought, looking around me now in total puzzlement. I was sat, baffled, in a park, on a weatherworn wooden bench, the old- fashioned kind with its seat and back formed from a series of parallel struts bolted to an iron frame. I didn't recognise the location, but it looked urban - a city park surrounded by commercial buildings and large terraced houses of beige brick. People were relaxing around me - some students lay back drinking lager, smart office girls ate a late lunch al-fresco and chatted lazily on their mobile phones. Nobody looked concerned about a plane crash victim sat in their midst, a plane crash victim with someone else's legs, although I noticed several of the lads from the nearby groups were glancing across at me in an altogether different way, their looks speculative and appraising. The women in the park either ignored or didn't notice me. I ruefully considered how that was the only element which had been normal, since my waking up. Warm summer sun shone down. It was a beautiful day with very few clouds breaking the continuous blue sky, very much like the morning in the airport Lying next to me on the bench I noticed a woman's brown leather handbag, crescent shaped like a new moon and marked with the creases that leather gets with age and use. There was no sign of the woman I'd heard moan - the other survivor. In fact there was no-one within quite some distance of the wooden bench where I sat - I was alone for maybe twenty metres in any direction. The mystery of that other survivor, I could only hope would become clear later, but in the meantime I had more pressing concerns. I looked back down at the alien pair of legs in front of me. I tried to lift my left knee, and the strange limb responded. As I felt the muscles in my stomach and thigh tense, I saw this lithe, toned leg respond to the command. Parting my limbs I turned out my knee to examine the succulent inside of the thigh, fascinated by the perfect flesh. I felt no fear - at the time I was too stunned to feel much at all - it was more a sense of complete, blank, incomprehension and astonishment. This was clearly a woman's leg that I was moving, and not just any woman's. It was a leg from a really, really, lovely set of pins. They were unbearably long and slender, her skin was smooth in the way that begs to be touched; the flesh toned but not overly muscled. They were a young woman's legs that I was controlling - those of a girl perhaps only in her late teens. Under normal circumstances, if I'd seen a girl's legs like these I'd have dropped my jaw to stare at her, but the sensory overload of experiencing these limbs responding to my movements was too overwhelming to allow space in my head for any lustful thoughts. I lifted my knee higher and saw the lower leg terminated with a strappy sandal with high heel, secured around her delicate feminine foot. The womanly ankle was slim and gracefully shaped. My toenails were neatly filed and painted with a maroon varnish. Like the denim skirt, the shoes I was wearing looked a little cheap and slutty. The straps on them were slender - meant to cover as little of the skin as possible. Tracking my eyes back up to the denim skirt, I realised that with my knees apart I was probably flashing an eyeful of whatever underwear I was wearing to the park. Quickly I closed my legs, realising at the same time that I squeezed my knees together that despite myself, this reality felt so intensely real I was already beginning to think of them as my legs. Looking back out to the park I saw a group of young men that looked like students were laughing at me, their stares blatant. They had a girl with them, a pretty blonde, and she laughed at me too. They must have watched me sitting with my knees open, looking insane as I'd examined myself. I was unable to keep from blushing with embarrassment, ashamed for the first time of the short skirt this new form I was occupying had chosen to wear. Keeping my knees squeezed shut; I angled my legs slightly to the side, tucking my feet underneath me in a way I hoped was more ladylike. The new pose meant I was now showing the gorgeous outside of my thigh to them, but with my body turned it avoided the possibility of repeating the full frontal. In this short skirt, from their viewing angle, it probably looked like I was near naked below the waist, so I tried to pull the skirt's lower hem down a bit further to make it obvious. The denim was thick, tough, cloth though, it wasn't going to stretch over any more of me, and I soon realised I'd have to make the best of it for now. Resuming my self examination and avoiding eye contact with the boys, I extended my hands in front of me, my fingers stretched out. Again I was looking at women's arms, women's hands. My bone structure was more delicate than a man's, and the hair was almost so fine as to be invisible. These hands were smaller - but the slender fingers were lengthened with impractically long nails, painted with the same maroon varnish as my toes. My slim wrists looked weak. I looked to my ridiculous skirt once again, planning to scan slowly up to examine my waist, but before I could see that far my gaze was distracted by the impressive cleavage on this woman's body. In utter shock, I might have actually thought "Oh my god, look at my tits!" I may have said it aloud. I realised that I was wearing a tight, neon-pink, vest top, with a low scooped out neckline intended to expose acres of my flesh. I had pneumatic, pert breasts - an unusually full rack in relation to the size of my skinny torso. The succulent soft swell of my cleavage folded into a deep "V" that made my chest look buxom and nubile. The French have a beautifully elegant word for it, d?colletage, which refers to the upper parts of a woman's torso that are exposed by her clothing. My d?colletage was quite stunning. Being sat slumped forward on the bench, had made that chest hang forward even further, so I realised I was probably flaunting myself shamefully to the group of students, a further thrill to supplement showing them my underwear. Quickly I straightened up, but that posture just arched my back, making my breasts poke forwards even more prominently. I could feel the weight of them changing my balance, and I wondered how I'd not noticed the change immediately on waking. The different distribution on me felt so obvious. Continuing to stare down in astonishment at my boobs, I realised I could even see the outline of larger, feminine, nipples straining against the tightness of the vest. I shuffled around, trying to pose demurely, but no position seemed to hide me - how were women supposed to cope with this? I felt exposed whatever I did, and with my blush returning I folded my arms back around myself, more as a comfort than to disguise my cleavage. My new torso felt hourglass slim underneath my arms, and my hips felt noticeably wider than they had before, tapering up to the thin, model's waist I now seemed to have. On sensing my wider hips I knew instinctively why I was now proportioned that way - I had a pelvis that needed to be wider, because this new female body was meant for bearing children. I could also feel my more slender ribcage under the flesh of my arms - actually my whole frame felt delicate and frail compared to the masculine physique I had been used to. Whoever she was, this slip of a girl wasn't designed to be a fighter. Looking back up (I noticed the boys were still glancing across at me) I became aware of a gentle touch on bare skin between my shoulder blades. I realised the back of my vest must be as low cut as the front, and I became curious about my hair that was caressing my spine. Reaching up with both hands in a pose that lifted my large breasts once more, I touched the crown of my head and felt straight, fine hair, combed straight back tightly against my skull. Following its course I found a ponytail fastened with a simple elasticated band. The hair was long enough that I could pull the far end round to my side, where I discovered a chestnut-coloured glossy mane of thick strands. "I'm a brunette..." I thought to myself, the flowing dark locks a dramatic contrast to the receding, short, greying crop I'd previously been endowed with. Ridiculously, I thought for an instant that I'd have rather been blonde. I moved my fingers back to touch my face curiously. I felt delicate, fine features with high cheekbones. This could only ever be a woman's face - my skin was now baby-smooth and soft, without a trace of the stubble I was used to, and exploring further I felt the gentler female jawline, and a smaller, pert nose. I touched my lips then, finding them full and sensuous. In my former existence, I would charmingly have called such lips "cocksucking". I looked round again at the empty space near my bench, and I understood fully now that the sound I'd heard, the woman moaning, hadn't been a fellow survivor, but had been my own voice. I felt dizzy with this new knowledge. I was in an alien body, a woman's body. The world nearly faded out for the second time that day while I fought to control a wave of panic. I hardly dared to contemplate the magnitude of the changes that had taken place to me, if all this was actually real. How had this happened? What did it mean? My... I wasn't religious but let's call it my soul... had somehow ended up inside the body of this young female. My essence was now inside a woman, one with a very beautiful body, and what's more my spirit was inside a woman who seemed to be dressed as a cheap, common, street whore. I was looking out at the world from the eyes of the kind of woman I'd have stared at, or even wolf-whistled or called obscenities to, uncaring about that dirty hooker's feelings, in my previous life. She deserved it for dressing like that, I would have said. Was this some kind of punishment, then? Why was I here in her, and not inside my former body on the aircraft? Who was she? With that final question probably the easiest I'd posed so far to answer, I turned to the handbag and opened it. At first glace there wasn't much inside its many pockets and pouches to help me out. I found a lipstick - quite a dark colour, like red wine. There was a rectangular pack of tissues, unopened, but it was as little use to me as the lipstick - what I was searching for was something with identification. My first hope was on discovering an oval purse, made of worn imitation leather and fastened with a chipped gold clasp, so quickly I opened it. There was some cash in there - a couple of notes and a few coins. It was sterling, which told me, for the first time, that at least I was likely still in the UK. I found that a relief. This girl had no bank cards or credit cards though, which triggered fresh questions. I wondered how many people in this day and age didn't even own a bank card. Rummaging through the other pockets in the bag, I did finally find what I was looking for - something with a woman's name that I hoped identified me. It was a small fold out plastic wallet containing a London travel card, and the photo ID needed to accompany it, that would verify the user's eligibility for cheap bus and tube fares. Laminated onto the ID card was a rectangular passport-booth photo, and printed there was finally a name - Olga Turlovna. "Olga Turlovna" I murmured aloud, hearing my soft new soprano voice, staring at the picture. My instant reaction at first seeing this girl's image was to think that she was gorgeous. The woman in the photograph could easily have found work as a professional model. She had fine, delicate features, the thin face typical of eastern European women denied the excesses of western diets, and she had seductively large dark brown eyes, a full pouting mouth and the same straight chestnut hair I'd just seen draped on my shoulder. She was young - much younger than my former self had been up to the incident on the airplane. I'd have been surprised if this girl was even 18 years old. I reached up and touched my delicate cheeks and fine nose once again - features that seemed to match the picture, making me more certain this girl was the person I now inhabited. "Olga..." I said once again, trying out my voice and my name. I was Olga. Olga Turlovna, age unknown to me, address unknown to me, nationality unknown. I moved my gaze from the ID to the one-day travel ticket, and then looked around. So, I was in London. The bricks of the distant buildings at the edge of the park were the pale brown colour typical of south east England, evidence that backed up the likelihood of London being my location. The ticket was marked with the same day I'd taken the flight. Possibly no time had passed in my translation from the bright light on the plane to awakening inside this girl. Discovering where I was gave me the first moment of relief I'd experienced since awakening. Being in London was certainly a much better place to be than waking up inside a stranger and in a foreign country. I would at least know how to function here, where I understood the language and the culture. Putting back the travel card in place, I continued to search through the various pockets of Olga's bag. Again I asked myself how she could have so few personal items. It made my immediate situation more alarming - if I'd been left with her bank card, I could at least find a hotel room to hole up in while I came to terms with what was happening to me, but equipped as I was with nothing but a limited amount of her cash and without warm clothes, I would become reliant on other human beings once it got dark. There was little more to find, searching the remainder of the bag. A zippered pocket seemed to be the only thing left unopened, so I pulled back the zip, looked inside, and felt another shock at what I found. Reaching into the pouch in disbelief, I picked up the half dozen foil- wrapped condoms and let them slip through my elegant fingers, to fall back into the pocket. Also in the pocket, strategically positioned next to the condoms, the small and partly used tube of lubricant could only have one purpose. But it got worse - what really showed the classy girl Olga must be, was the bundled Kleenex, crusted and dried into a ball glued by whatever gunk it contained. I looked at it with disgust - I'd filled enough tissues with sperm myself to know exactly what I was looking at, and I didn't want to think about who's it was, or why it was still in her bag. "This is just great," I thought with sinking heart, "I'm stuck inside a whore." I was dressed like a common streetwalker, I seemed to be looking out at the world from a body created to arouse men, and I had a handbag full of nothing but condoms and soiled tissues. Of all the people I could wake up inside, why had fate decided it would be Olga Turlovna? Was this a sick joke? What was I going to do now? What would I do tonight? Once evening drew in I'd really be in trouble, stuck outside just dressed in a miniskirt and a vest. Summer nights got cold, in London. I looked down again at my luscious, shapely, smooth legs, barely covered by my skirt, and those divine breasts straining against my top. Another wave of panic washed over me, so putting the handbag back down on the bench, I folded my arms tightly round my ribs once more and leaned forwards, dropping my head down and trying to keep my breathing under control. If I'd wanted to calm myself and forget what was happening with the action, it didn't help. The weight of my chest rested on my forearms as I leaned forwards, my breasts feeling firm and heavy, and they heaved before me with my accelerated breathing. I was constantly bombarded with new sensory information. Now I could detect another layer through the thin vest - for the first time in my life I had a bra on. My lustrous mahogany ponytail fell forwards, hanging down at the side of my neck and touching my skin. If I was a woman, that meant I'd have a pussy now, I thought abruptly. Experimentally I squeezed my thighs together. I could feel nothing - certainly not the familiar, comforting mass of a male penis and testicles, but I had no awareness of anything else replacing it either. I was curious to confirm what I sensed, but I certainly wasn't going to hitch my skirt up here in the park to have a look at my genitals, especially not under the stares of the boys. I remembered that I hadn't even established if Olga was wearing knickers - and given the type of girl she seemed to be it was quite likely she wasn't. Feeling the need to check, I reached behind myself, long fingernails touching the small of my back, and moved my hand lower to insinuate my fingertips inside the waistband of my skirt. Underneath the denim I felt another waistband, flimsy and elasticated. Its existence was enough to answer that question for now, so I withdrew my hand. Finding out any even more intimate details about my body could wait for a place with privacy. I tried to focus my mind on the dilemma I was in, rather than the continuously streaming sensory overload. Sitting up once more, I looked around the park. I was forced to accept for now, for whatever reason, I was inside a girl, I was inside a beautiful girl, and I was likely to be inside a whore. The bright orb of light from flight 252 had not yet re-materialised, ready to transport me back to my original body. Even though I had felt light headed sitting on the bench, there had been no sign of my fainting ready to wake up back on the plane, happy to attribute this experience to an unusually vivid dream. I was stuck. It looked like for a short while at least, I would have to assume the role of Olga Turlovna. 3 - Plans Five minutes later, I was walking slowly though the park. I'd never been the type of person to settle for inaction, always favouring doing something rather than sitting on my arse, so I'd made the decision to leave my place on the bench. I believed I could better think through my situation as I moved. If I expected things to improve by activity, I was wrong. The size of the challenge I had been forced to take on, that of trying to survive for a while inside Olga, had become apparent the moment I'd stood up. Straight away, I'd stumbled dangerously in my highly- sloping shoes and nearly fallen over. My ankles and calves weren't tensed correctly in preparation for the difficult balancing act required of a woman wearing heels. Narrowly avoiding going down on my perfect face into the path, I'd only just saved myself in time by desperately lunging out to grab the arm of the bench. Cursing in a very unladylike way as I recovered my balance, I straightened up, and lifting my leather bag high onto my left shoulder in a vain attempt to restore some dignity in front of the laughing group of students, I moved off clumsily down the path. They must have thought I was drunk, as I was weaving unsteadily like someone crossing the deck of a ship. My heeled, strappy sandals crunched noisily on the sharp gravel. In motion, my body felt even more different to the male shape I'd been used to. For a start, the distribution of weight around me was completely altered. Granted I no longer had the heavy musculature on my upper body, but the mass of my breasts, swaying slightly despite the supportive bra, more than made up for that, and I felt very aware of them. My pelvis felt wider, making my walking gait take on a natural feminine swing of my hips, without my even trying. This sashay was accented by my having longer legs in proportion to my body, and was made still more prominent by the added height of the heels. It took me a few minutes to get the knack of moving gracefully without the risk of further falls. I found the most natural and comfortable way to walk was to overlap my steps, crossing my feet more than men do in their wide tomcat swaggers. Olga stood with her back automatically straighter than the body I'd formerly lived in, so holding myself well combined with my modified walk, I could sense myself moving almost instinctively in the way a model does parading down the runway. I felt perpetually self-conscious. In my former life I had been inconspicuously unattractive, but inside Olga the eyes of everyone I met seemed to scan across to me. When I reached the edge of the park, cars on the busy main road slowed so drivers could check me out. The horn of a van beeped appreciatively from behind me, making me jump, startled, and I saw a battered white transit go past. I thought I heard a man inside shouting something, but his words were swept away before I could catch anything. My legs felt very bare, my breasts and behind very noticeable. There was a draught up my skirt that made me feel open. I didn't want people to look, but I couldn't find a way to stand or move that avoided flaunting some part of me. I tried to think about my situation as I walked along, and tried to ignore the attention I was receiving. My first inclination had been to find a way to contact someone, a friendly face I knew from "before". Of course it would take some time to convince that person, perhaps remote at the other end of a phone line, that the soft-voiced female was indeed the man they knew. But if I approached the right contact, I was sure I could come up with some personal memory only known to them and my former self, something juicy enough to at least guarantee me a hearing long enough to complete my story. I didn't really have family, my parents having both died several years earlier, but I considered calling those few people that were close to me - my drinking buddy (Phil would certainly love Olga), or colleagues at my office. I thought that in the safety of a familiar place under their protection, I could come to terms with looking out from behind this girl's eyes. But I didn't ring anyone. I didn't even look for a payphone, and it was not because I considered it impossible to convince them of my identity. It was more that I didn't quite accept myself that what was happening to me was real. A part of me was still expecting to wake up any moment, in my former body, to find this deliberation about what to do was thankfully irrelevant. I was a little wary that I might go public with my story, only to discover all this would turn out to be some foolish mistake. How they'd laugh at me then - fancy him believing he was inside a prostitute. Fancy that old fool believing he was attractive. I had further fears about people's reactions which made me even more hesitant. Something about being stuck inside Olga felt shameful. I was scared it would seem to my former acquaintance that I'd been inflicted with some sort of deserved humiliation - a way of knocking me down a peg or two, a way of demeaning me by leaving me abandoned and condemned to peer out at the world from behind the eyes of the kind of woman I'd have formerly derided. Although this idea of righteous retribution seemed an unlikely explanation to why I was there, clicking along the pavement in my high heels, the other answers I could think of seemed hardly more likely. As another van beeped its horn at me and I reached behind myself to try and pull my skirt down at the back, I went through the possibilities methodically, and I'll repeat them for you now. Option one - and the most likely one by far, was that this was all inside my head - some kind of vivid dream or hallucination. I would wake up at some point, back in my seat on the plane or even hung-over in my hotel room, only then remembering the blinder of a night drinking with the customers I'd just had. Also covered by option one, the "inside my head" theory, I hypothesised I could have been injured by the plane crashing, and in reality I was lying somewhere in a coma, even now surrounded by bleeping machines that were keeping me alive. There was a still-worse variant on this injury theory - I'd been seriously brained damaged and was actually in some dreadful mental asylum, in reality walking round in a hospital jonnie telling anyone who would listen I was a prostitute called Olga Turlovna, while piss ran down my legs. Certainly Olga seemed the kind of girl my diseased imagination would invent. Even with the vivid experience of her as my new reality I had to question whether she could really be real. It didn't seem likely that there truly were stunning nubile beauties with perfect tits working as streetwalkers in London. Should option one be true, the "in my head hypothesis", then the action that seemed sensible was to say as little about myself as possible, and certainly not to try and declare my identity until I'd had time to do a little more research. It would be acutely embarrassing to wake up and find the whole world had got an insight into the more perverted side of my subconscious, so keeping quiet for the time being was a much safer path. Option two, an explanation I considered slightly less likely, was that I'd been Olga all along. I was experiencing some kind of mental breakdown where I'd forgotten all my previous life and invented an alternative one - an elaborate fantasy where I had been a business man on a flight. As I walked along the road that didn't seem possible to me - my memories seemed just too clear of my life before, whereas anything about life as Olga was a blank. But of course, I reasoned to myself, that if I had lost my marbles, then I would be able to convince myself the fantasy was real. Fortunately, option two would be easy to check - I could simply call someone from my prior existence and verify a few facts, once I'd ruled out the risks of humiliation I have listed in option one. Therefore the best decision under option two was also to keep quiet for the time being. Option three, and the least likely sounding - someone or something else had put me there, inside this girl. If option three had happened, then the questions of who had done this, and how they'd done this, would be impossible to answer until that mysterious entity showed up to explain. If I had been transferred by a strange intelligence, then they seemed to have deliberately left me there with as few clues as possible. Therefore while I dealt with the immediate crisis of survival as Olga, it wasn't worth my dwelling on the "who" and "how" about these superbeings, as they'd likely block further efforts. The thing I needed to worry about if option three was correct was why they'd done this. That conclusion led my thoughts to divide Option three into two, parts "A" and "B". Part A: I'd been put into Olga as a punishment, in which case this was all some kind of divine retribution because of my sexist treatment of women. I was being punished for my exploitation of the fairer sex, and those anonymous entities that had condemned me had judged a few weeks on the receiving end sucking cock as a whore, would teach me not to be such a dirty little bastard. I found this idea unlikely though - mainly because as a punishment my fate could have been worse - it would have been a more devastating comeuppance if my accusers made sure the vast stash of porn on my laptop had been discovered. Then, they could have just left me in my former self to endure the humiliating consequences. If they were omnipotent enough to move my consciousness between bodies, surely they would have known that (and surely it would have been easier for them). What's more, being inside Olga just didn't feel totally like a punishment. Even by the time I was a few minutes into my walk, I was already curious enough about experiencing life a girl for a while, that I was feeling something of a thrill at the opportunity of enjoying Olga's body. It was hardly a penalty; it seemed more like an adventure. Option three, part "B", was that this was some kind of reward (although I had no idea what for). It occurred to me that perhaps I'd died on the plane, and this reality might either be my heaven or a form of reincarnation. After a lifetime of being the ugly one, the overlooked geeky boy, here I was suddenly blessed with a life as one of the most gorgeous creatures I'd ever imagined. My last thought on the plane had been a wish to be beautiful. But this option also seemed unlikely to me, for the simple reason that if this was my reward, why was I in the afterlife dressed as a hooker, instead of waking up to discover I was a supermodel who owned a yacht in the Greek islands. I simply needed more information, and the only way to get that was to quietly go along for a while and see how things panned out. So I would take care of my immediate survival - first priority finding some place safe to go for the evening, and if it looked like it wasn't going to work in the longer term, I always had the nuclear button of trying to call someone I knew. That was my train of thought which led me, as I walked along, to conclude my best option was to visit the nearest Accident and Emergency department. A hospital seemed a better and safer way to throw myself on the mercy of the authorities than turning up at the police station, dressed as a hooker, and carrying a handbag of condoms. At the hospital I could tell them the partial truth - that I couldn't remember where Olga lived, and then I'd at least be somewhere warm and indoors while they helped me out. Moments later I saw a car coming down the road with a "taxi" sign on top, the appearance of the first cab I'd seen apparently fate. I waved my arm and it pulled over next to me. It wasn't a London black cab - it was a private hire vehicle, an aged white Skoda. I remembered that private hire cabs weren't supposed to pick people up off the street, that was how serial killers found their prey, but now I'd made my mind up what I wanted to do, I was eager to be on my way. I opened the door and climbed in the back seat. It was awkward to bring my feet in without being unladylike. I had to keep my knees together as much as I could. "Where to luv?" the driver, a fat man with grey hair, probably in his fifties, asked me. "The nearest A&E, please," I answered, the sound of Olga's high voice taking me by surprise. I'd not spoken out loud since the bench, and I'd forgotten to expect her girlish soprano. The cab pulled back into the stream of traffic, behind an aged red London bus spewing exhaust fumes. "There's Lewisham, or St George's, both about the same time driving," he said. I shrugged. "Lewisham," I said, choosing at random, and then admitting, "Actually I'm not actually sure where I am - I got a bit lost." I didn't want to get into a long discussion with him on why I don't know where I was, and acting like the dumb female seemed my best way to get more information. "Well this is Brockwell Park, luv." The driver indicated the expanse of greenery I'd just left. "You know where that is?" "Not really," I said nervously. "Oh my," he laughed mockingly, "So how did you end up there then?" "Just walking... I never had much of a sense of direction." He relaxed back, satisfied with my explanation that reinforced his preconceptions. The driver tried to engage me in conversation for the rest of the journey, but I gave him brief answers, stalling his attempts to find out why I wanted to go to A&E. I noticed his eyes flicking up to the rear view mirror a lot, but I wasn't sure if he was checking me out or not or merely driving carefully. I tried to sit in a way that covered my body as well as I could, folding my arms across my chest, but feeling Olga's tits pressed into my forearms still made me embarrassed. I ended up resting my hands in my lap, lying unmoving on the meagre portion of my skirt between my thighs. I looked down at my perfect smooth legs, marvelling at the skin and wanting to touch it, but aware of the driver and the rear view mirror. It had been a long time since I'd touched a woman's legs, and never in my life stroked a set that looked this good. Instead, I stared out the window, watching the suburban buildings slide by and listening to the rattle of the diesel engine, until we pulled up outside a huge complex of rectangular structures that was the hospital. The cab was parked under a large, permanent plastic awning, and the Accident and Emergency sign was right beside us over some glass double doors. "Nine pounds, luv," the driver said. I paid him ten; giving away all of one of Olga's precious remaining notes even though I knew my resources were dwindling, and I swung my legs back out the cab as he thanked me. Standing up I nearly stumbled again - I'd forgotten to be careful. I made a mental note, that I must try and remind myself about the heels, each time I stood. I realised my skirt had ridden up perilously high as well, so once again I had to pull at the hem, conscious of how much of my legs were on display. Draping my leather bag over my shoulder once more, I walked through the double doors. I would have to face the public as Olga Turlovna. 4 - Alone The waiting room was packed. A diverse cross section of London society sat on padded seats so reminiscent of those in the airport lounge I did a double-take, my sense of reality wavering for a moment. I felt for a moment like I wanted to cry, my appreciation of being so alone and friendless suddenly intense. Instead I tried to distract myself, concentrating on the people nearby. Around me I could see all ages and races of humanity. A lad, looking drunk despite the early hour, had blood pouring down his face. Old people coughed. Mothers bounced wailing children on their knees, or rocked them back and forth in pushchairs. Fluorescent lights bathed the room in a bright, harsh glow. A large TV mounted high up broadcast the news with the volume muted. The chairs were in rows, all facing a wide, low reception desk, and with my heels clacking loudly on the linoleum floor I walked up to this. I blushed a little, aware of people's eyes on my back. I knew that to anyone who noticed me, I must look like a cheap hooker - a chav, a slag, a tart. You choose the insult, it described me. I couldn't blame anyone - I would have made the same judgement, if I'd been watching Olga, instead of being the person looking out of her eyes. The receptionist, a middle aged, plain woman with dyed blonde hair, had seen it all. She smiled up at me, but it was a professional greeting only, and the welcome didn't reach her eyes. She wore a white blouse, with an ID badge pinned to it that said "Miriam". "I need to see a doctor," I said quietly to avoid being overheard. "I've lost my memory." She looked at me in silent appraisal for a moment, her look cynically disbelieving, but then she turned to the computer in front of her. "I'll need to log you on the system." She said, beginning to type. "You'll have about a two hour wait, before someone sees you." I confirmed I'd understood. "Your name?" she asked, and then added wryly "if you remember it?" I fumbled in my bag, and handed the travel card over, trying to be helpful. I suddenly wanted to earn her approval. I wanted someone, just one person, to be kind to me. "Olga Turlovna," I said, "Or at least I think this is me." "It certainly looks like you," she replied a little curtly, when she'd opened the pass and looked at the picture. I must have sounded stupid, I knew full well. How could someone not even be sure what they looked like? All the same, hearing her positive response was a valuable answer to me - it was what I needed to confirm the identity I'd only guessed from touching my face. She'd told me I really was inside that girl's body. "And your address, Olga?" she asked. "I don't know," I said, "That's why I need a doctor. I woke up on a park bench and I can't remember anything. Not where I live, nothing." She looked at me icily, probably mentally categorising me as a junkie or a whore. "I'll put you as 'homeless' for now, and we can correct it later," she said. "Do you know your age, Olga?" I shook my head, and felt my ponytail brush against the skin between my shoulder blades. "We'll guess at sixteen," she said. She spent some time then, tapping information on the screen. I glanced away while she was busy, and my attention was abruptly caught by the muted TV. There was footage of what looked like weeping people in an airport terminal, and the news ticker at the bottom of the screen said, "Breaking News:" As I stared the banner scrolled past: "Plane vanishes mysteriously over the channel. All passengers feared lost" I took an involuntary breath so loud half the room must have heard me, and then suddenly I was sobbing out loud. I knew instantly it must be my flight they were talking about. Could it have really disappeared? Everyone on board was dead? The blonde was dead? The brunette was dead? How could they all be dead? What would I do now? Who would believe me? Who would help me, in insignificant salesman trapped inside an insignificant girl called Olga? I gasped, and with one question after another cascading I panicked, abruptly finding myself in a short, but very intense crying jag, unable to stop weeping. Incoherent thoughts and emotions raced through my mind. Sobbing just made my terror more powerful - I hadn't cried since I was a child, it just wasn't "me" to do so. This emotionality felt like an Olga trait, yet another reminder from my body that I was no longer my former self. "It's okay, we'll sort you out," I heard the receptionist say, sympathetic now, and I looked back to her. She offered me a tissue from a box on the counter. She hadn't noticed me looking at the TV screen, so maybe she'd become slightly less sceptical about my memory loss story, attributing this upset to that. If I genuinely had lost my memory, I'd probably have been hysterical, so merely weeping was an understandable response, under the circumstances. I wiped my eyes and nose, stealing glances up at the television. "Take a seat and we'll have someone with you soon," the receptionist said soothingly. "Thank you," I replied. I clattered across to the seats and chose one where I could see the screen, sitting myself next to someone that looked like a builder. He turned to me immediately. "Know someone on the plane?" he asked, "I was watching you look at the telly." "Kind of..." I answered, not wanting to risk explaining any details in case it brought on more tears. I looked at him, dabbing my eyes dry. He was a big man - a lot stronger the male physique I'd had before, let alone the female one I owned now. His arm was in a dirty sling, and he still wore overalls covered in concrete dust. He was in his late thirties, and slightly overweight. Even sitting down he was obviously taller than me. "What are you in for?" he asked me. "Memory loss..." I admitted, "I can't reme