The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank part 1
- 1 year ago
- 7
- 0
The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank Part 4 free porn video
4
Insipid light bleeds through glass and fabric, bringing me awake in
hesitant, confused stages. My freckled fingers grope for the alarm clock
on the bedside table, but encounter only empty space.
My freckled fingers? Since when did I have freckles on my fingers?
Spots in front of the eyes, that's what you've got. I don't know, pissed
again. And behaved like a complete prat, I shouldn't wonder.
God knows what I was drinking, though. My mouth feels drier than a Jack
Benny comedy routine.
Loose strands of hair, honey blonde mixed with ginger, fall across my
face. I push them back, puzzled.
I've heard of being blind drunk - but colourblind drunk?
Maybe I passed out like I did at that twenty-first in London and somebody
dyed it. That means we must've gone back to...
Fuck it, I'll remember where I was and what I got up to sooner or later.
I let my head sink back against the soft, squashy pillow.
Saturday morning. I can stay here as long as I like.
Bliss.
Don't cock this up, are you listening?
Stop worrying, Derek. It was their own fault it got sent here. They're not
going to make you walk the plank if I'm a couple of minutes late.
But I did cock it up. First my car broke down, then the ferries were on
strike and I couldn't get to Gosport in time. I wonder how I managed to
worm my way out of that one?
They're a heavy rock band from the States. In case you thought I was a
devil worshipper or something.
Sarky cow. Fabulous tits, mind. Nice arse too.
Well, that's this morning's wrist exercises sorted out. Now where did I
leave the kitchen towel?
Actually I'm Ruth Hansford-Jones these days. I got married last May. He
runs a restaurant over in Warsash.
Ruth who?
Because if you don't, my darling, I'll blow your fucking balls off.
Oh no.
Are you all right, my love? You look a bit peaky, if you don't mind me
saying so.
Tell me it didn't happen.
No need to get your knickers in a twist, darlin'. I was only trying to
help.
Please.
Nice motor, very reliable too. Nothing wrong with the big end - if you get
my drift.
I'll do anything.
Sorry about this. Has to be done, I'm afraid.
Sweet Jesus...
I raise my right arm clear of the counterpane.
Only it's not mine.
It's plump, pale and covered in tiny freckles.
It's a girl's arm.
I'm still trapped in Ruth's body.
This isn't going away.
I'm still a girl.
Cold beads of sweat form on my forehead. I feel like smashing it against
the wall until my brains start leaking from my ears.
Fight it!
I can't. I don't know how.
Then you'd better learn, because you don't know why the fuck Cunningham
brought you here. And whether it was that toerag or someone else who put
you in this bed, not only did they strip you naked first, it looks like
they took your clothes with them. You might whine about being imprisoned
in a girl's body, but at the moment it's all you've got.
Very slowly, I claw back enough self-discipline to take stock of my new
surroundings.
The room is tiny, no more than ten feet square. The only window is set
high in the wall to my left. Most of the floor space is taken up by a tall
aluminium cabinet, a wooden chair and a writing desk. On the back of the
door there's a poster showing two men standing at the summit of a snow-
capped mountain. For some reason this makes me feel slightly less
apprehensive.
Might as well try the handle. It's probably locked, but you never know...
I sit up, my mouth falling open at the sight of the capacious globes
protruding from my chest. This is the first time I've seen my bare
breasts, and it alters my whole outlook. Yesterday they were merely
appendages that might have been bolted onto my torso specifically to cause
me inconvenience; now, watching them move as I breathe in and out, I have
no choice but to recognise that they're as much a part of the entity I
call 'me' as the eyes I'm using to look at them.
I don't think I can deal with this. I know there's nothing inherently
shameful about becoming female, but it's too fundamental a change. A
person's gender is their single most important defining attribute. Until
this ordeal ends - if it ever does - the first thing anyone will notice
about me is that I'm a girl. Nothing else will matter to them remotely as
much.
Fucking hell, here we go again. Call for the violins and pass round the
paper tissues. You have no idea how well this has turned out for you. How
would you feel if Ruth had been fat and ugly? Or it wasn't her who pinched
that machine but a sixty-odd year old geezer with arthritis and false
choppers? What if you were black, and had the prospect of racial prejudice
to add to your troubles?
And while we're at it, a bit more honesty wouldn't come amiss either. It's
not being female that's bothering you so much as the thought of having
joined the opposing side. All those girls you put on a pedestal for so
many years instead of treating them like ordinary human beings, then ended
up despising when they wouldn't go out with an insecure, tongue-tied berk
whose dress sense and general deportment made Albert Steptoe look like the
embodiment of sartorial elegance, and now you're one of them. What's
scaring the pants off you is that you might start to think the way they
did and realise what a sad, inadequate tosser Richard Brookbank really
was.
Perhaps that's true - but it's a harsh lesson that costs a lad his
genitals.
It had to be me, didn't it? Of all the snobs, spoiled brats, bullies,
snivelling tell-tales and violent nutters I grew up with, it had to be me
this happened to.
Appleton.
Sir!
Armstrong.
Sir!
Barker.
Sir!
Bradwell.
Sir!
Brookbank.
Sir!
Brown.
Sir!
All the way down to Watkinson, Wilkins and Young.
Some went to university, others left school with no qualifications at all
and had to earn their corn shovelling shit. Some will live in mansions,
others will rent poky little houses on rough council estates. Some will
rub shoulders with the aristocracy, others will consort with burglars and
drug pushers.
Only one of them managed to get himself turned into a fucking woman.
The door clicks open, and I shrink back against the wall like a rabbit
mesmerised by the roar of an approaching juggernaut.
Not Cunningham.
Please, Lord.
I'll go to church every Sunday. I'll never take your name in vain again.
I'll write hymns.
Just let it be anyone but that cunt.
"Good morning, Richard. I trust you slept well?"
For once my prayer is answered. The speaker is a strikingly attractive
woman in her middle to late thirties. She's wearing a smart black jacket,
a cream silk blouse, a calf-length pleated black skirt and black knee
boots. Her glossy raven hair is cut in a fairly short bob, brushed forward
into a fetching fringe. For a moment or two her exquisitely chiselled
features and alluring, almond-shaped eyes put me in mind of Mademoiselle
Malraux, the Saigon-born French assistant who worked at Westbourne Grammar
School the year I sat my O levels - but of course it can't be her, and in
any case there's no vestige of a foreign accent in that clear, crisp
voice.
"Who are you?" I ask, clutching the quilt to my chest. "Why am I here?"
"My name is Mitsuoko Tatsukichi. You can call me Suki, it's easier to
remember. You're in HMS Nereid on the South Downs, a few miles from
Petersfield. As the base is closed for refurbishment at present, we have
the premises to ourselves. Now we've a busy day ahead of us, so if you
follow me I'll take you to the shower area. I've found you some fresh
clothes, and one or two other bits and pieces that will doubtless come in
handy."
"Why did Cunningham drug me?"
"As a precaution."
"Against what?"
"The device Ruth used on you sends a signal that stimulates a certain
region of the brain to produce natural mood stabilisers called gabba-
aminobutyric acids, or GABA inhibitors as they're sometimes known. They
help to mitigate the psychological shock a transfer inevitably brings on,
but their effectiveness diminishes rapidly after a few hours."
She's talking as if people exchange bodies every day.
"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"
"I'm afraid you haven't been granted the necessary clearance."
Typical of the Navy. They won't give a civilian directions to the nearest
phone box for fear it might be classified information.
"You don't sound very Japanese," I remark sullenly.
"You don't sound very male,"comes the stinging reply. She claps her palms
together. "Any more questions? Good. Well, what are you waiting for? Chop-
chop!"
Yes, miss. Whatever you say, miss. Three bags fucking full, miss.
But an urgent need to use a lavatory ensures my compliance. Wrapping a
sheet around my middle, I swing my feet to the carpet.
Suki leads me through an empty barrack room to a communal latrine block
and promises to return in twenty minutes. I can't let her leave without
asking the question that I must have an answer to, no matter how
unpalatable it turns out to be.
"Can you...I mean, the people you work for...are you going to, you know...?"
"Return you to your original body?"
"Well yeah..."
"I'd advise you not to raise your hopes too high. While we're in the
process of mounting an operation to apprehend Ruth Hansford-Jones with the
aim of placing her under military arrest, the recovery of the device she
stole from us is and will continue to be our uppermost priority. If in
order to achieve that objective we are forced to employ extreme measures,
then you can be certain those measures will be taken."
She doesn't pull any punches, does she?
"You'd kill her?" I gasp.
"It's an eventuality for which you should certainly prepare yourself."
Suki walks away, and as I stare after her the sheet falls from my useless
fingers. I step over it, my cumbersome breasts bouncing and swaying.
This is how it might always be for me.
Every time I move.
Month upon month, year upon year...
No escape but the grave.
They'll find a way to bring her in alive and in one piece. They have to.
Pushing my hair away from my face, I walk towards the line of benches set
against the nearest wall. Here I find two large towels, as well as clean
underwear, a thick-knit fawn jumper and a pair of khaki camouflage
trousers. My leather jacket hangs from the peg directly above, and my
high-heeled ankle boots stand to attention on the tiled floor. Next to
them is a grocery box filled with all manner of toiletries and grooming
aids, everything from shampoo and soap to sticking plaster.
As if I gave a flying fuck.
I just want to go back to bed, close my eyes and pretend that the rest of
the world doesn't exist. Instead I'm expected to function normally, as
though all I had to contend with was a slight head cold.
I reach for my jacket. The cigarettes and matches are still inside. It's
not much of a silver lining, and too much has happened in too short a
space of time for me to hope that it might be a turning point.
The pressure in my bladder reminds me that some tasks have to be seen to
regardless of circumstances. Trying - without very much success - to yank
my eyes away from the womanly curves of my waist and thighs, not to
mention the unmistakeable lack of anything dangling from my crotch, I go
about my ablutions.
*
The mess hall is deserted, apart from the long, Formica-topped table where
Suki Tatsukichi has laid out a breakfast for two of cereal, toast,
marmalade and coffee. I eat sparingly, my appetite dulled both by the
warning I've been given and the intelligent oriental eyes that every so
often glance up from the spiral-bound dossier they're perusing to check on
my progress - as if to make sure that the aberration facing her can
perform such simple tasks as spooning corn flakes into her mouth.
I don't know what she has planned for me, but I doubt if it includes a
tropical island populated exclusively by beautiful young lesbians.
The moment I push my plate to one side, Suki lays the folder flat on the
table. Printed on the front cover is RICHARD ARTHUR BROOKBANK, followed by
a forward slash and an alphanumeric identification code. There's one other
word: BELLADONNA.
"You're not wearing a bra," she observes.
"Yeah, I'm a real slut. Mind if I smoke?"
"Is that because you had difficulty putting it on?"
"Couldn't be bothered, to tell you the truth."
She doesn't get it. She can't understand that slipping my arms through
those straps and fiddling with the hooks at the back would have been acts
of surrender.
"Where's Ruth's wedding ring?" she asks as I light up and inhale, careful
not to take too much back this time.
"It was getting on my tits, so I flushed it down the pan."
She looks horrified.
"What if her husband wants it returned?"
"He should've thought of that before he married a body snatcher." I rest
the cigarette in the saucer, then sit back and cross one sturdy thigh over
the other. "Relax, it's in her bag."
Suki's dark red lips curve in what I suspect is the nearest they ever come
to forming a genuine smile. Evidently my decision not to introduce Ruth's
ring to the twists and turns of the local sewage system has qualified me
for immediate membership of the great sisterhood who'd cut off their own
thumbs rather than deliberately destroy another woman's jewellery.
So much for staying on the outside looking in.
"To business," she says briskly. "How do you feel?"
"What a stupid question. I've been turned into a woman and you ask me how
I feel. Jumping for joy. How the fuck d'you think I feel?"
"I mean in yourself. Any headaches, dizzy spells, that kind of thing?"
"No...uh, should there be?"
"We don't think so. The trials we were able to conduct produced little in
the way of long-term effects."
"Are you saying people actually volunteered to have this done to them?"
"Yes, and you owe them a great deal. Thanks to the data they helped us
collect you've been cleared to undergo the remainder of your adjustment
under my supervision."
"The alternative being...?"
"An exhaustive programme of physical and psychological tests carried out
in an underground laboratory, your movements monitored by closed-circuit
television cameras twenty-four hours a day." She sits forward, her bearing
suddenly more confrontational. "But for better or worse the
responsibility's fallen to me - and part of my remit is to decide how you
can best be of service to us in your current situation."
"You've got a nerve," I laugh. "You stood by and watched Ruth steal my
body, then let her give you the slip. Doesn't matter why, the damage is
done. But the fact remains that you used me. To my mind you lot are every
bit as much to blame for these jugs I've got to carry around with me as
Ruth is. And now you tell me that getting your precious machine back is
more important to you than whether I go back to my original body or stay
stranded in this one. So in view of the fact that you've thrown away your
only bargaining card, what the fuck makes you think I'll lift a finger to
help you?"
The glare radiating from the other side of the table could penetrate a
concrete wall the thickness of a medium-sized county.
"What makes you think you have a choice? Do you really imagine that even
if things turn out favourably we'll allow you to return to your old life,
as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred? Less than fifty people
in the world know of the transfer device. The list includes neither the
Prime Minister of this country nor the President of the United States. To
learn of our organisation is to join it. There's no going back, Richard.
You work for us now. You always will."
She pauses to give her words time to sink in. They absorb my false bravado
like a black hole sucking in light.
"Doing what?" I croak, my voice weaker than a homework excuse.
"Ruth's disappearance presents us with a serious problem. Like her
husband, she was a technician attached to the team responsible for
developing the device - in fact that's how they met. Although Timothy
Hansford-Jones can be relied upon to exercise the utmost discretion, the
Pattison family are under no such obligation. Fairly soon they're going to
start wondering why she hasn't been in touch with them."
"What about my folks? I'm supposed to be in Dorking tomorrow for my mum's
birthday."
"We're aware of that. The matter is being attended to."
"I bet it is."
"Richard, listen to me. You have to trust that we're acting in the best
interests of everyone concerned. Not just those who are directly involved,
but everyone. You've experienced at first hand what this machine can do.
Look me in the eye and tell me you haven't thought about what the
consequences might be if it falls into the hands of a hostile government -
or worse, a terrorist organisation. And what about the panic that would
ensue if its existence became known to the general public? If the
operation to get it back is to have any chance of succeeding - any chance
at all - then it has to be carried out under conditions of extreme
secrecy. Surely I don't need to spell out how vital it is that we avoid
the kind of publicity the search for one missing person will attract, let
alone two."
I feel my eyes narrow. It's a quintessentially feminine trait, but I'm
past caring. I know where this conversation is heading, and I don't like
the scenery one bit.
"You want me to impersonate her, don't you? It's not enough that every
time I look in the mirror I'm going to be faced with the bitch who landed
me in this hole, now I've got to pretend to be her?"
"It's a challenge I'm confident you'll rise to."
"Oh yeah, I can just see myself on Christmas Day, sitting at the table
scoffing turkey and mince pies with a load of relatives I've never met."
"I'm glad to hear it, because that's part of the plan."
My God, she's serious.
I open my mouth to object, but an even more disquieting thought floats in
from the edge of my mind.
"What about the other crowd, the ones Cunningham had to shake off last
night?"
"I saw nothing of that in his report."
"You must've done! The bloke in the Cortina--"
If you look round I'll break your arm.
The lying git.
He knew I'd make less of a fuss if I believed that someone was intent on
ending my life.
The next time I bump into that prick I'll leave him with exactly the same
number of testicles Ruth left me.
Suki reaches into the black leather briefcase at her feet. She takes out a
dossier similar to the one bearing my name, opens it and removes an
assortment of papers.
"Ruth's application form, her Curriculum Vitae and the results of her
background check," she says, passing them across. "You're to study her
biographical details and practise imitating her handwriting and signature.
You shouldn't have too many problems."
"Oh? Any particular reason?"
"The device is currently configured so that only the episodic, or
conscious memory is imprinted. By that I mean the--"
"Hold on a minute. Are you saying that subconsciously I'm Ruth?"
"Your mind has access to Richard Brookbank's unique personal history up to
the moment of the transfer." She pats the top of her head. "Everything
else that goes on in here was unaffected."
"I don't know if I like the sound of that. What's the bottom line? Am I
going to take on her personality as well?"
"Some aspects of it, yes. Most of her habits, tastes and preferences will
eventually become yours. More importantly, your body has retained the
skills and abilities it acquired from early childhood onwards."
"Like knowing how to ride a bike?"
"That's right. In layman's terms, if Ruth was good at something then so
are you. Or rather you have the aptitude for it. Had you exchanged bodies
with a world-class soprano, you'd have her voice - but you'd still need
hundreds of hours of training before you were ready to perform in front of
an audience."
"Is that why I've got her accent?"
"And quite a few of her mannerisms as well. With the right coaching you'll
be able to pull the wool over her family's eyes for as long as you want.
But at this stage all we require of you is a letter. In it you'll explain
that your marriage has broken down irretrievably, and that as a
consequence you've resigned your position with the Ministry of Defence and
gone away somewhere in an attempt to put the pieces of your life back
together. We'll work on the exact wording over the next day or two."
"A bit impersonal, isn't it? Won't they think it's strange that she didn't
at least phone them?"
"Not necessarily. Ruth's parents never approved of Tim. I think it's fair
to say that at the moment she isn't on the best of terms with them. And
they know very well that she isn't the type to run home in tears and admit
they were right about him all along."
"So I forge a letter. Then what?"
"We've your placement to consider. But first there's the adjustment
process I spoke of. You're clearly uncomfortable with the idea of being
female, and that has to change. You may have to spend a considerable
amount of time as Ruth, possibly the rest of your life."
I'm visited by an unwelcome vision of my body jerking about like a puppet
as bullets tear into it from every point of the compass.
The only letter I should be writing is to Jimmy Savile.
Fix this fucker, Jim.
*
Twenty to three on a Saturday afternoon.
I ought to be in the Brewers Arms with Graham and the rest of the squad,
sinking a last pint of HSB before beginning the short walk to Fratton Park
for the FA Cup tie against Northampton. With Pompey lying fifth in the
table, unbeaten at home after losing to Bradford City on the opening day
of the season, and a crowd of between twelve and fifteen thousand creating
an atmosphere most opposition players at this level have never
experienced, a thumping victory is all but assured.
I should be there, cheering the lads on. It's part of my life.
Instead I'm standing on a gravel forecourt outside a two-storey country
house, watching the wintry sunshine gradually weaken, taking tentative
drags from a Winston and trying not to grimace at the red stain my painted
lips have deposited on the filter.
How the fuck did it come to this?
Less than five hours have elapsed since Suki Tatsukichi drove me the few
hundred yards from HMS Nereid to Hayden Hall in her light blue Austin
Allegro. In that time I've been given a thorough indoctrination into some
of the more esoteric aspects of my new role as one of the fairer sex. I
now know what foundation and blusher are for, and where to apply them. I'm
alert to the benefits of moisturising cream. I've discovered which colours
complement my hair and skin tones, and which ones clash with them. I can
look at a photograph of a female celebrity in a magazine and judge whether
her choice of accessories tends towards elegance or ostentation. I
understand what the terms '38D' and 'matching separates' mean. I've added
words such as popsock, fascinator, slingback, choker and basque to my
vocabulary. The only thing I haven't been able to grasp is why women put
up with all this shit in the first place.
I finish my cigarette and let it fall to the ground, then crush it with my
heel. Behind me, a wide lawn dips from a paved terrace towards a thick
belt of mixed woodland. It's an idyllic setting, but one I won't have the
chance to enjoy for very much longer. Soon I'll be back in Belvedere
House, which Suki has earmarked as our headquarters while my tuition
continues apace.
I'm sick of the sight of her now. What will I feel like after a couple of
weeks stuck in the same flat as her?
More to the point, who will I feel like? Just because I've got a slit
between my legs and boobs threatening to burst out of my jumper doesn't
mean I'm suddenly a different person. I realise I'm a girl now and it'll
make life a lot easier if I start thinking and behaving as one, but under
all this powder and paint I'm still me.
And I'd like it to stay that way.
"Give me a hand with these things, would you?"
Suki is standing in the entrance hall beside half a dozen large suitcases.
Closer inspection reveals that one of them is a folded-up camp bed.
No prizes for guessing which of us will be using it.
"What are we going to do for furniture and stuff?" I ask her as I pick up
the nearest of the cases and struggle outside with it.
"It's being delivered as we speak. Tim will be bringing over most of
Ruth's belongings this evening. He's also agreed to put together a
detailed account of their time together, including a list of her likes,
dislikes and other personal habits. Don't worry, I'll make quite sure the
two of you don't meet."
"Is that for my sake or his?"
"I think he's suffered enough, don't you?"
That gives me pause for thought. It seems mine isn't the only life to have
been turned upside down, back to front and inside out by what happened
yesterday afternoon.
When the last of the luggage has been stowed in the Allegro's boot I push
back my fringe and wipe the perspiration from my forehead. Some things
never change: if I was kidnapped by slave traders and sold into a sultan's
harem I can guarantee there'd still be shifting to do.
Suki lifts a set of keys from her bag.
"Hard work, isn't it?" she says. "That's what comes of having a higher
fat-to-muscle ratio. Men have their uses, even in this day and age."
"How very liberated of you," I sniff.
"Oh, and from this moment on I'll be calling you 'Ruth'. As far as you or
I, or indeed anyone we meet is concerned, that's who you are. Now run a
comb through your hair before we set off, there's a good girl."
I clench my fists, then leap into action. Something inside me has snapped,
and I'm unable to contain my fury. Frothing at the mouth, I pull Suki back
by the shoulder. She reels away from me, but my fingers are already
entwined in her hair. Then it's my turn to stagger backwards - and when I
see what I'm holding, my legs give way completely.
Suki crouches to retrieve her wig. My lips part, not so much at the pale
skin visible through the patchy stubble covering her scalp but the row of
small, perfectly circular scars running from the centre of her forehead to
her crown and beyond to the nape of her neck. Then I notice her eyebrows,
each of which is adorned by a dozen or more tiny black gemstones.
"What happened to you?" I gasp.
"That is a story I shall never tell." She smooths the strands down from
the lattice they're tied to, then fits the wig back in place. "Now if
you're quite finished taking out your frustrations on me, we have
provisions to get in."
I lever myself up from the gravel and follow her to the car.
You work for us now. You always will.
A life sentence.
To run concurrently with the unstipulated term I'll spend locked in the
prison of a female body.
And although I feel as if I've been behind bars for a decade or more, I
know that my incarceration has only just begun.
Oprah
- 11.04.2020
- 8
- 0
The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank part 2
- 3 years ago
- 10
- 0
The Transmigration Of Richard Brookbank part 3
- 3 years ago
- 7
- 0
