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Foreword Once upon a time I published "Ten Months for Olga Turlovna", an autobiography that described my experiences on an ill-fated airline flight known as 252. As the aircraft was shaken apart by brutal turbulence, we were each engulfed in an intense expanding ball of white light, brighter than the sun. I expected to die along with all the other passengers, but we were destined for something far stranger. A touch from this sphere transferred our spirits into new bodies, peppering souls randomly across the globe with no concern for our ages or our sex. Many passengers had their gender changed by the transition, and I was one of them. I boarded 252 as an ageing unhappy salesman, but awoke to a new life inside a stunning Ukrainian beauty named Olga Turlovna. A fresh start as a seventeen year old girl should have been a dream come true, better than nirvana, but before I could have fun with my new body I was (literally) dragged into Olga's world as a victim of sex trafficking, working against my will inside a south London brothel. Only after I survived weeks of captivity in a whore's body; a painful love affair and a rough ride at the hands of the tabloids, was I was finally free to enjoy some happiness, re-united with my soul mate. I finished Ten Months' by describing how all knowledge of the Flight 252 air disaster was quietly suppressed by a conspiracy of world governments. Newspaper and TV news records were altered; websites on 252 were quietly closed; people were paid off. The truth was a state secret, and I had no explanation for what happened to me. My last roll of the dice was to try posting my autobiography on a transgender website, telling as if it were nothing more than a fictional story, hoping the location would lure other survivors who changed gender, all the while avoiding the attention of government. "Ten Months for Olga Turlovna" is still there, and when they found my story other survivors tracked me down, detailing their own experience. I was no longer alone. This is the account given to me by another soul coming to terms with their gender switch. The exotic sounding Olesia Potoskaya, in public a twenty-six year old Russian pianist, in private a strict dominatrix, found herself transferred by the events of Flight 252 into Adam Silver, a thirty year old man from north London. You're about to read the testament to a strong, spirited woman coming to terms with her new identity living as a dominant man. Female-to-male stories seem to be less popular out there in transgender-land, so for the male-to-female fans I'd better reassure you there's plenty enough of that in here too if you have the patience, and my own male-to-female story is picked up later on. Adam takes his time with his tale, and it's not the happiest piece of erotic literature, so those of you searching this website for the stories with "I looked down and the first thing I saw was a massive pair of tits" - sorry, this probably isn't the one for you. For those of you who were generous enough to read "Ten Months for Olga Turlovna" and wanted to know more, here are some answers. Olga Turlovna. Part 1 - Flight 252 1 - Morning What would you all do if you found out it was the last day of your life? You'll probably your final moments for something special. You would spend it with your family; smell the flowers; go out somewhere beautiful; eat the most fattening unhealthy food in your favourite restaurant; just hang out with the people that mean the most to you. Hardly anyone would use the precious time to do something negative - telling someone you always hated what you think, or punching the boss. High on most lists would be spending our remaining time making love, so I was lucky to begin the last day for Olesia Potoskaya like that. Everything about her final morning seems so perfect when I think back, that it was like a gift to me, a midsummer celebration before I entered the darkness of autumn. It's still so vivid in my memory. Awareness began naked under a beautifully soft white duvet, my head on a clean crisp pillow and a man's arm supportively underneath. The room where I lay was lit as exquisitely as an impressionist painting, with sunlight dappling through the low window blind to make pointillist spots on the wall. I was in London, and it was going to be a beautiful day. After stretching as luxuriantly as a lioness, I rolled onto my side and looked at my lover Daniel, serene on his back despite the spread-eagled position he was in, his eyes closed. I had to smile at his recumbent form. I'd never been to bed with a man who slept anything like as heavily as he did - I could have set his flat on fire, and he would never have noticed. Daniel had celebrated his fortieth birthday the year before, but it didn't matter to me that he was nearly fifteen years older than I was and his hair was turning grey. I followed our national trait in this respect - Russian women prefer the assured older man to the insecure, aggressive attitude of the younger guy trying to prove himself to the world. He was, as the Americans would say, like, totally my type. I was the kind of girl who would prefer to be found as the mistress of a successful professional than playing the motorcycle rebel riding behind James Dean, so it had been easy to let myself be seduced by the older, charming Daniel. I enjoyed his body almost as much as I did his personality. He had kept himself in good physical shape over the years. When I looked at him I could almost forget the shadow clouding over all this perfect morning - there was my ideal guy, and the one that Olesia Potoskaya finally had feelings for was her least likely relationship to succeed. I pushed the worries for our future out of my head. I was feeling mischievous, so I ducked my head under the duvet and started working my way quietly down the length of the mattress towards the foot of the bed. I had wide hips, and I looked particularly female lying on my side, like the painting of the Rokeby Venus. Daniel was also nude under the covers - we'd both slept naked, exhausted, and as I moved along I admired his toned form with a self-satisfied smile. This man was all mine. I stopped when my head was at the level of his groin, and with one hand I pushed my mane of straight, dark hair away from my face. I was due to leave the UK later in the day - I never had as much time with Daniel as I'd like, but I was going to make sure he wouldn't forget me while we were apart. In front of me, his cock rested on a fan of pubic hair the colour of straw. The penis can be a beautiful thing, guys, learn to love yours. His legs were apart - in fact he was sleeping with his limbs extended in an "X" shape, so his prick was presented perfectly for me. Inert, it rose vertically from the base to lie limply to one side. Daniel's organ was longer than average for a man, but it was his girth that really made the difference. I studied the intimate flesh with comfortable familiarity. He had been circumcised in early childhood, and the domed tip, shaped like an antique soldier's helmet, was pinker than his tan coloured shaft. It was that tip of him that I kissed first, keeping my lips soft and offering the gentlest of touches, and I had the pleasure of seeing his member reacted instantly to me. There was just the slightest twitch at that brief first contact, but I kissed him again and again, watching as his organ began to swell in response to my tender caresses. He had already grown semi-erect when Daniel groaned and showed the first signs of consciousness. As he slowly expanded I took more and more of him into my mouth, until I was surrounding the head of him with my lips, pushing my tongue against the contoured frenulum on the underside to increase his stimulation. Like a premonition, for an instant I wondered what the stimulation felt like for him, for a man, and how it compared to the sensations a woman experiences from her clit. Was the sensation of being enclosed like that more profound than the one of being filled? On that sunny morning I believed in all human experience, no-one would ever know, so I dismissed it and my thoughts returned to my present. The pace of Daniel's breathing quickened and became irregular, telling me he was fully awake. In human beings the mind is a more powerful aphrodisiac than any physical stimulation, and Daniel hardened more rapidly once he was conscious enough to understand what was happening to him. By then I too was aroused; I'm not ashamed to admit. Actually arousal doesn't describe it - I was wet with the anticipation of what was coming to me. There's nothing wrong with a woman enjoying good sex, so don't be judgemental to me. I saw one of his thighs tense when I licked the contoured underside of the head, as if the stimulation was too pleasurable to bear, and Daniel had tried to draw his limb in. Of course nothing happened - he had wanted to experience sleeping in his bonds, so I'd left his wrists and ankles tied by the ropes to the corners of the bed, and he was still completely helpless. His bedsheet draped over me like a tent. Under the canopy I continued to fellate him until he had grown completely rigid. Daniel's penis was warm in my mouth, hotter than the rest of his body. It responded to me like it was a thing alive, completely separate to Daniel, and more under my control than his. I loved that I was capable of arousing him so much - it makes a girl feel beautiful and powerful when she has an effect like that on a man. "Mistress," he moaned, in a voice heavy with adoration and lust. Occasionally and deliberately I'd let my teeth touch his flesh - never to hurt him, just to let him know he was in my power, and I could have harmed him if I wished. Fellatio might be the most ancient act of woman serving man, but Daniel must never forget that I was the dominant one, not him. That was all fine with my roped lover - he liked nothing more than being helpless to a woman, and he just adored the sensation of being in the restraints she had tied. He couldn't keep his body still, writhing to feel the hold of the ropes on him constantly; struggling for stimulation rather than escape. We'd agreed his limits carefully before I bound him, and as he didn't give his signal I knew this was entirely consensual. Daniel's cock was engorged by then. I debated bringing him to orgasm in my mouth, perhaps drawing the release without him being able to stop me, but as the dominant partner my pleasure was the more important. So I moved upwards, lips abandoning his penis just for a while and planting a series of kisses up the centre of his torso. The fine curled hair of his chest brushed my face. For most of my short journey I kept low enough to drag my nipples against his skin, but once I reached his collarbone I sat up, flinging the sheet back, and laughing as I flipped one of my long legs over his body to straddle him. Between my spread thighs his cock pointed straight upwards, the vertical shaft resting against my lower abdomen. It was so close against me that it looked as if the penis was part of my body, not his, and for a second time that morning I imagined I was the man. I leaned forward still further so my abdomen pushed his cock past the upright, angling it back towards his own belly. The pressure from the head of him against me grew firmer and firmer - unyielding. My dark hair hung down around my face like a curtain, framing my view. I saw his eyes pleading to me, his biceps stretching as if he was trying to reach out and toy with my breasts. "Do you want me?" I asked him coyly. My understanding of English was perfect, but I'd never managed to loose the Russian accent and it sounded heavy and exotic, even in my own ears. "Oh yes..." he whispered, "Please, I want you Mistress." "Then beg me to fuck you," I commanded. "Say 'please fuck me, Mistress'. You must beg so hard that I believe you mean it. If it's not good enough I'm getting off this bed, and leaving you to go soft. You'll have to jerk off when I'm on the plane." Daniel probably knew I wanted this almost as much as him, but he loved playing the submissive role. "Please fuck me, Mistress," he pleaded, as humbly as he could. "Not good enough." I shook my head and moved as if to dismount, and he strained, begging more desperately, "Oh please, please, fuck this slave, Mistress." So I smiled nonchalantly, feigning taking time to consider, and then tensing the muscles of my thighs I lifted my pelvis over the tip of him. Relaxing slightly, I lowered my hips just enough to feel his head touching my vulva, teasing him to the very last moment that I might not consent. There was barely any physical contact between our genitals, but for me, even that small area of pressure between my nether lips was deliciously thrilling. Oh I wanted him in me so much. But I still took my time to adjust my position, feeling his tip drag against me in the most intimate way, until he was located perfectly. Only then did I give in and release the tension in my legs, sinking down so in a fraction of a second he'd already penetrated deeply into me, spearing into my wetness. I enclosed him like a glove. Of all the men I'd been with, there wasn't another whose size suited me as well as Daniel did. It was like our bodies had been made for each other, like we were meant to be together forever. Slowly and rhythmically I began to move up and down on him, first raising my torso almost enough to withdraw completely, so my sex only just surrounded his mushroom-shaped crown, and then dropping quickly back down until my weight was resting on his pelvis. This dance-like movement wasn't strenuous for me - with my young woman's stamina, I could have carried on for hours. I did start to gasp before long, yes, but my moans were from pleasure, not exertion. One of the only negatives of tying someone up is that they can't touch you, and I like to feel hands on me. Keeping my balance as I rode up and down, I had to reach for my own breasts to pull at my nipples, dragging them out towards him. "So beautiful," Daniel whispered, making me flush with pleasure. I wasn't particularly proud of my tits - no woman is happy with her body, and I wished I'd been made a bit bigger there. But being a full time concert pianist is more strenuous than you might imagine, and the exertion of work combined with frequent fitness classes meant I'd lost weight and shrunk from the more buxom "C" cup of my late teens down to a "B", when I'd entered my twenties. Luckily for me Daniel seemed to worship my breasts. I looked down my body for a moment, and I could see my familiar physique that looked more like a ballerina's than a musician's. I was toned, but still womanly, appearing like a female endurance athlete. Naked or clothed, I would never be mistaken for a man - my sex organs and the width of my hips instantly showed me as feminine. I had large, noticeable nipples, and down at the apex of my legs an inch-wide stripe of neatly trimmed dark pubic hair pointed like an arrow to my pussy. If I leant forward then between my tensed thighs, I could see the rod of his organ poling in and out of me as I rose and fell, joining our bodies. The view of me being penetrated sent a further erotic thrill coursing through me, adding to the physical pleasure from each thrust. Daniel would move constantly while we made love, something else I liked about him. He was much better than the subs I'd bedded who lay inert in the ropes and expected me to do all the work. He could be inventive. So while I rocked up and down on Daniel, slowly increasing the pace of my movements as we mutually climbed the curve towards orgasm, he tried to steer his pelvis to maximise my pleasure, hips going in counterpoint to my own. By then the stimulation from our lovemaking was so intense for me that by then I moaned with each thrust we made, expressing partly my overwhelming physical joy, but also vocalising the need in me for more - more, more, more. My emotions battled - I wanted him to go on forever, but I also wanted the knowledge that I'd made him release, ecstasy controlled under my terms. Everything in life is brief though, including intimacy. I knew Daniel wouldn't be able to sustain this level of arousal, and he must have known it too, because he started to gasp, "Please Mistress, I want to cum." I wanted my orgasm before it was too late, so I left my nipples and reached down to massage my clitoris. Daniel obligingly tried to slow his pace - he was a modern man, and I think it was as important for him to see me climax as it was for me to give him an orgasm, but I was enjoying my rhythm too much to slow. When I touched that sacred part of me I cried out, noisily. If I'd thought the stimulation was intense before caressing my clit, the pleasure when I pulled there took me to a whole new level. Daniel's face looked strained now, and his whole body was beginning to stiffen. He was gasping, trying to hold back. The muscles in his arms and legs were bunched. Rhythmically I moved up and down, up and down, the tempo faster and faster, moaning a little with each inward thrust of his meat inside me. I was slick with my own juices, and he slid against my inner walls easily. Despite my physical fitness, a light sheen of sweat was starting to bead on my skin. I was ready for him to release. "It's okay, baby, let yourself go," I said, hearing my high voice sounding strained and thick with lust. With his Mistress's permission, only seconds later Daniel groaned and went rigid. His tensed hips almost lifted us from the bed, his penis gave a slight pulse inside my body, and I knew with satisfaction he'd reached orgasm. If you read much erotic fiction describing this intimate moment (usually written by men), it would say something about the woman feeling him "jet inside her". Every woman is different, but that was never my experience. So I sensed the movement of Daniel's penis during orgasm rather than felt his seed, but it was enough. Only seconds later I climaxed as well, unable to prevent myself crying out so loudly that the people in the next-door flats would be able to hear. Wave after wave of pleasure washed through me. I closed my eyes, throwing my head so far back that the ceiling was before my eyes, but I saw only spheres of burning white. My body had tensed up, spine arched, and I gripped his torso tightly between my thighs. On my final morning this was the most perfect moment in life, the blissful high of orgasm so precious because it's so short-lived. Then the instant was gone forever, into the past. Simultaneously, we relaxed. Daniel laid still, limp on the bed, and I let my head fall forward. Hair clung to my damp skin. I was panting as if I'd just finished an endurance race, and Daniel was also breathing heavily. We were both laughing, at the intensity of the experience. He was still hard inside me, large and deep, and I never wanted him to withdraw. "I love you Olesia," he blurted out then, using my full name without any warning, and before I knew what I was thinking, I'd automatically replied, "I love you too." Victory. 2 - Warning I started chapter one with a question, and I have another - do you believe in fate, or destiny? Do you believe that an event in your future is inevitable? I don't necessarily mean in a spiritual way, like the will of God, or Karma, and I don't mean the way that two people might me meant to be together, or meant to be apart. I'm asking if there is a physical means where the future can influence the present. My reason for this is because, sitting in Daniel's lounge a little while after we'd had sex; I experienced something almost supernatural. Daniel had drifted back into sleep, released from his bonds, and I was up alone in his sitting room. I was still naked. Unlike many women I didn't feel uncomfortable with my body, and I liked the sense of freedom that came with moving around while nude. In my apartment in St Petersburg, I would often spend an entire day at home without dressing. There at Daniels, while my flesh still tingled with the aftermath of orgasm, hypersensitive, I could feel every touch of the air on me. The carpet was soft under my feet, the atmosphere drifted over my skin, my hair brushed against my back. I was still a little aroused. The apartment was completely silent while I moved around. The Spartan theme of Daniel's nearly-empty bedroom continued through to the lounge. There were simple white sofas, a large flatscreen TV, some almost bare shelves, and a glass topped coffee table. This emptiness wasn't surprising to me - the flat was merely a crash-pad, a pied-?-terre for him to sleep in while he worked in London. I knew his true home was many miles away, off in the western part of the country. I shifted restlessly round the room, fingering the objects, looking out the window. It was normal for me to feel emotional after intercourse, an illogical combination of joy and wanting to cry, a sense of power and vulnerability. During the session on the bed I'd been the domme - a powerful, beautiful woman, who had been fulfilled by sex entirely on her terms. But how ever much I was in charge I always felt irrationally used afterwards. They got their rocks off, whatever restrictions I imposed on the encounter. The language and terminology of the world make women feel like the exploited ones - you normally hear 'he fucked her', 'she got fucked' and not the other way round. We can never forget that it's us have to carry the babies. Even more complex feelings warred within me that morning. The briefcase on the coffee table was a focal point for my internal conflict, so I glared at it. Made from distinctive bright red leather, and printed with a gold crest, only one kind of briefcase in all the UK looked like this. It was the dispatch box of a government minister, used to transport state secrets between departments. In the next room, the owner of the case, junior defence minister, Daniel Tristan de Toyen, Member of Parliament, slept on. The clasps of the briefcase were even left open, pointing at me like accusing fingers. All I'd have to do would be to flip the lid open and I'd be able to see what was inside. Daniel would never know. But I didn't open it. I quickly padded barefoot across to the full length window. Daniel's was an executive flat, and a balcony offered a spectacular view over the river Thames. An open-top tourist barge moved upstream, leaving a wide triangular wake of white foam behind it. Anyone with binoculars looking up from the boat could have enjoyed a surprise a full-frontal view of a naked young woman, but I thought it unlikely someone would glance this way. I was equally visible to the flats on the other side of the river, but there also, without a telescope trained on the window where I stood, a voyeur would only see a distant blur. I stood on tiptoe, stretching like a dancer. It was then I heard it for the first time - the sound so loud and so close it seemed to be right in my ears. There was a burst of static, like from a CB radio, and the voice crackled, "Echo six, echo six, confirm your location." I looked around, confused. What the hell was that? I wondered if it could it be the ringtone of a phone. Perhaps sampled from a TV series, or some similar cultural reference I didn't know, where 'Echo six' was a famous line from a cult movie. Or maybe Daniel had left some kind of office walkie-talkie in here? But before I could find its origin, the sound had gone. I dismissed it immediately, but after a pause of only seconds, it repeated, "Echo six, echo six, confirm your location." Yet again the sound was too fast to locate. It seemed to come from everywhere, or even inside my head. I stood stock still, nude, in complete silence for nearly a minute, waiting to see if the sound would repeat a third time, but there was nothing more. So I turned from the viewing window. Sitting down on the sofa with my bare knees together, I stared again at the dispatch case - a Russian woman left alone in front of those British ministerial secrets. An English slang phrase ran through my head - "honey trap". Just now, tied to the bed, Daniel called me "Mistress", but that was something we kept for our private moments. The rest of the time he was much more familiar in his address to me. "Honey-trap" had been my public nickname, a mocking suggestion that I was on a mission from the Russian government, sent as some kind of temptress to seduce him and hiding behind my official profession of concert pianist. In a way, it was a compliment, implying that I was pretty enough to be employed in such a role. But I hadn't taken the teasing well - it had brought about the closest we'd had to a disagreement, when he'd introduced me as that in front of a group of civil servants. The name made me feel like a whore, suggesting I'd screw someone just for my country. There were other titles he used as well - Babushka, Ola, 'Lesia, whenever he wasn't tied up it was always a diminutive version of my name, and only in the bonds would he call me mistress. I accepted that everyone has their flaws, and I'd been willing to swallow my irritation. This morning had felt like a breakthrough, when for the first time, he'd called me Olesia. You can picture the scene. It was the last morning of my life, and there was Olesia, the "honey-trap", a pretty young dark-haired Russian woman naked on the sofa of Britain's defence minister, in front of an unguarded dispatch box. This plot from a John Le Carre novel I could fulfil so easily, just by stretching out and lifting opening the case. Would the contents say 'Top Secret', like in the movies? If I was a spy, now was my moment. But Daniel had told me he loved me, and he called me Olesia. I was sticky between my legs, and I wanted a shower before my flight. So I stood up, and walked through to the bathroom to wash myself, with my emotions no clearer. 3 - Lounge Seeing as I've decided to tell you this history of my transition, I'm going to make you listen while I correct a few misconceptions about life as a dominatrix. Lots of ordinary women have dominant natures -maybe even more than men, because it comes from our maternal instinct, manifested as an instinct to mentor and nurture you all. But you'll never realise that the woman passing you in the street would like to see you kneeling at her feet, serving her every need, and that's because we don't all walk round in black PVC catsuits with knee high boots during the day. That's domme fact number one - no PVC. And have you tried wearing a catsuit? They're sweaty, and pray you don't need to pee. Black is out for most of us too. (Domme fact number two there). Usually I like to wear bright colours, but I admit on the day of 252 I was wearing skin-tight black leggings. Don't judge me - I knew I had shapely thighs and a nice rump, and I liked the way I looked in the dark, figure-hugging fabric. I had high heels on as well for my journey to the airport - another part of the dominatrix uniform, but these were sandals, not boots. To complete your mental picture of Olesia Potoskaya that morning, my top was loose fitting, to keep me cool on the warm day, and it was a white top, not black. I had forgotten all about the mysterious sound by the time I'd left Daniel's apartment, but as I waited to check in at Heathrow airport a couple of hours later, I experienced it again, loud and buzzing right in my ears. "Echo six, echo six - confirm your location." Once I heard that noise inside the terminal, it was much more disturbing. Back it Daniel's lounge, I had been able to find reasons for what I heard - a phone ringtone or hidden radio, but once the sound appeared to be moving around with me, it made things different. Was it in my head? The other people in the checking line were showing no reaction, so I wondered if I was going mad. A couple of places in front of me, facing the desk, a businessman in a bright yellow shirt was keeping everyone waiting. His bag, like him, was overweight, and he'd got to the front of the line before thinking about finding his passport. I wished they'd hurry up - I had an unpleasant task to complete before I could relax for the flight, and I wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible. I checked in for Flight 252, and was routinely stamped through passport control, and out of the United Kingdom. They asked a lot of questions to a Russian coming into the country, but leaving was easy. My bag was x-rayed, and for the last time in her life, Olesia Potoskaya was in a departure hall. In an age when most of the population has a mobile, the most secure way to call someone is still the payphone. Wireless calls can be monitored, a person's house can be bugged, but a payphone selected at random and without a thought - almost impossible. I searched for a booth. The airport had tried to appeal to the tourist in choosing its payphones, so I found myself in a call box of the famous British design, red with glass windows. I dialled a complicated series of numbers - PIN codes so a remote person would pick up the charges, and I spoke in fluent Russian when the call was answered. "Control," a businesslike man's voice said. He's voice was soft against the background crackle, which gave an impression of him being far away. "I'm in the airport," I said, "I'm on my way," That information was not of interest to them. "Did you see inside the case?" he asked. My mind flashed back for a moment, to Daniel saying, "I love you Olesia," and my instinctive reply, "I love you too". "It was locked," I lied into the receiver, "but I'm making progress. He's starting to trust me. Perhaps one more visit will be enough." "Return and report," Control commanded, and immediately the line went dead. We were instructed to never speak for more than thirty seconds when dialling through to our superiors. I stared at the silent receiver in my hand for a moment, before hanging it back on the cradle. Then I pushed open the door of the booth, and walked slowly back down the departure hall. I thought about how my life had become such a mess. If only I truly was a cold bitch and didn't have feelings for Daniel, the task for my government would have been simple. But even a femme fatale is a human being. Perhaps that's why I hated being called "honey trap" by him. Teasing hurts most, when it's the truth. If only there was a way I could walk away from all this, starting a new life as someone else, but still get to see Daniel. A Russian never leaves working for Control, though. There's nowhere in the world they wouldn't have traced me eventually. I bought a fashion magazine, wanting something inane to distract myself. A classical music magazine had a picture of me on the front, vigorously playing a Steinway while dressed in a full length evening gown, but I didn't pick it up. I took my purse from a Dolce and Gabbana handbag Daniel had given me, and considered phoning him. There was nothing I could say, so I switched the mobile phone off instead. Just before I had to leave his apartment I'd woken Daniel again, and he'd got up to make me coffee. "It's been nice, you being in the UK for a while," he began, sounding downhearted. "I'll rather miss you when you've gone." As soon as he was released from the ropes we resumed our normal roles. He was a government minister - strong, a natural leader. He was able to discuss things that were difficult in that old-fashioned way he had, using words like 'rather' from 50 years ago. "I'll try to be back as soon as I can," I assured him. "My agent will look for more performances here." He took a breath then, and said, "You know if you can find something permanent in England, I don't mind you staying in the flat." I felt myself blushing as I understood the implication. Was he actually asking me to move in? "Think about it while you're away," he continued. "Somehow, I'd like to take this relationship further." Well I did think about it. I'd thought about almost nothing else since I'd left for the airport, and I knew it would stay at the front of my mind for a long time. So much possibility - a whole new life with Daniel could be within my reach. The touch of his goodbye kiss was still on my lips. I tried to picture the happy scenes - me on his arm in public, quiet domestic evenings cooking at home, walking out of a church in a white bridal dress. I could see myself in a society photo magazine, "MP Daniel de Toyen and his wife Olesia, the concert pianist, invite you to their country home". I almost got up to call him, but I wasn't sure what to say. "I love you and I'll move in," is what I wanted to tell him. I didn't know it was my final morning, so I told myself to sit down and read until my head was clear. The departure lounge was crowded with people, and I had to thread a way between two crowded rows of seats to find an empty space. So for those of you who remember "Ten Months for Olga Turlovna", it was at this point I inched in front of the salesman who was staring at my ass, the one who ended up being transformed into Olga. In Olga's autobiography, there is a flatteringly lengthy description of how my backside looked in the black leggings I was wearing. I'd love to be able to reciprocate with a description of the man watching me, to return his attention and describe whether I found him attractive or not, but I'm afraid I don't remember him at all. Men desired me all the time - it's a part of life when you're female, young, and reasonably good looking, and attention was so common that I rarely even noticed their glances. I sat to read my magazine, and didn't know someone was watching me, lustfully wondering when I'd last been fucked. At least you know the answer to that question now, Olga. Before I knew it I was on the flight, leaving so much unfinished in England. I was sat near the back of the aircraft on Flight 252. I have learnt since that Olga's place was up near the front somewhere. Correction - it was the man who became Olga on the aircraft, but now I know her so well, I can't help thinking of them as the same. I had the seat against the window, which meant the man sitting on the aisle had to get up for me. His hair was dark and silver, the combination sometimes called "salt and pepper". He was very gentlemanly, inclining his head as he beckoned me into position. I approved of his attitude. Meanwhile the flight attendant was prattling away over the tannoy. The flight was full, they told us. One hundred and sixty eight souls were on board, including the four crew members. I'd been planning to spend my time on the plane visualising my way through a difficult Rachmaninov piece I was due to perform in two weeks, but the grey haired man started talking to me almost immediately, and after a couple of minutes I knew he wasn't going to let me get any peace. I couldn't decide if he was trying to flirt with me, or if it was just friendly conversation, but either way I didn't really care. He asked about everything - where I was from (Ekaterinburg, Russia, but I have an apartment in St Petersburg); what I did for a living, and finally he asked me, did I have a boyfriend? He probably noticed my moment of hesitation before I answered that I did, his name was Daniel, and he worked for the UK government. The man looked a little disappointed when he heard that. Did he seriously think I might be interested in him? But I'll never know, unless we meet in our new lives. I'd noticed he'd flicked his eyes down to admire my legs once or twice, but I'd chosen the tight leggings, so I had kinda asked for that. The airplane gave a bounce. No problem - it was just some turbulence. Our seats were cramped so I stretched my arms out and down between my knees, squeezing my breasts together. I turned the interrogation back to asking about his life. It was something we'd been trained to do until it became instinctive - to politely get information in a conversation and reveal as little as possible about ourselves, without the person being too aware they were giving more than they received. It's also a domme trait - the subs are more open, and braver, so I was a natural at clamming up. This man was a seller of drinks bottles, on his way to a meeting with a customer, and he was a fan of classical music. He was enough of an aficionado to have recognised my name. By then I'd resigned myself to talking to for the whole flight. I would be talking to him for the rest of my life - about three minutes duration. There was a series of further jolts from the plane, and the alarm to fasten seat belts rang out. Our conversation was about the piano, rather than my finding out about him. The man was good at this. I considered being rude and telling him I wanted to read. There was a violent jolt then. A couple of people gasped, but my companion chuckled. "I've never seen turbulence like this before," he said. It wasn't the worst I had seen. I remembered a flight over the Ural Mountains in an ancient Tupolev transport plane on my way to be trained. No way was I going to talk about that. The plane shook even more severely. There was no way this could be turbulence - it felt like we were being shaken the way a dog shakes a rat. I started to feel scared. Someone screamed. I held the arms of my seat tightly as the aircraft vibrated, pushing my back into the padding as if this would somehow help me stay in place. I heard a cracking noise, only just audible over the tortured sound of the engines, like the static around electricity pylons, and then near the front of the plane an intensely bright ball of light erupted into life. It was accompanied by a singing noise like a choir, almost loud enough to hurt my ears. Over my imminent terror, the musician nature of me still noticed it was a dissonant interval, the famous "devil's chord" that monks were once forbidden from using in music. When the Russian government trained me how to seduce, how to break people, we learnt that such a thin barrier keeps civilised people from becoming animals. In the next few seconds of the flight that barrier broke and anarchy set in. People were trying to get out of their seats and move back down the plane, desperate to get further away from the light. A man moving down the aisle punched the person obstructing him out the way, before both were thrown onto the ceiling by an intense movement of the aircraft. The next movement flung them back to the floor. The man who had been punched struck his head on a seat and was knocked unconscious. It wasn't a lucky day for him. There was to be no escape from the effects of the sphere. It was already expanding, one meter, two meters, four meters. The sphere of light, plasma blue, was far too intense to look at except at the very edges of the circle where I could see a glowing corona. The passengers nearest the ball had already been engulfed. I could feel the heat radiating from it, now. It was nearly my turn, but at the very last moment before I was swallowed up, my attention was distracted by the pepper-haired gentleman sat next to me. "I wish I'd had the chance to know more about you," he said, "you seem enchanting." Surprising me completely, he picked up my hand from the chair arm, took it in both of his and kissed the back of it, the way a member of the aristocracy might click his heels and lean forward kiss a lady's hand in a Tolstoy drama. It was perhaps a way of showing mercy to me in the face of death, because it distracted me so completely that the sphere of light was on me before I knew it. There was only enough time to feel an aching sense of regret - I'd been so close to happiness with Daniel, finally I'd had a glimpse of what true joy can come from life. I thought how all that was about to be taken away from me. I also felt an intense sense of longing - I had to get back to him somehow. Then it happened. My experience of the transfer was very different to Olga's, being completely instantaneous. Perhaps everyone felt something different. She blacked out and awoke in Olga, but I stayed conscious throughout. For me, one moment I was there being swallowed by the glowing ball, and my view of the world changed as quickly as switching TV channels. I was sat behind the black steering wheel of a vehicle. It was a little higher than most of the cars in the surrounding traffic, so perhaps I was driving a van. Clipped to the dash was a radio, the kind taxis use, and as I stared at it with total incomprehension it came to life, and said, "Echo six, echo six, confirm your location." My seat was padded red leather, coloured and ripped like the dispatch box, and wide enough for three people to fit. There, on the seat just to the side of my thigh, was me. Or at least it was a photograph of me, a grainy black and white image taken through a zoom lens, of me stood naked in the window of Daniel's flat. The photo made my nipples look very dark, and the band of my pubic hair was also very noticeable. A second image was next to it, this one showing me in profile, seated in front of the red dispatch box. I looked unhappy. They must have been taken this morning. "Echo six, echo six, confirm your location," the radio demanded again, but I barely registered it, because by then I'd looked down at myself. I was wearing trousers instead of my tight leggings, over thighs that were now muscular and strong. They were loose about me, and pulled down a little. The zipper fly was open to expose my groin, and I saw it. Pointing up at me from between my legs was a rampantly erect penis, almost in the same position as when I'd rode Daniel that morning. The cock must have been close to orgasm - a drip of clear fluid was starting to ooze from the tip. I panicked. A stranger was about to ejaculate on me. Crying out, a deep male voice rang round the cab. I tried to stand, my first instinctive response being to try and escape this alien object. The penis moved with me though - I felt its heavy mass dragging between my legs as though we were attached. It travelled in parallel with me, until I stubbed the head of it against the steering wheel and felt a sharp stabbing pain. I collapsed back down onto the seat, cursing in Russian. Oh fuck, that hurt. "Echo six, echo six, confirm your location," the radio insisted again, and with too much sensory input to think more of the pain between my legs I wondered, "What is my location?" I looked up, just in time to the rectangular back end of a truck right in front of the van. It loomed large in my windscreen, black as a tunnel, and it was expanding rapidly as it raced towards me. "No!" I cried out, stretching for the brake, but the van I was in struck the lorry with tremendous force and I was thrown forwards. Unable to slow my momentum, my head slammed hard into the steering wheel, and a white hot pain flared across my vision. This time I did lose consciousness. 4 - Awake My eyelid was being lifted open by someone's finger, and a penlight was being shone into my eye. I shook my head, trying to evade the glare, but as soon as I moved my neck felt like it was on fire. I was lying on my back. "Keep still, Adam," a female voice said, as if addressing me, and I felt the hand move to hold my forehead, gently but firm enough to stop me struggling. "How is he?" a male, authoritative voice asked, and the woman examining my eye replied, "Some concussion, but he'll be fine." Who is the "he", I wondered vaguely. "We'd like to question him at some point," the male voice said, and then his tone became more amused, "Although we have a pretty clear idea what happened - we think he was looking at these." My brain was filled with pain and fog. I felt like I was moving through thick fluid. Nothing made sense. Who were they talking about? It was me that was being examined, but they said "he", and "Adam", which made no sense. "A voyeur, do you think?" the woman said with disinterest, as if she'd seen it all. "Possible, but the pictures look too professional for that. Paparazzi, maybe." "Well you'll need to wait - he's not coherent at the moment. He was talking in a foreign language, a moment ago." The hold on my head was released. I was lifted by two people, and I could look around. "Probably speaking Russian," the authority man said. "He grew up in Russia, to English parents working for the UN, according to the police database." While they discussed this other male patient, I understood that I, Olesia, was on a stretcher, being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Everything about my body felt different. I must be injured. Off to my side I heard a clang of metal being forced apart, and turning to look back I caught a glimpse of the accident I'd just been in. A white van was being disentangled from where it had smashed deep into the back of a black lorry. The van's license plate, broken, hung down limply, leaving only the first few letters. "E-C-Zero-Six," I read, and remembered the radio shouting "Echo six". I could see the person with the official voice now, a policeman who watched me with a mocking expression on his face. In his hand was a fan of photos, the black and white images of me standing nude at the window. I opened my mouth to protest - why did he have photographs of me? He had to cover them up, not show me to the street. But by then, my view had changed to the roof inside the ambulance. The two medics, in green uniforms, worked around me. They didn't seem alarmed. There was no sign of the Russian-born man they'd been discussing. "What's going on?" I asked. "Where am I?" There was that same deep voice when I spoke. It sounded masculine. Perhaps I'd injured my throat in the accident. Why was everything so weird? "You've been in a car crash, Mister Silver," the female voice answered, speaking to me instead of the male patient. "We're taking you to hospital now." I was confused, but the one thing I was sure of - I wasn't this "Mister Silver". My name was Olesia Potoskaya. I raised one of my arms, trying to wave at the paramedic and explain this, but before I got as far as speaking I was gaping at the large, strong looking hand I'd lifted, connected to a heavy wrist. There were even a few dark hairs on the back of the skin - masculine hairs. This wasn't my hand. "What?" I said, rotating the limb to look at thick fingers that were better designed for boxing than piano. I was still using the baritone voice, but the medic turned to me and said, "Just relax for now." I tried to speak in my normal higher pitch, but it came out again, "What?" in the same baritone. No way would I relax - I needed to know what was going on. Determined, I tried to sit up. My upper body flared white hot with pain the moment I tried to move - lava going from my skull to my hips - and with a groan I sank back onto the stretcher. "Please, Adam, we don't want to have to sedate you," the female medic said gently, pushing me back down. "It's risky when you have a head injury." She must have very small hands, because her fingers weren't large enough to span my biceps, and I was a slimly built woman. I studied her, but the rest of her proportions seemed normal. She was a little older than me, with short blonde hair. I noted that she was also heavily overweight, and nowhere near as pretty as I was. Why do they keep calling me Adam, my dazed mind asked again? The engine of the ambulance had started with a rattle of diesel, and I could feel we were moving. We pulled away carefully - the driver didn't want to jolt me. That persistent question wouldn't go away. Why did they keep calling me Adam? I would make them address me properly. "My name is Olesia Potoskaya," I said angrily, growing more irritated when I continued to here that deep voice. Why couldn't I get my pitch back to normal? "Olesia Potoskaya?" I heard the woman asking the other paramedic. "Famous Russian," he explained. "She's a musician, I think." "Perhaps she was the one in the photographs," said the woman. "He really is confused. Can you make a note of her name for the doctors?" I wasn't going to accept this, so I fought to get up, overriding the pain with a growl. I must have been full of adrenaline from my fear, because I surprised myself by pushing the woman back easily, making her stumble into the side of the van with a thump like a kettle drum. Well screw her, I thought. That policeman back there had naked photographs of me, no-one would answer why, and all the ambulance crew could do was play some stupid game where they called me Adam. "It's no good," said the female medic to her colleague in a determined tone, "we're gonna have to risk sedating him. He's got confused about this Olesia woman." The other member of the ambulance team turned to me, already snapping a syringe from its plastic case. "No!" I said aggressively, in my deep voice, hands clenching into fists, but the blonde woman was pushing me down as the other one quickly jabbed my upper arm. A sense of warmth spread through me, and reality fell away to blackness as quickly as if I was tumbling down a well. Part 2 - Adam Silver 5 - Casualty What would you guess is the most important characteristic needed for someone to work in Intelligence? Hmm, Olesia's a honey-trap girl, you're probably thinking, so she needs to be pretty. Yes, once I was, and it helps, but that's not the key thing. The answer is in any job in Intelligence you have to deal with the unexpected, so the most important thing is being able to think on your feet. I've always been quick to adapt, so I didn't go to pieces in my first few hours in Adam. Without panicking I accepted that my perception of the world was from behind the eyes of a man, and I'd have to go along with it until I could find out what was happening to me. Given my spying background, I wondered if I was being interrogated, and this was a drug- induced hallucination of reality, and I was actually in some basement under MI5. If my captors convinced me of the truth of these visions, it might be easy to trick me into revealing information. Just in case, I vowed to avoid answering any questions about Olesia Potoskaya. They wouldn't make me open up. I'd been prepared for a life of espionage in a remote training location east of the Ural Mountains. Among many other lessons, we'd been briefed on techniques used to break down captives. The training taught me the weakness of the mind, and how easily someone could be fooled into believing they were somewhere else. We'd even had to endure brief sessions of mock interrogation, to build our resistance. For mine, I'd been kept awake for 48 hours in a freezing cold room. They'd taken away all my clothing, and I was beaten and given electric shocks. All I had to do to end the torment was tell them my mother's birthday, but if I did, I'd have been straight back to a secretarial job in Moscow, marked as a failure. However in my first few hours as Adam I was sceptical about actually being in an interrogation - Olesia Potoskaya was hardly Osama Bin Laden, or Al Capone. Would they go to this much effort just for me? I didn't know anything useful - only that the Russians wanted to know what the Defence Minister was doing, and that's not difficult to guess. Reality or not, I was sat on the edge of a bed in the Accident and Emergency part of the hospital, apparently inside a guy. I wasn't in a private room - there was only a curtain which formed a bay, enclosing a small area including the bed, a sink, a cupboard and a mirror. A pretty nurse with straight red hair, tied back in a neat ponytail, had fussed round me. She wore an overly tight white uniform, like it was really a costume designed to be torn off for a porn movie, and she seemed unusually friendly towards me. Her nostrils dilated slightly when she leaned over me, without her even realising, as if she were trying to inhale me. I understood the response I provoked in her - even though this wasn't my particular taste in male bodies, Adam Silver had the physique that draws many women. He had a young man's body, but certainly a man, not a teenager or a boy. Adam was "buff" - he had the build that can only come from considerable time spent working out. The forearms and biceps I could see looking down at were highly contoured, muscles bulging with each movement I made. I kept flexing them by making fists - clench and relax, clench and relax, watching the veins stand out. His thighs were even more impressive. The pale brown trousers I wore would have been loose-fitting on most men, but on me they were almost tight enough to rip like the Hulk's jeans. A fine body, but Adam wasn't completely to my taste. As Olesia, I'd found this kind of physique too-much to be attractive, because I'd have assumed its owner to be vain and self-absorbed. Now it had been left as mine to come to terms with, I knew I'd have to change my opinions. While I was thinking through all this the nurse looked into my eyes with a bright light, checked my pulse and listened to my chest. She put her hand on me more than was necessary. Her uniform showed breasts that were large in relation to her frame - the kind that men seem to like so much. Would Adam have desired her? I was more interested in her make-up job, thinking about whether it would suit Olesia's skin tone. "Is there someone we can call?" the nurse asked me, "your girlfriend or something?" I almost laughed. How much more obvious could this girl be? Perhaps men were that bad at reading these signals, and she believed she could flirt without me noticing. I felt mischievous and answered, "It's my boyfriend, actually," and saw the look of instant distaste in her face. The girl thinks she's finally met a nice guy, and then he turns out to be gay. Well sorry honey. She wasn't the first, and she won't be the last. Once I was rid of the nurse, I resumed my self examination. I was wearing a white T-shirt - sensible on such a hot summer day. The muscles of my chest - I think they call them pectorals, were almost as prominent as my breasts had been, although the flesh was distributed differently. I lifted the T-shirt up a little to examine my stomach, and saw the "six-pack" of contoured musculature that comes only from doing a lot of crunches. By looking down at my belly I couldn't avoid noticing my groin. There it was, pushing against the zipper fly of my trousers, the prominent bulge of my genitals. And I couldn't just see it there, I could feel it. I only had to tense my thighs to press against the mass, and nerves that were new to me tingled constantly. There didn't seem to be a position where my bulge wasn't attention grabbing - if I sat upright my trousers creased so it already looked as if I had an erection. I wondered if it was big, in relation to other men. Was I well hung? Circumsised? Did it look like the penis I'd had inside me that morning? Back then before I understood my new body, the threat that I might become easily and obviously sexually aroused frightened me. In my ignorance I didn't know how reactive men's bodies might be. Was I walking round with a ticking bomb between my legs - would I get hard in response to the first thing I saw I found attractive? I wasn't going to dare risk opening my trousers to look at it, until I had some time alone. Not thinking about it - that was the key, I told myself. It would stay limp if I didn't think about it. I searched for a distraction, and saw that at the top end of the hospital bed was a white sink with a mirror. I hopped off the bed, ignoring the jarring pain that shot through my neck, and walked across to examine myself. It was a stranger's face, looking back at me, a man's face. There was no trace left of Olesia Potoskaya whatsoever. I'd have estimated Adam Silver's age as late-twenties. He was a good looking guy, I have to say. Adam was dark and rugged, with a chiselled jaw, eyes that were almost black, and mahogany hair, styled with a swish across his face that made my fingers want to push it back. The hairline was low - if Adam was going to recede, it was still far ahead in his life. His lips were full, like Mick Jagger's, and they had a cruel pout that made him look provocatively dangerous. Adam's nose was straight and sculpted. Eyebrows were also dark, and with the frown that was on my face lowering them, my eyes looked even blacker, intense and hypnotic. OK the body wasn't quite Olesia's taste, but the face could have probably talked her into bed. The perfection of Adam's features was marred by a red welt on my forehead, where I'd struck the steering wheel of the van. That bump was swelling nicely. "Hello," I whispered in baritone to the mirror, turning my head from side to side. I thrust my jaw out, like a boxer goading his opponent. "Hello Adam Silver. I am you." There was his voice again, not quite the deep bass of a gospel singer, but a manly pitch. It was reassuring, confident. I could imagine it being seductive. I said hello several more times, modulating the timbre. The redhead nurse returned, accompanied by a doctor this time. Her demeanour was a little cooler to me. She stood with her hips cocked moodily while the doctor examined me, studying the injury on my head carefully before probing gently at my painful neck. "So you know now that you're not..," the doctor began, consulting his notes, "Olesia Potoskaya?" he asked me, checking my pupils for dilation. "I'm Adam Silver," I confirmed. I could play along. "Good," he stated. "Well Adam, you have some whiplash, so your neck and your back may get even more uncomfortable over the next few days. This is normal. You have some mild concussion from the bump on your head, so I want you to rest for the remainder of the day, and drink lots of fluid. No alcohol for 24 hours. It will react with the sedative they gave you in the ambulance, and make you very sick." I nodded, and the doctor signed my paperwork, and handed it to me. "You're free to go. Your boss is here to drive you home, a Mister McLean. I'll send him in, now you're ready." There hadn't been time to think about where Adam lived or what he did. I could feel some keys in my pocket, as well as some loose change (I hated that men do that - so unhygienic). I'd buy him a wallet if I was going to be trapped in him for any length of time. The doctor and the nurse left, her casting me a final sour look on the way out, and I waited, preparing myself. My boss was coming - this McLean guy. Would I be able to bluff my way with someone that knew Adam? I had no idea about his occupation - was he a van driver? He looked too chiselled to be in desk job, or something intellectual. Did McLean know about the pictures Adam had in the vehicle with him? Why had there been naked photos of Olesia on the seat? The man that entered, I knew immediately was not someone to mess around. He had a hard look about him, not cruel, but the face of someone used to making difficult decisions. He reminded me of my handler, back in Russia. McLean was in his fifties, lean to the point of being gaunt, with neatly cut grey hair and strikingly blue eyes. He looked like government, one of the suits that blocks Mulder's work in the X-files. "Adam, are you okay?" he asked me, and I repeated the doctor's summary, only adding, "I can't remember anything at the moment - not who you are, not where I live, nothing." He nodded curtly. "I'll take you home for now, and show you where it is," he said. "Perhaps you'll remember tomorrow." His accent was very upper crust, reminding me of Daniel's way of speaking. I followed him out of the ward in silence, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl in the air of disapproval. Then McLean led me out of the hospital, past the waiting area. It was busy - early evening on a hot summer day, so the effects of lazy afternoons drinking in the sun were already streaming in. All ages, races, and social classes of London society were there. With the practice of observational training my memory recorded everything. I saw a builder, his arm in a sling; and a businessman still in his suit, looking pale; and a stunningly beautiful girl aged around sixteen, her pink vest and short skirt so trashy looking she might have been a prostitute. Leaving this group we walked through the lobby, and stood under the entrance canopy, in front of a small turning circle for ambulances. Outside, when we were alone, McLean turned to me. "You're one of my best operatives," he said sternly, staring directly at me, "and that's why you've not been fired today. Understand me though - if anything like this ever happens again..." I nodded quietly. It wasn't the moment to try and justify my situation, certainly not by explaining who I really was. I looked steadily back, and wondered what an "operative" did. He wasn't going to rattle me. I reminded myself that none of this was real anyway, so fuck him. McLean paused, like he was struggling to keep something back, and then burst out with, "Of all the people you could get a fixation with, why Olesia Potoskaya? You know she's bad news." Ah... He knew about the naked photos that had been in the van, then. I wasn't sure whether to defend her or myself first, but it was the Olesia part of me that felt the greater sting from his words. "I'm not sure she was bad news", I defended calmly. (Don't give yourself away) my mind was reminding me, (no personal information). McLean shrugged. "It doesn't matter anyway, now," he said. "A plane went down over the channel and we think Olesia was one of the passengers. It's been all over the news while you've been in hospital. One hundred and sixty seven dead - everyone on board." The shock was so sudden that I slipped up. "I'm dead?" I said, and then corrected as quickly as I could, "Olesia is dead?" "We're assuming so. We followed her into the airport, and the client has ordered us to close the file on her," McLean nodded, "I can't think of another reason they'd do that. So whether she was a threat to us or not, it's now irrelevant. We'll have a case review with them tomorrow to wrap things up, and that will be the end of our work." The rest of the journey to my house was spent in silence. My mind was racing, processing information. There would be a "case review" about me as a "threat". What better way to make me discuss myself? If this was an interrogation tactic it was a very clever one indeed. I would make sure it backfired on them, though. I was dead, apparently, so I might as well act ignorant and stay undercover. There was a part of me that questioned everything as I sat there in McLean's car. But Adam's world was just too real, the sensory input too overwhelming to ignore. What if I really had been transferred? Did this mean I was stuck in Adam, and there was no way for me to ever go back? Would I be faced with living as Adam Silver, living as a man, forever? What would I do? I looked down at my lap, clenching the giant hands into fists. These weren't pianist's fingers - what could I do with them? They might stretch further across a keyboard, but they were so wide it would be difficult to slip digits easily between the black and white keys. Intricate Chopin pieces wouldn't be easy with these slabs of meat. If Adam was real, then I wasn't even sure if this... I called it "transformation", was a blessing or a curse. Daniel had said he loved me, and those words played over and over in my memory creating a sense of great loss in me, but I also knew that image of happiness would only ever have been a fantasy. McLean had called Olesia a "threat", so perhaps I had been under some kind of investigation, and I might have never had the chance of a life with Daniel. Perhaps I'd narrowly avoided being arrested. My controllers in Russia wouldn't let me walk away from Olesia the spy either, not with a golden opportunity arising like one of their girls moving in with the defence minister. I tried to see Adam Silver as a chance for me to escape my past, and make a new start in life. I might even be able to meet Daniel, spend more time with Daniel. I might be good working as an "operative", once I found out what the j