Cruel Money: Part 2 free porn video

Part 4: Working Girl After my encounter with the Chef and her doll Carolynne, I sat in the bathroom a long while, crying, gathering myself. I had partially embraced my femininity some time ago, but I was still surprised to have those kind of tears in me, no matter how brutal the situation was. But I had just been taken against my will, and doll, genetic or man, it is a traumatic blow. Gathering myself, standing up, I cleaned up the streaks and smears in my make up the best I could. It was far from perfect and I would definitely need a touch up. My knees were still weak from the shock, and I wobbled in my high heels. It was time to deeply compartmentalize. I needed to shove that incident into a box and move on with the task in front of me; reporting to the wait staff, and eventually getting Wendy out of that prison and both of us back to the world. Feeling reasonably steady, I headed for the room Chef Lilly indicated earlier was for the serving staff. A team of nineteen or so, what I assumed were dolls - it was more difficult to tell than usual even - sat around a monstrous dining room table playing cards, talking, laughing and just generally lounging about. Unlike the prison courtyard, their enjoyment seemed genuine and not forced. A woman with platinum blonde hair piled high on her head, saw me and leaped to her feet, immediately running over to guide me in the room. I must have looked much worse than I thought. "Oh god," she said. Her voice was particularly high, higher than any doll's I've heard here, and a bit squeaky. She must have been the star of her voice training class, "get me some water," she ordered to no one in particular, "And some make up. And some ice. And some cotton balls. Hell, just bring whatever you can find. We have to fix this girl up before dinner." There was a soft twang in her words, she was from a Southern state, although I couldn't tell which one exactly. She put a comforting arm around me guiding me to a chair. Even in my distraught state I could feel her chest was unusually large, larger than anything dolls in the prison had. There was a realistic softness to her breasts that I wasn't accustomed to. I wondered what kind of chest padding they used in the mansion, "That goddamn Chef. One day I'll wring that woman's neck good! It's okay honey. You're okay now." So they knew what had happened. Perhaps they had been told or perhaps I just showed it so clearly. It took no leap of imagination to guess maybe many of them had suffered at Chef's hands similarly. Wash cloths and makeup were brought out. My face was scrubbed clean, and everything reapplied. I sat quietly letting it happen. I may have not felt great, but when the mirror was held up in front of me, I at least looked good enough to get by. The Southern woman, "Kimmi by way of Charlotte, North Carolina" as she introduced herself, made the additional introductions around the room and talked me through the hows, wheres and whys of being on the wait staff. "We'll keep you doing the easy stuff tonight hon. You know, bussing tables, taking empty champagne glasses. Let's keep you in the background a bit until you get your legs back under you. Plus you'll have a chance to see how it is done. Get a lay of the land and learn who the players are ... particularly important before we let you interact with the Cables. They seem nice enough, those Cables," she placed emphasis on the world "seem", "but they're tricky to please. Very tricky. And you never know anythings wrong until its too late because their politeness never falters. Best understand what you're dealing with first." When the dinner party started at six sharp, the guests trickled into a small ballroom next to a dining hall and were fed finger foods and wine. I had changed into my wait staff serving uniform, a variation on the daytime version, and a great deal more revealing which I would have previously thought impossible. We were without question there to decorate the room. I was still perched on five inch peep toe black stilettos, my arches high and curved, but put into garterless stockings which stopped right at the hem of my micro mini. The skirt was pleated and swirled easily, moving in conjunction with my every step, so my bare legs above the stockings were frequently in view. My penis was tucked away as normal, but underneath my panties I wore snug fitting rubber underwear with a prosthetic vagina. It was shallow and wouldn't have withstood close examination, or any examination at all for that matter for it looked just like what it was, a soft rubber molding. But it felt real enough to the touch through the panties, hid my penis perfectly and made it appear there were lips down there. Amusingly, I could even urinate without removing it, "Free booze and servant girls in skirts this short," one of the serving girls explained as she handed them to me earlier, "makes for very grabby guests. Can't have them getting any unpleasant surprises now can we?" I also noted that there there were two distinct uniform tops. Mine, and a few others, were low cut with a scooped neck, but covering the top of my cleavage was a see through thin mesh lace. The mesh held everything in place allowing for far more extreme push up bra and pads, shoving every bit of available flesh into reasonable sized, pert breasts, without fear of padding sliding out and being exposed as fakes. The top clung to me so tightly in the waist, that I required extra painful pulls of the corset to make sure everything was squeezed into an hourglass figure. I had never been so curvy. But the tightness of the corset . coupled with my exhaustion from today's trauma, was making me slightly light headed. I wished that I were in the state of mind to enjoy how I looked, because I may have even given Samantha a run for her money right now. What was more intriguing than the uniform I was given to wear, however, was the other style on display. Some of the girls, Kimmi included, wore deep scoop neck uniform blouses, similar to mine but without the mesh enclosing the tops of the breasts. Their chests bulged from their bras, full and rounded. This could have been a trick of padding, I've seen some dolls to some convincing things with cleavage back in the cells. But no, I decided, too much breast was exposed, too much of the curve on both the tops and side. These were real. Or, as the entire staff was introduced to me as dolls, not real, but something else. Implants? Most likely, but when Kimmi's put her arm around me when we met, hers had had felt awfully soft and pliable for an implant. I thought back to Anke's comment back in the cells, she was neither doll nor genetic, but something in between. Is this what she meant? I wonder how else these girls had been modified. When the party swung into action, I hung in the background, moving into sight only to clear o'dourves plates, glasses or clear the occasional spill. The gathering was moderately sized, sixty-six in all judging from the place settings in the dining room next door; but their appetites were greater than their numbers. Perhaps my weeks of controlled, tiny meals in the prison colored my way of thinking, but the guests here all seemed to consume twice their weight in food with dinner yet to be served. And for every bite of food they had, two swigs of wine washed it down. The rising volume of this decidedly international crowd told me the social lubricant was well in force. Forty minutes had past and the guests of honor had yet to appear. I could feel the impatience growing. Just as it threatened to be deemed rude, the ballroom doors swung open. In glided Charles Cable and his wife Miranda. At last, I was able to see the owners of the mansion, the owners of the prison, and people whose motives for such places were deeply opaque to me at this point. But what a couple they were. Charles would be described as "dashing", if people still used such terms. But there was a certain old fashioned handsomeness that made the word appropriate. He was a tall trim man in his mid forties with jet black hair slicked back at the part, and a thin carefully trimmed mustache adorning his upper lip. He wore a brown double breasted suit and his shoes were highly buffed wing tips. He reminded me of the old Errol Flynn pictures I had seen in my grandparents' Life magazines or a young Howard Hughes. He looked of another time. Miranda Cable was a perfect companion piece. No less striking, beautiful in fact, and at least ten years younger than Charles, probably no older than my 26 years. Her floor length green sequined gown, like Charles' double breasted suit, seemed of an era gone by, although where Charles reminded me of the 1940s her style was more reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe in the early 1960s, as was her pin up girl shape; extremely curvy, yet without an ounce of fat, a stark contrast to the ultra thin aesthetic in favor with women currently. She had soft gentle features making her full lips look that much more dramatic. Her light brown hair was tied up in an elegant bun, and held in place by hair piece that struck me as no less ornate than a tiara. It also clearly signalled to the room who they were; this couple viewed themselves as royalty. I had spent the last months of my life watching women closely. Their every move, breath or tiny facial twitch would not escape my notice. It was what the prison was, inadvertently or not, training me to do. It was also with this honed sense of observation, that I could see one thing clearly: Miranda Cable may be smiling and sticking to her husband's side, but she was not fully engaged in his presence, a bit distant. But there was something else about her, something I couldn't quite place but was eating away at my subconscious. something that felt important. In spite of myself, in spite of the warnings I had received, I needed a closer look. My chance arrived half an hour later, when Miranda Cables' glass had emptied, and she turned looking to rid herself of it. Before she set it down, I moved quickly to her side. Speaking in my best trained voice, straining to keep it just right, I asked, "May I take your glass Ms. Cable? Should I have one of the girls get you a refill?" She handed me the glass, barely looking at me, affirming she would like another. "Wait!" she commanded. She had quite suddenly turned to me, staring quietly, intently, at my face for a moment. I looked at the couple trying my best to quell my nervousness. Coming up to her was a mistake, I thought. The Cables were clearly insane, the very concept of creating and living in a house full of dolls proved that well enough. I had now moved into their awareness without so much as being given details on how they needed to be handled. "What's your name young lady?" "Bree," I answered. "Bree. That's pretty. How long have you been on staff?" her questions were benign. She seemed a very pleasant woman, speaking in almost dreamy tones. My guard remained up however. I reminded myself again of the insanity that must be behind her eyes, but I was not seeing any of that. I was seeing ... something else ... I could not be sure. I answered her question directly, honestly, "I came in today. I've been here a matter of hours to tell the truth." Charles stopped looking at me almost immediately and moved to carry on a conversation with a latina in a gaudy red pantsuit. In a room full of his invited guests looking to bend his ear, he could not waste his time having conversations with the help. Miranda however, kept her eyes fixed on me. I was beginning to fear she somehow knew I didn't belong here, that I had escaped the prison on the back of forged papers. "Being new here, this must all be very odd to you," she said using the word "odd" to radically understate the true nature of the situation, "women ... such as these ... serving guests who have no idea. Or no idea what goes on in certain other parts of this island. Wouldn't you think?" What was she getting at? Was this a trap? I made a noncommittal noise. I wasn't about to interject my opinion here and guide this discussion in any way. Even so, I was desperate to see exactly where she planned to take this conversation. She studied my expression and could see I was cautiously avoiding doing anything to hang myself. She changed her tact, "So. Bree. Have you met Lucinda Lilly?" she asked in such an extremely casual manner, that I knew exactly what she had meant. No one mentions that woman's name without some obvious emotion attached. "Lucinda Lilly," I replied slowly pushing down the feelings of hurt and panic that name brought, "Chef Lilly. Yes, we have had the pleasure. I led to believe she currently interviews and breaks in all the wait staff, Ms. Cable." My voice was equally casual. At least I hoped it was. I was working on instinct, but Miranda Cable seemed sympathetic. I still needed to be careful, but through my choice of words, I tried to convey the information she seemed to seek without saying anything outright. "Yes. I imagine an interview with Lucinda Lilly would be quite unpleasant. Perhaps we can do something to get you out from under her umbrella. Now, if you would be so kind, please have one of the girls bring me a glass of our house red. And please see that someone knows our guests are to be seated in five minutes." She turned her attention from me letting me know the conversation was over. It was a conversation, however, that I would run many times in my head over the next few hours. The dinner party was running largely without incident. Largely. As the night wore on, the booze adversely affected some of the guests and they took our skimpy dress to be an invitation for rubbing and pinching us like biker bar waitresses. I even had a hand thrust greedily underneath my skirt proving that the false vagina was given to me out of experience and not precaution. But fresh on the back of a sexual assault this morning, it almost caused a nervous breakdown. More than once I nearly fled to the restroom to hide for the rest of the night. It took all my strength of will to keep it together. It proved valuable, however, to keep my head together, to do my job. When people speak, I was learning quickly, the help is all but invisible. Over the course of the night, I was picking up snippets of conversation that were helping me paint a better picture of the landscape on which I found myself: "....no, I think they do own that awful prison. God only knows why." "... takes money to make money. Although she was fantastically wealthy to start." " ... no, not quite Versailles, my friend. The Palace of Versailles has a couple thousand rooms. I'd be surprised if this place had 200." "....word is he slept with Patricia, and who knows how many others." "....the government .. governments ... won't play ball..." " ...of course I don't trust Charles. I never trust vain men. But as long as our interests align, that's good enough." Slightly before dessert was served, Charles Cable stood up, glass of wine in hand, and wandered to the opposite side of the long rectangular table where Miranda was seated conducting her hostess duties. She rose and stood beside him, both raising their glasses in preparation for a toast. Her eyes fixed on him attentively, appreciatively, in the practiced manner spouses look upon politicians. When the room went silent, he spoke, "We are all here for the same reason. For a common cause," the room murmured with approval, "We have ambitions rooted firmly on the idea that free enterprise should be just that. Free. Free of unnecessary restrictions, free of unnecessary interference. But that is not always the way in these ..." he turned to a gentleman seated on the far right of the table, "If you and some of our welcomed guests will excuse me saying this Javier, but I believe you are in agreement about your countrymen .... But that is not always the case in these backwards states with their petty minded officials. Sometimes change comes slowly. And sometimes change comes more quickly at the end of the sword. Although I think Captain Hernandez is more aptly described as a blunt instrument, a club rather than a rapier.." The room burst into appreciative laughter. Charles Cable continued, "But he is getting the job done. And with our help, god willing, he will help us cross the finish line. One that has been long coming." Sustained applause burst forth filling the room. ********* "Wine!" Kimmi shouted, producing a case of bottles from underneath the table in the wait staff lounge. The party had ended hours ago, and the wait and domestic staffs went to work cleaning the ballroom and dining area. It was done at an amazing pace with clockwork efficiency, everyone knowing their roles. This crew had worked together countless times before it was clear. Bottles were opened, but no glasses were passed around. That would just be some more things to clean. I looked around at the smiling faces swigging wine from the bottles and became increasingly tense. Kimmi who who had been watching me sensed this. She took my hands in hers and spoke in soothing tones, "The hardest thing to get used to coming from the prison, is the greater degree of freedom. You just got here and were sent right to work, so none of this has been fully explained to you. This isn't smuggled wine. We aren't drinking on the down low. This is our traditional reward for a job well done. We also get to sleep in tomorrow. And skip the gym too. The way it works around here is as long as we do what we're supposed to, obey the house rules, we have a certain amount of leeway. When we do things better than we're supposed to, they throw us an occasional bone. "Sure," she continued with a laugh, "we won't be leaving the walls of this house to go on a Caribbean cruise anytime soon. We are stuck here, we just aren't captives in the same sense you just were down there. And the rules we do have ... well it's still best not to violate those, but I think you'll find them reasonable enough. I mean, as much as they can be considering. But when we said 'yes' to coming up here and agreed to go the extra mile, we understood would be treated a great deal better." Agreed to go the extra mile, she said. I thought about her words. I had to remember, I wasn't chosen to be here, nor was I volunteer. I snuck into this world through an underground tunnel, and just barely made it at that. There may be much expected of me yet of which I had no idea. The wine flowed freely and was loosening everyone up. A wait staff doll, Kara, I believe her name was, was lip locked with a maid in the corner. Kara had pulled the maid's breast out of her low top and held it fully in her hand, groping it hungrily. I was right. Some of these dolls did have breasts. The sight of the maid's rounded chest and knowing she was a doll; these scantily dressed dolls enjoying each others bodies so openly and uncaringly in front of others, was making me feel deeply off balance. The wine, the exhaustion, and the light headedness from the corset squeezing my insides, was begin to work on me. And not for the better. "Kimmi, " I said, "I think I need to find my bed." ******** I pulled out of sleep, slowly and painfully. For some reason my head hurt. The sun shone brightly in my half open eyes and I could barely see. "Wendy, what ...?" No. That was wrong. There was no Wendy. I was no longer in the cells. I was in the mansion. I rubbed my forehead. Despite having very little wine to drink last night, I was sluggish and headachey. I had a "hangover" from unyielding high stress, mental and physical. From the time I left the prison until I went to bed late last night, the stress pressed against me like a physical weight. It's no wonder I had no idea where I was waking. "Crap," I said again, speaking aloud, "I'm probably late on my first day." My eyes were still nearly shut. "You aren't late. And I believe it is your second day." I sat up with a bolt. My eyes were open now. It was Miranda Cable standing at the edge of my bed. I wondered how long she had been waiting for me to wake. "You aren't late," she repeated, "because you no longer work picking up trays. You work directly for me. You are now my personal assistant, a position I just created. For you specifically. I had said you needed to get beyond the reach of Lucinda Lilly and now you are beyond of the reach of Lucinda Lilly." My mind was still a bit foggy and I was having difficulty working out the implications of what was being said. The woman standing before me had been looking me over carefully. I realized with a touch of embarrassment, that I was sitting up in bed with nothing but a pair of panties in front of the woman who partly owned this mansion, partly owned my life. I was glad that I managed to remove my vagina before sleeping, before I noticed it was lying in the middle of the floor. "You wake up speaking like a girl. Even when you think you're alone. That's very encouraging. It's ingrained in you. Means you probably dream you're a girl half the time. But from the looks of you, you're still very much a boy," she said more to herself than me." I felt compelled to reply, "I'm not so sure about the 'very much' part anymore, to be honest." But she didn't seem to care about my words, and went on speaking, "It's a bit disappointing you're so early along, but maybe you're that works to our advantage. No one's molded you yet." I began to swing my bare feet to the floor, but stopped out of instinctual, habitual panic. Breathing slowly, seeing the carpet, I reminded myself razor floors were a thing of the past. I reached to my bedside and grabbed the robe I found hanging there, a silk kimono. Of course it would be a silk kimono, I thought. Miranda Cable moved to my bedside. It was clear now she was inspecting me. "When was the last time you shaved?" Shaved? I thought about it for a moment. When was the last time I shaved? I truly couldn't remember. "I have no idea, if I am honest. It's been a number of weeks. Time is a bit meaningless in pr ... down there. I stopped growing hair a very long time ago though, and awhile after that, stopped wondering why I wasn't growing hair." She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "At least they took care of that. Not hormones though. You have nothing like breasts." She crossed her arms, she looked sceptical. "I wish I had time to play this game better. But I don't. I am running out of time. I'm forced to take a huge leap of faith here. So I ask: You are going to be my personal assistant. Privy to my secrets. Can I trust you?" I pondered the question for a moment. The entire scene was moving very fast and I wasn't sure at all what was going on. I was grasping bits of what was being implied, but was my mind was still slogging through the mud in an attempt to believe it. "Trust me?" I asked myself the question as much as her. One of the driving forces of my captivity, of my emasculation and mental anguish ... the woman indirectly responsible for my rape ... was asking me, the person who was here under false pretenses, if I were to be trusted. The easy thing to say was "yes", to allow me to have access to this powerful force who may inadvertently supply me with my means of escape. And the actual answer certainly could have been "no", as everything about my situation was a lie. But the truth felt somewhere in between. And either from oppressive, mind fogging weariness, or sensing some well hidden desperation from the woman who stood in front of me, I gave the honest answer, "I - I don't know. I don't know you. And you are a part of what has made my life such hell. And if I could be free of you and this place I would." There. I said it. Time to see what the consequences are. She considered my words and the barest hint of a smile crossed her face, although I was willing to bet it was not humor driving her expression. "Honesty. Refreshing. If not a bit reckless. At least it proves I can believe what you say," She turned to leave, "You won't be wearing that uniform. I'll have someone get in here and get you the clothes you need. Meet me in my office as soon as you get dressed." No sooner had Miranda left did a woman in her mid-fifties walked into my room without bothering to knock. Her black hair was lightly peppered with strands of gray, tied back into an unforgiving school marmish bun. I wasn't able to determine at first glance if she were a genetic or a doll, but really didn't care at this point. The lines were too blurred and those terms were beginning to lose meaning for me. She carried a large pile of clothes that were approximately my size. Her thin lips squeezed together in tight disapproval when she saw me standing in my silk robe. "Oh. You'll need padding. Show me what you have." I threw what I had in a pile on the bed: a silicone bra which adhered to my chest and pulled it together into the beginnings of cleavage, a push up bra and silicone pads to finalize the illusion, and my corset. As an afterthought, I threw the vagina onto the pile. She was aghast, "Nothing for the butt or hips? And they let you serve guests that way? Risky, very risky. I'll be right back." As quickly as she had come, and still having not introduced herself, she spun on her heels and was gone. I took the opportunity to look through what she brought. They were business skirt suits, but typical of all manner of clothing here, they looked like they were designed for a lay out in a men's magazine more than Wall Street. I sighed when I picked up the patent leather stiletto slingbacks by their straps. It looked like I was going to make the transition to six and a half inch heels. I had been wearing heels five and half inches high for some time, but that last inch could make a big difference. Knowing this would take some practice, I slip my feet into them right away, and carefully walked around. The woman returned shorty holding a large bag full of shapewear. She looked down to see me already standing in the heels and nodded with humorous approval. "First things first. You have no ass, and you have no hips. It is possible no one noticed if you've been squeezing that corset of yours tightly enough. Take off that robe. Quickly now, there's no modesty here." I complied with her request dropping the robe to the floor. I wearing nothing but panties and the skyscraper slingbacks, "Oh. I see. Good. Your corset trained. Your middle pulls into a narrow waist a bit even without the corset." I looked down at my midsection. She was right. It was not something I'd noticed since it was gradual change and I wore the binding garment at all times unless showering or asleep. She went on, "From the looks of you, I'd say you've been wearing it very tight for good number of months. But from now on you'll wear this too." She handed me an ass. In reality, it was a sculpted rubber panty made to look like a female bottom, with a vagina similar to the one I had worn last night, but softer and better made. It also had rounded cheeks to pull up and fill out my ass more, and added a curve resembling hips. It was more realistic looking than the appliance last night, and would look very real under full panty coverage, but still wouldn't pass the light of day test. "Carefully when putting that thing on, it's delicate, it will tear. But this is far better than that awful thing you were wearing. See there? How the penis tucks in? If one of these girlies sticks their cock deep in your little rubber pussy, then your dirty little dicks can rub together when you rut. Although your kind usually takes in from the back, isn't that right? That's possible too with this thing. Just make sure to clean it with thoroughly with soap and warm water or the whole thing becomes a cesspool of germs. Don't say I didn't warn you." I looked up at her sharply. It was difficult to decide whether she was being crude for shock effect or if she were so matter of fact in her vulgarity. She smiled wickedly, "Oh don't look so wide eyed. I know what goes on around here. Now I'll help you get dressed and we'll go see Ms. Cable." ***************** Part 5: Miranda Cable The woman who assisted me with my wardrobe - I realized at this point she had no intention of telling me her name - walked me down to Miranda Cable's office. It was slow going at first as I adjusted to the increased height of the heels and a different center of gravity due to the increased weight of my enhanced bottom. It got better the further I walked, however, until I was reasonably comfortable. If I ever thought the peep toe stilettos caused me to take small steps, they were practically a sprinter's stride compared to my mincing steps right now. Even so, my legs looked very shapely, and combined with my new butt and hips, I had a noticeable increase sway in my walk. The overall effect was increasingly feminine, which in this world was always the goal. Miranda ushered me inside, and the peppered haired woman simply gave her a nod, and disappeared wordlessly. Miranda met me at the door handing me a glass of water, "Here drink this. I know it's a long walk particularly in shoes like that. I'm amazed you girls do it, considering how late in life you start. I can do it, like you saw at the party last night, but certainly not like you." She seemed warm and more relaxed than when I saw her earlier. "I can see that your ears aren't red," she said, "so hopefully Rose. the woman who escorted you here, didn't hurt them too much. She can be quite ... salty ... at times. But I've known her a long time. Even before all of this." "Welcome to my room. You'll excuse the mess, the maids are given a late start after dinner parties. And it's hard keeping something this big clean." I noted the married woman used the term "her room" and not "our room". I took in my surroundings. It was not actually messy at all. But it was huge, perhaps half the size of a football field. It was partitioned in sections by low dividers, maybe six feet at most, falling far short of the cathedral ceilings. From where I stood I could see an office area, what looked like a sleeping area, and a sitting room section of some kind, with a half filled tea cup sitting on coffee table. The bed was half made, and there was a book on the nightstand face down. On the other side of the room there was the type of lighting that would indicate a small kitchen. There was still much I could not see, but there only seemed to be a single door, the one I came through. This was an apartment. A very large one, certainly, but an apartment. And judging from the single tea cup, and bed slept in by a single person, her apartment alone. There was nothing here that indicated a male's presence. Why would Miranda Cable, owner of a near 200 room mansion, have her own apartment inside of such house? The easy answer would be the most common one, marital discontent. "Let me see you. Turn around." I turned for Miranda Cable, ending it in a half embarrassed, half humorous, curtsy. She took in the view approvingly. I was wearing very sheer black nylons to accent the patent leather sheen of the slingback pumps. My skirt was short, a few inches above the knee exposing most of my leg, but a bit more modest than the serving uniform. My jacket was form fitting, with a single low button. If I had not been wearing a cleaving spilling, very tight white tank top underneath, the entire area from just above my navel would have been exposed flesh. "Good. I see they gave you a rump. You are very pretty, but that was a major oversight the other night." "I had a particularly bad day, and I think they just shoved me into service without a ton of prep," I shrugged along with my truth, "judging from some of the guests' hands, I'm think that oversight went unnoticed, ma'am." I wasn't sure she was going to, but she laughed. Even though I was the one who made the joke, it still wasn't funny to me. "Okay then, let me explain exactly what my personal assistant will do. Do you have any experience in this before? Or any secretarial work?" "No ma'am," I answered. I had decided to use a formal means of addressing Ms. Cable, "In my last job I was a man." She smiled slightly saying, "I take your point, but that's a bit sexist don't you think? As unpleasant as it may be, I thought if anything has taught you girls to move away from such rigid thinking -" There was loud banging at the door. "Miranda? Miranda, sweetheart?" It was Charles Cable's voice. Miranda spun on me, "Hide. Right now. Hide. Do not make a sound. Now. NOW!" Her whispers were urgent. I heard a key slide into the lock. Miranda jogged toward the door to meet them. I looked around momentarily panicked. What was going on here? I would never be able to run in these heels, anyone would hear me. I hit the ground quickly, and rolled underneath the loveseat of her bedroom area. It wasn't a great hiding spot, but I was out of sight for now. "Miranda, dearest," Charles had let himself in. The tone of his voice different than that which gave the speech last night. It was oily, nearly hateful. The sound of his wings tips were followed by another click sounding, one which I recognized immediately, that of heels. There was someone with him. "Hello Miranda." My chest tightened. It was Lucinda Lilly. They had all moved into the bedroom area, not feet away from where I hid. "Dearest Miranda," It was clear now that he spoke sarcastically, "I had some trouble with the bank. Would you know anything about that? Anything about, perhaps, moving funds around to hide some from me?" Miranda's voice was strained in her answer "Of course not Charles." It was Lilly who spoke this time, "I wouldn't believe her Charles. I wouldn't be surprised if she was the one who mucked up the payment to that pocked faced little general wannabee Hernandez." Miranda's voice: "And what would I gain from that?" Her fear seemed to be shifting to anger. She liked Lucinda Lilly no more than I. "What you would gain, my dearest," the evenness of Charles' voice made it sound even more dangerous "is what almost happened: Hernandez goes to the prison with his army, finds out what it is and shuts it down. Maybe you hoped he would find my ... social experiments ... to be distasteful and stops working in my interest. You know how these third world Catholic types can get. Luckily for all of us, as you probably know from your spies in the prison ... oh don't look so surprised, I know all about them ... Hernandez made threats, but nothing came of it. He found out nothing. Word has it, he ended up having quite a pleasurable time." The two intruders had grabbed Miranda by the arm. I could see them clearly now that they had moved her to her bed and were now all sitting on it. If they bothered to stoop just a foot and look in my direction, I would be seen. Charles produced a metal case, no larger than a cigar box, pulling out a syringe. Miranda struggled, but the much stronger Chef Lilly held her in place. His voice kept its calm manner, "Now, just because you brought most of the money into this family, doesn't mean it's yours. We're a loving married couple after all. We can't have you hiding things in accounts I can't access, or failing to pay our hired goons. Let's just have a small reminder of who runs this house, and how truly helpless you are my dear wife." He injected Miranda with the syringe. Her eyes slowly widened, and her body stiffened. It seemed to be a paralysis drug. I could see from the tears flowing from her eyes she was very much awake, and very much aware, of what was going on around her. Charles and Lucinda propped Miranda on her side with pillows so she was facing the middle of the bed. The pair stripped down in front of the catatonic woman exploring each others bodies lustily. Lucinda dropped to her knees, taking Charles cock into her mouth, sucking it gently until it became engorged. She then leapt into bed beside Miranda, naked, with her face inches from Miranda's. Charles now fully erect, climbed on top of the waiting chef, sliding his penis into her, thrusting her with all his might calling out her name. Lucinda's breasts bounced in time with each shove of his cock into her wet waiting pussy. Still so close to Miranda that they shared the same breath, the black haired woman moaned with loud delight, never taking her eyes off Miranda's eyes. "Oh Charles, oh Charles! Fuck me Charles, fuck me!" she theatrically cried out. She then began speaking to Miranda between her heavy moaning pants, "I'm twice the woman you are. Twice the woman you'll ever be. He never fucked you like this. Never looked at you like this. You're nothing but a bag of money to him. A joke. The day you got married, while you were off having your hair done for the ceremony, I fucked Charles wearing your wedding dress in your honeymoon suite. Oh, don't worry I was careful not to wrinkle it on your special day. But when you sucked his dick on your honeymoon night, that was me, my orgasm you were tasting." The humiliation was overwhelming. Tears, the only part of her body that wasn't constrained by the drug, poured in waterfalls down Miranda's cheeks. Until this moment, I had never known hate, the way I hated Lucinda Lilly. The pair climaxed in loud screams together. They rolled into each others arms kissing passionately. Lilly wiped Charles penis clean of her fluids in Miranda's hair before the two got up to leave. I held very still fearful of discovery. If they got off the bed the wrong way, or looked over here when picking clothes up from the floor, I would be caught. "Now remember my lovely wife. This is the least of what we can do to you. You know that. So stop messing around, or you may find yourself this way permanently, wheeled around for the rest of your life. I'd prefer not to do that. You do look so convincing standing by my side. And it would be much, much harder to get at your money. But I would find a way, I'm too close to my goal for you to get in the way." The pair of legs moved out of the bedroom area. Charles had one more thing to say, "You've been very naughty Miranda. So I think we'll start keeping a round the clock eye on you. I also know about the personal assistant you've 'hired'. Get rid of her. Send her back to the cells. I know you've been trying to create a network of allies and she's some part of your grand stupid scheme, although I don't know or care how. But I promise you, if you don't send the girl back, I'll take care her myself. And my way will include a bullet. Anyone in my way way will get the same in fact. As I said, I'm too close to my goal." The door shut. I waited another fifteen minutes before crawling from under the couch. I sat on the side of the bed watching Miranda Cable with worry. Another hour passed and she began moving, coming out of her drug induced waking coma. The moment she was able to sit up, she jumped from the bed and ran on unsteady legs to her closet. Twice she nearly fell to the floor. She yanked a long white, beaded, beautiful full dress from its hangers. Grabbing a pair of scissors she stabbed at the dress wildly tearing strips from it, screaming in frustration and anguish before finally throwing shredded dress aside. Miranda Cable ran to me and grabbed me tightly and cried more. She squeezed me like a drowning woman. Her sobs were loud, gushing forth with enormous force, lasting the better part of twenty minutes. I stood there holding her her firmly in silence. After a time she calmed. I brought her tissues and made some tea I found in the cupboard. She sat on the loveseat I had hidden under and pulled her knees to her chest and sat silently, sipping the tea, wiping tears and blowing her nose. We sat together in silence for a very long time. Finally, I spoke, "Ms. Cable ... Miranda .... I didn't understand. I didn't realize ....I'm so sorry I accused you. I'm so very sorry. I'll do anything, and I mean anything, to help you stop those two." She looked up at me, her eyes nearly swollen shut from crying. "Anything?" "Anything." ********** I had been hiding in the apartment for two days. Miranda managed to get word to her chief ally in the prison, Warden Ory OKocha - as I discovered her name was - to fake a transfer to make it appear that I had returned to the cells. It was a very temporary solution. The paperwork was sound enough, but any spies Charles may have on that end would be able to see through the ruse by simply noticing I was not there after a few days. It was nice to be wearing Miranda's clothes which were more comfortable than anything I had worn since the day of my arrival. I crossed my legs, the nylon making a slight swishing sound at the knee, and sipped my tea. I was in my hose feet happy to not in heels for a while. Raising my foot, I half consciously looked at my manicure through the nude colored hose. Gone was the French tip style that had adorned my toes and hands for so long, replaced by the bright red preferred by Miranda. Talking to her these past couple of days was more than enlightening. Many of the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place and were very clear to me. The clearest being Charles Cable was an exceptionally cruel man. He was handsome and as charismatic as a cult leader, extremely intelligent, but his chest housed a black and bitter twisted heart. He had been funding - with Miranda's money - the rebel attacks on the governments of this region to destabilize them. His attacks on foreigners were designed to discourage businesses from those countries locating here. In exchange for funding Hernandez's coup, when the rebel leader took charge Charles Cable would gain drilling and mining rights, among others; something the current regime felt was best kept in the hands of the government and not foreign commercials interests. The prison, the other brain child of Charles Cable, was not something borne of greed. It was in fact, simply borne of cruelty. Stripping males of the manhood and women of their freedom was done largely for the reason heartless boys pull the wings from insects. In part, because they can, and in part, because it's in their dark nature to do so. The more practical benefit was it created a workforce of dolls. The hosts and seasoned house staff pulled from the ranks of the common prisoners, were no longer like they were when in the cells. They were pumped full of hormones and had gone under the surgeons knife repeatedly. They may have penises ... in some cases ... but that's the only male attribute they did still have. Further, it was another form of chains. Not even knowing if they were in the Pacific or Atlantic, trying to escape from a highly militarized house across a body of water into an unknown country in those distorted versions of female bodies was a very perilous proposition. If they succeeded against all odds and made to civilization, to go back home to feed the twenty-four hour hungry news cycle with tales of their humiliation was even more daunting than the prospect of captivity. They would be labeled with this stigma ... be a curiosity, a punch line, a sideshow attraction ... for life. Every job interview, every party, every restaurant, every whisper on the street would be the same: look, it's the man who was forcibly turned to a woman. For most in the mansion, it was just easier to submit and stay. And Miranda was as much a captive as they. Like them she too played a role, the smiling loving wife of Charles Cable. Charles Cable was a wealthy young man prior to meeting the brown haired New Hampshire beauty Miranda Wright as she left high school to enter college at Cornell. But there were few in the world who had the wealth of the Wright family. The Wright parents looked upon Miranda's previous suitors with an understandable amount of skepticism. Most displayed a wide eyed disbelief of the family's trappings that signalled an inability to deal intelligently with such money. But Charles Cable was handsome enough, magnetic enough, with a family just respectable and well off enough enough, that even the decade difference in their age saved him the usual scorn heaped others by her parents. But any scorn Miranda's parents may have developed over time as they learned more about the man, turned out to be academic. Miranda's parents were killed in a car accident during a trip to Brazil shortly after Miranda and Charles were wed - it was an accident she has often wondered about, as did the police who investigated them both for six months afterward. Once free of her parents, the pleasant, loving man began to transform into the loathsome creature he eventually became. Frustrated by a series of clever financial mechanisms and an iron clad prenuptial agreement, he bought this gilded cage of two hundred rooms and held her, and her money, here. Miranda was trapped in a situation as dangerous as it was untenable. But no one had ever accused her of lacking will. Her methods were less overt, less heavy handed than Charles', but slowly and increasingly effective. One by one, girl by girl, she had quietly, deliberately, been building a network of informers and allies to help her eventually stop her husband. It was secretive and far reaching network that moved indirectly and sideways to avoid attention. Most didn't know who the others in the conspiracy to topple Charles were. And some who were a part didn't even know they were a cog in the Miranda's system. Samantha fell into this latter category. It was Miranda's working both Samantha and Anke through carefully placed leaks that got me here, however invisible the strings behind it may seem to most involved. I looked up from my thoughts. Miranda appeared from the bedroom area of the vast apartment holding something in her hand. She sat down beside me. The sluggish movement of being drugged had lasted the better part of the first day, but the effects seemed to have gone now. "When you say you'll do 'anything' to help someone, I understand that it is a figurative, not literal statement," Miranda began, "But what I am going to ask you to do is larger than you can imagine. People use the phrase 'point of know return' lightly, because there are not many things save death, that one can not return from, even if things are never the truly same." I sat silently listening. There was a gravity and hesitancy in her voice that I recognized in someone about to ask for a sacrifice. "I will not ask for your life literally. I hope. But if you go through with this, it is such a figurative death for who you are now, it may as well be literal. There is no going back." With a sigh of resignation, she continued, "Bree, do you know why I chose you to be my confidant, from all the girls that have come through this prison?" I guessed, "My treatment at Lucinda Lilly's hands, I suspect was part of it. Because I was brand new and hadn't had time to be bought or intimidated ... more intimidated than I already was ... into working with dark side of the force, so to speak." She nodded, "Yes that is large part of it. I also heard how boldly you intervened with Captain Hernandez to save your friend," At this point I blushed. So she knew I willing gave myself to the Captain sexually. Of course she did, she had eyes in the prison, including Warden Okocha. Miranda smiled and touched my hand. "Don't be embarrassed. It was brave. It was a sacrifice. That, along with your willingness to sneak into the mansion and pretend to be a worker here, told me that you thought in very bold terms and were fearless." She stood upon and beckoned for me to follow. I stood up and walked with her to a mirror. "What do you see?" She asked. What did I see? Two women about the same height, one created, one natural, but both pretty in very different ways. I turned to her, "To tell the truth Miranda, I'm not sure what you're getting at." She gently grabbed my chin and turned me back to the mirror. "What you see," she said, "are two people who looked nothing alike, separated by gender. But ... we have some very important similarities. The shape of our faces and size of our heads foremost. Our mouths are the same size, even if our lips are different. Our eyes are the about the same distance apart and the same distance from our nose and mouth. Your nose is a bit smaller than mine, but our chins are very much the same. Our cheekbones are the same height, even if yours are less pronounced. You have straight bright white teeth, I have straight bright white teeth." "This is why you were studying me so closely when we met," I realized. "And your pictures from the cameras brought to me from the prison before that. It is why I studied every face in this this place very closely," she replied. She finally held up what she had been holding in her hand and placed it over her face. It was clear plastic molding which while a little small, fit it perfectly, a detailed mold of her face. She took it off and place it over mine. "Look." I looked in the mirror. It fit. It was insanely snug, tight to the point of hurting, but it fit. I understood what she was implying, but still wasn't sure if there was any practical value in this. This wasn't Mission Impossible. Masks don't fool anyone in real life. She seemed to read my thoughts, "This," she explained, "is not a mask as such. It is not something you wear over the face like its Halloween. When you heat it to a certain temperature, it becomes very malleable. With microsurgery making smaller than pin holes, you have a short amount of time when it can be inserted and unfurled under the skin, where it then adheres to the face of your skull and hardens. After you heal, it leaves close to no noticeable scars. I spoke with slow realization ... "It changes your very facial bone structure." She nodded repeating my words exactly, "It changes your very facial bone structure. It's been used quietly in the experimental phases for some serious facial reconstructive surgeries. But its value as the near perfect mask have been downplayed to keep it out of the hands of the public. The identity theft and abuse in the cosmetic surgery industry would be too tempting. Although I suspect it will get there eventually. The primary problem is it's dangerous, I won't kid you, if your body rejects it all manner of havoc is created. We would basically have to peel back the skin of your face to shave it off your skull. You'd never look remotely the same, or as ... normal." With a huge breath, she drove on, "it doesn't stop there. You would have to be ... altered ... in other less intrusive ways if were to go through with this and truly commit." I looked her over thinking. "Your chest." She nodded, "As a starter yes. It was Charles idea for me to get breasts this large, but there you have it. He has a very specific image of how we were to look together, he wanted us to look like movie star royalty." I nodded. I understood the implications of that as well. I could not get breasts that large through padding, nor could I wear the clothes she did without pronounced breasts. I stood silently thinking for a long time, working this over in mind trying to fight through the overwhelmingly sense of depression it was leaving me with. I vaguely suspected people entering the witness protection program felt this same enormous feeling of loss. I would have to leave myself behind forever, something I had been fighting so hard to regain. Some of the surgery would be reversible, implants can be removed certainly. But would I be able to go back to my life with this woman's face? Any woman's face period? Probably not. I would have to start a life anew. She paused, taking my face in her hands and speaking quietly, "Again, I know you said you'd do anything. But I understand if this is too much. And I am so hurt, so blinded by rage at Charles ... and that woman, that my self interests are in the way of any rational thought toward anything excepting ending them. I won't be able to help you decide." It was half an hour before I spoke again. I had come to a decision. "As I see it, Bree doesn't live long either way. She either becomes a version Miranda, or she goes back to the prison where Charles will likely eventually end her life for knowing too much." I was talking about Bree, myself, in third person. I had already said goodbye to her it seems. I finished my thought. "But its our best chance. With two Miranda's Charles' people monitor the actions of one ..." "... allowing the other to move freely and set my plans into motion. Let's get started then. I'll introduce you to Dr. Ling. She very good and we can trust her." ************************ Part 6: Being Miranda As deeply disconcerting as it was for me, Miranda was equally off balance. It was one thing to have discussed molding me into a doppelganger and to intellectually understand what the result would be, but with my bandages off, and the swelling gone, it was an entirely different matter to be standing before your twin created through the cutting edge surgical techniques. When Miranda first laid eyes upon the work that had been done to me, the only word to describe her expression was spooked. She was not the only one. When I looked in the mirror and saw Miranda Cable staring back at me it was unreal to the point of causing vertigo. I fought to suppress something inside of me, something like a primal scream that threatened to burst forth and drown out my sanity. This was different than the feminization I endured, and came to enjoy, back at the cells. What I saw there was a person I recognized, but very visibly altered. A female version of me. What I saw now was something that had nothing to do with the person I once was or would ever be again. I had breasts, large ones in fact, that I could barely cover with my hands they were so voluminous. My hair was no longer sandy blond, but cut and dyed brown in the style of Miranda's. I was even slimmer than before, but with hipps with a buttox, every ounce of fat body I had to spare had been rearranged in proportions in line with Miranda's. And of course, my face was no longer mine. Gone was were all traces that spoke of the person I once was, replaced by the soft gentle features of a New England blue blood who traced her lineage to the Mayflower. We stood before each other, two people looking at a flesh and blood reflection. Miranda looked as though she wanted to vomit. I tried to be matter of fact about it to bring us back into focus, but quickly realized I was doing more harm than good. "It's more detailed than you can imagine," I told her in a light hearted tone, "Birthmarks, added, birthmarks removed. Moles added, moles removed. My ear lobes were trimmed for god's sake. I have a little scar on my elbow where you cut yourself on broken glass in high school," Miranda stopped me. She was hoarse when she spoke, "I know I asked it happen, all of it ... but my scars ... my history ... all the things that make me, me. If you were a lesser person ...." I saw where she was going with her train of thought. A quite reasonable was consuming her. I understood her concerns, my unease from this madness was no less intense. I said in level, reassuring tones, "If I were a lesser person I could completely steal your life, is what you're thinking. But I am not a lesser person. I am your greatest ally, or I would not have gone through all this. Nor I am entirely Miranda Cable, nor could I be. I have a great ear for voices and accents, sure, and I can do yours averagely well. But not perfectly. I will always sound like someone doing a Miranda Cable imitation where the pitch is so slightly off. My natural voice, even with whatever it is they did to my neck," I instinctively touched my still tender throat, "is still a bit lower than yours. And yes, there's the matter of that print box in the corner allowing me to endlessly make, and adhere, your fingerprints over mine a few hours at a time. But blood and DNA? It will never even be in the same ball park. Won't even show the right gender. Hell, a simple airport X-ray would give up the jig being as my .... equipment ... is intact. I'm also about three quarters to an inch taller than you. My point is, I'll be able to fool some people, but I won't be able to fool anyone for long. " Her face was still ashen, but she said absently as if her mind were miles away, "You'll ... you'll ... have to wear higher heels than I usually do. People will have to believe the change of height is in the heels. And your voice. A cold maybe...? It may be close enough though. But Bree, I think we can't underestimate how far looking exactly like me will take you. If you look like me, sound much like me, their minds will tell them its impossible for you to be anyone but me. Think it through for a moment. A duplicate Miranda in this house is impossible. Human minds don't like the impossible." She was onto something. I finished her thought, "It's impossible to consider the impossible. A duplicate Miranda in most minds is as likely as ... an alien shapeshifter Miranda. The human mind will force a rational explanation onto details that don't quite fit." I walked over to her standing a foot away and looked her in the eye. She could still barely meet my gaze, "Even so, my god Miranda, what are we doing? This is truly deranged. I've never been so unmoored and frightened in my life." She finally raised her face to look me in the eye, "I'm frightened too Bree, but we've come this far ...." She looked slightly less far away, more determined. The shock was lessening, her mind was getting back to the monumental task at hand. Miranda's brow furrowed, "We won't have a great deal of time. It will a painful exercise in self consciousness, but while you complete healing, you will follow me, and imitate my every move, my every twitch." This was no different than what they trained us to do with our genetics in the cells: watch their behavior, and imitate. This was something I at which I excelled. ******** When I was back in the cells that believed my life was as upside down and surreal as any human beings could possibly be. I was mistaken. The week since I had left surgery was a level of madness I would have thought even then was inconceivable. But here I was. Our days consisted of Miranda moving about her apartment doing as many different things as she could imagine, trying her best to do them in a natural fashion knowing that I was going to imitate those exact actions a moment later. To ease this self consciousness, and to help me understand who Miranda Cable was, she spoke, the entire time non stop about herself, her past, her loves, her losses, her fears, her triumphs and why she makes the choices she makes. It was as though I was an autobiographer and she was dictating every detail of her life. " ... I was not a tomboy in any traditional sense," she told me one afternoon. We were sitting side by side at the mirror as she showed me, once again, her preferences in makeup with specific color combination of clothes. We were simultaneously applying the thick mascara she preferred. "I did love things most girls did, don't get me wrong, princesses, princes, happy endings, nice dresses, loved all of that. But I was also a sports girl. I played volleyball and soccer my entire life. It makes it all the more ironic that such a strong willed woman as me, allowed a man to talk her into such impractical Barbie Doll body. Can you imagine trying to play volleyball with these?" She absently gestured to her chest. I noted how her hands gently made a back and forth motion, and did the same. At this point, my constant mimicry didn't even slow her down, "But when I first met Charles, I had thought such men didn't exist. He had an old fashioned charm ..." After this routine went on for two weeks, and I finally felt strong and steady, Miranda took me by the hands and sat me down on the edge of her bed, "Miranda," she said to me calling me by her name signalling her intent, "today we begin." *************************** Miranda looked me over. Changing her mind she removed my dangling earrings and handed me a pair of studs. "Put these in. I look ... you look ... better in the dangling style, but it's a little too showy for what you have ahead. I'll change mine to match. Now," she continued laying out the plan one more time, "Charles has a brunch on the patio by the pool out back. A lot of the same money grubbers you saw at dinner will be there, plus a few Russians I've not met before and pretty large contingent from Brazil will be mixed in for good measure. Oil people is my guess. It's a bit larger than the dinner party, and anything outdoors increases the chance of a threat , so most the servants and a good portion of the security will be assigned that duty. The rest will be assigned to watching me, I imagine. You should be able to get away fairly easily. You know what to do from there." She gave me a long supportive hug, and kissed me on my cheek bidding me luck. I felt her breasts push firmly against mine and realized how endowed we actually were. "Hopefully luck won't come into play." I responded. She ducked out and turned right down the hallway. I checked myself one more time. Nothing seemed out of place, I looked exactly as Miranda did as she walked out of the door a moment ago. I wore a light brown blouse, more open than I would have chosen, but Miranda was not one to hide her assets no matter how ambivalent about them she may be. My above the knee khaki skirt was complemented by a pair of strappy brown platform sandals, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was not wearing hose. Slung across my shoulder was a tan faux alligator skin purse. My eyes were done with the black eyeliner and deep black mascara, giving a dramatic deep look to my now brown eyes. Miranda had tied my hair back in a short ponytail, with a pair of sunglasses perched on my head. If anyone were to see me they would believe I was eventually headed outdoors to the brunch. I stepped into the hall. Where Miranda had gone right, I went left. I felt nervous as though all eyes would be on me. But I moved in the direction I needed to, automatically putting one foot in front of another. On my end at least, my fears seem ungrounded. Other than a polite "good morning Ms. Cable" or "good morning ma'am" no one gave me much attention. In fact, it quickly became apparent to me from the quickly averted gazes following the polite greetings, that the help was instructed not to interact more than necessary or to stare. Only the three sets of security guards had the confidence to not only look at me, but in a way that made it clear they were keeping an eye on me. I could be almost certain this was by Charles' instruction. Getting to the back into the prison was a far less nerve wracking experience than it was going the other way. Only when I stepped through the doors of the mansion into the tunnels and saw the cruel razor floors, realizing that they were not actually to keep female prisoners in line, but to force men into wearing heels all day everyday, did I shudder. But it was the imaginative sadistic cruelty of Charles Cable that steeled my determination to make this work. When I came up from the tunnels, I followed the stairwell up into the living area finding Warden Orly Okocha's apartment. With Miranda's card key, I had access to all parts of the mansion and prison. Miranda was a prisoner in many of the ways I once was, but it was not the locks on doors that kept Miranda from going where she liked. Straightening myself, I knocked. Ory Okocha opened the door. "Ms. Cable. What a great pleasure to have you grace us with your presence," she addressed me with exceptional formality as I had expected. On paper, they had not met, although in reality they had many times. Always in secret. They largely communicated, however, thorough unique means and always very indirect. And with cameras everywhere and Charles' eyes and ears down here, one was always playing to an unseen audience. "I'm not certain what would cause you to hazard a trip to a women's prison. But the prison and your home have been neighbors for a long while. Perhaps it is time that we spoke. I will be interested to hear what you have to say. Will you come in?" I walked into he