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SUMMER OF LOVE Chapter 1: "Thank you for taking the Soviet Train Lines." He hesitated for a second,then looked upward and stamped my passport. "...Sir." It was rare that I slipped back into my true voice, I quickly recomposed myself and wished the young lad a great day. On the train, I found out I shared a cabin with a woman. She was pretty, and young. Judging from her clothing, she came from a peasant family. "Aren't you hot? Surely you can take off the gloves and your big cap. It is summer after all" I didn't say anything. She must have wondered whether or not I was a mute. She smiled and continued: "I love your suit, it fits your broad frame, but you should take it off really, it's too hot and even if you have boyish good looks, with that, you look like a stuffy old man". She laughed a girly little laugh. I excused myself, took my briefcase with me and went to the bathroom. I took off my gloves which revealed my long and dainty fingers. I took off the coat as the padding in the shoulders made me sweat like a pig. I prepared myself for my weekly ritual. The shaving cream felt chilly against my skin. The blade of the razor felt liberating. It was funny. I wondered if men who had a real stubble felt any discomfort while shaving? I imagined myself having a coarse stubble and the joy of having to shave it. For me, it was the epitome of manhood. I spoke a few words. I forced myself to speak a few octaves lower then I usually do when I am stressed so that my gender became unambiguous. As I went through the ritual, I couldn't help but to think about the young lady's breasts and her apparent naivete. I wanted her. Bad. Boyish good looks? That's right. My jawline was round rather then square, my lips were full, my nose small was and dainty. My eyes were bigger and my eyebrows naturally narrow. We were the perfect couple. My lust gave way to fright as I remember that faithful night where I met a childhood friend in a Moscow cabaret. During dinner, we talked about the civil war in Columbia and then being schooled away from our parent's country. The discussion quickly turned to our former classmates. Did you remember Marco? Killed in a shootout with an American mercenary in Nicaragua. Or so the rumour went. How about Stella? She did well for herself, she was now an attache at the Soviet embassy in Sweden. Or Raul? Now An adviser to Fidel Castor's army. Did you hear about Enrique? No. He simply disappeared. And so on and so forth. When it was over, I offered to give Sabrina a ride home. She rushed into an alley, apparently to vomit the copious amount of vodka. I naturally followed her into the darkness when two hands grabbed me by my shoulders and pinned me to the wall. She was surprisingly strong and her fierce kisses demonstrated a hunger I had seldom encountered. Hot tears streamed down her face as she spoke of burns and beatings. I should have pushed her away, but when the male mind sees a young woman crying and begging for love, well --- she started unbuttoning my shirt. While she did so, her hands slowly went from my abdominal muscles toward the sides of my ribcage and then toward my hips. When she met with all-too familiar curves in unfamiliar places, she stopped. Her eyes locked into mine for a second. They were looking for something which wasn't there, something she knew was at odd with the idealized image she had of myself. When she found those strange bandages on my chest, her pretty face contorted into an ugly grimace. When she dared touch "them", her hand automatically recoiled from the unnatural softness of my flesh. When she ran,I knew I had to run as well. I should have stayed and tried to explain yet how could I have explained the concept of being a man literally trapped in a woman's body? To realize that your genitals were slowly turning into female ones? To be in command of a body that was in open mutiny against the mind? To see your hips expand beyond what nature intended or your chest commit treason by swelling into fleshy mounds? I looked upon myself in the mirror and started wiping off the sweat off my finely chiseled muscles. I reflected upon the vast amount of time I had spent in the gymnasium trying to put on weight. I struck a pose, flexing my biceps. I had a body that was powerful and made for performance but I would never weight much more then 120 lbs. I reflected upon how all my muscle mass seemed to have been concentrated in my legs, abdomen and thighs. If it weren't for the tape binding my chest, my flaring hips and my bubble butt, an impartial observer might have mistaken me for Billy Jean or any of the western female athletes. Sad really. Under the socialist state, what I was becoming was not so bad. We had women snipers, scientists ,pilots... everything except women prime ministers and generals. However,there were no lesbians in the Soviet Union and it was easy for a male party official to make unsolicited advances. The thought made me shudder with revulsion as I myself was not privy being treated the same way I treated women. Karma, as they say, is a bitch. I looked down at Mr. Happy. My dick was still there, but it had shrunk from a rather normal 6 inches to a 2 inches in size. The hood had retracted so it looked like a mutant clitoris. My balls had largely retracted into my body. A dry and shallow slit running from the middle of my testes and creeping upward toward the tip of my former dick had formed. That I hid my condition for so long was problematic. At best, I would be studied under a microscope like a radioactive cockroach or a delicate poisonous flower. Charges of Identity theft could lead directly to prison or blackmail by more senior party officials. What I truly feared was much worse: Sabrina was not really Sabrina, she was a "Natasha", someone with no real identity. She robbed westerners of their honour by giving up her dignity. There was no other way for orphans of the revolution without proper skills to repay the debt we had toward the state. No. It was too late to go back. I peeked outside. The train stopped at a station and I saw two men that were waiting by the docks. They wore no uniforms but they stood erect, and their eyes revealed a hardness about them that could only be forged by war and conflict. They boarded the train. It was time. With some regret, I took out my pocket knife and started undoing the bandages that tightly bound my breasts. They bounced free. I let out a sigh of relief. I could at least now breath normally. They were an eyesore on this young man's chest but when I saw my own reflection in the mirror, Mr. Happy couldn't help but try to stand at attention. It was a valiant effort. I took off my cap which revealed a mane of luxurious brown hairs. I opened a janitor's closet which was supposed to contain my disguise. Sure enough, I took out a black bra (with a "D" label),panties,a female KGB uniform and got dressed. I took out the lipstick and applied it to my lips to complete the disguise. When I went back to fetch my belongings in the compartment, the two plainclothes policemen were there. There was a fat one and a thin, almost stick-like figure. The stick spoke first and in the rudest possible tone: "Excuse me miss, but we are here to apprehend a dangerous fugitive, will you please come with us to the office of the militia?" I spoke the first name that came to my mind. "Natasha Kourniva" I responded indignantly "I have important business to take care of in Berlin, now if you will excuse me gentlemen." He protested for a second,but I snidely ignored him. When he protested more loudly, I screamed accordingly. I am certain they could not have understood everything I said in my hysteria, but they certainly understood the word "Gulag". I walked off the train and into the city before the young woman could testify against me. My heels made loud noises against the cobbled streets. A few bystanders looked at me strangely. A fresh breeze went to caress my legs through the stockings I wore underneath my skirt. I pressed my chest forward. My tits proudly flared up. My hips at first moved in an uneven staccato but soon gained a steady pace as my vertebrae contorted themselves to fit my new station in life. I felt a certain warmth in my cheeks as I realized the uniform was slightly too small for me and fit very tightly against my body. Alas, I forced these thoughts to the back of my mind. I found the town rather rustic: it had not been touched by modernist soviet architecture. The train station was situated atop a small hill and looking down. A slew of stone buildings adorned the roads. A blue- ish hue slowly descended upon the city. One by one, the town's windows lit up to provide contrast to the coming darkness. Beyond these stone buildings laid an airfield. Bombers and fighters of all sorts came and went. The rustic silence was broken by the occasional "BANG" supersonic fighters make when they break the sound barrier. Roars of laughter could be heard from one of the buildings whose antique sign read:"Cafe Berlin". The hostess noticed my uniform and pointed to a short officer nursing his beer in the corner. He didn't notice me until I was within speaking distance and even then... all the young captain could muster was to raise an eyebrow. I sat down uninvited. "Pedro's friend, I presume?" he asked. "Herself," I replied. "And you are Gord---- I mean Mr. Vassolich?" He was taken a bit aback. Gordo was now fairly slender and didn't really deserve his childhood nickname. "Yes,do you have it?" I opened my briefcase, and took out a pack of cigarettes as well as a small envelope. Gordo opened it, but kept his poker face. "United States Dollars.... the best currency there is." I said nothing but concurred, having a lot of Russian rubles was a little bit like a man stuffing a sock in his underwear. He lit it a cigarette and took a long puff. He pointed at me. I read between the lines of his narrative and figured: The real Diana was entitled to a vacation at the Cafe Berlin, but was punished for a minor infraction. Gordo the administrative genius told himself:"Hey, why let good money go to waste (or worse... to the Air Force?)". In plain English, Robin hood decided to rob the army to give back to himself. He said: "You can keep the uniform, I already told the tailor to write it off as a theft. Of course, I wouldn't suggest it." He put the last sausage in his mouth and pushed his plate away. "If ---God forbid--- you get caught inside the base while trying to defect to the West, then I will simply say that you seduced one of our men and stole Diana's identity." He smiled. I owed him a "favour" according to him. It was ----after all- --- a highly risky career move to support the friend of a known fugitive. I replied that Pedro sold him contraband gasoline for the best part of the last 5 years and that too could be highly hazardous to an official's career. He became red and excused himself. Chapter 2: My room was quaint. It had a creaky wooden floor. The only window gave access to the tiled rooftop. It was dark by then, but I could still hear buzzing airplanes. There were two electric lamps and barely enough rooms for a small closet, a single bed as well as a small desk. I didn't want to stand out so I lit only a couple of candles. I dressed down to my underwear and fetched a map of the town in my briefcase. The incline of the rooftop wasn't too steep and I found myself sitting comfortably. As I looked down to read the scale, I begrudgingly acknowledged my breasts. I wondered if the West could cure this strange condition and if there were others like me? Others might have found the thought erotic, but at this point, I could only think of their functional aspects: to feed a young baby. I considered a life without them. "Stop this," I told myself. "What a bloody mess I would leave on the floor. It wouldn't be very nice for the maid. " In spite of the heat, I put my jacket back on. I held the map up and started deciphering it. I stayed on the rooftop for one more hour until my eyelids felt like heavy weights. Hot sun rays woke me up. The weights compressing my ribcage and oppressing my back no longer existed. No hairs obscured my face or got in my mouth. I had lost all muscle definition. My fingers were fat and dumpy rather then long and dainty. The rough fabric of Sunday pants and shirt hugged my skin. The fresh scent of hay mixed with the hot stench of manure assaulted my nostrils, but hot tears of joy fell down my cheeks nonetheless. A horse grumbled. I wondered for a moment how Roncho had survived for so long. He must have been well over 50 years old now. The chestnut was already next to useless when he was 30. A young girl no more then 11 came into the stable and said,smiling: "Wake up sleepy head!" When I pretended to sleep. She poked me sharply with a stick. "Sabrina, please let me sleep on my belly for once," I protested. "I haven't slept on my belly for the last 4 years." Roncho grumbled in sympathy. "No! The hacienda owners will beat me if they find out I let you sleep once more! Puta! it's your aunt's wedding! Beside, I'm taller then you, I'm going to beat you with this stick!" Finally, I relented. A large gathering of children formed around Manolo, an old farm hand. His brown leathery skin was the result of a life spent working under the sun. The scars on his large hands still contained the splinters caused by various farm instruments. After becoming blind, the owners felt rotten about leaving him to die and he was put in charge of our education. He compensated for lack of sight by taking presence every five minutes: "Fidel!" "Present!" "Stella!" "Present!" "Eddie!" "Present!" Enrique laughed at the notion of his disappearance. Even at a tender age, he was already bulky and adults spoke of him as a future boxer or a baseball player. He told me instead that he would punch the Soviets in the face...then become world famous when he writes of his adventures. I didn't salute Gordo who was bullying poor Marco in the back, calling him all kinds of names. Manolo was either too old or stupid to notice. I felt sorry for Marco and wondered why someone who was sent to fight the Americans in Nicaragua let himself be bullied by a non-entity like Gordo. The old campesino then proceeded to warn us that there were witches in our midst brought upon by outside forces that didn't believe in God. They weren't necessarily ugly, or pretty. They simply presented themselves in a form they thought would inspire the most confidence. He told of a hacienda owner who got on their bad side and got turned into a horse when he dared refuse to pay the "Witch tax". Roncho sneezed. The peasant got angry when we laughed at the witchcraft stories. At complete loss as to what to do, he admonished us once more about Christian brotherly love, Yankee imperialism and the Virgin Mary. For reasons unknown (no one truly listened to the old fart's rambling monologues). He then started to sing the Colombian National Anthem: "Independence!" cries the American world; The land of Colombus. Is bathed in heroes' blood. But this great principle; "The king is not sovereign", resounds, and those who suffer bless their passion. As he sang the third stanza, his head snapped back. Spots of red inundated his face and formed a puddle underneath his sandals. His lifeless body first dropped to its knees and then fell forward --- his butt protruding like Mount Everest. No... it wasn't heaven. It was la Violencia all over again. Armed men yelling in Spanish rushed on all sides firing their guns wildly and killing humans as if they were wild animals. Speaking of animals, Roncho died for the second time , but I didn't care for him. My worries was for our parents. A "whizzzz" sound zipped past me. I grabbed Sabrina's hand and simply ran for it without looking back. The hard dirt beneath my feet turned into the soft soil. Leaves slapped my cheeks and branches scratched my face, but I didn't care. The "whizz" sounds never stopped coming. We ran for 6 hours straight. A red hue suddenly befell the jungle and a small stone house made itself known. I recognized it instantly as the orphanage we took refuge in Columbia after La Violencia started. An old nun welcomed us into the building. Two soldiers in camouflage stood guard, their rifles at the ready. The wooden furniture was rustic at best and the stone floor unusually cold to the touch. I couldn't help noticing that I had grown much taller, and my muscles had regained their familiar hardness. I had to look down upon the nun. Sabrina hugged me as if to protect herself. "daddy is OK, he is at the Church" Something dawned on me. "Sabrina, the banditos came from the Church. Your father is dead." She started pounding my abdomen with her fists. I wasn't too sure what was surprising about it. The nun walked slowly toward us and her smile grew. Her wrinkles made her face look like an overripe prune. She brought her hands together and said: "I see... so she is an orphan. We help orphan children here. By the way, I am sorry, I have not caught your name." She paused with her grin growing ever wider. "Pedro" "Unusual name for a person of your rank." "You are a foreigner." "No matter, do you like the tea?" I didn't answer. She opened a small children's book. She described a kingdom where icy cold killed all diseases. She talked of warm and luxurious castles where proud soldiers guarded . She hypnotized the young girl with tales of princes showering her with attention. Seeing that I was sceptical, she described supermarkets where fresh produce was freely distributed everyday to all citizens. I looked at her in the eye. "I just came back from there. I already went through your schools. You fed and clothed me. You taught me how to read and write... and for that I am eternally grateful." The overripe prune nodded in agreement. "... Take me once again if you must but let her go." She acted coy and empathized with me. "It sounds like your little companion disagrees." "Sabrina....Come, let's go." Sabrina grabbed my shirt and exclaimed:"Mommy, I am still hungry. Riding on a magic dragon sounds fun. " I started to question Sabrina's sanity when I saw wild hairs suddenly obscuring my vision. As I pushed them away, I felt two familiar weights suddenly growing on my chest. My back arched slightly to counter the effect. The loose Sunday shirt I was wearing now felt tight against my skin. As my nipples grew wider, I could feel the chafing against the soft fabric. It was increasingly irritating. My pants became too small as my hip bone and butt expanded. The witch cackled. One of my shirt's buttons declared independence as the fabric could no longer contain my expanding cleavage. My pants stopped causing discomfort as they fused into a long skirt. Sabrina hugged me, I slapped her away and said: "For the last time, I am not your mot ----" Voices echoed against the walls: "HE IS NOT THE MOTHER, HE IS NOT THE MOTHER. HE IS AN IMPOSTOR!". "Take her away!" yelled the nun. The two guards took my protege away. They were out of the door in less then a second. Several bars shot up around me toward the ceiling. My hand reached between them as I fell down to my knees. My vision became blurry with water. A clear and salty liquid dripped from my nose and unto my mouth. My voice turned from a loud baritone that of a shaky female. I pictured what faith had in store for Sabrina. "No!" I cried. "I am a woman! I am a good mother! Give me back my little girl! Give her back!" As if to confirm my sayings. I felt a wetness around my nipples that slowly started to drip. A white creamy liquid was now escaping from my breasts. "FROM CRADDLE TO THE GRAVE! FROM THE CRADDLE TO THE GRAVE," replied the voices. Chapter 3: "This is from the Captain that reserved the room for you. It's from Canada." The servant girl poured a brown liquid on my pancakes. The sugary liquid turned the bland paste into something quite pleasant. She asked me if I had a boyfriend and if I was dreaming about him last night. "Pardon me?" "Oh, I'm sorry, it's just that I hear KGB women lead such exciting lives. You looked so agitated last night in your sleep. I heard that they were only accepting pretty women in the KGB and it's the first time I have one in front of my very eyes. " Her eyes went to my chest and then downward. My eyes went from her B cups then back to my plate. Affairs of the state were not to be trifled with. Silly woman. "Oh, I know that, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to put my nose in the affairs of the mighty K G B. I mean he looked like a frog but the attention must be flattering." I wanted to interrupt her but gossip was strong in this one: "Didn't you know? There is apparently a dangerous fugitive that is working for the CIA. I wish I had your exotic features so I could seduce him into my bed.... and then turn him into a double agent. I'm sure it would be easy... I saw his picture... if it were not for his height, you could mistake him for a naive teenager. Do you read romance novels at all?" She licked her lips and put her arms around her breasts. I just stared at her for a second, as the blonde woman stared at the ceiling, apparently in a trance. Her eyes sparkled with envy. She noticed there was a drop of syrup on my chest. She wiped it with a napkin before going on her merry way. Why did the whole world seem to revolve around my breasts? I must admit, that I felt a twinge of excitement as she did so. I spent the rest of the day watching the air field from the rooftop of the "Cafe Berlin." An AN-24 airliner stood in contrast against the others. If I recalled correctly, it had 44 seats. I assumed it was used to ferry VIPs or in use by the diplomatic service. Sure enough, I saw 4 plainclothes policemen guarding it. I noticed army trucks coming and going. I could sometime see young troops packed like sardines in the back. No doubt, the airfield also had a small infantry garrison. A civilian truck also made its way into the base at around the same time. As I got up, I reached between my legs. The half-slit didn't mean anything to me. It was almost a decorative thing at this point but strangely my dick had become a lot more sensitive during the last few months and as I walked out the door, it started to throb slightly. As I walked down the streets toward the base, I could see people trying to avert my gaze. Some women stared at me for a second as they scoped for potential rivals. Their instinct of self-preservation overrode the feminine instinct upon closer attention of the prey. The men were too afraid to look at me at all. As I got to my first pit stop, a poignant fear gripped my heart. I was tempted to go into a men's clothing store, give my measurements and bully the storekeeper into providing a tailor-made suit for my "husband". "Raison d'?tat!" I imagined saying as I banged my fist loudly on his wooden counter. I pictured him rushing to the back store as big drops of sweat dripped from his forehead. With trembling hands, he would then lay in front of me the latest in soviet fashion for men. Chances are, the best outfit would be an ugly one piece suit that was a carbon copy of the ones preceding it, but in my case... I liked ugly. I would have rocked it like it was 1917. The image made my smile. I imagined the joy of wearing man's clothing again, and not being the centre of attention wherever I went. I imagined having a deep voice that would resonate across the room and women gossiping around my back and comparing me with their male friends. The happy butterflies of anticipation were soon replaced by butterflies with steak knives when I reviewed the events of the last few days. Would THEY notice? I had left my clothes in the train compartment.... "They" had my measurements and if the real KGB were to drop by the shop, they would easily find out my new address and identity. Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dum looked as dumb as door knobs, but they weren't that dumb. But what if I simply took them a size too small? Yes! No. My puppies would then protrude in a glaring fashion. There was only so much taping I could do without them getting revenge by making me suffer. What if I simply took them a size too large? Yes! No. I would look like a clown or "a stuffy old man." I would stick like a sore thumb. The old guy manning the shop waved at me. I waved back shyly and instead walked away. My boobs cruelly reminded me of my cowardice by their very presence. Up. Down. Up. Down. Left.Right.Left.Right. Diagonal. Right. Left. Up and down again. Raaah, if only I could stop that bouncing! Gravity started to seriously piss me off. My next pit stop was a small market square. A small bridge connected it to the base. A lonely soldier guarded its entrance with an AK-47 slung across his shoulder. Another one of his colleague guarded the double doors. I stared at the lone guard, he stared back for a second but looked down, as if he had done something wrong. I knew there was an opening there. Many ethnic Russians were conscripted. For them, military service was a chore to be avoided by any means, fair or foul. By contrast , minorities with a warrior culture relished the chance to prove themselves and one way they did it was via a particularly brutal hazing process. It was not all that uncommon to see one or two Chechen sergeants dominating a company of ethnic Russians through sheer bullying. This guy was no Chechen. As I strolled along the riverside, I looked at the concrete walls. They easily reached 16 feet in height. Each 100 meters or so, there was a guard tower with a search light and a PK machine gun. The thought of 7.62 mm bullets burning through my muscles crossed my mind. I shuddered. Without the tape to bind my breast down, I became annoyed with them. I entered a female clothing store. The dresses looked uniform and were conservative. As I leafed through the catalogue, no one came to help me. Nothing I could find in the catalogue showed anything that could contain my humongous breasts. The undergarments looked almost like pyjamas and only came in "small, medium and large". Prominently displayed was a propaganda poster exulting a spartan outlook. A girl bravely plowed through a field with nothing more then a summer dress. Fashion accessories were capitalist extravagances that were of no use to the Socialist woman. Undergarments were seen as hygiene items that should have a functional rather then cosmetic outlook. I couldn't help but empathize in principle, except my cleavage very much disagreed with the implementation in practice. I became self-conscious when I realized the girl in the poster might have been able to get away with going "bra-less" but not I. I truly wondered how Gordo possibly got a hang of the western "brassiere" I was wearing especially since I had made no special request for it. It must have been quite expensive but then again... It was the least he could do. Finally, a portly woman struck up a conversation. It was odd as food was strictly rationed. "You look frustrated Frau," she said in perfect but accented Russian. "Is there anything I could help you with?" She laid gaze upon my ample bosom. "Let me guess... Come with me to the back room." She couldn't help but chit chat to make me feel at ease. It actually had the opposite effect. Where was I stationed? Was I here for long? Do I have a boyfriend? I lied through my teeth and pretended to be an officer working at the base. What sports did I play? I didn't want to say bodybuilding so I claimed proficiency in tennis. Did I wear a western bra? If so, did it ever came off by accident? I felt blood rushing through my cheeks. Her back office was as spartan as the front one. After measuring my cleavage, her fat fingers ran through a pile of undergarments. There were no labels attached to them. One by one, the other patrons exited the store, presumably happy with their purchases. I could see darkness starting to fall upon the city. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally fit me with a blue bra that held my breasts very tightly. "How do you feel? Your old bra was too small in the cups and too large in the band. You see you shouldn't have breast tissue popping out from underneath the cups. Walk around a bit." My breasts didn't stop bouncing completely. Instead, they jiggled softly inside their lacy encasing and now the upper straps didn't dig into my shoulder blades as much. I got rubles out of my pocket but as I reached out to her she said: "No. Don't pay me. It is a great honour to serve you. Just come back anytime." She went out of the way to praise her soviet overlords but I admired her business acumen. I bought a blue dress from the old woman in the front. When I got out, only the lampposts illuminated the streets. The familiar clicks of my heels echoed against the houses. Most people retreated behind closed doors, away from prying eyes. I stopped in front of another shop as my feet yelled "NO MAS!". I took my heels off, thankful that I could for some time stand like a man again. Immediately, my back thanked me for this short respite. Sports memorabilia adorned the windows. I could not make out the German name of the shop, but it seemed to have been some kind of social and cultural exhibit. A towering Muhammad Ali stood above a downed Sonny Liston, yelling obscenities. The caption and signature said: "To my friend Vlad P. Best of luck. Muhammad Ali 03/08/64". I admired him. It was the physique I would have liked to have. Directly across it were pictures of a ballerina,a tutu and a pair of female skating shoes. Sugar, spice and everything nice. An odd figure appeared as a black sheep in the otherwise happy portrait.A thin shadow had his back against a lamppost, his features were shrouded in his own shadow. I slowly put my heels back on and went on my way: no need to telegraph being aware of my admirer's presence. When I was about 100 meters away, the figure followed. I stopped, he kept going and turned left. I then walked forward and turned right. After a few dozen meters, I took out a pocket mirror and lipstick. As I felt the lipstick straddle my opened mouth, I shifted the mirror upward, as if to inspect my eyes. There was nothing immediately behind me. I levelled the mirror, turned my head to my right... and pouted. I hated myself for adopting female mannerisms, but looking tartly was a cheap price to pay for living another day. Nothing. I then turned my head to my left, retouching my lips some more as I did so... Ah, there he was. He had stopped walking as well, non-chalantly hiding in a door opening. I closed my pocket vanity and quickened my pace a bit. With some luck, it was simply an idiot from the local militia who wanted to blackmail a lone female KGB officer shopping for bras. This just shows you how some people make up for lack of common sense by a disproportionate amount of greed. Still, I had to lose him before going back to the Cafe Berlin. The professionals are predictable, it is the amateurs that are dangerous. I saw a restaurant. The curtains were drawn but I could hear feint music and see a dim light through the main windows. I tried the knob and I entered. The chairs were placed on top of the tables. They were dusty. The music grew louder as I went toward the back. I burst into a room full of people. The violinist stopped playing as a dozen pairs of eyes turned in my direction. A drunk started to make lewd comments about "jugs" but as he took a closer look, he surmised everyone's thoughts as he read the writing on my breast pocket. "Kaaaaaayyyyyy...... Geeeee.... B-----" he mumbled with an unsure voice. A middle-aged woman started wailing. A girl cupped her hands over her mouth and ran upstairs. The men simply looked down at their beers. I understood their surprise. A pig was being roasted in the fireplace. The wailing woman begged in broken Russian. I was speechless and must have looked as surprised as they were. I did not wanted them to give a "free pass". Words may have gotten out about this officer with a golden heart so... I reflexively put my hand out. The matriarch stopped her wailing and a grin appeared on her face: "Oh I see! Yes! That's what you came for! Of course, that is no problem!" The violinist started playing again. An empty hat was passed around. As the conversation was translated, smiles and wallets suddenly appeared. As the hostess trusted the rubles in my hand, she thanked me profusely. A man pushed a beer mug in my hands, recounting tales of his times as an army conscript. I gracefully accepted. I wanted to spend some time to see if my pursuer was still here. I peeked through the single window. A strange man sat directly at a bus stop. My guardian angel looked at me straight in the eyes. I found his to be cold and soulless. He was maybe 6 feet tall, with a moustache like Uncle Joe (Stalin that is). I could have pretended not to have seen him but whatever pretence of subtlety was now gone. His white shirt and black dress pants stood out as this was largely a blue collar city. I was now certain it was neither the bureau or the local militia. The Bureau would have simply arrested me and the local militia did not have the balls. The MI5 had too much professionalism to attempt such tactics and the CIA had never penetrated the Eastern Bloc before. I thought of the Romanians...Rumour had it that they were fond of leaving guest rooms in a mess, and having burly men do the "surveillance" work. Loud thumps were felt in my chest. I licked my lips, and wiped the sweat away from my forehead. I exited the restaurant into a dimly lit alley. There was a 6 foot tall wooden fence on my right. Climbing it was a challenge as I had to keep my breasts away from the fence. I landed softly, when I felt a warm aura coming behind me. Before I could react, thin bony fingers with not an once of fat covered my mouth. As I let out a gasp, a palm now prevented me to speak and the bones now rested on the sides of my jaw. In my panic, my breath started to shorten as the momentum and weight of the odd man threatened to bring me down to the ground. I desperately tried to wiggle out of the iron grip. I saw a Latina woman come out of hiding. I could recognize those hips and hourglass figure anytime. Sabrina whispered: "We had a hard time following you, you know that?" I jerked my head violently leftward and bit into the bones as hard as I could. The figure holding me yelped in pain and released his grip. As I leapt forward, I threw a hard left at my one-time girlfriend. She fell flat on her behind as blood came out of her mouth. I ran for it. It is not easy to run in high heels, but I managed. My hands were kept horizontal and away from my body as to maintain my balance. My female mounds decided it was a good moment to pop out of their prison and declare themselves autonomous entities. They bounced freely and happily. They made it known to my neocortex by sending pain signals each time a step was taken. Uncle Joe was blocking my path with a knife in his hand. His second hand slowly descended toward his fly. In standard transgender literature, this might be the part where I fall down on my back and spread my legs. However, I am heterosexual and this is not erotica. "Oh no you don't!" I exclaimed. I kicked him as hard as I could in his testicles with my right foot. As he fell down to his knees, I slammed my back foot down on the ground. Joe dropped his weapon and grasped his family jewels, but it was too late: I pivoted on my left heel and my right shin struck him cleanly on the jaw. I ran again and took a turn into another dark alley. A single lightbulb illuminated it. As I did so, I saw another character emerge out of the shadow. I stopped and yelled: "You want to fight some more? I can take 20 of you! Bring it!" He extended his bony fingers and they came unto the light. The tips were black like charcoal. The major and the ring fingers were bleeding badly. A white broken bone poked through the skin of his ring finger. The buttons of his sleeves were undone, leaving his forearm exposed. He literally had no muscles or fat. There was no definition at all. I felt my stomach turn as my head started to hurt. His coat was too large for him. He stepped forward until his face came into full view. His face shared the characteristics of his forearms in that they had no fat or muscle definition. His cheeks were hollow and instead of pushing out, they formed two distinct cavities underneath his eyeballs. His neck was thin and supported his head in a vulture-like fashion. He looked like a refugee from Auschwitz yet even the ravages of hard labour and starvation could not completely erase the defining features of a face. His jaw was square. His nose was exceptionally large, considering his condition. It was Enrique. I started moving backward, but as I put my left heel down, it became stuck on a manhole. My arms flailed forward, but I lost balance anyway and landed on my backside. My stiletto broke under the pressure. His expression was neither severe or kind. A couple of words escaped his thin lips: "Not so loud." Before I could speak, I felt a knee pushing against my back and an unfamiliar arm strangling my neck from behind. A hand went across my mouth for the second time this evening. A pungent smell filled my world as everything faded black. Chapter 5: When I regained consciousness, not everything was black. I could see small squares of bright light through the fabric that covered my eyes. Fresh air caressed my body as I noticed I was completely naked except for my panties. Thank the heaven I had not gone blind. I was simply laying on my back with a gag in my mouth. I tried to move, but my arms were tied together to the bed post. I could arch my back a bit and push my hips upward but not much more. At first I did so vigorously, but strong knots also bound my feet to the bed. A female voice spoke to me and pushed my tummy down. "Stay down!" Delicate fingers slowly removed the tissue hiding my view,ruffling my hairs along the way. Soon afterwards,I was staring down the barrel of a Makarov pistol. I could not focus on anything else. The voice continued: "Girl,If you promise not to scream, I will remove your gag... " I nodded in the affirmative. I took a deep breath. "So it's you..." she said. "Pedro, why did you steal the identity of this poor woman? Or were you a Diana all along ?" I licked my lips quickly. Sabrina's Latina features looked as good as before. Her dainty nose stood right in the middle of her round face. Her black hair were as silky as ever. Her big almond eyes looked furiously at me. A black line on her lower lips indicated where it split open the night before(----serves the bitch right----), but in spite of this blemish, they looked full and red. She was dressed in a KGB uniform with a drop of maple syrup on her chest. She cupped my right breast. "Can you explain THIS?" asked my tormenter. "Sabrina, it's a long story." She hit me hard with the butt of the pistol on the nose, but the real strike came when she repeatedly asked me who I was and who I was working for. I had no more strength. I simply resigned myself to my faith: "If you have to kill me, kill me now so we are both done with it!" Her eyes flared with rage as she slapped me hard with her free hand. "What are you waiting for? I'm not telling you anything! Shoot me now." I paused for effect then threw an insult along the line of "You KGB fuck" for good measure. The torturer's breathing became laborious. Her eyes welled with water. The pistol dropped on the floor as her body slowly lowered toward the bed. Her head brushed against my left cheek as she smelled my neck. Her smooth skin stroked it generously. The softness of her breasts competed against mine. I could feel her right arm against my tummy and her left hand exploring my back. I wished I could have grabbed her in my arms. She had missed me. She had missed me dearly. Finally, she slowly got up. She replied coolly: "Get dressed, we're going for a walk." She cut loose my restraints with my knife while keeping her gun pointed at me. The were no windows in the concrete room. There was only my bed in the corner and a table with some clothes on it. In the dim candle light, I instantly recognized the blue dress that I bought. I realized with some frustration that my captor had stolen or misplaced my bra. Hello pain in perspective! My breasts were bigger and I was smaller then she was. It seemed a utterly unfair situation. The heels were one or two bigger then I was used to at 7 1/2. Geez, even there,she had me beat in the manliness department. Their height were also almost comically long. I gauged them at a whopping 7 inches each. After getting dressed,the girl forced me upstairs. She paused for a second and disappeared into a closet but when I looked back, she only said: "Keep looking ahead." A small metallic sound came from the gun-carrying woman. When we exited the building, I noticed that she was now carrying a metallic shovel. The apartment block was no more then 50 meters from the scene where I had knocked down Uncle Joe. I recognized the restaurant instantly as the sun had not yet risen. We soon reached a forest, and took a dirt path leading away from civilization... As the buildings became blips in the distance, I crossed my arms and started talking to her. If I was to die anyway, it cost nothing to try an impromptu defence. "I was never a woman. I never lied to you or did this to hurt you on purpose. I just developed like this," I said. "I am a man that is trapped in a woman's body. I hate my body as much as you do. I'm a man that ironically has bigger boobs then his only love interest." I refrained from adding: "...smaller feet also." "That's quite pathetic, this isn't a romance novel, keep walking." My "only" love interest stopped me. We were in a clearing with a large tree in the middle. She gave me the tool with simple orders: "Take off your heels and dig." That was it. At this moment, I cursed my ever-expanding breasts and my child-bearing hips. I cursed the dress I was wearing and my high heels. I cursed Sabrina and the Soviet Union! I cursed the Colombian army, too incompetent to provide for our defence! I cursed the Padre who sold us off to the Russians! I cursed the heavens and the ---- Suddenly, I struck something with a different texture then the soil. A loud "crack" made itself known. Half of the shovel's blade was dripping with a slimy red liquid. My lovely Sabrina smiled."Keep digging around it. It look like you broke his sternum." I kept digging. Slowly, a white shirt stained with red appeared. Maggots had already started eating the heart. As I removed the dirty soil, blood started to bubble upward to fill the void. I wanted to vomit. I knelt down as I did so, no doubt providing the next meal to the army of bugs underneath my feet. My friend squatted, and put her arm on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear: "You can stop now. It should buy you some more time before the militia finds out about him. Now Enrique needs your help and you're going to help him." I could smell nicotine around her. My handler took out a box from her pocket,shook it and held it toward me. "Cigarette?" Chapter 6: "Diana?" asked Enrique. "Call me Pedro, I'm still your old comrade inside. Anyway drink this and then pass me the bottle afterwards." I took the bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and took a big gulp of it myself. I then sprayed it generously over my hand then over the gaping wound. I pulled the skin as I tried to expel dirt. The poor man clenched his teeth while Sabrina rubbed his shoulders. "So goes our celebration bottle, let us hope it is not a bad omen," said the female. It was very unnerving to touch him. The arms and hands felt like playing with a plastic stick covered in a razor thin layer of bread paste and silly putty. Contrarily to popular belief, bone is bendable to a small degree. The man didn't speak much. His eyes always seemed to stare into nothingness. They permanently focused on an imaginary point more then a 1000 yards away --- even when he spoke to you. The girl tried to reassure him. He spoke of the loss of weight in a flat and tone deaf voice. She tried to cheer him up by asking him whether or not he looked forward to marriage. He replied that his only true love died crushed by Soviet tanks in Budapest and he should have died then with her. Instead, in his cowardice, he let himself be captured. I noticed he didn't care for the physique of either Sabrina or myself at all. He in fact barely acknowledged my amazing transformation or seemed to care for my new condition. As I reflected upon this, I remembered reading the biography of an inmate at Auschwitz (one of the rare foreign book that was allowed by the party). In extreme conditions, sexual feelings made way for more pressing needs like food, water and shelter. I wondered when exactly did he escape from the gulags? I did not dare ask. I lifted a finger. My aide pushed a ball gag made of cloth in my patient's mouth and bound him to his chair with our belts. I pushed to straighten the bone. Squeals were muffled by the ball gag. I pushed further until the bone looked somewhat straight. I held a needle above the boiling pot --- the same needle I had used to sew my own KGB uniform when I was still Pedro. I sewed what little muscle and skin was left back together and tied a knot. I blessed it with some more vodka. I bandaged the ugly mess of skin and broken bone so that it would at the very least hold. I put the ring finger between two pencils and made sure it would hold firm. He bit hard into the gag. My makeshift nurse wiped off the now abundant sweat on my brow. "There you go Enrique. Now it's not much, I've only been trained to stabilize the wound as best as I can until you can see a real doctor. Get in a hospital as soon as you cross the border. Do you see the black tips of your fingers and toes? That tissue is dead and it is very worrying. You may have to amputate something." The man's eyes deadened for a second. He told me to do so meant certain death. A permanent paper trail would be made. He had not much choice in the matter. I only had a one-week class on battlefield surgery as part of my education. It was meant to quickly stabilize the wound and do basic triage. He grunted. I admired his brave face but wondered how long it was going to last. I only had one day now as Diana and I wished I had more time to scope out the base. Luckily, Sabrina had done most of the groundwork and was able to get the schedule for flights as well as a comprehensive list of passengers. The AN-24 airliner was bound to fly to France in 18 hours. It carried a select number of Jewish emigrants for the purpose of propaganda. As she had worked long years for the Bureau, her request to work as a lowly air stewardess was granted on the AN-24. Sabrina was confident she would find a way to slip past authorities once there. There was some debate as to who Uncle Joe actually was. Officially, his passport indicated he was a Romanian Jew fleeing persecution from the dictator Ceausescu. We double-checked the list and by coincidence he was also boarding the AN-24 flight. He clearly had some experience in the spy trade, but even the Romanians would not have resorted to such open intimidation. Still, I suggested once we passed the Iron Curtain , we were to split and act as strangers in case my female alter ego had attracted the attention of Eastern Bloc intelligence services. Pedro was already on the most wanted list for going AWOL, and did not need further attention. Sabrina protested. It was most likely only a pervert. Uncle Joe was a sociopath of the worst kind. She conceded he may have been a spy in a former life. The fact that the rogue reached for his zipper fly when confronting me only showed that he could barely contain his animal instincts. It was doubtful he still had an employer. Enrique proposed a compromise: if we were to survive, we were to publish a small ad in a small reactionary journal called "Le Petit Paris"(he feared the left-wing press in France was in bed with the Comintern). We agreed that it was the best possible solution. Sabrina could alters Joe passport as Enrique was "white" enough to pass as Eastern European. My own case was a little bit more problematic. Lest we kidnapped,bound and gagged some poor woman, there was no way for me to legitimately get unto the plane. Furthermore, even if I somehow sneaked into the plane, there were no ways to legitimately get off the plane Of course, I could call it a day and attempt to live as an illegal. Seeing Enrique's condition after his stay at the Siberia Hilton, I did not relish the thought. We were sitting at a table when the Latina's face suddenly brightened with joy. Her wide smile made me uneasy for some reason. "Can you get in a ?" "I imagine, but I wouldn't like it" "Do you fear heights?" She asked suddenly, cocking her head slightly to the side. "Er.... not particularly, why?" "Did the Bureau give you parachute training?" "Er.... No." The decision was made then and there even if she clearly saw my face become white. Later on this evening, I took out my razor blade and shaved again. My breast were bound by duct tape I had found in the janitor's closet. I looked like a man with a and long hairs. As Enrique was more then 6 feet tall, his shirt was too large for me but that was just what I wanted. The pants were more problematic however and I had to cut off part of it. I heard a couple of door knocks. My favourite Latina was hanging in the doorsteps. She had a bathrobe and plenty of make up on. Her hairs were unkempt. When I opened the door she threw herself at me. She had completely emptied the bottle we had used as disinfectant. Seeing my face full of shaving cream, she laughed. "You use a man's shaving cream?" "You don't understand," I defended myself. "You almost look like a man. Maybe I can be a man as well." She undressed. Her body did not have an once of fat. Her breasts were round and perky. She cocked her hips provocatively to one side. It dawned on me then that I was 5 foot 4 and she was 5 foot 8. "How do you become a man? Maybe if I do like this..." She flexed her biceps, cocked her hips to the opposite side and looked nonchalantly at the ceiling. "I think therefore I am! If the tail thinks hard enough , it will start wagging the dog!" She roared in laughter. She continued while she starting putting little spots of cream on her face: "If I put shaving cream on, do you think I will grow a beard? Tell me my little lying Natasha. " She unbuttoned my shirt. Despite the feeling of d?ja vu, her hands continued her caresses when she met with breast tissue. Instead of acting as a repellant, she seemed enchanted with massaging my womanly hips. "Pedro, I was afraid for you..." she started. "I always wondered why you looked like a boy even well into your 20s. When I saw you strolling down the streets in that KGB uniform with breasts every women would envy...." This time, I pushed her away and took a step back. I protested: "I want to die as a man. If they find my corpse, I want to die as Pedro and not Diana." Her eyes darted toward the ground. She put her right hand in my pants and asked:"Are you still a man down there? Can I have children with you?" I looked down. Her left hand started undoing the cloth binding my chest. As she did so one of my breast escaped and found itself in the cusp of her hand. She started massaging it as she sought to liberate its twin. "Enrique didn't want to believe me... but I knew it was you. You had such confidence in your walk. I knew you were athletic." I felt the smooth texture of her skin caress my abdomen. "and then I saw this clumsy man following you around,I knew we had to intervene. I just want you to accept who you are. I want you to live. If you go back to being a man, they'll find you... us. Everyone knows Pedro but no one knows a Natasha... She has no identity... I have no identity." She kissed me. My tongue intertwined with hers and explored her lips. I could still feel the blood clot to this day. She pulled back and continued her monologue: "I want you to say it: I am a woman and not a man. I want you to live." "First let me know one thing..." She smiled and cocked her head to the side. She must have thought she had me whipped. I said: "Can I please have my bra back?" She wiped off both of our faces with a bath towel and we made love that night. EPILOGUE. "Do you have any tampons?" I asked. "I'm having my period and forgot to go the pharmacy." It was the 1st of May 1968, exactly one year after my escape from the Democratic Republic of Germany. The location was France, more specifically Paris and it was the summer of love. The Swedish woman took one of the flowers on the bed counter and put it in my hairs. I complimented her on her blonde mane and her snow white skin. I smiled while I arranged my hairs into a ponytail. It reached the small of my back. Her giggles filled the room. She asked me: "Who are you really V?ronique? It would be fun to know." The truth is V?ronique only came into existence shortly after I found myself knee-deep in French manure. I was holding the parachute in one hand and looking at the airliner flying overhead into the night. My gigantic breasts had once more popped out of my bra. The first thing I had done after getting cleaned up was go to the library. I pulled out the death records of a young girl who died at the age of 14 and would now have been about my age. After forging a few documents, I posed as one of her relatives and obtained her birth certificate from the town hall. The rest was history and I was able to enrol as a student at the University of Paris. 6 months earlier, I had published the classified ad as Enrique suggested but the phone remained silent. A young redhead entered the room with a newspaper in hand. "Hey girlfriend," she unceremoniously slapped me on my butt. "how are you?" She proceeded to recite allegations of atrocities by the Americans across the world. It was after all the summer of love and a cruel world out there. On a university campus, these things were to be expected. She could not have known my past of course. As I was largely living a male fantasy, I did my best to tolerate their idiocies however. As the young woman finished her rant and threw the newspaper on the ground. I shuffled through it and a small blurb at the bottom of page 4 caught my eye. "EAST GERMANY, BERLIN. Captain Jose "Gordo" Vassolich was arrested today on charges of corruption after an accountant complained of irregularities in the inventory system of his unit. A Colombian human rights group decried the execution by firing squad of Enrique Mortiez and Sabrina Gonzalez for the alleged murder of a Romanian national. They were caught as they were about to exit a AN-24 flight to Paris. A third accomplice, Pedro Villa, is thought to still be at large in France. "The West is unwilling to assist us in apprehending dangerous fugitives," said a Kremlin spokesman. "The fact of the matter is, most people who flee the Democratic Republic of Germany do so for criminal reasons." The fugitive is described as a Latino of 5' 4 with a slight, athletic build. He is very fond of shaving and is never seen with stubble." It was the summer of love and I had become a Natasha.