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In a world where what it means to be a man or a woman has been turned upside down, who or what are biofems and why can trying to get close to one of them get you killed? BIOFEM by BobH (c) 2015 - 1 - DANNY MYERS I was in the compound's gymnasium, working on my abs, when the order came over the PA system. "Carter, Myers," said the authoritative female voice of our boss, Chief Administrator Pitman, "to your stations. ETA on biofem flight from the USA is now one hour." I glanced over to where Steve Carter had been working out on a rowing machine, and we exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgement before heading out to the showers. I ran my fingers over my abs as we walked, and smiled. Not bad, not bad at all. I'd only been in this job two weeks but already my twice-daily visits to the gym were paying dividends. My wife Pamela loved how I was looking now. Like every woman, she wanted her man to be hard-bodied and muscular to contrast with her own delicious, curvy softness. "This'll be your first time seeing biofems in the flesh, won't it, Dan?" said Steve. "Yeah," it will," I replied, "though I gather we don't get to see much actual flesh." "Hardly any," he said, as we reached the showers, "and that's probably for the best." Stepping into our individual cubicles, we turned on the hot water and started soaping up. I still sometimes found it hard to believe there was a time when men used to shower in communal facilities after physical activity rather than individual booths. I mean, there was no way you could have avoided catching sight of other men's dicks. Like any other red-blooded male, the very idea made me shudder with revulsion. So instead I turned my thoughts to Pamela, my childhood sweetheart and the love of my life. She and our two children were the most important thing in my life, and landing this job meant I was going to be able to provide for them in a manner I hadn't always managed to before. This would be the first time the job required me to perform the 'additional responsibilities' that were a large part of the reason I'd been hired, and though she would have preferred things to be otherwise Pamela knew what I'd have to do and had given me her blessing. After I had towelled off, I made sure to take a piss before I put on the chastity belt. Once on, it could be several hours before it came off again and the last thing I wanted was to suddenly need to take a leak during that time. Though made of metal, the belt was properly padded and not as uncomfortable to wear as popular legend would have you believe. Clicking it closed, I waited for a second until the green indicator light over the lock turned red, then clambered into the one-piece jump suit, boots, and cap that constituted my uniform. On my chest and cap was the logo of my employer, Shawcross International, who two months ago had won the bid to run not only this reservation but all twenty of those in the UK for the next five years, our parliament finally following the lead of every other government in contracting this out to one of the Eight. Shawcross claimed they could raise the yields from our reservations but I didn't really believe them. I don't think anyone did. In the early days there had been significant gradual improvement, but that had plateaued out half a century ago, both here and in every other country. Inevitably, contemplating these matters made my thoughts turn to Calvin Corso, the biggest mass murderer of all time. Where history's other great butchers had only managed to kill millions, Corso's death toll was measured in billions. He may have died sixty years ago, but it's his world we're all living in now. Once dressed, I entered my access code into the exterior security door keypad and made my way across the open asphalt between the main buildings and the secure cargo area in the compound, the large rectangular 'blister' in the wall around the reservation that contained not only the administration buildings but also the gate to the outside world and the gate into Chelmsford. Steve Carter had already preceded me and taken up his position in the Control Tower. As the Air Traffic Controller for Chelmsford Reservation he had a far more interesting and responsible job than that of a lowly cargo checker and vehicle tech such as myself. Still, with jobs as hard to come by as they are in the current recession, I counted myself lucky to be working at all. As it happens, I'd had the choice between this job or being a wall guard. It had been an easy choice to make. Being stuck in one of those watchtowers on the outer wall for eight-to-ten hours a day would have driven me round the bend. Of course, I also had a second job at the reservation, one that was mine regardless of which of the others I chose as my primary. In front of the small hangar that was the Secure Cargo Main Storage - or SCMS - Building stood the shuttle bus, its windows blacked out. Leaning against the front of the bus, smoking a cigarette was its driver, Lucy Preston. A middle-aged, blousey, bottle-blond, she and I had a flirty relationship. "Morning, Luce," I said, cheerfully. "Ah, Dashing Danny Myers!" she said, flashing me that dazzling smile of hers. "Looking good, Danny!" "Thanks!" I said, always happy to accept a compliment from a woman, even though in this case it was a simple statement of fact, my looks being why I'd got this job. "You're looking pretty sharp yourself." Going over to the SCMS Building's large shutter door I slid my ID keycard into the lock then tapped in my password on the keypad. In response the door rose swiftly and silently to reveal the golf cart and the single flatbed trailer within, its cargo held in place by a transparent sheath molecularly-sealed to its underside. The sheath was made of an 'intelligent' polymer which would change colour if pierced making most tampering with it impossible to conceal. Most, but not all. "Hmm, couple of small tractors in there with the regular supplies," said Lucy. "Guess their farms must've worn out the old ones." "Not really my concern, " I said, unclipping the sniffer from my belt and snapping the nozzle into place over the valve in the sheath. "I'm only interested in contraband." Though we called it a sniffer because of its ability to detect the most minute traces of proscribed substances, it also contained an array of other electronic sensors, and with a single keyboard command from me these all leapt into action. In less than a minute my scans were complete. "Seems to be clean," I said. "No trace of caffeine, alcohol, tobacco, or any of the usual recreational drugs." "Good, then we can hook her up," said Lucy, taking a final drag on her cigarette before dropping it to the ground and extinguishing it under the toe of an elegant boot. While Lucy climbed aboard the bus and started up its engines, I did a final visual inspection of the trailer's contents. As well as the tractors, it contained various machine components, medical supplies, healthy foodstuffs they couldn't grow themselves, and -most importantly of all - several metal flasks whose precious contents were kept refrigerated so as to preserve them until needed. Lucy backed the bus up to the trailer and I coupled it to the towbar. This done, I slapped the flat of my hand against the side of the bus and Lucy sounded the horn to indicate she had heard me. Now all we needed was the plane. I glanced up and was rewarded by the sight of the small jet, still several miles downrange, heading for the reservation. In less than a minute it was above us, hovering in place, it's VTOL engines rotating to effect a vertical landing in the compound. No sooner was it down than Lucy slowly pulled away, towing the trailer behind her, driving her bus the two hundred yards or so from the cargo area to the plane. As she arrived at the aircraft so a set of stairs were lowered from it, and they emerged: the biofems. It was immediately obvious what Steve had meant about there being little to see. There were twenty of them, but every last one was clad in a blue burkha that hid their faces and obscured their shape. Even their eyes were hidden behind a mesh. As a man, I was forbidden to get any closer to them than I already was, and not even this close without a chastity belt. If I tried to move closer, I was liable to get a bullet from a guard tower for my trouble. Only women were allowed direct contact with biofems. I craned my neck, trying to make out what few details I could. I only had a few seconds and then they were all on board the bus and hidden from view. A siren sounded to indicate the inner gates to the reservation were opening, the bus drove through them, then they closed behind it. From the jet landing to the bus vanishing into the reservation had taken less than fifteen minutes. Now that the biofems were gone I was able to perform my other duty. Climbing into the golf cart I depressed the foot pedal and sped across the asphalt to where our ground crew were already refueling the jet and removing the robo-cart, a device that had long ago made flight attendants redundant, so that it could be restocked and its A.I. logs and video downloaded. As I arrived at the jet so the pilot emerged, standing at the top of the steps and looking about her with interest. Tall, black-haired, and beautiful, she was dressed in a form-fitting flight suit that emphasized her impressive curves. The Shawcross logo was stitched into the suit above her right breast. She had personalised the outfit with cowboy boots and a stetson, and looked magnificent. After a few seconds she trotted down the steps, flung her flight bag into the rear of the golf cart, and swung into the passenger seat beside me. "Howdy," she said. "Rosalita Sanchez." "Danny Myers," I replied, shaking her hand. "So you're the entertainment," she grinned, looking me up and down approvingly. "Nice." She squeezed my thigh and I grinned back at her. The pilot could have been ugly as sin. Having her be such a looker was going to make this a lot more pleasurable than it might otherwise have been. The pilot stopover room was pretty much indistinguishable from the standard type of room you'd find in thousands of hotels across the globe. But then it didn't need to be anything more. It was here to help pilots decompress and relax before their return flights. Thanks to modern autopilots, they could sleep most of the way while over water, but given the quick turnarounds it was considered a good idea for them to de-stress in between. The best way of doing that was sex, so a good- looking young guy would be provided for that purpose. In this case, that guy was me. As soon as we were inside, Rosalita pressed herself against me, her mouth hungrily seeking mine. For a minute or two we were all over each other, then she pulled away. "I don't really have the time I like to take to enjoy a full service, darlin'," she said, breathily, "so you'd better just make it oral." "Fine by me," I gasped, still reeling from the passion of that kiss, "your wish is my command." "Oh I know, darlin'," she said with a laugh, "believe me I know!" When we resumed kissing, I unzipped her flight suit and popped out a firm, round breast. It was obvious she wasn't wearing anything under her flight suit. Moving down, I tongued a fat nipple while continuing to unzip her. All the while she was peeling off my own jump suit, pulling it down over my shoulders. Then I was on my knees, freeing her engorged member from the flightsuit and taking it in my mouth, giving her the oral relief she wanted and needed. I've never forgotten those lines on etiquette in the Sex-Ed manual we were taught from at school: 'A lady expects a gentleman to swallow. It's considered the height of bad manners not to, and she will take it as a personal insult if he doesn't.' I never insult a lady. Afterwards we lay naked on the bed together, me on my stomach because she liked to stroke her lover's back, and Rosalita propped up on one elbow, caressing me with her free hand. As part of her visiting privileges, pass codes had been transmitted to the ID ring she wore on her index finger when she entered UK airspace. She had passed the ring over my chastity belt, releasing me from it before we fell on the bed together. "Where are you from?" I asked, dreamily - her caresses were having the effect of making me drowsy. "I live in Dallas, but I hail from Galveston. "Married?" "Engaged. My fiance's a linebacker with the Cowboys." "He herds cattle?" I said, assuming he must work on a ranch. She burst out laughing. "Hey, that's pretty funny!" I laughed with her. I didn't know why what I'd said was funny, but I'd take it. "You married?" she asked. "Yes, almost six years now." "Your wife's a lucky woman - you give great head. Kids?" "Two, the oldest is four and the youngest three." "Any idea what they're gonna be yet?" "We think the oldest will be a girl and the youngest a boy, though we won't know for sure until they're ready to start school and get tested, of course." "One of each. Nice." "Do you want kids." "Eventually, sure - I mean it's our duty to raise at least two - but I have to get hitched first. Got the final fitting for my wedding dress day after tomorrow, and in three weeks time I'll be a bride." "Congratulations. I hope you have a wonderful day." "Why, thank you!" she said. Grinning, she then gave my naked arse a slap that was hard enough to make me yelp in surprise. "Time for you to go, cutie," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and standing up. "I still have to shower, eat, and then file a flight report with your Chief Administrator." I got to my feet and stretched. Rosalita came around to my side of the bed and pressed her shapely body against mine. She gave me a dazzling smile and then we were kissing. It only lasted for a minute or so before she broke away. "This was real nice," she said. "Now, shoo. I have to pull myself together." She turned and headed for the shower leaving me to get dressed and let myself out. Sliding the chastity belt on and clicking it closed, I waited for a second until the green indicator light over the lock turned red, then tugged on the one-piece jump suit, boots, and cap of my uniform. I left the room with a smile on my face. There are far worse ways to spend your time than servicing a beautiful woman. - 2 - ELLEN SHAWCROSS Sitting at my vanity, clad only in lingerie and four inch heels, I dabbed a little Chanel No.5 on my wrists and in my cleavage as I examined my make up. Despite having just passed my fiftieth birthday, I still had the unlined features and trim figure of a woman half my age. Unless they knew otherwise, anyone meeting me for the first time would assume I was still in my mid-twenties. Being richer than some small nations has its perks. I shifted on the stool, trying to make my sore butt a little more comfortable and smiling as I thought about how it got that way. After putting me over his knee and giving it a thorough spanking, Pascal had then taken me roughly, which was just the way I liked to be taken. I considered having him accompany me to this evening's gathering, but then dismissed the idea. Olivier's coloring would go better with the gown I had chosen so I'd be arriving on his arm instead of Pascal's. I was between husbands at the moment and so taking the opportunity to play the field. I was nervous about tonight. I'd been to the Helmsley mansion before in the company of my mother, but I'd never met Victoria Helmsley in the flesh. Few people had. The woman was had become a recluse in the past few years and there were no recent photos of her. I may have seen what she actually looked like now, or I may not have. She had sent her condolences last month on the death of my mother following the accident that had killed her. I decided to review this yet again. "Computer, project message from Victoria Helmsley on the death of Louise Shawcross," I said, "full opacity." A full size hologram of a woman in late middle-age appeared beside me. Usually these were slightly translucent, the way most people prefered them and the system's default setting, but I liked them looking fully solid. Victoria Helmsley was sixty-four years old, and had been the CEO of Druillet-Rockland for decades, but whether this was a true image of her or merely an avatar she had chosen I didn't know. With her wealth she could easily afford to appear up to half her true age, just as I and most other women of my class and wealth did, but rumor had it she had refused rejuve. It was a very odd affectation if she had, particularly as Druillet-Rockland had developed the process and still controlled it. While there were no recent photos of her, there were a couple of her from a decade ago. I decided to make a comparison. "Computer, project photo Helmsley02 adjacent to face of hologram." The photo appeared where I'd requested, a flat image where the hologram was 3D. Hmmm. There was the same long face, weak chin, and prominent nose in both. Different color hair, but that didn't mean anything. They *could* be the same woman, which meant they probably were, of course. "Start message," I said, and the holographic image of Victoria Helmsley came to life. "Hello, Ellen," she said, "I'm Victoria Helmsley. I was sorry to hear of your mother's death. Louise and I did not always see eye to eye on every issue, but we worked together well and I'll miss her. Now that she's gone, I'm the senior member of the Eight and you'll be taking her place among us as the new head of Shawcross International. We will need to convene a meeting of the Eight as soon as possible to make sure the transition is a smooth one. That meeting will take place in four weeks time at the Helmsley mansion...." "Close message," I said. The hologram blinked out of existence. I stared at the spot where it had been, lost in thought. My mother was eighty-five when she passed, considerably older than Victoria Helmsley, but she could have expected to live to at least a hundred quite comfortably. That she hadn't was a tragedy, and I missed her terribly. At only sixty-four, Victoria could potentially head the Eight for another forty years, which wasn't necessarily a good thing in my view. Then there was the secret my mother had shared with me shortly before her death, whose implications I was still mulling over. According to her, we were genetically related but I didn't see how that was possible. Mom had once had a sister, but she hadn't been heard from since the Corso virus was released. I was pulled from these thoughts by the sound of my daughter Melissa coming up the stairs. "Enjoy your ride?" I asked, as she appeared in the doorway. "Very much," she replied, smiling. She was dressed in a riding outfit, her hair dishevelled and her lipstick as smeared as my own. "That's strange, my window looks out over the lawn and down to the beach but I never saw you galloping along the sand on horseback, young lady." "I never said I took my horse out," she said, grinning, "only that I enjoyed my ride." "Oh, Melissa!" I said, in mock disapproval. "I went to the stables fully intending to mount my horse and take him out for a run, honestly I did, but I got distracted and ended up being mounted instead. It's your fault for hiring such insanely hot stable hands, mother." She had a point. "I do adore being surrounded by good-looking men," I admitted, "and why hire staff who are ugly when I can afford to hire staff who look like they stepped out of a modelling catalogue?" "See - your fault. I'm sixteen years old and ruled by my raging teenage hormones. You can't put all that eye candy in front of me and not expect me to want to sample it. I'm only human." I couldn't help smiling at this. My darling daughter was so much like me at that age. It's hard to believe it's been sixteen years since the Stork brought she and her brother Todd to me and my second husband, Adam. I still regretted that things hadn't worked out between Adam and me. He was a much better spouse than my third husband, who I threw out when I discovered he was happier thrusting his cock into the asses of prostitutes than he was into mine. "I accept my part in your temptation," I told Melissa. "Now you need to start getting ready for the ball. We'll have to leave here in two hours, and you'll want to look good for Devon." Devon Marsden was the son of the head of one of Druillet-Rockland's subsidiaries. He had just turned eighteen. Melissa had been sweet on him for ages and wanted him for her boyfriend. She was hoping this would be the night he finally noticed her. I hoped so too, because I knew how happy it would make her. "You're right. Mom," she said, "I do need to look my best. I'm not the only girl interested in him." When she had gone, I stripped off my shoes and lingerie, and climbed into the shower. When I had finished and had towelled off, I summoned my personal dresser, my hair stylist, and my make-up artist to get me ready. This ball was a big deal, and I needed to impress. Two hours later I was ready. Melissa was already waiting for me when my bodyguard Carlos escorted me down to our armoured limousine, looking lovely in her sleeveless emerald gown. She had shifted her hair to red to complement the dress, to very pleasing effect. "Think Devon will like it?" she asked. "He'd be a fool if he doesn't," I replied, as we climbed into the limo. When the doors were closed and sealed, Carlos took out his communicator and gave the command to get us on the road. "Principals are secure," he said, "we have a 'go'." With that the limo moved off smoothly, followed by a second containing one of our two security squads. The other was in the helicopter that lifted off from the roof of our mansion as we exited the grounds. It would shadow us all the way from the Hamptons to the Helmsley mansion in Westchester. Not a huge distance, but then it didn't need to be for an ambush. There were always people envious of the super-wealthy so, sadly, such precautions were a necessity. Our coordination was impeccable. As we drove so other cars fell in behind us, each of them carrying either a division head and her family, or their security detail. Arriving at the ball without a substantial entourage was unthinkable. Convoys from every one of the Eight were converging on the Helmsley mansion from all directions. This would be the biggest gathering of the true powers of the world in almost a decade. The Helmsley mansion was an imposing, nineteenth century structure, but while it might be old its security was cutting age. Before our convoy was allowed through the ornate gates that gave access to the mansion - which lay a further mile beyond those gates - ever car was scanned by state of the art systems, and the identity of everyone in those vehicles were verified six ways from Sunday. While this was going on a phalanx of heavily armed guards looked on, ready to open fire on any unauthorised person who tried to gain access. Eventually, the gates opened for us and we drove up to the mansion. We appeared to be among the last to arrive, the ballroom already thronging with guests as we entered, me on Olivier's arm. Beside me, Melissa let out a gasp. "Devon...." she said, sounding dismayed. I glanced across the room and picked him out immediately. He had a beautiful young blonde on his arm and they were chatting animatedly and laughing together. She looked to be around the same age as Melissa, a teen dream, and was wearing a pair of killer heels and a tight red mini- dress that hugged every curve of her magnificent young body. Nearby, talking with Devon's parents, were a middle-aged couple I took to be the blonde's parents. They looked to be in their early forties - probably their actual ages since I doubt very much they could afford rejuving. "ID confirmed," said a computer voice in my inner ear in response to my mental query. "Couple are Ned and Lisa Fulton, mid-level employees of Druillet-Rockland and parents to Cindy Fulton, currently conversing with Craig and Chelsea Marsden, parents to Devon Marsden." "Brigitte Bardot," I said. "What?" said Melissa, giving me a puzzled look. "Mid-twentieth century film star," I explained. "Either the resemblance is a coincidence, or the parents of that girl with Devon have paid for genemorph treatments so that she looks like the teenage Brigitte Bardot." Genemorphing was why those of us with lots of money all looked as gorgeous as we did. Forget the crude butchery of the old plastic surgeons - our features could be resculpted at the genetic level, bone and flesh slowly morphing into new configurations. It took many months and was expensive - though vastly cheaper than rejuve - but, sadly, was only effective when it came to cosmetic alterations. It had been hoped it might provide an answer to the effects of the Corso virus, but that line of enquiry proved a dead end. "This is why you should have let me have the genemorph treatments I wanted for my birthday," fumed Melissa. "I can't compete with other girls if I don't." While Melissa stomped across the ballroom to where Devon and other young people their age had clustered, my department heads fanned out to network with their opposite numbers in the other megacorps. A century of mergers and consolidation had ended in a small number of megacorps - the Eight - who were the real power on our planet. "I need to seek out my own peers, discuss business," I said to Olivier, "so go and mingle, and enjoy yourself." At thirty-five, Olivier was fifteen years my junior. Thanks to rejuve, I looked a decade younger than him and, physically, I was. "Ellen! So good to see you!" The speaker was Aishwarya Soto, CEO of Hiroto-Lakshmi, second largest of the Eight. She and her entourage had come up behind me while I was distracted. The latter included her secretaries and her five husbands. I knew polyandry was permitted in her culture, but I had always found one husband at a time quite enough to handle, thank you very much. We talked for maybe ten minutes, our secretaries taking notes, and made deals that should make us both tens of millions richer. I was pleased. Afterwards, I stepped out into the garden by myself for a quiet walk, and a cigarette. With all the mansion guards I didn't need to be accompanied by my own security team. I wandered down to the gazebo. As I got nearer, I heard sounds coming from it, the sounds of people having sex. I probably shouldn't have let my curiosity get the better of me, but I'm afraid I did. Gingerly, I peeped inside. Cindy Fulton was bent over a bench with Devon Marsden, pants around his knees and hands gripping her waist, pumping his cock in and out of her ass. "Yes, oh yes baby, yeeesssss!" squealed Cindy. They hadn't seen me so I tiptoed away, finding a bench some yards away behind a bush. I sat down on this, and lit a cigarette, saddened by what I'd just witnessed. It looked like Melissa wouldn't be hooking up with Devon after all. I'd been there a little while and was just finishing my cigarette, when someone else appeared. It was Cindy Fulton. "Hi," she said, "you're Melissa's mom, aren't you?" "That's right. What can I do for you, Cindy?" "You couldn't give me a cigarette, could you?" "Aren't you a little young to be smoking?" "My parents don't mind. You can ask my Mom when we get back inside, if you like." "Well, OK, I guess," I said. She sat down beside me, and I offered her a cigarette then lit it for her. "Thanks," she said, exhaling appreciatively. Now that I was seeing her up close I was sure. That great mass of blonde hair, the large, pouty lips, the gorgeous face: definitely Brigitte Bardot. "You're a very beautiful girl, Cindy." "Thank you." "Brigitte Bardot, right?" "Yes, I was a little girl when I first came across old photos of her. Ever since that day I've wanted to look just like her. So when my parents told me I could have genemorph treatments for my birthday there was never any question of what I'd have done." "Time for me to go," I said. I rose to my feet and stubbed out my cigarette under the toe of my shoe. "Nice meeting you, Cindy." "And you Mrs Shawcross." I left Cindy to enjoy her cigarette and made my way back to the main house where I was sure a tearful and distraught Melissa awaited me. I decided not to tell her what I'd witnessed in the gazebo. - 3 - DANNY MYERS We climbed out of the golf cart and Rosalita came around to my side. She pressed that amazing body against mine, giving me a dazzling smile. Then we were kissing, she grabbing my buttocks and sinking her fingers into them as we did so. It only lasted for a minute or so before she broke away. "Next time I come this way I am definitely asking for you again, sweetcheeks," she said. "But you need to go. Those inner gates will be opening any minute now." Right on cue, the siren sounded to indicate the inner gates to the reservation were opening. That was the signal to make myself scarce. As Rosalita climbed the stairs to her aircraft, I drove the golf cart over to the SCMS building, reversing into it so I was facing the aircraft when the bus emerged from the reservation. It stopped in front of the plane and the biofems emerged. As before there were twenty of them, only this time every last one was clad in a pale pink burkha that hid their faces and obscured their shape, their eyes hidden behind a mesh. They quickly boarded the jet, the stairs were raised, and the bus headed my way. No sooner had it reached the SCMS than I heard the whine of jet engines as they whirred into life. A couple of minutes later the jet slowly lifted off, hovering maybe a hundred feet above the compound before the engines swivelled into the horizontal position and it sped off, carrying Rosalita and her passengers on their way over the Atlantic. There was a pneumatic hiss from the bus followed by the sound of a door opening and then Lucy Preston was there, lighting a cigarette. "Ah, that's better!" she said, exhaling gratefully. "We're not allowed to smoke around biofems, and I was in there for hours. It was torture!" "My heart bleeds for you," I said, drily. "Yeah, right. So, it looks like you got lucky with the pilot. She's hot as hell." "You know I only have eyes for you, Luce." "If only," she snorted, tossing me the keys to the bus. "Here make sure she's spick'n'span, and also check out that door mechanism. It's making more noise than it should." She strolled off, heading for the main administration building, and I boarded the bus. I didn't need to hurry with any of that stuff so I decided to relax for a bit. I sank into a seat and took out my battered unireader. Turning it on, I fumbled with it and accidentally called up a page from a manual I'd downloaded as a teenager, 'The Gentleman's Guide to Sexual Etiquette'. It was a page I remembered well, clueing us boys into what to expect when we started dating: "A lady may allow a gentleman to pleasure her orally following a first date if the date has gone well. He should expect to do so for several dates after this before being invited to pleasure her via her derriere. If he does not demonstrate a sufficient level of oral skill, an invitation is unlikely to be extended. A true gentleman will accept such a rebuff with good grace then apply himself to addressing his deficiencies in this area. It cannot be over-stressed how important good oral technique is if a gentleman wishes to attract a wife. Ideally, boys should be started on dildo training as soon as they reach the appropriate age and encouraged to develop the skill they will need in adult life through regular practice with it. A high quality, anatomically accurate oral practice dildo makes the perfect birthday present for a young gentleman, and is an essential aid to his healthy sexual development." I smiled, remembering how excited I'd been when I got my own dildo, how I couldn't wait to start practicing on it, and how grown up I'd felt. My sister tells me she felt the same way when Mum bought her her first bra, and how proud she was to be the first girl in her class to need one after they all started their hormone treatments. For both of us, as for countless girls and boys before us, these were important milestones on the road to adulthood. Connecting to the worldnet, as I'd intended to do, I pulled up an ancient movie from the twentieth century. They might be more than a hundred years old but there was something about the films of Marilyn Monroe that appealed to me, though the social mores in pre-Decimation movies were very strange. These days we rightly regard sex as an appetite that needs to be fed if you want to remain psychologically healthy, and everyone is encouraged to engage in lots of recreational sex, with as many different people as suits them. Emotional fidelity to your partner or spouse is very important in a relationship, but the idea of extending that into the physical and demanding sexual fidelity as well, as they did in those days, seems both bizarre and cruel. The past really is a different country. I called up 'The Seven Year Itch' and settled back to watch it. I had just got to the still-iconic scene where air blasting from a ventilation grille in the street blows Marilyn's dress up, giving us a few titilating glimpses of her penis, when a sudden noise made me jump. I paused the movie and pulled out my flashlight. Something moved in the rear of the bus and I froze. "Who...who's there?" I demanded, shining my flashlight at the area where I'd seen movement. "Don't shoot," said a female voice - a very *old* female voice. The accent was American. "I don't have a gun," I said. Slowly, painfully, the oldest woman I had ever seen, eased out from her place of concealment under the rear seats, and pulled herself up onto those seats, flopping back and gasping for breath. She was stick-thin, heavily wrinkled, and dressed in the sort of shirt and dungarees a farmworker might wear. "Who *are* you?" I asked. "Name's Laura," she said, "and I'm what you call a biofem." Startled, I took a step backwards. This made Laura snort with laughter, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. "Oh, that's *gooood*!" she wheezed. "You're so conditioned to believe just the sight of one of us is enough to make you lose your mind that you even reacted to me. Don't worry, young man. It's a long, long time since I last drove anyone mad with lust, more's the pity. That fancy chastity belt of yours isn't needed." "You can't be here," I said. "I can get fired or even thrown in prison if anyone finds out I've talked to you." "Doesn't that make you wonder why? Doesn't that make you wonder what sort of threat to their society a little old lady could be? Do they even tell you 'biofem' is short for 'biological female'?" "Just how old are you?" "Ninety-two. And yes, that means I was there when it happened. I was there for everything that happened afterwards, too." I know I shouldn't have engaged with her any further, that nothing but trouble could come of it, but my curiosity got the better of me. "Could you tell me about it?" "You've heard of Ecowar, of course?" I nodded. "Right. How could you not, how could anyone not? Despite the belligerent-sounding name, Ecowar were a respected, mainstream environmental group. Their annual global conference that year was held in Geneva and the topic was 'The Coming Population Collapse'. With global warming, increasing water shortages and famines, etc, the idea that we could exceed the 'carrying capacity' of the planet and so suffer catastrophic population collapse was one of several possible scenarios worrying us back then. What we didn't realise was that the leadership of Ecowar were secretly far more radical than the rank and file, that they believed the planet would reach a dangerous tipping point we couldn't find our way back from before the population collapse, leaving survivors far worse off than if we had suffered it before that tipping point arrived. Their solution: bring about the population collapse themselves. The founder and leader of Ecowar was Calvin Corso, a genius-level biologist decades ahead of his peers, and charismatic as hell. He engineered the virus they released at that conference, the one that infected all those delegates, who then carried it back to their home countries after the conference. And there were delegates there from almost every country on the planet. A week later the dying began." "What they did was monstrous." "Yes, but I'm sure they didn't see themselves as monsters. Fanatics never do. Before the Decimation the population of Earth was seven billion, three and a half billion of us female. Then the Corso virus was released and it killed nine out of every ten women. That's more than three billion people. It was death on a scale almost beyond imagining, the biggest mass murder in human history. Everyone, and I mean *everyone*, lost someone they loved. Imagine that; an entire planet grieving. Seventy years later, and I still have nightmares about that time. Anyone in my position would. I was at the Geneva conference. I'm one of those who carried death back to this country." I tried to imagine such a thing, as I had since I'd first been taught about it in school, but I couldn't. Here before me, for the first time in my life, was someone who had been alive then and old enough to understand what it meant. I could see in her eyes that the memories still haunted her. "In its wake everyone went more than a little mad," she continued. "You might expect losing so many of us to lead to surviving women being treated better but it didn't, not at first. We became a valuable resource to be fought over, both by those who wanted to keep us solely for themselves and those who saw the opportunity to make vast sums by selling our now scarce sexual services. There have always been men who treated women as property and our bodies as a commodity to be traded, and the Decimation only made things worse. But there was another consideration, of course, one every government quickly realised. With so few of us to give birth to the next generation their populations were going to collapse unless we became a part of organised breeding programmes designed to maximise the number of babies we gave birth to. We realised this too, and wanting our species to survive and prosper most of us accepted it was our duty to humanity to have lots of babies. Those who didn't weren't given much choice in the matter. They were drafted into the programmes despite their opposition, and we pressured them until they came round. One more thing I regret." She looked at me sadly. "The reservation system was established, walled off communities with armed guard towers designed to keep the surviving women safe from any men who wanted to get at them while we were breeding the next generations. We were expected to have a pregnancy every year. Once, we were one in two of the population; now we're one in twenty, or a tenth that. A birth rate averaging two point four children per woman was needed for a stable population, so now we needed twenty four per woman. That takes its toll on the body and not every woman can manage to achieve it, so it was vitally important we be kept as healthy as possible. We got the best medical attention on the planet, but were also forbidden alcohol, tobacco, and other recreational drugs, even strongly caffeinated drinks. With all that, I only ever managed to push out one child that lived. He was taken from me, of course, and maybe I was just being paranoid but there was something different about it, like he had been chosen for someone specific rather than being randomly allocated to new parents as babies usually are. He'd be fifty now." She looked at me sadly for a moment, then shook her head. "While this was happening inside the walls, big changes were occurring in the larger society beyond them. With biological females removed from the picture, transwomen became deeply desirable, with most being able to land rich, handsome husbands. Seeing this, young men who were not gender dysphoric and would otherwise never have considered such a thing, started to look at transitioning as an acceptable trade off for wealth and security. Being a rich man's wife came to be seen as a reasonable 'career path' for them to want to follow. This was the first step on the road to the huge changes that were to follow. Even with it becoming socially acceptable as a matter of choice rather than of necessity, there still weren't enough transwomen to go round, and the gender imbalance was causing strains in society. It's often been said that women keep men civilised, and the experience of society at that time proved it true. Violence and unrest were spreading." "Yeah, we learned about that in history class in our senior year in high school," I said. "It's why the current system was established." "Far from becoming just a socially acceptable choice for a young man to take, transitioning was now actively encouraged. Financial incentives were offered, and those who did so were lauded as heroes. But it still wasn't enough. Those in charge decided that society needed to be rebalanced, that it needed to have two genders. Criteria were established and children tested on entering school to determine on which side of a demarcation line designed to produce a fifty-fifty split they fell on. They were then designated as either girls or boys, named and dressed accordingly, and split into segregated streams in which gender roles were rigidly enforced. Boys were taught to put girls on a pedestal, and girls were taught that being a girl was the best thing in the world and how lucky they were to have been chosen. The psychological pressure to conform to gender roles was intense but also clever. It worked. Later, a subtle difference was made. You weren't *chosen* to be either a boy or a girl. No, testing just helped identify what you already were. And so it was that they carved a second gender out of the only one they still had to work with. When puberty hit, girls were started on female hormones, nothing more. Genital surgery was never considered as an option. Quite apart from the strain that that many operations would put on health systems, it was thought that forcing healthy people to undergo major surgery was ethically and morally wrong. Correctly, I think. They had gone so far, but would go no further. In this new society they had created, women would have penises." She stopped then, coughing. "Do you have any water? I haven't talked this much in a while, and my throat is drying up." "Oh, yes, of course," I said, taking a bottle of Evian out of my bag. She drank from it gratefully before continuing. "Behind the walls of the reservations, we developed our own society, fell in love, even married. Where most men require femininity in their partners, women are more sensible and more flexible. I'm a lesbian anyway, so I was happy with this arrangement, but most other women came around. The need for love and companionship is a powerful one. Having to get pregnant every year still left us with three months following birth and the early trimesters in which we were able to work, and working on the land became popular. Yes, supplies from outside used to include fresh vegetables early on, but we found it more satisfying to eat those we'd grown ourselves." "Didn't you have babies to bring up?" "Nineteen out of twenty births are male, and those children are taken from us by the Stork soon after birth, although I see someone else has the contract now." 'The Stork' was the name by which just about everyone knew the Storr Corporation, the group responsible for collecting sperm and distributing non-female babies to their new parents in the outside world. Female babies were raised by their mothers and grew up on the reservations, of course. "I heard you playing 'The Seven Year Itch' when I was hiding under the seat," said Laura, changing the subject "and you'd just got to the scene where the air lifts Monroe's dress when I made a noise and you discovered me. Do you remember the scene that comes next?" "Of course I do. A beat cop tells her she'll have to come with him. He then takes her into an alley where he gets down on his knees, lifts her dress, and gives her a blow job while she's cooing and emitting that breathy little giggle she had." "Would you be surprised if I told you that scene wasn't originally in the film, and that Marilyn Monroe didn't have a penis?" "I...no...I mean, the film was made pre-Decimation, so if I think about it...but I never did. It's like new films set in pre-Decimation times, say Ancient Rome or the US Civil War. You know women weren't like that back then, but when you see Julius Caesar having sex with Cleopatra, or Scarlett O'Hara with Rhett Butler in the recent 'Gone With The Wind' remake, and the women have penises, you just go with it. I mean, they're women and that's how women are." "And that's the power of the system. They seduce you with images that warp your worldview so that you don't question what you're being fed even when you know it's not correct. We can digitally alter images now to have them show whatever we want. Raise the skirt of Marilyn Monroe's dress a few inches, remove her panties and give her a penis? Easy. Film sex scenes with a body double and then digitally lay Marilyn's face over that of the actress doubling her? No problem. They've altered most of the major old movies and TV dramas now, added scenes that make you see those biologically female actresses as she-males. They've added cocks to paintings too, and to statues. They're colonizing our past, making it so that no matter how far back in the culture you look we're not men's natural female counterpart; *they* are." She paused, staring at me sadly. "We get our own versions of new movies. You saw the 'Gone With The Wind' remake, I assume?" I nodded. "How did it end?" "With Rhett saying to Scarlett: 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a fuck!' and walking off." "What did you think about 'Mammy' becoming 'Mamie' in the new version?" "Times have changed and they made a lot of alterations to make it less racially offensive than the original, but that one puzzled me. I didn't see what was gained by making the character a beautiful young woman the same age as Scarlett. It added nothing to the story." "It did in the version we got. There were additional scenes of them growing up together as children. As teenagers, their first sexual experience is with each other. After this Scarlett says that while she loves Mamie their love cannot be in their society, that she has to find a husband. When Rhett leaves Scarlett at the end of the movie, we got a final scene you didn't. Mamie comes to the sobbing Scarlett, and embraces her. 'Oh, I've been such a fool!' says Scarlett, 'it's you I love, and it always has been. Can you ever forgive me?' Mamie does, and the end credits roll. Of course, just how a white lady and a black female slave could be a couple in the antebellum South isn't addressed." "Wow, that changes the whole movie!" I protested. "Why did they do that?" "We crave entertainment as much as you do, but in the version of movies we see additional scenes are filmed and the movie edited so that any romance is always between female characters only, with sex scenes framed so we never see an actress's penis and so can imagine they're like us. It's kind of the opposite to what they do to old movies. As for why we're only shown sexual and romantic relationships between women, isn't it obvious? That's what they want between us, and these films reinforce that. They don't want us thinking of men as possible romantic interests for us, only other women." "Who is this 'they'?" "Your women, the she-males." "'She-males'?" I said, frowning. This was the second time she'd used the term. "I've never heard that term before today." "I'm not surprised. It originated in pre-Decimation pornography and was later used as a derogatory term for pre-op and no-op transsexuals. Since both of us lay claim to the title 'woman', we've found it a useful term when referring to the distaff half of your society, just as they refer to us as biofems. But, no....it *is* derogatory. I'll be respectful and refer to them by another archaic term: transwomen." "So you're saying there was some sort of conspiracy?" "'Conspiracy'? As in an organised plan? Not really. no. But consider the position of that first generation of transwomen. They may have been referred to as women, placed on a pedestal and lauded as heroes, but they always knew they were considered just a substitute until a cure for the virus could be found and real women returned to society. Who wants to be thought of as a substitute for something, a second-rate copy? Would you, would anyone? They didn't, and who could blame them? And as it happened those who set the criteria for streaming children into either a male or female life had made a mistake, a very important one." "A mistake?" I said, puzzled. "What do you mean?" "They put one set of qualities on one side of the line, and one set on the other, yet men and women had always had all those qualities to varying degrees. An unintended effect of dividing your gender in two was that creative intelligence mostly ended up on the female side of the line. Basically, your women are more intelligent than you. Not surprisingly, as the years passed they began to assume more and more positions of authority and to gradually shape the world to be the way they wanted it. How old are you when you first learn about the differences between men and women?" "Around seven or eight," I said. "And about biofems, about us?" "Twelve or thirteen." "Right, so you're taught what a women should be - a transwoman - before you learn of our existence, of biological females. And we're rarely referred to again, are we? We're never mentioned in films, or books, or plays. Out of sight, out of mind - just the way they want it. Only transwomen are ever allowed to interact with us directly. We might have state-of-the-art hospitals on the reservations, but the doctors are all transwomen because men are not taught biofem medicine at medical schools; it's forbidden to them. When the sperm consignments come in, they're the ones who use it to impregnate us. We're required to wear burkha's anywhere a man might catch a glimpse of us, and we're told it's to keep us safe from dangerous gangs who would rape us then kill us. That may have been true when the reservations were set up, but it's not true today. Men hardly think of us at all any more, do they?" "No," I admitted, "we don't." "Out of sight, out of mind. It's been more than half a century since a man last saw one of us, after all. Tell me, have you ever had your cock sucked?" "What? Do I look like a woman?" I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust. "A man's penis goes in a woman's anus, and her's goes in his mouth. That's how sex works. We suck 'em an' then fuck 'em." She laughed at my reaction. "It's fascinating to me how your society has evolved," she said. "In the past, the very idea of a 'female penis' would have been absurd, yet now you consider it an object of desire. You recoil in horror from a male one, yet they're the same thing. They really have got you men wrapped around their little fingers, haven't they?" This was getting uncomfortable, so I changed the subject. "What's it like, living on a reservation?" "We actually live pretty comfortable lives, considering. We have a flourishing arts and crafts scene and we're in regular contact with other reservations around the world." "Really?" I said, surprised. "I didn't know that." "Yeah, the biofem exchange flights are primarily about keeping gene pools fresh, but we also use them for foreign travel. We're allowed to visit other reservations that way for recreational purposes. Also, we're connected via the subnet." "Subnet?" "Where you have the worldnet we have the subnet. They're what resulted when they split the Internet into a net for you and a net for us. The two are kept rigidly segregated. It's like a metaphor for our situation: we may share a planet, but you and we live in two separate worlds." "You're American," I said, "but you were here long before that. How come?" "I was twenty two when Ecowar released Calvin Corso's virus; my kid brother Louis was fifteen. I'd fallen out with our father and was living over here, I....oh, oh no!" She was clutching her left arm, her face going pale, gasping for breath. "What is it?" I said. "What's wrong?" She gripped my arm with one hand and stabbed a finger onto the Shawcross logo on my chest with the other. Then she died. - 4 - ELLEN SHAWCROSS It was my first meeting of the Eight, and I was nervous. The rest of us were already seated at the ornate table in the magnificently appointed study when Victoria Helmsley, matriarch of the Eight, took her seat at its head. I stared at her in disbelief, and I wasn't the only one. "Cindy Fulton?!" I said, stunned. "In public," she chuckled, "but when the Eight meet I'm Victoria Helmsley." "But how...?" "How do I look so young? When we developed the original process, ten years ago, it could only make us appear up to half our actual ages, with our subsequent aging being at half the usual rate," she said, "but as you can see it's now been improved. It's still as eye-wateringly expensive as ever, but now we can wind back the clock so we appear up to a quarter our actual ages, with our subsequent aging also now being at quarter speed. Even if we live to a hundred and twenty, we need physically appear no more than thirty. Ladies, with our wealth we can now be young and gorgeous our whole lives." "So you're sixty-four but you have the energy and appearance of someone sixteen, a teenager?" I said. "Wow. I can see the appeal, but why would you want to date actual teenagers?" "Because they keep me young. We may appear in the first flush of youth, but we have old minds. Exposing myself to the freshness and vitality of real teens, embracing their interests, their tastes in music and fashion, challenges me and keeps me from getting too set in my ways. Plus, I just love their sexual enthusiasm." "So will you be marrying Devon? "God, no. He'd eventually grow too old for me. When he's forty I'll only be twenty-one physically and still in my prime. I'll need a man with the sexual stamina to keep me satisfied, and at that age he couldn't keep up with me. I'd wear him out. I'll have to reinvent myself every few years, of course, maybe hire new 'parents' and change my appearance - I like the idea of being black next, maybe Asian after that. And staying anonymous, of course. Victoria Helmsley being a recluse means that Cindy Fulton is able to move freely in the world. When you ladies upgrade to the new process, I'd recommend you become recluses, too." "It must have cost a fortune to develop," I said. "Billions," she agreed, "but then the governments of the world are very generous and give us billions annually to find a cure for the Corso virus. We've used that money to improve our lives in many ways. From the pills that allow us to lactate when breast-feeding our babies and to produce better milk that nature would, to developing genemorphing and rejuve, of course. We also reworked the female hormones we take so that loss of penile rigidity is no longer the problem it was for any, and to make us even more curvacious so that no girl need suffer from a flat chest ever again." "Shouldn't all that money be devoted to finding the cure?" I said, frowning. "Have you considered the consequences a cure would bring?" "What do you mean?" "Though their methods were monstrous, Calvin Corso and his co- conspirators were right in their analysis. There *were* too many of us before they released their virus and our numbers were about to seriously damage the planet. The current system works. Reproduction is no longer out of control, and as our numbers reach the level we've calculated is sustainable, we'll improve yield rates so that deaths and births are better balanced than they were. Plus, of course, those areas of the world where for religious or cultural reasons they didn't take the decisions we did are now hugely depopulated and ripe for exploitation. As capitalists we more than most appreciate the old adage that every cloud has a silver lining." "That makes sense." "Think about what would happen after a cure. Biofems will start increasing in number and they'll demand to be reintegrated back into our society, but the role they'll want is no longer available to them. The position of 'woman' has already been filled. By us. There is no job vacancy. You're a woman, would you want to give that up, be forced to become a man? Would you want that to happen to that pretty daughter of yours?" I shuddered at the thought. "No, I wouldn't, but couldn't we stay as we are and have them in society alongside us, too?" "It wouldn't work. Our society already has two genders, it doesn't need a third. The social upheaval that would result from them competing for our men doesn't bear thinking about. No, it's much better for us if things stay as they are, with us as women, as men's wives and lovers, and biofems remaining five percent of the human population and having our babies for us. We have a system that works. We can see no reason to change it." "So you're saying we're not seriously looking for a cure anymore?" "No, I'm saying that we have a cure for the Corso Virus. We've had it for thirty years." - Epilogue - DANNY MYERS I drove home feeling more tired than I had in a long time. It had been one hell of a day. I had carefully moved Laura's body back to her hiding place under the rear seats of the bus before reporting her presence. I told those who came to take the body away that I had discovered it when I was checking out the bus, and that she was already dead when I found her. I was closely questioned, of course, but they had no reason to think I wasn't telling the truth so I was soon released. Lucy got a reprimand for allowing a stowaway to get on the bus, and no doubt questions will be asked in the reservation itself since Laura was almost certainly aided in her escape. For myself, I couldn't help wondering what made her try to get to the outside world after all those years in the reservation. Why now? What had changed? She had stabbed her finger into the Shawcross logo on my jumpsuit as she was dying, trying to tell me something, but what? I would probably never know. When I got home I told my wife all about my encounter with Laura. "You met a biofem?" she said, eyes wide. There was a note of insecurity in her voice. "Hey don't be concerned," I said, "she was ancient. But even if she had been young and beautiful it wouldn't have mattered." I wrapped my arms around her, around Pamela, my childhood sweetheart and the love of my life. "You have nothing to worry about," I said, smiling down into that pretty face I've been smitten with since we were children. "I don't care how many biofems I encounter, I'm always going to want to come home to a real woman." ***************** The End. ***************** Note. After CHANGEDAY: IN THE BEGINNING, which was essentially utopian in outlook, I felt like writing a more dystopian tale, with something dark at its heart. This is that story. I'm not planning on setting any more tales in this universe, but some of you reading this might want to. I'm happy for you to do so in any not- for-sale form. Please title any such stories 'BIOFEM: (your title)' to make it easier to search for them on FM. Points to bear in mind: The Corso virus was released in the present day, but though this tale is set seventy years in the future and they're far ahead of us in the biological sciences, progress in other areas has not kept pace because of the resources diverted to said biological sciences. They're ahead of us, but not as far ahead as you'd expect. While the moderately wealthy can afford genemorph treatments, rejuve is only available to the super-wealthy, and there are very few of them.