Duty, Honor, Country       by: Brandy Dewinter

 

Chapter 4 - Trapped?

A sharp rapping at the door to Beech’s room started an equally-loud hammering within his chest as he struggled through a moment of disorientation the next morning. The delicate femininity of his room seemed doubly out of place after the Spartan barracks that had been his recent home. Once his heart was down from his throat, Beech called out and Kathy entered the room.

"Up and at ‘em, girl," she directed. Beech didn’t feel much like a girl that morning. He had carefully removed his wig and hung it on the tall form, then removed his makeup. His instruction the previous day had included cleansing and moisturizing and other aspects of skin care, and he had complied as fully as he could before going to bed. No pajamas had been provided so he had slept in the emerald panties, a fact that disturbed him again as he began to get out of bed with the trim instructor still watching.

"Oh, go on," Kathy laughed. "I’ve seen about as much of you as there is to see. Don’t bother showering this morning. We have a workout first."

Beech quickly took care of the essentials and returned to the bedroom to find shiny black tights and an emerald leotard waiting for him. He dressed in the unfamiliar but not unexpected clothes and was soon following Kathy out of the room and down the hall. Other recruits, now six in number, and their instructors were converging in an exercise yard just outside the lodge. The field was lush with grass, but there were mats and aerobic steps spread around. In moments, all the trainees were lying on the mats with their instructors pulling on legs, arms, shoulders, necks, and everything else that moved.

"Ladies," announced the chief instructor, an appellation that seemed much less appropriate than the previous evening, "all of you will have to achieve the flexibility and grace of beautiful women. You may think this is easy, but I assure you that it is not. Give it your best effort and you’ll get through the pain faster."

Pain? In moment the truth of that warning became all too apparent as the personal trainers pushed harder and harder against the tightness of the recruits’ muscles and joints. The strength imparted during basic training now worked against them as they tried to relax taut, hard muscles. The instructors were relentless, though, and all the recruits were soon aching from the forced stretching.

"All right, everybody up!" the chief instructor ordered. She was one of those impossibly fit young blondes that they always use as aerobics instructors, probably named Ashley or Amber or something suitably stylish. That stereotype turned out to be all too true as she cranked up a boombox and had the recruits start bouncing along with the music. This facet of the training was as much dance as exercise and the personal trainers were as relentless at pointing out graceless moves as they had been at loosening up tight muscles. In just moments the team was sweating in a way that women had somehow learned to overcome. It wasn’t clear that this could be trained out of the bodies of the team, so they were going to get into such good shape that they wouldn’t raise a sweat under any exertion the mission might require. At least, that was the plan.

After some interminable time, Amber (or was it Ashley?) called a halt and had them walk to another area of the compound, a few hundred yards away. Waiting for them there was the first male instructor they had seen, or at least, the first one that was recognizably male. He was a bit over six feet tall, with a bushy black mustache, and he stood in the center of a large mat about twenty feet on a side.

"All right, ladies," his tone indicated disdain and ridicule, the first person who had not been sympathetic to their androgynous appearance, "I’m your martial arts instructor. My name is El Supremo, at least, as far as you’re concerned. It’s my job to teach you how to handle yourself without weapons. Let me make it clear at the start that I fight dirty. Marilyn has told me that anything that will heal within a year is fair game, as long as no scars result. You can heal a LOT in a year. Let me also make it clear that the only way you graduate from my class is if you can kick the shit out of me. Since none of you are likely to graduate, I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over this year and that I’ll end up sending your sorry butts out into the field half-trained, but that’s the breaks. Now, who wants to be first?"

Right, like anyone was volunteering to get beat up. Beech was especially bothered. Like all good martial arts instructors, those that had taught him aikido had made it clear that martial arts were not a path to being a bully, but a way to achieve peace in the face of danger. This "El Supremo" character was the antithesis of that creed. Part of Beech was angered by the heresy, but part of him was intimidated by the arrogant confidence of the instructor. Clearly, this was not going to be a pleasant class. In a coincidence that was clearly well-planned, Marilyn and Constance had seemingly wandered up just as the instructor began his harangue.

One of the recruits was even more intimidated than Beech. Beech couldn’t really remember this member of the team very well. Clearly he had succeeded at the heels and makeup well enough to survive the first day’s attrition, but nothing special came to mind about him. His hair was a medium brown and the primary color of his clothes was a soft rose that wasn’t unusual among the remaining recruits. The worried candidate started shaking his head, slowly at first, then more and more emphatically.

"No," came first a mutter, then a clear statement, then a shout, "NO! I am not getting kicked around by another bully. I don’t care what kind of prison you put me in, I’m not getting pounded again."

This young man, like all the team, was slender and short. He seemed more fragile, though, as though the external limitations were only a facade on an even less capable spirit. His repeated denials became even more frantic until finally Marilyn stepped up to him and in a strong, masculine voice they had never heard from her before shouted, "Attention!"

Trained reflexes captured the whole team (interestingly enough, including the instructors) and the terrified boy stopped his babbling in shocked silence as all came to attention. Marilyn’s eyes never left the young trainee. When he finally pulled himself together, she patted him softly on the shoulder and then turned to address the group as a whole, once again in a soft, feminine tone.

"I think we’ll delay today’s unarmed combat training for a short while. All of you follow me. Oh, at ease, just stroll along with me."

She started down a path deeper into the woods surrounding the compound. The other recruits followed along uneasily. The scene with the panicked response of one of their number had unnerved the entire team and they walked as though they were picking a path through a minefield, waiting for the next explosion. Marilyn and Constance seemed unconcerned, but they had already shown that their minds were always evaluating the team members, always aware of their actions. After about ten minutes of gentle strolling they approached another double razor-wire fence surrounding a reasonably conventional barracks building, an exercise yard, and a few small sheds. There was a uniformed guard at the only visible gate, the first normally dressed soldier they had seen since the helicopter pilots had left. Marilyn led them up to the gate and stopped, then turned to those following her.

"This is what happens to those who wash out. I’m not showing you this as a threat, but as a promise. It’s not especially bad, at least, not for those who merely wash out of the training. I wasn’t kidding, though about what will happen to anyone who breaks security. Nonetheless, this is the only way out for those who can’t complete the training. The only way. In the meantime, talk to those who are already inside."

With that she nodded to the guard, who blew his whistle. Three men came tumbling from the barracks building and by now it was no surprise to see that they were Carp Anderson and the others who had failed to measure up. They were dressed in conventional BDUs, though with no insignia showing. Marilyn ostentatiously stepped through the group of trainees, taking a place behind them so that they could move forward at will.

Beech was the first to respond. Perhaps his sympathy for the distressed recruit was a little less than the others, since he had faced his own bullies in a more self-reliant manner, refusing to just take abuse. Or perhaps it was just that he already knew Carp Anderson and wanted to talk to him. In any event, he stepped closer to the outer fence and spoke, "Carp, how’re you doing?"

"Not too bad," Carp replied, ducking his head in shame before his peers. "This place is okay. The barracks is more like a BOQ than an enlisted man’s barracks, and they let us have movies for the dayroom TV. They even told us we can send for correspondence courses while we’re in here."

"How long will that be?" the question came from several sources.

Constance answered from the back of the group, "Until the mission is completed, and such additional time as is required to ensure the success of the mission is not compromised."

The three inside the wire ducked their heads again, reminded of the predicament that held them. One of the outside recruits voiced a concern that Connie’s words had raised, "But that could be forever."

"Yes," now Marilyn responded, bluntly, unequivocally. Turning to the recruit who had panicked at the hand-to-hand training site, she said, "Go on in. You’ll find clothes inside."

She then turned and started back up the path they had traversed. Beech watched the dejected ex-team member walk to the gate the guard was opening. His tights and leotard looked sadly pathetic, just as his slumping shoulders and drooping head. Beech realized, as he turned to follow Marilyn, that he still couldn’t remember the boy’s name, neither his femme name nor his real one.

In a few minutes they were back at the mat area. The instructor, "El Supremo" was still waiting, dancing a private kata to focus his mind and make use of the time. As the team straggled behind Marilyn, she walked straight onto the mat and up to the instructor.

"All right, asshole, you just cost me a team member. Better now than during the mission, but you owe me," the hard language was strangely incongruous coming from the gorgeous transvestite. She had put her makeup on that morning, and it appeared the blonde curls were her own. In her tights and multi-colored leotard she looked for all the world like a young woman challenging a brutish beast of a man.

The man nodded to her, then stepped into position. They faced each other, made a formal bow, then set themselves. The instructor struck a formal pose, hands a bit above waist level, feet diagonally strong, legs partially bent. Marilyn just stood there, casually. Beech thought, "she’s gonna get killed." He was surprised to find that bothered him. He hadn’t had much contact with officers in his time in the army. Mostly they were just inspecting one thing or another, and usually finding fault. The power they wielded was intimidating, but distant. Still, Marilyn had shown interest in them, shown superb mastery of the skills she demanded of them, shown strength of character and of leadership with an ability to make fast, sure, accurate decisions. She was respectable, that was the word. Beech realized he respected her greatly, a respect that was increased by her willingness to face this danger first, leading from the front. Somehow, that made her the representative of them all, and it was wrong for her to take lumps on their behalf. Her pain was their pain, and they weren’t helping. These thoughts took only an instant, but that’s all there was.

El Supremo exploded into motion, diving forward to catch Marilyn’s hair in one meaty paw. With the other hand, he slapped her face, hard. Even with his open hand it was clear that his blows rocked the slight transvestite. A clenched fist would probably have broken her jaw. The team gasped at this abuse of their leader, a gasp that was soon echoed by another gasp as she fell backwards onto the mat, pulling the man with her own hair, then with her hands as they found a hold. The beefy man found himself lifted over her bunched legs, but unlike the conventional technique where a leg is placed in the stomach of the attacker, Marilyn’s slender foot was planted firmly in his crotch, very firmly. His grunt sounded even over the collective shock of the watching trainees, and his reflexive attempt to block her foot caused him to lose his grip on her hair. This left Marilyn fully in control, and she used that control to accelerate his motion into a whipcrack so hard it lifted her off the mat, a good thing since the impact of his crashing body surely registered on seismographs around the country, and anything in contact with the ground near his body would have felt some noticeable shocks. The boom as El Supremo hit the mat sounded so loud they wondered if his back had broken, a "concern" that was immediately alleviated by his rapid motion to cuddle himself into a ball, clutching his crushed manhood. He obviously couldn’t breathe, but the observers couldn’t tell whether that was because the wind was knocked out of him, or just due to the pain in his crotch. Not that they cared.

General Merlin stood up from the mat. None of them, probably not even Constance, could have told exactly what change had transformed Marilyn into Merlin. There were no describable physical changes except the red blotch on his face where he had been slapped, and a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Yet it was as clear that this was a man as it had been undeniable that Marilyn had been feminine.

"That’s another reason we chose men for this mission. If and when the time comes to fight, we expect you to fight. No mercy, no rules, no hesitation. When the time comes, there won’t be room for the nurturing aspect of femininity, just the killer instinct of a man. If you don’t have that instinct, you might as well join the others in the barracks compound, because there’s no room for you on the team."

As they watched, another magical transformation occurred, before their eyes yet indescribable. Where General Merlin had stood, now Marilyn smiled at them, the smile distorted by a lip that was already thickening. They had been told that the transformation they needed was more internal than external, but now they believed it, convinced by the incredible effect of Marilyn’s appearance.

"Besides," she said with a smile and Marilyn’s gentle voice, "El Supremo is wrong. You’re all going to learn to kick his butt. If he won’t show you how, I will, and I’ll use him to demonstrate. Won’t I asshole?" This last was delivered to the still-huddled man, who nodded feebly.

"Well, that’s enough on unarmed combat for today, I think," Marilyn continued. "Let’s go back to the lodge."

They followed along behind her until they were in the sitting room again. To their surprise, she ordered them into formation, standing at attention. Her orders were delivered in a soft, friendly tone, but they moved as quickly as they would have for any foghorn-voiced sergeant.

From somewhere, Constance had obtained a notebook (she was dressed like the rest of them in clothes that left no room for pockets). Connie followed Marilyn down the line of trainees, their bodies revealed more than concealed in the skin-tight outfits. At each recruit Marilyn stopped and looked even more carefully than at the inspection that had resulted in their opportunities to volunteer. She had the recruit turn around, slowly, then conferred in a quiet voice with Constance. They would make some decision and Constance would make a note in her book, then they moved on. As they approached Beech, he could hear part of their words. They seemed to be grading the recruits. Most of the grades were B’s, maybe B+ or B-. When they got to him, though, Beech was sure he heard Marilyn say, "C". He thought he had been doing well. What made her grade him down? Since he was at the end of the line (now five recruits long), Marilyn and Constance moved in front of the assembled team after passing him.

"At ease," Marilyn said with an ever-more-lopsided smile. "Now I’m going to ask you to volunteer again. I want you all to know that I appreciate what you’ve done so far. While I can’t let you go and compromise the mission, or the security of the team members who are sent on it, I’ll try and make your time as comfortable as practical if you choose not to take the next step. I’ll also tell you that I will make the same step I’m asking of you. Our masquerade as women must be foolproof, with the one critical exception that we can’t lose our virility. In order to succeed, we’re going to need to modify our bodies a bit, nothing really permanent, or at least, not so unusual you won’t be able to live with it.

She continued with a statement that was shocking even though they realized the inevitability of it had been lurking in their minds, "We will need to get breast implants, and take hormones to get our nipples to grow. We’ll also do some minor things that increase the credibility of our female image, like getting our ears pierced, getting some collagen implants in our lips to make them fuller, and for those who need it, a little work on our cheeks and jawlines. Surgery can remove what it adds, and eventually the effects of the hormones will fade, though our nipples may remain slightly enlarged. When I mentioned personal discomfort, I know you weren’t thinking of surgical modifications, so I consider this a separate commitment on your part. No one will be punished for deciding not to proceed, except that you’ll not be part of the team. You’ve seen what that entails. Now, who is willing to proceed?"

They were still in line and the trainees realized that Marilyn had taken an extra step away from them before delivering this additional surprise that wasn’t really a surprise. That created a space between just big enough to allow volunteers to step forward. What a coincidence.

Again, Beech was the first to move. He couldn’t have said why he volunteered to have his body modified. He was a 19-year-old man, boy really, and he had been through a series of hammerblow shocks to his concepts of who he was and what he was that would have excused a lot of confusion in more mature men. He just knew he wanted to be part of Marilyn’s team. He stepped forward and came to an even more rigid attention than before, the incongruity of a short-haired man in brightly colored tights and leotard totally lost in the moment. His action spurred others to move, first Jaymi Fox, then Carol Stevenson, then a blond guy he didn’t know. Only one man refused to step forward, another average-looking trainee who hadn’t been very noticeable to Beech until now. After a moment to make sure the man had made his decision, Marilyn nodded. Her eyes notified the lone recalcitrant to move out and he executed a sharp about-face, then marched out the door toward the path to the barracks compound. Now there were four.

"Very well, thank you for your support," Marilyn said with her lopsided smile. "Now go to your rooms and get showered and dressed. We’ll have brunch when you get back. After brunch, we’ll cycle through interviews with the doctor, and I’ll also want a private interview with each of you. Connie will have the schedule. You’re dismissed."

When Beech returned to his room he found three instructors waiting for him. Kathy shepherded him into the powder room where the shower was already running. As he washed his body, Beech was amazed at the smooth sensual feel of his hands as they stroked his hairless legs and chest. He didn’t know how fast body hairs could be expected to grow out, but Karen’s comment that no hairs would grow until some sort of neutralizer was applied seemed to be supported by his smooth chin and cheeks. His whiskers had never grown very fast and he could often skip a day shaving even within army standards, but his face felt as smooth as his legs, not even a hint of roughness. The stubble on his head didn’t take long to wash either, so in moments he was stepping from the shower. Kathy once again handed him lotion to use, then a tangle of flesh-colored straps that Beech didn’t recognize.

"I’ve got some good news and some bad news," Kathy said with a grin. "The good news is that you get to wear regular girl’s clothes today, a skirt and a blouse. The bad news is that you have to make sure your manhood doesn’t show. This is called a gaff. It’s used to hide your genitals. I’ll show you how to wear it. It’s my understanding that it’s not too comfortable, especially until you get used to it. It’s also pretty personal, but I’m the one that has to show you."

Her grin indicated she wasn’t terribly sympathetic, which did more than anything to convince the skeptical trainee that she was a genetic girl, especially once he finally had the infernal thing in place. No man or boy who had experienced this could be quite so callous. His testicles had been massaged back up into his body cavity and the gaff held his cock so tightly he couldn’t have managed an erection if his life depended on it. Hopefully the effects were reversible when the thing was removed. After he was tucked away, Kathy handed him a fresh pair of emerald panties and led him from the powder room.

Back in his bedroom, Beech was directed to the lacing bar and a new corset was wrapped around his waist. This one must have been custom made. The dominant color was his signature emerald green, accented by white lace. As Kathy pulled the laces he could feel that it was even tighter than the previous corset, yet somehow more comfortable. The increased tension was more evenly distributed with no particular points of pressure. It was just as hard to breathe, though, maybe worse. He needed help with his stockings (still dark, with slender seams), and with his shoes (still strapped to his ankles, and even taller than before). A few tugs here and there and Kathy was finished with him. However he didn’t go to the vanity, yet. Instead, he was directed to his new instructor.

"Hello," she greeted him, "my name is Krystal. I’m your instructor in fashion and feminine deportment. Today you get some real clothes, not just a robe. After a little while, we’ll start selecting clothes for you that fit your personality and style, but today, all the trainees will be dressed in skirts and blouses."

With that she picked up an emerald poet’s blouse, all flowing sleeves and floppy collar. It exaggerated every gesture Beech made when he tried to control the fluttering material. Next, Krystal reached for a short denim skirt, very short. It was also very snug, as Beech found out when she started to work the zipper. It had slid over his hips pretty easily, but the zipper pulled it tight, especially at his tautly-imprisoned waist. He was back to the incongruity of stridently feminine clothes below a stubble-headed boy’s face. That was Karen’s cue to take charge of his preparation. There wasn’t much for her to do with his makeup. He had learned his lessons well, and soon the young female Sandy was appearing behind the seemingly minimal artistry. Karen helped him with his wig, though, showing him enough to keep it looking good throughout the day. It was clear that all the trainees would let their hair grow so learning how to put on a wig was not in itself a vital skill. Once it was in place, though, the recruits needed to know how to care for it just as though it were permanent.

Transformation complete, Sandy stood up and smiled at her helpers. "Thank you," she said softly.

Neither Kathy nor Krystal had seen her transformation before. They just stood open-mouthed, looking at each other with unconscious comparison and realizing that with the possible exception of Karen, Sandy was the prettiest among them. And Karen didn’t have Sandy’s gorgeous mane of richly-dark hair, nor her tiny waist, however forced that smallness was. Their shocked appraisal, even envy, was so apparent on their faces that Sandy giggled in delight. She hugged Karen quickly in wordless thanks, then lifted one delicately-shaped eyebrow in question.

"What’s next?"

"Oh," replied Kathy as she recovered from her amazement, "you need to go to brunch. Go ahead."

Krystal added, "I’ll be in the study room at the opposite end of the hall. When you’re free of your other appointments, come by and we’ll start to talk fashions. I also want to listen to you speak for a while so we can work on feminizing your voice. Your soft tones are a good start, but phrasing and inflections have a long way to go."

Sandy nodded and turned for the door. When she got to the dining area, she found for once that she wasn’t first. Jaymi Fox was already there, her blouse in the dark wine red color that had been selected to set off her chocolate eyes. Carol Stevenson arrived next, her makeup skills as effective, yet subtle as she had displayed the night before. It was apparent she was going to capitalize on her crystal blue eyes with a matching royal blue poet’s blouse that made her copper hair seem incredibly fiery. Unlike the smooth waves that fell to Sandy’s waist, Carol’s hair was tightly curled and dropped only to her collar. It seemed to fit her, somehow, bouncing like coiled springs in a way that promised a volatile temperament that did justice to the promise of her hair. The last of their team arrived shortly after, the blonde that Beech hadn’t really met yet. She was stunning in a lean, elegant way, dressed in a black blouse that made her golden hair glow like a halo. All the trainees betrayed a little hesitation as they walked in their higher heels. They were learning that the increment from three to four inch heels was a great a challenge as the increment from flats to three-inch spikes. How would they ever manage the six-inch towers that had been promised?

The four remaining trainees moved together in a mutual desire for companionship. Sandy smiled at the girl she didn’t yet know very well and introduced herself again, "Hello, I’m Sandy Beech. I know we met before, but I must admit I don’t remember your name."

The blonde smiled automatically in return, chuckling a little at the pun that had named Sandy long before this mission, then dropped her eyes in embarrassment. "No one seemed to like the name I chose anyway. My real name is Stan White, and I was going to call myself Sharon, like Sharon Stone, but the others said I just didn’t look like a Sharon."

"Well, you’re certainly pretty enough," Carol joined in, but your femme name should be obvious."

The others looked at her without comprehension. Carol let them wonder for a moment, not noticing that Marilyn and the ever-close Constance had walked up behind them as she paused.

"I think that Stan White should become the elegant, yet vivacious blonde Vanna White," she laughed.

All the team members, except the newly-christened Vanna, burst into one or another expressions of mirth ranging from the refined chuckle of the always-elegant Constance through girlish giggles from Carol and Sandy. It was clear that Vanna had her name, and this time Sandy knew she would have no trouble remembering it. They moved to the brunch, not a buffet this time, but places set around a single round table large enough for all six. Servers arrived with the first course, small in portion since they all knew the limitations imposed by their corsets. Marilyn deliberately kept the conversation light, but made a point of addressing each of them by their femme names at every opportunity. That drew from them a reciprocal use of her name, rather than ma’am, and soon their previous training in how to address a female officer was being overridden by the new standard. The meal was the first really relaxing time since they had arrived at the compound, all the more surprising since half of their number had been eliminated within little more than a day.

As the brunch drew to a close, Constance spoke up in her executive officer voice, "May I have your attention, please, ladies? It’s now just after 11:00. You may all have the time until noon to relax and repair your makeup after the meal. Carol, you’re due to the infirmary at 12:00, then Jaymi, Vanna, and Sandy at one hour intervals. There are signs starting just outside the lodge to show you the right path. It’s a couple of hundred yards away, so you’ll all get plenty of practice in your heels, but the path is paved and I’m sure you can make it. We’ll do the interviews with Marilyn in the lounge where we had our cocktails last night, in reverse order, so Sandy, you’ll be first. Any questions?"

"When will we be operated on?" Vanna asked.

"That will depend on the doctor’s evaluation," Constance explained, "but you can expect it within the next few days."

The silence that followed indicated that no other questions were forthcoming, so Marilyn stood up. The team followed suit and soon were dispersed to their rooms. Sandy had no trouble bringing her makeup back to the understated magic that made her seem like a delicate flower. Since she had a few moments to spare, she sat in an easy chair in her room and propped her aching feet up. They certainly weren’t used to these heels, yet. Walking a couple of hundred yards (and back) over a paved path didn’t sound like a lot of fun, but she could see that it wasn’t unreasonable. Anyway, she didn’t have to do that until later in the afternoon. She felt herself almost dozing off in the chair and roused with a start to check the time. Just enough to comb her hair into shining perfection and sway with the sensuous grace made necessary by her heels and corset toward the lounge.

Marilyn waited for her, all alone. This was the first time that Constance had not been hovering near the breathtaking blonde. She seemed vulnerable, an impression heightened by the swollen lip that marred her perfection. A little closer look and Sandy could see puffiness about her eye that promised to darken into a spectacular shiner, if it hadn’t already and been covered by cosmetic magic. Marilyn sat in an easy chair, legs crossed elegantly and with perfect femininity. Her own skirt was just as short as those worn by the other team members, but somehow she had managed to tuck it under her in a way that hinted at forbidden fruits without revealing them.

"Come in, Sandy, right on time. Get yourself a soft drink if you’d like."

The suggestion triggered a raging thirst in Sandy’s throat, or perhaps it was just dry from the tension of the meeting. What would this interview involve? Sandy had thought she was doing well, but she had distinctly heard Marilyn assess her with a C earlier, while all the other girls were somewhere in the B range. The green-eyed beauty walked over to the snack area and got a soda to give her a moment more to compose herself, but the stall was over all too soon and she found herself settling into a chair near Marilyn, remembering at the last instant to smooth her own brief skirt into place.

"So, Sandy, tell me what you think now about our situation."

"I don’t know what to say. It’s been an unbelievable couple of days," Sandy replied carefully. Then after a pause, she continued, "Frankly, I’m worried about making the grade. If we’ve lost this many in only two days, how will I ever last out a year?"

"You’re doing fine," assured Marilyn. "In fact, you’re doing the best of all the new recruits. That’s one of the things we need to talk about. You’re an obvious leader among the girls. I’m planning to announce a promotion for you at dinner this evening. You’re going to be formally recognized as third in command behind myself and Connie."

Sandy’s surprise must have showed on her face. She had expected this interview to be a dreaded "counseling" session, telling her to improve or face banishment to the barracks compound. Instead, Marilyn was praising her. The shock of her unexpected promotion took her breath away, even the little that was allowed by her corset, and she sagged back in the chair.

"What’s the matter?" asked Marilyn solicitously.

"Nothing, it’s just, well, I thought you were disappointed in me," Sandy answered.

"Whyever for?"

"Well, earlier, when you were grading us girls, I heard you say the others were all in the B range, maybe B+ or B-, but I heard you say I was a C. I didn’t know what I had done wrong."

Marilyn’s laugh burst out a little too forcefully for the delicate femininity of her appearance, but it was too much for her to contain. She laughed until she finally took a sip of her lemonade, wincing as the tart mix touched her tender lip, then she calmed down enough to speak.

"Oh, Sandy, you’re so precious. Nothing could be further from the truth. I wasn’t grading you like a school teacher. I was deciding just how much to enhance your bust. You’re going to get full C cup tits, girl. You’ll be spectacular. I’m afraid the other girls will end up somewhere between elegant, like Connie, and tomboyish. They’re all going to be beautiful, but on the lean side. It shows in their face and in their motions. We’ll need to accept that and build on it, so they’ll be average in bust at most, maybe a little small. You, on the other hand, have already shown a natural talent for this that’s amazing. We’re going to turn you into the shapeliest, most sensual girl on the team. You’ll be curvier and prettier than any of the others. The plan was to have a variety of looks to make sure we blended in. Connie has convinced me to go the blonde bombshell route, and I’m already practicing my airhead routines. You, on the other hand, are going to be so hot that men will be consumed if they approach, but just like moths to a flame they will be compelled to move closer. I think we’ll work a little sadness, a damsel-in-distress look into your style. You used that with terrific effect last night with the waiter. Believe me, Sandy, dear, you’re doing wonderfully."

With this assurance, Sandy relaxed and recovered a bit. She took a sip of her own drink, then smiled at Marilyn, "You really think so? I’ll be beautiful?"

"You’re already beautiful," Marilyn confirmed, "but you’re going to be unbelievable. Let’s see, your instructor in fashion and feminine deportment is, um, Krystal, right?"

Sandy nodded, noting for the first time that Marilyn had no notes or other aids to memory. It was clear that there was a highly-capable mind behind those shining blue jewels. The thought of Marilyn acting out an airhead persona, like Marilyn Monroe had done so often, raised a twinkle in Sandy’s eyes as she envisioned this Marilyn in some of those old movie scenes. Then she paid attention as Marilyn went on.

"Tell Krystal what I just told you. Tell her I want you to be sensual but not cheap. Vulnerable in a way that invites protectors. But tell her I want eyeballs to snap whenever you enter a room. She’ll know what I mean. In the meantime, don’t worry about washing out. We’re actually at the team size I wanted. We’ve thrown some shocks at all of you right up front to weed out those who don’t have the right desire. That’s what’s most important, that and a little talent. The girls that are left all have what we need, you most of all. From here on out we’ll help you through the rough spots."

"Does that include that El Supremo instructor?"

Marilyn’s face took on a sharper look, and Sandy knew she was about to be tested again as the blonde asked, "Did you notice anything unusual about that situation?"

The pretty brunette hesitated a moment before answering. She was a lot happier now that Marilyn had explained where she stood, but Sandy knew that she and all the trainees would be continually challenged, mentally, physically, every way that Marilyn and Constance could devise. This question was on her powers of observation at a level beyond simply recounting the facts. When she had her thoughts together, she replied, "Well, that’s the only instructor that has been disrespectful, and the only one that you’ve treated disrespectfully. It’s obvious from naming him El Supremo that he’s supposed to represent our target. It appears that we’re supposed to learn that he’s not so tough after all. Not easy, that fat lip must be pretty uncomfortable, but not a superman either. I can see the tactic, but he’s still pretty intimidating. Of course, now that I’ve seen you in action, you’re pretty intimidating yourself."

Marilyn’s face assumed an amazingly vacant look, then she giggled and tossed her head to one side, "Moi? Intimidating? Why I don’t even know what that big word means. I’m just, like, you know, a girl, you know? No way am I, like, what you said."

Now it was Sandy’s turn to break out into uncontrolled laughter at the ditsy airhead imitation Marilyn was presenting. It wasn’t perfect, yet, but it was devastatingly funny. She looked like deciding what color to paint her nails was a major life decision. Then, just as quickly, the sharp look was back in her eyes.

"We’ve all got a lot of things to learn. Remember what I told you, the mental and deportment aspects are even more important than the physical ones, and those will be tough enough," Marilyn said as she stood.

Sandy stood with her and reached to shake her hand. Instead of reaching out her own hand, Marilyn leaned forward and gave Sandy a quick hug and an air kiss, a much more feminine response. Once again, Sandy was amazed at the breadth of skill that their leader possessed. She walked back to her room shaking her head at the task before her, but re-energized to do her best by the pep talk she had received.

 

(continued in part 5)

 

 

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