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Duty, Honor, Country       by: Brandy Dewinter

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Chapter 5 - Tragedy!

The trainees settled into a routine that was too busy to be monotonous. Every morning, they worked out at stretching and aerobics, then faced El Supremo. All the trainees sported bruises at various times, yet all found within themselves the toughness to face the bully and overcome him. Sandy’s aikido background allowed her the easiest time in this area as well and her position as leader among the enlisted recruits was solidified by her demonstrated competence.

They always ate brunch rather than breakfast, always wearing their corsets to keep their stomachs too compressed for large meals. As a result, and as a result of the hormones they started taking, they lost muscle mass, especially in their upper bodies. The team members, including Marilyn, cycled through the infirmary for their various surgeries. In the end, as promised, Sandy developed the shapeliest body, though Marilyn followed a close second. The others started to develop their own personas, each unique, each attractive. Constance owned the refined elegance personality so thoroughly that none of the other recruits tried that path. Her most devastating weapon was a coolly-amused smile. It could make any man around feel clumsy and inadequate. Marilyn had the airhead blonde down with hilarious creativity. She trained herself to use almost exclusively one-syllable words, mostly ‘like’ and ‘you know’ and ‘cool’.

Jaymi chose the tomboy route, remaining androgynous in a surprisingly effective way. She was clearly female, or at least appeared to be, but she kept her hair cut in a shorter style and had the leanest shape of the team. This apparent rejection of femininity was curiously inverted to appear not a deliberate choice, but as though she had grown up in a convent and wasn’t sure what it meant to be truly a woman. It triggered the masculine protector instinct and at the same time offered the ego-reassuring opportunity to show an innocent girl what a man could do for her without fear of failing standards set by experience. She was the classic hothouse flower just waiting to bloom. Only Sandy really knew that she was also the most sexually experienced of them all.

Carol, with her flaming hair, chose the wanton route. Every sentence carried a sexual innuendo. Every motion flaunted her new figure, though it was only average. She chose the shortest, tightest skirts, the lowest necklines, the brightest makeup. It made her look easy without quite being cheap. Not a hooker, just a highly-sexed young woman that enjoyed giving and receiving pleasure.

Vanna, though also a blue-eyed blonde, chose the intellectual path. She dressed conservatively, except for her higher-than-normal heels and seamed stockings. Underneath, her lingerie was always lacy and delicately feminine, though, and she somehow managed to let glimpses of it show. Her persona was that of a woman too busy for sex, brisk and industrious, yet still yearning for it. One imagined that she read romance novels in the privacy of her home, dreaming of elegant dresses and of strong men before once again leaving for work. It offered the opportunity to fulfill fantasies that had been building for years, if only the thin crust of ice-maiden defense could be breached.

The most effective of them all was Sandy, though. Under Krystal’s expert tutelage she had first learned feminine gestures and movements. Now when she reached to shake hands, it was with a gentle wrist and with her palm down, offering as much to let her hand be kissed as to be grasped. She chose enticing clothes that claimed to be conservative with skirts just above the knee and modest necklines. Yet the clothes were in fact quite revealing, with high slits in the skirts and devastatingly-effective lace panels in the tight blouses that threatened, no that promised, to reveal hidden delights with every breath, with every whisper of wind, though only for an instant. It was impossible not to watch her, to try and catch that brief glimpse that was sure to appear at any moment. Then she took it further, developing a sensual motion that always ended up with a hip thrust just far enough to reveal the curve of her perfect thigh, always had her looking through long lashes or an errant wave of lustrous hair at those around her, a demure expression belied by the grin that lurked within those emerald gems. She wore her wig for the longest time among the team, only giving it up when her own hair reached toward her waist in shining waves even more beautiful than the false hair she had finally abandoned. She trained her voice to be light and musical, delightful to hear. Her expertise with makeup kept her always at the dewy-eyed edge of innocence, at one moment appearing barely 15, at the next perhaps 20. If this damsel were ever in distress, men would come running from far counties to seize the chance to help her, and she learned a delicate pout that always made her seem slightly distressed.

That impression became more real than she wanted it to be when they finally got to learning the skills of thievery, especially lock-picking. Though she managed to work the problems that challenged them, it was always laborious and slow. Jaymi, on the other hand, could open most padlocks, handcuffs, doors, whatever almost as fast with a paperclip or a hairpin as with the designed key. The two teammates spent long hours together trying to bring Sandy’s skills up to the necessary standard. At times she felt she would never get it well enough to play her part in whatever plan was lurking behind Marilyn’s ditsy disguise. When they all got long fingernails, Sandy almost despaired. Marilyn found her sitting by a picture window late one evening, sobbing silently.

"What’s wrong?" the blonde asked gently, no trace of airhead emptiness about her.

"I just can’t get the hang of lock-picking, and now with these," she said waving her scarlet spears in frustrated speechlessness. "I’m afraid you’ll wash me out."

"Don’t worry about it," Marilyn consoled her. "You’ll do well enough. We’re a team, remember? I want everyone to have enough skills to fill in for those who might not make it, but there are several of us who can pick locks well enough. I’ve already figured out other tasks for you. I want you to try your best on lock-picking, just like you do on everything else, but I won’t count on you for that particular skill except as a backup plan, just as there are things where others will back you up. Trust me, I told you we’d help you through the rough parts."

"Really? You mean I’m doing okay?" Sandy begged for reassurance.

"Really. You’re doing okay," Marilyn declared. Sandy forced a weak smile through her tears, then hugged Marilyn like the big sister she had become. The two pretend women, or woman and girl, just held each other for a moment. Finally Marilyn stirred enough to let Sandy know she wanted to be released, and the two stood side by side looking out the window.

"What is your plan for us?" Sandy asked, trying to get the conversation off its intensely emotional level.

"I can’t say, yet, there’s still some intelligence data we need. But I can let you in on another secret. We’re all going to get a pass this weekend."

"What?" Sandy couldn’t believe it. In ten months, they had never left the compound. To the best of her knowledge even Marilyn and Constance had never left. The girl’s training in feminization, thievery, and unarmed combat was nearly complete. All could pass anywhere as women, desirable, beautiful, sensual women. At least, they thought they could. Sandy realized as soon as she heard Marilyn’s words, though, that lurking deep in her heart was a fear that real men, or real women, would see through their disguises.

"This weekend we’re all going out on the town. Dinner, maybe a few nightclubs. We’ll call it trolling for boys, and see how many each of us attracts. My money’s on you, actually, but," and her personality changed with a toss of her golden curls, "I’ll like, you know, try my best. Maybe some cute boy will like me. Wouldn’t that be like, totally awesome?"

Sandy giggled in appreciation of the compliment, and of the joke. Fooling a roomful of horny men would be a real challenge, one that each of the girls would need to face someday. It looked like the test would come soon.

They were excused from physical training the next day, including their hand-to-hand combat class. Sandy realized that El Supremo had been taking it easy on them lately. None of the girls sported bruises, at least, none that would show. He had not been so lucky. All of the team could regularly make him pay for any damage inflicted, with compound interest and penalties. Still, he soldiered on, trapped as much in his role as they were in theirs. He had become pathetic in their minds, not terrifying. Just as Marilyn planned all along.

The girls spent their time preparing for their night out. By this time they had learned to move as well as could be expected in their corsets. After all the figure training, they felt more comfortable with them on. They wore heels almost all the time now, usually at least 5 inches in height. In fact, just as the corsets had shrunk their waists, the towering spikes worn constantly outside the brief stretching period every morning had resulted in enough shrinkage of their ankle tendons that they were more comfortable in heels than flats.

Early in the evening they gathered in the lounge for an informal mutual inspection. Their respect for each other was too great for the pettiness of pecking orders, but they still needed reassurance in their own beauty, gained in part by realizing their differing approaches were all valid and effective. Though not part of a deliberate plan, it was clear that they had formed into two basic styles. One group composed of Marilyn, Carol, and Sandy emphasized a fun-loving, exuberant style, while the other group, Constance, Jaymi, and Vanna, were living examples of refinement and elegance. All were clearly party girls out for a night on the town, though. Skirts were high and tight, heels were very high and very slim, makeup was sparkling. Purses were arranged, documentation was checked against their new identifications. They gravitated together according to their personas and went to the two cars that they would use for the night’s excursion. In order not to look too structured, they would actually act as two groups tonight, on similar schedules but not really together. The rendezvous at the restaurant and night clubs would appear coincidental.

Marilyn’s head-tossing chatter and Carol’s constant innuendoes kept Sandy giggling helplessly for the entire trip to town. It was only as they approached it that she realized she hadn’t even known what state they were in. It turned out to be Montana, if it mattered. They had reservations at the restaurant, but there was a short wait so they fluttered into the bar like a flock of light-hearted doves. Their more reserved compatriots trailed by a few minutes but soon ended up in the same area.

"Heads up, girls," Marilyn whispered, "show time."

Her comment had been triggered by a too-casual drift toward their table by a couple of unaccompanied men. Though the ladies were dressed very nicely, all in skirts or dresses, this was Montana and the guys heading their way were in simple jeans, boots, and sport coats. They were, or were pretending to be, cowboy types. Pretense or not, they had the lean, sun-weathered look of outdoor experience, just old enough to be clearly men and no longer boys.

"Good evening, ladies," began the taller one, perhaps 6’4" with dark curls peeking from beneath his wide-brimmed hat and from the open collar of his shirt. "I hope y’all don’t mind if we intrude on your group, but we just wanted to try and keep you out of trouble."

Carol responded to her cue before the other could speak, "And just what makes you think we want to be kept out of trouble?" The lift of one carefully-shaped brow accented the sparkle in her eyes, an effect that almost went unnoticed as her tongue languidly licked at her shining lips.

Sandy ducked her head and blushed, but let her emerald eyes peek from beneath her long lashes at the other cowboy, also dark-haired, but "only" about 6 feet tall. In her towering spikes, Sandy thought that he was just about right. He picked up on her interest and joined the conversation, "Then perhaps it would be better to say we want to keep ourselves out of trouble. In this town, it’s against the law for unescorted ladies to buy their own drinks and any menfolk in the vicinity are held accountable, right Ben?"

"Well, I’m not sure they actually passed that ordinance, but they should have," his friend played along. "My name is Ben Johnson, and my friend, Steve Hill and I would be pleased if you’d let us buy you a fresh round."

"But there’s only two of you, and three of us," Marilyn said, as though she had just done the math and couldn’t make things work out. Carol responded with a stifled giggle and Sandy did her blush and duck again.

The cowboys grinned, too and Steve said, "Well, Miss, we won’t worry about that, if you won’t."

Marilyn’s sunrising smile let them know she was happy not to worry about things, but it fell to the more-forward Carol to complete the introductions. Just then their table was called, giving them a graceful excuse to leave before things went any further. The other trio hadn’t had quite as much luck and were still alone, a situation the cowboys clearly considered another opportunity, but the other tables were called and soon the entire team was seated in reasonable proximity. Eyeborne messages flew between the tables, congratulations, envy, taunting challenges, all conveyed with the near-telepathy of close companionship. They all ordered lightly, flirted in their various styles with the waiters, giggled together, and enjoyed the attention of all the interested men (which was all of them) and all the jealous women (ditto). Soon the meal was over and they were heading back to their cars. Someone had clearly performed an earlier reconnaissance mission because Marilyn drove directly to an obviously popular nightclub. Something about the group (hardly a surprise, they were spectacularly beautiful) moved the gatekeeper to wave them to the front of the line, and they were soon inside.

"Well, ladies, we’re committed," Marilyn whispered, or actually shouted over the pounding music but only loud enough to be heard by her two companions, "first one to get an invitation to dance gets out of El Supremo’s class tomorrow."

Then she swayed into the room with a bright, empty smile on her face, wiggling "like Jell-O on springs" in the manner made famous by her namesake. Carol launched herself with her own blatant strut, heading directly for the bar and those hovering nearby. Sandy alone paused at the entrance, a tactic that turned out to be the most effective. Her seemingly-casual pose still highlighted her shapely figure with the promise of nearly-exposed treasures. Her indecision just inside the entrance justified a soft pout to indicate her distress, and would-be knights flocked to the fair damsel in droves.

"Hello, you must be new here. Let me find you a table," the first suitor offered.

"I already have a table right over here," the second upped the offer, "let me get you a drink."

"A lady like you shouldn’t hide behind a table, you need to be dancing," asserted a third, offering to fill that need with a gentle touch at her elbow and a sweeping gesture toward the dance floor. His claim was delivered just as the second trio of ladies entered the club. Jaymi decided to violate their pretended ignorance of each other and reached out to take Sandy’s purse.

"Go ahead, girl, I’ll watch your things."

"So will I . . urp," said one of the suitors, a comment stifled by an elbow to his ribs by a more gentlemanly colleague.

Not much more gentlemanly, since his eyes had been riveted on Sandy’s "things" since she had entered the club. She allowed herself to be led off to the dance floor and was soon swaying to the fast, dynamic rhythm. In moments Marilyn appeared with her own escort, though in her case jiggling was a better characterization than swaying. The other girls soon appeared with their own masculine companions, each struggling to accept an unfamiliar role within the constraints of their selected persona. Each succeeded, maintaining an uncompromised image of feminine beauty despite the sensory overload of loud music, vibrant motion, and the stress of relating with men in a previously-forbidden way. Only Jaymi had already overcome this last problem, and it was Jaymi that had the easiest time when the tempo of the music suddenly changed from hard rock to a gentle, slow ballad. The men reached for their targets without hesitation, not noticing the hesitation on the part of the girls in the general discontinuity of the tempo change. The girls noted it though, and struggled with the unfamiliar sensations of a man’s strong hand on their waist, another holding the wrong hand gently lifted.

Unfortunately for the men, but not for the women, those suitors who had been out-maneuvered for the first dance cut in quickly on the second, and the girls were allowed an extra second to compose themselves. They smiled in accordance with their natures, vacantly for Marilyn, coolly-amused for Constance, shyly for Sandy, and so on. Their partners, multiple partners, led them through the motions inspired by the music with unquestioned acceptance of their impersonations. It seemed someone must have tipped the band off to stick with slow songs for a while and the ladies found themselves surrendered to a series of suitors as more and more men cut in. Finally, they began to feel the strain of their towering heels and began to ask to sit down. Carol was first, her knee-high boots sported heels a full six inches tall, and it was a wonder she could even walk. Marilyn wore delicate sandals that seemed hardly supported by the thin straps cradling her feet and followed soon after. The other girls excused themselves as well and were soon seated at neighboring tables, drinks magically appearing from unknown benefactors. The music quickly picked up to a faster, louder style and the team members had to shout to be heard even when close together.

"Well, you win," Marilyn laughed to Sandy, "first dance invitation, first drink invitation, first everything I guess."

"Not everything," Sandy giggled in return, "it appears Jaymi’s previous experience prepared her for this evening better than the rest of us."

"What do you mean?" asked Marilyn, though Carol leaned over closely to hear as well.

"Didn’t you see what happened when her partner led her to the dark corner over there?" Sandy teased.

"No! What happened?" her tablemates chorused.

"Well that tall, dark and handsome hunk who had his arms wrapped around her, kissed her most thoroughly, thank you very much."

"Oh, I never thought of that," Carol gasped.

"Really? You should have," Sandy warned. "With your attitude, you’ll be lucky if they stop with a kiss. Or will it be unlucky?"

Carol’s automatic denial was lost in a burst of sound, but a thoughtful look appeared in her eyes, one that found a mirror in Sandy’s and in Marilyn’s. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments, trying to absorb an unexpected potential newly-discovered in this night’s endeavor. It made them uneasy, an uneasiness made worse by their realization that the idea was not as unappealing as they had been brought up to believe. They had been living a feminine lifestyle for so long that their attitudes had shifted, they now felt softly feminine and appreciated the strength and masculinity of the men who had held them. It filled a void that had appeared as an unintended consequence of their masquerade, a void they didn’t even know existed until the issue was raised. Each wondered what she would have done if they had been the one to find themselves in a dark corner with an amorous suitor. Each recognized deep within her heart a wistful longing to know what it would have been like, a longing that warred with their more conscious attitudes on forbidden practices.

It was too much for one night. Even Marilyn’s composure was shaken by the thought. She caught Connie’s eye and with some secret signal indicated that it was time to go. The two trios gathered up their things and went to the door. The cars, parked down an alley from the nightclub, seemed a whole lot further from the door now that their feet were tired. Carol was treading very lightly, balancing on handrails whenever she could do so discreetly. Marilyn wasn’t much better and she hesitated at the doorway to the club before she could make herself start the long journey.

Sandy noticed their pain and offered, "You two are hurting too much to make the walk. I’ll go get the car. In fact, tell the other girls to wait, too. We can all squeeze into one car and I’ll drop them off by theirs on our way out."

She started down the alley alone, not much better in her sky-high pumps than the others. Her steps were short and the click of her heels sounded many times as she moved toward the car.

Perhaps she was too tired to pay proper attention, but the first sign that something was wrong was when she saw a shadow flicker to one side, then another in front of her. She tossed her head around to look behind and saw another shadow moving between her and the lights of the street. A man stepped out from between a couple of parked pickup trucks and spoke to her.

"Oh, mama, you shouldn’t be alone in a bad place like this. I think you need a protector, someone to keep you warm, someone to hold you tight."

"Thank you, but I’m fine," Sandy replied, pretending to ignore the menace in his voice, the unwanted familiarity in his offer.

"Yes, woman, you are fine, mighty fine," the man agreed as he moved closer. His eyes directed his companions to move in and Sandy was expertly surrounded. These street thugs had clearly done this before. The leader looked for fear in her eyes, the fear that was as much a part of his reward for this attack as any money he might hope to gain, any physical pleasure he might plan to take. He didn’t find it in Sandy’s eyes. He saw a feral gleam that frightened him, instead. To cover up his fear he spoke more sharply.

"Listen, bitch, no high-and-mighty woman like you comes into my turf without paying a toll. I think those pretty lips want to give me a kiss, a long, deep, slurpy kiss."

With that he started to reach for his zipper, grinning with an indication of the sort of deep kiss he wanted. With the other hand he reached for Sandy’s head, obviously intending to force her to lower it to his intended recipient of her attention. He didn’t get quite the response he expected. Instead of the back of her head, or perhaps her hair, his hand met her teeth. She snapped at him with enough force to take a chunk of meat out of the base of his thumb. As he shouted in surprise, she took his extended arm and "helped" him into the thug on her right. The two slammed into the fender of one of the pickups, one rapping his head against the window hard enough to star the glass, the leader giving the unrelenting metal a kiss as deep as he had intended to receive. They slumped to the ground in a tangled heap.

By this time Sandy was already moving against the third attacker. Her spiked heel drove sharply into this one’s crotch, spearing through jeans and whatever, then withdrawing tipped in blood for inches along it’s length. Her long red nails speared his eyes with maiming accuracy, and he paid a price greater than he had intended for her before he dropped to the ground, trying to scream but too devastated for lungs to support the sounds he wanted to make. She knew there was at least one more of the gang behind her and was trying to turn when the back of her head detonated in a flash of unbearable light, then darkness.

When a tiny candle of awareness dimly started to flicker in her mind, her first impression was of pressure on her cheek. Then she realized she was lying on her face in the alley. A massive hammer beat a relentless rhythm within her head as she tried to get her thoughts together. It seemed natural to use her arms to lift herself up, but something was wrong with them. Her fractured consciousness gradually absorbed the fact that her wrists were tied, and that another strap held her elbows cruelly touching. Some motion or change in the tension of her body must have alerted one of the gang members, for she felt herself being lifted to her knees.

"All right, bitch, you’re gonna pay for hurting my buds. Open those pretty lips. Bite me and I’ll cut your tits off and feed them to you," this threat reinforced by the wave of a shiny blade that reflected a distant light. A thick cock was forced between her teeth as her jaw was held open. It began to saw in and out with brutal force, driving deeper down her gagging throat with every stroke. She felt her gorge rising as reflexes were triggered to try and reject this unwelcome intruder, but before her stomach ejected its contents toward the penetrating flesh, that flesh ejected its own thick contents, spewing in rapid pulses. Another reflex warred with the rejection and she swallowed instead, temporarily forcing a downward flow. She struggled to breathe as her throat was jammed with the rough invader, beginning to lose consciousness again as she was deprived of air. Before she passed out, the cock was withdrawn and she slumped forward, gasping to try and draw air into lungs compressed by the now-dangerous corset and limited by the unnatural position of her bound arms. Another hand grasped her jaw and lifted her from her slump, another cock was suddenly before her unfocused eyes. Before this one began its own assault, however, another set of hands was grabbing her waist.

She heard the voice of the gang leader and looked over her shoulder to see him standing behind her. His obviously-broken nose dripped blood, and at least one tooth had been broken, spilling additional blood down the man’s chin. Blood of another sort was in his eyes.

His swollen lips made his voice barely intelligible as he growled, "You’re gonna pay, bitch. I’m gonna hurt you now, hurt you bad." He flipped up the hem of her skirt, casually tearing the slit to extend it enough to expose her pale ass to the dim light. Her delicate lace panties were ripped away, but the staggering leader seemed too blinded by his rage to notice the thin, flesh-colored strap of her gaff. He had exposed his cock by this time and aimed it at her exposed anus.

"Hey man, don’t you want her other hole?" one of the gang asked.

"No," the leader grunted, "this one will hurt a lot worse."

"How about a little lubrication from this end?" the surprisingly solicitous thug asked.

"No lubrication for this bitch, unless she chooses to add a little blood to the mixture," was his response. His thick dick hammered at her vulnerable bottom, finally forcing a small penetration that was rapidly enlarged. Liquid fire filled her as the tender tissues were ripped to make room for the massive invader, adding the predicted blood to the motion. She was distantly aware that her jaw was again forced open as a gang member took advantage of an unoccupied orifice.

It is a popular misconception that great pain causes people to black out. Unless disruption of the brain is directly involved, pain causes a complex chemical soup to flood from glands throughout the body. This soup causes many responses, not usually including unconsciousness since the body needs to be able to take action to stop the pain, if it can. If it can’t, it suffers. That does not mean that awareness remains, though, only consciousness. Sandy’s world shrunk to the pain in her distorted jaw, the continuing explosions in her hammering head, and to the white-hot nuclear flame that was slowly consuming her from the depths of her innermost core. It was a dim awareness that was only gradually penetrated, therefore, when she realized that the pain in her jaw had lessened, and that while the fire in her rectum was undiminished, the sense of overwhelming fullness was gone. Sounds began to trickle back into her world and she heard something that should have made sense to her.

"Sandy, Sandy, come back to me, Sandy. Come on girl, you can do it. Come back to me, Sandy."

She felt her arms being released, and then hands, gentle hands, lifted her to her feet. The voice continued and she opened her clenched eyes with lazy slowness to see Marilyn’s face before her. Except, it wasn’t right. Marilyn was supposed to be smiling, yet this face showed a terrible scowl. Sandy tried to smile to show her what she should be doing, but something was wrong with her mouth. It hurt enough to be noticed even among the pains wracking her body, and a small whimper escaped from her tortured lips. That was enough to let Marilyn know Sandy was coming out of her stupor, though, so the next words were to the other team members.

"Jaymi, gather up her things. Carol, go get one of the cars. Vanna, you get the other. Constance, check to see if any of these pigs are still alive. Now move!"

The women quickly complied with their assigned tasks. Somewhere in Sandy’s befuddled mind she absorbed snapping sounds, though she didn’t know what it meant. She just knew that she hurt and that Marilyn was holding her and that she hurt and that her friends were with her and that she hurt.

A quiet, "All dead," from Constance was also registered and filed away without understanding as the first car pulled up and Sandy was gently helped inside. It was clear that Marilyn intended them to go back to the compound, and to the infirmary there. Jaymi drove with abandon too extreme to be merely reckless, but they were soon pulling up to the gate. The guard saw them coming and had it open as they approached, some instinct triggered by the controlled panic of her breakneck driving. Jaymi didn’t slow her pace until she locked the wheels to slide to a stop at the infirmary, blaring her horn to get anyone inside to help.

Marilyn had been keeping Sandy awake during the drive, not trusting the blackness that might claim her if she slipped away. With one look the doctor began barking out orders for meds andprocedures that were incomprehensible to the team members, but his sure confidence spoke of competence and they surrendered their wounded comrade to his care. He tried to stop them from following his medical team inside, succeeding with all but Marilyn. Once they were in she gave him such information as she had. They missed the damage caused by the blow to her head for a moment, her thick hair had distributed the impact widely enough to prevent any break in the skin. A bruise was already forming on the skin though, warning of a possibly more dangerous bruise within. Her lips were split and swollen, but no worse really than she had received from the gentle ministrations of El Supremo, so the doctor decided his first priority was repairing her tortured anus. He also didn’t trust the possible effects of forced unconsciousness, so he operated to stitch the torn tissues with only a local anesthetic, a balm that was hardly noticeable amid the shrieking pains that still assailed her. She began to drift in and out of awareness again, stressed beyond her ability to withstand. It was exhausted sleep that claimed her, however, not true coma, and the doctor let her rest once her vital signs showed her condition.

 

(continued in part 6)

 

 


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1998 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.