The Games

by Sarah Bayen

 

"Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty," Coach's voice droned on, as Kim gritted her teeth, and thrust the weighted bar upwards on each count. "Eighty-one, eighty-two," the older women went on, relentlessly. "Come on girl!" she encouraged. "Just get to one hundred, and we're done."

Kelly felt salty sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes. Looking upwards at the bar between her hands, she could see the veins bulging out of her heavily muscled arms, those same arms whose insistent ache told her to stop almost as persistently as Coach's voice told her to go on.

"Eighty-three, eighty four," the voice went on. She admired Coach immensely. A former games champion herself, she had been coaching Kim for the past four months to get her ready for this year's championships. She had coached three previous supreme champions, and Kim was desperate to be the fourth.

"Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven," the woman's voice droned on. Opening her stinging eyes, Kim briefly glanced at her mentor, with her shaven head, and drooping eye, the result, it was said, of an argument in a bar with a bottle. "Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety!"

The pain in Kim's arms and chest was almost unbearable, as the weighted bar threatened to crush her on every downward stroke. Just ten more to go now, though, she could force the bar up ten more times on sheer willpower. "Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four. Come on girl, once you've done this, we'll have a look at the enemy on television."

This thought spurred Kim on. She knew that the main news channel had started its fly on the wall documentary on the boys and their preparations today. She had hoped to be able to get home in time to watch some of the footage later, but if Coach was prepared to let her watch it here, then all the better!

"Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, nearly there now Kim my girl!"

Kim's arms stalled in their pumping, and she could just hear coach screaming at her to start again, although her muscles felt like torn rags. Breathing deeply, she thrust upwards once more. "Ninety-nine, one hundred."

Kim let the bar rest against her chest, astonished that she had managed to lift so much weight so many times. "Open your eyes!" barked Coach. Wearily, Kim did so. The older woman was holding a cracked piece of mirror in front of her face. "Now you're going to give me twenty more!" she screamed.

"You bastard!" Kim spat back.

"You bloody will, or you'll never get to be supreme champion! Twenty more, and look in the mirror to find the strength. When you look at yourself upside down in the cracked mirror, you see the truth!" Kim stared at the faded, and cracked surface, and saw only a distorted image that may or may not have been her face. She didn't know if that would give her any strength, so she thought of the one thing that probably would; boys!

"Twenty more!" Coach screamed, and Kim's arms began pumping again, as her mind wandered. She had the same sort of thoughts about boys as any healthy twenty year-old woman. She hated them, of course. All women hated boys. But there was also something deliciously enticing about them; something that even experience of sex with them never seemed to diminish.

Kim's mind went back to her early school days; to those sex education lessons she had attended when she was only twelve or so. God, boys seemed even more mysterious and exciting then! She remembered hiding behind the back of the sheds in the schoolyard, giggling and ogling with her friends at the pictures and diagrams in the sex education book. She was so sad, she told herself, that she could even remember the text about male anatomy verbatim.

 

Boys do not have a clitoris or a vagina. The sexual organs in a boy are called the penis, and the orifice. (For testes, see note 1 below).

 

The orifice was designed by the engineers to receive the woman's clitoris during intercourse. Similar to a vagina, it is, however, much deeper and more flexible. It serves to help the woman achieve orgasm, by clasping her extended clitoris, while allowing it to be moved backwards and forwards until satisfaction is achieved. Essentially a muscular sack, its contractions are largely involuntary, triggered by the entry and movement of the woman's clitoris. Cells along the length of its walls lubricate it liberally, and the walls themselves thicken in a twenty-eight day cycle, before shedding. The days just before this shedding, when the orifice is at its tightest, are considered the most pleasurable for intercourse, although boys are able to receive women at any time of their cycle.

 

The penis is shaped roughly like a clitoris, only much, much smaller. The average clitoris, when extended, is between twelve and fifteen inches long. The penis is rarely longer than one inch, and in such extreme cases it can be surgically shortened, or removed entirely. It serves no discernable purpose, and is generally thought to be a vestige from a previous stage in our evolution. The penis is composed of sponge like tissue, and may become hardened during intercourse. Because of its size, however, this is not usually discernable to the woman, and does not detract from her enjoyment.

 

Note 1. Many boys suffer from a condition known as Testes. This manifests itself as a pair of small swellings arising just in front of the orifice, which are sometimes mistakenly thought of as additional sexual organs. While not life threatening, the condition can cause complications. As well as being aesthetically unpleasing, the swellings can become inflamed and painful during intercourse. Fortunately the condition is easily treated by surgical removal, in a procedure known as castration.

 

This, together with the accompanying illustrations, had fired their adolescent fantasies. Kim remembered them all boasting at what they could do to the boy in the photograph, and how often, and then gagging in disgust at the horrible picture of the boy suffering from Testes.

 

"Brilliant, brilliant!" she heard Coach shouting. "You did an extra twenty-five. Stop now, my girl, or you'll do yourself a mischief!" Coach grabbed the heavy bar off her, and dismissively placed it on a rack to one side. "Good work today Kim!" she beamed. "Clean yourself up a bit, and we'll have a look at the enemy!"

Kim grabbed at a towel that hung by her side, and wiped the perspiration off her face. The towel was cold and damp in anticipation of her needs, and felt wonderful against her skin. She heard the muffled sounds from the old television set, high on the wall at the side of the gym, and, in spite of the protests from her aching body, sat upright, and then stood, to go and see what the enemy were doing.

The enemy, it was funny that they called boys that. It was hard to imagine how the frail, pretty little things could ever be a threat. And yet the history books were full of the tales of how boys, before the engineers had intervened, constantly dominated and subjugated womankind to their own wishes. Kim's own dealings with boys made this seem almost implausible. Most simply tried to avoid her, and if cornered, offered their apology, and then resignedly let her do what she wanted with them.

The only boy she had ever had any more than cursory contact with was Antoinette, Coach's companion. He was an odd choice for Coach, she had always thought, being rather tall for a boy, at least five foot four. Coach herself was short, and obviously self-conscious about it. At barely six feet, she was a good four inches below Kim's own height, which was more or less average for a woman. You would have thought, Kim reasoned, that Coach would have selected herself a shorter boy as a companion, but no, she had chosen Antoinette.

But his height was Antoinette's only feminine characteristic. Other than that, he was the epitome of what a boy should be. He was quiet and respectful, especially in the company of women, and had looks that would inflame any red-blooded female. His hair was long and straight, coming down to his narrow waist in delicate blonde tresses. He had a small, but perfectly formed face, with full lips, and big bright blue eyes. His breasts were pert and rounded, and he always wore tops and dresses that showed them off to full advantage. His legs were long and shapely, and Kim often cast a surreptitious glance at them showing under his oh-so-short skirts on the rare occasions he came tottering into the gym.

Coach was wise where it came to Antoinette. She kept him out of the sight of other women most of the time. Kim had only really seen him when Coach invited her to stay for lunch. Antoinette would cook the meal, and then eat with them; delicately nibbling only bird like mouthfuls, while Kim and Coach wolfed their food down. Kim sighed at the memory of Antoinette's beauty.

"Come on, it's on." Coach reminded her, looking upwards at the old television. Kim walked across the gym, avoiding the various exercise machines, and joined her mentor watching the screen. "There's some real beauties this year!" Coach exclaimed. "Look at that one, the one preening himself!"

Kim looked up at the screen, which was showing a picture of the inside of the Academy. She recognised it instantly. These fly-on the wall documentaries about the boys in the last few days before the Games were required viewing annually for any self-respecting woman.

The Academy was where twelve boys every year were prepared for the Games. Selected at birth, they were raised in there in complete isolation from the rest of the city for sixteen years. Prepared was perhaps the wrong word to use for the process, because it was designed entirely to ensure the opposite effect. In a deliberate parody of the way boys had misused women for millennia, the inmates of the Academy were brought up to expect that, on graduation, they would be paraded in front of the City's most eligible young women, and selected as brides. Instead, as they emerged from the cloistered corridors on their special day, they were led directly into the arena for the Games. Kim would be there this year as a competitor, so the activities of the boys who formed such an integral part of the ceremony were of particular interest to her now.

"I," one of the boys said, twirling around in his long pink gown, and holding his head up haughtily, "Shall be a Princess by this time next week." He held out the side of his voluminous skirts, and took a few steps and twirls in front of a large mirror. "Don't worry," he went on, as an aside to his companions. "I shall make you a Duchess, if we can find a Duke to marry you."

"That's very kind of you Felicity," another boy replied, with a relaxed note of satire Kim had never heard from a boy before. She changed her gaze to him, standing a little more modestly than his companion, and wearing a primrose floor length dress, low cut, and exposing his ample bosom. "But perhaps I shall be the Princess and you the Duchess." He pushed his friend out of the way, and stood in front of the mirror. "The Prince may well think that I am the prettier."

Kim didn't know about the Prince, but whatever she thought, Kim agreed with the boy in the primrose dress. He was absolutely gorgeous! He had a delicate little face, exquisitely framed by chestnut ringlets. She felt her clitoris twinge in anticipation. Oh yes, she thought to herself, he's going to be my first!

"I really don't know how to do my hair for the big day," the first boy mused, ignoring his companion's jibe. He pushed the angel wearing the primrose dress gently away from the mirror, and stood in front of it himself. "Do you think that Her Majesty would prefer me with it like this?" He quickly rearranged his blonde hair on top of his head. "Or like this?" he went on, letting it fall loosely across his shoulders.

"I am afraid I know nothing of the preferences of the Prince," primrose dress boy retorted. "Were I to know, I would take myself to the hairdressers right this moment!"

Good for you, Kim thought to herself. She was pleased that her favourite was able to show some spirit.

His companion ignored his comment. "I think I shall do it like this," he declared, selecting a third arrangement of his blonde hair. "It draws attention to my neck," he added. "I understand that royal women like a delicate neck on a boy, and my neck is my best feature."

Kim watched, as the primrose dress boy slowly shook his head in disapproval. "You really are too vain Felicity," he declared.

"Not vain," the blonde boy responded. "Just trying to make the best of myself."

Kim watched in fascination as the two boys jostled for position in front of the mirror, trying on different items of jewellery to see which looked best with the dresses they had chosen.

"Tomorrow we are to have our lesson on marital duties!" the boy called Felicity suddenly exclaimed, holding his hands to his mouth in horror, as he turned to face Kim's favourite. "Do you think it is truly awful, to have a woman take her pleasure of you?"

The other boy shrugged. "I do not know," he said, considering the matter. "I should suppose that we ought to regard it as our duty to our husbands, however difficult it may be."

Kim's heart glowed to hear him speak. He was well trained in the misplaced etiquette of the Academy, and yet somehow, within that misguided context, so wise.

"Yes," Felicity went on. "But they do say that sometimes women can be," she hesitated for a moment. "Over enthusiastic. I do hope my Prince will treat me gently!" There was genuine fear in the boy's high-pitched voice.

"I am sure she will be," primrose dress boy assured him, placing his delicate hand on the other boy's arm. Felicity was crying now, and primrose boy managed to find an embroidered handkerchief to pass to his friend. "Oh don't worry yourself about such silliness," he said, "I am sure most of it is nonsense made up by boys with nothing better to think about."

"I do hope you're right," Felicity wailed into her handkerchief.

"It's amazing how they never seem to know what's coming," Coach observed, causing Kim to look away from the screen. "You'd have thought that in sixteen years, it might have occurred to them something was up!"

Kim thought about this. "They do say that boys aren't as intelligent as us," she offered. "Perhaps they're too stupid to think it through."

"Pah!" Coach exclaimed. "You've never really spoken to one have you? I can tell you, Antoinette is as intelligent as most of the women I know. That's what makes boys so dangerous." The older woman's eyes did not move from the screen, watching the scene change to a courtyard where some of the other boys sat, talking to one another.

"What do you mean dangerous?" Kim asked.

Coach looked at her, and shook her head. "And you a competitor in the games! What a stupid question to ask." She moved across, and took Kim by the shoulders, hurting her with the firm grips of her ham-like hands. "Listen," she went on. "What were you thinking when you were looking at those two just then?" Kim was bewildered, and shook her head.

"Come on," Coach demanded. "Tell me what you were thinking!"

"Well," Kim began, trying hard to remember. "I was thinking about the Games, and which of them I should try first."

"Good!" shouted Coach. "Very good. But what did you think of them? The boys themselves. You felt sorry for them didn't you?"

"No!" Kim spluttered in instant denial.

"You did!" Coach insisted. "Everyone does! Even me!"

Kim blinked in surprise. Nobody ever admitted to feeling sorry for boys; had Coach lost her mind?

"Every year when I look at them," she said, pointing at the screen. "I feel sorry that all their little dreams are about to be shattered. They think they're getting ready to be little Princesses and Duchesses, whereas in reality they get led out to a ritual gang bang; a group rape session!"

Kim was amazed at the fervour in Coach's voice. "But it has to happen like that!" she exclaimed in horror at Coach's blasphemy. "It serves them right. They did exactly the same to our foremothers!"

Coach stared hard and firm into her eyes, frowning. Suddenly she broke into a smile. "You'll do all right my girl," she said, slapping Kim on the shoulders. "You just remember that, and you might well get to be Champion!"

Kim staggered back in surprise, still wary of Coach's strange outburst. Feeling sorry for boys, or even talking about feeling sorry for boys, was both a religious and legal anathema.

"But what's that got to do about them being clever?" she asked. Coach was her mentor, her role model. She had always looked up to the older woman's knowledge of the world as well as knowledge of the Games. The picture she had in her mind of the perfect competitor was beginning to crack, and she found it disturbing.

Coach smiled again. "Well that's the thing!" she said, walking across to Kim's left. "That's the danger. A really clever boy can make you feel sorry for him," she went on. "You start by wanting them, which is all good and proper, but if you let your guard down, you can suddenly find yourself liking them!"

Kim was startled. "Do you like Antoinette then?" she asked. Coach looked puzzled, and a little pained by the question. Kim regretted asking it.

"No," the older woman replied at last. "That's more a power thing."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, owning one is better than just picking one up when you need one," Coach explained. "It's expensive, with the licensing and all that, but it means I have the satisfaction of knowing that only I ever have him. He's there for me whenever I want him, and I can go out and find other boys as well, whenever I want to. It sets me apart from other women, having my own. It's a status thing."

Kim could understand this. Having your own boy companion was expensive. Apart from the clothes and the food, the Government insisted on an annual license fee. The argument was that if a boy was taken out of general circulation, the Government had to pay to breed another one to replace him. Only the rich, and the successful could afford companions of their own. Kim had heard it said that some really successful women had three or four. Having just one was entirely out of her financial reach now. But if she won the Games, well, then just maybe.

"But we won't need to worry about all that for very long," Coach went on. "The Engineers are finalising a new gene, an intelligence suppressor."

"A what?"

"Intelligence suppressor. It'll make boys less clever, which is good."

Kim hadn't heard of this new development, but the Engineers were always busy, trying to improve the current design of both women and boys.

"Right, on with your training!" Coach suddenly barked. Kim had thought she was finished for the day. Her muscles were still tender, and she wasn't sure she could face another session. Coach must have seen the concern on her face. "Don't worry," she said, and then with a knowing leer added, "This is a different sort of training."

She went across to the other side of the gym, and picked up a phone. "Antoinette?" she barked into the receiver. "We're ready now. Bring your friend up."

Kim was baffled. Coach was always a little enigmatic about her training regimes, but this was an entirely new departure. "What are we going to do?" she asked.

"We," said Coach, with emphasis, "aren't going to do anything. You," again with emphasis, "are going to practice having sex."

This took Kim aback. She hardly thought she needed practice having sex. She had had her first boy on her sixteenth birthday, like most women; a present from her tutor. He had been beautiful; a shy, tiny little thing with huge brown sorrowful eyes, and a wonderful soft mouth that had received her eager kisses like the pillow that received her head at night. Damn! Coach was right! You could easily like boys too much, Kim thought, as she remembered that night.

"I don't know that I need to practice sex," she muttered. It seemed something of an insult, to suggest that she had to practice something every woman regarded herself as an expert in. "I've had plenty of boys."

"I'm sure you have," Coach went on. "But how many have you had with Testes?"

Kim blinked. "Testes?" she asked.

"Sure," Coach explained patiently. "All the boys in the Academy have Testes. You knew that didn't you?"

Kim did not. No one had ever explained that the disease was rife in the Academy. She grimaced in disgust at the thought.

"Don't worry," Coach said, in course reassurance. "It's not contagious. It just makes them react a bit differently. "Antoinette's got it," she went on. "And I'm okay aren't I?"

Kim was again surprised. She hadn't ever even considered whether Antoinette was a sufferer. He looked so healthy as well! Coach watched her reaction. "Antoinette came from the Academy you know," she explained. "That's why she's got it. And she's found one of her friends for you to practice on. They'll be up in a minute."

Kim had never heard the story of how Coach had come by Antoinette, but this made sense. He must have been one of the boys in the Games Coach had won, that's how she had made him her companion. She must have been given the pick of the crop, as it were, and picked out Antoinette. Well, thought Kim, if she was champion, then maybe she'd pick the primrose dress boy!

A door opened to the left, and two boys walked timidly in. Kim recognised Antoinette, of course, and smiled at him. He was wearing a simple tight pink top, which clung to his breasts, and a short black skirt, equally tight, which showed off his heavenly legs to perfection. Kim wouldn't mind practicing on him, she thought to herself, and then imagined Coach's rage and anger if she did.

Her attention turned to his companion however. He was shorter, and had straight jet-black hair, not as long as Antoinette's gorgeous tresses, reaching only just to his breasts. He wore a white blouse, slightly see-through, and picked out with little lace details, and a flared blue skirt, shorter even than Antoinette's. His long well shaped legs looking appealing beneath it, ending in a delicate pair of shoes in a matching colour, strapped around his ankles. Kim's clitoris certainly appreciated the view.

"This is Marianne," Antoinette piped, in his squeaky little voice that Kim found so appealing. He turned and hugged the other boy, kissing him gently on the cheek. "Come back down when you've finished," he said. "I'll have something ready for you to eat." The other boy nodded, and smiled, as Antoinette went back through the door and down to the living quarters she shared with Coach. He then turned, and gazed nervously at the two women.

"Don't worry," Coach said, walking across to him, and slipping an arm protectively around his shoulders. "We're so pleased you were able to help. This is Kim!" she said, indicating the younger woman.

"Hello Marianne," Kim said. It was unusual to know a boy's name, yet alone use it in conversation. The boy smiled nervously at her, as Coach's avuncular arm eased him forward. "Did Antoinette explain what we need you to do?"

"Yes," the boy squeaked. Kim was struck, as she often had been before, by how implausible it was that boys could ever have dominated the world with such quiet high-pitched voices.

"Well let's get on with it then!" Coach beamed, pushing the boy forward, so he stood in front of Kim. "Apologise, and then we'll take it from there!"

The boy gulped a couple of times, and then began the necessary recitation. "Mother, sister, daughter," he began. "I apologise for the sins committed against you by my forefathers for so many years. No punishment can be too severe to pay for their crimes, and I willingly take any punishment on myself that you wish to administer. Do you accept my apology?"

Kim felt a stirring in her loins as the familiar words were recited. It was his duty, as a boy, to say them to her, and her right, as a woman, to hear them. It was also her right to make the response that came to her mouth without thought. "No, I do not accept," she said, with finality. "I demand reparation."

The boy stared at her for a moment, and then, with a look of resigned acceptance, moved over to the black couch at the side of the room. Lifting his skirt, he slipped down a pair of sheer flesh coloured knickers, stepped out of them, and then lay down on the couch face down.

"Not like that!" Coach shouted in irritation. "She's getting ready for the Games remember."

The boy lifted himself up on his elbows, and scowled. He then turned himself over, and, lifting his skirt around his midriff, lifted his knees and spread his legs apart in a disinterested invitation.

"Well go on then!" Coach urged Kim.

Kim glanced at her mentor, and then back to the boy. She felt some regret, for an instant, that it was not Antoinette who lay there before her. She put the thought out of her mind quickly, however. This one was pretty enough, he would do to show Coach how adept she was.

Ripping off her tracksuit bottom, she leapt eagerly towards the couch, and felt her clitoris extending even before she got there. She climbed between the boy's legs, and, placing her arms on either side of his head to take her weight, lowered herself down. He shuffled to accommodate her, and she allowed her clitoris to move forward towards him.

She heard him whimper. "Careful. He's got Testes!" Coach reminded her. Damn that bloody disease! How was she supposed to be able to enjoy herself properly if she couldn't press against him naturally? The boy shuffled again, to lift himself more, and make his orifice more easily available. She felt her clitoris expand again, and begin to fill his void, and a warm wave of intense pleasure came over her.

Forward and backward, she moved, slowly at first, and then faster, and with more force. The boy had certainly placed himself at an unusual angle to accommodate her, to protect himself from any pain from his swellings, she supposed. But his welfare soon disappeared from her mind, as she was, as always, overcome with the need to thrust faster, and harder, as his muscles gripped at her organ.

She felt lust, and desire, and mixed in a sense of hate, and of revenge. This act, the act of sex with a boy, was every woman's sacred right and duty. It repaid all the poor foremothers who had suffered at the hands of boys before the Engineers had intervened. As she thought of them, she thrust harder and harder into him. It also helped ensure that boys would never again seek to overturn the natural order of things, and subjugate women to their whims.

She was building to her climax, when she suddenly felt an unusual sensation. There was a small, tiny lump of hardness poking into her belly when she came down on him. Had he left some item of clothing on, with one of those ridiculous fastenings boys seemed to like so much? She thrust in and out a couple of more times before she suddenly realised what it must be. It was his penis! She had never felt one before, not like this. She knew from the textbooks that they occasionally became hard, but she had never experienced it before. Perhaps it was something to do with the boy having Testes, she mused. Then an even more disgusting thought came upon her. Perhaps he was enjoying this!

Her disgust was soon replaced by outrage. How dare he enjoy it! She thrust faster, and with almost brutal force into his soft yielding flesh, and yet the tiny hard spot still greeted her body on every downward movement. She opened her eyes, and saw him, gasping and panting beneath her, his body arching, and alternately stiffening, and yielding. His black hair was in disarray now, and sodden with sweat. Could he really be enjoying this, his punishment for being male?

With renewed vigour she hammered into him once more, and she heard him gasp and moan. Whether from pleasure or pain, she did not know, and now, did not care. She felt the fire in her groin growing hotter and hotter, and then, in a sudden spasm, she achieved orgasm, and screamed in pleasure and release. Holding her torso upright while the spasms racked her body, she then let it fall once the tidal wave had past.

She was not conscious of the world around her for several minutes, as the waves and after shocks echoed around her body. That was good, she thought to herself, very good. She became aware of his tiny delicate fingers tracing patterns on her back, and casting a glance at him, saw him looking dreamily at the ceiling, waiting for her to dismount. Had he enjoyed it? Was it possible, or even decent?

Her contracting clitoris slipped out of the embrace of his orifice, and she climbed off the couch, and back into her tracksuit. The boy still lay there in his dream for a minute or so, before he, covering himself with his skirt, sat up, and retrieved his knickers. Standing, he came over to her to make the necessary finish to the ritual. "Mother, sister, daughter," he began. "Thank you for being so gentle and lenient with my punishment."

Kim nodded, unable to speak, and, rummaging in her pockets, found a banknote, which she placed between the boy's breasts. £20, but he had been worth it. "You can go now," Coach said, emerging into view, and placing her arm around the boy's shoulders once again. "Didn't Antoinette say she'd have something to eat for you?"

"Yes. Thank you. I hope I was useful," the boy piped, looking up both at Coach and at Kim, before scuttling off through the door downstairs.

Kim was tired now, but assumed, like in other training sessions, that there'd be some sort of inquest to follow. She was surprised then, to hear Coach's next words. "You'd best get yourself off now then Kim," she said. "That's enough for one day. We can talk about what you learnt tomorrow. I'm going to go and have a look at what the lovely Antoinette has managed to rustle up to eat!"

Kim smiled to herself. No doubt Coach wanted to take advantage of having two boys in the house instead of the usual one. She showered, and changed into her day clothes, before opening the door to the living area, and shouting down the stairs that she was on her way. "Okay, see you tomorrow. I'll come up and lock up later!" she heard Coach's voice. She sounded busy, Kim thought to herself, and smiled.

She pushed open the gym doors, and walked out into the evening air. It was cold, damp and rainy. She pulled the collar of her coat up, and climbed down the metal stairs into the street, which was dark, and full of puddles of muddy water. In spite of her money, Coach lived in a pretty seedy area. The buildings were tall dark and brooding, with small windows, the majority of which, particularly on the lower floors, were barred. Kim jogged through the narrow streets to the main road, where she could catch a bus back to her own part of the city. She was not scared, although these streets were full of crime. It would be a brave woman who tried to mug Kim, tall, and with her huge bulging muscles.

She sat in the bus shelter, which echoed dully to the sound of rain on its roof. Cars splashed by in the road, which was looking more like a river this night. Opposite, she saw a working boy plying his trade. God, she thought, hit by the coincidence; he was wearing a primrose dress, like the boy she had earmarked as her first for the Games. Unlike his, however, the working boy's was strapless, clinging provocatively to his chest, and exposing his slender arms to the weather. It was much shorter too, ending only an inch or two below his groin, and showing off his fishnet clad legs, long and thin, and sporting amazingly high-heeled black shoes. He was apologising to a woman in a business suit, and Kim idly hoped she would accept the apology, and drive the boy across to her. She reached into the pocket of her coat to find her wallet. It wasn't there! Damn, she must have left it back at the Gym when she showered. She cursed aloud. She would have to go back and get it, which would mean missing the bus. The next one was another hour after that.

She stood, and walked back the way she had come. If she was lucky, she thought, Coach wouldn't have locked the door to the Gym yet. Otherwise she would have to walk around to the other side of the building, and knock on the door to Coach's private apartments. She walked down the alley where the Gym was situated, and climbed the stairs. Good, the door was open, and the lights still on. She walked in, and through to the shower area. There was her wallet, sitting on the bench and mocking her for forgetting it. She picked it up, and slipped it into her pocket. One good thing about it, she thought, since she'd have to wait for the next bus, maybe she could demand reparation from the working boy in the primrose dress.

She started towards the door to leave once more, and then stopped herself. The floor of the Gym was bare, and she knew that footsteps up here could easily be heard from downstairs. She'd best go and reassure Coach it was her, before the other woman stormed up the stairs to accost the possible intruder. She walked across to the other door, opened it, and began to climb down the stairs.

She was half way down when she heard voices, boys' voices, which was strange. Normally when Coach was there, Antoinette listened dutifully to her stories, rather than saying anything herself.

"Now what shall we call you?" she heard Antoinette's high soprano voice ponder. "Have you got any ideas Marianne?"

"She'll need something very pretty," the other boy replied. Kim slowed her pace, and tried to move quietly. Something odd was going on here, she decided, something very odd indeed.

"I know!" Antoinette exclaimed suddenly. "We'll call you Wendy! That's a pretty name!" Both boys giggled at this. "Do you like your new name; Wendy!"

Kim reached the foot of the stairs, and Coach's narrow hallway. The walls were covered with photographs of her as a younger woman, in the days when she was Games Champion. The door to the lounge was open, and Kim moved slowly towards it. What were the boys doing in there, and where was Coach?

Kim reached the door, and looked through. The boys had their backs to her, and were standing in front of one of the kitchen chairs. Sitting in it was Coach, with her hands tied behind her back. She had on a preposterous wig, obviously synthetic, and black, and the boys had seemingly smeared some of their cosmetics on her face. There were streaks of black and red across her mouth and eyes. What had these evil little dogs done to Coach? Kim stepped through the door, and then stopped in horror, as she looked over the boys' heads. They'd even made Coach were a stupid flowery dress! They'd put a woman in a dress of all things. If she had ever doubted that boys were dangerous, that they wanted to overturn the natural order of things, she had certain proof now.

"You little bastards!" she shouted, storming into the room, and roughly pushing the boys aside. "Don't worry Coach, I'll save you!" The boys screamed, and cowered against the walls, and for a moment, in spite of her upbringing, she thought of hitting them. They clung together like frightened flowers in a rainstorm, as she raised her hands.

"Don't hurt them!" Coach said. "It's not their fault."

She looked down at the other woman, and going to the back of the chair, began to untie her hands. "What do you mean it's not their fault? Look what they've done to you! You look ridiculous!" Marianne was whimpering, and staring at her with his dark eyes. Maybe she should hit him, just to teach him a lesson.

"You don't understand," Coach said, as Kim freed her hands. The other woman shook the feeling back into them in front of herself.

"Oh I think I do," Kim said menacingly, and glaring at the terrified boys. "It's like you always said Coach. Boys want to be in charge. That's what they were doing, trying to be in charge by making you dress up as a boy!"

"Don't be so bloody stupid Kim," Coach said, standing, and facing her. "Do you really think those two little things could force me to wear anything?"

Kim looked at her mentor, with her broad frame, and huge muscely arms, and then back to the frightened boys, tiny and delicate. How could they have forced that dress on Coach? It did not seem possible.

"I told them to do it," Coach went on. "It's how I," she hesitated, obviously embarrassed, and looked away from Kim. "It's how I relax," she said eventually. "You get them to treat you as a boy, dress you up, even give you a boy's name. It's stupid, I know, but it takes some of the stress away sometimes. You should try it."

Kim stared at her mentor in disbelief. This was the woman who was supposed to be the epitome of everything feminine; successful, strong and independent, and was also supposed to be teaching Kim to be the same. Now, there was this; mendom! She had heard of it, obviously. It was said that some perverted women liked to be dressed up as boys, and abused by them, but she had never dreamed that she would meet one; never dreamed that her mentor and role model would be one. She could hardly believe it.

"It's disgusting!" she gasped in horror, and ran out of the room, and up the stairs to the Gym. She was never coming to this den of Satan again, she resolved, as she ran across to the swinging doors that led to the exit. She ran through the alley, and the streets to the bus shelter without stopping, and once there, sat down again and held her head in her hands. Her mind was in turmoil. Rather than being a figure to look up to, as Kim always had, it turned out that Coach was a disgusting and dangerous pervert! Now what was she to do? The Games were only a week away, and she had nowhere to train. Well there was no way she was ever going near that disgusting old crone again. How long had Coach been at this sort of thing? All the time, perhaps, when she was training Kim? She shuddered at the thought.

"Mother, sister, daughter," came a squeaky voice from within the shelter. Oh God, it was the working boy in the primrose dress. He had come over to apologise to her, now, of all times.

"Not now!" she shouted, and glared at the boy with fire in her eyes. He stopped his apology and pouted. "I don't want your apology." Kim told him, a little more gently.

"But I've got to apologise," he wailed, looking anxiously up and down the rain soaked streets. "If the police catch me not apologising, they'll lock me up."

"Well let's pretend you apologised, and I accepted," Kim responded, knowing he was probably right. "I certainly don't want sex now. What I could really do with is someone to hold me, and tell me the world's not mad," she continued, largely to herself.

The boy looked at her oddly. "I can do that," he piped. "If you want."

Kim looked at him, with his hair dishevelled and wet. His make up had run from his eyes down his cheeks, and there were raindrops all across his exposed chest and cleavage. Uncertainly, he moved forward, and, holding out his thin arms, placed them around her head. They smelt of his perfume, a sweet, flowery odour that spoke of warm summer meadows. Reluctantly at first, then more eagerly, Kim buried her head in his soft chest, as he stroked her wet and matted hair.

"There there," the boy cooed. "It's all right. You've probably just had a bad dream." It was odd, but somehow Kim enjoyed the sensation of passively receiving the boy's attention. "I have bad dreams all the time," he went on. "Do you know, I often dream I'm fighting monsters."

Kim smiled at this. Fighting seemed a preposterous activity, even in a dream, for such a frail creature as him, in his tiny primrose dress.

"The thing is," he continued, "every time I kill one, another one appears. And the worst thing of all, is that when the next one comes, I've become the monster that I've just slain!"

Kim raised her head, and looked into the boy's dark sad eyes. They were more or less level with hers, even though she was sitting and he standing. "What's your name?" she asked him, tenderly.

He smiled back at her. "Whatever you want it to be." He sat down next to her, and rather demurely for a working boy, clasped his hands in his lap. He looked up at her nervously, as if wondering whether to confess some secret. "But I call myself Kim" he told her.

  

  

  

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