So, without further ado, I am proud to present "The Elphinstone Formula" part 2.
BOOK II — DISCOVERY
Ian Davenport was awakened by the sound of feminine sobbing. He lay on his back, blinking in the dim light, still enwrapped in that fuzzy cocoon between sleep and wakefulness and still partially under the influence of the sodium pentothal from last evening's Reisling. He gradually realised that he had no idea where he was, nor who the girl could be, crying so very inconsolably. The sobbing paused, to be replaced by the prolonged, high-pitched hiss of what could only be a girl urinating. Then he heard the flush of a toilet and the sobbing commenced again, louder than before.
"I must have made it upstairs last night after all!" he thought, supposing himself to be in one of the bordello's upper suites with one of the whores. But he could not remember a thing about going upstairs, with or without a girl. He began to speculate fuzzily whether the girl in the bathroom could be Fiona or Sarah — or even Georgia, the lovely cigarette girl with an uncanny resemblance to Perkins. But it really didn't matter. He was simply glad to be sharing a bit of his bachelor existence with a woman again after so many months at sea (he actually liked the sound of a girl going to the loo, finding it oddly comforting). Who knew why the girl was crying? Thinking that she probably had broken a nail, or had discovered a pimple on her chin (for such were the worst tragedies he ascribed to girls), Davenport happily allowed himself to doze back off. "Girls! They get upset over the stupidest things," he thought, as he sank back into welcome unconsciousness.
But now someone was shaking his shoulder! Davenport twitched with annoyance, turned his face towards the wall and snuggled deeper into the bedclothes. The girl shook him again.
"Davenport! I say! Wake up, wake up, wake up! Something dreadful has happened to us!" she cried.
In the panic that occasionally follows the instant of waking, Davenport half-sat up in bed, propping himself on his elbows, and looked wildly about. He found himself staring into the tear-streaked face of a very pretty and very blonde full-figured girl, with an incongruous military haircut, kneeling on his bed. She was wearing only white cotton panties and bra. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dim light, because the girl's face....the girl's face..... No, it couldn't possibly be! It was surely the light. The girl's face rather resembled Grainger's, only softer and decidedly attractive, despite her sobbing. This girl was far lovelier than Fiona or Sarah, or the mysterious cigarette girl. Yes, the quality of the Elphinstone girls had definitely improved since his previous visit! But he couldn't remember coming upstairs with her.... He couldn't remember anything at all.
Seeing that Davenport was at least semi-conscious, the girl snuffled, then addressed him again, in a husky, tear-choked soprano.
"Davenport, Old Chap! I'm so glad you're finally awake!" gushed the blonde. "I thought you'd bloody sleep forever!! Look what's happened to us!" She turned her lithe white arms over and back several times, then gestured towards her breasts with her little hands. "We've been turned into beastly girls!" she sobbed. "Oh, this is terrible, terrible! And that's not all! There's a horrid little steel ring in my.... in my..... Oh, I don't know what to call it! Anyway, there's a little steel ring clipped into one of those girl things down there," and she gestured vaguely towards her private parts as her narrow shoulders were again convulsed by feminine sobs. "The ring won't come out, and it hurts frightfully if you pull on it! Look!"
"'Davenport?' 'Old Chap?' What bloody cheek the whore has!" Davenport thought to himself. Through bleared eyes, he saw that the blonde had hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and had pulled them all the way down in front, fully exposing her little golden bush. Davenport didn't really want to look, but the girl held her panties down expectantly, almost defiantly, awaiting his inspection. All Davenport wanted was for the girl to shut up and let him go back to sleep, and if he had to look at her snatch to get her to leave him in peace, well, then, he'd oblige her. So, distasteful though it was to him, he glanced down inside the front of her panties. As soon as his eyes caught a bright glint of steel amidst the girl's golden thatch, he plopped back on the bed, still too drugged from the sodium pentothal to understand what she was yammering about — or to be aware that he himself was as female as she and was wearing identical white cotton panties and bra.
The girl pulled her panties back up and began to blubber again. "That cigarette girl last night who looks like Perkins? She is Perkins! I just know it! They turned him into a bloody girl! And now they've turned us into girls, too! What are we going to do? What are we going to do? I don't want to be a girl!" she wailed, rocking back and forth, her arms folded tightly over her breasts as if to conceal them, which was no easy task, given their generous size.
Perkins? How could the girl possibly know about Perkins? Davenport groaned and rubbed his eyes with his fists, trying to make sense out of what he had just seen and heard. He felt a splitting headache coming on, of the sort he always got when things made no sense at all. He was as yet unaware that he, too, was now female, and that he, too, wore an identical steel ring crimped into an identical part of his identically altered anatomy.
Davenport could not yet grasp that the distraught girl was Grainger, that is, Grainger transmuted into a voluptuous blonde, and that when the girl had said "Us" and "We" she was including him, Davenport, in the same catastrophe, the nature of which he could still not fathom, that had befallen her. For Davenport, in his pentothal haze, remained under the delusion that he was the same person he was when he had lost consciousness some twelve hours ago in the restaurant of the Elphinstone Road bordello. That is, Davenport still thought he was a man.
"Why the Devil doesn't she go bother some other chap?" he grumbled to himself, "And just leave me alone!"
Seeing the annoyance written all over Davenport's face, the girl leant over, yanked back the bedclothes and firmly took his hand — his small, white feminine hand — and thrust it under the waistband of the snug-fitting panties he had not yet noticed he was wearing, sliding it downwards along his hairless womanbelly until she reached his mound. Davenport was still too groggy to offer resistance. She forced his middle finger over the edge of his softly furred promontory and unceremoniously plunged it into the aperture that lay between his plump thighs, an aperture just like the one the girl had probed between her own thighs earlier that morning in an icy panic, when she had awakened and discovered the sickening vacancy, fringed with sparse hair, that had taken the place of what had been there in a former existence now irremediably lost. She would never forget how she had gingerly touched the babysoft groove that bisected the vacancy: her heart froze when the groove parted and her finger abruptly plunged into herself and she realised, to her horror, that she had become a penetrable female. It was as if a swaying foot-bridge had collapsed without warning, pitching her into a bottomless chasm.
Now Davenport's finger had plunged home, too, into the insanely sensitive furrow that slit him like a ghastly incision. He felt something new and unfamiliar — something down there, inside himself — slowly contract in response, like some sort of tubular sea life engulfing its prey, gently gripping his finger along its length and coaxing it into his body in a primordial reflex he could not suppress, just as one cannot suppress the process of swallowing once it has begun. He became rigid with fear for an instant. then screamed, "O my God!" in the terrified voice of a woman. He jerked his finger out of himself as if he had touched a live wire.
Upon hearing his own feminine squeal, Davenport froze again, his eyes opened wider than he had ever opened them before in his entire life. He gasped, and sat bolt upright, bringing his hands to his oversized breasts, his eyes showing white all around like those of a mare in the breeding paddock when she is mounted by a stallion for the first time. His pretty jaw dropped, and his pretty little mouth worked up and down, but no words issued forth, only a staccato choking sound. The first girl knew exactly what he was going through, having gone through it herself not half an hour earlier. Davenport began to cry unrestrainedly, in brisk feminine sobs, understanding at last that he, too, had been turned into a girl.
The girl stroked Davenport's head while she crushed the sobbing transmute's face to her bosom. "Yes," she began, "I'm afraid you're a girl, too, Old Chap! We're both girls, now! We're both girls! We're... O, I can't say it again, Davenport, but that's what we are! Just look at us! We're all soft and pink and smooth. Just listen to us! We're chirping like a couple of schoolgirls! And see what we're wearing! Panties and bras! What the deuce are we going to do? I don't know the least thing about being a bloody girl! " And she began to wail, just like the poor cigarette girl had wailed the previous evening when she had spilled her cigarettes all over the floor.
Presently the first girl stopped her crying. She snuffled her tears and wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers. She blinked several times, as if to bring the world into focus.
"Well!" she declared, "Now that we've each had a Good Cry, it's time to face the hard facts: we're girls now, for better or for worse. There's nothing for it but to go along with the programme — whatever it is — so we may as well get some light in here and have a good look at ourselves. I'm just dying to see myself in a mirror! I feel rather gorgeous."
So saying, the girl stood. Resolutely squaring her shoulders, as if ready to face the worst, she looked about for the light switch, for, until that moment, the room had been illuminated only by a dim night-bulb, plugged into a receptacle just above the baseboard.
Daphne — for that's who the first girl was — found the switch and flicked it on, flooding the windowless subterranean room with bright light. The girls looked at one another in astonishment, looked at themselves, looked at one another again, then dashed for the mirror on the opposite wall. The room, which had welcomed many a fresh transmute over the years (but never two blonde Royal Navy officer girls), had several large mirrors, in fact, as well as a dresser full of feminine underthings, a vanity covered with an array of cosmetics and perfumes, and a closet, usually filled with frocks and shoes.
[Editor's Note: our two brand-new girls, not yet knowing they now are now to be called Iris and Daphne, had no choice but to continue addressing one another by their masculine names. We apologise for any confusion this may cause.]
But Davenport, a.k.a. Iris, having left off her sobbing too, realised that she had to attend to a call of nature before she could comfortably proceed with her inspection. She turned towards Daphne.
"I say, Grainger..." she began, in a tight, choked voice. She stopped abruptly, surprised at her own contralto, then continued cautiously, like a novice ice skater afraid of a pratfall. "I say, Grainger... I couldn't help noticing that you've already, um.... you've already used the loo. Um, well, how does one, well, um... well, you know...how the deuce does one...do it?" She gestured helplessly towards the bathroom, making a deprecating face and blushing as red as a beetroot as she stood, thighs crossed, first on one foot, then the other, like a schoolgirl barely able to hold it in.
"What do I look like, some kind of bloody girl expert?" snapped Daphne. "But I know this much," she continued in a softer tone, "Don't try it standing up — you'll just make a bloody mess all over the floor. You have to bloody sit the way a girl does, and... and.... well, you just bloody sit and let go. You'll see. If I could do it, so can you, Old Chap."
Iris allowed that doing it standing up was probably no longer a capital idea, given the constraints of her altered anatomy. So, leaving Daphne to admire herself in the mirror, Iris entered the bathroom, closed the door for modesty's sake, pulled down her panties (noting that she, too, wore a labial ring), letting them fall round her ankles as she sat down on the toilet, burning with humiliation at the indignity of having to sit to do that which she had always accomplished, until now, while standing. She gasped lightly as she contacted the cool seat, suddenly made aware of how broad a woman's bottom really is, now that she had one. She absently kneaded her hands in her lap (not knowing what else to do with them), gazed vacantly about the bathroom, and at last induced the release she sought with a prolonged and rude girlish hiss that she could not believe she was the source of.
"How wretchedly inconvenient!" she thought, expelling the last drops. What an existential demotion for a man to find himself suddenly female! How demeaning to have to sit, like a bloody girl! Yet there was nothing for it: function follows form, as Aristotle says. And as Davenport was now a woman, she was constrained to sit if she wanted to pee, humiliated or not. She had no say in the matter.
Hot tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of male prerogatives lost. Why, on treks in the country, no longer could she pick any old convenient tree or barn wall, but would have to seek the concealment of some miserable shrub to squat behind, glancing furtively about to make sure no one was watching.... her bottom practically touching the ground, tickled by brambles or grass... while she held her panties well forward lest she wet them with her diffuse spray.
Panties, at least, she could manage — no big trick there. But now that she was a woman she'd also have to deal with all those baffling layers of feminine clothing (and their fastenings) — frocks, skirts, petticoats, slips, half-slips, girdles, suspender belts, nylons, camisoles, corsets, teddies, tap pants and God knows what else she'd soon have to wear... with their maddeningly tiny hooks and eyes, their straps, garters, buckles, laces and tabs, their crotch snaps, their zippers in back or on the side and buttons the wrong way round.... Why, relieving oneself could consume the best part of twenty minutes! And what would she do when she got her period? She have to manage pads and belts and tampons and other unthinkable things and all those layers of clothing! Just to have a pee!
O! What inferior plumbing females are cursed with! O! The practical drawbacks of being a girl!
With these despairing thoughts seething in her rapidly feminising brain, Iris made to pull up her panties and stand. Then she realised that girls have to dry themselves. Another rotten feminine inconvenience! With sinking heart (and an unladylike seaman's curse), she sat back down on the toilet, tore off two squares of tissue from the roll, folded them over, spread her thighs, bent forward and gingerly patted herself dry in the general zone from whence her stream had just issued, amazed at the exquisite sensitivity of whatever it was she was touching. There were so many confusing girlthings down there, what with all those moist layers and folds and labia and such! She was afraid to examine herself more closely, terrified lest she actually see the Dread Opening into her body, that perforate and ignominious badge of femininity running deep up into her, that female passage made for the entry of men and the egress of babies, which her numbed mind would not yet allow her to name. So she stood, briskly pulled up her panties, yanked the chain, and returned to the bedroom to join Daphne, who, mesmerized by her reflection, had not budged from the mirror, still standing before it in open-mouthed wonder.
The two new transmutes commenced to inspect themselves, striking various poses, surveying themselves from every angle (though they were still too shy to remove their bras and panties in front of each other). Like girls everywhere, they were, in fact, taking meticulous inventory of their good features, while, at the same time, summing up the flaws in the other's appearance. But, as long as they kept their bras and panties on, neither could inspect that which interested them most about themselves — and about each other. They glanced at one another inquisitively, as if to ask who would strip first.
It was Iris who broke the silence.
"Very well, Grainger," she commanded, "Off with your bra and panties! Let's see what you've really got."
"Just who do you think you are, ordering me about!" retorted Daphne, taking offence, "Am I some little slut to undress for your voyeuristic gratification? Why don't you take off your bra and panties?"
"Do you think I can't tell when a girl's coming on to me?" Iris snapped. "I saw you looking at me like you wanted me to give it to you!"
"You give it to me? Not with that, I shouldn't think!" Daphne sneered, pointing at Davenport's blunt little feminine mound, nicely delineated by her tight cotton panties. She laughed derisively and continued pointing.
"You bitch!" Iris shrieked, suddenly flying into a rage at being so crudely reminded of her new anatomic realities, "I've got everything you have, and more!"
"O, do you now, Miss Perfect? Well, I just dare you to take off your bra and panties and show me!" Daphne cried.
"Not until you jolly well take off yours!"
The two stunning blondes glared daggers at one another, then petulantly stamped their little feet at the same time. As if at a signal, they removed their bras and stepped out of their panties, dropping them negligently on the floor. They defiantly faced one another — now gloriously nude — knuckles on their hips and legs apart, their firm young breasts swinging free.... and their girlslits plainly visible through their silky maidenhair, which, no longer constrained by the snugness of their panties, now resembled springy little tufts of spun gold.
Breathless with shock and awe to find themselves turned into luscious females, they surveyed each other from toe to crown and back, then turned towards the large mirror, as compass needles swing north, and gawked in reverential silence, neither wanting to admit how lovely the other one was, while each secretly considered herself the prettier girl.
They cupped their lovely breasts, assaying their considerable heft. They ran their hands over cheeks, chin, arms, tummy, thighs, hips, legs and derrière. They gasped to feel how soft, smooth and hairless their pink bodies were. But all the while each girl's incredulous gaze remained riveted on their blunt-edged furrows, fringed with gold maidenhair, that began at their love-mounds and ran downwards for an inch or so before dipping between their full thighs. Such stark evidence of their own penetrability was almost as impossible for the two erstwhile men to accept as it was to deny. But accept it they had to, for it was no trick of the mirror. Their masculinity had vanished without leaving so much as a trace: both knew in their fluttering womanhearts that they had been irrevocably turned into pregnable females.
For several minutes, the nude transmutes silently contemplated what they had become, their pretty faces registering slack-jawed disbelief at their transformation.
At last Daphne spoke.
"By Jove, Davenport, you really are a girl!" she exclaimed.
"Of course I'm a girl, Grainger! What do I bloody look like? I'm a girl just like you, but a jolly sight prettier, if you ask me!" Iris replied, her eyes narrowing with catty rivalry, for Iris was now female in mind as well as in body.
"Really, Davenport! You're far from perfect, you know! Maybe your legs are a little longer but I have nicer boobs! Your right one is lower and your left one is smaller. Men don't like that," retorted Daphne, her feminine ire quickly aroused.
"What? You insolent hussy!" screamed Iris, "How dare you criticize my boobs? Compared to me, you're positively concave. No man would look at you twice!"
"Any man would take me over you in a second!" Daphne shrilled back.
"He would not!"
"Shut up!" screamed Daphne.
"I will not!" retorted Iris, "You're frightfully mean!"
"So are you!"
"I am not!"
"I hate you!"
"I hate you!"
"I hate you more!"
"Bitch!" Daphne shrieked.
"Shut up this very instant, you.... you.... you cunt!" Iris spit out the word with all the feminine venom she could muster.
Imagine, being called a cunt after having had one for only twelve hours! How very demeaning! Daphne coloured deeply at this ultimate insult, coming, as it did, from this insolent little chit of a blonde. If the two nude girls had had long hair, they'd have pulled it, and if they had had long nails, they'd have scratched one another with them. But they had short hair and short nails, so they merely locked arms and tried to wrestle one another to the floor. They were of a size, however, so neither had the advantage. They only succeeded in trammeling one another up and collapsed on one of the beds in a tangle of feminine limbs, pummeling each other ineffectually, in girlish fashion, without inflicting the least physical damage.
Just as, at a dinner party, all talk simultaneously falters, then ceases entirely, leaving an awkward silence, after which everyone takes stock of his dining companions and conversations resume on utterly different subjects, Iris and Daphne suddenly stopped pummeling one another. They disengaged their arms and legs and sat, facing one another on the bed, Iris crosslegged, like a yogi, and Daphne, grasping her knees and slowly rocking to and fro. Their mutual positions exposed their intimate selves, of course, but in different ways: Iris's penetralia gaped pinkly through her thicket of golden hair, while the more demure Daphne displayed the entire length of her cleft, the lips of which were of a slightly brownish tinge and a bit wrinkled, like one's fingertips when one has soaked too long in the bath. They remained in these postures for several minutes, silently contemplating each another (and themselves). Whatever shred of modesty they may have had at first was now gone: the two transmutes regarded one another with unabashed curiosity. Neither blenched under the other's uninhibited stare.
The fact was, the rashi-dhava, while instilling in the new girls a burning desire to copulate with men, had not eradicated the powerful attraction that women still held for them. That is, Iris and Daphne now found one another extremely attractive, a condition that did not exist when they both had been men. In truth, each yearned to fuck the other, but, as both were now girls and therefore lacked that with which they would formerly have satisfied their lust, their mutual admiration could arouse them only as girls can be aroused. That is, rather than becoming hard, they both began to soften and melt. Except for their nipples, which had begun to stiffen — the only visible evidence of their arousal.
Iris was the first to speak.
"Dreadfully sorry I called you a cunt, Grainger," she said, reaching for Daphne's hand.
"Dreadfully sorry I called you a bitch, Davenport," replied Daphne, letting her take it. "You're really quite gorgeous, you know. I'd dearly love to fuck you, Old Thing, but.....well, I can't very well now, can I?" she said, dragging Daphne's hand down to cup her mound, as if to emphasise her lack of the wherewithal. She smiled wryly to find a bit of humour in their plight.
"You're rather a dish, yourself, Grainger, and I'd jolly well love to fuck you," Iris replied, stroking Daphne's mound, "But I can't do it, either!"
"No," said Daphne. "Neither one of us can fuck the other! What a deuce of a fix!"
The two began to giggle at their bizarre predicament, then laughed outright in the silvery laughter of blondes. They fell into each other's arms, laughing and crying at the same time. Their tears and giggles gradually subsided after several minutes and they assumed their former positions — Iris with her legs folded and her labia agape, Daphne, still the more demure, rocking to and fro, displaying the full extent of her closed slit.
Another silence ensued, during which Iris delicately brushed her fingertips along the length of her labia, straddling her slit, while Daphne briefly strummed her nipples with the fingers of both hands. Both girls shivered deliciously at the resultant sensations.
"I say, Grainger, I'm getting rather, um, well, rather wet down there!" whispered Iris confidentially, as if sharing a special secret known only to girls. Which was, in fact, precisely what she was sharing. "Are you?"
"Actually, Davenport, I'm feeling a tad sloshy down there myself," answered Daphne, "And I must confess, I rather like it!"
"Mmmmm. Quite. So do I," said Iris, unfolding her lovely legs, then shifting them so that she was clasping one knee with both hands, while she stretched her other leg straight out on the bed.
Another long silence.
"I say, Grainger, my nipples are getting dashedly hard!" resumed Iris in another confidential whisper.
"Mmmmm. So are mine," rejoined Daphne.
"I suppose that's what supposed to happen when you're a girl," Iris observed.
"You mean getting wet down there and your nipples getting all hard and tingly?" Daphne asked.
"Just so. Quite the ticket, don't you think?"
More silence, during which each girl touched herself delicately in several sensitive places, their little fingers already knowing exactly where to go....
"I say, Grainger," Iris began again, "You don't suppose you might possibly be up to playing a bit with my... um, breasts? I think I'd jolly well like that." She lifted her breasts with her hands, offering them to her fellow-transmute.
"Only if you play with mine, Davenport, Old Thing," was the predicable response.
"Right-o!" exclaimed Iris. "It's a deal. So let's stop talking about it and do just do it!"
The two girls tentatively touched one another's breasts, causing their nipples to stiffen further.
"I say, Grainger, that feels fearfully good! Odd, but I can feel it down there as well, you know, when you pinch my nipples," Iris said, eagerly pointing to her love-mound, her little forefinger oscillating like a woodpecker's bill. "Ooh, that's it! Pinch me harder! Ooh! You're making me all wet! Ooh! Ooh! Ahhhhh!" Iris began to moan with pleasure.
"Yes, I feel can it down there, too!" Daphne rejoined, her eyelids at half-mast. "It's making me all soft and wet. I had no idea girls were wired like this!"
"Well, we are! Abolutely topping, what?"
"Quite the thing!" Daphne agreed."Now, be a good chap and don't stop!"
"Right-o!" rejoined Iris, as she pinched Daphne harder.
After they had been fondling one another's breasts for perhaps twenty minutes, Iris piped up again.
"I say, Old Bean, I've another corking idea. Why don't you lie down on your back. You know, um... the way girls do, with your legs drawn up and spread apart? You know, so you're.... um...well, so your, um.... your girl-thing is, um, really open? Then I can, um... have a go at you, what?"
"You have a go at me Don't make me laugh, Davenport! What with?" Daphne exclaimed, glancing with exaggerated skepticism at the little tussock of golden hair covering Iris's love-mound. She did not further challenge the proposition, however. Instead, she began to giggle in anticipation of what she hoped Iris had in mind. Iris held up her hands, splaying her tapered girlfingers. Then she stuck out her little pink tongue, laughed wickedly and replied, "Since we girls don't have you-know-whats, we must manage with what we do have, don't you know?"
This was precisely what Daphne had hoped for: without a word, she half-closed her large blue eyes, and, smiling tightly with pursed lips, langourously lay back on the bed and spread her white thighs, shamelessly exposing her pinkness, enticingly framed by her soft golden hair and glistening with her intimate dew. Her skin was covered with irregular red blotches, and she began to breathe heavily.
Iris mounted her, by habit in the usual way, and snuggled her love-mound against Daphne's, excited in the extreme by twin desires (both anatomically impossible at the moment) — first, to penetrate the lovely girl in the way she had been accustomed to penetrate women in her previous incarnation, but was no longer able to, and, second, of being penetrated herself in a way that she had not yet been penetrated, but desperately wanted to be. Both girls were moaning almost constantly now, and their naked bodies glistened with girlsweat.
Soon Iris dismounted and knelt between Daphne's spread legs; she raptly regarded Daphne's slit with its distended labia, all the more stimulated to know (and to feel) that she herself had precisely the same anatomy, and that whatever responses she was inducing in Daphne were even now taking place in the warm, wet place between her own thighs and within her own womanbelly. At the thought, she felt herself suddenly liquefy further.
Iris closed her eyes and saw nothing but soft, orange light in her brain. She brought her little hands up to either side of Daphne's slit, and gently parted the girl's inner labia, seeking the little bud near the top — that diminutive parody of what each girl no longer possessed — which she knew would be swollen by now. She found it, and lightly massaged it through the delicate skin of its hood, using the tip of her little forefinger. Daphne began to roll her hips, letting her legs fall yet more widely open, amazed at her own elasticity, until her outer thighs were flat on the bed and her heels were drawn up to her buttocks. In this posture of female surrender, she suddenly grasped Iris's head — by her ears, for Iris's hair was too short to hold — and drew her face down to the aching space between her legs, which was now insanely wet and radiating heat like a living furnace.
Iris willingly complied with the enforced invitation. She began to tease Daphne's clit with the tip of her tongue, while at the same time massaging her nipples. The taste of Daphne's musk inflamed her; she began to slurp at it greedily. She darted her tongue as deep into Daphne as she could, and was rewarded by feeling the girl's tissues abruptly soften in response to her probing.
Iris came up for air, licked her lips and declared, "I say, Grainger, you actually taste rather sweet!"
Daphne began to pant. "Turn around!" she commanded, "Turn around, Davenport, let me taste you, too!"
Iris eagerly repositioned herself, faced the foot of the bed and nuzzled Daphne's wetness again. She planted her knees on either side of Daphne's head so that her slit, glistening with her own intimate fluids, was directly over the other girl's face. She gingerly lowered herself until she felt the tip of Daphne's tongue contact her clitoris with a celestial jolt, making her flow like an estuary at flood tide.
The girls lapped hungrily at one another with their dainty pink tongues, each girl's ecstasy ratcheting upwards in excruciating little quantum leaps, until they were both balanced on that razor-sharp edge of sexual tension known only to women, riding it like the crest of a warm, heavy wave, riding and riding and riding that crest until the wave finally broke — at the same moment for both of them — broke into brilliant white wavelets of molten pleasure that welled up from their vaginas and surged through their bodies, even to the tips of their fingers and toes. Each felt the other's vaginal spasms rhythmically grasp her tongue, each impulsively swallowed as much of the other's musky moisture as she could. Their female organs, deep within their bellies, rippled and fluttered as their simultaneous climax swept over and through them.
"Unhh, Unnh, Unhh, Unhh!" they both grunted as they came. When her vagina finally stopped pulsing, Iris collapsed in a limp heap on top of Daphne, almost smothering her, and with great effort, languidly turned herself around on the bed, so that the two girls could embrace one another tightly, while leaving one hand free to cup the other's love-mound.
Wound tightly in this embrace, the girls lay still for the better part of an hour, not speaking, each lost in her own thoughts about the events of the morning.
Daphne piped up at last, ending the silence. "I say, Davenport, do you know what I'm thinking?" she asked.
"Yes," Iris replied.
"What am I thinking, then?"
"The same thing I am, I'll wager," Iris continued, "That being turned into girls might not be the worst thing that's ever happened to us!"
"Exactly so," said Daphne. "I confess I rather fancy being a girl."
"Me, too. A come like that is worth having to sit down to pee for the rest of your life," Iris agreed. "So I don't know what all our silly tears were about, really. I suppose that's just the way girls are. We cry a lot for no reason. And sometimes I suppose we're bitches for no reason, as well."
"We can't help it. After all, we're only girls. What do you expect?"
"No, we can't help it," Iris mused. "But there's another important advantage to being a girl," she continued, "One needn't go to sea in a light cruiser and get shot at by little yellow men in aeroplanes."
"Right!" agreed Iris. "Another capital advantage of being a girl, now that you put it that way."
The two spent a couple of minutes reflecting on the marvellous advantage of girls not having to go to war and be shot at by little yellow men in aeroplanes.
Suddenly Iris piped up again. "I say, Grainger. I have another devilishly good idea: let's stay girls!"
"Do we have a choice?"
"Um. Well, actually, I suppose not. All this girl stuff we have does feel rather permanent, what?"
"Then I suppose we'll have to stay girls."
"'Fraid so, Old Top. Can't be helped and all that. Looks like we're girls for the duration."
"Rippingly good!" they both exclaimed at once. And they began to giggle hysterically.
When they finally caught their breaths, Iris asked, "I say, Old Chap, do you know what else I'm thinking?"
"We both need a man. I think we both need to be properly serviced — and soon!"
"RIGHT-O!" they cried in unison. And they broke out giggling once more.
After they had caught their breaths again, an extremely long silence ensued. Both girls stared, wide-eyed at the ceiling, as the truth dawned on them.
"I say, Grainger," Iris piped up yet again.
"What is it now, Davenport?"
"Um..... You don't suppose it's a just a coincidence that we've been turned into girls in a bordello, do you?"
"No. Hardly a coincidence, I shouldn't think," Daphne replied.
"Then, my guess is, we won't have too much difficulty finding a man and getting properly serviced."
"Yes, seeing as we're most likely going to be whores."
"That's OK with me," said Daphne.
"My sentiments exactly," Iris agreed.
By the time Iris and Daphne had finished their lovemaking and had savoured the sweetness of feminine afterglow, it was still only about ten in the morning. Each girl, in a fit of incongruous modesty, had put her white cotton panties and bra back on, but they soon become rather chilled and began to look about for something more substantial to wear. They did not have to look far, for, as mentioned in an earlier chapter, the room was stocked with feminine garments, not coincidentally in their very sizes (Dr. Pradesh was a good planner).
The girls correctly surmised that a tall rosewood dresser at the end of the room was the place to look, rather than in the closet, so they started with the top drawer, of course. The broad dresser drawer, divided into three or four compartments, held lingerie of many colours and styles, with a few serviceable cotton undergarments (which the girls disdained to consider), but mostly in silk, satin, nylon or rayon. The sight of such an abundance of panties and bras, in colours bright or subdued, trimmed with lace or plain, full-cut or risqué, utterly transfixed the girls, who, with their blue eyes open wide, stared, pursed their lips and rapturously crooned "Oooooooooooo!" at the same moment.
When they realised what a treasure they had before them, and that they could not wear all the garments at once but would have to make a selection, they snapped out of their trance and feverishly began extracting various sets, scattering them in all directions, utterly unable to make up their minds.
Near the bottom of one compartment, they came upon a lovely silver bra-and-panty and garterbelt ensemble in shimmering silk, the bra scalloped in costly French lace; the panties had matching lace panels set into the sides and the garter belt had matching lace trim. It was an absolutely ravishing concoction. The girls stared in awe at the gorgeous ensemble for a couple of seconds, then Iris lunged for the panties, while Daphne snatched the bra and the garter belt.
"Hand over those panties this instant, Davenport!" Daphne demanded, clutching the bra and garter belt and thrusting them behind her, where Iris could not get at them. She grabbed for the panties in Iris's hand, but the girl held them up high over her head, beyond Daphne's reach. "Hand them over!" she repeated, "I saw them first!"
"Dreadfully sorry, Old Top. No can do — it's out of the ques," taunted Iris, still holding the panties out of Daphne's reach. "That bra won’t fit you, Grainger: you're too small, I'm afraid. So you hand it over, and the garter belt, too!"
"The deuce it won't fit me!" Daphne shrilled. "My breasts are every bit as big as yous!" Then she burst into tears — the lovely bra was too big for her.... Iris was an E or even an EE, but poor Daphne was miniscule D. Daphne had been jealously comparing breast sizes all morning long and knew that what Iris was saying was true. The bra would look awful on her. So she reluctantly — and sullenly — surrendered it and garter belt.
"Thanks awfully, Grainger," Iris said, appropriating the garments with the air of a queen accepting tribute. "Extremely decent of you, Old Bean. Don't be pipped just 'cause you're a bit small in the bosom department. A girl can't help being small-breasted, you know. Luck of the draw, and all that."
Snuffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Daphne replied in the frostiest tone she could muster, "Well! I hope you're satisfied being a cow, Davenport. Perhaps you'll be lucky and not sag too much or get stretch marks. As for me, I'm glad to be of reasonable size. Now, the very least you can do is help me pick out something really nice, and that fits."
"How about this little number?" Iris asked, ignoring Daphne's jibe. She held up for inspection a lovely pair of panties in champagne-coloured silk and ivory lace, with symmetrical lace scrollwork panels in front. "Look here, Old Chap," she cajoled, "It even has a corking pink satin bow on the waistband right here, in front. And, um, let's have a look... Yes! The bra's a 36-D. That ought to do you quite nicely, I should think. You look like a D."
"Give them here," responded Daphne, extending her hand. "I want to see what they feel like."
Iris complied. Daphne snatched the incendiary garments, ran them approvingly through her fingers and inspected them minutely, paying close attention to the panties' cotton gusset, the part that would swaddle her babysoft labia. She imagined how delicious it would feel to step into these panties and to slide them up ever-so-slowly over her long, smooth legs, how nice it would feel to tug them snugly into place, to snap their delicate waistband against her soft tummy, how nice it would feel to have the silky cups of the bra caress and support her warm breasts. She was soon lost in rapt contemplation, staring blankly at some indeterminate spot on the wall as she absently fingered the garments.
Iris took little notice, however, because she was lost in the same reverie. Both girls at last sighed and looked at one another inquisitively.
"Well, shall we?" asked Daphne.
"Yes, let's," replied Iris.
So Iris and Daphne stepped out of their plain cotton panties and removed their plain cotton bras, disdainfully dropping them to the floor like the disreputable garments they were. They slipped their new panties on with exquisite care, virtually purring to feel such silky smoothness against their own, possibly smoother, skin. They ran the palms of their hands over their tummies and over their derrières, inflamed at feeling their own delicate selves through the medium of the diaphanous fabric. Next came their bras, which required a trifle more coordination. Iris pinched one of her breasts in the underwires, making her squeal. Daphne, being smaller, succeeded in catching her breasts in both cups at the first go-round, without pinching herself. Although they most likely could have fastened the hooks by themselves, they fastened them for one another in tender, sisterly fashion. Their garterbelts presented more of a problem, as they had six garters each. But the girls, after finding some new nylon stockings, overcame all obstacles, and soon were decked out in their splendid panties, bras, garter belts and stockings as if they had been wearing lingerie all their lives.
They proceeded to strike various graceful and lissome poses, then twirled about in gleeful abandon, unconsciously imitating the models in the lingerie adverts they had, as adolescent boys, drooled over each weekend in the Sunday Supplements, cutting out the most stimulating ones and hiding them under their pillows until the next batch appeared on the following Sunday. Now they were the girls in those adverts! How perfectly elegant! How perfectly erotic! How perfectly feminine! How perfectly delightful to be sentenced to a lifetime of wearing such sensuous lingerie! Yes, they could wear plain old ugly cotton if they wanted to (they would eventually learn some of cotton's advantages).... But that they now could wear such sheer and silky lingerie whenever they fancied, as a matter of everyday feminine prerogative — that they actually had an unassailable right to wear it — why, the very idea was erotic!
After the girls had pranced about in their finery for the better part of thirty minutes, and had assumed every provocative pin-up girl pose they could recall from the calendar in their wardroom, Daphne paused, stroked her chin with one hand while supporting her elbow in the other. She frowned thoughtfully, furrowing her little brow in deep concentration, and declared:
"I say, Davenport. wearing silky panties like these is deucedly distracting! Not to mention the bra...or the nylons. With corking undies like these, how do you suppose girls ever get anything done?"
"Don't be a silly goose, Grainger," Iris replied. "Girls get lots of things done wearing undies like these! Why, look at what we've been doing for the last half hour!"
"Yes, I suppose you're right, Davenport," Daphne agreed, striking yet another pin-up girl pose before the mirror, "We have accomplished an astounding amount! So, let's do some more girl things!"
"Yes, let's do some more girl things!" Iris echoed.
With this as their battle cry, the girls advanced on the closet, in full expectation of finding therein a wardrobe of elegant frocks, shoes, stoles, hats, gloves, scarves, belts and other delightful accessories with which to pamper themselves.
But, Alas! The cupboard was bare!
Well, not completely bare — hanging forlornly in the middle of the clothing bar, on quilted hangers, were two adorable white sailor-girl outfits, complete with middy-blouses and navy blue scarves round the collars. Puzzled, the girls looked at one another — and then understood: whoever had been responsible for their transformation, they now clearly saw, was a meticulous planner. After all, how silly they looked, dressed in the finest lingerie, but with military haircuts! For their hair, not being living, was beyond the power of the rashi-dharva to change! And, for an elegant call girl ("whore" would be too coarse a word) to have her wig slip off in the middle of a passionate coupling with a rich client would hardly be good for business. Better to make short hair an asset while they could.
Besides, these sailor-girl costumes were not made of coarse cotton duck. No, they were of sewn of gleaming white satin; the trousers were lined in mauve silk, and the middy blouses were cut low enough to expose the girls' lacy bras to advantage. The trousers were girl-tailored — high-waisted and tight-fitting in the rear — and, like real sailor trousers, had no fly front, only a broad button-up flap, but this was secured with rhinestone buttons. Completing the costumes were midget white satin sailor-hats, with "HMS Elphinstone" emblazoned on their turned-up brims. Oh, and, yes, the shoes: dainty patent leather flats with big, black satin bows. Rajshree, the bordello's wardrobe mistress, had purchased these costumes at auction in Paris, where they had been used in the famous Folies-Bergère Sailor-Girl production of 1937. Rajshree had been waiting impatiently for almost five years to find two girls who could wear them.
The girls took the hangers down and held the costumes up in front of themselves while looking in the mirror, then put them on. They strutted about the room, hooking their thumbs in their belt loops and trying to imitate a sailor's gait (which they could hardly do anymore because of their womanly hips). Iris slapped Daphne smartly on the behind. Daphne gave Iris a smouldering come-on look. They were about to execute a hornpipe together when someone rapped on the door.