For your reading pleasure, Part 3 of Edith Bellamy's Elphinstone Formula.
Upon hearing the rapping at their door, the two charming sailor girls retreated to the farthest corner of the room, where they cowered, clutching one another tightly. They heard with trepidation a key turn in the lock, and watched fearfully as the door slowly opened. Ghopal and Ghulam, the huge twin Punjabi eunuchs, poked their heads into the room. Spying the girls cowering in the usual place, where new girls always cowered, they smiled at them and spoke in jovial voices.
"Good morning, new English Misses!" boomed Ghopal.
"We are trusting you were sleeping very well last night!" Ghulam said, his voice wreathed in smiles.
"And are having a highly pleasant morning!" resumed Ghopal.
"And are liking your new clothing!" chimed in Ghulam again.
"And are being ready for training!" continued Ghopal.
"We have many things to be doing today, so you must be coming along with us quickly-quickly!" (Ghulam again),
"So we are not making anyone to be waiting upstairs." (Both spoke this time).
"And do not be worrying, new English Misses," they resumed, "We are eunuchs and can be doing you no
The twins were really compassionate creatures; although they unfailingly carried out their duties to the letter, they did so with all the kindliness they could muster, which, as they had very big hearts, was a great deal. They were quite fond of all the bordello's girls, but particularly fond of the transmutes, for whom they showed a natural empathy, being, in a sense, transmutes themselves. Their manner was so unthreatening, and their smiles so disarming, that Iris and Daphne were reassured. They stopped clinging so tightly to one another, but continued to hold hands.
Iris turned to Daphne, whispering, "Ask them their names, Grainger!"
"No, you ask them, Davenport!" Iris whispered back.
Their high-pitched whispering was clearly audible across the room. The eunuchs laughed softly.
"I am Ghopal," said the one.
"And I am Ghulam," said the other.
"But new English Misses! New English Misses! You must right away at this very moment be stopping to call one another 'Grainger' and 'Davenport,'" remonstrated Ghopal.
"It is very bad habit most new girls are always usually having," said Ghulam, wagging his finger, "using their old names!"
"You are being Iris," said Ghopal, pointing to Iris.
"You are being Daphne," said Ghulam, pointing to Daphne.
"Both are being very highly pretty English names for such very highly pretty new English Misses!" cried both twins together, beaming enthusiastically and seeming to jump up and down with excitement, without, however, taking their feet from the floor.
The two girls looked at one another and began to laugh. Extending her hand, Daphne said, "Hullo, Iris, Old Chap. I'm Daphne."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Daphne, Old Bean," replied Iris, taking it. "I'm Iris. Don't I know you from somewhere?"
"Don't be fresh! I am certain we have never met before! "said Daphne, sticking her nose in the air and sniffing disdainfully.
Then they shook hands and giggled, feeling rather like twentieth-century Alices encountering Ghulam and Ghopal instead of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, in some bizarre Indian Through the Looking Glass world far beyond anything Mr.Dodgson could have ever imagined.
"'Old Chap' and 'Old Bean' are also not expressions being permitted to new girls, because…" Ghulam reprimanded, frowning dramatically,
"….Because such expressions are not considered feminine," completed Ghopal, putting his hands together in prayer and casting his eyes heavenwards as if beseeching forgiveness for the shameful impropriety of such unspoken ideas.
"Now to please be coming along with us to upstairs," the twins said together, approaching the girls and gently tugging them out of their corner. The eunuchs shepherded Iris and Daphne from the room and along the corridor to the elevator, as the girls gazed about at the blank walls as if they held a clue as to what awaited them "upstairs."
Upon reaching the main floor, Iris and Daphne were conducted up the stairway to the fifth story, which held the bordello's offices as well as Dr. Pradesh's quarters. Unlike the secure level, the top floor was richly carpeted, its walls hung with beautiful Indian paintings of ornate palace gardens and pastoral scenes. The little convoy paused before a heavy, carved rosewood door bearing a polished brass nameplate with the inscription, "S. Pradesh, M. D., F.R.C.O.G."
"First stop for new girls is interview with Dr. Pradesh. Girls are always to be addressing Dr. Pradesh as 'Dr. P.'" Ghopal explained.
"Whenever a girl is encountering Dr. P," Ghulam continued,
"In restaurant, entertainment suites, in kitchen," Ghopal went on,
"Or here in office, or in corridor, or anywhere," said Ghulam,
"She is to be standing and making namaste while bowing the head," both twins said, demonstrating the prescribed action.
"Failure to be observing this etiquette," warned Ghopal,
"May be leading to punishment of girl," finished Ghulam.
Iris and Daphne, still holding hands, glanced apprehensively at one another, swallowed hard, but said nothing.
With no further preliminary admonitions, Ghulam gave a triple rap on the door with his knuckles.
"Enter!" cried out a voice, made faint by the thickness of the door.
The eunuchs ushered Iris and Daphne into Dr. Pradesh's office, a spacious, high-ceilinged room with gleaming floors worked in ornate inlaid patterns of contrasting tropical hardwoods. Its teak-panelled walls were hung with the same rare old paintings of palace gardens and pastoral scenes, only these were peopled with voluptuous Indian courtesans, some clad in opulent garments, some nude, but all depicted in the act of giving sexual pleasure to men in every conceivable way—and in some ways that were rather hard to conceive. The doctor's massive desk, set on a thick Persian carpet, dominated one end of the room. Dr. Pradesh, wearing a silk paisley dressing gown over his clothes, was filling out some government forms—the new girls' official prostitute registration certificates—required by the colonial authorities. The transmutes entered and stood trembling before the desk, waiting to hear their fate. They were still holding hands like two little girls lost in the forest.
Dr. Pradesh unhurriedly finished completing the forms, blotted them and deposited each in the respective girl's folder, which he then placed in the open file drawer of his desk. After closing the drawer, he picked up a polished obsidian paperweight, in the shape of an erect phallus, and tilting back in his chair, looked up. He began to toy absently with the heavy paperweight, which had not failed to attract the gaze of the two waiting girls.
As he looked up, the eunuchs gently prodded each girl from behind. Remembering the prescribed protocol, the girls bowed their heads while making namaste.
"Ah, if it isn't Iris and Daphne!" crooned the doctor, "I am Dr. Pradesh. May I welcome you officially to the Elphinstone bordello?" Though there were ample chairs, Dr. P. did not invite the girls to sit, but had them remain standing.
The girls were too frightened to reply, sensing that here was the man who was responsible for their transmutation.
"Take off your sailor-suits now," he pleasantly demanded, with a subtle edge to his voice indicating that he expected immediate compliance upon pain of some severe but unspecified punishment. The girls glanced at one another then obeyed, handing their sailor-girl suits to Ghulam, who folded them carefully over his arm. "Please leave us now," Dr. Pradesh said to the eunuchs, "I can manage these two quite well." The eunuchs exited the office, quietly closing the door behind them, leaving the two lingerie-clad girls trembling in the middle of the room, their nylon stockings glistening in the warm light.
Dr. Pradesh arose, and, casually slapping the black obsidian phallus against the palm of one hand, came round to the front of the desk to inspect the new transmutes more closely. This he did with the aid of the obscene paperweight, using it as a kind of a swagger stick to turn the girls this way or that, to arrest them in a given position, to have them bend over, raise their arms or spread their legs apart so he could inspect what lay in between. He ran the smooth tip of the paperweight along the lengths of their silk-covered slits—indenting the fabric—to gauge their reactions. They made no effort to evade such a gross intrusion. On the contrary, Dr. Pradesh was certain that the girls relished the touch of the brilliantly polished stone phallus. Which was only to be expected, given the amount of rashi-dharva he had dissolved in the plum glaze served over the Muscovy duck.
"Very nice," he remarked, "Very nice, indeed. The breasts are much fuller this time, I see, especially yours, Iris." (Daphne bit her lower lower lip to hear this.) "Hips not too wide, either. Tummies slightly protuberant—clients like that in a girl. And what nice, plump derrières!" continued the doctor, running the menacing paperweight over both girls' rears in succession. "Good and firm. And the skin—perfect! You made excellent choices of undergarments, my dears (delightfully sheer panties!), because what you are now wearing will be your uniform for the rest of the day. You must become accustomed to going about in your lingerie, my dears, starting right now. At dinner-time you can have your sailor-suits back, but not sooner. You won't mind now, will you?"
Standing before this powerful wizard, the girls were at a loss for words, and so did not reply. They regarded Dr. Pradesh with a mixture of fear, outrage and gratitude. Fear, because they had no idea what else he could do to them, clearly having had the power to turn them into girls in the first place—for all they knew, he could turn them into toads on the spot! Outrage, because the waning male portions of their psyches resented having been so summarily deprived of their masculinity (they were still smarting from the humiliation of having to sit down to urinate). And gratitude, because their rapidly feminising brains told them that being turned into women was the best thing that had ever happened to them.
Dr. Pradesh understood these conflicting emotions, having dealt with countless transmutes over the years. He knew that in a few days any remaining masculine memories would be banished to the dimmest recesses of consciousness, and would serve only as occasional wistful reminders of what they had been. He knew as well that, despite any such lingering memories, the two would eagerly allow themselves to be mounted, just as the transmuted rabbits had done.
Dr. Pradesh could see by their faces that their fear was already draining away, that they were awakening to the irresistible demands of their sex, and that, in this case, the rashi-dharva had created two perfect transmutes of the concubine class—and big-breasted ones, at that. As if in response to his thoughts, the girls almost imperceptibly straightened their backbones, thrusting forward their breasts. The move was subtle, but Dr. Pradesh was attuned to precisely such subtleties in women. He knew that the oestrogens coursing through their brains and bodies were exceptionally potent, rapidly inducing the full spectrum of female desires, hopes, instincts and mannerisms while suppressing all but the feeblest twinges of remorse at having been turned into women in a matter of hours. Not only would Iris and Daphne copulate eagerly, but they'd shriek at the sight of a spider, take a great interest in babies and know how to fold laundry, darn socks and sew buttons.
The transmutes' growing sense of their soft penetrability and the sexual arousal they felt at having been stripped to their sheer lingerie in the presence of a man, quickly outweighed any trepidation they otherwise might have felt. They were happy to be prodded and probed and turned about with a polished obsidian phallus, happy to be the objects of such professional masculine scrutiny, happy to have been turned into voluptuous creatures whose principal purpose on earth was to give sexual pleasure to men. Indeed, in the course of the doctor's inspection, their vaginas had become wet when he had stroked their slits through their panties with the cool, smooth paperweight. Each had felt a twinge of disappointment, in fact, that the thin barrier of their panties had prevented the insertion of the instrument into their bodies.
"No doubt you two have some questions you would like to put to me before I go into your duties?"
"Yes," ventured Iris, always the bolder, "We do. Would you awfully mind explaining how you turned us into girls? Are we to remain female forever, or will you turn us back into men?"
"Allow me to answer your second question first," responded the doctor, returning to his desk and laying the paperweight aside. "You can never be men again; the process is irreversible—you shall remain female for the rest of your lives. The sooner you abandon hope of being restored to your former selves, the better. You'll find, however, as I suspect you already have, that being female will prove quite satisfactory—you will rarely pine for your lost masculinity. As to how you were turned into girls, that is an ancient secret of my sect," continued the doctor. He told them about the Sakati, and explained, in general terms, what rashi-dharva was, its various strains and their effects, and how he had used a particularly potent batch of the concubine strain in transmuting them. The doctor observed with approval the girls' slight smiles of satisfaction when he told them they would remain female for life.
He made the girls understand that they were to work in the bordello as elegant prostitutes, that their copulatory training, consisting of a single session with the skillful Vaudin, would take place very shortly, that certain precautions had already been taken to prevent pregnancy, and that, until they had generated 50,000 Rupees each in fees, they were to remain the indentured chattel of the house, not free to leave the premises and to be given no spending money. The manila folders, he told them, contained each girl's dossier, including her official prostitute's certificate, her medical and menstrual history, her demerits, communications from patrons and documentation of bonuses (or punishments). He told them that all registered prostitutes in the Raj were, by convention, given the surname of the bordello's owner or madam, and that henceforth their official names were to be Iris Pradesh and Daphne Pradesh.
As indentured prostitutes, they would be fed well, given lovely clothing, manicured, coiffed and made up at house expense—as long as they performed their duties with enthusiasm and caused no client complaints.
The consequences of disobedience, bad temper, reluctance in bed, slovenliness in dress or personal appearance, and so forth, were also made clear: Dr. Pradesh showed them the stainless-steel girl leashes, opening a glass case on the wall where they were hung, and removing two one-metre punitive ones. He invited the girls to examine them, particularly their miniature high-security locks. He explained that the slim chains would support a light lorry in the air, its four wheels off the ground, and that it was impossible for a girl to remove either a locked leash or her labial ring without seriously maiming herself.
Iris and Daphne ran the smooth chains through their fingers, poured them from hand to hand like quicksilver. They appreciated the chains' cunning construction—and their strength. They winced as they imagined them locked into their own tender labia. Returning the leashes to the desk, they stood respectfully, waiting to hear more.
After they had generated the required 50,000 Rupees, (the doctor continued), they would become commissioned prostitutes, allowed to retain 20% of their fees, the remaining 80% going to the house for profit and expenses. Board, lodging, clothes, cosmetics, manicure services and hairstyling would still be provided. At some point in the future, assuming that they had acquitted themselves well in their duties, he would consider allowing them to purchase their freedom with what they had saved. If they so desired, he would reverse whatever he had done to prevent pregnancy (which he did not elaborate upon). They would then be free to remain with the house, strike out on their own, or find an Englishman to marry them, which, given how lovely they were, would not likely pose an insurmountable problem.
As the girls had no additional questions, the doctor pushed a key on an intercom that sat on his desk, summoning Ghulam and Ghopal. The eunuchs appeared within seconds, having been waiting in the guards' cubicle outside the closed office door. "Conduct the girls to the Victorian Suite now," ordered the doctor, "Vaudin should be expecting them. He shouldn't take more than an hour. When he's done servicing them, take them to the refectory and give them a good luncheon—whatever they care for. I anticipate that they'll have excellent appetites by then. After luncheon, they can get their manicures and pedicures, then hand them over to Rajshree so she can make them up for the evening—she mustn't let them even try to put on their own make-up yet: we cannot afford to have our first blondes looking like clowns."
He directed his next remarks to the girls. "After your evening meal, you'll be assigned back to the Victorian Suite," he told them. "We're selling your services as a special package: 150 Rupees an hour for both of you together, 750 Rupees for the night, but no more than two clients at once. We're expecting some officers from Intrepid this evening. You can start in with them. Get them to buy lots of drinks—drinks are almost as profitable as girls. The drinks they buy for you will, of course, be watered down: we don't want to waste good liquor getting our girls drunk, even at the client's expense. You must do anything they request—with them, or with one another. You'll be carefully monitored the entire evening—even in bed—so do not be foolish enough even to attempt giving these officers the slightest hint who you were (if you can still remember), or you'll both be leashed together with a one-meter chain between you for the rest of the month and locked in the Bare Room downstairs."
The admonition was superfluous, for the girls had no intention of revealing their former identities to their shipmates, (as if anyone would believe them if they did). That they might soon be fucked by their former chums—who'd be paying good money for the privilege—had a powerful erotic effect on them both. Their feminised brains were seething with raw sexual anticipation induced by the rashi-dharva—there was simply no room left for scheming. The two were literally aching to be fucked. They were not to be kept waiting long.
The Victorian Suite was opulently furnished with overstuffed sofas and chairs plushly upholstered in lugubrious colours. The decor consisted of tall Chinese urns, a globe of the world on a floor-stand, a tiger skin rug with intact tiger head, an 18th century brass nautical telescope on a tripod, and other similar Victorian bric-a-brac. The only un-Victorian furnishing was a heavy walnut-cased gramophone against one wall. The upper halves of the wainscoted walls were papered in mauve-and-white striped damask. Tasseled draperies of purple velvet hung at each window. At one end of the main room was a large fireplace of Travertine marble, bordered by columns supporting a heavy mantelpiece upon which stood a row of gleaming bell jars filled with colorful stuffed birds and dried English countryside flowers. In the center of the mantelpiece ticked an ormolu clock depicting Cupid and Psyche on either side of the clockface. Though it was late summer in India, a myrtlewood fire crackled merrily in the fireplace (for the room was air-conditioned, a rarity in Bombay). At the opposite end of the suite was a fully-equipped bar, its mirror etched round its border with Aubrey Beardsley representations of voluptuous nude wood-nymphs and dryads pursued by satyrs sporting erections of mythic proportions.
Michel Vaudin, ex sous-chef of Maxim de Paris, reclined on an ottoman in his white kitchen garb. His stockinged feet were propped up on one of the arms of the sofa as he lay smoking a Players cigarette: although Vaudin detested the English, he had no prejudice against their tobacco, which he preferred to the stronger French cuts. As he extended his neck to exhale a jet of blue smoke towards the ceiling, the Gallic prominence of his chin and nose accentuated his wiry, angular physique.
Vaudin was looking forward to the afternoon's assignment. The idea that he was initiating two new girls at once was stimulating enough (he had never broken in more than one new girl at a time), but that these transmutes were not only English, but had been Royal Navy officers until less than a day ago….. Well, to say the least, Vaudin could barely wait for them to be brought in. Ah! For a Frenchman to fuck two English naval officers who had been turned into girls! What perfect revenge in the unending competetive enmity between the French and the English! He hoped the new transmutes still considered themselves essentially men and would be horrified at the idea of having to spread their legs and be fucked. And by a Frenchman! Vaudin felt himself harden at the prospect and took a long drag on his cagarette.
Presently the door opened to admit Iris and Daphne, still clad only in their lingerie, looking as vulnerable as a couple of cream-filled pastries waiting to be eaten. The eunuchs, not entering, closed the door behind the girls, who, clinging lightly to one another, gazed about their latest surroundings. Vaudin sat up on the sofa, looked them up and down, took another drag on his cigarette and asked them, in French, to approach.
"Sorry, Old Bean," Iris piped up in her plummiest tones, "Haven't the foggiest what you just said. 'Fraid we don't parlay Frog. Just the King's English." Neither she nor Daphne had any great love for the French, especially kitchen help. They considered the thin Gallic chef to be singularly odious.
Vaudin muttered a curse. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, rose from the sofa, cockily sauntered over to Iris and slapped her hard across the face. "Zat, Eenglish beech," he said, with a sneer, "is for your insolence." He now spoke in English, but with an almost-cartoonish French accent (impossible to mimic in writing—try to imagine the cartoon character Pépé LePue), making Iris laugh despite the slap she had just received. Vaudin slapped Daphne as well, saying, "Zat, ozzer Eenglish beech, is een case you were sinking about being insolente." The girls, hands to their cheeks, glanced at one another. Narrowing their eyes and setting their jaws, they gave a single nod each.
Iris turned on Vaudin with the ferocity of a cornered wolverine. "No need to get all nasty and slap us about, cook-boy," she said in a virulent tone. "We all three know why we're here, don't we? So just skip the social niceties and get on with fucking us. We gather it's your job. So just jolly well do it. And do us right or you'll be minus one ball before you can say "sakray blue!" or whatever it is you people say. When you're done, you can slither back to your soufflés and sauces—with two balls or one. It's entirely your choice. So do you want us to undress now, or what?"
Vaudin was stunned by the girl's aggressiveness: it was the first time he had encountered the concubine class of transmute, having dealt only with singer, dancer and servant variants up until now. So he had expected the usual wailing, the usual reluctance, the usual tearful begging not to be fucked, which generally served only to make him all the stiffer and to fuck a new girl all the more viciously to show her that she was merely a woman—a weak, passive receptacle for his sexual satisfaction. But these new girls were different—at least this Iris one was—and for once Vaudin was speechless in front of a woman.
Receiving no response from the cook, Iris continued, "Well, since our little Frog here isn't quite sure what he wants us to do, Daph, why don't we start by undressing him?"
"Topping idea, Eye! Let's!"
With wicked smiles, the semi-nude girls descended on the astonished cook and forced him, stumbling backwards, to the sofa. They pushed him down and proceeded to strip him. The Frenchman was so surprised—and, moreover, so taken with the girls' stunning looks and their raw sexuality—that he offered no resistance. To tell the truth, he found this new wrinkle to be particularly erotic. (Frenchmen are like that.)
By the time the girls got Vaudin undressed, he was fully erect. The sous-chef may have been slight and wiry, but, where it mattered to Iris and Daphne, he was built like a draft horse—so massive, in fact, that each girl was at first appalled at his size, and wondered, if only briefly, whether they could accommodate his entire bulk without risking serious internal injuries.
"My, my, my!" exclaimed Daphne, screwing up her courage, "Look how big our little Frenchman is! Do you suppose he knows how to use it?" she mocked, looking at Iris with an incredulous smirk on her face as she gestured towards the engorged and vein-studded organ. It was top-heavy, bobbing about erratically, so she grasped it in one hand to steady it, barely encircling the shaft with her tiny fingers, and began to pet its enormous head with her other hand. Vaudin moaned in response. After a few minutes, Iris nudged Daphne out of the way and took over the stroking, with the same wary caution a snake-charmer employs with a cobra.
As if at a prearranged signal, the girls abruptly stood and removed their bras, freeing their magnificent breasts. Iris's were full and globular. Daphne's, though smaller, had those delectable concavities above, like little ski jumps, but were rounded below. They closed in on Vaudin so that his face was almost smothered by their four firm young breasts, which he lapped at and sucked on in turn, while cupping each girl's mound with a hand. Both girls had resumed stroking Vaudin's cock, but soon Iris desisted, afraid that they might bring him off too soon, and pulled Daphne's hand away, too.
"All right, Frenchman," Iris declared, "That's enough bloody foreplay! Now we want you to fuck us with that thing of yours before it goes limp. You ready, Daph?"
"I should think so: my panties are already soaked through," she replied offhandedly, as if her panties being soaked through was an everyday occurrence hardly worthy of comment (which, from this moment forward, it was to become).
"Mine, too," confirmed Iris, in the same offhand tone. "So who's going to be first?"
"Why don't you fleep for eet?" the Frenchman helpfully suggested, hoping to avoid the delay of an altercation between the two girls. He leant over to pick up his trousers, from a pocket of which he extracted a coin. He held it up in front of him like an amulet.
"No," Iris said, rejecting the coin with a deprecatory wave of her hand, "I've a better idea. At the count of three, we take off our panties. The one who gets out of them first is the winner and gets fucked first by the cook. Agreed?"
"Sounds fair to me," replied Daphne, failing to notice that Iris had her panties on over her garterbelt. Daphne's garterbelt, on the other hand, was under her panties, making their removal more complex.
"O.K., Frenchman, give us the count, then!" Iris cried.
"One….. Two….. S'ree!"
Iris smoothly stepped out of her panties and stood with her fists on her hips, resplendently nude save for her garterbelt and stockings. Daphne, on the other hand, right away saw that she had been tricked and didn't even try to remove her panties: she would have had to unfasten her six garters first.
"I'll guess I'll watch, then," Daphne glumly remarked. "Next time I'll remember to put on my undies in the proper order." But she had to laugh at her naiveté and at how Iris had outsmarted her.
"O.K., Daphe. I'll get fucked while you watch, then you'll get fucked while I watch," Iris cried, as she eagerly assumed the timeless posture of female surrender on the thick Persian carpet—on her back—legs drawn up and thighs widely spread. Her swollen labia had already half-parted of themselves, revealing her glistening penetralia, her tight little vaginal opening like a pink bull's eye in the center. Vaudin had rarely seen such an arousing display of female heat. He was by now so stiff that it hurt, and he needed relief. He knelt between Iris's legs. With one hand steadying his tool, began to run its tip round her lips and over her clit, making her moan in ecstasy.
Daphne, meanwhile, knelt beside the pair, her eyes wide with wonder and anticipation. "O! It's sooo-ooo big, Iris!" she cooed in awe, after comparing the size of Iris's pink little aperture with Vaudin's huge, vein-knotted cock, "It's soo-ooo very, very big, you'll… you'll…. love it!" (Daphne was going to say, "you'll be maimed," but she thought the better of it, after recalling that vaginas must be remarkably elastic to accommodate the passage of a baby, larger around even than the Frenchman's tool.)
But Iris was too intent on what she was feeling to listen. "Stop mucking around down there, Frenchman!" she hectored, in a voice midway between an order and a groan, "Just shove the ruddy thing into me! On the double! Chop-chop! I jolly well want a proper fucking! And now! What the deuce are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"
The reader need hardly be reminded that this oversexed creature, so desperate to be serviced, had only the previous day been an officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy, who had come to the Elphinstone bordello as a client. Now, barely eighteen hours later, here he was—transmuted into a voluptuous blonde—on her back, plump thighs expectantly spread, heels three feet in the air, displaying her wares like the most brazen whore, absolutely frantic to be impaled by a man.
Vaudin, delighted at the novelty of being ordered about as if he were a copulating machine, complied, slowly plunging home until his enormous bulk had vanished utterly into Iris's tummy, distending her labia into a thin-edged pink rim encircling the root of his shaft. Her eyes opened to their fullest extent and bulged from their sockets at the shock of being penetrated by a stiff cock for the first time in her brief female existence. She gasped in amazement that she—so soft and small— had taken something so hard and large all the way into her body.
"O, Daphne!" she said, turning her enraptured face towards the other girl when she had recovered enough breath to speak, "O, Daphne! Look! I took it all in! All of it! You can't believe how good it feels inside me! It's all this wonderful pressure, filling me up, making me as vast as an ocean. O, Daphne, Daphne! Getting fucked is absolutely FAB! You're going to love it! And Frenchie here hasn't even started to pump me!"
Daphne was inflamed by the sight of her companion helplessly pinned to the carpet in the throes of her first copulation. Wishing it was herself instead of Iris, she bit her lip as her eyes filled with tears of frustration. She reached for Daphne's hand, found it, and squeezing it hard, merely said, "I'm so glad for you, Iris! Just leave a little for me!" But Iris had already closed her eyes, spread her thighs wider and made no reply beyond an inarticulate moan. Her teeth were clenched and her neck tendons stood out like cords in her tense anticipation of what was about to come next.
Vaudin began to pump her—deep, slow and hard—gradually increasing his tempo until the girl was grunting from the force of his thrusts. She picked up his rhythm, then broke it, substituting her own, which the man then followed. Iris's grunts soon became squeals. After some minutes, the girl froze—then her hips began bucking uncontrollably, her breasts jounced every which way. Then Vaudin froze, too. Now it was his turn to grunt as he shot long, ropy jets of hot semen deep into Iris, whose squeals coalesced into a long sigh as she felt her vagina pulsing, felt her fluttering tissues sweep the seed up and up into her female recesses.
The two remained coupled for a good while, relaxed in mutual afterglow, while poor Daphne sat forlornly on the carpet next to them, her face in a pout. She had already removed her stockings, garterbelt and panties in preparation for her turn. But Vaudin had fallen asleep! Iris, knowing that Daphne felt cheated, rolled Vaudin off her belly, then came to sit on the carpet beside Daphne, who had quietly started to cry to see that Vaudin was hors de combat, at least for a while.
"Don't fret, Daphe," consoled Iris, "I'm still as hot as a mink, so let me warm you up while Frenchie recovers."
So saying, she began to suckle Daphne's breasts while her hand crept down along Daphne's belly all the way to her love-mound. Daphne lay back on the carpet, spreading her thighs to grant Iris readier access. Iris plunged two of her fingers into Daphne's wetness, and stirred her as one might stir a warm batter, her fingers making delicate wet, slapping sounds. She withdrew her fingers after a while, and slid herself down along the carpet until her face was level with Daphne's cunt. Then she applied the tip of her little pink tongue to Daphne's clit, eliciting a moan of pleasure.
Soon the two were panting again, their bodies glistening with girlsweat, well on their way to another mutual orgasm. But it was not to be, for Vaudin awoke from his nap, sat up and observed with interest the girls' lovemaking. They were so engrossed in one another that they did not notice that he was watching them intently, nor, more important for Daphne at least, that he was again erect. Vaudin fingered himself lightly as he watched the two girls pleasure each other.
After a few minutes, he could stand it no longer. He had to be inside one or the other of them! In the interest of variety (if not of fairness), he preferred to fuck Daphne this time, so he took Iris by the shoulders and roughly pulled her away from her feast. Iris did not object, but took her place sitting nearby on the carpet as Vaudin substituted his huge tool for her tongue. Daphne instantly felt the difference on her clit. Opening her eyes and seeing Vaudin manually directing his tool so that it slid over her clit rather than into her cunt, she waited for his backstroke, then depressed the tip of his cock with her fingers so that on his next forward thrust he plunged into her. All the way.
Now it was Daphne's turn to open her blue eyes wide in astonishment to feel a man's hard cock slide slickly into her body for the first time in her life: she could not have arrested its remorseless advance had she wanted to—and she didn't want to. She felt her intimate tissues helplessly yield under the force of the thrust, until the tip of Vaudin's cock was touching her cervix; she then felt her uterus displaced upwards until it reached the height of her navel. It felt as if Vaudin was pushing all the way up into her chest! She wrapped her legs round his torso and, locking her ankles together, cinched him even deeper into her body.
Daphne's eyes were half-closed, her nostrils flared, her fair face oddly placid. Languidly, she turned towards Iris, but did not meet her eyes, focussing instead at some vague spot on the ceiling. Not speaking, she managed a wan smile. Suddenly, as if waking from a trance, Daphne turned sharply back towards Vaudin, slapped him on his thigh as a rider slaps a horse's rump to urge it from a trot to a canter, and commanded, "Now ride me just like you rode Iris, you French bastard!"
Vaudin, of course, obliged, bringing Daphne to a shattering climax that left her utterly limp.
Just as he had done after his first performance, Vaudin fell asleep on the carpet. Taking advantage of his unconscious state, the nude girls directly rifled his pockets, removed all the cash from his billfold and took his package of Players as well, extracting two and lighting them up. As they had neither pockets nor handbag, they hid the cash in the middle of Macauley's History of England, the thickest volume they could find on the suite's several bookcases. They knew they'd be back in the suite that evening, when they would be wearing their sailor-girl costumes, in which they could conceal the money on their persons without being detected.
But having stood and begun to move about, smoking their cigarettes, the girls were dismayed to discover an essential inconvenience of being females who had just been fucked: they began leaking sticky fluid, which trickled uncomfortably down the insides of their thighs.
"Yuck," complained Iris, gingerly touching the glistening liquid with the tip of one finger and making a sour face, "How disgusting! How can we put our panties back on while we're dripping like this?"
Daphne looked down at herself, but refrained from touching the gooey liquid slowly oozing down the inside of her legs. "La!" she exclaimed, shaking her head, "What a mess! I suppose we're going to have learn pretty quick how girls deal with it!"
They looked at one another, then, each cupping herslf with a hand, made a wild dash for what had to be the bathroom door (Iris keeping her contaminated finger extended in the air). They collided as they grabbed the doorknob at the same time. The bathroom it was, thoughtfully fitted out not only with washstand, shower and toilet, but with that most essential appliance for bordello girls—a bidet. Iris rushed to the washstand to rinse off her finger, while Daphne knelt down next to the bidet and began fiddling with the knobs: she was rewarded with a jet of cold water in her face. But presently she had the fountain burbling nicely in a gentle column of warm water about eight inches high, She straddled the bidet and carefully lowered herself onto the column of water while spreading herself open with one hand.
"Ahhhh!" she exclaimed, "This is just the ticket, Iris. It gets all that sticky mess out of you in a jiffy." Patting herself dry, she went to the shower stall, turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature and got in, closing the frosted glass door behind her.
Iris meanwhile took her stint on the bidet, enjoying the pleasurable sensation of warm water flushing her intimate tissues. To see the lovely blonde squatting there, cigarette dangling from her mouth and one hand between her thighs spreading her labia, it was impossible to believe she had been a man only one day earlier.
After both had showered and towelled themselves dry, they wrapped bath sheets about themselves, tucking them into their cleavages. Poking their heads out the bathroom door, they were relieved to find that the Frenchman was gone. Their lingerie had been picked up off the floor and carefully folded over the arms of the sofa. They ventured out and dressed themselves—as far as their scanty attire permitted. Barely had they finished when the eunuchs appeared.
"It is time for your luncheon, new English Misses!" announced Ghulam.
"We waited until you had finished your showers," Ghopal explained.
"Please to be coming with us now," both declared. They conducted the girls from the suite, upstairs to the refectory. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Iris and Daphne, having had nothing to eat since dinner the previous evening, were by now ravenously hungry.
Like the back areas of many professional buildings, the bordello's refectory was plain and businesslike, with none of the opulence lavished on its restaurant or "public" rooms. It was spacious, holding six rectangular painted deal tables surrounded by plain ladderback chairs with rush seats, and capable of accommodating the bordello's entire contingent of forty-eight girls at one sitting. One long wall, facing south, consisted of uncurtained windows; the opposite wall, painted the same nondescript institutional green as the tables, held a large chalkboard and several bulletin boards with various announcements. The chalkboard, divided into grids by painted white lines, had the prostitutes' names in the leftmost column. The remaining columns, headed by a suite name or a specific bedroom, where chalked in with days of the week, showing each girl's assignments. At the bottom of the first column, in freshly painted white letters, were the names "Daphne" and "Iris." The floor was covered with linoleum in a pattern to minimize stains, but it was actually spotless. The room was devoid of all decoration save for two small faux-crystal vases of blue bachelor buttons on each table, sitting on doilies made by one of the prostitutes.
The refectory was entered at one end through a pair of swing doors covered in black leatherette, each with a porthole window surrounded by brass upholstery tacks. At the other end was the kitchen area, set up like an institutional cafeteria with hot tables fronted by a railing on which to slide trays. The cafeteria served leftovers from the restaurant for luncheon, but breakfasts and dinners were cooked up from scratch.
The luncheon hour was almost over when Ghulam and Ghopal brought Iris and Daphne into the refectory. About half the girls still lingered, some drinking coffee and smoking, others buffing their nails, touching up their lipstick or examining themselves in their pocket looking-glasses. A few were reading. Some were fully clothed, some wore dressing gowns in various hues, and some were unselfconsciously clad only in their lingerie. All, however, were in stockings and heels. Three or four had their hair up in curlers. None were natural blondes and none were blue-eyed: all of the bordello's girls (except for Leona, Georgia and a few other docile European transmutes) were of Anglo-Indian stock, with skin ranging from almost-white to café-au-lait in colour. All of them were exceptionally pretty. Fiona and Sarah, the pearls of the Elphinstone Road bordello, were not present.
The pleasant hum of feminine conversation that filled the room stopped the moment Iris and Daphne entered in the company of the eunuch twins. All eyes turned towards the new girls.
"Please to be welcoming new English Misses," began Ghulam in a booming voice,
"Iris," continued Ghopal, as Ghulam indicated her with an elegant flourish of his hand,
"And Daphne," said Ghulam, as Ghopal introduced the latter with the same flourish.
"We are now leaving them in your good hands. Please to be helping them to some luncheon as they are very hungry. We shall be returning to fetch them in one hour," both said in unison, and promptly left the refectory through the swinging doors.
Within seconds, Iris and Daphne were mobbed by a gaggle of excited, chattering females, all trying to talk at once. Hands reached out to touch and pet them—on their shoulders, their arms, their faces—as if they were a pair of adorable kittens brought into a classroom full of eight-year old girls for show-and-tell.
"Welcome to Elphinstone!"
"Where're you cuties from, London?"
"How'dja end up in Bombay?"
"Look, Mabel, they're real blondes!"
"But see how short their hair is!"
"And those big, blue eyes!"
"I'm jealous already!"
"There's some leftover duck for lunch. With yummy plum glaze."
"Gosh, don't they have gorgeous boobs!"
"Have ya met the Frenchman yet?"
"Yeah, watch out for him!"
"What do you use on your face, honey?"
"Such small feet!"
"But their nails!"
"D'ya want some java?"
"How come ya don't have any makeup on?"
"You gonna work by the hour or by the night?"
"How much ya charging?"
"Ya got any kids yet? I got three."
"Is your pussy hair blonde, too?"
"Let 'em be, girls, let 'em be! Show 'em to a table and let's get 'em some grub!" This from Gladys, the senior girl, a statuesque brunette on the grand scale of Dolores Del Rio.
At these words, the group parted like the Red Sea for the Israelites. Gladys (the tallest of the Anglo-Indians) took the transmutes by their elbows and guided them to a table, sat them down and shook out and passed them a couple of serviettes, which they placed on their laps. Iris and Daphne, really not knowing what to reply to all these personal girl-questions, looked quite flustered. They blushed, smoothed down their serviettes, batted their eyelashes and smiled rather stupidly, murmuring thank-yous at the compliments and making no definite replies to the questions. The two were such perfect female specimens that the other girls had no suspicion they were transmutes. Even Gladys, a skilled midwife until she abandoned her profession for the much better wages she could earn on her back, was at first taken in.
The natal bordello girls were used to new transmutes, of course, bearing them no ill-will. On the contrary, transmutes were treated with special kindness, as one might treat mild mental defectives or mascots—the natal girls spoke to them in simple language, using loud voices, and bent over backwards to help them out with baffling female problems, such as what to do about menstrual cramps, how to wash bloodstains out of their undies or how to fake an orgasm. But Iris and Daphne radiated raw femininity like sunlight off a looking-glass, so, despite their military haircuts, short nails and absence of makeup, the idea that the two were transmutes did not cross the other girls' minds.
Gladys, who was wearing a short yellow dressing-gown, assumed the role of maitress d'. "Here's what's left, girls," she said, ticking off the choices on her fingers, "Muscovy duck with plum glaze. Beef Wellington with wild mushrooms. Pork chops with applesauce. Salmon croquettes (which I don't recommend). Cock-O-Van and Waldorf salad. New potatoes and courgettes on the side and raspberry tart for a sweet. Coffee to finish, but no cigars. What'll it be?"
"Um…" began Iris, "You wouldn't mind terribly if we took a rain check on the duck, would you?"
"'Course not. No duck. Your loss, though. It's awfully good."
"We had the duck last night, actually," muttered Iris, under her breath.
"I'll have the pork chops with applesauce, please," Daphne said brightly, tucking her serviette into the front of her bra and entirely missing the point about the duck. She wetted her lips in anticipation, adding, "And the rest, too. I'll have whole lot! Even some duck!"
"I guess I'll have the Beef Wellington and wild mushrooms," said Iris, glaring at Daphne for her naiveté.
"Coming right up!" Gladys cried, as she propelled Elsie, a small junior whore who was wearing nothing but a white lace bra and a white lace panty-girdle, stockings and heels, towards the kitchen to fetch the order.
While Elsie was off in the kitchen loading a tray with the orders, the knot of curious prostitutes again closed round Iris and Daphne. Gladys pulled up a chair, straddled it backwards, snapped her fingers and held her hand over her shoulder, her fingers forming a "V." Instantly, a cigarette materialised in the "V;" Gladys turned round briefly just as another junior whore struck a match. Lighting the fag and inhaling deeply, Gladys turned back to the blondes and exhaled twin plumes of smoke from her nostrils.
"O.K.," Gladys began, picking a loose piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue with her fingertips and flicking it on the floor, "What's the real scoop here?" she asked. "You girls are just a little too blonde, a little too gorgeous, a little too perfect, a little too …too bleeding English. You haven't answered even one of our questions about yourselves, either. I've been working India for years, but I've never heard a thing about you. Blondes are as scarce as hens' teeth in these parts, you know if you were working Bombay, Calcutta, Delhi or even Madras, I'd have heard about you long ago. But no, all of a sudden you two just show up, all perfect and tickety-boo, except for your military haircuts and no makeup or nails. I smell a rat."
"It wasn't a rat," replied Iris in a low monotone, "It was the duck. There's not a great deal we can do about it now."
"The Muscovy duck. Or perhaps the plum glaze."
"I see," said Gladys, nodding thoughtfully. "I think I'm getting it now. Of course! Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but do you girls happen to have labial rings?"
"Yes, we have," answered Iris, blanching. "I think that's what they are, anyway, those little steel rings in our… in our…" Iris faltered, not knowing (or not caring to pronounce) the word. "But it's not our fault," she continued, blurting out the truth in a rapid panicky voice, "We never asked for rings, or for anything else for that matter. So please don't hold it against us. We just came to the Elphinstone last night to see Fiona and Sarah, but after the duck we passed out in the restaurant. I'm sure we were drugged. We woke up this morning… like this!" Her voice breaking, Iris gestured at her breasts then swept her hands downwards towards the confluence of her lovely white thighs. Daphne certified Iris's account by mimicking the gestures and uttering a histrionic sigh.
"Ooooooooh" chorused the girls in a collective gasp of delicious scandal, "They have rings!" The refectory buzzed afresh with feminine chatter as the whores clustered tightly around Iris and Daphne again, their interest fired to a higher level by the intelligence that the two gorgeous blonde creatures were actually transmutes.
"I knew it!" cried Gladys, springing up from her chair and stamping her foot, "I bloody well knew it! Old Two-Fingers," (referring to Dr. Pradesh's method of examining the girls), "Old Two-Fingers is up to his old tricks! It's that bloody rashi-dharva again. But what strain? Did he say? What strain?"
"Um… well," ventured Iris, hastily glancing about to make sure there were no knives lying about on the table, "He did say something about a concubine strain."
"Luncheon is served!" cried the little whore in the white lace panty-girdle and bra, who had been in the kitchen, so had not heard anything about labial rings, and was now busily wriggling her way through the excited girls with a tray of food held high above her head.
"Back off," Gladys commanded the crowd, "Let Iris and Daphne eat their luncheon." Elsie, the little whore, having placed the tray on the table, began setting plates, cutlery and condiments before the hungry transmutes. Another whore appeared with a pitcher of milk and some glasses. Gladys, calmer after her outburst, sat down again next to Iris. Taking another drag on her cigarette, she said, "Look, don't worry. We're not going to eat you. It's certainly not your fault and there's not a thing anyone can do about it, anyway, you know. You're stuck as girls, and that's that."
Neither Iris nor Daphne responded, as they were stuffing themselves with food, but they both nodded their heads in understanding.
"The concubine strain, you said," Gladys continued, "That's really quite interesting. I knew Old Two Fingers had been toying with his bloody rashi-dharva—in the last few months we've acquired a new hat check girl and a new cigarette girl, who claimed they were sailors, but they're both servant class transmutes and don't interfere with our business. I really didn't think Old Two Fingers had the balls to try out the concubine strain. The results can be quite unpredictable. If you two are really concubine-class transmutes, then you're a couple of oversexed girlies—you'll be stiff competition for the rest of us.
"But don't worry—we have a code of honour here: all us girls, including transmutes, are in it together. All for one and one for all and that sort of thing. In the long run, you may be a godsend, actually. You're both blonde, you're both gorgeous, you both sound upper-class. My guess is that Old Two Fingers had his eye on you for quite some time: he's been complaining ever since the war began that he didn't have any real blondes in the stable. And there's no local supply, so it figures that he'd trot out the rashi-dharva sooner or later. Leona and Georgia must have been for practice, but you two were his real targets. He probably means to feature you, hoping to attract a better class of clientele, and he's probably right. Looking at you two, my guess is you could get fifty, maybe sixty Rupees an hour. Then we could all jack up our rates a bit, too. So, as I said, in the long run, you two might help out all of us."
A general murmur of assent arose from the clustered prostitutes.
Daphne was still eating ravenously, but Iris paused for a moment, laying her fork and knife down on her plate. "It's jolly good of you to look at it that way. I was afraid you might scratch our eyes out when you heard we were transmutes," she said, glancing uneasily at Gladys's long vermilion nails as she conveyed the cigarette to and from her lips. "As for being oversexed," Iris continued, "I can't speak for that, as I have no point of reference. I must say, though, that Daphne and I thoroughly enjoyed our encounter with Monsieur Vaudin (he's quite well-hung), and we're actually both looking forward to entertaining some clients tonight."
"Definitely concubine class!" Gladys exclaimed, almost triumphantly, turning towards the knot of prostitutes. Turning back to the transmutes, she added, "You think Vaudin's well-hung, do you? Well, that's the understatement of the year. He's hung like a gorilla. Most new girls are bloody basket cases after Vaudin's through with them—they aren't good for a thing for at least a week. I do wish Old Two Fingers would keep him in the kitchen where he belongs—he causes more problems than he solves. But in your case, one thing's clear if you actually enjoyed your session with Vaudin: you're concubine class transmutes for sure. Girls like you can do a dozen tricks a night and still be fresh as a daisy for each and every bloke, from the first to the last."
"A dozen?" exclaimed Daphne brightly, wiping a spot of applesauce from her cheek with her napkin, "La! I should jolly well like that!"
The remark provoked general tittering. When it died down, Mabel, another senior girl, who was dark and full-figured and had her hair in curlers, spoke up. "We're all dying to know… Well, you sound so upper crust. You don't talk like sailors or enlisted men. Not like Georgia or Leona at all."
"'Course we don't! We're officers!" Daphne declared with girlish pride.
"You mean 'were,' don't you Daph?" Iris gently corrected, cutting another piece of Beef Wellington.
"O, right. We're girls now. Can't be officers. Silly me! Were, then. "
"We were junior signals officers on Intrepid," Iris explained, chasing a bit of recalcitrant mushroom around the plate with her fork.
"Intrepid," echoed Mabel, "Intrepid's in port right now."
"You kiddos may be entertaining some of your old messmates tonight, then," added Gladys. "That ought to be interesting, especially…"
"Yes!" interrupted Daphne, smiling gaily between forkfuls of pork chop, "Isn't it grand? Being fucked by one's old messmates, I mean. And we have the most adorable white satin sailor-girl suits, too, lined with silk! I can hardly wait!"
"Actually, neither can I," Iris said as she finally speared the mushroom, her eyes sparkling at the prospect of getting fucked all night long by as many of her old chums as possible.
"I think you two will fit in quite nicely here," said Gladys with a wry little smile, patting Iris's shoulder, "But one of these days…. one of these days…. Old Two Finger's going to get a big surprise for playing around like this."
"What sort of big surprise?" Iris asked.
"Yes, what sort or surprise, Gladys?" asked several of the other girls.
"Just never you mind what sort of surprise. I have a few ideas, that's all," she said, stubbing out her cigarette in an ashtray and immediately holding her hand over her shoulder for another, which appeared instantaneously. "When the time comes, I'll tell you," she replied, accepting a light, "Now you two eat up. The two G's" (referring to the eunuch twins) "will be here shortly looking for you. They're always punctual to the minute."
True their promise, the two G's reappeared after exactly one hour had passed, in order to collect Iris and Daphne and convey them to the bordello's beauty salon to get their nails done and to be made up for the evening. Although the beauty salon was adjacent to the refectory, protocol for new girls dictated that they be escorted everywhere on their first day.
The beauty salon fell under the jurisdiction of Rajshree, who was also the bordello's wardrobe mistress. It was she who had bought the sailor-girl outfits at an auction in Paris a few years before. She was a dry and diminutive Indian woman, neat and compact, less than five feet tall and of indeterminate age: she could have been forty or sixty. The drabness of her person was in contrast to the brilliance of the sarees she wore, many in costly hand-painted silks. She was a proficient seamstress in her own right, but generally left the actual sewing to her assistants, reserving her skills for final adjustments of fit or drape, so a garment would reveal a girl's curves and hollows to perfection. Rajshree's girls always resembled fashion plates from the couture houses of Paris, Milan or New York, as a consequence of which the bordello could command higher prices for its goods.
Rajshree was also a skilled cosmetologist and hairdresser, having spent some years in the make-up department of the Chatterjee Film Studios in Delhi. But, as with her seamstress's abilities, she infrequently made up the girls herself, instead supervising others, or giving informal classes to the girls every few weeks. New transmutes, however, were put directly in her capable hands for the first week or so, until they had learned the rudiments of coiffure, foundation, blush, lip gloss, eyeliner, mascara, nail enamel and the application of beauty marks to face and bosom.
The salon was as plain in appearance as the refectory. Along one wall was a row of five sinks for shampooing. Along the opposite wall, which was mirrored floor to ceiling, stood the chairs, each with an adjacent rocket-shaped hair dryer on a stand. There were three or four low rolling tables covered with manicure and pedicure tools, solutions and enamels. Each table had a small rolling stool for the manicurist. A magazine rack at the end of the room opposite the entry held a number of women's magazines and pulp romance novels, all fairly dog-eared, some with their covers torn off.
The eunuchs' punctual arrival with Iris and Daphne was expected. Rajshree and her assistants—two Indian transmutes, Seena and Mukerjee, who wore yellow work smocks—formed a little welcoming committee. They promptly introduced themselves and advanced towards the girls to take them in hand before the twins could make their usual tag team announcement. The tiny Rajshree, who was heartily fed up, in a good-natured way, with years of the eunuchs' inanities, shooed the giants away with mock crossness, clucking like an angry hen, "Go, go, go, go go! Thank you for bringing them. Come back at six-thirty. They will be ready by then. Go, go, go, go!" The eunuchs, abashed, turned to go, but Rajshree, remembering something, called out, "You, Ghopal! You, Ghulam! Please to be bringing the new girls' sailor-girl outfits. I was almost forgetting."
"Yes, Rajshree," said the eunuchs is chorus, "Do not be worrying. We shall bring them straightaway." Then they departed.
Left alone with the girls and her assistants, Rajshree, stroking her small chin with one thin hand, stepped back a few paces to survey the new transmutes, just as an artist, stepping back from a canvas, might regard an unfinished painting. She walked round them slowly two or three times, viewing them from all angles, taking mental note of their bust, waist and hips, how they held themselves, what would need emphasis and what would not. She noted with approval that the girls' figures really had no bad points. All was in perfect proportion; their large breasts balanced nicely with the broadness of their hips, while both breasts and hips emphasised the slimness of their high waists and harmonised with their long, shapely legs and the delectable fullness of their bottoms. They were extraordinarily lovely girls by Western standards. Rajshree saw in them a pleasant challenge to enhance their natural beauty to its maximum by the use of her arts.
"Tch, tch, tch!" she remarked, her inspection complete, "I fear there is nothing to be doing for your hair, girls, until it is growing out. But please to be sitting over there in those two chairs at the looking-glass, and Seena, Mukerjee and I shall beautify the rest of you!" said the little woman, shaking her head and smiling at the same time. "Please to be removing your stockings, so that we can be doing your pedicures." Before taking their places, Iris and Daphne and Iris ungartered their nylons, peeled them off and passed them to Mukerjee, who put them aside. The girls settled into the designated chairs.
"Give them a proper pedicure," commanded Rajshree. "As for their fingernails, simply be putting on false ones for now; their own are too short to be doing anything with. I'll do their faces myself."
Iris and Daphne, both relatively silent, gave polite, but monosyllabic answers to questions the Indian transmutes asked them. That they were considered—by other women—as exemplars of feminine beauty, to be buffed, powdered and painted, pampered, clad in fine silks and treated like starlets, was erotically stimulating. So each lay back, lost in her own thoughts, marvelling that, as girls, they could attain a surprising degree of sexual excitement with nothing external to show for it besides a hardening of their nipples.
Iris, her feet soaking in the warm softening solution, languidly extended her fingers on the manicurist's table, allowing Seena to trim her cuticles and to prepare her nails for the cement that would hold the false nails in place. Closing her eyes, she drifted into that fugue state between waking and unconsciousness where one quicksilvery dream follows another in rapid succession. Iris saw herself, not in her sailor-girl outfit, but in a lovely flowing gown of black satin, her soft white shoulders bare and her hands and forearms covered in black satin gloves that went up to her elbows. She was gliding about a ballroom in the arms of various elegant men—men dressed in black evening clothes, all handsome, their hair brilliantined in the continental fashion, with narrow Erroll Flynn moustaches and each with a red buttonière and incongruous Argyle socks and white shoes. As she was whirled out onto the floor by each new partner, her previous one joined the ranks of old partners ranged up against the wall, where they murmured to one another behind their hands and pointed discreetly in her direction, discussing her grace, her beauty and her deep allure while nodding their heads in knowledgeable approval.
Then she was in a big room, propped up on goosefeather pillows in a lovely canopied four-poster bed with a quilted headboard of pink satin, clad only in black silk panties and no bra, but she had pulled the covers up to her neck so no one could see that she was essentially nude. Each of her dancing partners would enter the room, one at a time, in the same order she had danced with them, and each would slowly draw off the pink satin bedclothes, exposing her, like some sacred female idol. She attracted them like a magnet attracts iron filings: they could not choose but to come to her, to worship her, to give her the pleasure it was her feminine birthright to claim. After kissing her passionately on her eyes, her mouth, her neck, her breasts, her back, each, at her explicit command, would slip off her panties (she would raise her bottom off the bed to assist him) and would reverentially fuck her. Then suddenly the room would be empty, she would be back under the covers, her black silk panties on again—until the next partner entered and the same scene unfolded. How delicious to be danced with and worshipped, to be kissed and admired, to have one's panties slipped off… and to be fucked by so many handsome men with Erroll Flynn moustaches, who had no choice in the matter, so powerful was her attraction! Men were mere nothings—poor, forked creatures with hairy bodies and coarse voices, who had only one purpose on earth: to serve her womanly needs. How delightful to be a blonde goddess!
Daphne also drifted off into semi-consciousness; she dreamt she had a wardrobe of soft, frothy frocks, with lots of flounces and ribbons, lots of pretty lace and wide bows in pastel colours. She saw herself wearing first one, then another of these gowns, each of them floor length. On her feet were soft, flat-heeled slippers covered in white raw silk, which allowed her to glide about as if on castors, her skirt standing so far out from her that she had to press it in with both hands to get through doorways, so it wouldn't get snagged, and if she bent at the waist the skirt would sway like a bell, all in one piece. But, no, the skirt wasn't a bell, it was a church bell, many church bells, and she was the bride, with bridesmaids holding up the train of her wedding-gown as she walked slowly towards the altar on her father's arm, her radiant face only slightly obscured by her white wedding veil, her father's eyes moist at marrying off his favourite daughter, his little Daffy (his pet name for her). It had all happened so quickly! Only yesterday she was twelve, wearing a garter belt and stockings for the first time! Only yesterday did she have her first period, but Mother had gone up to London to have a crown put on a tooth, so she was all alone and afraid and did not know what to do! And now here she was marrying Phillip (for that was his name)!
There he was, Phillip, waiting for her at the altar, he, in his major's uniform, the mirrored scabbard of his dress-sword sparkling in the June sunlight filtering into the church through the tall elms outside. Rings were exchanged (her hand looked so small and so pale, even against the virginal whiteness of her filigreed sleeve, and her ring glowed gold on her tiny finger), her veil was lifted, she was kissed—the kiss made her dissolve in a soft whirlwind of satin and lace and wedding flowers. She rematerialised, but she was now heavy with child, her breasts huge and leaking colostrum. Labour pains had already set in, but somehow she was already back from the lying-in hospital, smiling and reclining in bed, wearing her favourite blue-quilted dressing-gown and suckling her baby while her sisters and girlfriends, her mother and aunts, all paraded through to admire her and her beautiful baby. No, the labour was not long. Yes, of course she'd have another! Just as soon is this one was weaned. But somehow she already had another—in fact, she quite forgot she had had twin girls. No, that's not right, either: they were triplets! Now there were dimpled babies everywhere, adorable in their helplessness, all of them hers, all of them smiling their best babysmiles, utterly dependent upon her for everything! And she, she of all women, had everything to give them.
Yes, such was the power of the rashi-dharva concubine strain that it continued to work on the transmutes even after their physical transformation into women was complete It feminised their minds, their souls and their spirits; realigned their desires, aspirations and instincts; created poignant girlhood memories of events which had never occurred; heightened their perception of colour; endowed them with a special appreciation for clothing and fabrics—and destroyed their ability to tell a good joke or to judge distances, heights or velocities with any degree of accuracy whatever.
"Wake up, new English Misses, wake up!" It was Rajshree, summoning Iris and Daphne back from their sweet feminine daydreams. "Your nails are all done! You should be admiring them, not dozing away like so many lazybones!"
The transmutes were surprised to find that they now had long, ovaloid fingernails, painted in the house shade of vermilion; their toenails were of the same shade. They turned their little hands over and back several times, entranced at this latest addition to their feminine arsenal.
"Um," ventured Daphne, "They're lovely, quite lovely indeed. But don't you think they're just a trifle too long?""
"Yes. They're simply smashing," Iris added, "But a girl could maim herself with these stilettos just getting dressed or going to the loo!"
"I could not possibly button a button much less hook my bra with claws like these!" Daphne complained.
"Now, now, now, now! All new girls always saying the same," rejoined Rajshree, with kindly impatience. "You shall soon becoming quite skillful in wearing long nails. And besides, these are the regulation house length of twenty-two millimetres. We have twenty-fives and twenty-eights, but not for beginners. But please to be quiet. I am now to be doing your faces…. I do not want to be disturbed by such silly whinings over such perfect nails!"
The transmutes, eager to have their faces made up, held their tongues, but, like cats testing their claws, they repeatedly flexed and extended their vermilion-tipped fingers as if to accustom themselves to having long nails.
Rajshree proceeded to apply her considerable skills in making up the girls' faces—Daphne first, then Iris—so that, at the end of half an hour, they really did resemble movie goddesses. Rajshree's masterful application of lip gloss, foundation and rouge brought out the natural depth of their complexions, lending their skin an almost translucent quality. Eye-liner and mascara lent their bright blue eyes an almost supernatural quality. Daphne made the cardinal error of attempting scratch an itch on her cheek, only to receive a quick slap on the back of her hand before she could damage her make-up.
"Not to be touching your faces, girls, which is a very bad habit to be having, as touching will be ruining your makeup!" Rajshree chided. "For the next week at least, I shall be doing your makeup, and will be imploring you not to ever touch it so it will be lasting from four o'clock in the afternoon until four in the morning! You may need touch-ups between clients, which some of the more experienced girls can be doing for you."
Iris and Daphne looked at one another, startled anew at their stunning beauty enhanced by Rajshree's professional makeup. Then, of course, the two had to inspect their lovely faces in the looking-glass—making smiles, frowns, drop-dead looks, putting their chins in the air, tucking them down, pouting like naughty little girls, pursing their lips and making their eyes big in innocent surprise, raising their lovely arched eyebrows in terminal boredom, looking sultry and seductive, shooting come-hither glances—in short, regarding themselves from every possible angle and with every possible expression their gorgeous faces could assume.
"I say, Daph," Iris said, "We're gonna knock 'em dead tonight with looks like these!"
"I really like what Rajshree did with my cheeks," bubbled Daphne, "She made my cheekbones look prominent, with that bit of high-fashion hollow below. Can't wait to try my smouldering look on some poor chap!" (It should be noted that Daphne's "smouldering look" on her wholesome blonde features had an amusing puppyish innocence about it. Iris, on the other had, could turn on a very convincing one that promised plenty of heat should it burst into flame.)
"You will be getting your chances very soon," said Rajshree . "I think I hear the two G's in the corridor." She had barely finished speaking when the eunuch twins entered the beauty salon, the transmutes' sailor-girl costumes draped over their arms.
"Ah!" cried Rajshree, forestalling another tag-team proclamation, "The costumes! Thank you for bringing them! Let us repair to the stitchery so I can be making final adjustments." She took the outfits, shooed the twins back out the door and glared at them until they retreated down the corridor.
The entire contingent, including Seena and Mukerjee, stepped across the corridor to the stitchery, a room fitted out as a tailor shop, with a large cutting table in the center. Two commercial sewing machines stood against one wall. Grey and black dresses' dummies in various sizes were ranged against another wall. The end of the room held several unpainted pipe racks densely hung with glittering costumes such as are common in girlie revues at exclusive nightclubs and casinos. There was also a rack devoted to fancy frocks. Shelves running along the walls held extravagant sequinned or feathered headdresses, some of them two or three feet tall. Other shelves held bolts of colourful fabrics—mostly satins—as well as large spools of trim and rick-rack in white, gold, silver and black. All was exceptionally neat and tidy, much like the person of Rajshree herself.
Iris and Daphne gasped to see this wealth of elegant feminine raiment. Iris imagined herself strutting about in a strapless costume, form-fitting and unskirted, like a bathing costume, covered with large silvery sequins in layers, like fish scales She saw herself wearing six-inch heels, a towering headdress of pink-and-white ostrich plumes, and elbow-length pink velvet gloves (of course). When she stepped into the spotlight on the intimate stage, men would applaud even before she began her number. She would find the handsomest one in the crowd, and direct her singing only to him. Afterwards, during the standing ovation, he would cast a bouquet of red roses at her feet. During her break, after she'd removed her tall headdress, he would seek her out and buy her a drink and then he would take her back to his hotel. He would fuck her all night (but she'd be on top more than half of the time), and they'd have breakfast in bed the next morning—eggs Benedict and strawberry crêpes. The next night, she would wear the same costume and find another handsome man she could fuck.
Daphne, on the other hand, imagined herself a beautiful fairy princess in a white bouffant frock tied about the waist with a broad pink satin sash. The frock had puff sleeves, but was nonetheless daringly low-cut. She had on a sparking rhinestone diadem and carried a slender blue wand with a gold star at the end. She saw herself flitting about like a gaudy firefly, looking for a prince charming to enchant with a tap of her wand. Once tapped, he would have no choice but to marry her. They would live happily ever after in a fairy-tale castle and she could have all the babies she wanted.
So much for the imaginings of these transmuted men, female for less than a day!
Rajshree, seeing the girls daydreaming again, clapped her hands sharply. "Please to be putting on your sailor-girl suits, Iris and Daphne." she said, in mock sternness, "You will be trying on some other costumes in due time. But for now, it is the sailor-girl suits."
The girls did as they were bade, taking great care not to touch their makeup in slipping their blouses on and off. Rajshree had each stand in turn on a low platform. With pins in her mouth and a sharp-edged piece of blue soap in her hand, she slowly walked about them, carefully examining the fit, taking in a seam here, marking a seam to be let out there. In particular, she had to let out the darts in the front of both girls' sailor blouses, as they had been sewn with smaller-busted girls in mind. When she was done with each girl, she ordered her to disrobe again, and to give her costume to Mukerjee and Seena, who ripped out the marked seams and restitched them. Within about an hour, the sewing machines were silent again and the costumes were complete.
The two transmutes, exquisitely made up and wearing their perfectly-fitted sailor-girl suits, really looked as if they had just stepped off a Hollywood set. They were stunningly gorgeous—and they knew it. Only a day earlier, when they were still naval officers, they could never have imagined in their wildest dreams that they would soon be luscious blondes about to make their debut—as prostitutes—in the very same bordello that they had come to visit as clients the previous evening. And they certainly could never have imagined that they'd eagerly be looking forward to it.
Everything in the transmutes' existence was now fixed on the present and on the immediate future. Life on the Intrepid seemed ever so long ago. They could hardly remember anything about it—perhaps they had merely dreamed they were officers in the Royal Navy. Girls sometimes do have dreams like that, after all…..
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