For your reading pleasure, I present: Edith Bellamy's Elphinstone Formula Part Four.
BOOK IV— PREPARATION
The eunuchs took the girls first to their bedroom on the bordello's fourth story, to grant them a few hours to settle in before dinner-time. The room, which slept four, though not exactly Spartan, was of the girls' boarding school variety—but a little too pink—with plain iron bedsteads against opposite walls, four pink deal dressers and four deal wardrobes of the same hue. The room's three windows were curtained in pink chintz. Photos of various male cinema stars, clipped from cheap British and American "silver screen" magazines, were tacked to the walls. The brown-painted deal floor had a colourful rag rug alongside each of the beds, but was otherwise bare. Not fitting in with the dormitory scheme of décor were four pink vanities, whose mirrors were professionally lighted like the makeup mirrors in backstage dressing rooms, with rows of bare bulbs along three edges. Two of the vanities were cluttered with bottles, tubes, powder-boxes, lipsticks, brushes and various other implements and supplies a girl might need to make herself up. An unopened white cardboard box sat on each of the other two vanities. Each vanity had a small nameplate set into a grooved mahogany base, of the sort bureaucrats have on their desks. The nameplates on the two cluttered ones read "Leona" and "Georgia," and the two with the white cardboard boxes, "Iris" and "Daphne."
"We are now leaving you here for two hours," Ghulam said,
"After which we shall be bringing you to dinner," added Ghopal.
"But before we are leaving you, we must be pointing out one special feature of your room, on Dr. P.'s orders," they both said together in an apologetic tone, casting their eyes downwards to signal that pointing out this special feature was an unpleasant but necessary duty.
"New English Misses, please to be looking here on the wall near the beds," said Ghopal, pointing to a couple of small but stout steel rings fixed to the wall about three feet from the floor near the head of one pair of beds, along the wall opposite the windows.
"We are not needing to explain, except to say that a bad girl is sometimes not being allowed to leave her bedroom," (this was Ghulam speaking).
"Being restrained by a punishment leash being locked to the ring on the wall," concluded Ghopal, tapping with ominous significance the two rings in succession.
"We are now leaving you," they chimed in together, their faces again registering cherubic benignity, "Be good girls and do not be fretting about the rings, for they are not very used. We will be sending now for your roommates Leona and Georgia so you can be meeting them."
"I think we may already have," muttered Iris, as the twins left the room, leaving the door ajar.
"Gosh," said Daphne with a shudder, once they were alone, jerking a thumb towards the wall, "I certainly don't like the look of those rings. Imagine being chained up to one of those by your…… by your you-know-what, Eye!"
"That would be a rum deal for sure," Iris concurred, unconsciously bringing her hand down to her crotch and palpating herself delicately, as if expecting the spot to be already tender and sore. She could easily feel the outline of her ring through the satin and silk of her garments. She, too, shuddered at the thought of being leashed to a wall by a stainless steel chain clipped to her labia. "But if we toe the line, we ought to be safe?" she said, in more of an interrogative than a declarative tone, thrusting her hand down inside her panties to reposition her ring downwards (for it had somehow flipped up).
"Yes. We ought to be safe. I think. One can't not worry about it, though" said Daphne, her pretty brow furrowed with concern, "It's so… so…. deucedly barbaric. And my bloody ring itches!" She also reached down inside the front of her panties to readjust her ring to a more comfortable position and to scratch herself daintily.
"And degrading, too!" Iris continued in an indignant voice. "Dr. P has no right to treat us girls like this!" She pretended to idly rub the tip of her nose, but she really just wanted to sniff the finger she had repositioned her ring with—she was excited by smell of her female musk and made a mental note to dig a bit deeper next time she needed to scratch herself down there. Despite her indignant tone, the truth is, she found the idea of her labial ring to be exciting, but she could not say so to Daphne.
An image of herself, nude, suddenly flashed through Iris's mind. She was being led, by a slim silver leash clipped to her ring, through a sunny park, its low hills covered with long silky grass and June flowers. It was very hot. A man, whose face she could not see because he was walking in front of her, casually held her leash. He was smoking as he strolled across the grass, paying no attention to her and not glancing back. He was dressed in a beige summer suit and wore a Panama hat. He was looking about for a soft, shady spot where he could fuck her. She was grasping the leash to keep some slack between her hand and the ring. She had to half-run every so often to keep up with the man's longer stride. At first she liked being led about like a sheep or a cow, but now she was tired from trying to keep up, and hoped the man would find a shady spot soon so she could lie down and be fucked. He abruptly halted under a copper beech, threw his cigarette on the grass, grinding it out with his heel, turned around and smoothly unclipped her leash. She gasped: the man was Dr. Pradesh. The image faded as quickly as it had popped into her head.
Daphne, who was turning out to be quite the dainty thing, did not smell her fingers after re-adjusting her ring. She frowned to see Iris do it. Daphne was unwilling to discuss at greater length how girls ought or ought not be treated, even though she now was one herself; she did not wish to contemplate further her own labial ring and its possible uses, so she quickly changed the subject by asking, "Now, whose bed is whose?"
Her question was easily answered, for each girl's name was embroidered in scarlet on the lower right corner of each counterpane. Georgia and Leona had the beds on the window side of the room; Iris and Daphne, being the new girls, were given the beds against the opposite wall. Each girl made straight for her dresser and wardrobe to examine their contents. "Oooo's" and "Ahhhh's" of approbation ensued as they discovered their lovely lingerie, their jumpers, their frocks, shoes, belts, scarves and various fashion accessories.
Delighted with their new possessions, they turned next to their vanities, curious to learn what the cardboard boxes contained. It should come as no surprise that each box was filled with new cosmetics, combs, brushes, tweezers, looking-glasses of various sizes, compacts and other makeup paraphernalia…. and an inner box of costume jewellery—bracelets, earrings, necklaces and so forth, as well as a rhinestone tiara apiece. Most of the cosmetics were identical in brand and colour from one box to the other. The Elphinstone Road bordello was well-organised: the management clearly wanted its girls (or at least its blonde girls) to have a distinctive "house look."
While Iris and Daphne were examining their new acquisitions, the bordello's two other English transmutes—Georgia and Leona—quietly entered the room. They stood just inside the doorway. They wore plain cotton dresses in big floral prints and had on nylons and heels: Georgia—tall, big-breasted and graceless, her hands on her hips, and Leona—slight and slinky and slouching a bit, arms folded high to conceal her flatchestedness. They were stunned by the blonde beauty of their new roommates. At length, Georgia nudged Leona, who spoke.
"Say theah, you must be the new giwls. I'm Leona. And this heah is Geowgia," she chirped, unfolding her arms and gesturing towards her companion. "We've got wings in ouwah labia. How about you?"
Leona, tactless as a toilet seat, always blurted out the first thing that flitted into her vacuous mind regardless of the situation, which is why Georgia had nudged her to speak first. "The other giwls say," she continued, "That having a wing means you wuh a man in an eawliah life. Pwetty widiculous, dontcha think?" She tittered nervously and blushed, ashamed of her unpardonable brashness, which was beyond her control.
"Well, as a matter of fact, we do have rings," replied Iris with forced nonchalance, and she blushed more deeply than Leona, not wishing to admit that she and Daphne had also been demoted from men to the status of female chattel, to be chained up or led about, like livestock, by leashes snapped into rings—not in their noses, but in a girl's most private and tenderest of places.
"Rings are quite the fashion this year. Everyone who's anyone has one, even the Duchess of Windsor, I hear," Iris confabulated. "And as far as what we may have been in the past, Daphne and I have always been dumb blondes."
"You don't sound too dumb to me," Leona replied. "Sounds to me, the way you talk, like you've been to univewsity."
"University? Us?" protested Daphne with feigned innocence, "Not a chance. We just picked up this way of talking from our upper-class clients. We can charge more if we talk like this."
"That's right," lied Iris, "From our upper-class clients. Anyway, I'm Iris and this is Daphne. We're pleased to meet you. Perhaps you can show us the ropes. We have to start work right after dinner, in the Victorian Suite."
"The Victorian Suite?" echoed Georgia. "I only saw it once, my first day here, when that horrid Frenchman raped me. I was sore for three days!"
"Same heah," added Leona. "When he waped me. That man is an animal!"
"O, well, we thought he was quite the thing!" responded Daphne. "I mean, not his personality, of course (after all, he is French), but he sure knows how to stuff it into a girl!"
"Well!" Georgia responded with an exaggerated flick of her wrist, "That's because you're both pros and have lots of experience. Leona and I were virgins, and we don't sleep with the blokes. I'm the cigarette girl, and Leona checks the coats and hats. Dr P. says were frigid. We don't even need copper bows according to Dr. P."
"Copper bows?" echoed Iris, raising her eyebrows.
"Well! You know, those things they stick into your womb to keep you from having a baby."
"O, those. Yes, of course. I see," replied Iris, who did not see at all, and for whom such an idea was an utter novelty. "But the other girls have them?"
"Most of 'em 'cept me and Leona. You two have 'em, dontcha?" Georgia asked, cocking one hip and placing her hand on it.
"Y….y…yes, of course," Iris replied, glancing swiftly at Daphne. But Daphne was not paying attention. She was staring intently at Georgia, with a small scowl of concentration on her otherwise vapid face.
"You…er, you look… familiar," Daphne said, addressing Georgia with hesitation, as if trying to remember where she had seen her before. "Haven't we met?"
"Ever been in the restaurant downstairs?"
This drew a blank look from Daphne. She didn't really know if she had or hadn't.
Before Daphne could think it out in her wooly blonde brain, Georgia said, "Say, you look familiar as well….. and you, too," she continued, pointing at Iris. "I've seen you two somewhere before, I'm sure."
Iris added to the confusion by swearing she'd seen Leona somewhere, and Leona, to top it off, admitted that the two newcomers looked familiar to her as well. The four girls, folded their arms and looked at each other, smiling in friendly bafflement, none quite able to pinpoint where she had met the others before. Now, in truth, each girl really knew she had been a man (though this knowledge was rather hazy), but Iris and Daphne didn't want to admit it in front of the other two, while Georgia and Leona, by now being "old hands" at being girls, didn't want to admit their male pasts, either. So all of them simply avoided the issue for the moment, and began instead to chatter in high nervous voices, as girls often do when they wish to ignore a topic that is mutually unpleasant or embarrassing.
"I just adore your sailor-suits!" Georgia gushed, holding up her forearm and limply flexing her hand at the wrist to coincide with 'adore,' "Don't you, Lee?"
"O, yes, theah simply fab!" Leona squeaked, "'Specially how the twousers fit wownd yoah bottoms. I always have to weah a dwess when I'm wehking. Wish I had twousers like youahs! And your boobs are so big, too—lucky giwls!"
"I have the cutest cigarette girl costume!" bragged Georgia, taking her cue, for her breasts were almost as large as Iris's, "You'll see it shortly, when I put it on for the evening. It has the sweetest little organ-grinder monkey's hat! The only thing I hate about it is that the top has no support, so I'm practically spilling out of it all the time. But that just seems to sell more cigarettes."
"Yes, we saw you wearing your costume last night, Georgia," Iris commented, suddenly assuming a serious tone. For some reason Iris was, at that moment, able to tap into her male past a bit more effectively than the other three girls; her masculine memories suddenly welled up from subconsciousness like a clear spring rising from the side of a mountain. "It was cute. Very. I especially liked how you wore your garter belt under your purple satin briefs. And I was hoping you really would spill out of your top. I had come to spend the night with Fiona and Sarah, but you were so lovely I wanted to fuck you instead. I could have last night. Now I can't!"
The chattering instantly ceased. All eyes turned to Iris as if her hair were on fire.
"Look, we can stop playing around now, girls," Iris resumed in a low, sober voice, conscious that the others were perturbed by her comments. "Were all transmutes, right ?You, Georgia—you were George Perkins, right? Late of Intrepid?"
"Well! Y….y….yes…. yes. I was Perkins," replied Georgia, frowning, the memory of her male self having been dredged up from forgetfulness by Iris's prompting. Georgia's big, doe-like brown eyes welled with tears and her lower lip trembled as she stammered, "And y…y…you were Ian Davenport. And Daphne there, was David Grainger. Right? You were sitting at table thirteen last night. I dropped my tray right in front of your table and sat down on the floor and cried."
Iris and Daphne nodded their heads and began to sniffle, trying hard not to cry, not because they didn't want to (they did want to, being girls), but because they were afraid to ruin their makeup.
"And Leona was Leonard Hynes," Georgia continued, "A seaman off Ajax. Dr. P. changed him into a girl in Calcutta last year, kind of for practice." This information now being out of the bag, Leona, too, began to weep softly. Soon all four girls were blubbering; they sat down on Georgia's bed to hug and console one another, but Iris and Daphne scrupulously kept their faces clear of the sisterly embrace. Georgia noticed their avoidance, and said, laughing through her tears, "O, don't worry about your makeup! Have a good cry! Leona and I can patch you up just fine in a jiffy. We're experts by now. We can show you everything you need to know about makeup. Or about being girls. Well, almost everything about being girls," she said, glancing at Leona and blushing. "Meanwhile, just have yourselves a good cry."
So Iris and Daphne let loose for the first time since early that morning, when they had just discovered they were female. These were the last tears of remorse they were to shed for quite some time.
The four transmutes soon stopped crying, mainly because, being girls, they were anxious to talk about girlish things, and their obligatory cry had been quite satisfactory. So while Georgia and Leona repaired the new girls' ruined makeup as promised, they all engaged in brisk feminine patter, no longer in high-pitched, nervous tones, but with that bright animation peculiar to women, so necessary to disseminate as much female information as rapidly as possible.
Iris and Daphne, of course, wanted to hear about the mysteries of menstruation. Each was afraid of suddenly beginning to bleed without any warning, ruining their nice white sailor-girl suits and making laughing-stocks of themselves. It was hard for them to conceive that their vaginas, which had already given them so much pleasure, could abruptly turn traitor, so to speak, and make them miserable on a regular basis, in concert with phases of the moon. They knew that girls bled and were vaguely aware that when they started their periods they would need some sort of special absorbent things that came in little pink or white boxes, but that was the extent of their knowledge.
"Um, what's it like the first time when you…. when you… you know, when you, um, get your p…p…period?" hazarded Daphne, flushing crimson, who was afraid of bleeding to death at any moment from that mysterious aperture she still knew so little about.
"Well! You'll get used to your monthlies soon enough," chirped Georgia, as she finished restoring Daphne's eyeshadow to perfection with a flourish of her camel's hair brush, and turning to Leona for confirmation of what she'd just said.
"Don't look at me, Geowgie," protested Leona, while applying a powder puff to Iris's cheeks with deft little dabs, "I'm still not used to mine! The bloats foah a week so my giwdle's too tight, cwamps for thwee days, clots for five. It's disgusting, if you ask me. I'd just as soon have the thing out! "
"Well! I have to admit," conceded Georgia, "It's not always a bed of roses: my boobs swell and get pretty tender just before my flow. And I get cramps about half the time. When Lee and I have our monthlies, they make us keep working because we're not pros, and aren't expected to fuck, but you two'll get three to five days off every month. Blokes don't want a girl who's bleeding. The house'll give you a belt and all the pads you need, or tampons, if that's what you want. Tampons are the latest thing, you know, they go inside you. At first, I didn't want to try 'em as I didn't like sticking anything in there (you can lose things!), but they're really a heck of a lot neater. They leak less, so you don't have to wash out your panties quite so often. Besides, pads are bulky—they show under my satin briefs, and they chafe when they're all soaked through. But whichever you decide you want, Lee and I'll show you how to use 'em."
"Go with tampons," advised Leona, nodding sagely, "Believe me, you'll nevah wegret it. They'ah a giwl's best fwiend in huh Time of Need."
"Tell us more about these copper things you were talking about, Georgia" said Daphne, who was feeling a bit queasy and wanted to steer the subject away from any further chat about bleeding.
"Well! You know that stupid sect Old Two Fingers is the boss of? The Sakati, or whatever he calls 'em? Well! About a million years ago, these Sakati blokes figured out that if you shove a twisted bit of copper wire up a girl's pussy, all the way into her womb, then she can't get knocked up. The house makes all the pros use 'em, because they don't want you taking time off to have babies. But Gladys heisted one of those metal things Dr. P. sticks in you when he checks you each month—you know, that thing that opens you up—and she knows how to use it. You can see all the way up in there with a torch! I looked up Lee's and she looked up mine, and then we looked up ourselves with a mirror. Like I said, we don't have those copper things: you can't see 'em anyway, 'cause they're inside your womb, but they have a little black string that sticks out of that little hole in the lower end of your womb, and Lee and I didn't have any strings when we looked. I think Two Fingers put 'em in us at first just in case something happened with Vaudin, but, once he knew that we didn't like to fuck, I think he pulled them out as soon as he saw we got our first periods. O, now I remember," she added as an afterthought, "That metal thing Gladys heisted is called a speculum. Dr. P. sticks it in you and ratchets it open. It's not too bad if you can relax yourself, otherwise it's uncomfortable. He runs warm water over it first so it won't feel cold."
Iris and Daphne looked at one another and shuddered. Her curiosity about the rings satisfied, Iris next asked, "What do you mean, you don't like to fuck? I thought all us 'new girls' liked to do it. Daphne and I can barely wait 'til tonight!"
"Well!" expostulated Georgia, flapping her hand limply at the wrist again and blinking dramatically, "According to Gladys, who seems to know everything, not all transmuted girls are the same. She says we come in four models: servants, dancers, singers and concubines. Or sometimes a sort of a tutti-frutti."
"That's wight," Leona said, licking the tip of her index finger and smoothing down a ruffled part of one eyebrow with it. "And the word is, you lucky two got the concubine stwain of that stuff. You know, that washi-dhahva, that tuwns you into a giwl. That's why you like fucking. We're sewhvant class twansmutes—we'd love to fuck, but we nevah seem to get tuwned on. Geowgie and I have twied getting one anothah off a few times, but it nevah seems to work. It's sad, weally, because we both wather like men," she continued in a mournful tone, making a sweeping gesture towards the walls of the room to include the many leading man photos tacked up as visible testament to their thwarted heterosexual affinities.
"What a waste," Iris replied, "You're both such lovely things! I should think that any man would want to take you to bed. Perhaps Daphne and I can help you when it comes to orgasms. We've each had several already today—easy as plucking ripe peaches off a tree. They're absolutely yummy—much more intense than man-ones, plus they seem to go on ever so long, and when they're finally over, you're already up for another. Once you have one, you're addicted. It's quite the best thing about being a girl!"
"Lucky you!" Leona cried. After a moment's reflection, she narrowed her eyes and asked, "How could you help us? You're giwls like us."
"We are indeed," replied Iris, smiling a bit wickedly, "And we each have a girl's soft little fingers and our pink little girl-tongues. Not nearly as good as a stiff cock, I admit, but pretty damn good just the same. Don't worry, we'll show you what we can do." Iris felt quite attracted to Georgia (as she had been last night, as Davenport), and would have liked like nothing better than to get into her panties at the first opportunity. In fact, Iris had become quite moist soon after Georgia had entered the bedroom. Georgia, seeing Iris's smile, blushed like a schoolgirl and cast her eyes downwards.
Daphne (who was, we can now see, somewhat of a nominal prude), blushed at Iris's reference to cunnilingus and changed the subject again. She turned towards Georgia and said, "A little bit ago you mentioned your 'next exam,' as if exams are something that happen a lot. What's the story?"
"Well!" replied Georgia, perking up and flapping her hand again limply, "Old Two Fingers likes to keep his hand in (not to make a pun), especially with the pros, so ya get a pelvic about once every month, or any time if you're spotting or running a discharge. Ya can't work if you've got the clap. He has some black market penicillin he'll give you if you get it: one shot and 'Boom!' You're all cured. 'Course, for me and Lee it's different, since we’re not fucking anyone, but because we were having trouble with our periods at first, he kept checking us."
"Trouble? What sort of trouble," Daphne asked.
"Well!" confided the tall brunette, with the flap of the hand, "We were spotting all the time, you know, but after our fourth or so period, we don't spot anymore."
"I hope that doesn't happen to us," Daphne said, with plaintive edge in her voice.
"Do you two know where Dr. P. keeps the rashi-dharva?" Iris asked, abruptly changing the subject once more.
"Gladys says it's in a wall safe downstaihs on the secure level, in a woom next to the lab'watowy wheah he does his expewiments," Leona replied. "She hasn't seen it hewself, but Bill, the bloke who installed the safe, is one of her clients, and she said that he said that all theah is in the safe is a bunch of old bottles with cawks in 'em, filled with some gweenish powdah. And some jahs full of a sticky gweenish paste that smells sawt of like dwied mushwooms. The labels are all witten in Hindi or something, so Bill couldn't wead 'em. Gladys keeps saying she'd like to get her hands on some of that stuff, but the two G's keep a close eye on the elevatah."
Further discourse on rashi-dharva was abruptly curtailed by the unexpected appearance of Dr. Pradesh himself, who had entered the room without knocking. Leona and Georgia sprang to their feet, bowed their heads and made namaste; Iris and Daphne, with barely a momentary lag, sprang to their feet as well and assumed the same posture. When they saw, from the corner of their eyes, that Georgia and Leona had raised their heads and dropped their hands to their sides after some prescribed interval, or at some subtle signal from the doctor that they had not yet learned to detect, they did the same. All four stared fixedly at the floor and trembled lest they had been overheard.
It would have been clear even to a child that their animated discussion had concerned the doctor, but he betrayed no indication that he had heard any part of it. He was already dressed in his elegant evening wear and was casually smoking one of his Chesterfields. He had evidently decided to relieve the eunuch twins of their duties on this one occasion, so he could see for himself how Iris and Daphne were getting on.
"Well, well, well," he began in a suave and condescending tone, "I see the four of you are already chattering away like fast friends. Excellent! Excellent! New girls like Iris and Daphne always have so many questions, which is precisely why I assigned them to the same room as you two," he continued, patting Leona and Georgia on their rumps in the most demeaning possible way, with a superior leer on his face, "As I am certain you two have all the answers. Is there anything, Iris or Daphne, that you need?" He exhaled a long plume of smoke which drifted languidly towards the girls in a flat and widening layer of blue in the still air of the bedroom.
"No thank you, Dr. P." Iris responded. "I am well provided for."
"And you, Daphne?" inquired the doctor, taking a another drag on his cigarette.
"Actually, Dr. P., now that you ask," Daphne responded, "Would it be too much to have Rajshree make me up a nice powder blue flouncy frock, with puffy sleeves and petticoats? I'd prefer one like that to this sailor-girl suit, and to all those elegant satin frocks in the wardrobe, if you please, Sir."
The other three girls exchanged horrified glances, expecting the doctor to be angry at such an impertinent suggestion.
But Dr. Pradesh could not restrain a satisfied chuckle. He never ceased to be amazed at the unpredictable quirkiness of the rashi-dharva. Here was a near-perfect concubine class transmute, who had, after all, exhausted his French trainer not four hours earlier, and had robbed him as well (for Vaudin had reported the theft of his money, which the doctor had correctly interpreted as a sign of female aggressiveness in his newest and most prized prostitutes). And yet this very same transmute had a penchant for little-girl dresses! He was willing to wager that she already had aspirations of settling down in a cosy cottage in Kent to be the perfect little English housewife and mother!
Though Dr. Pradesh had not intended Daphne to be the girl-next-door sort, his entreprenurial mind quickly grasped the commercial potential of having precisely this wholesome type of blonde whore in his stable. He instantly resolved to direct Rajshree to whip up a wardrobe of soft, frilly things for Daphne, complete with frothy bras, ruffled panties, white gloves and white pumps and all the petticoats the girl fancied. He would, in fact, have her dressed like an eighteen year old debutante at her coming out party—and to hell with her short hair! He'd have Rajshree scare up a blonde wig until the girl's own lovely platinum hair grew out. The other one, Iris, was sultry enough for the two, and the contrast between them would be irresistible to clients (or to small parties of Englishmen) who wanted to engage both of them together. Bad girl and good girl. Sexy girl and innocent virgin. Mata Hari and Snow White. How very perfect! Especially as the girls appeared almost like identical twins when nude, except for Iris's fuller breasts.
Thus he replied, "Of course, my dear," as if speaking to a child, "All in good time. But for to-night, you're to be a wicked sailor girl who likes to play with wicked sailor-boys. Do you understand? I'll have Rajshree make up whatever you like starting tomorrow."
"Yes, Dr. P. Thank you, Dr. P.," Daphne replied, beaming childishly that her request, far from being spurned, had, after all, met with her master's approval. "I promise to be the wickedest little sailor-girl ever!"
"I'm certain you will be very wicked indeed, my dear," said the doctor, who shot the cuff on his wristwatch arm to glance at the time. "But it is already past six! You, Leona and Georgia, get into your costumes, fix your hair and put on your makeup! Tonight supper ends at half past seven, so you must hurry: this is a big Fleet Night, and we shall be very busy. As soon as you are ready, bring Iris and Daphne with you to the refectory. Understood?"
"Yes, Dr. P.," the two senior transmutes replied, bowing their heads again and making namaste, "It shall be done as you say." Iris and Daphne again took their cues and did the same.
"Excellent, then!" said the doctor, turning on his heel and leaving the room, while calling over his shoulder, "Do not be late!"
Unseen by the departing doctor, Leona stuck out her tongue; Georgia made an obscene gesture, fist clenched, thrusting her forearm upwards from the elbow with the open palm of her other hand.
"The beast!" Georgia said, with as much venom as she could muster.
"The pwick! " squeaked Leona, "I wish we could tuwn him into a giwl! Then Vaudin could wape him and pewhaps he'd stop pushing us awound all the time!"
"Yeah, dream on, Lee. He's never going to be one, and that's that! Besides, Lee, you know as well as I that we basically like being girls, there's not a bloody thing we can do about it anyway and we've got a full night ahead of us. So let's stop bitching and just get ready for work. OK?"
At this, Georgia and Leona unselfconsciously slipped out of their floral print dresses and plain slips, dropping them to the floor in rumpled heaps. Reduced to bra, panties and stockings, they extracted their work outfits from their dressers and wardrobes and tossed them onto their beds, displaying as little interest in the act of garbing themselves as two auto mechanics in a dingy locker room donning their greasy overalls for the day's work.
Georgia removed her stockings, panties and plain garterbelt, jamming them into her top dresser drawer, from which she absently extracted her fancy garterbelt and net stockings. She quickly fastened the garterbelt round her waist, rolled her stockings on over her long legs, hooking them to the ribboned garters, and smoothed the stockings upwards one leg at a time with sweeps of her palms. She stepped into her purple satin cigarette girl briefs, zipped them up behind without binding the zipper and deftly engaged the rear hook closure. Looking over her shoulder into the mirror, she made small twisting adjustments of her stockings to straighten the seams. She slipped her little pleated skirt, with its elasticised waistband, over her head and settled it in place on top of her briefs, aligning the seams and adjusting its height so that the hem barely covered the cheeks of her buttocks. She removed her bra, letting her full breasts swing free only briefly, for she immediately put on her skimpy satin top, which pushed her breasts together and upwards, barely containing them.
Leona's task was far simpler: having exchanged her daily A-cup bra for her padded and lacy nocturnal one, she slithered into a tight, electric blue satin sheath, without making any change of panties, garterbelt or stockings. Displaying amazing flexibility, she zipped up the zipper behind herself with an unbroken whizz, and, without faltering, fastened the double top hooks at her back.
The two then seated themselves at their cluttered vanities and switched on their makeup lights. With bored expressions, they efficiently made themselves up to perfection, brushed out their hair and put on their earrings, necklaces and bracelets with the same air of ennui as if they were decorating dummies in a department store window display. Suppressing a yawn, Georgia positioned her little purple pillbox hat on her hair at an appropriately rakish angle and fastened its rhinestone-studded strap under her chin.
Finally, after rolling their lips and blotting off the excess lipgloss with tissues, they were done. They flashed confident, radiant smiles at themselves in their mirrors, regarded their reflections from various angles, checked to make certain there were no lipstick stains on their teeth and fine-tuned their makeup here and there with rapid dabs of their pinkies. They snapped off the mirror lights and arose from their vanities: they were now gorgeous feminine creatures ready to check hats in a bordello and to sell cigarettes from a tray to inebriated Royal Navy officers.
Iris and Daphne observed the other transmutes' preparations with rapt fascination. They were aghast to see how so sensual a process as dressing oneself and making oneself up could be reduced to a matter of trivial routine. Why, this would never happen to them! They would always dress themselves and make themselves up with all the reverence due such sacred feminine rituals! They would never become bored with being girls! And now that they were just about to assume their first evening's duties as whores, their little womanhearts fluttered joyfully within their breasts. Like thoroughbred horses bred to run, or sled dogs bred to pull, Iris and Daphne, concubine class transmutes, were bred to fuck.
They wished nothing more—and nothing less—than to fulfil their destinies: concubine transmutes they were created, and concubines transmutes was all they wanted to be.
But first there was the little matter of supper: even concubine class transmutes perform better when their tummies are full. Besides, a slightly protuberant tummy, with its intimation of fecundity, imparts a tighter fit to a whore's satiny clothing, catches the client's eye and pillows him nicely when he is finally belly to belly with her.
So supper at the Elphinstone Road bordello was the day's biggest meal. It was in full swing by the time Leona and Georgia brought Iris and Daphne to the refectory. The drab room was completely transformed by the presence of the bordello's full complement of girls, some waiting in line for their suppers, others already at table, all of them immaculately made up and coiffed and clad in their elegant frocks or show costumes, some with feathered headdresses. The refectory, filled with girls all chattering and chirping animatedly, resembled an aviary of rare tropical birds, birds with implausibly rich plumage and song, each one unique in the perfection of her colours and the set of her feathers—except, of course, for Iris and Daphne, who stood out precisely because they were dressed exactly the same in their white satin sailor-girl suits. Those already at table resembled birds in their delicacy of eating as well, taking dainty bites and small sips and being careful to avoid getting any bit of food or drink on their clothing. Most had large white linen napkins tucked in at the highest point their costumes allowed—which for most was their cleavage.
As it turned out, when Iris and Daphne took their places with their trays in the cafeteria line, they found themselves right behind Sarah and Fiona, the very Anglo-Indian whores they had come to the bordello the previous night to fuck—that is, when they were still men and still had the wherewithal to fuck girls. What delicious irony that they were now whores themselves!
It was Sarah and Fiona, of course, who had "scouted" Grainger and Davenport for Dr. Pradesh some six months earlier (during the pair's previous liberty from Intrepid,) when the doctor was desperately seeking a couple of suitable (read "of slight build") blonde upper-class Royal Navy officers to transform into whores for his bordello. The two house whores were content to be the bait to attract the officers back this time, and had received handsome bonuses.
As Iris and Daphne were helping themselves to steak-and-kidney pies from the steam table, Fiona, dressed in a floor-length silver satin sheath, turned and addressed Iris, who was directly behind her, in a passable Swansea accent.
"It's Iris, innit? The steak-and-kidney pie's great, hon. Be careful of the cabbage, though. It can give a girl gas, which is a definite no-no with blokes. By the way," she continued, lowering her voice, half closing her eyes and smiling with mock pity, "Hard cheese you two didn't make it up to our suite last night. Sarah and I were expecting you. We see you went and got yourselves 'promoted' to girls instead. You'll be a smash tonight with your chums from your old ship! Imagine, they'll be paying good money to fuck you, just as you had hoped to fuck us! Quite the turn-about, innit? One night you're blokes, paying to take a couple of whores to bed with you and the next night you're whores yourselves, and blokes are paying to take you to bed!" Fiona gave a sarcastic chuckle, then added, "And, my, my! Aren't your little sailor-girl outfits simply adorable? Don't you think, Sarah?"
Sarah, who was wearing a ludicrously low cut black velvet frock with a single diagonal over-the-shoulder strap, said, "O, yes, Fiona, simply adorable! I think they make ever so much better sailor-girls than officers, and, if what I heard is true, it won't be a particular challenge to get them out of their sailor suits and onto their backs. Gladys says they're wearing some pretty stunning undies, so they're bound to make a hit when they take off their bell-bottoms. Do try to keep your panties on, girls, for at least the first ten minutes," she continued, addressing the transmutes directly, "It's considered poor form to let a bloke get into your panties too quickly."
"Just a few basic pointers; hope you don't mind," Fiona continued, placing a steaming plate of corned beef and mash on her tray. "I highly recommend a quick douche between blokes," she added, "With a squeeze of lemon in the water. It makes you so fresh for the next job. There's a douche bag in every loo, so you'll never be at a loss. Just make sure to bring a lemon."
"And don't put your panties back on," Sarah cautioned, wagging her finger, "until you've really cleaned yourself well and dried yourself off. If any of that horrid semen gets on the gusset and dries….. well, it's quite unpleasant and not good for business. Besides, it's hard to wash out."
"Speaking of which, all the girls here are responsible for washing out their undies themselves," added Fiona in a helpful tone. "There's a little pull-out clothesline over every bathtub for your undies and stockings. Quite handy."
"That's right," agreed Sarah, "You'll be washing all your own lingerie every day. So you don't want to go changing into fresh panties five times a night. And to keep yourself from getting sore by the end of your shift, I highly recommend taking a little bit of…."
"Look, you girls needn't rub it in, you know," interrupted Iris, going on the offensive, once she saw that the two Anglo-Indians were determined to twit them. "We quite fancy having been turned into whores just like you, if you want to know the truth. And we gather, because we're blondes and well-educated, that our services will quite likely be more in demand than yours."
"That's right!" Daphne declared, placing a dish of overcooked wax beans on her tray, "We're blondes and we're well-educated! Our services will quite likely be more in demand than yours!"
"We're blondes and we're well-educated," mocked Fiona in a little-girl sing-song voice. "Well, you don't need a Cambridge degree to spread your legs for money, that's for certain! You told us when you were here last time that you two shared the prize for mathematics in your year. That'll definitely help you keep track of how many tricks you turn every night. That is, if you're still able count after a week or so. Blondes have ever so much trouble with numbers!"
Iris was about to counterattack, but Sarah, seeing her remarks had struck home, spoke first, softening her tone.
"Don't worry," she said, "We're just twitting you. We're a bit sorry you had to be turned into girls—you were one of the few pairs of blokes we really enjoyed, after all. But business is business, the house needed some blondes, you fit the bill, and now… Well, now you're whores just like us, so you'll have to make the most of it. We're actually glad to have you on board, if you'll excuse a naval expression. You'll add some class to the joint."
"Yeah," added Fiona, "You definitely have class. And the word is, your pussy hair's blonde, too. That's worth an extra 10 Rupees right there!"
"The word is correct," replied Iris, relieved that she and poor Daphne (who was rapidly losing all sense of logic), were not really embroiled in an argument after all. Iris slid her tray along the rails towards the shelves of sweets and loaded it up with three dishes of rice pudding with raisins (one of her favourites). "Our pussy hair, as you call it, is blonde," she sniffed with supercilious pride, tilting her chin a bit in the air.
"That's right!" affirmed Daphne brightly, "Our pussy hair's blonde. Everything about us is blonde. We love to fuck, too!"
"So we've heard on the grapevine," said Sarah, grabbing the last plateful of chocolate cake. "It seems that this afternoon you two wore out Little Big Man," which is how all the girls referred to the indefatigable Vaudin, "And sent him packing, wilted, with his tail between his legs. And a few hundred Rupees lighter, too."
"Some tail!" commented Fiona.
"Actually," Daphne bubbled rapturously, "it was some tail. I could have used more of it!"
At this, Fiona and Sarah turned towards one another, nodded once with an "I told you so" wink, and laughed. "Pure concubine class!" Fiona observed, as she filled a glass of milk from a large blue-glazed earthenware pitcher.
"And they're both so bloody cute! Dr. P. finally hit the mark with them!" exclaimed Sarah, taking her turn with the milk. Her thoughtless comment made Georgia and Leona wince, for they had been the prototype "concubine" models and had turned out to be frigid servant-class transmutes instead. Knowledge of the prototypes' failure was common in the bordello, and Leona and Georgia were reminded of it, one way or another, at least once a day. Such reminders were particularly vexing to poor Leona, who not only had no inclination to copulate, but was so flat-chested that Rajshree, the wardrobe mistress, had to make her padded bras to measure, as there were no ready-to-wear ones to be found in the city. (Dr. P. had promised to give her some special, new rashi-dharva he had been working on to augment her tiny breasts, but he had not quite perfected it. He had, in fact, gone to his laboratory this very evening, after checking up on the girls to work on it.)
By this time, the girls had gone through the line and re-emerged into the refectory, the two natal whores in the lead, followed by the blondes and by Leona and Georgia (who was still the least bit wobbly in her heels).
"Over there," gestured Fiona with her chin, "I see an empty table."
"OK, here's the scoop for tonight," Fiona began as soon as the six were seated. She addressed only Iris and Daphne, rapidly and with obvious authority, like an officer briefing bomber pilots before a mission. Indeed, Dr. Pradesh had deputised her to manage the next phase of the blondes' evening. "You two are assigned to the Victorian Suite—the same one where you had your, um, encounter earlier today with Little Big Man. Sarah and I will be there as well, sort of to run interference for you, in case you get into trouble. And there'll be seven or eight other girls, too. I'm not sure exactly who, but it doesn't matter. You're the stars.
"Don't worry about the eunuch twins—they're really your best friends and they are strong as a pair of oxen. They won't come round unless there's bad trouble and someone punches the panic button… Me, Sarah, one of the other girls or Hari, the bartender. Only if things get really out of hand—you know, a violent drunk or a real weirdo—Ghulam and Ghopal will be there in less the thirty seconds. Had to push the panic button once last year for a couple of nutso commando types who tried to rape Doris, one of our smallest girls, with a swagger stick. The commandos each ended up with half a swagger stick up their arses. They left the bordello in very military postures, I can assure you. Ramrod straight. Couldn't have bent over if they'd wanted to.
"Besides being the bartender, Hari is the 'arranger'—that is, he makes the arrangements for you be taken upstairs. He'll take payments in advance, hand you the room key, tell the blokes how much time they have, and so forth.
"You and Daphne are being offered as a pair, up for bid starting at 150 Rupees an hour for both of you, 750 Rupees for the night, which is 1:30 to 7. That's a small fortune, but, as far as I know, you two are the only blonde whores in the city and the house'll charge whatever the market will bear. Hari will solicit the bids and keep track of who's up next, for how much, and for how long. One client can have you both, or two can have you at the same time, but no big parties. Not yet, anyway. When your bloke—or blokes—takes you up to the room, you're to be very gracious and all lovey-dovey. You're professionals, remember—you treat 'em all like they're Clark Gable or Tyrone Power, even if they're fat or skinny or bald or have English teeth and bad breath.
"You get a half-hour in between blokes to freshen up and douche, repair your make-up, send for new undies if what you have gets torn or stained, and so forth. Half an hour's usually fine. For the next week or so, one of us—me or Sarah—will show up in between blokes to give you a hand. We don't expect you to know how to make yourselves up right off the bat, or to be familiar with what we call your intimate ablutions. You'll be moved to a different room for your next job so the maids can clean up, change the sheets and towels, fill the 'fridge with drinks. We try to keep the down time for each room to a minimum. The moment your blokes are gone, push the little buzzer button: it's in front of the little gilded cupid statue that's in every room, right under the lip of the half-table fixed to the wall just after the door.
"You do whatever your blokes want, as long as it does not involve harsh physical violence, though you may have to put up with light spanking or a paddling from time to time, but when blokes are into that sort of thing, they usually want you to spank them. Each room has a cabinet with whips, paddles, canes, ligatures, gags and the like, but most blokes stay away from that S and M stuff. You might be asked to do a lesbian number first: do it. From what I heard today from Gladys and some of the others, you're already good at it anyway. Some men get really turned on watching girls getting one another off, you know."
"Um," ventured Iris, not replying to Fiona's question, and wiping a bit of rice pudding from her lips with her napkin. "What about, well, how can I put it…. what about if a bloke wants to do something… um… something way off the beaten track… I mean, besides that S and M stuff."
"O, I know what you're asking," anticipated Fiona. "You want to know about giving blow jobs and getting fucked in the arse. Is that it?"
"Um, yes, that was sort of on my mind," said Iris, blushing at Fiona's unabashed bluntness.
"Sorry, hon, 'fraid that comes with the territory. If that's what the bloke wants, that's what you give him," Fiona replied. "You're not the bloke's innocent little sweetheart back home whom he's never even kissed yet. You're just a whore, remember? The bloke's paying for your body any way he wants to use it. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that. Just don't take anyone's cock so far down your throat that you cut off your breath and learn to swallow with the right rhythm when the block comes so you don't choke. The main trick is to get him so bloody interested in your pussy from the get-go that he won't even think of sticking his cock anywhere else."
Iris and Daphne glanced at one another with dubious expressions. This was getting to be a little bit more than they had bargained for. They swallowed hard, but made no objection.
"OK," continued Fiona, "Like I said, blow jobs and getting fucked in the arse are part of the deal. When they come up. Which they usually don't. Most clients just want the regular thing, especially the younger ones. Missionary position or doggie style, usually, but some'll want you on top, which is always a treat for the girl. When the other stuff comes up, it's mostly with older blokes who are bored with straight fucking, and will try almost anything to get themselves off. One chap wanted me to pee in his face. So I did. He left me a tip of ten pounds sterling! Just for squatting over his face and letting go. As it happened, I really had to go—he practically drowned. They charged him extra for a new mattress.
"Anyway, like I was saying, you pretty much have to do what you're asked. The last thing you want is a bunch of client complaints in your file. As transmutes, you two have labial rings of course, and believe me, Old Two Fingers'll leash you up on slim rations for a few days, with nothing but a chamber pot for company, if it looks like you're developing a pattern of giving blokes a hard time. Also, don't be surprised if you get hooked together with a one or two meter chain for a few tricks. Some blokes like that, especially the ones who really believe that you were men—the idea that you two gorgeous creatures are no longer male, but are now females completely under their control in the most humiliating way possible—by leashes clipped to your labia—is extremely exciting to them. Just make sure to keep a good grasp at all times on your leash with one hand to leave yourself some slack. Otherwise, it can be pretty painful, or so I've heard. Us regular girls don't have labial rings, as you know.
"And while I'm on the subject of the blokes who really believe you were men, they'll sometimes settle for just watching you get it off between yourselves," Fiona continued, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Who knows… perhaps their own secret fantasy is to be women themselves, and the next best thing to fulfilling it is to watch two lovely transmutes like you getting hot and heavy with one another. They see you as former men who are now so female that you're powerless to resist your own womanly urges. And, of course, they're absolutely right: you two really are slaves to your new bodies, even more so than we natal women are.
"There's no male sexual fantasy so weird that it won't crop up sooner or later. But ninety-five percent of the time, you're on your back getting fucked in the standard way. So, as they say, all you have to spread your legs and enjoy it. Easy work for the most part, with infrequent moments of panic when you run into the serious crazies. And since you two are concubine class, you probably won't ever have to fake an orgasm. You'll be happy as bunnies, fucking one and all. Your only regret will be that you weren't turned into girls ten years sooner."
Finished with her briefing, Fiona leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs and sipped her coffee, raising her eyebrows interrogatively in anticipation of questions. Iris and Daphne, who had been listening intently to her every word, their eyes wide with wonder, were amazed at the rich variety of experience that awaited them.
"Golly!" Daphne enthused, forgetting all about leashes and anal intercourse, "It all sounds tip-top to me! Let's get going, Eye!"
Her tablemates smiled indulgently at Daphne's girlish enthusiasm. Leona and Georgia began touching up their lipgloss prior to leaving for their posts. Iris, one elbow on the table, rested her chin on her hand and stared pensively before her, trying not to pay too much attention to the spreading wetness deep between her soft thighs. She was thinking that she could take on Intrepid's entire wardroom tonight. She closed her long-lashed eyelids halfway and smiled. She thought how lucky she was to be a blonde sailor-girl!