A little late due to the server maintenance earlier today, but it's still Friday so it could have been worse. So, for your reading pleasure: Edith Bellamy's Elphinstone Formula Part 5.
The Victorian Suite, its blue atmosphere at least half cigarette smoke, was alive with conversation and laughter, the clinking of ice in highball glasses and the popping of champagne corks, when Fiona and Sarah brought our heroines in for their grand debut as prostitutes. The free-standing gramophone was playing a syrupy Vera Lynn number, "The London I Love," but no one was dancing. There were perhaps fifty people in the suite, mostly Royal Navy officers, but also a smattering of Army types and a few in civilian dress. The men, most clutching drinks, were clustered in knots of four and five around the seven or eight whores already in the room, or went from group to group, sniffing out the available merchandise. Some, looking bored, or perhaps already drunk, were sitting on sofas and chairs, smoking or chatting quietly. A young ensign with a spotty face was fast asleep, sitting up, on one of the settees, his head thrown back against the wall and snoring audibly.
Hari, the bartender, a compact Punjabi of military bearing, was furiously turning out cocktails, while his helper, Arun, a slight teenager in a tall turban, delivered orders, collected chits and picked up the empties. The whores, all bantering with their admirers, were elegantly dressed and conducted themselves like graceful hostesses. To a casual observer, the crowd appeared to be a fairly typical colonial military English evening gathering already well-lubricated with alcohol—except that there were too few women and none of the women were English, though several were fair-skinned enough to be. But most were quite obviously Anglo-Indian. At any rate, the atmosphere was not that of a common bordello.
When Iris and Daphne entered the suite, it was as if a spotlight had been turned on them and the rest of the room plunged into darkness. All eyes turned towards the two stunning blondes in their dazzling white satin sailor-girl suits. Conversation ceased. Even Vera Lynn came to the end of her song, and all that could be heard from the gramophone was the rhythmic hiss and click of its needle playing round and round in the terminal groove at the center of the record. The young ensign with the spotty face, sensing a change in the room, gave one brief terminal snore, opened his eyes and sat bolt upright like a jack-in-the-box. Hari, who had started drying glasses, silently put down the one he had just picked up and hung his towel on a bronze hook screwed into the rear edge of the bar. A few of the men took drags on their cigarettes, but otherwise, no one stirred.
After a few seconds of silent suspense, Fiona, acting as Master of Ceremonies, boldly announced, "Tonight the Elphinstone is pleased to present the only English blondes in any bordello in Bombay, the only English blondes in any bordello in India: Iris and Daphne!"
A buzz of excitement ensued and the knots of men dissolved, their members gravitating towards the new transmutes, like so many iron filings to a magnet. Fiona held up her hand, the men stopped in their tracks and the buzzing abruptly died down. "Iris and Daphne are from London, but no personal questions, please, or we shall have to ask you to leave. They can be had tonight only as a pair; bidding starts at 150 Rupees an hour, 750 Rupees the whole night from one until seven, cash in advance, by one or two blokes at a time, but no larger parties. Winning bidders get all free drinks they want, and can order food up to their private room from the restaurant at no additional charge. Tips at your discretion. I suggest you place your bids with Hari at the bar as early in the evening as possible."
"150 Rupees an hour? That's highway robbery!" came an indignant voice from the floor.
"Speak for yourself, old boy," said another. "Sounds like a bargain to me."
"I say, see how blonde they are!"
"But they have men's haircuts!"
"They look like living dolls."
"They make Jean Harlow look like a witch!"
"I wonder what they have on under those sailor suits?"
General pandemonium erupted. Some guests rushed forwards to surround the two blondes. Others pulled out their billfolds and feverishly counted their cash, and, coming up short, looked wildly about for a partner to share expenses with. A group clustered at the bar, calling out times and making offers, waving large denomination banknotes at Hari and driving up the price. The scene resembled a bullish day at the London Exchange.
Fiona made her way through the crowd to the bar and, stepping behind it, pulled Hari aside.
"What's it up to?" she asked him in an urgent whisper. She had not expected such a reaction to a couple of blonde whores.
"It is already being all over, Miss Fiona. Nine to ten o'clock's gone for 500 Rupees to Captains Fawcett and Rogers. Ten-thirty to eleven-thirty's gone for 450 to Colonel Fitzmorris, eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty at 400 to Lieutenants Wilcox and Atherton, and the rest of the night to Admiral Sir Lawrence Cockburn, for 1200," Hari replied, wiping his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. "I have never been seeing so many Rupees spent on girls. You had better be letting the crowd know that all slots are being already sold." Hari was married, with eight children. He couldn't imagine spending even 10 Paise to have sex with a woman, much less his whole annual salary.
Fiona hiked up her dress and clambered atop the bar with Hari's assistance. She clapped her hands for silence. "Bidding's closed!" she cried, and announced the winners and times to general groans of disappointment. "But it's only eight o'clock, so the losers can buy Iris and Daphne drinks and get in a few dances 'til nine," she added. "Now here's a few important reminders. One, for those of you short of funds, the Elphinstone runs a pawnshop. We offer fair prices for Swiss watches, gold cigarette cases, diamond rings, jewelled cigarette lighters and so forth. And you don't have to redeem your pledges until your next liberty, of course. Two, those who bid higher for Iris and Daphne for their first hour of the evening may have made a mistake, and the ones who bid lower for the later hours are the real winners. Iris and Daphne, you see, are very special girls, known in India as concubine class… that means they get better as the night goes on. Just ask your chums tomorrow if I was right."
"Concubine class, you say?" asked a tall, tired-looking lieutenant commander, who was evidently familiar with Indian transmute lore. "So, they're transmutes. Good job! Fresh ones, too. That would explain the short hair. But why didn't you say so in the first place? I'd have raised my bid. I rather fancy concubine class transmutes. One always gets a jolly good run for one's money with them!"
Fiona, letting herself down off the bar, did not have a chance to reply, because several of the men standing near the tired-looking officer beseiged him with questions about "transmutes." Very soon everyone in the room had heard about the Sakati, rashi-dharva and the various classes of transmutes. There were raised eyebrows and murmurs of "Balderdash!" and "Poppycock!" But there were also murmurs of, "Real girls, you say!" Or, "By Jove, that's a new wrinkle!" Or, "Changed within the week! Just look how short their hair is! Must have been military chaps." Or, "They have rings in their whats?" and suchlike comments.
Undercurrents of sexual ambiguity and sexual transformation have always run deep in the psyche of the English male, so having two possibly real—and really gorgeous—transmutes standing right there in front of them was intensely exciting to most of the Brits in the room, and those not actually excited were certainly curious. The result was that Iris and Daphne were mobbed and stared at as if they were mythological creatures, like unicorns or gryphons, leaving the other girls in the room standing forlornly about like wallflowers at a society ball, glancing at one another in dismay at how quickly they had been abandoned by their fickle admirers.
Iris and Daphne could not fail to be flattered by the attentions of so many men at once. Daphne was oblivious to all else and was beaming happily. But Iris, though equally pleased, was also keenly aware that discussions were everywhere in progress speculating whether they were genuine girls or clever fakes: merely boys masquerading as girls. By this time, Fiona had worked her way back from the bar and over to the two blondes. Iris whispered something in her ear, Fiona nodded, and whispered something to Sarah, who had been standing protectively near Iris and Daphne. Sarah went off towards the gramophone, removed the still-hissing Vera Lynn record, and put on some Ray Noble swing music. As she was doing this, Fiona cut a path for Iris and Daphne to the bar, and helped the two girls up onto it, after they had kicked off their shoes. As they were wearing sailor pants, they had little difficulty climbing up. Iris had said nothing to Daphne about what they were about to do, but it was obvious to everyone—even to empty-headed Daphne—before the first call of "Take it off!" came from the crowd and hands started clapping in time to the music.
And take it off they did, though Sarah had to play the record four times. First, off came their white satin trousers, eliciting appreciative "ahhs," and "oohhs" to see the girls in their stockings, garter belts and panties. Then off came their sailor-girl blouses, so that now they were only in their lingerie. The next call was for their bras, which, when removed, briefly silenced the crowd, which stood mute in stunned reverence to see the perfection of the girls' breasts. Finally, the two stepped out of their panties, leaving themselves clad in nothing but their stockings and garterbelts. And, of course, they still wore their tiny little white satin sailor-girl hats emblazoned on the front with "HMS Elphinstone." They undulated to the slow, copulatory beat of the music, their stainless steel labial rings twinkling like stars through their blonde pubic hair whenever they caught the lights over the bar.
The record ended for the fourth time. Iris and Daphne, hands on their hips and dazzling smiles on their faces, slowly, slowly did the splits right there on the bar, leaving no shred of doubt in anyone's mind as to their sex. Once their flexuous legs were flat on the deck, the girls threw their arms above their heads in triumph, to the wild cheers and applause of the assembled guests, who began throwing banknotes onto the bar. As the girls had had the foresight not to cast their discarded garments into the crowd, but had tossed them instead onto the bottles behind the bar, they dropped down into the workspace with Hari and, plucking their clothing from the bottles, quickly got themselves dressed, managing to keep their makeup intact. They emerged into the crowd smiling radiantly and blowing kisses to their admirers, but not before gathering up the heaps of cash that were lying on the bar, stuffing them down the fronts of their sailor-girl blouses.
Every man wanted to dance with them, of course, but in the thirty-five minutes remaining until their first assignation (with Fawcett and Rogers), they could only accommodate fewer than a dozen, each of whom pledged to come up with the necessary funds, by hook or by crook, to be able to afford an hour with them sometime during their liberty.
Precisely at five minutes to nine, Hari struck a small gong behind the bar. Fawcett and Rogers presented themselves, as did Iris and Daphne. Hari handed a room key to Fiona, who was to show the way, and the five of them left the Victorian Suite and ascended the stairway leading to the bordello's bedrooms. Only twenty-four hours had elapsed since Ian Davenport and David Grainger, drugged with sodium pentothal, had fallen asleep, face down on their dinner plates, in the Elphinstone's restaurant. And already they were eagerly mounting the stairs to begin their dazzling careers as India's first blonde English whores.
That very evening, just as Iris and Daphne were entertaining their first clients, Dr. Sandeep Pradesh, F.R.C.O.G., sat at his workbench in the subterranean laboratory of the Elphinstone bordello, sipping a whiskey sour and poring over a tattered 11th century Sakati manuscript. The only sound was the steady whoosh of a Bunsen burner under a small distilling flask containing a thick, opaque green mixture, and connected by glass tubing to a water-cooled distilling column. The mixture boiled slowly, making thick bubbles that splattered the inside of the flask up to its neck as they broke. Dr. Pradesh was re-confirming, for the tenth time at least, the directions for compounding a special variety of rashi-dharva that could be administered to existing transmutes to enhance breast size and sexual responsiveness.
Dr. Pradesh had never really gotten over his failures with Hynes and Perkins. Both turned out to be frigid, and, though Perkins (as Georgia) ended up with more than adequate breasts, Hynes (as Leona) was as flatchested as a pubescent twelve-year old girl. He therefore regarded them as investments gone bad. He hoped the new distillate would convert them to concubine class transmutes, and would give Leona at least C-cup breasts. "Like killing two birds with one stone," he thought. No matter if the potion made Georgia's breasts even heavier—so much the better! She was tall and could easily tolerate even double-E breasts, if it came to that. He was, moreover, tired of hearing Leona whine about her flatchestedness. The little transmute had suffered enough humiliation after all, he thought, with a rare pang of compassion.
He was quite certain he had read the ancient text correctly, though the ink had faded over the centuries and some of the characters were difficult to discern. The new rashi-dharva was dripping slowly in bright amber droplets from the end of the condensing column tube into a small glass vial, whose ground-glass stopper lay on the workbench beside it. According to the text, only a few drops would be required to achieve the desired effects. He was still flush with his success in creating the stunning Iris and Daphne and had every confidence in this new distillate. Why not try it out now, tonight? Leona would drink it up without a second thought, and, as for Georgia, the promise of letting her finally have orgasms would be sufficient inducement in itself, even without the prospect of larger breasts, which she probably coveted anyway, now that she had seen Iris.
The doctor turned off the gas to the Bunsen burner and returned to his manuscript, waiting for the apparatus to cool before disassembling it. As he read, he idly snipped at the condensing tube with the nail of his forefinger to dislodge the final drop dangling from the tip. When it fell into the vial with a delicate plink, he stoppered the vial, slid it out of the way and resumed reading, taking small sips from his drink. After ten minutes or so, he gingerly touched the distilling flask and the upper end of the condensing column. Finding them cool enough to handle, he turned off the water to the column's jacket, disconnected the intake hose, and let the water drain out of the jacket through the outlet hose into a small sink set into the slate counter. Then he disconnected the hoses and coiled them neatly. He loosened the two metal clamps supporting the column to free it, then grasped the column itself with one hand to steady it while with his other hand he began working to free its upper end, which was inserted, via bent glass tubing, into a black rubber stopper in the distilling flask's neck. The stopper came out with a pop, leaving the entire column, which was about eighteen inches long, free in his left hand.
Just as he was about to carry it to the lab sink to wash it out, the house telephone rang; he abruptly turned about, still holding the column, carried it over to the counter where the phone was sitting, and picked up the receiver with his free hand, failing to notice that his sudden motion had forced the last bit of distillate in the coil down into the tip of the column, flinging an arc of fine droplets across the workbench when he had spun about. He also failed to notice that several of these droplets had landed in his drink.
It was Fiona at the other end of the line, reporting to her master the stunning success of Iris's and Daphne's "coming out" in the Victorian Suite. Dr. P. had instructed her to call him once the evening's arrangements for the two blonde transmutes had been settled. "More than 2,500 Rupees!" Dr. P. exclaimed, repeating what Fiona had just told him. "Excellent work, Fiona. There'll be another bonus for you and Sarah for this. By the way, tell Georgia and Leona I'll be right up with something nice for them." He paused to listen. "You can do the hat checks for half-an-hour or so. Give Sarah the cigarette tray." Another pause. "No. It won't kill either one of you! Just do as I say! Good. Tell Georgia and Leona to be in my upstairs office in ten minutes. I've finally gotten the new rashi-dharva right." Pause. "Yes, we'll probably be needing a new hat check girl and a new cigarette girl. It's been a shame to waste two genuine English transmutes all this time, even though they were just ordinary seamen. In ten minutes, all right?"
Dr. P. replaced the receiver. Humming a jaunty swing tune, he carried the condensing column over to the lab sink, carefully washed it and hung it on a wall-mounted peg rack to dry. He did the same with the distilling flask. He disconnected the Bunsen burner and stowed it, along with the hoses, support stands and clamps for the flask and the column, beneath the work counter, then carefully replaced the manuscript in its slipcase, carried it into the adjoining room and laid it on a shelf in the still-open safe. Closing the safe door, he spun the combination dial several times and tested the latch as a matter of habit. It was, of course, locked. Returning to the laboratory workroom, he picked up the stoppered vial of rashi-dharva, noting it was still slightly warm, and, smiling, held it up against the light to admire its amber clarity. "More than 2,500 Rupees!" he repeated out loud, happily reflecting that Iris and Daphne would be worth literally millions to him. Carrying the vial, he left the workroom after switching off the lights, humming the same tune.
The doctor was halfway down the corridor before he remembered his unfinished drink. Returning to the workroom, he switched on the lights again, took the glass and gulped it down it in two swallows. Placing the vial on the workbench, he took the empty glass to the sink, washed it out, and hung it on the peg rack. He retrieved the vial, switched off the lights for the last time and practically waltzed himself down the corridor and into the waiting elevator. As he closed the cage and rotated the lever to the "up" position, he suddenly felt a faint scrotal tingling which lasted only a second or two. He bent his legs slightly, absently readjusted himself and gave the tingling no second thought as the elevator ascended.
Captains Fawcett and Rogers, Royal Navy officers in their late '30's, staggered out of their assigned bedroom before their time was up, at around 9:45, exhausted and sated—uniforms disheveled, shirts half untucked, shoes untied and stupid smiles on their faces. Inside the bedroom, Iris and Daphne, still nude, were kneeling on one of the beds, counting out the banknotes they had stuffed into their brassieres before they came upstairs from the Victorian Suite. Daphne was excitedly chattering about her first paid encounter with a man.
"Oooh! Wasn't that simply fab? I didn't choke at all when I made Rogers come! And he got me off at the same time with his fingers! And we're rich already, Eye! Oooh! This is the life!" she squealed, holding up two 100 Rupee notes with child-like triumph, quite forgetting that, as indentured transmutes, every last Rupee would be confiscated by the house.
In the excitement after their striptease, even the more perceptive Iris had quite forgotten the dictum that all their tips belonged to the house; she now recalled it ruefully, and also recalled that they had had no opportunity to retrieve the money they had stolen from Vaudin, the sous-chef, that afternoon, and realised that it was quite unlikely they would ever be in the Victorian Suite alone and unobserved again. But she hadn't the heart to dampen Daphne's ebullience, and therefore agreed that they were, indeed, rich already.
Iris also realised that they were both sticky and sweaty from their amorous exertions, and Daphne's makeup was effectively ruined (she had not yet examined her own). They'd need all of the next forty-five minutes to put themselves right, even with expert assistance. So she arose from the bed, cupping her sex with one hand lest she leak down her thighs, went over to the little half-table with the gilded cupid statute, felt under the edge for the buzzer button, and pushed it. With mincing steps, she headed for the bathroom and the bidet. Daphne, already in the bathroom, had washed off her makeup. As her bloke had come in her mouth, she did not need to perform any intimate ablutions, but instead was gargling with some electric blue mouthwash she had found in the medicine cupboard.
Iris, squatting on the bidet, legs widely apart, was carefully working her fingers inside herself, spreading her soft tissues and folds to allow the fountain to reach her deepest recesses. The burbling column of warm water made her feel fresh and clean inside, and she saw no need to douche with lemon-water as Fiona had counselled. She could not know that Fiona had once scalded herself on a bidet, and hadn't used one since, considering them far too dangerous an appliance for girls that needed to clean themselves out many times a night.
"I say, Daph, this bidet's a real life-saver!" Iris exclaimed, removing her fingers and wiping them dry.
"Glug-a-glug-a-glug-a-glug-a-glug-kerPHOO!" was Daphne's comment, as she spit out a mouthful of blue mouthwash into the sink. "Ahh! that tastes much better! O! Your makeup's a mess, Eye," she added, glancing at Iris, who was patting herself dry as she arose from the bidet. "Better wash it all off."
Iris elbowed Daphne out of the way in front of the medicine cupboard looking-glass. "Egad, Daph! You're right! Give us that face cloth!" she cried upon seeing her reflection. She turned on the spigots and adjusted the temperature of the water.
As Iris was washing her face, a small invasion force consisting of Fiona, Sarah and two transmute Indian maids, carrying clean sheets, towels, liquor, glasses and ice, stormed into the room. Fiona carried a large make-up kit covered in fake tan alligator leather.
"High marks for you two," announced Sarah, as she unceremoniously barged in on the two nude transmutes in the bathroom. "Your blokes liked you so much they reserved you for two hours on Saturday. But look at you! You're both a complete mess! Grab your stuff and let's go next door. That's where your next job is, and we'll be out of the maids' way. Come on, come on, come on, hurry up!" she urged, pushing both blondes out of the bathroom with the palm of each hand on their plump derrières. "There's no one in the hallway, is there Fiona?"
"Nope. Coast's clear," Fiona replied, sticking her head out the door and glancing up and down the corridor.
Iris and Daphne plucked up their garments from where they had been tossed or had fallen, snatched up their banknotes, and, clutching the mass of money and clothing tightly to their bosoms and, still totally nude, scurried out the door (the way nude, big-breasted girls have always scurried since the beginning of time), and into the adjoining bedroom, which was identical in every respect to the one they had just vacated, even to the gilded cupid on the half-table, only this room was freshly made up.
"'Fraid I'll have to relieve you of all that cash," Fiona said as the two transmutes rapidly dressed themselves. "House rules, you know. Sarah, count it out, put it in an envelope, write the total on the outside under Iris's and Daphne's names, and drop it in the deposit slot upstairs, would you?"
Daphne looked at Iris in dismay. "We already counted it," she said plaintively. "There's 460 Rupees in all."
"Right," said Sarah, who had tapped all the bills into line and, having licked her thumb several times, had counted them with the rapidity of a bank teller. "460 on the nose. Not bad for a strip tease, if you ask me!"
"We can't keep any of it?" whined Daphne.
"Sorry, hon," Sarah replied, shaking her head. "It belongs to the house. 230 Rupees will be credited to each of your names. When you've each earned 50,000 Rupees in charges, you'll be commissioned, as Dr. P. must have told you during your orientation. You're off to a good start… you've each brought in almost 1500 Rupees tonight, including these tips. At this rate, you'll get your commissions in a little more than a month, which is unheard of. Just keep up the great work."
Daphne pouted, unable to see an entire month into the future. She wanted her money right then and there. Iris, on the other hand, was quite indifferent. What did she need to spend money on, anyway? The bordello was providing all her needs, she was doing what she was created to do, and she was content.
"Cheer up, Daph, we've got Colonel Fitzmorris at 10:30, and we're nowhere near ready," Iris chided as she settled her little satin sailor-girl hat on her head with a couple of hairpins.
"That's right, Daphne," said Fiona, "Quit moping and come over here and sit down on the bed. You, too, Iris. We have to make you two up all over again."
Upon being reminded that she'd most likely be getting fucked in just half an hour's time, Daphne brightened up considerably, and forgot all about her lost Rupees. "Sorry," she said contritely, as she sat on the bed alongside of Iris. "Now make me pretty again!"
And with deft fingers, Fiona and Sarah, while recounting Colonel Fitzmorris's sexual prowess, began to restore the transmutes' makeup to its original splendour.
"The Colonel's an Elphinstone regular," confided Fiona, as she applied Daphne's mascara. "His nickname's 'The Piledriver.' He's as big as a Maypole and never gets soft. He has one of those semi-permanent hard-ons, you know. Some sort of illness, I hear. Keeps it strapped up against his belly somehow so it doesn't show when he's dressed, only it does. Poor chap must be pretty uncomfortable most of the time. Seems the only relief he can get is by fucking girls."
"Yes," continued Sarah, "And he's bloody good at it, too. He'll give you a reaming you'll not soon forget!"
"Oooo!" cried Daphne, balling up her fists and vibrating them while drumming her little feet on the carpet, "Oooo! I can hardly wait! And this time I get to go first, Eye. I'm getting you back for that panties-over-the-garterbelt trick."
"What trick was that?" asked Fiona, who had resolved at suppertime to draw out empty-headed Daphne on every occasion, for she found the vacuous blonde transmute to be immensely diverting.
Daphne indignantly related how she had agreed with Iris that the one who got her panties off first would be the first to be fucked by, Vaudin, the well-hung Frenchman, and how Iris had had her panties on over her garterbelt, whereas she, Daphne, had had her panties on under her garterbelt, and therefore "lost the toss." What a cruel trick to play on a poor, dumb, innocent blonde! Daphne turned her gaze heavenward as if seeking divine endorsement of her complaint; her big blue eyes brimmed with self-pitying tears as she held out her hands, palms spread upwards, like some Boticelli saint about to receive the stigmata. She was quite the victim!
The petulant, little-girl manner in which Daphne related this trivial incident drew peals of laughter from Fiona and Sarah, while Iris merely smiled archly and said, "Well, Daphne, sooner or later we all have to learn how to put our panties on properly, don't we?"
At this, Sarah, who was rubbing rouge into Iris's cheeks with a light circular motion of her fingertips, gave her a playful slap on the face. "You wicked, wicked girl, taking advantage of poor little Daphne like that!" she mockingly reprimanded. This time Iris joined in the general laughter, while Daphne looked puzzled and begged to know what was so bloody amusing.
"O, don't worry about it so, Daphe" Iris soothed. "Of course you can get fucked first this time! OK?" And she smoothed Daphne's hair gently with her hand, as if she were a small girl. Which she was, in a sense.
"Well, I should hope so!" Daphne responded, folding her arms and sticking out her lower lip with childish petulance. "I deserve it! Besides, this last bloke didn't fuck me at all, he just wanted a blow job, which you told us would hardly ever happen!" she said, directing her complaint to Fiona and glaring reproachfully at her.
"Well, it probably won't come up again for a while, then," responded Fiona, correcting with a pencil the angle of one of Daphne's tapered eyebrows. "And besides, Iris just agreed you'll be getting first crack at Fitzmorris, so quit bitching and relax. You really need to smile, Daphne, starting now. The Colonel will be here in five minutes, and the last thing he wants is a sourpuss! I can guarantee from personal experience that Fitzmorris will give you a good fucking, even better than Vaudin. Anyway, enough chattering. You're both done! We're out the door and will send up Fitzmorris directly. Have fun, girls! See you in a bit more than an hour for the next repair job."
With this Fiona packed up her makeup case and left the room with Sarah. Once alone, Iris and Daphne, arms extended, held one another's hands and danced about in a circle like a couple of wood nymphs celebrating the imminent arrival of the satyr.
At about the same time Fiona and Sarah were leaving the two blondes for their assignation with Colonel Fitzmorris, Dr. Pradesh sat at his desk in his fifth floor office with Georgia's and Leona's files open before him. The stoppered vial of amber rashi-dharva, with a medicine dropper lying beside it, stood near the telephone. After making a brief note in each girl's file, Dr. P. depressed a key on his intercom and summoned the eunuch twins to come to his office. As usual, they appeared almost instantly.
"What is your desire?" they asked in unison, bowing their heads.
"Have the kitchen send up two glasses of milk, and fetch Georgia and Leona here right away. Fiona will check hats and Sarah will take the cigarette tray in the meanwhile. Tell Fiona and Sarah that this shouldn't take much more than ten or fifteen minutes."
"It shall be done," said the twins, backing out of the office and closing the door behind them.
Dr. Pradesh leaned back in his swivel chair and, clasping his hands behind his head, gazed absently at a fly crawling erratically about on the ceiling. Slowly rocking to and fro in his chair, he thought how appropriate it was to give these frigid girls their new dose of rashi-dharva in milk, wonderful milk, the life-giving glandular secretion of females.
But there was that scrotal tingling again! This time it did not go away. In fact, Dr. P. felt his scrotal skin pucker and tighten, as it does when one jumps into a cold mountain pool. Well, such things do happen to males, though usually in their adolescence, but sometimes later as well, so he again dismissed it. Besides, he was distracted from the tingling by another odd sensation—a mild churning in his lower abdomen, almost a fluttering. Not painful, but odd, like the involuntary twitching of an eyelid, only deep inside his belly.
Suddenly the doctor felt quite unwell. He was hot and queasy. There was a tightness across his chest as if his shirt had suddenly shrunk by two sizes. "It must have been the oysters I had for before dinner," he thought, as he removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his forehead. "One of them seemed to be a bit off. It was a mistake to eat it." As he was folding his handkerchief, the twins knocked at the door and Dr. P. asked them to usher Georgia and Leona into the office. "What unlucky timing!" thought the doctor, for his scrotum was fairly burning now, and he wanted to scratch it.
Instead, he signaled the twins to retreat. They exited and closed the door behind, leaving the two servant-class transmutes standing before the massive teak desk, their heads bowed and making namaste.
Dr. Pradesh, trying to ignore the increasing tightness across his chest and the burning in his crotch, snapped his fingers. The girls dropped their hands to their sides, raised their heads and gazed at him with no little trepidation, as a summons to his office during working hours was a distinctly unusual event. Remembering that the doctor may have overheard their conversation with Iris and Daphne that afternoon, when they had been less than complimentary to him, they trembled lightly and wondered what sort of punishment awaited them. Would they be leashed to the wall and fed nothing but gruel for a week? Would he subject them to yet another pelvic exam for no good reason other than to humiliate them?
"No need to be afraid, girls," the doctor began, clearing his throat several times, for his voice sounded somehow unnatural, as a twelve year old boy's does when it is breaking. "I have some rather good news for you, in fact." The two transmutes opened their eyes more widely and stopped trembling.
"I've been working on a new batch of rashi-dharva," he continued, indicating the little vial with a casual fillip of his hand, "to remedy the—ah—problems of your first doses. You weren't supposed to turn out to be servant-class transmutes, you know, and you, Leona, were not supposed to come out flatchested. I was hoping to make you both concubine class girls to begin with, and this new potion will do just that."
At this the two transmutes gave one another brief sidelong glances. Leona could barely suppress a smile, and timidly asked, "Please Dr. P., will it also make my bweasts biggah?"
"It should do, my dear."
"And then I'll be able to thwow away all those widiculous twaining bwas, and get wid of my padded bwas, too?"
"That's the idea," the doctor replied, as Leona's smile spread over her whole face.
"And what about me, Dr. P? I'm already a D-cup," Georgia asked.
"Well," said the doctor, clearing his throat again, for he was having difficulty modulating his voice, "If you don't want to be frigid any more, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with heavier breasts. But you're a big girl, Georgia. You'll be able to handle it. They'll look good on you."
Georgia smiled, too. The doctor had calculated that Georgia, having seen Iris's magnificent breasts, would be envious. He was right: Georgia was envious and thus was delighted at the prospect of being more than a D. Why, if she could be bigger than Iris, so much the better!
At that moment, a servant knocked, was admitted, and having placed a tray with two glasses of milk on the desk, backed out of the office.
"Well!" Dr. P. said, "You girls just have to drink up your milk, and in the morning you'll be…"
The doctor was now having serious trouble suppressing a squeak in his voice—every third or fourth word seemed to escape from his lips in a higher register, as if he were some movie cartoon character. The two transmutes exchanged wary glances, but said nothing.
"You'll be… quite different girls," he concluded with a grotesque squeak, while loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar.
He really felt like removing his jacket and shirt, but could not compromise his dignity by doing so in front of the two transmutes. He also had an inexplicable urge to remove his trousers. Oddly, they had become loose round his waist, but had somehow shrunk over his hips and his buttocks, becoming uncomfortably tight, just since the girls had been brought to his office. The tingling in his scrotum was by now intense. He wanted nothing more than to get rid of the girls and be left alone. He squirmed in his chair, trying to relieve the discomfort in his crotch and the intolerable tightness in the seat of his trousers.
With an almost superhuman effort to keep control of himself, the doctor continued, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. "Come here!" he commanded the girls as he reached for the vial and the medicine dropper. He unstoppered the vial and drew up a dropperful of the amber liquid. His hand trembled, causing the tip of the glass dropper to tinkle erratically against the neck of the vial as he withdrew it, half-filled with rashi-dharva. Steadying one hand with the other, he let two drops of the distillate fall into each glass of milk. The drops swirled briefly, turning the milk a light orange color.
"Drink it down! And go back to your posts," he squeaked, as the office began to spin. "I'll come by your room in the morning to check on you. Drink it down and then go!"
Almost every other word had been delivered in a high-pitched falsetto, which, had the words not actually emanated from the mouth of a man, any listener would have judged to have been spoken in the average mezzo-soprano voice of a woman.
This time Georgia and Leona exchanged glances of frank alarm. Perhaps the doctor was drunk, or perhaps he was ill, they were not sure which. But they dared not defy him and, besides, the promise of larger breasts and an end to their frigidity was so enticing that they immediately stepped forward, took a glass each, and drained it in two or three long swallows. Wiping off their milk moustaches with the backs of their hands, they thanked the doctor, bowed their heads and, making namaste, quickly backed out of the office. Leona pulled the door closed, then the two transmutes ran downstairs as fast as they could.
"Did you see what I saw?" asked Georgia, raising her voice to he heard over the clatter of their high heels on the stairs.
"Yes. His jacket was bulging in fwont and he was beginning to talk like a giwl," responded Leona. "I think he dwank some of his own washi-dhawva."
"Why would he do that?"
"We'd better tell someone."
"Who, the twins?"
"No. Not the twins. Let's tell Fiona and Gladys. They'll know what to do," replied Georgia, almost tripping on the last step.
"Wight. Fiona and Gladys. I'll tell Fiona when I go back to the hat check woom. You go get Gladys."
"OK." Georgia replied, as she walked off, always a bit wobbly in her high heels, in search of the bordello's senior whore.
As soon as he was alone, Dr. Pradesh spun round in his chair and feverishly worked the combination dial of the safe set into the wall behind him. After several false attempts, he managed to open it. Turning back towards the desk, he seized the stoppered vial of rashi -dharva, along with the medicine dropper, and placed them on the top shelf, between banded sheaves of banknotes—the bordello's weekly receipts. There was no question of his taking the vial all the way back downstairs to the laboratory in his present condition. Shutting the safe and locking it, he sprang to his feet, but he became dizzy and faint and had to sit down again right away.
Like a wounded man making a supreme effort to act as if nothing were wrong, he depressed a key on his intercom and spoke into the machine, slowly and with great deliberation, as if he were delivering an important address to a large assembly of people. Somehow, he managed to suppress the freakish falsetto that was taking control of his voice. "Ghopal, Ghulam. I am a trifle unwell and shall be retiring early. Please have no one disturb me and do not have the maids come until after ten, as I shall be sleeping in. Understood?"
He released the key with a sigh of relief because he had managed to sound quite normal. He breathed another sigh when the twins, as was their custom, acknowledged his order in chorus and bade him good-night. Now that his privacy was assured for twelve hours or so, his next goal was to get to his bedroom, which adjoined the office, so he could put himself to bed. Clearly, he was ill—some sort of virus or a case of shellfish poisoning, perhaps. His shoes were suddenly loose; he kicked them off without untying the laces. He tried to stand again, but he was again instantly overtaken by dizziness and collapsed back in his chair. He managed to wriggle out of his jacket, only to find his shirt ridiculously tight and bulging in front, its buttons ready to pop, with crescents of taut fabric between the buttons, exposing his ribbed undershirt.
Starting at his collar, he disengaged one button at a time. When he was halfway down, the terrible tightness was suddenly relieved as a pair of magnificent breasts spilled out of his shirt like yeasty dough released from confinement. They jounced several times as they fell into position, making him acutely aware of their weight by tipping him forward, wrenching his neck. He had to throw back his shoulders and straighten his spine to regain his equilibrium. His breasts were as yet indistinct, as they were still covered by the easily distended fabric of his ribbed undershirt, but there could hardly be the least doubt in his mind as to what they were.
His jaw dropped and he broke out in any icy sweat as he finally understood what had happened. Somehow, in some way, he, Sandeep Pradesh, M.D., F.R.C.O.G., had ingested a dose of the rashi-dharva he had just dispensed to Georgia and Leona—a mixture not intended to be used on males at all, in whom the results might be completely unpredictable! He gasped… and this time he was unable to suppress the change in his voice: his gasp was in a purely feminine register. He stood, defying the sickening dizziness, and tore off his undershirt over his head, exposing his breasts, which he unsuccessfully tried to cup with his hands… hands which had become smaller, their fingers slender and tapered. These dainty feminine hands were as inadequate to cup his huge breasts as Leona's training bra would have been to contain them. Panting in sick disbelief, he riveted his horrified gaze on his brown, cherry-sized nipples and on his coarsely-pored and dusky areolas—three inches across!—with their shiny, brick-coloured skin.
As he hefted his breasts, the burning in his groin suddenly became intensely painful: it was his testicles being compressed by his flattening scrotum. He felt them pop into his belly, one after the other, like grapes being squeezed out of their skins, instantly relieving the pain. They ascended with a sickening flutter, then, quivering, settled into their obligate positions, transmuted into ovaries… and obediently began pumping hyper-potent œstrogens into his bloodstream.
Buckling at the knees from fright, he supported himself by holding onto the back of his swivel chair, which he pushed before him as he staggered towards his bedroom, his breasts swinging ponderously as he bent over the chair. His trousers were uncomfortably tight over his broad derrière, which twitched enticingly with each step in a most feminine manner because of the altered camber of his hips. Once in the bedroom, he abandoned the chair. With immense difficulty, he stripped off his trousers, having to peel them down over his hips and thighs by turning them inside-out as he rolled them off. Making his way to his dressing-room, he switched on the light and desperately viewed himself in his mirror.
What greeted his eyes was the reflection of a statuesque, fine-featured Indian woman no longer young, but her face and flesh still firm; her blue-black hair, laced with a few silver strands, was closely cropped. She had more than generous breasts (especially for an Indian), a high, narrow waist, and broad hips. She was wearing a man's boxer shorts, Paris garters and calf-length gray silk socks… and a heavy, man's Rolex watch on her slender left wrist. Even as Dr. Pradesh gawked at the woman in the looking-glass, his watch slowly slipped down over his tiny left hand and fell to the floor with a metallic clatter. He did not stoop to retrieve it. Instead, mesmerized by his female reflection, he removed his garters and socks and stepped out of his shorts.
O, Hideous! The space between his legs was vacant! But no, there was something there! He had to move closer to the mirror and blink several times before he realized it was the stunted vestige of his manhood, reduced to a shiny pink nubbin no longer than a new pencil eraser, though slimmer—a lurid, miniature mockery of what it had been, accurate in every detail! Aghast, he watched the pink nubbin cloak itself in a delicate hood of moist skin, watched his flattened scrotum quiver, begin to glisten wetly and form a central crease, which deepened into a fissure and slickly invaginated into the vacancy, disappearing between his plump thighs with an obscene gurgle.
Dr. Pradesh uttered a low choking sound as he watched the flesh at the base of his broad womanbelly swell softly, yeast-like, into a blunt mound covered with wavy black hair sparse enough so he could watch the fissure elongate like a surgical incision, cleaving his body from his new love-mound in front to his smooth, hairless buttocks behind, with the excruciating sensation of a fine silk scarf being rent. His blood froze as he saw the edges of the fissure define themselves into twin pairs of labia, the outer pair concealing the little hooded nubbin at their apex as they swelled and came together, forming a soft, plump ridge. Holding his breath, he parted them with tremulous womanfingers and was rewarded (or punished) by a flash of his pink penetralia, in striking contrast to the coppery hue of his skin.
An enervating sensation of softness, of defenseless penetrability—utterly alien to anything he had ever felt before—arose from the moist depths of his penetralia, welled up into his belly, then surged through his body like a surf of warm, honeyed milk, making him weak in the knees… signaling that his physical transformation was over and done with—and irrevocable. He released his breath in a moan of unalloyed female rapture.
Fuelled by the powerful œstrogens bathing his brain cells, the doctor's psychic transformation, equally irrevocable, was also over and done with. Suddenly he was no longer repelled by having a woman's body. He found he adored feeling soft and voluptuous, adored feeling cleft and pregnable, adored feeling… well, without putting too fine a point on it, the doctor simply adored feeling female. His lovely face became composed and serene. He closed his thick-lashed eyelids halfway, then, like any normal woman in front of a full-length mirror, proceeded to take inventory of his features, for he was compelled to define precisely where he stood in the hierarchy of feminine beauty. After all, he'd now be competing with other women; he needed every advantage.
He assumed several alluring poses and regarded his reflection from various angles. He ran his hands over his smooth hips and thighs and tummy; he carefully studied the symmetry of his breasts; he turned about and gazed languidly over his shoulder to inspect himself from behind. He noted with approbation the gentle curves of his ample bottom; he smiled to see the symmetrical coin-sized depressions on either side of the base of his spine, like the cut-outs in a 'cello. But Alas! His bottom was not perfect! No, to his dismay, his lovely buttocks were dimpled with fat of the sort modern women call cellulite, and, his smile fading to a petulant frown, he was dismayed as well to see the same dimpling on the upper part of his thighs and around his hips.
Dismayed? Oh, yes, Dr. Pradesh was indeed dismayed! For he was regarding himself for the first time through female eyes, eyes which shrewdly appraised each curve and hollow, each blemish of skin or imperfection of eyebrow, each birthmark or mole… through eyes which appraised the shape, size and firmness of his breasts, the delicacy of his long, tapered fingers, the set of his mouth and the curve of his lips, the perfection of his teeth, the length and texture of his thick, dark eyelashes, the narrowness of his high waist, the smallness of his feet, the soft bulge and taper of his thighs, the smoothness of his legs, the broadness of his flat, hairless tummy….. and, above all, the perfection of the blunt-edged, fleshy cleft between his thighs which led to the female passage his numbed mind could not as yet bring itself to name….
His female eyes mercilessly added up the balance sheet and found the total wanting: he was not young and nubile, he had that repulsive dimpling of fat over his thighs and his bottom. He had some grey hair, but, Praise Krishna! no wrinkles… not yet! He was, in short, a woman already past the ripe-peach bloom of youth, but still at an age to be quite attractive to men. In fact, he looked not much older than Gladys, who was thirty-nine, and his breasts were larger than hers! And his tummy was flatter, too. So he was not a total loss…
Nonetheless, Dr. Pradesh was chagrined not to be nearly as lovely as the blonde transmutes he himself had so recently created—Iris and Daphne. A pang of feminine envy pierced his fluttering womanheart, and his soft, brown eyes grew moist with tears of self-pity because he was not a blonde, twenty-two year old English transmute with blue eyes, perfect skin… and no cellulite!
But then Dr. Pradesh gingerly touched himself and found that female sexual responsiveness does not require youth, perfect skin, blonde hair, blue eyes and absence of cellulite. All that is needed is to have all the right female equipment in good working order, which was precisely what the doctor now possessed.
Yes, Dr. Pradesh, himself transformed into a woman by his own hand, touched himself with professional fingers, professional fingers which had palpated, assessed and operated upon the private parts of so many women so many times over so many years. But now there were two crucial differences. First, the private womanly parts he was touching were his own, and as he touched himself in these places so familiar to him, it was his own female tissues that reciprocally felt the touch of his fingertips and it was his own womanly moisture that began to lubricate those tissues in response to his touch. Second, and of almost equal importance, the fingers with which he was touching himself were now soft and feminine, endowed with a delicacy and sensation forbidden to men, even to Fellows of the Royal College of Obstetrics and Gynaecology. And so, with these differences, and lacking that which could become hard and stiff at the thrill of touching a woman, he could do nothing but soften and begin to flow under his own manipulation, for, now that he was a woman himself, his body could not respond in any other possible way.
How, then, did Dr. Pradesh first touch himself? He first touched himself by cupping his love-mound with his little hand. His mound, was as blunt and soft as a thrushbreast, but, unlike a thrushbreast, it was cleft below by a warm and moist passage… his… his… (dare he say the word now?)… his vagina, which led to those inner organs he had palpated thousands of times in other women. He stood before his dressing room mirror with his hand thus cupping his new sex—fascinated by his own womanliness and aching to explore that familiar aperture, the aperture he had so often examined in the course of his profession. But he refrained: from the dimmest recesses of consciousness, a final, stubborn masculine brain cell, which had somehow escaped being feminised, stayed his hand for a moment. "Don't touch that disgusting thing!" it commanded, "You're a man! Do it, and you'll be enslaved forever as a female!" But it was only a moment, and it quickly passed: the poor cell succumbed to the raging torrent of œstrogen and fell silent, leaving Dr. Pradesh free to be enslaved by his own femininity. There was nothing he desired more!
Unable to bear the exquisite tension any longer, he slowly extended his slender middle finger, extended it downwards. It brushed lightly over his clitoris, causing him to start; he involuntarily squealed to feel a golden arrow of pleasure shoot up through his vagina and shatter into brilliant needles of ecstasy that shivered through his body in every direction like so many sparks, making his nostrils dilate. He could not bear for more than an instant the direct touch of even his soft womanfinger on this supersensitive organelle, this diminutive parody of what he no longer possessed. He felt an instant pang of remorse at how callously he had examined women over the years. He finally understood why they tensed up and gritted their teeth when he had so disinterestedly thrust his fingers into their most intimate places. But the remorse was fleeting: his main interest was how his vagina felt now, not how other women's vaginas felt to their owners when they were being probed by masculine fingers.
How, then, did Dr. Pradesh touch himself next? He extended his middle finger again, this time carefully avoiding his clitoris, until it rested along the full length of the petalsoft ridge formed by the juncture of his labia. The ridge seemed so very long, as if to emphasise how penetrable he had become. And the ridge seemed so very ready to yield, too, with its promise of bountiful feminine moisture just under the surface: it could offer no barrier whatever against penetration. On the contrary: it invited penetration.
He imagined himself wearing a dress over some flimsy silk lingerie, open to the air below, with nothing to protect his softness from the hard male world around him but the insubstantiality of his panties. How vulnerable, how passive, how pregnable he felt! Yet the blending of danger and desire was wonderfully erotic!
With a jolt, he suddenly realised that he could be raped. Yes, raped! Why, a man could easily pin him down, yank up his dress, tear off his panties and force a stiff cock into his womanslit whether he, Sandeep Pradesh, M.D., F.R.C.O.G, liked it or not! As a weak female, he'd have no choice but to succumb—that is, he'd have no choice but to spread his thighs like any woman, and admit the man, whose remorseless advance into his body he'd be powerless to oppose. For the first time, Dr. Pradesh understood the essence of rape from the woman's perspective.
Horrified and thrilled by the mere possibility that he could be raped, he found he liked that perspective, liked the idea of having his dress yanked up, his panties torn off and his defenseless body violated without being able to prevent it. But at the moment no stiff cock was at hand. So, with great restraint, he removed his finger from the tempting ridge. No longer dizzy, he walked, with untutored feminine grace, from his dressing room into his bedroom and lay down on his bed, on his back. He drew up his heels until they were almost touching his buttocks; he let his plump thighs fall widely apart, shamelessly exposing himself. He cupped his mound wth his palm and rested his middle finger along the length of that exquisite and defenseless ridge where his labia met, which by now had become swollen and had begun to pout, exposing a thin line of vibrant pink along its length.
His labia were far more sensitive now, particularly higher up, near his clitoris: the most featherlight friction sent rich shafts of pleasure through his body like a galvanic current. He stroked his labia lightly for a while, a finger on either side of his cleft, moaning and thrashing his head side to side on his pillow. He abandoned his stroking and lightly placed his middle finger along his pouting slit, barely touching it. He could feel the heat rising up from his depths. The tension had become excruciating: he could not tease himself any longer!
With an infinitesimal increment of downward pressure, his finger abruptly plunged into himself, slickly and without friction. He was insanely wet, starting just beneath the surface of his dry outer labia, now fully parted. As he stirred his finger about in his divine liquefaction, he could hear a faint sloshing, a fine smacking sound, as his delicate tissues came together and parted. He moaned again and spread his thighs even further. He surrendered to the melting that overwhelmed him. He brought his other hand to his breasts and played with his nipples, making them stiffen and tingle. He stroked the glossy skin of his areolas. He began to roll his hips in time to the motions of his fingers. His hairless body was soon covered in a fine sheen of womansweat. As he sought out and found the most pleasurable rhythm, the image of Michel Vaudin, the Elphinstone chef, unaccountably popped into his head.
Vaudin was undressing, his erect cock vein-studded and lividly purple. Dr. Pradesh imagined how lovely the tip of that cock would feel gliding over the exquisite softness of his clitoris, how lovely it would feel when it plunged into him all the way to his cervix, how lovely it would feel to have that cock stretch his vagina as it thrust home, how lovely it would feel when Vaudin pumped it in and out, pounding him, reaming him, splitting him open, then finally shooting long, ropy jets of hot semen deep into his female recesses, impregnating him. The touch of his soft feminine fingers, the perfection of his rhythm, the mental image of Vaudin viciously fucking him … all soon conspired to bring the good doctor to a shattering climax, with the obligatory and uncontrollable bucking of hips, jouncing of breasts and so on and so forth. As his vagina contracted spasmodically, he cried out in the throes his passion, and thanked Krishna for somehow giving him a dose of his own rashi-dharva. He was a woman, now and forever, and felt blessed. The practical details would work themselves out. They always did.
A brief editorial digression is now required, for one important practical detail that we must work out immediately is to begin using the feminine personal pronoun when referring to the good doctor, especially now that she has tasted her first womanly orgasm. From this point forward, therefore, we shall refer to the doctor by the feminine personal pronouns "she" or "her," as dictated by syntax, and shall also employ the feminine possessive pronoun "hers" when referring to anything of, pertaining to, or owned by "Dr. Pradesh," who technically no longer existed.
So… as her honeyed afterglow suffused the doctor's soft, smooth body, she began to imagine what sort of silky French lingerie she would clothe herself in the next morning. She wished for a matching ensemble in shameless scarlet. But no, in the morning she'd probably be in a more of a pastel mood. Perhaps something in amethyst might suit her better. Or mauve. Or pale, pale blue with ivory trim. Her only concern was that she'd be unable to find a bra big enought to contain her huge breasts.
As she lay in bed contemplating the magic of lingerie, wondering how a pair of snug silk panties would feel now that she was built for them, how they would conform to her curves and her hollows, how the downysoft cotton gusset would cradle her even more downysoft labia, how she'd snap the delicate waistband against the smooth flatness of her tummy after she pulled them on—the delicate waistband with the dainty little pleated satin bow in the center, just under her navel—she began to flow again, and she touched herself again in all her special new places (there were so many!) and soon got herself off with another stunning orgasm.
Lying in its afterglow, she next imagined that Vaudin was fucking her again, but this time she was on her hands and knees on the edge of the bed. Vaudin, standing behind her, was holding his cock, directing its bulbous tip around the circumference of her labia, teasing her mercilessly but not entering her. She had to beg, beg tearfully before he obliged, taking away her breath as he plowed into her vagina, his first thrust so deep and so powerful that it skittered her over the surface of the bed and he had to pull her back to the edge by lifting her bodily under her tummy and dragging her back. And again, the image of being so violently fucked, combined with the increasingly skillful work of her slender, flexible fingers, brought her to yet another devastating orgasm that left her as limp as rag doll.
As that afterglow faded, new images sprang to mind and her little hands became busy once more. This time she was on top of Vaudin, straddling him, lowering herself until her whole weight pivoted on his cock, like a gyroscope on its spindle. She began to ride him slowly, with subtle variations of angle and force—herself now in control—cupping her breasts as best she could with her hands, squirming about on the divine fulcrum, letting her softness relax and fall open until Vaudin's huge cock seemed to be pushing all the way up into her chest, filling her utterly, making her vast and powerful. His cock was now hers, she possessed it, possessed it in the only way she could possess that which she had irretrievably lost and which in her former life she had fucked so many women with. And the doctor came yet again.
After several hours and after many imaginings, the doctor lost track of how many times she had come and fell into that profound and peaceful slumber granted only to satisfied women.