Saturday, October 15, 2011

Circe's Mirror

I am proud to present to you, the next story by Edith Bellamy:
Circe's Mirror
This is the story of an ill-fated archeological dig on an island in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Greece. They unearth an ancient chamber and unwittingly awaken the witch Circe who decides to exact her revenge.  This is an illustrated story with several paintings used to depict portions of the story.  Many of the original images were lost when the story was archived so I had to find new images online, I was lucky enough to find several of the original images through Google and Wikipedia but at least one was irreplaceable.  If any of you have a copy of this story with the original images intact I would greatly appreciate you sharing them with me.  But, without further ado I am proud to present to you Edith Bellamy's Circe's Mirror.


"Cablegram, Sir," cooed Nicole, the busty department secretary, hired only four months earlier, but already in the throes of a hopeless crush on the addressee, Professor Peter Draper. Nicole had quietly entered Draper's office while he was deeply engrossed in a translation; he was unaware of her presence until she spoke. She had approached his desk in mincing steps, the tightness of her miniskirt restricting her stride. Though the girl was wearing heels, she had come into the office on the tips of her toes, but now that she had at last attracted the professor's attention, she lowered herself and closed the remaining distance between them with that rapid and slightly nervous clicking of high heels so typical of predaceous females. She stood expectantly, breasts thrust slightly forward, and batted her heavy-lidded eyes.

As Draper looked up from his work and removed his glasses, Nicole leant over his desk to hand him the yellow envelope –leant a little more than was really necessary, far enough to grant the Professor an unimpeded view down the front of her blouse, where her generous cleavage was nestled in a froth of white lace.

Cablegrams were a regular monthly event, and the department secretaries fought one another for the privilege of delivering them to Professor Draper, a strikingly handsome man in his mid-forties – slim, tall, always impeccably dressed, independently wealthy (heir to a Maine pulp-and-paper fortune) – and unmarried. To get Draper to marry one of them was the unspoken agenda of all – the reason most had taken the job in the first place. It was the year 1965, when the Prospect of Marrying the Boss governed the career decisions of many young women.

Draper suspected these secretarial rivalries, and was flattered by them. As he accepted both the envelope and the display of Nicole's magnificent bosom, he reflected that, as the new girl on the block, she must have fought tooth and nail to deliver the cablegram. That took spunk, a trait he admired in women as long as it carried over into their lovemaking. With the celerity of thought, he undressed Nicole in his mind, approved of what he saw, and felt the familiar twinge in his crotch in response. He resolved to bed this delectable creature at the first opportunity.

"Thank you, er..." said the professor, taking the yellow envelope.

"It's Nicole, Sir," offered the girl, seeing that Draper did not know (or had forgotten) her name. She blushed professionally.

"O, yes, of course. Nicole. Thank you Nicole." The charm of her blush had the desired effect of a rapid tenting of the front of his trousers.

"Will there be anything else, Professor?"

Draper was on the verge of asking her whether she was free for dinner, but he couldn't afford the distraction, not now, when he was so close to deciphering the codex. Today – a rare exception to his usual protocol – sex would have to wait.

"No, Nicole. Thank you. That'll be all."

The girl's face fell, but she nonetheless managed a winning smile, turned on her heel and smartly clicked her way out of the office. Draper's gaze was riveted to her shapely rear and undulating hips; he instantly regretted his decision and was on the verge of calling her back, but she had already closed the door behind her.

The opportunity lost, Draper turned his attention to the yellow envelope containing the progress report from the dig. Colin Richards, his senior research assistant, made a monthly trip by motor launch to Saros for basic supplies. His last stop before returning to the dig was the Empoulis telegraph office. He'd cable Draper with a progress report and also put in an order for lightweight tools that could easily be mailed, like trowels, brushes and dental picks, items that the crew was constantly running out of. Because of budgetary constraints, they could never pack enough of them at the start of a project. But since replacements came out of a different fiscal category, it was standard practice simply to order them up as needed over the course of a project.

Draper opened the envelope with a fine Toledo dirk he kept honed to a razor's edge. He hated dull letter-openers, hated how they tore the paper rather than cut it, whereas he relished the gratifying whiz of a sharp blade slitting the fold of an envelope. He was as precise in his letter-opening as in everything he did. He removed the cablegram, unfolded it and smoothed it out on the desk.

As was Draper's habit, he rapidly scanned the message without really reading it through, to get a quick idea of its contents. His first impression was that there must have been a mix-up at the telegraph office – the clerk must have pasted the teletype tapes from someone else's message over Colin's name. But as he began to read it through in earnest, he saw that there had been no mistake, which made the content even more alarming. It read:


It was this list that had made Draper believe the telegraph office had pasted on the wrong teletype tapes: the remainder of the cable was a detailed itemization of women's apparel and feminine frills and necessities – dresses, blouses, skirts, slips, khaki workshorts and shirts, blue jeans, cotton bras and panties, one- and two-piece bathing suits, socks, stockings, garter belts, tennis shoes, plain flats and heels, sun hats, nighties… all in various specified sizes; shampoos and conditioners; a variety of sanitary napkins and tampons, soap flakes, needles and thread, costume jewelry, various notions and rickrack… The list went on for almost two pages – enough to clothe, pamper and meet the intimate needs of perhaps a dozen women for at least six months – and ended thusly:


"Girls will be grateful?" the Professor muttered out loud. "GIRLS? There are girls on the island? Has Colin gone completely off his rocker? And all this… all this disgusting girl-stuff? Am I running an archeological dig, or a bordello? What does Colin think I am, some whorehouse wardrobe master, buying frills and baubles for his prostitutes? Tampons and sanitary napkins? The boy has obviously spent a bit too much time in the sun!"

Over the years, Draper had developed strict rules for all his digs: male graduate students only, willing to toil twelve hours a day in the merciless Aegean sun for nothing but tent and board — and the glory of working on a Draper dig. The sites were remote, the local crews (even the cook) were all male, and women were not permitted within five miles because of the distraction they'd surely cause. Despite this, the graduate students occasionally managed to smuggle in some local girls for a few nights, whom they passed around, share and share alike. Draper had got wind of this practice, but looked the other way as long as work was progressing satisfactorily.

But on this dig, the issue of girls simply could not arise: the site was on Yaros, the only uninhabited island in the Cyclades, a monolith of dazzlingly white rock two miles long by a mile wide, used by various Greek regimes to exile enemies of the state. Yaros was popularly known as the Greek Alcatraz. In late 1964, the conservative junta in Athens, brought to power in a bloodless coup, ordered the ancient prison razed – the island's only building – to make way for a new one, which everyone thought would accommodate a large contingent of leftists who were already cramming the mainland prisons to overflowing.

Yaros prison, one hundred and five years old, was solidly built. Hence blasting – the archeologist's best friend and worst enemy – was required. After the third detonation, the sub-basement dungeon cells collapsed into what even the workmen could tell was an early Hellenic temple. Word of the find quickly leaked out to the antiquities community. Not even the Philistine generals could resist international pressures to excavate the site. The generals granted a one year's stay of execution. Harvard's Fogg Museum won the contract, mainly because of Professor Peter Draper, the Fogg's curator of Hellenic antiquities and a recognized world authority on the archeology of the Cyclades.

In the mid-1950's, as a graduate student in Hellenic archeology, Draper had written a brilliant doctoral dissertation on the Circe legend. His groundbreaking translation of the inscrutable Mikonos Codex led him to assert that the powerful sorceress, who had, according to legend, turned Odysseus's men into swine, dwelt, in fact, not on Aiaia , as had been erroneously repeated for several millennia, but on Yaros, then heavily forested and so densely populated with wild animals of all sorts that the ancients believed they were marooned mariners transformed by Circe's spells.

Now, some fifteen years later and at the apex of his career, Draper was deciphering yet another codex, the so-called Kythnian Codex, found on Kythnos in 1881. It had languished, forgotten, for more than seventy years in the Fogg's moldering basement annex until a workman fixing a drain retrieved it from where it had fallen between a bookshelf and the wall. The newly rediscovered codex had subtle and tantalizing parallels to the Mikonos Codex, so many, in fact, that Draper at first thought that one was a copy of the other, set down from memory by some fourth century B.C. scribe – a hack – which would account for their textual differences.

Both codices referred to Yaros as Circe's island, but only the Kythnian mentioned a "temple of Circe," which held an east-facing sanctuary on whose inner wall was affixed a circular mirror – Circe's Mirror – the source of the sorceress's powers, but only when it reflected the rays of the rising sun for seven days on either side of the vernal and autumnal equinoxes. Circe was a votary of Apollo and made rich sacrifices to him. In recompense for her devotion, Apollo would, twice a year, grant Circe's Mirror its transformational powers. Or so said the new codex, at any rate.

The codex related that whenever mariners landed on the island – whether for water, or because they were stranded by wind, weather or shipwreck – Circe commanded her spear-toting Amazon guards to drag them to the temple at sunrise and restrain them before her mirror, whereupon the reflected rays of the rising sun would transform them. The new codex made a distinction, however, between the mirror's vernal and autumnal powers: the autumnal mirror transformed men into beasts, but the vernal mirror transformed them into…. women.

Here the new codex had a lacuna, however, where the inscription was faint and inconclusive. And it was on this very lacuna that Draper had been working when Nicole had entered his office bearing Colin's cablegram. The lacuna referred to the sexual transformations specifically: Circe enslaved the newly-transmuted females as her handmaidens. If they served her faithfully, doing her bidding without question or hesitation, she turned them back into men after a month or two, using her ordinary powers (apparently, it was a relatively simple matter to make a man, whereas making a woman required the direct intervention of a god). She gave them their liberty: the island's forests provided the trees to build boats. But if they were surly or disobedient, they were brought before the mirror again in the fall, and were made beasts forever.

As far as the professor was concerned, the mirror's differing powers were purely academic. The entire Circe myth was exactly that: a myth, one calculated to appeal to the Hellenes' ancient and abiding fixation on transformations, a perverse thread running through most of their culture since time immemorial. Charming stories, true, which played upon humankind's endless fascination with sexual ambiguity. But whether Draper believed the codex or not, what it contained soon became known as the New Circe Legend.


Draper had, for the moment, forgotten the codex. He stared incredulously at the yellow cablegram on his desk, then snatched it up and read it through twice again.

It was quite impossible to make out anything certain except that a mirror fragment had been found in the cella — the main chamber of the temple. But all the rest? It was completely bizarre. Perhaps Colin had come down with Cycladean encephalitis and was delusional. There was no possibility of communicating with Yaros. He'd have to assume they'd made an important discovery, and meet Colin on the quay on the 21st – less than a week away.

And as for the ridiculous shopping list… the urgency of the request was obvious. Draper was could not seriously challenge its validity, unable as he was to put himself in contact with Colin Richards other than by meeting him as requested on March 21st. He really had no choice but to comply. So Draper rang up Renée Sedgewick, who ran an upscale shopping service for well-to-do men like him who were too busy (or too inept) to shop for their wives, girlfriends or mistresses. He'd asked Renée to pick out intimate feminine apparel for various paramours on any number of occasions — but never a wardrobe for twelve. And never a whole shipment of female paraphernalia.

"Renée? Peter Draper here. Fine, fine. How're you? Good. Look, Renée, I have rather an unusual request…"

Draper read her the cable in its entirety.

"How should I know what it means?" he exclaimed, annoyance cutting through his determination to treat this as a routine matter. "I have no idea. Just the same, I'm resolved to bring all of it with me. Where do I want you to buy it? Anyplace but Filene's or Penny's. Whatever this stuff is for, we may as well get the best labels. Pick up three or four footlockers, too. We'll need at least that much space… Get it all packed up into the footlockers and have it delivered to the museum's loading dock on Quincy street by tomorrow afternoon. Put it all on my account, including your usual commission."

After a few pleasantries, Draper rang off. Then he dialed up Pan American and reserved a first class seat to Athens on the Friday flight. That would give him a good part of Saturday and all of Sunday at the Athens Intercontinental. He could unwind and catch up on the jet lag. Then he'd grab the six A.M. ferry from Piraeus on Monday. He'd be on Andros by ten, with plenty of time to catch the noon shuttle ferry to Empoulis, which would put him on the quay no later than two.

* * * *

Renée Sedgewick, a marvel of efficiency, had procured all the required items by Friday noon. Draper's flight was uneventful — other than his obtaining the telephone numbers of the two very pretty first class stewardesses. At Athens International, customs had hardly raised its official eyebrow. The inspectors asked what all the stuff was for and when Draper told them it was for a theatrical production, they smirked, elbowed each other in the ribs and nodded gravely with poorly feigned belief. This explanation (along with several crisp twenty dollar bills) ended further questions, however, and he was waved through.

By six-twenty Monday morning, Piraeus was already receding in the ferry's wake and the sun was rising off the port side. Draper, in chinos and a light poplin jacket, leant on the rail and felt the sun's first rays, already hot, on his face. The sea was calm and the ferry — the Sappho — made good headway. A faint morning breeze blew the diesel fumes starboard, sparing the passengers. It promised to be a perfect day on the Aegean, but Draper could not enjoy it: he was anxious for the hours to pass, for now that he was so close to learning the facts behind Colin Richard's odd cablegram, he had difficulty restraining his impatience.

The Sappho gained Andros harbor fifteen minutes early. He was able to transfer to the shuttle ferry without incident, and by noon the Elektra, an ancient prewar steamboat, was chugging valiantly towards Empoulis, the professor's considerable baggage taking up a good part of the tiny passenger deck. By two, Draper and his luggage were on the quay and by two-thirty the motor launch from Yaros hove into view.

As the launch neared the quay, Draper arose from his seat on one of the footlockers, shaded his eyes and tried to make out who was on board besides Colin. There were only two people in the craft — and neither of them looked like Colin Richards. Colin, a redhead, was a fairly broad shouldered man, though not above average height. The two people in the launch were slight. Indeed, one was redheaded. The other was dark. When the launch was only about seventy-five yards off, he saw clearly that they were women... girls, really, in their early twenties or younger, he guessed. The dark one stood in the bow, holding the hawser, ready to cast it off; the redhead was at the controls. Both were extremely attractive, though their faces looked rather grim. They were clad in oversize khaki work-clothes — men's clothes — and both were barefoot. Draper was mystified. The girl with the hawser needed all her strength to cast it to Draper; he caught it and the redhead cut the engine as Draper pulled the line taut and secured it to the aft cleat on the dock. Then the redhead cast Draper the stern sheet; he pulled the launch in against the quay and looped the line securely around the other cleat, making the vessel fast.

The tide was out, so the launch lay about five feet below the level of the dock. The redhead extended her hand, Draper reached down, grasped it, and pulled her up onto the quay. Then he did the same for the brunette. The redhead was light, not more than a hundred and twenty pounds, he guessed, but the brunette was just a wisp of a girl, and now that he got a good look at her, he could see she was no more than eighteen — if that — and soft-appearing. In fact, neither girl seemed at all athletic — they seemed more like the sort of girls one might find at a Vassar mixer or a debutante ball, not on an Aegean island. The sort who, at college, wore pink cashmere cardigans and Villager skirts. Their bulky masculine garb concealed their figures, but even so, Draper could tell that they were big-breasted…. and bra-less. The brunette blushed intensely under Draper's brief scrutiny and looked down at her feet in embarrassment and confusion, but the redhead met Draper's gaze squarely and did not turn away.

On the contrary, she managed a brave half-smile. "Thanks Professor," she said, briskly dusting off her hands, "I just can't do some things anymore — haven't the size or the strength." The brunette, still looking at her feet, murmured in a nearly inaudible voice, "Yeah. Thanks, Professor," and sniffled.

Draper towered over the two. "I'm very glad you came to meet me, Miss...Miss," he began, addressing the redhead, who was clearly in charge. When she did not pick up the cue, Draper continued, "Well, if you don't want to tell me your names, you at least need to do some explaining. First, where's Colin Richards? And second, what are you doing in this launch?"

The girl looked up at him and fully met his gaze. Draper drew in his breath sharply: for a fraction of a second, the girl's eyes seemed terribly familiar, but Draper knew he had never met her before — she was extremely pretty, and he certainly would have remembered meeting anyone so lovely, especially a redhead. The girl saw the fleeting recognition flash across Draper's face. She licked her lips, smiled ruefully and opened her mouth as if to speak, but could not find the words. Draper saw her eyes glisten with tears. She bit her lower lip briefly, then spoke.

"I'm Colin, Professor. And this is Justin Singleton, one of the grad students."

Draper stared at her, speechless, and waited for her to continue.

She pursed her lips for a few moments, then resumed, "Well, you see, we... um… we were…" And suddenly the words rushed out in a torrent, "We were turned into girls last Monday morning. In fact, all of us on Yaros were turned into girls — me, the five grad students and the six Greek laborers: the whole expedition is female now. You'll be the only man there."

This redhead certainly had an odd sense of humor. Draper was not sure what sort of prank she was trying to play on him, but he wasn't buying. He started shaking his head before she had finished speaking, and said, "Look, Miss, it's very nice of you to come fetch me, but you don't expect me to believe a word of what you said, do you? Now, where's Colin Richards? Tell me right now!"

"You're looking at him, Professor," she answered, not breaking eye contact. "I'm telling you, I'm Colin, I'm a girl now and everyone on Yaros was turned into a girl." Evidently imparting this story was too much for her self-control; her voice had started to quaver and she suddenly burst into tears — the tears of a frightened, confused and frustrated young woman. The little brunette joined her and the two collapsed in one another's arms.

"I told you he wouldn't believe me, Justin!" sobbed the redhead. The little brunette turned her tear-stained face towards Draper and shot him a reproachful glance. Then she returned to consoling the redhead and said, "You'll just have to work harder to convince him, that's all." The two girls broke into fresh cascades of tears.

A small crowd had already gathered on the quay, drawn by the spectacle of two pretty young women dressed in men's work-clothes and crying. They were watching with increasing interest and were gradually drawing nearer.

Exasperated and wishing to avoid a scene, Draper became conciliatory.

"All right, all right, girls. You're Colin and Justin, OK? Just calm yourselves, please, and stop blubbering. Let's get the gear into the launch and you can tell me all about it on the way over to Yaros," Draper said, placating the two with his hands. Then he went over to the luggage, hoisted a footlocker and set it on the edge of the dock, ready for loading.

The two girls dried their tears on their shirtsleeves and approached the pile of baggage. They gave a few feeble tugs on the handles at either end of one footlocker and together managed to skid it to the edge of the quay, using all their strength. It was clear they'd not be able to manhandle it into the launch by themselves. They looked about helplessly and both began to cry again in frustration, but silently this time.

Draper called over two wiry young men from the gathering crowd and asked them in fluent Greek if they'd mind lending a hand. Eager to impress the two strange but lovely girls, lovely despite their tears and masculine garb, the young men had the launch loaded in no time, then eagerly helped the girls down to the deck before they clambered back up onto the quay. Draper gave them each two dollars. They thanked him, blew the girls kisses and lit off after the dispersing crowd. The redhead, still blushing from the attention of the young men (one of them had given her a pinch in a place he should not have), switched on the engine, Draper threw the bow line to the brunette, then disengaged the stern line and, coiling it around his arm, jumped down to the launch.

The petite redhead handled the boat skillfully, guiding it out through the harbor channels and into open water before she gave it full throttle. As it had an inboard motor, the noise of the engine was not overpowering, and allowed conversation.

"When I came here last Wednesday to send you that cablegram, the tide was in, so it was easier getting up on the dock, and no one pinched me, either!" she began, her eyes flashing with indignation. "I was in and out in less than fifteen minutes. I was alone, but no one stopped me. No one asked me any questions. I wanted to get out fast. Bad things can happen to American girls in Greece who travel alone... But now I have something special to tell you, Professor, to make you believe me."

The girl then proceeded to recite, word for word, the contents of the cablegram, finishing with, "I do hope you brought everything on my list."

Draper saw what the girl was doing but remained unconvinced. Colin always made carbons of his cablegrams and kept them in a loose-leaf binder. If she had gotten hold of the binder, she could have seen and memorized the cable.

"I brought everything on Colin's list," replied Draper slowly, "And then some. But I still want to know who you are, Miss."

The girl stamped her foot in frustration. "I'm Colin, goddamn it! What's it going to take to convince you?" Draper thought her eyes filled with tears again, but it might have been just the spray off the bow. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and glared angrily at Draper.

"Impossible," Draper answered. "Completely impossible. I'm not a fool or an idiot, Miss. Men don't get turned into women, period, so please don't even mention it again. Just tell me who you really are."

"Impossible?" echoed the redhead, ducking to avoid another sheet of spray, "Impossible? If anyone knows it's not impossible, it's you: it's all in the New Circe Legend as written in the Kythnian Codex, and you're the one who deciphered it, as if you need me to tell you."

The girl was clever and well-informed. She knew about the Kynthian Codex and had hinted at what it contained. Suddenly Draper knew how to catch her. The Codex was written in a rare Phrygian dialect known as Linear-Sigma. Draper not only could read it, but he had worked out its phonetics from a ship's manifest found in a pre-Christian era wreck salvaged off the Anatolian coast in 1951. The manifest, cataloging a cargo of olives, sandalwood and Malabar peppercorns, had been written in Attic as well as in Linear-Sigma. From this he deduced how Linear-Sigma must have sounded. The only person on earth with whom Draper had shared this knowledge was Colin Richards, who had memorized the Kythnian Codex and could recite it by heart, as could Draper.

"So, you know about the New Circe Legend, do you? You're certainly a bright little thing... for a redhead. I don't suppose you know how it reads, in the original, that is…"

"You can still be a real bastard, Professor. You used to do this to me when I was a grad student," she replied, beginning to smile at last, "But if that's what it's going to take to convince you who I am, I'll give you everything but the lacuna. Here goes..."

And then, to Draper's utter astonishment, the pert little redhead proceeded to spout off the entire Kythnian Codex, minus the lacuna of course, in the peculiar sing-song fashion characteristic of all Phrygian dialects.

"Good God!" exclaimed Draper, "You really are Colin Richards!"

"You bet I am," she cried triumphantly. "And if you think that was hard to believe, you're going to have a much bigger problem with the rest of what I have to tell you!"

Draper, who had been standing this whole time, sank weakly down onto one of the footlockers, holding his head in both hands, his eyes tightly shut.

"No! O, No! That ridiculous myth is true! It's impossible, impossible!"

"You haven't heard the half of it, Professor."

Suddenly Justin, who appeared unable to contain herself any long, sprung up from her seat on one of the foot lockers and came over to the redhead. Blushing and averting her face from Draper, she whispered something in the redhead's ear. All Draper could hear was, "Ask him whether…" Then she scurried back to her place and sat again, hunched and huddled, facing the sea and looking the very picture of a shy, miserable teenaged girl.

The redhead frowned, obviously considering her next words carefully. She swallowed hard and said, "Justin is terribly embarrassed to bring this up, Professor, but, the fact is that he, um, well, he's the first of us girls to start... um, menstruating — two days ago, in fact — and, ah, well, as there had been no girls on the island until a week ago, we had no idea that we'd ever need… you, know, um, well, I think they're called 'feminine hygiene products.' So, without them, Justin's had to... well..." (and here the redhead blushed deeply), "he's had to, um, improvise, and he says he's very uncomfortable. Being a girl now myself, I can understand why. But Justin's not the only one. Martin started complaining this morning that his breasts were tender and that he felt bloated. And one of the Greeks said he had cramps and wouldn't come out of his bedchamber this morning."

On overhearing this conversation, Justin shrank with mortification, making herself as small as possible — and she was a very small girl to begin with.

"Tell... tell Justin here that she... I mean he... can stop worrying. I've brought ample supplies of all different kinds. I'm sure there'll be something to suit her... I mean him." Draper was already getting dizzy at the evident gender confusion the two girls were dealing with. To him they appeared to be two lovely young women, thoroughly female except for their garb. But clearly they had not yet come to terms with who — or what — they had become, and still were going by their masculine names. More important than Justin's starting her period, however, was that single word, "bedchamber" that the redhead had used. There were no permanent structures on Yaros. The prison had been demolished — now just a heap of white stones — and the entire crew lived in wall tents. There were no "bedchambers."

"Wouldn't come out of her bedchamber..." the Professor slowly repeated. "What 'bedchamber' can you possibly mean?" He absently watched a school of dolphins sounding off the starboard bow as he awaited a reply.

"Well, that's the other part of the story, Professor…"

"See here, Colin..." Draper interrupted, the stopped himself and began again, "Look, do you mind if I call you something else? 'Miss' seems a bit formal. But I simply cannot call you Colin. Except for your red hair and your eyes, you bear no resemblance whatever to him."

"I'm rather glad of that," she said, "Colin in drag would have made a rather unfortunate-looking girl. But for the time being, I'm afraid you'll have to keep calling me Colin. I'm not quite ready to choose a new name."

"Very well. Colin it is, if you insist. Now, as I was about to say, why don't you start at the very beginning, then. I'm all ears."


By now Yaros was visible as a small speck off the bow. The wind had picked up, and with it, the sea had become choppy. The small craft began slapping the waves as the going got rough. Colin throttled back the engine to cut their speed. At this rate, they'd be another two hours to Yaros... plenty of time, the redhead thought, to tell Draper everything.

She had to raise her voice to be heard over the smack of the waves. "The very beginning… well, that would have to be forty-five hundred years ago I suppose, when Circe was supposedly at the height of her powers. But I'll simply fast forward to March 1st. As I mentioned in the cable, a couple of weeks ago we unearthed a fragment of mirror in the cella, roughly six by ten centimeters. Like all ancient mirrors, it was metal, only it was not corroded. It was still bright and yielded an optically perfect reflection. I had to conclude it was platinum, or else white gold. Finding the fragment slowed us down quite a bit… we had to proceed with brushes and dental picks, and could barely get down into the floor more than a couple of millimeters a day. We began sieving everything with a triple-O screen, but all we found were some black pottery shards.

"On Friday, the 11th, we hit pay dirt." Here the redhead had to stop, for a breaking wave had drenched her. Draper could not fail to notice how her wet shirt clung to her, revealing her full, shapely breasts. The chill of the wet fabric instantly made her nipples erect. The effect was extremely stimulating. Despite all his efforts to concentrate on what she was saying, Draper felt himself stiffen, and shifted his position so that it would not show. The girl, however, who, after all, was a super-observant archeologist, saw the flicker of lust in his eyes. She knew the Professor, and had seen that look often enough before, usually when a pretty secretary had come into his office. She knew in a flash that Draper had made up his mind right then to fuck her, and she knew in a flash that he would, sooner rather than later, and, moreover, she realized that she would welcome it. Draper saw the receptivity in her eyes. They instantly perceived that a compact had been made between them, though the whole transaction has lasted no more than a second. Turning to see if Justin has been watching (she hadn't been), the redhead blushed and nervously tugged at her wet shirt to free it from her breasts, but there was little she could do about it. So she ignored it, and continued her narrative, no longer looking Draper in the eye quite so often. When she resumed, it was with a more confident voice.

"So we hit pay dirt," she continued, "In the form of a marble slab on the floor cunningly carved to resemble a surface of smaller stones, but a single slab nonetheless. Once it was cleaned, we sounded it carefully, listening with stethoscopes, and determined that there was a chamber or vault beneath. We could find no point of purchase, however, until Saturday morning, when we discovered that a false stone at either end of the slab in fact concealed heavy bronze rings, clearly the very ones that had been used to lower the slab into position. It took us the rest of the day to construct scaffolding to hang several comealongs from, strong enough to support the weight of the slab, which we guessed to be about four tons. We hung three comealongs at each end of the scaffolding and secured them to the rings at each end. Then we called it a day.

"Around noon on Sunday we began carefully winching up the slab. By dusk it was high enough to permit a view of what lay beneath it."

"A burial crypt, no doubt..." interjected the Professor.

"We really could not tell," Colin said, ducking another sheet of spray, which this time caught Justin, soaking her through, with the same wet T-shirt results, for she when turned around to protest the dousing she had received, her shirt, too, clung tightly to her, delineating her lovely torso in its detail: she may as well have been nude. She was every bit as shapely as Draper had imagined. But when she saw the professor stare at her breasts with obvious male interest, she gasped, abruptly turned her back to him and hunched over more tightly than before.

The Professor's glance was not lost on Colin, of course; she felt an instant pang of jealously pierce her womanheart — the first such pang she had ever known (and certainly not the last). But she continued as if nothing had happened.

"We really could not tell. After we had lowered lights and cameras and photographed the interior, I sent Martin down — he was the smallest. It was filled with perhaps a hundred amphorae of unglazed orange clay of the kind found only on Lemnos. The wooden stands had long turned to dust, so the amphorae were lying scattered about, but all of them were intact. Martin gathered them, lining them all up right below the opening so we could bring them up. Then Neal — always the clumsy one— dislodged a loose fragment of rock at the edge of the opening. It fell directly onto one of the amphorae, shattering it. The crypt instantly filled with dense gray fumes, Martin disappeared from view, and it was only by his violent coughing that we could locate him and pull him out. By then, the entire cella was filled with the same gray fog, choking us and burning our eyes. We all managed to escape safely enough, and lay panting on the ground about fifty yards away, Some of us were retching and vomiting. It was alarming, to say the least. Within minutes the entire site was obscured by a roiling cloud of smoke, which clung there in the still evening air. Like the cloud over a volcano, filled with charged dust, this cloud began emitting lightning and thunder — flashing white against the night sky.

"We backed off to a safer distance and watched the show. The pyrotechnics continued until about three in the morning, when suddenly all became still, except for odd chinking sounds, like trowels on stone. None of us dared go any closer. Besides, whenever we turned our flashlights on the site, all we could see was the gray cloud — now dull and quiet, but still clinging there like a huge cauliflower. We finally turned in. The chinking sounds ceased sometime before dawn.

"Naturally, we were anxious to see what had happened during the night. At first light, Justin, Steven and I — always the early risers — approached the site. The cloud of smoke had dissipated. In its place was a gleaming temple of marble, as new and crisp as a fresh-minted coin. It was not large by ancient standards — perhaps only 25 meters on each side. It was surrounded by hundreds of flowering almond trees set in gardens with numerous fountains and pools. In short, the temple was the center of a rich and beautiful park, with white marble walkways leading to belvederes overlooking the sea, and with benches and vine-covered bowers inviting repose. As we got closer, were could hear chanting coming from the temple — women's voices — with one higher voice giving the theme and a chorus of voices giving the responses."

Draper, no longer aroused by the display of the two girls' wet bodies, was listening intently, his face registering a mixture of horror and incredulity.

The redhead continued. "We got down on our bellies and began to crawl closer, not wishing to be detected. But we must have tripped some sort of perimeter alarm, for all at once the chanting ceased and about thirty young women, virtually nude save for gossamer scarves which they wore round their hips, poured from the temple, bearing long spears. Like so many angry hornets, they were swift, and we were so astonished that we had barely gotten to our feet before we were surrounded. The women — most of them really girls no older than were are now — leveled their spears, pricking our chests, flanks and backs with their sharp bronze points. They could easily have killed us on the spot. One of them appeared to be their captain, for she alone wore a garland of golden oak leaves around her brow. Like all the warriors, she was small breasted, no doubt an advantage when wielding a spear or managing a bow. With no particular malice, she addressed us in the very language of Linear-Sigma.

"She informed us that the island was sacred to women and strictly forbidden to 'hairy, forkèd creatures' like ourselves and that our presence was a desecration. We would instantly be brought before their leader, who would decide how best the island could be purified, and how we should be punished for our defilement. She demanded I tell whether there were other men on the island besides us, and if so, how many and whether they were armed, and if armed, what were their weapons. When I hesitated in my reply, she instantly barked out a command and half the warriors detached themselves and rushed off in the direction we had come from. Those remaining swiftly bound our elbows behind our backs with silk cords and marched us off to the temple, prodding us with the tips of their spears. It was still before dawn... perhaps only half an hour or so away.

"We found ourselves inside the cella, illuminated in the pre-dawn obscurity by a hundred oil-lamps. The chamber was resplendent, with gleaming marble walls and floors, each of its votary alcoves of alabaster or jade filled with small brightly-painted statuettes."

The redhead paused to stare intently at Draper. Was he still with her? He was, in fact, listening with rapt attention as if his very life depended on it. He had not missed a word. Yaros was now much more than a speck on the horizon, but they still had an hour or so, assuming the seas got no rougher. Draper wanted as much time as possible to digest this incredible tale.

"Ready for the next part, Professor?" asked the redhead.

"What now? Nothing could be more unbelievable than what you've related so far."

"Here it is: at the end of the cella, on a throne set on a dais of polished granite, sat an intense young girl with the aspect of a brooding and petulant teenager. She could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen, at the most. She held a broad-bowled chalice of wine in her right hand, and a sort of a wand in her other. Behind her, set into the wall, was an ornately framed convex mirror which reflected the whole interior of the temple in miniature. In a disdainful voice, she addressed the captain of our squadron, deigning barely a glance in our direction. She, too, spoke in Linear-Sigma.

"'Are there more of these filthy, hairy, forkèd creatures on my island?' she asked. 'We believe there must be, O Mistress,' replied the captain. 'I have ordered a platoon to reconnoiter and capture any others that might be here.'

"'We shall wait precisely one hundred drops by the clepsydra,' the girl on the throne replied, indicating a water-clock sitting on a jade stand to her right, dripping water at the rate of perhaps one drop every five seconds. 'We must wait no longer, as Apollo's chariot even now is just below the horizon, and my own powers will not suffice to punish these creatures until the first rays of the sun strike my mirror. If we wait too long, the sun will be too high. If there are others and they are not brought here soon, we shall have to wait until the morrow to mete out their punishment, but these you have already brought before Us will be punished no later than the hundredth drop. Count!' A warrior immediately detached herself from the squadron and began counting the drops at the water-clock.

"My heart sunk when I realized that this chit of a girl could be none other than Circe herself, and that today was precisely one week before the vernal equinox! I broke out in an icy sweat and was about to speak when the platoon burst into the temple, driving the rest of our crew, including the Greeks, before them with the tips of their spears. All were tightly bound in the same manner as we were, and looked terrified.

"'Colin!' Steven cried out as he lurched into the temple, trying to outrun the points of the spears. 'What the hell's going on?' Before I could respond, Circe almost imperceptibly flicked a finger and one of the warriors instantly delivered a powerful blow to the side of Steven's head with the butt end of her spear. He staggered and sank to his knees, but two other warriors raised him to his feet and held him, groaning in pain, between them.

"'How dare a hairy, forkèd creature profane my temple with his coarse voice! Hold your tongues on pain of instant death!' cried the girl on the throne. We are Circe, unchallenged Mistress of this island and We have forbidden entry to spindly, hairy creatures such as yourselves, which the rest of the world are pleased to call "men." By some magic spell, you have disturbed Our peace and repose, which was to have endured until the advent of next Golden Age, a primordial cycle of six thousand years, but no longer than a midsummer's night for Us Immortals. You have wantonly defiled Our island. Before We can resume Our slumber, We must deal with you harshly! You have ill-chosen your time of coming here, hairy, forkèd creatures! For the time of equal nights and equal days is upon Us. Within five hundred heartbeats the power of Our mirror shall be at its zenith and shall remain undiminished for thirteen risings of the sun.'

Here the girl turned to the captain of her guard, and continued, 'Bring them before the mirror! You well know what to do!' She dashed her chalice to the floor, shattering it. The wine it contained rushed over the dais in a great, seething blot, fringed with purple foam. Circe held her scepter high and invoked Apollo, imploring him to accept her libation of sacred wine and punish the defilers of her island.

Circe, before her mirror, offers a libation to Apollo just before sunrise. Note reflection of Greek worker. Within minutes, his reflection underwent a remarkable change, as did he himself and every other male in the temple. 

"Her invocation done, Circe arose from her throne, stepped off the dais, and quickly left the antechamber for an unseen inner sanctum without looking back. We never saw her again. A dozen handmaidens, who had been standing silently off to the sides, removed the throne, clearing the dais... now a scaffold for us! Then, prodded by spears, the twelve of us were driven forward and made to kneel on the dais, facing the mirror. The Greek laborers had begun to sob, though they, of all, knew least what was about to transpire. Or perhaps they knew something of the ancient legend, passed down through the millennia. In any case, I was the only one would could understand what had been spoken, and I was not about to subject myself to blows — or worse — by speaking out. We were securely bound, and even had we been free, we were badly outnumbered and had no weapons at all… Behind each one of us stood one of Circe's soldiers, her hand grasping our hair and digging into our scalps with her sharp nails, to make sure we faced the mirror squarely and did not bow our heads: there was no escaping our fate, whatever it was to be.

"Then the first rays of the sun shot across the surface of the sea…."


Here the little redhead's voice became tremulous and her eyes again filled with tears. For several moments all that could be heard was the muffled sound of the engine, the slap of the waves against the hull and the thin cry of seabirds too high in the air to be seen. At last she resumed her story.

"The first rays of the sun shot across the surface of the sea. The temple, situated on the island's highest elevation, caught the sun soonest. Because of the depth of the cella and the need for the rays to pass the narrow antechamber first, the mirror could only be illuminated directly for no more than a minute before the sun was too high….

"As the golden sunrays struck the mirror, the chamber became suffused with a brilliant rose-colored mist. Unlike the foul smoke of the previous evening, this mist was sweet and fragrant, like jasmine and honeysuckle combined. I cannot speak for the others, of course (although, later on, when we compared stories, we all pretty much felt the same thing), but for myself, my nipples began to swell; I felt odd stirrings deep in my belly, a shrinking of my body and a sensation of somehow getting softer — not altogether unpleasant. Suddenly I was conscious of a tingling down there, then a terrible pain, a fine tearing sensation down there, like the incision of a scalpel blade, as if I were being sliced open. It was the worst pain I had ever felt, and I screamed… By then we were all screaming. The only thing worse than the pain was hearing those screams — for they were all girls' screams — long, high and shrill. Then I passed out."

The girl paused again. Tears streamed down her face and she wiped them away so that she could see to steer. Justin, still hunched over, was convulsed with sobbing.

After several minutes, the redhead resumed her tale.

"When I awoke, I found myself lying with my head in a strange girl's lap. She was soft and full-figured... and completely nude. She was crying quietly and was stroking my hair — as she did so, I was aware that it was now quite long. I was terribly groggy, as if drugged. I tried to sit up. 'Don't' said the girl, 'just lie back a while.' She gently pushed me back down into her lap.

"'You're Colin, right?' she asked, looking down at me with limpid brown eyes. I nodded. 'I knew it had to be you by your red hair. You're the only redhead here...' This was no news to me, so I wondered why she had brought it up. I didn't have to wonder long.

"She resumed stroking my hair and remained silent for a few moments. The she blurted out, 'We've all been changed into girls, Colin! Every one of us, even the Greeks! I'm Neal, but my own mother wouldn't recognize me!'

"'You mean... I'm a girl, too?' I asked, hearing my light soprano for the first time..

"'Fraid so, Colin. And a very lovely one,' she replied.

"My hands immediately shot downwards to corroborate what I had just heard. To my horror, they encountered a pair of firm, young breasts, on which they lingered but a moment before descending further, over a smooth and hairless belly, until they reached... a woman's mound... mine!!! I paused for an agonizing second or two, then extended my fingers. I gasped to feel a soft vacancy between my legs. I withdrew my hand in a flash and sat bolt upright. My long hair brushed my shoulders and I felt the tug of my breasts. I was, indeed, female! I stared in amazement at my delicate hands, turning them over and back. I glanced down at my broad, white womanbelly. I thought I'd faint when I saw I indeed had love-mound, one covered with fine red hair not thick enough to conceal my female cleft, dipping down to disappear between my plump thighs.

"I looked about in panic. Lying or half-sitting up on the dais were eleven other nude girls — all quite young, none of them over twenty-two or twenty three. A few looked no more than teenagers — like Justin here, who was lying next to me. He was still unconscious, lying peacefully as if he were posing for a classic 'sleeping nude' painting. Of course, I had no idea yet that he was Justin — he was simply a pretty, sleeping girl… Nor did I have any idea who the other sleeping girls were.

"The ones who were awake were touching themselves in alarm and disbelief— running their hands all over their bodies and faces and doing all those things young men would normally do upon waking up to discover that they had been changed into girls. They were either whimpering softly, sobbing outright, or, like Neal, were tending to the girls who were just waking up. The Greeks had all woken up; it was easy to tell them apart because of their olive skin and thick, black hair, braided and put up in classical style around their temples. I could see that two of the Greek girls were quite well-built, like rural laundry-maids, but the other four were slight.

"Quite soon, all the girls were awake and stirring, and the temple was filled with feminine sobbing. I was no different from the others… I was crying, too and touching myself all over, amazed and dismayed at feeling my soft skin and the gentle curves of my body, the fullness of my breasts, the silkiness of the hair on my love mound. But none of us was bold enough to explore any further … not then, and not in front of other girls anyway. Of course, as the week progressed, we lost much of our shyness… but more of that later.

"Within a few minutes we all identified ourselves to the others. Martin, now a slim brunette, resembled a wood-nymph; when he found that he had shocking carrot-red hair on his love-mound, he began to sob piteously. Justin, as you can see, turned out to be high-waisted and rather broad- hipped, with an endearing pouty face and thick auburn hair. Steven was rather small breasted, but he had a protuberant tummy, which gave him a nice fecund appearance, as if he were four or five months pregnant. His brown hair was tied up in a bun. Brad had dark blonde locks and a graceful, sylph-like figure. All in all, we looked rather like a convention of half-dazed, classical pre-Raphaelite artists' models.

"As for Circe and her gang, they were nowhere to be seen. Naturally, we assumed they had simply gone to another part of the temple and would soon return to mete out some additional punishment. Were we to be slaves and concubines? Were we sacrificial maidens, to be slaughtered like Iphigenia, to propitiate some angry god? These horrible possibilities — and others — swirled through every girl's mind. So our first order of business was not to start "discovering" ourselves, but to assure our physical safety: we were sorely afraid for our lives. By now, we felt steady enough to get to our feet, so we stood and hovered together in a trembling group, holding hands or embracing in fear. As soon as I could think clearly, I said that we should seek out Circe and her army, and not wait for them to come find us. But Brad, Martin and Justin were afraid, and wanted to stay put. The four little Greek girls also wanted to remain. So that left me, Neal, Steve and the two big Greeks — who turned out to be Stavros, the foreman, and Dimitios, the cook — to be the search party.

"Can you imagine four frightened women — completely nude — setting out in search of an armed enemy? The four of us set out on our expedition in a tight group, half-crouching, trying to cover our breasts and our private parts with our little hands, and exchanging surprised looks as we felt, for the first time, the sway of our womanly hips, the swing and jounce of our breasts, the soft brush of our hair on our bare shoulders. It was terribly unnerving — and frightening — suddenly to find yourself turned into a naked, defenseless girl and face a possibly deadly assault at any moment. We left the main temple chamber by a small doorway set into one wall; now that we were out of range of the other girls' sobbing and lamentations (Martin kept up a dirge about his red public hair), all became so still that we could hear our own hearts beating.

"We soon found that the rear of the temple was devoted to elegant living quarters, with comfortable furniture of olive wood and fragrant cedar. There must have been fifteen bedrooms, some of them small, some with single beds and other with doubles. Some had spectacular views of the sea from their balconies. Neal saw a spider and screamed. Then I saw a different spider, and I screamed. Finally, all of us saw a spider together, and we all screamed. But no Circe! Of course, there were chests and cabinets and large standing jars of all sorts, and it didn't take us long to discover clothing — of a kind. We found many long, diaphanous body scarves, like saris, and long dresses, of the same almost transparent material, with bright sashes of silk. There were caskets with bracelets, necklaces and amulets, and sandals in many sizes as well.

"We four quickly dressed ourselves in what was at hand, with no regard to color or style, of course, then scooped up armloads of garments and sandals and scurried back to the main chamber to give them to the other girls. Upon seeing the brightly colored fabrics — and feeling their sensuous textures — most of the girls (except Martin, who was inconsolable) stopped crying. By the time we left them again, they were chattering gaily. One could hear, 'How does this look on me?' or, 'Is my sash straight in back?' Instead of sobs, tears and lamentations, there were giggles, and 'Ooo's' and 'Ahhs' as they tried on their new finery. Even poor Martin finally succumbed, and clad himself in a transparent azure shift that was very becoming, though it failed to conceal the carrot-red bush he was so ashamed of.

"The temple turned out to be a complex structure, with several levels, which you will be very interested to visit, Professor. But the main thing was this: there was no trace of Circe or her band. And the sanded footpaths leading away from the temple had not been disturbed, save in the direction of our capture. Nevertheless, we felt it necessary to scour the whole island, but as we were afraid to spread out, and mainly stayed together, timorously holding hands, it took us the rest of the day. The only thing worse than the tension of suddenly coming across Circe was our need to seek out, from time to time, some shrub to squat behind when each of us needed to pee. When you're a girl, it's just not as simple to accomplish, you know. One of us would suddenly say, "O! I thought I saw something move behind that bush over there! I think I am going to have a look behind it right now!" and we all understood that he meant he had to pee, but was too mortified to be seen by the others squatting down like a girl in order to do it. Then he'd come back looking relieved, but blushing nonetheless because he knew that all the rest of us knew what he was really doing behind that bush. When you're a guy, of course, you just whip it out and do it, without interrupting the flow of conversation. It's quite different when you're a girl, Professor, believe me!

"The last place we looked was our base camp. Nothing had been touched, apart from the obvious damage caused during the capture of the main group. As this was the last place we looked, and we found no one there, we gathered up enough foodstuffs and necessaries, like soap, towels and wash cloths, to last us at least a day, and headed back to the temple as dusk was falling. We also brought with us all the knives in the camp, as well as all the flashlights. We concluded that Circe had vanished with her crowd by the same sort of magic with which she had affected their appearance, but we were not taking any chances.

"By the time we returned, the other girls had done their own exploring and had found a great deal of clothing. They had changed their outfits many times over, and were decked out in jewelry and had baubles in their hair. They had all acquired hand mirrors as well, and were busy admiring themselves and worrying about minuscule blemishes and whether their teeth were straight enough. The little Greeks had discovered some lip paint and kohl, and had made up their faces, with middling results.

"But, in the end, each girl dealt with his femininity a little bit differently… Later on, I'll tell you about it in detail. It was a terribly trying week for all of us. Stavros and Dimitrios soon returned to the camp, dressed themselves in their old masculine clothes and stayed apart from the rest of us, smoking up their cigarettes and drinking retsina and ouzo, just as they had always done. But we others really did try very hard to come to terms with our transmutation as best we could. The general consensus was that we'd be girls for a good, long while, if not forever, so we'd better make the most of it. Of course, when I went off to Empoulis last week to send the cable, and when Justin and I came to collect you today, we put on our old khakis, mainly to avoid attracting attention, though another reasons were that those long dresses are a hazard on a boat — and they are damn near transparent. But all the rest of the time we went about flitting hither and yon like ethereal nymphs and fairies, dressed in our diaphanous garments, striking classical poses, making flower garlands for our hair, and feeling quite feminine indeed, thank you very much. But my guess is that when we arrive at the dock, the girls will feel embarrassed to be seen dressed like that in front of a man. I know Justin and I would be. So I bet they'll all be wearing their old work clothes when we tie up."

Speculation about what the all-female welcoming committee might or might not be wearing was irrelevant, as the launch was now only a few minutes away from its destination. The ten or so figures excitedly milling about on the dock in anticipation of the professor's arrival were all wearing... khaki.


The spunky little redhead had finished her story... for now, anyway. She became intent on docking the launch, which was no easy matter, as the currents around Yaros were treacherous and unpredictable. So let us leave her to her seamanship and trouble her no further with narrating our story. The poor, frightened girl had worked so very hard... dealing not only with her own sudden transformation into girlhood, but essentially mothering the other new girls (except for Stavros and Dimitrios) as they tried to come to terms with what they had become. What did she know about being female, after all? Was she automatically some sort of girl expert just because she was the principal research assistant? Yet she patiently listened to the new girls' complaints, and tried to explain the Feminine Mysteries when she herself was as confused (and as afraid) as any of them. But she did not let it show.

It was she who suggested to Justin that she tear up a few cotton T-shirts and boil the strips with pebbles until they were soft, dry them in the sun until they were fluffy, then braid them tightly to form a sort of tampon to stanch her considerable flow when her period started. It was she who assured Martin that it was all right to take a razor from camp and shave the carrot-red hair off her little blunt mound, by convincing her that many men liked their women bare. And it was she who comforted Steven when she mourned how small-breasted she was, by telling her that he'd fill out just as soon as she became pregnant (and from that moment on Steven began dreaming of the man she would marry). Where the little redhead had gotten such practical wisdom was a mystery; perhaps it Circe's secret gift to her! But her wisdom was scant comfort when it came to herself! Each night, in her little temple bedchamber (so redolent of cedar), she would cry herself to sleep because she doubted herself, doubted that she ever could be a Real Woman. For she desired nothing more! But for all her doubts, each night, when slumber finally overtook her, she dreamed, as Martin did, of the man she would marry, the man who would father her babies.

So let us grant the poor little redhead some respite. Let us lift from her frail shoulders her narrative burden before we proceed with what, after all, is really the Professor's Story. And what better way to do it than to read from her notebook — from her vignettes of what each new girl thought and felt during that first momentous week when they first found themselves female.

* * * * *

Martin transformed into a girl

Slim little Martin had been a burly fellow, a captain of his college football team. His ambition was to join the Marines after graduate school in order to gain the discipline so lacking in his life. Martin always partied hard and drank hard, and his liaisons with girls rarely lasted more than one night. He had an inexplicable aversion to red pubic hair on a girl. He often boasted how he had actually kicked a pretty brunette out of bed the moment she slipped off her panties and revealed her red bush. So imagine his mortification to find that he had been transmuted into just such a girl!

Yes, Martin found himself turned into a lovely girl with a fine head of auburn hair, but when he looked down at his little blunt mound for the first time and saw that it was covered with a carrot-red bush, he wanted to die! I convinced him to simply shave himself. After all, lots of men like their women shaved. So Martin went down to the camp, found his safety razor, lathered up his bush, and — Presto! With a few careful strokes of his razor, his love-mound was as bare and as smooth as a little girl's!

Since then, Martin has taken to walking about wrapped in a long shawl of fine black silk, which he pulls off at every opportunity in order to expose himself. Then he'll ask you, "Don't I look better shaved?"

* * * * *

Neal Transformed into a Girl.

In high school, Neal had been an ectomorphic, pimply teenager who never got dates. In college, he was known as a grind and got straight A's, though his complexion did not improve. In graduate school his acne finally settled down, but left deep pocks on his cheeks and on the back of his neck. Thus, we were all rather surprised to see that he is now the fullest-figured girl among us, with a lovely, clear complexion and a face that radiated womanly serenity. Of all the girls, Neal is the most dreamy and introspective, and the first one to say that he adores being female; he hopes that his transformation will be a lifelong one.

* * * * *

Steven Transformed into a Girl.

Steven had been lanky and rawboned and wore a scraggly, unkempt beard. He came from a small mountain community in eastern Tennessee and loved playing the part of a hillbilly — which he was, though a college-educated one. He played a mean twelve-string guitar and often entertained us with Bluegrass songs.

Steven is now a delicate little creature — small-breasted, with an adorable tummy that makes him look slightly pregnant. He liked to go swimming each morning, and used to wade quickly through the shallows until he reached water deep enough to swim in. Now he finds he must watch his step, for his little feet are so soft and tender that every pebble and piece of shell hurts him, so he's afraid of cutting himself. He still speaks with a Tennessee drawl, but now in a baby-girl voice that is quite amusing to hear.

* * * * *

Justin Transformed into a Girl.

Justin was the camp's resident philosopher, always quoting some excruciatingly boring (but erudite) passage from Schopenhauer, Hegel or Kant — much to everyone's annoyance. After all, once supper was done and the dishes washed and put away, we all wanted was to get drunk and relax, not hear about The Transcendental Imperative and other such nonsense.

Justin was fastidious in the extreme about his personal appearance. He shaved every day, used a deodorant, and somehow his work clothes always were freshly pressed and creased, although there was no iron on the island. His face was sharp-featured, rather like an eagle's, and his voice had an annoying nasal twang to it like the drone of a bagpipe.

As a girl, Justin is high-waisted, broad-hipped and soft-shouldered. He speaks in a sweet, well-modulated soprano, always enunciating clearly. His face has a perpetual little-girl-pouty expression, which everyone finds quite endearing. He hasn't mentioned Schopenhauer, Hegel or Kant once since he's been a girl. Instead, he chatters on endlessly about the sort of man he wants to marry and what sort of house he wants to live in. He says he wants a man who can buy him clothes from Paris, lots of jewelry and a fast red sports car. He says he's never going to have a baby, because they take up all your time. And besides, he's sure he could never go through childbirth. If he's said "Look how big babies are! How can they possibly come out without maiming you!"once, he's said it a hundred times!
* * * * *

Brad Transformed into a Girl.

Brad was our resident joker and comedian. He was jolly and chubby, pushing the scales at over 225. Brad knew many card tricks and was a skilled poker player, but he had an uncanny ability to pick up the essence of any card game in a matter of minutes. He was rather unpopular with the Greeks because he always beat them at cards, even when they chose the game.

Brad is now the most delicate and soft female of us all! Not much more than five feet tall, he's beautifully proportioned and amazingly graceful in his carriage. After being a girl for only two days, Brad became hopelessly obsessed with his extraordinary softness. He chooses only the filmiest of gowns so that he can stroke himself with his little hands whenever he feels like it — which is rather often. We sometimes come upon him — on the belvedere, for example — to find him in a trance. He'll be draped in some transparent garment or other, striking classical poses as if he were an artist's model.

Brad's a quiet sort of girl. We really don't know what he's thinking, but it's clear to all that he quite enjoys his femininity.
 * * * * *

Stavros Transformed into a Girl

Stavros was an enigma. Boisterous and coarse as a man, he was frequently drunk during the day. He was married with a wife and seven children on Andros, but visited them as little as possible and rarely even talked about them.

He was quite silent, almost morose, after his transformation. He usually went about in his old male clothes, but had difficulty avoiding the temptation to dress as a girl, which he sometimes did, at which times he presented a striking appearance. Stavros and Dimitrios made quite a pair as girls, always aloof, always vexed about one thing or another and usually drunk. They lived apart in the tent camp, but would come to the temple at mealtimes. Dimitrios continued to cook for all of us, though he and Stavros always ate alone. We all got the impression that they were deeply resentful of having been turned into girls and considered being female an intense disgrace.

* * * * *

Konstantinos Transformed into a Girl

Konstantinos, one of the four "Little Greeks," was the youngest in the camp, only seventeen. A cheerful, hard worker, he was obviously gay, and had paired off with Alexandros (who was eighteen) right from the start. After they were turned into girls, the two stayed together, but I did not learn of this until later. The same went for Giorgios and Andreas after their transformation. The word among the other girls was that they often traded off.

The four Little Greeks took their transformation in stride — it seemed that being male or female made little difference to them, although when Konstantinos got his first period he became disconsolate for a few days.

* * * * *

Colin Transformed into a Girl.

Because I'm writing about myself, I won't go into what I had been, but what I've become. As a girl, the only aspect of my appearance that's at all recognizable is my red hair. And yes, my little bush is red, too, just like Martin's, but it doesn't bother me a bit. I never minded my red hair. What affects me most about suddenly being a girl is the ineffable feeling of penetrability. It's impossible for a man to understand. But penetrability is much more than a feeling. It's really an all-pervasive state of being, an omnipresent consciousness that, as a girl, you are open and vulnerable to men and can be penetrated at their whim — impaled, raped, reamed, pinned to a bed by a hot, stiff cock whether you like it or not. Of course, I can't go around saying this: I have to set an example for all the other girls — mother them, console them, address their fears. I must act detached and above it all.

Now, I may seem the very picture of maidenly modesty, but it's a sham! A sham because all during that first week I wanted nothing more than to be fucked, violently fucked, fucked for hours at a time, fucked in every conceivable position by any number of men. But of course, I'm a virgin, like the other girls, so I don't yet know what it's like to be fucked. But I can imagine. I get all wet and sloppy just thinking about it!

I don't talk of this with the other girls, and I'll continue to play the prim, detached schoolmarm type whenever I'm with them. But I take advantage of every moment of solitude to bring myself off. I've been enjoying absolutely shattering orgasms ever since I learned the right way to touch my clit — which was the first night I was a girl. Perhaps the other girls have made the same discovery. Chances are, they have. I can only speak for myself. As far as I'm concerned, being turned into a girl is the best thing that ever happened to me. Now, if only I could get fucked! The Professor is arriving in just a few days. If I can outmaneuver the other girls, perhaps I can snag him. I think I'll play the weak, vulnerable type... cry a bit, bat my eyelashes, look helpless and not be too forward. I'll see how things play… I bet I can get him into bed — and into me — the first night he's here.

In the meantime, I think I'll go sun myself on the beach again. It's a treat to feel the fine, warm sand against my skin, to feel the hot breeze caress my nipples. Lying on the warm sand is ever so much nicer when you are a girl. And really, I don't mind being female... No, not at all. But I can't admit it in public! I'll keep making believe that I hate being female; that being turned into a girl is the pits. But between you and me, it's not... It's the greatest! Just ask anyone who's been lucky enough to have been transmuted. I guarantee they'll tell you it's a very good deal. No ifs, ands or buts: there's simply nothing like being a girl! Trust me! I know, and I've been a girl for only a week! I do wish I had boobs like Neal's, though. Mine are a bit smallish….

Colin loves to sun himself on the beach. His skin is so very sensitive that he must
find the softest sand to lie on, for he cannot abide the tiniest pebble!


We shall now return to our narrative.

There were ten eager girls waiting impatiently on the dock when the launch tied up, a few of them so eager that there were bouncing up and down with impatience. Even Stavros and Dimitrios were there. All were dressed in their old male clothes, with the sleeves of their shirts and the legs of their trousers rolled up. Incongruously, they were all wearing dainty sandals, some with jeweled straps: they could not possibly have worn their old footwear, as their feet were now far too small. They looked like an adorable ragtag army — in fancy girl-sandals.

Draper lifted svelte little Justin up into the dock, then did the same for Colin. Before he could clamber up himself, Justin and Colin were mobbed by the others.

"Did he get everything?" asked Neal.

"Have you seen the undies yet?" asked Brad

"What sort of makeup did he bring?"asked Steven

"Did he get the you-know-what's?" asked Martin, with an anxious look on her his pretty face. (Martin's period had started just after the launch had left for Empoulis.)

"Hold on, girls, hold on!" responded the little redhead. "No more questions! Introductions first!"

Draper clambered up and Colin made formal introductions. Draper shook hands all around. Each girl looked him in the eye and smiled when he shook her hand — Brad and Steven let their gaze linger provocatively, as if to say, "You can take me to bed any time you want." Draper knew, right then, that he'd be a very busy fellow quite soon. But Stavros and Dimitrios averted their eyes and made no attempt to smile. It was pretty clear that they harbored some animus towards Draper, although he had never met them before.

Draper was impressed by the extraordinary beauty of all the new girls — including Stavros and Dimitrios, who looked very much like women badly in need of some taming, but once tame, would give a man a heck of a run for his money. Draper thought to himself that he'd very much like to have those two — at the same time. He knew they were the type of women who scream when they come and leave your back bloodied with fine, parallel scratches. If he could bring them off at the same moment it would be a feat for the record books! But Draper pushed these machinations into the background and merely smiled at them, even if they did not return the favor.

Once the introductions were over, Colin piped up. "Now I'll answer your questions," she said. "Yes, Neal, Professor Draper says he's brought everything I asked for in the cable — and then some. No, Brad, I haven't seen the undies. No, Steven, I haven't seen the makeup. I haven't seen anything yet. And yes, Martin, the professor has brought 'feminine supplies' for you and for any other girls who might need them. Now we have to get all this baggage off the boat and up to the temple."

The girls looked down at the large, heavy footlockers, and knew that they could never manage them. Then they looked toward Stavros and Dimitrios, but the two big Greek girls frowned and shook their heads. Everyone looked at Draper.

"Look, I'll get back on the boat and hand them up to you one by one," he said. "Then you can open them and bring the stuff up in small loads. D'you have some baskets?"

Without hesitation the four little Greeks ran up to the camp to fetch some baskets, their arms tight at their sides but bent at the elbows, fingers extended and fluttering. "They even run like natal girls," Draper reflected as he watched their lovely twitching behinds until the girls disappeared around a bend in the path. Then he hopped back down onto the launch. He lifted each footlocker high enough to get one edge on the dock, then two or three girls would grab the end and wrestle it all the way up. Within a few minutes, all the footlockers were lined up on the dock.

Like children at Christmastime, the girls could barely contain themselves.

"Quick, quick, where are the keys?" demanded Neal.

"Yes, get the keys!" chorused the others, and they turned to Draper in expectation.

For his part, Draper thought the scene utterly surreal. Here were a dozen erstwhile men, transformed into females barely a week earlier, already so removed from their lost masculinity that they were practically slavering to get at several trunk-fulls of feminine clothing, lingerie, makeup and costume jewelry! It staggered belief! The very concept that they had been men excited Draper in the extreme. His balls, which had been aching ever since he decided to fuck Colin, were now tense and frankly painful. He'd have to have one (or more) of these girls soon, or he'd have trouble walking! But now the transmuted girls wanted to open the footlockers, and Draper could hardly deny them. So he produced the master key and opened the locks one by one.

Draper had to step back to avoid being caught in the crush. The girls wanted to see and have everything at once. Most in demand was the lingerie. Panties, bras and slips were extracted and displayed amidst choruses of "oooh's" and "ahhh's." All went well until Brad and Justin both spied a lovely ensemble in ice-blue silk: Brad got hold of the panties, but Justin got the bra. They began to argue over who saw what first. Hair was about to be pulled and faces scratched until Colin found an identical ensemble in the same size, and handed over the bra to Brad and the panties to Justin. Both girls were instantly mollified and clutched the incendiary garments to their breasts in an agony of anticipation.

Similar altercations erupted between others, but in the end all ended amicably enough: each girl had accumulated a sizable heap of prized lingerie set apart on the dock. Then the same scene occurred with dresses, shoes, stockings, skirts, nightgowns — and with all the other items Draper had brought (save for the sanitary napkins). In the midst of the pandemonium, the Greeks returned with baskets. When they saw that they might end up with leftovers (so far, no girl had laid claim to the cotton panties and bras, so little did they know of real comfort), they joined in the general fray and acquitted themselves well. No girl felt cheated.

The gay piles of feminine clothing in their soft pastels and primary colors would have made a lovely Impressionist painting, set as they were against the weathered gray wood of the dock, with the stark white of the rocks and the brilliant blues of sea and sky in the background.

Justin, Martin and one of the little Greeks (who had also started her period that same afternoon) puzzled over the confusing 'feminine hygiene products,' having no idea as to which would suit their own needs best. So they all settled for a sampling of several. Colin assured them (without really knowing the first thing about it) that whatever they chose would work just fine. From that moment on, the faces of the three menstrual girls relaxed, and they began to seek an opportunity to get off by themselves. Draper immediately noted the change in them. He briefly wondered what they had improvised in the meantime, but quickly dismissed the issue as of no great interest to him. After all, it wasn't his problem — just something girls must deal with for half their lives.

Gradually all the baskets got filled and the girls departed with their booty, but Steven and Brad lingered behind until they were the only girls left on the dock with Colin and the Professor. The two slight girls kept glancing at one another as if to ask which one wanted to broach what was quite clearly on both their minds. Finally, Steven screwed up her courage and addressed Draper.

"Um, Professor, do you mind if we have a word with Colin in private?" she asked in a timorous voice.

"Not at all," Draper replied. "I'll go check the moorings." (Of course, they did not really need checking, as he had already made them secure, redoing the girls' inadequate fastenings.)

As soon as Draper had moved off, Steven became quite agitated. She looked as if she were going to cry before she got any words out.

"What is it, Steve?" Colin asked. "You can tell me anything. If it's girl stuff you want to know about, I'm your man!"

"Well, yes, it is girl-stuff," Steven responded, turning a brilliant shade of crimson. "And about the professor, too."

"What about him?"

"Well, um, you see... um... well…."

Here Brad poked poor Steven in the ribs.

"Brad! You said you'd tell Colin! Now you're all tongue-tied! Do I have to do it?" she complained.

Steven had her arms and fingers braided together, and was standing one foot on top of the other, like a six-year old girl afraid to ask the teacher if she can get a pass to go to the bathroom. But finally she managed to stammer out, "Well, see, Colin. It's like this. While you were gone with Justin, all of us girls got together to decide… um, I mean to discuss... Well, um, we've been thinking..."

"Thinking is usually a good idea," Colin responded, perplexed at what these two girls were getting at. "Thinking about what?"

"Um, well…" Steven resumed, "I'm not sure how to put this…. "

"Just say it, for God's sake!" said Colin, getting exasperated.

"OK! Here it is, then! We're all horny, Colin! We all want to get fucked! Well, not all of us, exactly. But most of us. This is torture — we're all hot to trot and we must have a man! We can't take it anymore!"

"Very interesting, Steven" Colin replied. "No need get so worked up about it. It just shows you're normal girls. Normal girls want to get fucked. Who doesn't?"

"The little Greeks don't, for starters," replied Steven. They've paired off two and two. They're not interested in men at all, it seems. They've been at it with one another all week. Everyone knows but you!"

"I see. Well, I can't say I'm surprised. They're true to their nationality, I suppose. They were in each other’s pants before. So now they're in each other’s panties. Big difference. Go on…"

"Well, seeing as there's now a man on the island, we all decided (all except the little Greeks)..."

Colin knew what was coming. Her little woman-heart sank. "Decided what?" she asked.

"Well, seeing as we're all... well, horny, and that there's a man on the island, we've all decided that it's only fair that we... um... share him, if you know what I mean."

It was precisely what Colin had feared. But she kept a stiff upper lip and did not betray her disappointment. "Of course I know what you mean. You all want him to fuck you, right? Well, to tell the truth, that's what I want, too. So what are we going to do about it?" she asked, her pretty face concentrated in a frown.

"We've already done it!" Brad cut in. "We drew cards. All except the little Greeks. And Martin, who just got her period. We drew for you, too, but not for Justin, because she's got her period, too. Steve drew the Ace for you, so you're first... if you want to be, that is. Then me, then Neal, then Steve here, then the two big Greeks (who drew together) until daybreak..."

"Yeah, the Greeks and I get after he's all worn out," Steven mourned, her pretty face in a pout.

"Well, you had as good a crack at him as anyone!" Brad shot back.

"Let's don't fight over it," cautioned Colin. "It sounds as if it'll work, assuming the Professor is game. Judging from how he ogled Justin and me on the way over when we had an impromptu wet T-shirt competition, I certainly think he's interested in fucking one and all of us. The little fact that we all used to be men is obviously a major turn-on for him. His eyes were practically bugging out of his head when he could see our boobs through our shirts, and though he tried to conceal it, he got stiff real fast. I can tell you, since I used to room with him on trips, that's he's built like a draft horse. It's pretty hard to conceal a tool like that when it's ready for action."

"O, Goody" cried Steven and Brad together, jumping up and down in glee and clapping their little white hands. "We thought you'd be a prude about it!"

"Not at all. We're all girls now. We have to do what comes naturally. I really don't see that we have a choice in the matter. So what's the plan?"

"Well, we fixed up the best bedchamber in the temple" Brad continued, in that breathless voice that one woman uses when she is describing her interior decorating triumphs to another, "It has a balcony overlooking the sea. And a big cedar bed with a wonderfully soft mattress stuffed with ibis down. It'll be great to be fucked in that bed, with the sound of the sea crashing outside! It'll be a terrific way to lose your cherry! We decorated the chamber with flowers and draped the bed with the loveliest fabrics, and set out ewers of water and wash basins so we can... um, you know… um... get... um... cleaned up afterwards."

Colin was impressed that these two rather subservient girls had grasped the initiative. She couldn't have been more pleased except for the fact that now she'd be in direct competition with all the others. Well, at least she was first! That meant she'd have to go to extremes to be the best lay Draper ever had. Which could be a problem, as she was a virgin and knew nothing of female sexual technique. But they were all virgins! Besides, she could charm Draper in other ways… she was brighter than the other girls, she knew, and Draper preferred intellectual girls to bimbos, so long as they fucked. Anyway, Colin could not really challenge what sounded like a majority decision. And, after all, she'd be the first. So she said,

"Sounds like a great idea, girls! When do we start?"

"Tonight," Steven replied. Your get two hours with him. Then it's my turn, then Neal's, and so on, as long as he'll last."

"Knowing him, he'll last four or five girls. Five for sure, if the big Greeks go as a pair," Colin said.

"O, we're so glad you're going along with us, Colin! You're a real sweetie!" cried Brad.

"Well, let's not congratulate ourselves too soon," said Colin, with a serious look on her face. "Things like this rarely turn out as expected, you know. But now let's go get dressed! I can't wait to put on panties and a bra! I'm sick and tired of all these scarves and diaphanous gowns. Plus, I think we all could use some support."

"Amen!" cried the other two girls, and they hefted their breasts in unison to emphasize the point. Each grabbed her basket of goodies and skipped on gaily ahead.

Colin cried out, "Professor! We're done talking! Let's go up to the temple!"

"Coming!" was the reply.


As soon as Steven and Brad had disappeared around the bend in the path, Colin asked Draper, "Well, Professor, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About what's happened to us!" cried the redhead. "You don't suppose I'm asking you what you think about the weather, do you? In case you don't remember, twelve of us were turned into girls last week!"

"Oh, right, so I've noticed," he responded. "Yes. You've been turned into girls. Very pretty ones, too!"

Peter Draper was adept in comprehending the nonverbal communication of women. He had paid close attention to the body language of the girls, carefully noting their facial expressions and glances and how they reacted to his presence. He could read them like a book — more easily than he could other girls, as they had not yet had time to develop the usual repertoire of female deception.

"Well… what do you think about it?" Colin demanded, her hands on her hips and her chin thrust forward defiantly. "I'd definitely like your opinion, if it's not asking too much."

"You really want to know?" he asked.

"Of course. Otherwise I wouldn't have asked you!"

"All right then. It seems pretty clear that every last one of you — except for the four little lesbian Greeks — can't wait to get fucked. That includes the big Greeks, though they won't admit it to themselves. Justin and Martin are apparently menstruating, but that hasn't quenched their fire. They'll just put it off a few days. But the rest of you are ready — right now. And you, Little Miss Colin, seem to be chafing the most, if you don't mind my saying so. My guess is you've been wet since the first moment we met back in Empoulis."

The redhead colored deeply to hear the truth, but she was actually relieved because it meant she did not have to raise the issue. Her ears burning, she cried, "Yes! I freely admit it — and I've been praying that you'd want to fuck me! Will you? Will you fuck me tonight Please? I really need it, Peter. I need to know: will you fuck me tonight?"

Draper put down the basket of Colin's things he'd been carrying and grasped the little redhead in a powerful embrace, both hands on her lovely buttocks. He pressed her tightly against himself and kissed her full on the mouth. He felt her body go limp in surrender.

"Does that answer your question, Little Miss Colin?" he asked, when they both came up for air.

Without awaiting her response, he slipped his hand down the front of her pantiless chinos and grabbed her in the only way an aroused man can grab an aroused woman. To his gratification, he found she was respectably wet, meaning that she had been aroused for no little time. She gasped sharply to feel masculine fingers enter her body for the very first time, and opened her big blue eyes to their fullest extent.

"O! O! O! Yes, yes, yes, O, yes! That answers my question!" she exclaimed, and, with his fingers still deep inside her, Colin lifted one leg until Draper caught her under her knee. Then she wriggled lasciviously to slide herself deeper onto his fingers. They kissed deeply again and reluctantly pulled apart. Draper brought his glistening fingers up under the redhead's nose.

"How do you like the scent of your own musk, you hot little minx?" he asked, smiling gently. "And confess it: aren't you glad you've been turned into a girl? I know I'm glad you were!"

Colin grabbed Draper's wrist, closed her eyes and sniffed his fingers, inhaling deeply, her nostrils dilated. She opened her eyes fully again, and, gazing intensely and unblinkingly into Draper's, took his fingers into her mouth and greedily sucked them, then slowly pulled his hand away.

With a dreamy expression on her face, she lazily ran the tip of her pink little tongue around her lips. "Does that answer your question, Professor?" she teased.

"What, you like the scent of your own musk, or you're glad you've been turned into a girl?"

"Both!" cried the redhead.

They laughed, and Draper chucked her under her chin. Then they set off along the long winding path up to the temple, Draper carrying Colin's basket in one hand, while she grasped his other hand in both of hers and lay her head against his arm. She hunched her shoulders up and down several times and, eyes closed, wriggled her neck to bleed off a bit of her excess energy, her face radiant with pleasurable expectation. She considered herself the happiest girl in the world! But suddenly she remembered she'd have to surrender him to Brad after only two hours! Her heart sank. She'd better tell him now….

"What's the matter, Little Miss Colin?" Draper asked, feeling the subtle tightening of her grip on his hand.

Colin sighed. How extraordinarily sensitive this man was to a woman's slightest nuance of feeling or attitude! This made the prospect of sharing him with the other girls all the harder to bear. Colin now regretted going along so easily with their plan. She should have disagreed! But it was too late to change things.

Colin stopped in her tracks, jerking Draper to a halt.

"I'm not sure how to tell you this, Peter, But you can only have me for two hours tonight!"

"Oh, really? Have you made a compact with the other girls to — ah — share the wealth, then?"

Colin was amazed. Was there anything this gorgeous man did not anticipate?

"Yes, Peter. That's it exactly," she replied, dumbfounded. "The other girls are going crazy with lust, as you correctly surmised. While Justin and I were gone to pick you up, they drew cards to see who got you and when. Steven drew a card for me in my absence, and it was the Ace. So I get you first. But it's only for two hours! I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be sorry, Little Miss Colin. I rather expected this when Brad and Steven shot me their smoldering come-hither glances back there on the dock. I'll service all you new girls if it'll make you happy, and you needn't worry — you'll get me back soon enough. I like fucking brainy girls best, as you very well know, and you're the brainiest girl here. But tell me the batting order..."

Colin was hardly comforted by Draper's remarks, but she was in a poor bargaining position and knew it. Pouting a bit, she replied in a flat monotone, "Brad, Neal, Steven, then the two big Greeks. Justin and Martin get you when they've finished their periods. And as you guessed, the little Greeks have no interest in men, so no one expects you to fuck them."

Draper chuckled. "That's too bad... they're quite cute, and they might find they like being fucked with the real thing instead of with whatever they're using for a dildo. I shouldn't be surprised if they've found a few real ones in the temple. All the priestesses and oracles used them, you know — highly polished marble with exquisite detail, right down to the veins… . Anyway, you say Stavros and Dimitrios want me at the same time?"

"Yes. I hope that's OK" Colin plaintively answered, desperately wanting nothing more than to please Draper in whatever whim he cared to follow. She'd be his faithful procuress if it meant getting him for herself after the initial round of fucking was over.

"Couldn't be a better arrangement," Draper replied. "Anyone can see that those big Greeks need some disciplining. Perhaps you can scare me up some ropes and some supple olive switches. Just strip the leaves and peel off the bark. And soak them in seawater for a couple of hours — improves the sting, you know. I'll have them whip one another in turns, then I'll tie them both up and whip them together. Then I'll cut them loose and see which one spreads her legs for me first. I'll lay odds it'll be Stavros. She looks like a simmering pot ready to boil. Dimitrios seems the more passive. She'll be content to sit there watching, and play with herself until I'm good and ready to fuck her. But it doesn't matter if I'm wrong: I'll keep whipping them until one or the other begs to be fucked. Letting me fuck them will be their only salvation."

The idea appealed to Colin — at least the whipping part did. If Draper wanted ropes and olive switches, she'd find ropes and olive switches for him, by God! And she'd soak them in seawater, too! Anything to please him!

"That won't be a problem at all, Peter. I'll make sure to put what you need under the bed," she said, trying to suppress her anguish and hoping that Draper would whip the surly Greek girls until their bottoms were a livid red, especially Stavros's, which, she thought, was just a bit too goddamn shapely.


The sea breeze had ceased, but the land breeze had not yet stirred, leaving the air stagnant and heavy with late afternoon heat and the penetrating fragrance of almond blossoms. Colin and the Professor had dallied many times along the path to the temple — stealing kisses from one another at every scenic overlook, of which there were quite a few. Draper stole more than kisses, of course: Colin was willingly forced to lick Draper's smoking fingers at least a dozen times during their languid ascent, savoring her musk as if it were Olympian nectar. Yet they both held back, wishing to save their coming for when they were properly coupled.

By the time they gained the summit of the island, the redhead was frantic with sexual tension: her intimate moisture had coursed down her inner thighs, causing dark wet streaks in her chinos. The sun was setting and Venus, low on the horizon, now shone brightly just as the island's cicadas were tuning up for their nocturnal concerto. With the distant surf crashing against the base of the cliffs, it was a classic Bacchanalian evening and every girl on the island was infected by its mood — even the four little Greeks.

The cella of Circe's temple was softly illuminated by the same hundred oil lamps that had been burning just before that fateful dawn when the island's twelve girls were still men — in those final moments before their transmutation into females. The lamps had never been extinguished; they had been burning now for a week, yet their oil had not been consumed. Their warm, yellow light, blending with the fading purple glow from the west, filled the temple with a sensuous incandescence that made everything appear mystical, magical — and highly erotic.

As Colin and Draper entered the temple, unseen panpipes and tambours struck up a swirling melody— yet no one on the island island possessed panpipes or tambours, nor knew how to play them. The wild music continued for some five or ten minutes, while Colin and Draper, hand in hand, looked about in mute wonder.

The frenzied swirling of the pipes and tambours abruptly ceased — as if the invisible players had reached the end of an overture. After a pause, the music resumed, but with a new rhythm, a languorous one, which could not be mistaken for anything but the rhythm of... slow copulation. Presently the eleven transmuted girls — all of them except for Colin — fluttered into the cella like a corps de ballet, each clad in her own choice of fancy bra and panties and covered with a transparent white scarf that floated lightly about her body like gossamer. Each held one arm gracefully arched over her head, while the other arm, extended straight up, held a large phallic effigy on an ivory stick. The girls shimmered like colorful hummingbirds, the azures and whites and pinks and amethysts and corals and baby blues of their lingerie melding into the soft violet light of the evening. But their eyes were blank — they stared everywhere and nowhere — their faces like expressionless masks. Even the four little lesbians were bewitched, made to hold high the effigy of that which they loathed.

Only then did Colin and Draper notice that one of the transmutes — Neal, the full figured one (who was clad in sky-blue panties and bra, trimmed with bone-colored lace) — carried not one, but two effigies. Neal detached herself from the group, skittered over to Colin and tapped her on the crown of her head with one of them. Colin instantly was ensorceled. Her eyes became glazed, like those of the others, and her body assumed the rhythm and beat of the music. In a bizarre striptease, she unbuttoned and discarded her workshirt, then unbuckled the belt of her trousers and stepped out of them, revealing her ivory-white nudity for all to see, her orange bush glistening in the muted light of the oil lamps. Neal proffered Colin one of the effigies, Colin took it, kissed its tip, and undulated over to join the rest of the girls, shepherded by Neal, and assumed her position in the weird chorus line, swaying and dipping in harmony with the other girls to the obscene beat of the music. The ensemble, obeying the direction of an invisible choreographer, proceeded to perform a highly erotic ballet with the aid of their explicit props.

Draper instantly recognized the dance, of course, from ancient Greek myth, even though it he had always certain it never been danced — but anything was possible now! It was known as the Invitation to Priapus and was supposedly danced by dryads, hamadryads, niads and other nymphs just before a Bacchanal, to assure that the satyrs and fauns they had invited would be hard enough — and stay hard long enough — to satisfy their lust — the nymphs' lust, that is. The enchanted girls now formed a circle, holding their effigies high so that their tips came together and touched. They lowered them in unison; each girl kissed the tip of hers. Then the circle disbanded and the dancers fluttered over to where Draper was standing — amazed and speechless — and surrounded him, ending their invocation to the God of Lust by bringing the tips of their effigies against his body.

The music stopped. The girls blinked, looked about in confusion, and, finding themselves clad only in their undies and holding phalluses three feet long, and seeing there was a man present, they screamed, dropped the effigies and fled the chamber, their arms and hands all aflutter. All except Colin, who, finding herself nude, fainted at Draper's feet. Draper instantly got down on one knee, and propping up the unconscious girl, began lightly slapping her cheeks. She quickly opened her big blue eyes, threw her arms around Draper and started to cry.

"Do you know what happened?" he asked her.

"Yes, I became one of the dancers!" she replied through her tears. "I could do nothing about it, Peter! Some force beyond my will was controlling all my movements! It was terribly frightening!"

"Well, it's over now," Draper said, blotting her tears with a handkerchief. "Here. Let me put your shirt over your shoulders." He tenderly helped the redhead to her feet and cloaked her in her oversized khaki shirt. "Now let's get you dressed in some proper girl things," he continued. "I'm sure that'll take your mind off this little incident." He picked up her basket, and guided her by the elbow out of the cella and into the living quarters of the temple.

"Left here," Colin said, "Now right Go to the end of the passage... This is the door to my room."

They entered the cell-like bedchamber, illuminated by two oil lamps in sconces. The room was sparsely furnished with chair, bedstead, washstand and clothes-chest. A second door, ajar, led to a small balcony overlooking the sea, whose calm surface reflected the dying red glow of the sunset. Draper set Colin's basket on the clothes-chest and began to inspect the room with the trained eye of an archeologist. He was astounded to find that the marble floors, walls and lintels were highly polished, most likely with pumice, something he could not have appreciated from excavated ruins. While he was examining the details of the stonework, Colin emptied the contents of the basket onto the bed, and set all the lingerie apart.

"Peter!" she cried, when she had finished arranging the panties and bras, "Stop examining the architecture and pay attention to me! You'll have lots of time to inspect the temple tomorrow. I'm about to pick out some lovely undies for the very first time, and I want you to approve my selection. So stop looking at the Goddamn temple and look at me!"

For this was a momentous occasion! You see, it had taken Colin barely twelve hours as a girl to discover how ridiculously sensitive her new sex was — her babysoft outer labia smoother than rose petals, her moist and delicate inner ones, which took on a divine edge whenever she became aroused, and her fantastically responsive clit, which, she quickly learned, could hardly bear the direct touch of even her feminine fingers and could only be felt through the skin of its hood. Ever since these startling discoveries, Colin understood the ineluctable logic — the absolute necessity — of fine lingerie to coddle her softness, to pamper her delicate skin, to keep her in that mild state of perpetual arousal that is the birthright of women.

From that moment Colin began to pine for the confinement of panties, for the silky restraint of a bra. She imagined how she would step into her first pair of panties and pull them up over her smooth, hairless legs, pull them up until they snugly conformed to her curves and her hollows; she imagined how the downysoft gusset would cradle her labia, barely indenting her slit. She craved the silky feel of a bra supporting her breasts like two gentle hands, craved the friction of the silk over her nipples as she moved about. She longed to feel her legs tightly sheathed in nylon, to feel tug and pull of her garters and the cool breath of air waft through her stockings as she walked. Why, she'd brought herself to orgasm at least a dozen times just imagining what it would feel like! Now here were the genuine articles right there on the bed before her! All she had to do was reach out her hand, pick something out and try it on. She practically purred to think that now she was female, she was sentenced to wear such incendiary garments every day.

Wordlessly, she slipped off the shapeless khaki shirt, dropping it to the floor like the disreputable masculine garment it was. Revealed in her stunning nudity, she turned to face Draper. She executed a graceful low bow — an introduction to the reverse strip tease she was about to begin. Draper comprehended the gravity of the occasion; he took a seat on the room's only chair and composed himself for the coming performance.


Colin selected a sumptuous ensemble in jade-colored silk, trimmed with midnight blue lace on panties, bra, garterbelt and the hem of the slip. Renée Sedgewick had outdone herself: this was lingerie fit for a princess! Colin turned and held up the panties for Draper's approval. He made a circle with thumb and forefinger.

Colin stepped into her panties, electrified as she pulled them slowly up over her legs, pulled them up high until they were snug and the gusset conformed to her labia, subtly indenting her groove just as she had imagined. She snapped the delicate waistband against her soft tummy, thrilled to see that she herself wore that charming badge of femininity to which she, as a girl, was now entitled: the diminutive, flat satin bow at the waistband's center. Her face raised towards the ceiling, her eyes closed in rapture, Colin lightly ran her hands over her hips and her tummy, then over the roundness of her ample bottom. As she did so, she felt herself begin to flow; from the sudden warmth on her outer labia, she guessed she had already drenched the gusset of her panties.

Next came her bra. Colin slipped her lithe arms into the straps. In one beautifully orchestrated movement, she bent forward from the waist, neatly caught her breasts in the cups, straightened up, fastened the hooks behind her and tossed her hair over one shoulder. She cupped her breasts with her hands and hefted them gently, feeling her nipples harden and swell, distorting the silk.

Next came her garterbelt, which she fastened behind her with the same ease with which she had fastened her bra. She adjusted it deftly, sliding it around her waist, one way, then the other, until it was perfectly straight. She paused and put a finger against the side of her nose, lost in thought for a moment of two. Then, smiling knowingly, she slipped the garter tabs under her panties and extracted them from the leg openings, having intuited that this would facilitate her panties' removal should she wish to keep wearing only garterbelt and stockings. She thought herself such a clever girl for having figured out this elementary trick! Sitting on the edge of the bed, she rolled on her stockings, extending each leg in turn. She stood, smoothed the stockings upwards with her hands and fastened them to the tabs, turning her head first over one shoulder, then the other, to reach the rear ones.

Last came the slip; she dropped it on over her head. Raising her arms, she wriggled her body to allow the garment to fall into place, then rapidly smoothed it down over hips, derrière and tummy with the palms of her hands. She pirouetted about the little room on her toes and, her performance complete, she executed the same bow before Draper as she had at the beginning.

Draper had paid rapt attention to the unfolding of this elemental feminine ritual. That the beautiful creature exhibiting herself before him had been a man just one week ago — his senior research assistant to be exact — was erotic in the extreme. He had grown so hard and stiff while watching this new, female Colin that it literally hurt! He needed relief soon or he felt that his balls would explode! Never had he been so aroused.

Draper stood, making no attempt to conceal his majestic erection, and pulled Colin tightly against him. She looked up at him, her blue eyes muddied with lust, and silently mouthed the words he wanted to hear: "Take me!"

"Now, where's this fancy bridal suite?" he asked.

"Pick me up, Peter, and I'll show you the way. We have until midnight, then I must surrender you to Brad. So hurry!"

Draper scooped up the smouldering girl. Following her directions, he carried her through the temple's corridors until they reached the large bedchamber, decorated as Brad had described. Draper tossed Colin onto the bed — on her back. She instantly hiked up her slip and let her thighs fall open, revealing the dark stain of moisture where she had soaked through her panties. Draper closed and fastened the door and returned to the bed, to begin foreplay in earnest — a skill at which he excelled. Draper preferred to remain fully clothed as he slowly stripped his women, leaving their panties for last. He liked to bring them to such heights of sexual frenzy that they would tearfully beg him to tear off their panties and fuck them.

In deference to the limited time, Draper got Colin down to her panties in just a few minutes. Mounting her, he slid his huge cock along the length of her slit, the silky barrier of her panties driving her wild. She could hardly bear the denial of feeling his cock directly on her softness, of feeling its smoothness as it glided over her clit. Several times, she brought her hand to the waistband of her panties, lifted her hips and tried to remove them, but Draper would not allow it. "You'll have to beg me Miss Colin. You'll have to beg me to yank off your panties, beg me to make you into the woman you've become. You'll have to beg me to plunge my cock so deep into your softness that you'll feel it in your chest, beg me to pump you, to ream you, beg me to pin you mercilessly to the bed."

By now Colin had liquefied within and was flowing in earnest; she slid her hand down inside her panties to sample herself. O, yes! She was insanely wet! This was pure torture, to feel Draper's cock through the flimsiness of her panties, to have it so very, very close, and yet not to have it in her!

"I give up!" Colin cried. "Please tear off my panties, Peter! I can't take it anymore! I must have you inside me."

"Tell me first that you're glad you were turned into a girl, Colin! Tell me you're glad!"

"Yes, I'm glad I was turned into a girl, Peter! I'm glad I was turned into a girl! I'm glad I was turned into a girl! OK? Now fuck me!"

"You asked for it, Colin!"

Colin lifted her hips off the bed to allow Draper to slide off her panties (they were really far too nice to tear off). Now she spread her legs to the fullest extent her hips would allow and drew her feet up until her heels were practically touching her buttocks. In this posture of ultimate female surrender, Colin's penetralia gaped widely, revealing her pink inner depths. Who could believe that this frantic female, displaying herself on the bed as shamelessly as a whore, had been a man merely seven short days ago? Eyes half closed, Colin inserted two of her fingers inside herself and stirred them about, producing a sloshing, slapping sound: she wanted Peter to know how wet she was. She removed her fingers, dripping, and let Peter lick them.

Then Draper mounted her, but did not insert his cock — not yet. First he ran its tip around the perimeter of her inner labia, then over her clit, then he entered her only with his tip. And kept it there, not advancing, teasing her, promising his whole length yet withholding it… Colin rolled her hips, trying to capture Draper, but he skillfully backed off just enough to counter her squirming, so the tip of his cock remained where he wanted it to be... barely within her vestibule.

Colin began to shed tears of frustration. "O, Peter, why don't you just fuck me!" she lamented, "Stop teasing me like this! Please just shove…"

And here her words were lost in a gasp of stunned surprise as she felt a stiff cock plunge into her body for the first time in her brief female existence. Its advance was irresistible; she could do nothing but feel her soft tissues yield to admit Draper's magnificent tool, she could do nothing to prevent its remorseless advance all the way up to her cervix — she had no control whatsoever. Colin felt her womb displaced upwards in her belly until Draper's whole enormous bulk had completely disappeared inside her. "My God!" she thought, "So this is what it's like to be fucked!" She felt herself abruptly open yet deeper, with the suddenness of a bottom falling out of a bucket of water. She felt vast and powerful, yet deliciously passive, waiting for the man to move within her.

Draper, however, remained motionless inside Colin, pinning her to the bed, awing her with the intense pressure and power of his cock — reminding her of the true position of Woman in the Great Hierarchy of Existence: on her back, legs spread, heels in the air, with a stiff cock rammed inside her. Then he began to pump her — slowly at first — picking up tempo as Colin began to roll her hips in time to his thrusting. It did not take long to bring the transmute to climax. Just as she went over her edge, Draper came, too, shooting long, slow jets of hot semen deep into her belly, breaching her cervix, impregnating her… for Colin had ovulated that morning, though she had no way of knowing it.


Without going into further detail, suffice it to say that Draper fucked Colin three more times in the allotted two hours — from behind, then allowed her the privilege of being on top (setting tempo, direction and depth) and finally, on her back again. Just before midnight, Colin, obedient to the agreement she had made with the other girls, arose from the bed. She was obliged, like any woman, to mop up the pearlescent fluid that streamed down the inside of her thighs, and to clean herself thoroughly before putting her panties and slip back on (she dispensed with the bra, garterbelt and stockings). She tearfully bade Draper goodnight, then made her way back to her room, stopping at Brad's door to let her know it was her turn. Colin crept into bed and, after crying for a while, fell into that peaceful slumber granted only to satisfied women.

Nor need we go into detail about the passionate lovemaking enjoyed first by Brad, then by Neal and by Steven. Draper maintained his vigor, fucking each of them three times. He forced each to tell him that she was glad to have been turned into a woman. Each was told she'd have to beg to have her panties stripped off. And each did. And each uttered the same sharp gasp of alarm when Draper plunged his huge cock into her body for the first time, impaling her on the bed like a butterfly pinned in a specimen case. In short, all four girls learned that night exactly what it means to be a penetrable creature.

By the time little Steven crept off to her room, the night was much advanced. In fact, dawn could not have been more than an hour away, judging from the paleness showing in the east. It was then that Stavros and Dimitrios came to Draper and tapped at his door. He admitted the two statuesque girls, who were bearing glasses and a bottle of ouzo. They were clad identically in embroidered white peasant blouses with puffed sleeves; they wore dark blue skirts and red kerchiefs on their heads. The moment they entered the bedchamber, Draper recalled with dismay that there had not been time to prepare ropes and switches! No problem, he thought — he would improvise somehow. Then he noted with approval that transmutes were both wearing nylons — but no shoes. Thus, he would have strong four ligatures with which to bind them. Instead of olive switches, he could use his own belt to administer the discipline he knew the two so badly needed.

"Welcome, ladies," Draper said in perfect Greek, ushering them into the bedchamber. "Won't you come in? You are my last, er, clients tonight. Why don't you put the bottle and glasses on that table over near the window?"

The two big transmutes smiled and simpered. They batted their large brown eyes at Draper and thrust out their breasts just a little — they were so big breasted that serious thrusting was unnecessary.

"Well Professor,"Dimitrios began, in a husky contralto, "Shall we all have a drink before we get down to business?"

"Of course," replied Draper, hoping that a little ouzo would suppress any inhibitions the transmutes might have.

"I pour, then," Stavros said. She poured out three full tumblers of ouzo, passing one to Dimitrios, the other to Draper, while keeping one for herself. Lifting her glass, she proposed a toast. "To your manhood, Professor! Enjoy it while it lasts!" she cried, and drained the tumbler in one swallow. Dimitirios and Draper did the same.

Draper thought the toast odd, but made no comment. Perhaps this is how modern Greek women toasted their men. Little did Draper suspect that the rim of his glass had been dipped in an infusion of henbane and lousewort, both of which grew on the leeward side the island, sprouting from cracks in the dry, white rock. When combined with pulverized arrowroot and steeped for several days in the urine of a virgin, the resultant decoction induced a transient paralysis, not unlike the effects of curare, though the victim continued to breathe. It had been used by shepherds in the times when there were still wolves in Greece: a dead lamb was rubbed with the compound and left as bait. When the wolf was paralyzed, it could be safely dispatched.

The two Greeks, you see, had not the slightest intentions of allowing Draper to fuck them, though they were willing to play along — up to a point. No, they had altogether different plans. Both considered their transformation into women to be the ultimate disgrace any man could possibly suffer. They detested being cleft and subservient creatures, and could not possibly endure the humiliation of having to spread their legs for any man, much less having to bear his children (or doing his laundry, for that matter). But above all, they detested being subject to their womanly needs and desires. Like the other girls, they, too, dreamt of fine lingerie, but tried not to think of it during their waking hours. And like the other girls, they, too, had discovered their own intense sexuality early on — and had brought themselves to climax many times that first week. Their womanly orgasms were fantastic, but that they found them so filled them with revulsion. In short, they loathed themselves for being enslaved to their femininity. Worst of all, however, was that they yearned to be fucked. The yearning disgusted them so much, and they so feared they might succumb to the desire, that they made a pact that each would look out for the other, to prevent her from yielding to this overpowering female need.

As they were Greek, and therefore well-schooled in the arts of Revenge, they needed to find some particular person whom they could blame for their misfortune, and upon whom they might wreak due Vengeance for their shameful transformation. And what better person than this arrogant American professor, who presumed he could fuck them, and who was the very instigator and chief architect of this ill-starred expedition to Yaros?

Being women, they knew how to dissemble, so they began to undress. They stripped in businesslike fashion, as if they had been accomplished whores for years. Nude, they did not resemble their ancient countrywoman, the Aphrodite of Milos. Not at all. The former was petite, demure and small-breasted. These two were nearly six feet tall, with powerful arms and shoulders, broad hips and thighs that looked massive enough to crush the life out of a man. Their breasts were large and globular, with areolas almost four inches across. Each one's mound was covered with dense black hair that precluded any view of her slit. In short, no one could consider them delicate females. They were the sort of women who could drop a baby while kneading bread dough, pick up the infant, suckle it, and continue kneading with one hand while holding the baby to her breast with the other.

"OK, Professor," Dimitrios said, hands on her hips, "Which one of us you want to fuck first?"

"Neither," responded Draper, without missing a beat. "Instead, I want you to make love to each other, while I watch. The one who makes the other come first — she is the first one I shall fuck."

Draper, beholding them nude, thought what a crowning achievement it would be to make these transmutes freely admit, like Colin and Brad and Neal and Steven, that they were glad they had been turned into women, to make them spread their legs and beg to be fucked by a man! He looked at them and turned his palms up interrogatively, as if to say, "Well, what are you two waiting for?" He sat down somewhat abruptly on one of the chairs to await their performance. Draper had to sit down: he felt a bit dizzy and had an odd metallic taste in the back of his throat. His forehead had become beaded with perspiration.

The nude transmutes shot him an appraising glance and then looked at each other, as if to say, "It won't be long, now!"

The potion worked more quickly than the Greeks had anticipated. Within moments, Draper slumped in the chair, aware of all that was transpiring about him, but unable to move so much as a finger or even to speak. He could move his eyes, he could blink, he could breathe — and that was it. The two Greeks laughed at his helpless paralysis. First they dressed themselves — leaving off their stockings. They carried Draper to the bed and undressed him. They bound him hand and foot with the same nylons he had intended to tie them up with. Dimitrios went out onto the balcony, looked towards the eastern horizon, and came back into the bedroom.

"About half an hour to sunrise," she said.

"So soon?" replied her companion.

"Yes, so soon," said Dimitrios. "It leaves us just enough time to tell the professor what's about to happen to him."

"But first, as a precaution, we ought to gag him, in case the potion wears off. We don't want him screaming," Stavros said.

"What shall we use?" asked Dimitrios. "My kerchief?"

"No. I have a much better idea." Stavros hiked her skirts, pulled down her black silk panties and adroitly stepped out of them. "These ought to do the trick nicely," she said, balling them up and stuffing them into the professor's mouth. She briskly brushed her hands together for a job well-done. Draper looked at her with bulging eyes.

"Listen, Professor," she continued, settling her skirt and petticoat back into place. "If it hadn't been for you, this sick expedition never would have come to pass. Stavros and I would not have been turned into women, which, by the way, we consider a disgusting misfortune. It seems the others don't mind being female, but we do. So someone has to pay for our humiliation and suffering, Professor, and that someone is you."

Dimitrios now took over. "We know all about the mirror and its powers, Professor. We've known about it all our lives. Mothers around these islands still use the story to scare their little boys into obedience when they misbehave. They always say, 'You be good now or it's Circe's mirror for you — you'll be turned into a girl and have to wear a dress like your sisters!' Surprised you were unaware of it, Professor. Everyone knows the legend."

Draper understood in a flash what the two women were up to. It was nearly dawn, it was the day after the equinox, when the mirror would be at the very height of its powers! The two transmutes were going to somehow expose him to the mirror in just a few minutes... and he was helpless to prevent it!

The transmutes saw the look of comprehension and terror well up in Draper's eyes. "That's right Professor. It's Circe's mirror for you. You'll be turned into a girl and have to wear a dress like your sisters!" Stavros said, wagging her finger at the professor in mock admonition as if he were a small boy who had just smashed a window. The two transmutes laughed in their rich contraltos. Stavros went to the door and opened it. She returned to the bed and together with Dimitrios hefted the paralyzed professor. He was a dead weight of about 180 pounds, but the big Greek girls were equal to the task.


No one was stirring as the two women lugged Draper through the passageways and into the cella. They had earlier turned Circe's throne around so that it was facing the mirror. They now dropped the paralyzed professor into it, where he slumped like a limp puppet, his eyes glistening with terror. They undid the ties at his wrists and ankles and refastened them to the heavy throne, binding him securely. Then the two stepped out onto the portico where they could watch the coming show without being struck by any stray beams of reflected sunlight.

Draper's mind was in turmoil as he stared at his reflection in the circular mirror. His mouth was terribly dry from the panties, but he could not expel them. His heart began to race when saw the reflection of the brightening eastern horizon behind him. The sun suddenly appeared above the edge of the ocean as a brilliant speck of light, shooting rays in all directions. A moment later, when the sun's edge had risen, the rays became directional, streaking low across the surface of the sea, through the temple's narrow portico, along the length of the antechamber and into the cella itself, illuminating the mirror.

Once again the room was suffused with a roseate glow and the combined scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. Draper instantly felt a tightness in his chest. His whole body seemed to waver, like heat waves on a highway. He felt less substantial and softer. Something deep in his belly began to ripple and flutter, his nipples to tingle and swell. There was a burning in his groin, quickly supplanted by a hideous incisional pain as if he were being slit right between his legs — which was, in fact, precisely the case. Within seconds, his bonds had loosened — for he was a smaller creature now. He found he could move again, so he freed his hands and his feet. He tore the panties out of his mouth and attempted to rise, but the pain was too intense and he screamed a girlish scream and sank back down on the throne, aware as he did so that his bottom had become substantially broader. He looked down just in time to witness the eruption of a pair of magnificent breasts — his. He immediately felt their weight tug at his chest, altering his equilibrium and making him throw back his shoulders to compensate.

The pain gradually subsided. He was afraid to look into the mirror, afraid of what he would see. Finally, he worked up his courage and raised his eyes… O! Horrible! He was a nineteen or twenty year old girl in the full bloom of young womanhood! He was raven-haired, pale-skinned, with full, shapely breasts. His heart sank to see that he had large brick-red nipples and areolas as broad as the Greeks'. Supporting himself on the arm of the throne, he slowly stood, his gaze riveted to the all-important space between his legs. O! More horrible yet! His manhood was gone! In its place was the all-too-familiar mound at the base of a smooth womanbelly — a mound sparsely covered with fine wavy brown hair. A mound whose inverted apex was split by a blunt-edged furrow that dove between his plump thighs like a hideous wound. He turned about to look over his shoulder. His hips were wide, his bottom more than ample, its expanse dimpled on either side of the base of his spine. His legs were long, hairless and shapely. In short, Professor Peter Draper had become a voluptuous female in less time than it takes to brew a cup of tea.

Draper turned back to face the mirror frontally and brought his little white hands to his breasts in order to heft them, but his inspection was interrupted by the sudden return of Stavros and Dimitrios, their faces contorted by evil smiles of deep satisfaction.

"Not bad!" Stavros said, walking around the new transmute to survey her from every perspective, "Not bad! Great boobs, nice ass. Good skin. You'll make some guy a pretty little wife. And get a load of those hips! With hips like those, you'll have no trouble pumping out the babies. No drawn-out labor for you! You're a very lucky girl, Professor!"

While Stavros delivered her appraisal, Draper, in a panic, was running his hands over his silky-smooth body, his pretty face registering horrified disbelief. The Greeks watched him patiently, waiting to see his reaction when he would reach between his legs for the ultimate verification of his altered gender. Draper avoided the issue, however: his hands got down to his mound, but hesitated to go any further lest they encounter the Dread Aperture.

"What's the matter, Professor?" Stavros asked. "Afraid to find out how it feels to have a cunt? Here, let me show you! Hold her, Dimitrios."

With that, Dimitrios twisted one of Draper's arms up high behind his back, making him squeal in pain. At the same time, Stavros thrust two fingers between the professor's thighs. Draper tried to struggle but Dimitrios applied more pressure to his arm, and Draper had to succumb. His big brown eyes suddenly grew even bigger as he felt Stavros's fingers enter his body. He squealed again, this time in indignation. But the fingers remained deep inside him, no matter how he squirmed to get free.

"That's how it feels, Professor," said Stavros, probing Draper's softness as far as her cervix. "That's how it feels to have a cunt!"

"Take them out!" Draper shrieked, vainly struggling to free himself. "Take them out! You can't do this to me! I'm a man, Goddamn it! A man! I'm a tenured professor of archeology at... at..." and here he trailed off, all too aware that his querulous soprano gave the lie to his risible protestations of masculinity. Stavros shoved her fingers into Draper even more deeply, to emphasize just how penetrable he had become, then pulled them out and wiped them contemptuously on the inside of her skirt, where the wetness wouldn't show. Draper gasped in relief.

"You're a woman now, Professor. Start getting used to it!" Stavros cried. She spit on the floor. "May you loathe it as much as we do! May you curse being female each time you are fucked by a man! May you wear yourself out with ten children!"

Dimitrios released Draper's arm. He sank to his knees and began to cry piteously. "I don't want to be a woman!" he wailed, "I don't want to be a woman! Change me back! Change me back! Please!" He collapsed in a convulsive heap, his lovely body wracked with sobs.

"Get up, Bitch!" Stavros cried, pulling the sobbing transmute to his feet by his long hair. "Get up and stop sniveling! I didn't see you getting too upset when you found the whole Goddamn work crew was turned into girls — all you wanted to do was fuck them, us included. Well, welcome to womanhood, Professor! From now on, if there's any fucking to be done, you'll be the one who'll get fucked. The only problem I see is that you were the only man on this island, so now that you're female, there's no one to fuck you. That's a shame, a real shame, because you deserve a good fucking, and soon."

"Let's take her to her little lover, the misty-eyed redhead," sneered Dimitrios, "Perhaps they can console one other."

"Great idea! Let's march her right over!" agreed Stavros.

"No, please don't," whimpered Draper through his tears, "Please don't take me to her! I don't want Colin to see me like this. It's too humiliating!"

"Listen, sister," Dimitrios hissed, grabbing Draper's arm, "You're going to do exactly what we say, or we'll drag you in front of that mirror every morning for the next week. You'll end up with boobs so big you won't be able to stand! Is that clear?"

Biting his lip, Draper nodded his head so rapidly that it appeared to be vibrating.

"Does that mean 'Yes,' Professor? Are you going to be a good girl and do what we say?"

"Y-y-y-yes," Draper replied almost inaudibly, looking down at the floor and biting his lower lip, "I'll be a good girl."

"That's better," Dimitrios said. "Now let's get going."

Like arresting police officers, the Greek transmutes each took one of Draper's elbows. As they began frog-marching him, Draper was instantly conscious of his feminine gait — the soft jounce of his breasts, the sway of his wide hips, the involuntary twitching of his lovely derrière, the velvety friction of his thighs rubbing together and all the usual sensuous female stuff you can't help but notice right away when you've been turned into a girl. Draper would soon come to discover that walking can be a sexual act in itself, but he was still too terrified to derive the slightest pleasure from it. They soon reached Colin's door. Stavros tried the handle — it was unlocked. She quietly opened the door, propelled Draper inside with a resounding slap on his plump backside and closed the door.

It was the last Draper saw of the two Greeks — the last anyone on the island saw of them, in point of fact. Their immediate vengeance accomplished, the statuesque transmutes walked straight out of the temple, down the path to the dock and stole the power launch, leaving all the other girls — Draper included — marooned on the island. It was all part of their grand plan for Total Vengeance, of which we shall learn more in a later chapter.


Draper, to whom we must now apply the feminine pronouns "she,""her," and "hers," stood forlornly inside Colin's bedroom, her back against the closed door, sobbing quietly. She soon awakened Colin, who sat up in bed clutching the bedclothes to her breast. She stared for several moments at the tearful, nude young woman whom she could see plainly enough by the early morning light streaming in through the open window. Colin thought she was beautiful, with her luminously pale skin, her sumptuous figure and her long, dark hair.

Their eyes met for an instant, then Draper lowered her gaze as if in shame. With a jolt, Colin felt she had seen those eyes before... But, no. She was mistaken: this girl was a stranger.

"Who are you?" Colin coolly demanded, with no note of fear in her voice, for she certainly felt no serious threat from a nude girl no older than herself. "What are you doing in my bedroom? And why are you naked?"

Draper did not reply. She averted her face and sobbed more profoundly. Suddenly, she scurried across the bedroom, elbows tight at her sides, hands raised and fluttering (as girls do when they scurry), and threw herself into Colin's arms.

"O, Colin! It's me, Peter!" she blubbered. "I've been turned into a girl just like all the rest of you!"

"Peter?" echoed the redhead. "Peter? O, No! This is terrible! It ruins everything!" Colin began to cry, too, holding Draper's head against her breast and stroking her hair. "I was hoping Peter would marry me, and now he... he… she can't... because you're Peter."

"It's true! It's me, Peter! And I don't know the first thing about being a girl!" Draper wailed, thrusting out her lower lip in classic little-girl petulance.

"I wouldn't worry about that!" Colin snorted, "You'll learn all about it soon enough. Have you had to pee yet? That'll teach you a whole lot in a jiffy… But, seriously, Peter, you're gorgeous! Tell me what happened..."

Draper sat back and allowed Colin to dab at her tears with a corner of the bedsheet. She drew a deep breath and began. "It was those horrid Greeks — Stavros and Dimitrios," she sniffled indignantly, "They did it to me. They drugged me with something and tied me ever so tightly to the throne in front of that mirror not half an hour ago. And just look at me now!" Draper whimpered, gesturing deprecatingly at her breasts and her love-mound with her little white hands.

"And then," the new transmute continued, "That awful Dimitrios went and shoved her fingers up my... my…. up my you-know-what! Imagine! One girl doing that to another! I was so embarrassed I thought I'd die! Oooh! I hate them! If I could just get my hands on them, I'd scratch their eyes out!" Draper broke into a fresh cascade of tears. "Anyway," she resumed through her sobs, "They're just jealous because I'm prettier than they are! They have hairy legs, and I don't! And they have little moustaches, too!"

Colin quickly perceived that although Draper's brain was pretty nearly feminized, she was still in the brief stage of gender confusion common to all fresh transmutes. After all, Colin knew the symptoms well enough, having suffered them herself only a week earlier. Why the two Greeks had retained their masculine minds was perplexing to her: they were the only transmutes on the island who did. All the others had quickly become female in mind as well as in body, even the little Greek lesbians, and, judging from the way she was already talking, Professor Peter Draper did not appear to be another exception to the general rule. Colin knew that Draper's memories of her masculine past were already all but extinguished and that her twinges of resentment at having been turned into a girl would not last very long. She was half expecting Draper to start asking about lingerie any moment now!

As if on cue, Draper stopped her crying. She stood and glanced alertly about the room, searching for something specific. Not finding it, she turned to Colin.

"I say, Colin," Draper began, in an ostentatiously calm and well-modulated soprano, as if she had not been bawling her heart two minutes earlier about being changed into a female, "I say, you wouldn't happen to have some silky, uh... silky, um, undies lying about, would you? I mean undies that you're not... uh, personally wearing at the moment? I'm afraid I'm fresh out, and a girl just can't walk around nude all day long, you know. It's hardly respectable... So, d'you have any?"

Colin stared at Draper for several moments, then broke out in silvery laughter. "You really are a woman, Peter!" she exclaimed when she recovered her breath. "Well, of course, you're physically female — that's obvious — but you're already thinking like a woman! It took me at least a day before I starting mooning over silky undies."

"I am most definitely not thinking like a woman!" Draper shot back, stamping her little foot in feeble imitation of male annoyance. "I may look female, I admit, but I'm as male as ever! I'm merely being practical. I mean, well, I can't ignore how smooth my skin is now, and how, um, soft I've become all over, especially, um, down there. A pair of silk panties would probably feel really nice, now that I'm a... I mean now that I'm built for them. But look, Colin, let's get this straight: just because I'm built like a woman doesn't mean..."

"...doesn't mean you are one," Colin interrupted. "No. Of course not, Peter. You're as male as ever. You're merely a practical guy who happens to find himself built like a girl all of a sudden and wants to do the practical guy thing — to put on girl's undies even though he isn't a girl, simply because he happens to be built like one... Yes, very, very practical, Peter. Very logical, too." Here Colin had to stop to guffaw.

"What's so Goddamned funny?" Draper snapped.

"O, nothing, nothing..." replied the redhead, choking with laughter.

"Well, are you going to answer my question or not? Do you have any spare silky undies?"

"You mean, spare silky undies for a guy who isn't a girl?" Colin teased. Tears of laughter were streaming down the redhead's cheeks.


"Yes, Peter, lots and lots. Over there in that chest by the window," Colin replied, gesturing to a cedar chest against the wall, its lid standing open. "I think you'll find just the ticket... Here, let me show you." The redhead got out of bed, still clad in her lovely jade-colored panties and bra. She gently took Draper by the hand and led her to the open chest. Draper's eyes grew large when she saw that the chest was filled with glimmering silks and satins in bright colors and pastels, with accents of lace and ruffles.

"Ooooo!" Draper crooned in ecstasy, "Look at all this stuff! A guy could find something nice here, I'm sure."

"Yes, he certainly could," Colin agreed, holding up in one hand a scrumptious pair of panties in plum-colored silk, with symmetrical ivory lace panels in front and ruffles of the same lace over the seat (we need hardly mention the obligatory dainty little flat satin bow at the waistband). In the her other hand she held up the matching bra, which was a 36E. "Here," Colin said, thrusting the panties at Draper. "Feel the how soft the gusset is — like thistledown. Imagine how it'll feel against your… against your you-know-what, as you call it. I'll bet you'll soak them through in five minutes flat! Ooops, sorry, Peter! I almost forgot," she said, retracting the panties, "I almost forgot you're a guy. In that case, you'll most likely stay dry. Too bad. Perhaps you'd like something in sensible, practical cotton…"

"No!" Draper exclaimed, "No cotton panties! These look OK. I'll try 'em!" She snatched the plum-colored panties from Colin and began to examine them minutely, paying special attention of the downy cotton gusset, embossed with miniature daisies. "Gee! These are nice!" Draper exclaimed after running them through her fingers several times. Concluding that they were soft enough for her intimate parts, she stepped into them without further ado. Like all transmutes pulling on panties for the first time, Draper was electrified by the erotic sensation of silk sliding over her smooth, hairless skin, by the sensual snugness of the garment as it conformed to her curves and her hollows. She tugged them up until the gusset barely indented her groove, then let the delicate waistband snap against her tummy. Needless to say, she then had to go through the mandatory ritual of stroking herself through her new, yummy panties. Forgetting all about the bra, Draper became completely oblivious to Colin's presence. In fact, she had closed her eyes and was moaning in rapture.

After about five minutes, Colin nudged her in the ribs. "Hey, Peter! Peter! Come back to earth!"

Draper opened her eyes halfway and stared languorously at Colin, a minx-like smile curling the corners of her little mouth.

"Why should I? I like where I am!" she purred.

"Still think you're a guy, do you?" asked Colin.

"Um, what I think is… what I think is, I'm getting kind of wet down there, Colin," Draper announced in a reverential whisper, as if she were imparting a monumental discovery, like, say, fire or the wheel. "I feel as if I'm flowing... I feel…um, well, sort of penetrable…"

"Hardly surprising, Peter. In case you haven't noticed, you've got a pussy now, just like every other girl on the planet, so if you feel penetrable, it's only because you are. But that doesn't answer my question. Do you still think you're a guy?"

"It certainly does answer your question, Colin! Do guys get wet down there? Do guys flow like the incoming tide when they get turned on? Do guys feel penetrable? I don't think so," said Draper, furrowing her pretty brow in earnest concentration as if she were grappling with a complex mathematical equation.

"In other words…"

"In other words, I guess I have to admit I'm a girl, after all," continued Draper. Then, dropping her voice to a confidential tone and lightly touching Colin's wrist with the tips of four fingers in a prototypical feminine gesture, she concluded, with an incongruous giggle: "And I like how it feels!"

"I'm glad you finally see the light, Peter. I was beginning to worry about you!" replied Colin, grasping both of Draper's hands, "As you'll soon find out, to be a girl is to exist in a state of perpetual arousal. You'll be wet a good part of the time…"

"O, Goody!" Draper exclaimed, "That's fine by me! Now hand over that bra: I could use some support!"

Colin helped her into her first bra, fastening the difficult-to-reach clasp in sisterly fashion.

"There!" Colin exclaimed with proprietary satisfaction, stepping back to admire the new transmute as if Draper were a precious gift she had just finished wrapping — which, in a sense, she really was.


Thus was Peter Draper, tenured professor of archeology at Harvard and legendary cocksman, transmuted into a soft, pink, female creature, not merely in body, but in mind and spirit as well. As she stood in her plum-colored bra and panties (with dainty lace ruffles over the seat, no less!) facing the gorgeous little redhead whom she had fucked not twelve hours earlier, she discovered that she remained sexually attracted to women. True, she already craved to be fucked by a man, but she desperately wanted Colin, too, whom she still found irresistibly attractive.

Her body's responses to this attraction were radically different, however. Gone was the old urgency that could be relieved only by plunging an aching cock into a woman and inseminating her. Gone was the frantic need to probe the Divine Female Softness, which Man may possess only fleetingly by the act of sexual intercourse, allotting him no more than a pathetic shadow of the Divine Softness itself — as evanescent as quicksilver and never a true satisfaction, but the sum total of all that is doled out to Man in the Great Scheme of Existence.

No, poor Draper's sexual responses were now dictated by her new-minted female anatomy: like any aroused woman, she could only become soft — enervatingly soft — and crave her own penetration. Now the Divine Softness was hers: she actually possessed without lien or stipulation the very essence of what she had only been able briefly to borrow during a male incarnation but dimly remembered. The Divine Softness suddenly suffused her body as if a sluice gate had opened, flooding her with honeyed sweetness even to the tips of her fingers and toes. She felt an uncontrollable impulse to lie on her back, to spread her womanly thighs and be entered. In short, she had instantly become enslaved to her cunt, no less than she had, as a man, been enslaved to the cock she no longer possessed. But this new, female enslavement was far more intense. She felt passive, vulnerable and fecund.

"Uh, listen, Colin," Draper began, her voice tremulous with anticipation, "I realize this may sound a trifle odd… but I'd dearly love it if you would… if you would… fuck me."

"O?" replied Colin, a curious expression on her face, "And how, pray, do you expect me to accomplish that? I'm just a girl — like you."

"I know that," Draper said, her lips curling in a lascivious leer. "But you still have these," she continued, holding up her ten tapered little girlfingers, splayed, "And this as well," sticking out her pointy pink little girltongue. Why, don't you think I'm attractive?"

"You're extremely pretty, Peter," Colin replied. "Gorgeous, in fact. If I were still a man, I'd dearly like to fuck you. But I can't, any more than you can fuck me." Colin laughed sardonically at their bizarre predicament. "But if you want me to have a go at you, I'll give it a try," she continued, extending her hand. Draper took it and allowed the redhead to conduct her across the room to the bed. The two moved like ballerinas — gracefully and provocatively. Draper unhooked Colin's bra and slid it forward off her shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. Colin reciprocated the action, leaving both former men clad only in their snug-fitting panties, their pert young breasts swinging free.

The two lovely transmuted girls stood face to face, uncertain what to do next. They gazed into one another's eyes for a good while. Suddenly, they kissed deeply while they fondled one another's breasts until their nipples were tingling and rigid. Soon they began shifting their thighs, transmitting the friction to their labia. Before they knew it, each had her hand on the other's mound — and then each extended her fingers to points south, with marvelous effect. Their soft, hairless bodies broke out in great, pink blotches and began to shimmer with girlsweat. Within minutes both were in a state of high sexual tension.

"Enough of this! On your back, Peter!" commanded the redhead, when she could endure the tension no longer.

Draper did not demur. Without a word, she assumed the timeless female position — on her back, knees drawn up, thighs spread. Colin mounted her, supporting herself on her hands, and positioned herself so that their blunt love-mounds were in contact. Both girls began to gyrate their hips, rubbing their mounds together through the sleek friction of their silken panties.

Imagine, if you will, these two voluptuous creatures: Colin female for only a week, Draper for less than an hour. In their previous existence as men — an existence forever forfeit without hope of remedy — they had excelled at the sort of lovemaking no longer anatomically possible for either. Because they were girls now, they were aroused as only girls can be, so each craved what neither could give: to be impaled by a man, to spread herself wide and en-sheathe him deep within her softness. Their lust to be entered, to be reamed, to be pinned to the bed by a man, quickly goaded them to the verge of madness.

It was Draper — the newer girl — who succumbed first. "Colin! Why don't you just pull down my panties and lick me!" she urgently whispered, scissoring her legs shut and lifting her broad bottom from the bed to allow Colin to slide off her panties, which the latter did with frenzied excitement, tossing them on a nearby chair.

Suddenly pantiless, her sex no longer concealed by the garment's insubstantial fabric of cotton-lined silk, Draper parted her thighs wider than before, astonished at the unexpected suppleness of her hips. The fresh morning air was startlingly chill on her baby-soft labia, which responded by puckering lightly in an involuntary feminine reflex never before felt. She gasped at the exquisite subtlety of the novel sensation.

"How glorious to be penetrable!" she thought to herself as she abruptly drew in her breath. She felt vast, like a warm tropical sea. For Colin's benefit, she brazenly flaunted her pink penetralia, which by now had blossomed audaciously and glistened with her virgin moisture. How privileged Draper felt to be a girl! What a blessed state of existence! As she spread herself open as far as Woman possibly can, a twinge of regret streaked through her consciousness like a dying meteor — regret that she had wasted so many years of her life as a man — numb and insensate, always penetrating, ramming, thrusting… but never truly fulfilled. The twinge vanished like breath on a mirror as the last vestige of her masculinity spiralled off into oblivion, nothing more than a dead, shriveled cinder.

* * * * * *

Yes, Circe was exacting her vengeance: Professor Peter Draper, so recently male, was now an authentic specimen of Woman in Heat as she lay palpitant on a bed, helplessly churning with lust, displaying herself like a common whore. Her eyes were half-closed, her head languidly lolled from one side to the other like a ragdoll's. "Lick me, Colin!" she repeated in a hoarse, urgent whisper, "Lick me!"

Colin, however, did not comply. Not yet. Instead, she chided, "Not until you tell me you're glad you've been turned into a girl! You made me say it last night — now it's your turn to 'fess up, Peter."

Draper needed no chiding; she would have said anything to induce Colin to ravish her. Anyway, it was a true fact: Draper already adored being female, so it cost her nothing to say, "Yes, Colin! Yes! I'm glad I've been turned into a girl! Now lick me, Goddamn it!"

"You asked for it, Peter!"

Colin spread Draper's labia with her delicate womanfingers, exposing her clit. The professor's perfect little pink organelle was erect in brash parody of its former male self — but only in size, not in sensitivity. Colin had already learned in her first week as a girl that her clitoris — the only body part (of either sex) whose sole purpose is pleasure — is a hundredfold more sensitive than a crude and clumsy cock. It was a lesson she was about to teach Draper.

But first Colin wished to tease the New Girl a bit: she removed her fingers from Draper's labia, allowing them partially to close (they could not do so completely, as they were already quite swollen) and slowly ran the tip of her tongue up and down along the length of Draper's slit, darting it into her wetness to savor her feminine musk. Draper began to moan, and to roll her hips rhythmically. She spread her own labia apart with her slender fingers. Colin, accepting the invitation, began to suckle Drapers's clit, making her writhe in ecstasy.

As Colin savored the wonderful complexity of Drapers's cunt, feeling it soften and melt in response to her tonguing, she herself became exquisitely aroused by the thought that she, Colin, no longer a man, had the selfsame anatomy as the creature she was ravishing, and that her own female genitalia were responding in precisely the same way as Draper's: Colin was insanely wet and soon could bear it no longer. She abruptly stood, slipped off her panties, and repositioned herself backwards on the bed, her sex over Draper's face, so that she could still lick Draper, but now Draper could lick her as well. Parting her own labia with the fingers of one hand, Colin gingerly lowered herself until she felt the tip of Colin's tongue touch her clit, sending a sublime jolt of ecstasy zinging through her body with the fizz and sizzle of a galvanic current.

The two transmutes hungrily lapped at each other until they were brought to that knife's edge of ecstasy, that excruciating precipice a woman can teeter on, her body aglow, her insides as vast as an ocean — and as wet. Their soft moans and little squeals of pleasure augmented the enormous tension each felt, ratcheting the two to ever higher planes of rapture. They managed to keep pace with one another, until at last they both groaned in unison,"Unh! Unnh! Unnh! Unhhh! UNNHHHH!" followed by a pause of two or three seconds (which felt like a minor eternity), then, "oooooo...OOOOOO!" The two came simultaneously — massively — in a frenzied paroxysm of hips, arms and legs, like marionettes controlled by some deranged puppeteer.

Colin collapsed in a limp heap just as Draper rolled out from beneath her. Colin languidly reoriented herself so that they could properly cuddle each other, which they did as their vaginas pulstated spamodically for several minutes before subsiding into little ripples and flutters. With bright morning sunshine streaming in through the window, the transmutes fell into a satisfied slumber.


Colin, having slept most of the night, awakened around midafternoon. Careful not to disturb Draper, who had gotten no sleep at all, she quietly arose, dressed and left the bedchamber. Her first order of business was to tell the other girls of Draper's transformation. All were amazed — and disappointed, particularly Martin and Justin, who had not yet been serviced. Then the other girls informed Colin that the big Greeks were missing, along with the power launch, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the world, with barely two weeks' supply of food on hand.

The island had several springs, so water would not be a problem There were plentiful wild guinea fowl, goats and rabbits as well and the sea was teeming with fish. The transmutes, however, being flighty females more interested in their hair and their nails than in practical matters, were unable to appreciate the difficulty of their situation. Even had they been cognizant of it, they had no idea how to hunt or fish, and besides, they lacked the necessary tools and equipment and were constitutionally incapable of making any from materials on hand. Their main concern was the loss of the island's only man; their conversations centered on what they would do to Stavros and Dimitrios should they be foolish enough to return, and on where they could find more men.

Neal thought that there might be a storm any moment — a ship could be wrecked on the rocks, stranding a whole crew of sailors on the island. Steven thought that the Greek air force would hold war games in the Cyclades any time now, and drop a few dozen paratroopers on the island, whom they would convince to live there for ever and ever. Justin was certain that if they could only send smoke signals to passing ships, one would drop anchor and send a "rescue" party to service them.

Colin was no exception. She foresaw no disaster and hoped for a rescue. She helped herself to the comestibles on hand without regard to the lack of any reserves. After she had eaten, she prepared a tray of fruit, cheese, sliced sausages, canned chicken, sardines and samples of everything good and tasty still left in the camp's larder. She carried the tray to her bedchamber in the late afternoon, for she knew that Draper would be ravenously hungry when she awoke. But when she returned, the bed was empty! Draper was not there. Nor was she anywhere in the temple or on its immediate grounds.

Distraught, Colin returned to the other girls and formed a search party to scour the island. It was not until evening, just after sunset, that they spied Draper from the height of a cliff on the western side of the island. She was standing tip-toe on a rock in shallow water at the base of the cliff, half-clad in a bolt of diaphanous black silk which the evening breeze was ballooning over her shoulders. The almost-new moon, a tenuous crescent, was about to follow the sun into the sea. Draper was virtually nude, her statuesque body oddly relaxed, like a medieval saint in holy ecstacy about to receive the stigmata. From afar, where the girls stood on the cliff, it seemed Draper was entranced.

As indeed she was. Draper had awakened in the still of late afternoon. It was so quiet that she could hear the distant crash of the waves beating against the island's rocky coast. Irresistibly drawn to the sea, she wrapped herself in the bolt of black silk and descended the steep path to the water's edge, where she was brought under the sway of the setting moon the moment her feet touched the water. There, on a rock, at the edge of the life giving sea, Peter Draper became the moon's captive, her body forever enslaved by its cycles and phases. As Draper stood transfixed on the rock, she felt the moon's infinitesimally faint gravitational tug — on her breasts, on her womb, on her ovaries. She felt her fertility well up in her soft womanbody, like the tide wells up in a bay, utterly obliterating her masculine past.

Professor Peter Draper's transformation was complete.

Professor Peter Draper Transformed into a Girl.


And so, in the span of a little more than a week, the entire Yaros archeological expedition had been transformed into women. Yet Circe and her entourage could not yet rest peacefully. A final price still had to be paid.

For another ten days, the girls on the island whiled away their time playing dress-up with their fine new clothes, learning how to tend to their hair and their nails, experimenting with their cosmetics. Martin and Justin finished their periods. Steven started hers. No storms came up, so no ships were wrecked. No Greek paratroopers descended from the sky. No smoke signals were sent to passing ships.

On the morning of the eleventh day a rusty freighter dropped anchor in the island's eastern cove. It sent two boats ashore with a party of about twenty men. They came bearing shackles and chains. By day's end, they had rounded up the ten girls, chained them together at the waist in groups of five, and trundled them, weeping hysterically, into the boats. Like so much merchandise, they were loaded onto the freighter, which steamed off to Izmir on the Turkish coast. In Izmir the girls were forced to dress in harem pants and revealing halter tops. They were transported in a windowless bread truck to Istanbul, where they were turned over to the notorious Mme. Zeynep Erkip, ex-madam turned whoremonger, who bought and sold fair-skinned girls throughout the Mideast, Greece, Asia Minor and the Indian subcontinent.

Mme. Erkip, it seems, had been contacted by Stavros and Dimitrios; she paid the two Greek transmutes 10,000 dinars to learn where she could acquire ten young women (most of them white), lacking identity documents and therefore unprotected by any state, whom she could sell at a tidy profit on the white slave exchanges in Anatolia. Thus, Stavros and Dimitrios not only were to obtain ultimate vengeance, but were well-paid in the process.

Over the ensuing months, the ill-starred transmutes were sold off as harem slaves, concubines and domestics to various wealthy businessmen and minor potentates in Turkey, Iran, Iraq and India. Brad, who was the fairest, went first, to a corrupt army general from Erzurum; she fetched a good price. The old general insisted that she always wear a long blue satin sheath dress, silk stockings and keep her hair styled like Jean Harlow's. Neal, who had the broadest hips, a highly desirable attribute among Indian connoisseurs of marketable females, was bought next, also at a hefty price, by a banker from Madras. She was fed on a diet of medjool dates and goat milk to keep her skin smooth and pale.

Martin and Steven went for less: they ended up in a Baghdad brothel together, where they had their brains fucked out several times a night for the next twenty years. They were never permitted to be in the sun, lest it spoil their fair skin. Justin was bought by a distant cousin to the Shah of Iran who believed that women should be fucked but not heard: all his concubines had had their vocal cords severed by the palace physician. Justin was no exception: she never spoke again. A year later she was delivered of twins after twelve hours of mute labor.

Colin's red hair proved a valuable asset for Mme. Erkip, who sold her for an outlandish sum to an Arabian sheik from Jubbah, to whom she ultimately bore six children, the first of which (a boy), had an uncanny resemblance to the untransmuted Peter Draper. When she was not being fucked, giving birth or nursing a baby, she spent most of her time reclining on Persian rugs in a tent. The four little Greeks were quickly determined to be unsuitable as concubines — they were snapped up as menials by the same whore-master who bought Martin and Steven. He payed a trifling sum for them. They were taught to be hairdressers and manicurists and also did all the laundry for the bordello.

As for Draper, Mme. Erkip considered her the pick of the litter, well worth an investment of several months' training. Assisted by the lash, Draper was an apt pupil and soon knew how to pleasure a man in each and every position of the Kama Sutra. Draper also received expert instruction in exotic dancing, flower arranging, singing, poetry recital, stringing beads… and, of course, in fellatio, at which she truly excelled. Commanding the highest price of all the transmutes, Draper was purchased by the young and virile Maharaja of Jaipur after only one night's "free sample." Though she was thrown in with sixty-eight other concubines, she proved so adept in the arts of sexual congress that she quickly became the maharaja's favorite. Draper not only bore him five sons, but eventually attained the rank of consort, wielding considerable influence at court. She occasionally suffered from nightmares that she had been de-sexed and transformed into a man. Such dreams made her all the more responsive to the maharaja the next time he took her to bed and served only to preserve her primacy in the harem.

What became of Stavros and Dimitrios? Because they had served Circe so well, they were restored to their masculine selves and returned to their families on Andros. They never told their wives why they had been gone for so long, nor what had happened to them. They became more attentive lovers and never took part in any new archeological digs. Both, however, took to wearing panties in secret, a compulsion neither could resist, though it disgusted them, as did their recurring fantasies about becoming women again.

And the temple? When the authorities finally sent a party to Yaros to find out what had happened to the expedition, they found a heap of rubble on the site of the old prison. As no recent earthquakes had been registered in the region, all assumed that an an undetonated explosive had been set off by a pick or a shovel, burying the whole work crew. Within a year, a new prison was built on the site, the rubble never having been further disturbed.


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