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From: nostrumo@nienor.s.bawue.de (Nostrumo)
Subject: TG: Duty, Honor, Country     by  Brandy DeWinter  (2/8)
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Hi.

  As far as I remeber this story was not posted yet, but if I'm
mistaken it will be a nice repost :). The title says everything.

  As always: I DIDN'T write this story and haven't any claim to it. If
you have some useful hints or some good comments, your mail is welcome.
Flames, you know, will be piped to /dev/null.

  If you are an author and wish to remain anonymous or just try to
avoid the replies to your work. I offer you the chance of posting your
stories and collecting the response for you. This offer only stands
for story postings and for nothing else.

Enjoy the story.

Ciao
	Nostrumo

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> cut here with a sharp knife <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<




2.  Chapter -    Training?


The helo whopped its way to a destination so distant from the base
where Beech had been stationed that he wondered why they didn't
transfer to a different type of aircraft. After the second fuel stop,
hours later, he decided the general hadn't been joking when he said
this mission would involve extreme personal discomfort. And they
were just getting started. It didn't help that the windows on the
chopper had been blacked out. There was even a screen across the
back of the cockpit so that only the pilots could see forward. The
noise level was too high for light conversation, even with the
breathtaking Miss McLean, so they were forced to just sit there and
"endeavor to persevere". Long after dark the helicopter landed at a
small clearing in a wooded area, clearly much higher in elevation than
their previous base. It was cooler, for one, but it also had a crisp
cleanness that only seemed to be available in the mountains.

      Few people realize that the US Army spends more money on
training than on procurement, more than on housing, more than on
fuel, more even than on food. They are expert at teaching soldiers
whatever they need to know to accomplish their military skills. This
training base could easily be concealed among the multitude of similar
bases, even from inquisitive bureaucrats. The new recruits were shown
to their quarters and told to get a good night's sleep. That revealed
the first of what would be many surprises about the base, though.
Beech found himself assigned to private quarters and unlike the
standard enlisted barracks, these quarters had a private bathroom
that was much too elegant to call a latrine. The bed was a frilly
canopied confection of lace and spun-sugar delicacy, the closet was big
enough to walk around in, and topping it all off, there was a
fully-stocked vanity complete with lighted makeup mirror. Though the
army had taught him never to pass up a chance to take a quick shower
when facilities were available, he knew it was likely to wake him up
enough to make it hard to sleep. Using the excuse of the order to get
to bed, he quickly stripped out of his still-sweaty Class A uniform and
slithered between the cool, slick sheets. In a moment, he was asleep.

      At a surprisingly late hour, meaning the sun was already up,
Beech, Fox, and Carp Anderson were roused from their delicate beds
by Constance McLean herself. As she gently called to him, Beech
realized it was the first time he had heard her speak. Her sentences
were fine, idiomatic American English, but there was a lilt to her voice
that spoke of the Emerald Isle, a most attractive lilt. Beech responded
as any red-blooded American soldier would do, with a gallant reflex he
found hard to hide . . er . . no pun intended. He kept the covers
around his waist and nodded. After she left, Beech walked into the
oh-so-feminine powder room adjoining his bedroom where he found
shampoo and conditioner, razor and depilatory, all softly scented with
a flowery perfume. His morning shower took only a few minutes.
When he stepped out, he looked around for his underwear, expecting
to have to wear the same pair again until his personal effects caught
up with his abrupt departure. Instead, he found a pair of woman's
panties, colored a brilliant emerald green to match his eyes. They were
so thin and smooth they seemed to flow through his fingers like a
liquid, catching at the rough calluses on his army-toughened hands.
With no alternative he put them on and reached for a white robe he
also found. The robe was conventional enough, at least to look at, but
when he wrapped it around himself he realized it was much softer and
thicker than any he had ever worn. A sharp rap at his door started
him moving from conditioned reflex and he went into the hallway to
find Constance waiting with Fox and Anderson.

      They were escorted to a large sitting room, decorated with a
scattering of couches and easy chairs. There were already another half
a dozen men waiting, all dressed in the thick white robes. Moments
after they arrived, another door opened and the general entered. At
least, from the neck down it looked like the general. The camo BDUs
were the same, but only the fact that they had seen him without his
sunglasses, and with his hair let down, identified him to the
open-mouthed recruits. This morning, the general had completed . .
his? . . makeup, adding blush and crimson lipstick. His? . . hair was
brushed into spun gold, caressing her . . um. . . his . . cheeks with
gentle whispers. She wore sparkling golden loops in her ears, and a
wide choker necklace. In a word, she was beautiful. Beech realized he
was having an increasingly difficult time remembering that this vision
of loveliness was indeed a man. The classic beauty displayed over the
androgynous BDUs shouted femininity so loudly it was drowning out
the memory of the male officer they had first met.

      "Good morning, ladies," the traditional army insult came from
the same soft voice they had heard, but it now sounded sultry and
added to the compelling image. "Be seated."

      "Today is the first day of your training for the mission. You will
be trained in three main areas; feminization, unarmed combat, and
theft. Of these, the most time-consuming will be the feminization
training, but as you can see from me, the results will be amazing."

      At this point, one of the recruits raised a tentative hand. The
general responded, "Yes?"

      "Excuse me, . . um . . sir . . but why train us to be women? I
mean, why not just use women?"

      The general paused for a long moment, a delicate pout forming
on those glorious crimson lips. Then she nodded to herself and said,
"All right, I guess a little more background is in order. All of you
know the penalties if you breathe a word of this to anyone, ever."

      "In a small but strategic country that I won't name right now,
there is a totalitarian leader who is literally insane. He has developed
a biological weapon of such virulence that it threatens all life on earth.
We believe he intends to release it at his death in the ultimate power
statement, 'Apres moi, le deluge.' Our mission is to extract that
biological agent and replace it with a harmless substitute. We must do
this so secretly that he never realizes it was done, or he will produce a
replacement. This dictator, call him El Supremo for now, has
kidnapped a harem of beautiful women and placed them in an outer
ring of defense around the only access to the laboratory where this
germ is kept. Unless escorted by El Supremo himself, all men in the
outer ring are shot on sight. The women have all been trained to do
this. Every now and then El Supremo releases what he calls a criminal
into the area, and any woman that doesn't immediately try to kill him
is punished so severely that few survive. For anyone to approach the
inner sanctum, they must appear to be beautiful women."

      "On the other hand, to gain access to the inner sanctum and to
move around within it, one must be a potent, virile, biological male.
Among his other perversions, El Supremo likes to test his laboratory
workers for their masculinity. Fresh, live sperm is required to pass
several checkpoints. He believes that this two-layer defense, one lethal
to men, one impassable to women, provides an adequate barrier to
penetration. Our mission is to breach that barrier without letting him
know it was done. It will require us to pass as beautiful women, hence
the specialized training. Is that clear?"

      At the questioners nod, the general resumed his briefing. "All
right. As of right now, you will begin your feminization training. From
this moment on, each of you is to pick a feminine name that is close
enough to your real name that you will respond automatically if you
hear it. We will all address each other only by these feminine names.
We will refer to each other only with feminine pronouns, and even
think of each other in that way. Unconscious mental attitudes have as
much or more to do with feminization than outward appearance. I
have told you that I am General Merlin, but my femme name is
Marilyn. Pick your names, introduce yourselves to each other, then
report back to your room in fifteen minutes. Your first instructor will
be waiting."

      Instead of leaving the room, he . . she smiled and walked over to
where the . . girls . . were sitting and asked them their names. Beech
felt he could stay with "Sandy" for his femme name, so that was easy.
The recruit nearest him was that "different" one, Tim or Jim Fox.
Though it made him uncomfortable, he decided he needed to follow
orders and so he introduced himself.

      "Hello, my name is Sandy," he said, trying to soften his voice in
imitation of the general.

      "My name is Jim, . . uh . . that is . . Jamie, or maybe
J-a-y-m-i," stammered the other recruit. His hair was a nondescript
brown, his eyes, though, were large and a deep, rich chocolate. Beech
found himself unconsciously evaluating "Jaymi's" feminization
potential and felt that "she" could make a quite attractive woman. He
wondered what the others thought of his own, that is, "her" own
potential. Beech hoped that they could all be as successful as the
general. With their short, military haircuts and no makeup, it was
hard to think of any of them except as men. As the general circulated
among the group of recruits, the ones that had been introduced left for
their rooms. Well within the fifteen minute window, all were dispersed.

      When Beech returned to his room, he found a casually dressed
woman waiting for him. At this point, he wasn't sure what to expect,
perhaps this "woman" was really a feminized man. She was dressed in
a short denim skirt and a sleeveless knit blouse. Her hair was medium
in length, and her makeup more subdued than the incredible magic
recently displayed by "Marilyn". Actually, she was rather plain, for a
young, fit woman. The only unusual things about her outfit were the
high heels she wore, a bit too formal for her casual appearance.

      Her voice was low and gave no additional clues to her true sex
when she spoke in a tone that wasn't quite an order, but also wasn't
quite a suggestion, "You'll need to get back into the shower. We will
be removing all your body hair."

      Beech stopped abruptly, not having absorbed what would turn
out to be even the first, easiest steps of what his transformation would
entail. However, he didn't protest. Instead, he followed the woman?
into the bathroom.

      "My name is Karen. I'll be helping you with your body training,
at least the feminization part. You'll have other instructors for martial
arts training. The first step is to get rid of your body hair. Step into
the shower, spread your legs, and raise your arms to shoulder height."

      These were definitely orders. "Karen's" rank was unclear, but
since just about everyone outranks a Private, Beech did what he was
told. He jumped though, when Karen started to spread a foamy cream
all over his body. He had seen the can before, recognizing it as one of
those depilatory chemicals, but he hadn't realized it would be used, so
soon, and so thoroughly. By the time Karen was finished, every square
inch of his body below the eyebrows had been lathered. Every.
Square. Inch. Beech's body had responded to her impersonal
ministrations as any young healthy man could be expected to respond.
As a result, it wasn't difficult for Karen to spread the cream over his
most intimate hairs. When she had finished, she grinned at him, the
first sign of other than professional emotion.

      "Don't worry, if you hadn't reacted, you'd probably have washed
out. Now, stand still for a few minutes before you wash up."

      She grinned again at her phrasing, then left the shower stall.
Beech stood there for an interminable time, feeling the cream first
tingle, then itch, then begin to etch itself into his skin like raw acid. He
just kept reminding himself that the general had warned of "personal
discomfort". After some timeless interval Karen returned and told him
to rinse off, making sure to get every spot of cream. This he did gladly,
even though the water must have come straight off the snowpack on
the mountains around. When he finally stepped from the shower,
Karen handed him another sweetly-scented lotion and told him to rub
down all the spots he could reach. Beech recognized the inherent
alternative, that she would rub the lotion into him, and part of him
wondered if that would be preferable, a consideration that once again
demonstrated itself in a visible response. Karen read his "expression"
as easily as if it had been broadcast on CNN, and laughed out loud.

      "Listen, Sandy, you'll get plenty of attention, including sexual
attention. For right now, we need to get you dressed, at least in the
clothes that are my responsibility. By the way, that's the last time
you'll have to do that. That depilatory cream is special. Your body
hair won't grow again until a neutralizer is applied. See how well the
Army takes care of you?"

      She led the shocked recruit back out of the bathroom where
several packages were placed on a table in the corner of the spacious
bedroom. Hanging from the ceiling was a trapeze arrangement, too
small to sit on or anything. Maybe it was for pull-ups. The army
loved pull-ups almost as much as it loved pushups.

      "Grab the bar," Karen directed.

      Beech didn't quite have to jump to reach it, but it pulled him up
onto this toes. He started to pull himself up, but Karen stopped him.

      "No, just hang there for a minute while I get some
measurements."

      She made measurements at about 10 places from his armpits to
his knees, some around, some up and down, some seemingly random.
After she had the measurements, she consulted a table, then reached
for one of the packages.

      "This will do for your first one, until we get the custom made one
ready."

      "First what?" Beech asked, then dropped from the bar and shied
away as he saw what she was drawing from the package.

      "No way!" he complained.

      "It's either this or a stockade for about the rest of your natural
life," Karen warned. "Now grab ahold of that bar again."

      Beech complied, watching the item out of the corner of his eye
like it was a snake that might bite him. The item was a corset, bright
red with black striping. Karen had loosened the laces several inches,
then opened a series of hooks down the front. She wrapped it around
him and fastened the hooks. As Beech hung from the bar, only his toes
touching the floor, he began to relax a little, this wasn't so bad. It was
snug, but not too tight. Then Karen started tightening the laces in
back. And tightening them. And tightening them. Before long, Beech
was gasping for breath, and she still tugged at the now-straining laces.

      Finally she relented, "All right, you can lower your arms, now."

      Beech let go of the bar, thinking that this would make his
breathing easier. In reality, it just made the corset seem tighter. The
corset also made his posture remain even more erect than his sergeant
had ever managed to drill into him. He gasped, tried to twist and
bend, and generally examined the limitations imposed by his new
prison. Maybe that stockade wouldn't be so bad after all.

      "Run the straps under your panties," was Karen's next order.

      Panties. What a word to use on a soldier. That's what they were
of course, but what a word. The corset had four dangling straps and
he worked them under the thin material of his panties as Karen
reached for another box. From this one she drew forth gossamer thin
stockings, dark, with seams running from the lacy tops clear to the
toes. Karen handed them to Beech as though he knew what to do
with them. Of course he knew in general, but not specifically. After a
moment's fumbling, Karen helped him to gather one into a small ring,
then carefully draw it up his shining, smooth leg. He managed the
other on his own. She showed him how to position the garters and
soon he felt the tug and pressure of the stockings as they joined with
the counterbalancing pressure of his corset.

      "All right," Karen said briskly, "one more item, then a little
practice on posture and moving."

      The last item was really a pair, a pair of shining black
high-heeled shoes. Beech wasn't expert enough to determine how tall
the heels were, he just knew they looked awfully tall to him. They
were basically pumps, but there was an ankle strap at the heel. He
bent to put them on, but the corset drew him up abruptly.

      "You won't be able to reach them until you learn how to move in
that corset a little better," Karen declared the obvious. "I'll put them
on you."

      Apparently they had already determined his shoe size, so the
shoes fit fine. Well, actually, they fit terribly. There was no room for
his toes, and he felt as though his foot had been curved inside out.
However, he recognized that the length was appropriate for his foot,
with the back of the shoes just slipping snugly over his heels. In a
moment Karen had the ankle straps fastened and stood back.

      "That's it, for now, move around a little."

      Beech tried to comply, almost falling when he stepped out too
far. Karen quickly gave him some pointers and in a surprisingly short
time he was able to move about the room with some reliability, if not
much grace. A bit more practice and even grace began to appear as he
tried to comply with Karen's guidance to swing his hips more, to point
his toes, and to put one foot directly in front of the other. Before he
really got smooth, though, he complained.

      "My feet are killing me."

      "Those are only three-inch heels. Even mine are over 4 inches,
and my foot is shorter than yours. By the time we're done, you'll be
dancing in heels twice that high. But you can take a break for a
minute. Here, put this on."

      She handed him another robe, this one shorter than the white
bathrobe he had worn previously. The robe was a brilliant emerald
green to match his eyes (and his panties). It was thin and silky and
threatened to go sheer at any second, though it was actually opaque.
It also threatened to reveal those matching panties with every
movement. It really was short.

      "Time for breakfast. An army marches on its stomach," this time
Karen couldn't help but giggle. She moved to the doorway and
motioned Beech to follow her.




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