A different kind of mission - Chapter 6

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The trainees settled into a routine that was too busy to be monotonous. Every morning, they worked out at stretching and aerobics, then faced El Supremo. All the trainees sported bruises at various times, yet all found within themselves the toughness to face the bully and overcome him. Sandy's aikido background allowed her the easiest time in this area as well, and her position as the leader among the enlisted recruits was solidified by her demonstrated competence.

They always ate brunch rather than breakfast, always wearing their corsets to keep their stomachs too compressed for large meals. As a result, and as a result of the hormones they started talking, they lost muscle mass, especially in their upper bodies. The team members, including Marilyn, cycled through the infirmary for their various surgeries. In the end, as promised, Sandy developed the shapeliest body, though Marilyn followed a close second. The others started to develop their own personas, each unique, each attractive. Constance owned the refined elegance personality so thoroughly that none of the other recruits tried that path. Her most devastating weapon was a coolly-amused smile. It could make any man around feel clumsy and inadequate. Marilyn had the airhead blonde down with hilarious creativity. She trained herself to use almost exclusively one-syllable words, mostly 'like' and 'you know' and 'cool.'

Jaymi chose the tomboy route, remaining androgynous in a surprisingly effective way. She was clearly female or at least appeared to be, but she kept her hair cut in a shorter style and had the leanest shape of the team. This apparent rejection of femininity was curiously inverted to appear not a deliberate choice but as though she had grown up in a convent and wasn't sure what it meant to be truly a woman. It triggered the masculine protector instinct and, at the same time, offered the ego-reassuring opportunity to show an innocent girl what a man could do for her without fear of failing standards set by experience. She was the classic hothouse flower just waiting to bloom. Only Sandy really knew that she was also the most sexually experienced of them all.

Carol, with her flaming hair, chose the wanton route. Every sentence carried a sexual innuendo. Every motion flaunted her new figure, though it was only average. She chose the shortest, tightest skirts, the lowest necklines, the brightest makeup. It made her look easy without quite being cheap. Not a hooker, just a highly-sexed young woman that enjoyed giving and receiving pleasure.

Vanna, though also a blue-eyed blonde, chose the intellectual path. She dressed conservatively, except for her higher-than-normal heels and seamed stockings. Underneath, her lingerie was always lacy and delicately feminine, though, and she somehow managed to let glimpses of it show. Her persona was that of a woman too busy for sex, brisk and industrious, yet still yearning for it. One imagined that she read romance novels in the privacy of her home, dreaming of elegant dresses and of strong men before once again leaving for work. It offered the opportunity to fulfill fantasies that had been building for years if only the thin crust of ice-maiden defense could be breached.

The most effective of them all was Sandy, though. Under Krystal's expert tutelage, she had first learned feminine gestures and movements. Now when she reached to shake hands, it was with a gentle wrist and with her palm down, offering as much to let her hand be kissed as to be grasped. She chose enticing clothes that claimed to be conservative with skirts just above the knee and modest necklines. Yet the clothes were, in fact, quite revealing, with high slits in the skirts and devastatingly-effective lace panels in the tight blouses that threatened, no that promised, to reveal hidden delights with every breath, with every whisper of wind, though only for an instant. It was impossible not to watch her, to try and catch that brief glimpse that was sure to appear at any moment. Then she took it further, developing a sensual motion that always ended up with a hip thrust just far enough to reveal the curve of her perfect thigh. Always had her looking through long lashes or an errant wave of lustrous hair at those around her, a demure expression belied by the grin that lurked within those emerald gems. She wore her wig for the longest time among the team, only giving it up when her own hair reached toward her waist in shining waves, even more, beautiful than the false hair she had finally abandoned. She trained her voice to be light and musical, delightful to hear. Her expertise with makeup kept her always at the dewy-eyed edge of innocence, at one moment appearing barely 15, at the next perhaps 20. If this damsel were ever in distress, men would come running from far counties to seize the chance to help her, and she learned a delicate pout that always made her seem slightly distressed.

That impression became more real than she wanted it to be when they finally got to learn the skills of thievery, especially lock-picking. Though she managed to work the problems that challenged them, it was always laborious and slow. Jaymi, on the other hand, could open most padlocks, handcuffs, doors, whatever almost as fast with a paperclip or a hairpin as with the designed key. The two teammates spent long hours together trying to bring Sandy's skills up to the necessary standard. When they all got long fingernails, Sandy almost despaired. At times she felt she would never get it well enough to play her part in whatever plan was lurking behind Marilyn's ditsy disguise. Marilyn found her sitting by a picture window late one evening, sobbing silently.

"What's wrong?" the blonde asked gently, no trace of airhead emptiness about her.

"I just can't get the hang of lock-picking, and now with these," she said, waving her scarlet spears in frustrated speechlessness. "I'm afraid you'll wash me out."

"Don't worry about it," Marilyn consoled her. "You'll do well enough. We're a team, remember? I want everyone to have enough skills to fill in for those who might not make it, but there are several of us who can pick locks well enough. I've already figured out other tasks for you. I want you to try your best on lock-picking, just like you do on everything else, but I won't count on you for that particular skill except as a backup plan, just as there are things where others will back you up. Trust me, I told you we'd help you through the rough parts."

"Really? You mean I'm doing okay?" Sandy begged for reassurance.

"Really. You're doing okay," Marilyn declared. Sandy forced a weak smile through her tears, then hugged Marilyn like the big sister she had become. The two pretend women, or woman and girl just held each other for a moment. Finally, Marilyn stirred enough to let Sandy know she wanted to be released, and the two stood side by side, looking out the window.

"What is your plan for us?" Sandy asked, trying to get the conversation off its intensely emotional level.

"I can't say, yet, there's still some intelligence data we need. But I can let you in on another secret. We're all going to get a pass this weekend."

"What?" Sandy couldn't believe it. In ten months, they had never left the compound. To the best of her knowledge, even Marilyn and Constance had never left. The girl's training in feminization, thievery, and unarmed combat was nearly complete. All could pass anywhere as women, desirable, beautiful, sensual women. At least, they thought they could. Sandy realized as soon as she heard Marilyn's words, though, that lurking deep in her heart was a fear that real men, or real women, would see through their disguises.

"This weekend, we're all going out on the town. Dinner, maybe a few nightclubs. We'll call it trolling for boys and see how many each of us attracts. My money's on you, actually, but," and her personality changed with a toss of her golden curls, "I'll like, you know, try my best. Maybe some cute boy will like me. Wouldn't that be like, totally awesome?"

Sandy giggled in appreciation of the compliment and of the joke. Fooling a roomful of horny men would be a real challenge, one that each of the girls would need to face someday. It looked like the test would come soon.

They were excused from physical training the next day, including their hand-to-hand combat class. Sandy realized that El Supremo had been taking it easy on them lately. None of the girls sported bruises, at least, none that would show. He had not been so lucky. All of the team could regularly make him pay for any damage inflicted, with compound interest and penalties. Still, he soldiered on, trapped as much in his role as they were in theirs. He had become pathetic in their minds, not terrifying. Just as Marilyn planned all along.

The girls spent their time preparing for their night out. By this time, they had learned to move as well as could be expected in their corsets. After all the figure training, they felt more comfortable with them on. They wore heels almost all the time now, usually at least 5 inches in height. In fact, just as the corsets had shrunk their waists, the towering spikes worn constantly outside the brief stretching period every morning had resulted in enough shrinkage of their ankle tendons that they were more comfortable in heels than flats.

Early in the evening, they gathered in the lounge for an informal mutual inspection. Their respect for each other was too great for the pettiness of pecking orders, but they still needed reassurance in their own beauty, gained in part by realizing their differing approaches were all valid and effective. Though not part of a deliberate plan, it was clear that they had formed into two basic styles. One group composed of Marilyn, Carol, and Sandy emphasized a fun-loving, exuberant style, while the other group, Constance, Jaymi, and Vanna, were living examples of refinement and elegance. All were clearly party girls out for a night on the town, though. Skirts were high and tight, heels were very high and very slim, makeup was sparkling. Purses were arranged, documentation was checked against their new identifications. They gravitated together according to their personas and went to the two cars that they would use for the night's excursion. In order not to look too structured, they would actually act as two groups tonight, on similar schedules but not really together. The rendezvous at the restaurant and nightclubs would appear coincidental.

Marilyn's head-tossing chatter and Carol's constant innuendoes kept Sandy giggling helplessly for the entire trip to town. It was only as they approached it that she realized she hadn't even known what state they were in. It turned out to be Montana if it mattered. They had reservations at the restaurant, but there was a short wait, so they fluttered into the bar like a flock of light-hearted doves. Their more reserved compatriots trailed by a few minutes but soon ended up in the same area.

"Heads up, girls," Marilyn whispered, "showtime."

Her comment had been triggered by a too-casual drift toward their table by a couple of unaccompanied men. Though the ladies were dressed very nicely, all in skirts or dresses, this was Montana, and the guys heading their way were in simple jeans, boots, and sport coats. They were or were pretending to be cowboy types. Pretense or not, they had the lean, sun-weathered look of outdoor experience, just old enough to be clearly men and no longer boys.

"Good evening, ladies," began the taller one, perhaps 6'4" with dark curls peeking from beneath his wide-brimmed hat and from the open collar of his shirt. "I hope y'all don't mind if we intrude on your group, but we just wanted to try and keep you out of trouble."

Carol responded to her cue before the other could speak, "And just what makes you think we want to be kept out of trouble?" The lift of one carefully-shaped brow accented the sparkle in her eyes, an effect that almost went unnoticed as her tongue languidly licked at her shining lips.

Sandy ducked her head and blushed, but let her emerald eyes peek from beneath her long lashes at the other cowboy, also dark-haired but "only" about 6 feet tall. In her towering spikes, Sandy thought that he was just about right. He picked up on her interest and joined the conversation. "Then perhaps it would be better to say we want to keep ourselves out of trouble. In this town, it's against the law for unescorted ladies to buy their own drinks, and any menfolk in the vicinity are held accountable, right Ben?"

"Well, I'm not sure they actually passed that ordinance, but they should have," his friend played along. "My name is Ben Johnson, and my friend, Steve Hill, and I would be pleased if you'd let us buy you a fresh round."

"But there's only two of you and three of us," Marilyn said, as though she had just done the math and couldn't make things work out. Carol responded with a stifled giggle, and Sandy did her blush and duck again.

The cowboys grinned, too, and Steve said, "Well, Miss, we won't worry about that if you won't."

Marilyn's sun-rising smile let them know she was happy not to worry about things, but it fell to the more-forward Carol to complete the introductions. Just then, their table was called, giving them a graceful excuse to leave before things went any further. The other trio hadn't had quite as much luck and were still alone, a situation the cowboys clearly considered another opportunity, but the other tables were called, and soon the entire team was seated in reasonable proximity. Eyeborne messages flew between the tables, congratulations, envy, taunting challenges, all conveyed with the near-telepathy of close companionship. They all ordered lightly, flirted in their various styles with the waiters, giggled together, and enjoyed the attention of all the interested men (which was all of them) and all the jealous women (ditto). Soon the meal was over, and they were heading back to their cars. Someone had clearly performed an earlier reconnaissance mission because Marilyn drove directly to an obviously popular nightclub. Something about the group (hardly a surprise, they were spectacularly beautiful) moved the gatekeeper to wave them to the front of the line, and they were soon inside.

"Well, ladies, we're committed," Marilyn whispered, or actually shouted over the pounding music but only loud enough to be heard by her two companions, "first one to get an invitation to dance gets out of El Supremo's class tomorrow."