A different kind of mission - Chapter 3

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Brad followed Karen down the hallway. He watched her as she glided along in her towering heels and began to truly understand the academic knowledge she had provided with her directions. He actually became reasonably comfortable in his own tall spikes, especially once he gained a little confidence in how much weight the thin heels could actually support. By the time they reached the cozy dining area, he was hindered more by the pain in his feet from the unaccustomed pressures than by any inherent balance or skill. In the dining area, Marilyn and Constance were already circulating among the arriving recruits, each of whom was now dressed in a similar robe, though each one had a unique color carefully selected to complement the appearance of the trainee. The transformation, in general, was now complete, at least in appearance. Her beautiful face and shining hair were accented by a short robe, towering heels, and slimming seamed stockings just as the trainees wore (and Constance). Her elegant grace, in gestures as well as in walking, could leave no doubt in anyone's mind that the general was every bit as feminine as Constance herself.

Brad was pleased to see that he had mastered the sway required by his high heels at least as well as any of the new trainees. He walked easily into the room and looked around for the others from his regiment. Jaymi Fox was just then entering, not as naturally as Brad had moved perhaps, but clearly on track to learning this skill. Others filed in, and only the fact that Brad was watching for Carp Anderson (what was his femme name?) reminded him that the third soldier from his regiment had not appeared. Marilyn must have been keeping count as well, for she spoke quietly to Constance, who moved off down the appropriate corridor. She returned with Carp and his instructor in a few minutes, practically carrying the reluctant recruit. He tried to move on his own, but every other step, his ankle turned, or his heel slipped, or he caught his pointed toe in the carpet. When they finally released him, he clung to the back of a chair, teetering precariously. "Clumsy Carp" indeed.

"Very well, then," Marilyn said. "Let's get our food and be seated."

A delicious brunch had been laid out for them, complete with all manner of meats, bread, fruits, and vegetables. A cook stood by to make eggs to order as the group filed along with the buffet. Brad gathered up his usual breakfast fare sized for an active young man's appetite and added a sandwich more appropriate for lunch while he was at it. He hadn't eaten since noon yesterday, though come to think of it, he wasn't as hungry as he expected. The distraction of the food broke the concentration of some of those who were just learning to walk all over again, but Brad soon forgot the shoes he wore and just went through the line. Marilyn was watching unobtrusively as the group moved along, and their eyes met briefly, then Brad received a smile of approval for his success and a discreet wave of invitation to the general's table. He swayed his way over to where Marilyn and Constance were sitting and added his own tray to the table beside theirs.

"With your permission, uh ma'am?" he stammered.

An instant of a frown creased Marilyn's beautiful brow for a second, then she relaxed. She knew it would take a while for them to get used to the idea. "Sit down," came the order. "Sandy, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Why don't you just call me Marilyn?" the general requested. "When we're on the mission, we'll need to seem like friends, not soldiers."

"Yes, ma'am, I mean, yes, Marilyn," Brad replied, not much better.

The frown was again marring Marilyn's face as she watched Carp struggle through the line. He clutched at the counter with each step, barely managing to push his tray along. Brad noted the general's glance and sighed.

"What's wrong?" Constance asked.

"Oh, it's Carp, I mean, Anderson," answered Brad.

"Carp?" now Marilyn was asking.

"That's just what we call him. It's from the comic character Clumsy Carp. I'm afraid he's not very graceful."

"I wish I'd have known that before we left your base," the general's frown was in full force now, reminding them of her . . no . . with that look, his command presence.

Constance caught the look and gently reminded him, "Now, Marilyn, that frown just doesn't work for you. Try a pout instead."

Marilyn's attention flashed back to "her" table companion with a rueful smile, acknowledging what must have been one in a long series of corrections. She changed her expression to one somehow more feminine without being more happy. Truly a dainty pout rather than a masculine frown.

"I still wish I'd have known," she complained.

"So do I, dear," Constance agreed, "but we didn't. Asking too many questions would have taken too long."

Marilyn nodded, then turned back to the very quiet Sandy Brad, who was trying to disappear without moving while the elephants were angry.

"Is there anything else we should know about those from your regiment?" she asked.

Brad hesitated. He wasn't sure what to do about Fox. This whole situation was so bizarre that he wasn't sure whether ratting on a comrade was better than disobeying an order. Finally, though, it was an order or at least a question that required a full and honest answer.

"ma'am," the formality recognizing Marilyn's authority, "the rumors within the regiment were that Jaymi Fox was um homosexual."

"Exclusively?" demanded the general, once more surrendering feminine mannerism to forceful directness.

"I don't know, ma'am."

The general made as if to stand up then calmed down. In a few moments, the frown was once again replaced with a pout that could have been devastatingly attractive if Brad weren't so terrified.

"Well," Marilyn mused, "with what we're going to be doing, that may almost be an asset. I'm afraid Donna will have to go, though."

Donna, that was Carp's femme name, Brad remembered, now even more terrified as what sounded like a sentence of death was passed on a new recruit on the very first day. For a Private to be sitting in supposedly casual conversation with a General, one granted almost unlimited authority by the President himself, made juggling hand grenades seem tame and safe by comparison. A single poorly chosen word and Brad might find out for himself just what happened to non-performers, a judgment the general was obviously quite ready to make. Jaymi ate his brunch in careless oblivion at another table, at least, as careless as he or any of the recruits could be while wearing the unaccustomed corsets and heels. Brad wondered if he had sabotaged both of the men from his regiment in the space of a minute and whether someone would sabotage him just as quickly.

Finally, the brunch was over. Brad realized he was too full to eat another bite long before he had cleared his plate. Another mistake. The army allowed soldiers to eat well but expected them not to waste their food. The corset just wouldn't let him eat anymore, though. The general and Constance had selected light meals and ate all they took. Looking around, Brad could see that virtually all of the new trainees had made the same mistake. Marilyn stood, provoking a disorderly rush by the trainees to stand in response, almost catastrophic in some cases as they forgot the care required by their high heels. Poor Carp was holding carefully to the table; all confidence was gone, and whatever poise he might have hoped for was gone with it. In a moment, new instructors were approaching each trainee and escorting them away from their tables.

The one who came to Brad was as pretty as any woman he had ever seen. But then, so was Marilyn. His suspicions were fully engaged as he followed her down the hallway. He noticed that she was wearing flats, and he envied her comfort even as he realized how stiff it seemed to make her move. His own hips were orbiting with ever-increasing grace as he adapted to the demands of his new clothes.

The pretty girl leading him along looked over her shoulder and said, "My name is Kathy. I'll be your instructor in makeup and hairstyles."

Brad had so many questions he couldn't have consciously picked a single one, but one leaped uninvited into first place in a long line. "Do the names of all the instructors start with a K?"

She laughed and nodded, "All of yours, in any event. No one gives their correct names here, nor do I know yours. You might have noticed that only Marilyn and Constance talked with you until after your briefing and selection of new names. We've all been warned what will happen if we pry into whatever your mission is. I don't want to know."

His next question was almost as pressing, building from a seeming dilemma. He rubbed his hand over the millimeters of hair that was all that basic training had left him and asked, "What sort of training do I need for my hair?"

"You'll see," she giggled. Now that didn't make him feel any better, not any better at all. They returned to his bedroom, and he was directed to the vanity.

"You will need to learn to wear makeup with special skill since it will need to cover any trace of masculinity as well as make you look attractive. Pay close attention. I'll do one side of your face, more or less, and expect you to do the other. You'll be graded at dinner on how well the two sides match. If Marilyn can't tell which side you did and which side I did, you pass."

That was the introduction to a long, detailed lecture on makeup. Brad was perhaps a bit more motivated than most of the trainees, having just watched as a sentence was passed on one of the recruits. Perhaps he also had a knack for colors and shapes as well because, in a short while, he was matching the approach Kathy had identified, even improving on it. He was so wrapped up in his task that the full impact didn't really register. His face was transforming from that of a somewhat delicately-featured man to a young, amazingly pretty girl.

"Not bad," Kathy admitted, "now for the next step. What color is your hair when it's grown out?"

"Black," he replied.

"Absolutely black, blue-black?" demanded his instructor.

"Well, no, in some lights, there are brown highlights, maybe even red. Or at least there were when I let it grow long."

"How long have you worn it?"

"Over my shoulders, when I was in high school," he explained, leveling his hands about even with his collar bones.

"Good, then you have a start on understanding hair care," Kathy smiled, then reached for one of several tall boxes on the floor.

"I think we'll start with this one," she said as she pulled out a thick mass of tumbling night, almost black, with just a hint of red. Brad was turned away from the mirror when she put it on him for the first time since Kathy needed to see how it would fit before she could tell Brad how to do it. As a result, she was the first to see Sandy's total appearance in makeup and wig. Her own concentration kept her from realizing what was happening until she stood back to check the alignment of the wig. It was at that time the full impact of the changes in the recruit's appearance hit her so forcibly she gasped.

"What's wrong?" Sandy asked.

"Nothing," Kathy whispered. "Nothing at all."

Sandy turned to look in the mirror, and her own gasp echoed the astonishment of her instructor. A beautiful young lady looked out of the mirror at her. Flawless makeup was applied so expertly it appeared to be only the merest accent to pre-existing beauty, and the glorious mane of dark hair tumbled to her tiny waist in rippling waves. This was not an obvious man in corset and heels, nor even a transvestite making a valiant effort to pass as a woman. This was an outstanding example of femininity at its finest, clearly and unmistakably a girl just on the trembling threshold of womanhood.

Brad didn't know the statistics that indicated most young men had experimented with women's clothes at one time or another, usually from a mother or older sister and only in private. He hadn't himself, though, ever. The rapidly arriving shocks of this adventure had kept his mind so focused on the mechanics of the new skills he was expected to attain that he hadn't considered them from an erotic perspective. The clothes didn't excite him, particularly, though he had responded physically to Karen's intimate ministrations in the shower. All of a sudden, the impact of what he was wearing flooded through him with desperate embarrassment accompanied by even more powerful arousal. The gorgeous woman in the mirror excited him to the point of pain, and he grunted in a most unladylike way at the surprise.

And yet, there was pride as well, not only pride in a job well done but pride in her beauty. A woman's self-image was strongly driven by her sense of personal attractiveness; just a man's self-image was strengthened by being tall and powerful. Sandy saw her beauty and wanted it to continue; she wanted to remain a beautiful girl. That was an urge that had never bothered her before. Brad lusted after the image in the mirror as a man for a desirable woman. Sandy lusted after the image in the mirror as though it were a precious jewel to be cherished, and Sandy quickly regained control. She turned her head from side to side, remembering and reveling in the soft whispers of hair tumbling about her shoulders. She pursed her lips in a slow, sensuous kissing motion, provoking a giggle from Kathy and an abrupt return to earth for her soaring thoughts.

"Honey, you're going to have to be careful. You keep that up, and some of those boys out there will forget their own appearance and have you on your back in a heartbeat," smirked the pretty instructor.

Heat flared to life in Sandy's cheeks again as she hung her head in embarrassment. But her glance was drawn back to the incredible image in the mirror, and it was clear that this was beyond an academic training exercise, way beyond. Sandy was going to have some real work to do before she could understand and cope with the out-of-control emotions flooding through her.

"All right, girl, stand up," ordered Kathy. "We're due back in the sitting room in just a few minutes. Do you need to visit the facilities?"

Sandy nodded, sending ripples through the liquid night framing her shoulders that so distracted her she entirely forgot the difficulty of her high heels and tight corset. When she reached the bathroom, though, she remembered enough to be grateful that her earlier instructor had made her run the garters under her panties. She was able to take care of business with minimal effort and was soon ready to follow Kathy back to the rest of the group.

This time Sandy was the first of the recruits to reach the gathering. Marilyn was already in the room, talking quietly with Constance. It appeared the elegant woman's name had been chosen to indicate the permanence of her position beside the beautiful general. That focused Marilyn's attention on the green-eyed brunette, a discomforting situation for Sandy. It also focused Connie's attention, one that was decidedly welcome. Sandy was trying to sort out all the conflicting emotions rampaging through her when Marilyn moved close enough to talk.

"Excellent, Sandy!" the general complimented her. "You are spectacular!"

"Thank you, ma'am," Sandy said automatically. It wasn't until the words were out of her mouth that she remembered the general had asked to be addressed as Marilyn. Even then, it was another heartbeat before Sandy realized the ma'am had been automatic. Marilyn was entirely too pretty to be a 'sir.' Sandy's instructor escort had disappeared discreetly as soon as they reached the room, so she was on her own once again with an officer at least 17 ranks higher than her in the chain of command.

"I didn't know you were left-handed. It's not in your file," Constance mused.

"Ma'am?" Sandy responded, not understanding the comment.

"You're left-handed, aren't you?"

"No, ma'am," denied Sandy. "What makes you think so?"

"Well, all the instructors were told to do the left side of the trainee's faces, allowing them to try and match it on the right side, except for left-handed students. All were to be allowed to try and match the makeup approach on the side that's easiest for the hand with the most dexterity."

"Yes, ma'am, that's what Kathy did. She did the left side of my face, and I did the right."

Marilyn joined the conversation, "But the right side of your face is even more beautiful than the left."

"If you say so, ma'am. Thank you," Sandy agreed, not sure of the significance of the remarks.

The significance became apparent as the next trainees entered the room. As with the high heels (had that only happened a few hours ago?), there was a spectrum of success at the new skill. Some recruits had achieved a passable application of cosmetics on their assigned side, but none had achieved the levels of artistry defined by their instructors, none but Sandy. Some had not had much success at all. Eyeliner was streaked, lashes were clumpy, blush was stark and poorly blended, lipstick straggled anywhere between the nose and the chin. The clownish appearance of the less successful again brought a frown to Marilyn's beautiful brow. She must have been working on that, though. The endearing pout she had used before had been merged with her stern frown to a new expression that demonstrated delicate concern. It was not as intimidating as the previous scowl, but elegantly feminine and entirely appropriate for a den mother in charge of young ladies.