|The Transformation Story Archive||The Other Sex|
"Black: [n., adj.]: 1) a color, ... 27) slang, secret, esp. with respect to the military...
Ice: [n., v.]: ... 16) slang, security code in a computer program ..." WEBSTER'S 2015 Ed.
M. October 10. I've arrived. Six years of school and mind-numbing nights in the lab finally pay off. I'm now part of AGL. AGL, mega corpora- tion, leading biocompany in the North American Confederation and rumored owner of the largest block of senators of all the multinationals. My chance at for- tune and fame, a glorious carrer in the fast-growing field of applied genetics. Hooray!
I resolved to start this journal today. Should be interesting reading after my first Nobel (ha ha). Tommorrow I find a bar.
T. October 11. Didn't find the bar yet. Took too long looking over my work area. Pretty much as expected. Top notch, real state-of-the-art. There's even a new Fuller-Pinch sequencer/assembler: an advantage of working for a company that does so much military work.
W. October 12. Military paranoia is rampant. From the recruiting information, I expected to see the mark of their twisted thinking in the defense groups. I didn't expect its iron grip everywhere. There are camera's in the johns for christ sakes! Curiously, the only places not under security's everwatchful eye are the labs. Don't want to spoil the creative flow, I suppose. Damned silly if you ask me. Outside of the defense groups, the German Bloc doesn't give a damn about what we do.
Still haven't found that bar. I've tried seven pubs and holes-in-the -wall between the lab and conap. I didn't think there was that many fake ferns in the world! No doubt about it, yuppies were one of God's bad jokes.
Th.October 13. Met my lab mates. What a pair. Caroles is a big gray bear, maybe 50, big, broad weight-lifter's body just beginning to run to fat. Outgoing, easily liked, the life of the party but with a sober, business side. A good researcher according to his dossier, nothing flashy just quitely competent. Flint couldn't be more different. 32, short, about 30 pounds overweight, his face seemingly frozen into an expression of amused surprise. Where Caroles is gargarious, Flint's quiet, his energy and attention directed inward. Nice enough otherwise. Just, well, insular. Top notch labman though. His earlier work is shot through with pure genius.
P.S.: Caroles says he's knows just the bar I'm looking for.
F.October 14. Finally got to work. Our work's plant genetics, trying to tweak soybeans into drawing their water out of the air. Food for a starved world, and all that. Long way to go before we bear fruit, though.
Th.October 20. Busy past few days. Caroles delivered. He started by showing me the city's seamier side. That's o.k., "meet the winner's in the dives" and all that. Gotta hand it to him too. The places we checked out are hotter than a bunsen. And the women! God! Early in the evening I thought it was my imagination. But as the night went on it became clear I'd died and gone to heaven. Every other woman was a knockout. I kid you not, every second one was the stuff of dreams. They came in all shapes and sizes, but they were universally gorgeous. And as eager for a good time. More often than not they knew Caroles and showed it with unabashed affection.
We ended up at one woman's house. Celia on Caroles' lap and her roommate on mine. The girls were night and day: Celia a tall, frosty blond, built like the proverbial brickhouse; the lady with me, Bev, small, with unblemished honeyed brown skin, face distinctly anglo, but tits and ass undeniably african. And her kisses: like honey. O.K., o.k., I know it was only pheronomes. Of course, we ended up in the sack. Bev was unbelievable. She was insatiable and incredibly responsive, but gentle and, well, fun. Like a kid playing 'show me.' I lost myself in her, waking with the sun up only to start all over again. I get hard just thinking about it.
Caroles and I ultimately had to leave for work, of course. Staggering to the car, half-supporting each other. Dragging myself around most of the day, watching Caroles work unflagingly. Damn the man. He must be made of iron.
Tried to make lunch conversation with Flint Tuesday. He was tightlipped as usual. That's o.k. I did find one thing out. I saw his log entries by accident. Flint was in the lab most of the weekend and every night since, working on something listed as a hobby.
St.October 22. Date with Bev last night. Ended up in the sack again. My god, she's fantastic! Over morning coffee, I finally got her talking about herself. Two years ago she was a lab assistant in one of the defense groups. But the military shit finally got to her. One day after calculating that the lethal rate on her latest baby was 97% she was discovered in the midst of a burning lab, crying uncontrollably, a lighted torch in one hand. Very bad. AGL was furious, of course. And what with the military throwing its ham- handed weight around, she thought it was goodbye for sure. But, when they sifted the ashes the next day, AGL found that every record on Bev's latest project, papers, tapes and disks, had gone up in smoke with the lab. That raised problems: the project was clearly illegal under the '99 treaties. So, AGL and the military decided discretion was the better part of valor. The project had never existed, the fire never occurred and their remained nothing to punish Bev for. Obviously, however, an early retirement was in order.
Bev is amazing. I think the whole thing stinks, but she insists on being forgiving about it. She's actually grateful to AGL! Said it gave her the money and time to work on herself, something she'd wanted for a long time but just hadn't seemed able to find the time for. She even credits AGL for her looks, insists against all evidence that she was an unattractive, mouse of a woman before her 'retirement.' Only after she left work and began working out, did her body miraculously reshape itself into one she'd always dreamed of having. It seems a harmless enough delusion, pretty hard to credit though it is. Women like her are just not made over night. Still, she does have a near fanatic respect for AGL, far beyond what her meager pension seems to warrant. Oh well, at least she seems genuinely interested in my work.
M.October 24. What a weekend. Bev and I went out with Caroles and a new girl, Marge. Marge was much like Celia, blonde-red hair and peaches and cream complexion instead of Celia's frosty ice-queen looks, but the rest was more or less the same. Close enough to be sisters. And every bit as much a bombshell. I used to feel that beauty like that was just a Hollywood creation, but since coming here I've discovered a whole new world.
Anyway, Bev and I ended up back at her place. Celia was apparently out for the weekend. Bev said she wouldn't mind though. Well things went as you'd expect. Saturday night was a groove, and Sunday even better. I love this town.
T.October25. Work, work, work (are you there john warfin?). Cramer, the section head, pulled a surprise inspection. The shit. Good thing Flint seems to have spent another weekend in the lab. Everything was spotless. Cramer seemed disappointed. I don't know why, but I sensed hostility rolling off him like sweat. Tried to thank Flint, but he just played tightlipped again. I'm getting tired of that.
W.October26. I've decided Flint is a mystery I must crack. He blew up at me today when I accidently accessed one of his files. He wiped the screen before I could see much, but I did get a glimpse of some cell structures. What is someone working in plants doing with human cell structures in his data?
T.October2. Flint didn't show up today. About noon someone came in and removed all his stuff. No explanations or comments. All, that is, except his code book. That just happened to fall in that crack behind the printer no one ever notices. After the goons left, I did a full dump onto floppy. Almost 3 gig! Looks like everything Flint did since he came here. I'll stash it and check it out when I get back home.
M.October6. Bad juju. They spotted the code book's absence. I don't know what I've got, but it must be important. Security swarmed through the place like locusts. Found the book, of course, just where I replaced it. I'll have to take a look at the disks as soon as possible.
T.October9. Someone around here clearly has a case of the screaming paranoids. Christ, armed guards at every corner! What have I gotten into?
F.October10. The goons are still playing soldier at every corner. Now I know how the Russians felt when the Fourth Reich came marching in. How does any one think in the military labs?
S.October11. Gotta beg forgiveness from Bev. Stood her up. I must be crazy, but, hell, talk about chinese puzzles. For starters, the ice is definitely olive drab. Took me all day and four systems crashes to punch through. Didn't even make it all the way through. This is definitely weird, nothing about plants rates military ice.
S.October12. Eureka! All is revealed. The ice makes sense. Even the human genome data fit. Its a viral modification program. Self- replicating, tough and wicked. It eats anything. Including viralphages. Especially viralphages. A normal AMA approved dose of AnaV would kick the thing into overdrive, boost efficiency 50 or maybe 60 per cent. That makes no sense. At that rate, the five day cycle would require the calories from 60 or more pounds of tissue. Haven't figured out the end product; need more memory than my home deck has.
II. Secrets Revealed.
Date unknown. I thinks its been six days since I was seized by Zoon's goons. I'm not sure, but it feels right. I'm writing this on a left over microwave-dinner carton. Don't know how, or if, I'll ever get it out of here. Sorry to say, I'm begining to think the same about myself.
The goons worked me over but good. Not much of me doesn't ache or bleed right now. And all over Flint's disks. Damn him to hell. I didn't see enough to put two and two together, but Zoon refuses to believe that. Flint broke into a very black-hole project. They want to know how much he found out, who his contacts are and where he is now. They were very insistant on that, three teeth insistent. At least they only loosened them. What has Mrs. Goodnaugh's boy gotten himself into?
Day 2. That'll do as good as anything for a date. Something very weird is going on. Last night, two goon's came down and took me to some kind of lab. I was prodded, tested and ultimately given a shot. All the time Zoon was looking down from an observation platform, laughing. Afterwords, he confronted me, smiling and laughing the entire time. "Since you wouldn't cooperate," he said, "the least we could do was show you what you are protecting. Give you a taste of the medicine." He thought that last bit was hilarious. I do not like that laugh.
Day 3. My fears seem confirmed. I'm running a fever. I'm sore and swollen. I think Zoon made good on his threat and I'll have my chance to see Flint's virus at work. Unfortunately, I think I'll be too close to the action to appreciate it with proper clinical detachment.
Day 5, I think. Any way, there are two uneaten meals on the floor. The fever got completely out of control, I fainted and have been sleeping. I don't know how long. I'm puffy and swollen all over. Yet, I could almost believe I'm also shrinking. My clothes are real baggy. How is that possible? It's not.
Day 8: Fainted again. Three meals on the floor this time. Whatever is happening its definitely weirds-city. Clothes don't fit at all. Pants are huge everywhere but in the hips; shirt's baggy as hell except in the chest where I simply refuse to believe what I seem to be seeing.
Day 9 Fever's slacking off. I slept a little last night (night?) but nothing like the zombie state of the last few days. I guess I'm going to have to start believing what I see on my chest. My shirt won't stay closed, all the damn buttons got ripped off somehow. All it does now is hang to either side of my breasts. Yeah, that's right. Breasts. Capital B, little r,e,a,s,t,s. As in tits, boobs, dugs. Small, but definitely there, right down to the big pink nipples.
This isn't be happening! Is it? But then my appendix scar can't have disappeared either, could it?
Day 9. Its been five or six hours, I think. I'm ashamed. I gave in. I told myself I wouldn't, but I did. I mean, they look just like the real thing. Hell, they are the real thing! It was so easy to pretend they were someone else's. Easy 'till I realized that I was really into have them played with. Not playing with them. Having them played with. I just realized the difference a moment ago and it scares shit out of me.
Day 10. The titty-fairie visited me last night. They're huge! Yesterday I could hold one in my hand, today I can't even close my fingers around it! And the rest of my body has changed just as dramatically. Can this tiny high waist really be mine? These smooth, round, full hips? This jutting, gorgegous ass. I have become sleek and volumptuous, a lyrical collection of curves.
Okay, I know what's happening now. I've gone crazy. Completely looped. I'm lying on a gurney somewhere and Zoon's goons are working me over and messing with my head. I wish I believed that. And, I wish I knew why the noises in my gut bother me so much.
Day 10, 3 hours later. Be careful what you wish... I found out what the gurgling is all about. I had to take a pee. Bellied up to bar and whipped it out. Or tried to. IT isn't there any more. Not even a stub. Just some ugly red swelling a little further down.
I really amaze myself. I mean, before this shit started I'm sure I'd have said I'd be stomping and screaming long before this. But I just can't seem to get worked up. Somethings happening to me, but I can't seem to get upset about it. It seems well, natural, somehow, and I have this overall feeling of peace and contentment. Like coming home after a long trip.
Day 11. My vaginas nearly complete. Yeah that's right. It doesn't even bother me anymore. In fact, I think its kinda cute.
I think I'm going to die.
Day 12. Someone brought a bath, mirror and clean clothes while I was alseep. I sat there for a while just staring at them. Finally, I got up and checked them out -- a bra for christ sakes! I threw them in the corner and just sat down and cried 'till tears wouldn't come anymore. That in itself is as insane as everything else in this charade. I don't cry, haven't since I was 12. Yet when I started crying, I couldn't stop.
Day 12, 3 hours later. Okay, I finally gave in. The thought of all that clean water just a little bit away was too much. I stripped quickly, my back to the mirror, resolutely avoiding looking at myself, refusing to acknowledge this thing of curves and bumps is me.
The water was as good as it looked. I just sat there for a while, soaking in the warmth, feeling myself melt. After a while I felt, oh I can't say how I felt. I mean there I was, alone for 10 days, with not even a thought of sex. Suddenly, a feeling like a huge bubble welled up inside me and exploded, leaving me tingling all over. I was instantly, uncontrollably horny. And, right there was all the bush and tit I could ever want. Just reach for it.
So I did.
Definitely different. Good, real good, like peaking on good acid. It doesn't even bother me anymore that those were my tits I was playing with or my legs my fingers kept diving in and out between. I have no idea how many times I came. After the first, I just couldn't stop. It was like a dam burst in my head. Suddenly everything was perfect and all I could think of was the delicious feelings bubbling up from near my tummy. Afterwards, I just lay there, idling carressing my nipples, my stomach, the top of my crotch. Slower and slower. Just drifting in the slowly cooling water.
After I dried myself off, I collected the clothes, laid them out and just stared at them. Finally I was simply too cold. I put them on. Once started, I figured, what the hell, might as well do the whole number. The hose were sheer silk and heaven on my legs. They were held up by a lacy, virginal white garterbelt, a gossamer cloud that set the gold of my skin and my orange-red pubic hair off to perfection. Then the bra, as lacy and fine as the belt, the rub of its crisp silk against ny nipples setting them tingling again. When I finally got over that, I slipped into the black lace dress, noting it was barely long enough to cover my crotch and so low cut my nipples kept trying to pop out. I searched for panties but there were none to be found. I didn't even notice how little that oversight bothered me. Then I slipped on the white apron and stepped into the shinny black, open toed, highheel shoes.
I turned to inspect myself in the mirror: a gorgeous young woman in a too small french maid's uniform greeted my eyes. I gasped and was momentarily mesmerized by the resulting giggling of my breasts.
"Why" I said aloud, (I'd never before had the habit of talking to myself, but I did now it seemed), "I'm gorgeous." My voice was a rich, throatly low soprano, with just the sexiest hint of a breathy lisp. "Oh, my."
END CHAPTER II
(i'm not quite sure were this is going from this point, though I'm sure i don't simply want to fall into the 'all us girls' pot of the typical story of this kind. Any suggestions? Meanwhile, i'll keep mulling it over.)
Black Ice copyright 1996 by unknown.
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