-- Part 12, only a Whore and a Maid
 
 
January 23
-- This morning the rain poured down. A norte had moved in overnight, and the wind was cool. When Pansy got up she heard the surf offshore, but the outer edge of the reef was lost in gray. She satisfied José’s needs in bed, made breakfast, and cleaned up afterwards. As she had learned, she turned off her mind and washed the dishes mechanically while she daydreamed. Her morning would be full. José had warned her that a visitor would be arriving shortly, and she had to clean the villa.

José watched her as she worked. He believed that Pansy had adjusted to his requirements and the needs of her own body, but by splitting herself into an observer (the old Seá±or Deon) separated from the body (Pansy). He had reported his diagnosis to Ibá¡á±ez, and the two men decided to effect the next stage of her training. It should circumvent her defense and force her to acknowledge to herself that she was female, within as well as without.

Later, José entered the radio room and contacted Doctor Herná¡ndez.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“And good morning to you, Doctor Herrera.” There was a bit of crackle in the radio connection, but the conversation promised to be easily intelligible.

“I think we’re ready to institute the next phase of Project Ovid.”

“ ¿Our subject is prepared?”

“Yes, I think so. She ought to be receptive. If I were fertile, I think she’d already be pregnant. In any case, her female chemistry and plumbing seems to be in fine working order.  ¿When can you have the embryo ready for implantation?”

“Soon. Susana donated the ovum, and we got a cell with an altered nucleus from George Deon. They produced several viable zygotes.  ¿Can you have Pansy ready next week?  ¿Say at 11 PM on the 29th?”

“She’ll be ready. I’ll see you then, Doctor.”

“Adiá³s, José.”
 
 
January 29
-- After Pansy finished the dishes, José slowly turned up her libido. Since talking with Herná¡ndez six days earlier, he had imposed on her a gnawing ache for sex, but hadn’t allowed her to seduce him (the punishments for failure had been minor). Today had been bad. She had barely been able to function.

Now she was in heat. She needed release, and didn’t much care what she had to do to obtain it. When she was done with her chores, Seá±or Herrera had her sit on his lap, where he fondled her breasts through the fabric of her dress. She protested, but without conviction.

“Your body loves it, my little puta.  ¿Don’t you feel wonderfully sexy now?”

No doubt of it; her body was a furnace of lust. “Please, Seá±or, mercy,” she begged; “ ¡I burning!  ¡I do anything! Just stop to… to torment me. Make me your little puta, like you said. Put your big prick into my… my hot little pussy.  ¡Fuck me!”

He laughed, pleased by her inventive turn of phrase, and told her, “Oh, I don’t know, Pansy. You don’t really want sex,  ¿do you? You told me you only accept it as a duty. Well, I don’t want sex now either, so I’ll let you off.”

She hung her head. He was partly right, but that part was in her mind. She was composed of mind and body, and that body demanded surcease from an intolerable longing. She needed him to take her in bed. “No, Seá±or, please,” she begged; “I do want sex with you.  ¡Stick it into my pussy!  ¡Please!” She hated herself, but need drove her.

He paused, then smiled. “OK, Pansy, but you’ll need to persuade me. You’re acting like a slut, though, and I want you to understand that. Here’s what you’ll have to do. There’s a red nightie in your drawer. It’s new, you haven’t worn it before. Put it on and come back here.”

She quickly obeyed, driven by lust. The nightie, a bright scarlet, was indecent; it just reached her thighs, and the fabric was thin and filmy. It hid nothing. She didn’t care, as long as it could assist her in winning sexual relief. She returned to the living room wearing only the whore’s costume.

José’s eyebrows lifted when she returned. “Good: you’re dressed like the slut you are. Tell me, Pansy,  ¿do you agree that your appearance is a true reflection of your nature? If you really want me to fuck you, answer me truthfully.”

Pansy couldn’t help herself. “I know how I look like, Seá±or. I look like a whore. It is true. Like you said, I am your whore. I try to get you to fuck me every morning. But even if I need now, it is not my real nature; you make me this way.”

It was the truth, he admitted to himself–at least partly. But he shook his head. “For years you tried to get sex, any way you could. We didn’t make you sex-mad, we just changed how that madness is expressed.”

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. Frustrated, she finally admitted, “Yes, I not tell you different, I wanted sex. I want sex now, the same. Please, Seá±or, fuck me.” Tears began to flow down her cheek.

“Not yet. I want to make sure you understand yourself. You explain my argument, so I know you understand it–and believe it. Explain why you deserve to be my whore.”

Pansy shuddered with frustration. “No, please, Seá±or. I believe you. I am… I am a whore. Take me.” José shook his head again, and she admitted defeat. “I used… used women for my pleasure… They were just for my pleasure, just… just sex machines. I am a woman now, but I still want… I want sex pleasure. I am a sex… a sex machine for you. I designed for your pleasure. I need to have sex with you. I deserve to be this way, because of what I did when I was a man. I promise, I be a… a good… a good whore. And a good maid. I do… I will…” She broke down and wept. Through her sobs she whimpered, “I deserve to be a whore, and I am… I am a whore. Please, please, I need…  ¡I need you to fuck me!”

José was satisfied that her detachment was cracked, if not entirely shattered. “Lead me to the guest bedroom. Then undress me and stimulate my interest. Show me you’re a good whore.”

She took him by the hand and led him as he ordered. With shaking hands she undressed him, until he stood naked, then aroused him quickly and efficiently.

“Very… very good… You are a good little whore. You’ll do well… here. You belong… you belong here. That’s enough.” Pansy looked around her and saw that she matched the décor, in her scarlet nightie. She was just one of the amenities. For one last moment she summoned enough will to plead, “No, please, Seá±or. Please, no.” Her appeal was as much to herself as to her master. But neither José–nor more significantly, her body–paid any attention. She still craved release.

“ ¿No?  ¿Are you sure? Then maybe I’ll just let you lie there.” He turned up her libido a little more. “Think about it.”

“No…” She broke. “ ¡Yes!  ¡Fuck me now! I am… I want to be your whore, Seá±or. Please…  ¡Please fuck me!”

José climbed onto the bed and ordered, “Invite me again to fuck you.” Helplessly she obeyed, spreading her legs, and he took her slowly. She forgot all shame and humiliation as she was flooded with sexual pleasure. She heard herself moan with arousal and bucked her hips against José until he finished pumping his seed into her and lay back, sated. Then he arose and gazed at her as she lay there, lost in horror and hopelessness as her lust quickly faded.

He declared, “ ¡I congratulate the doctors who gave you that body!” He left briefly, then returned with two rum cokes. “ ¡We’ll drink to your new life!” She gulped it down despairingly. Within a minute she became dizzy and lay down on the red velvet coverlet. She was unconscious within two more minutes.

The plane carrying Herná¡ndez with the cloned zygote landed ten minutes later, and fifty minutes after that the zygote had been delicately inserted into Pansy’s uterus. When it was done, the men shook hands. Herná¡ndez told José, “This new experiment will revolutionize the study of personality development.”

“ ¿Are the other zygotes viable?”

“Every indication is favorable. We have seven more: four male, three female. Genetically they’ll all be twins–clones–of George Deon. Except for the sex of the females, of course, and the skin color–they’ll all be dark-skinned and dark-haired.”

“ ¿Was my sister reluctant to have her X chromosome used to replace the original Y chromosome in those clones?”

“Not at all. She bore George’s child, and now, in a tiny way, he’ll bear hers. About one percent hers.”

The men returned to the house and sat back in the overstuffed chairs with rum collinses. Herná¡ndez remarked, “Four of the clones will go a fertility clinic in the US. The children will be raised in that culture. The remaining four–including Pansy’s child–will be implanted here and raised as Hondurans. It’ll be the best controlled identical-twin study ever performed, with eight subjects, four male, four female.”

“ ¿Identical twins?”

Herná¡ndez shrugged. “As identical as different-sex twins can be. Over 99% identical.” He enthused, “ ¿What better way to investigate the innate effect of gender, and of societal gender-based assumptions, on personality? We’ll have two each of Honduran and American males and females, with almost identical genotypes. Plus, of course, the original George Deon.”

José added, “And plus Pansy Baca, as distinct from George–although she’s not quite comparable to the others, for several reasons. Anyway, she’ll raise a female version of George Deon as a native-born campesina. It’ll be interesting to compare Pansy with her daughter, to see how well we succeed in transforming George himself to a true campesina.”

“Weiss wanted to arrange for her pregnancy in the usual way. There’s a lot to be said for that idea, but the don agreed that this method’s better for our purposes, now that cloning has become practical. We were certain of the outcome–and the genetic near-identity of the child and Pansy will make the mother-child bond easier to establish, and stronger.”

“Good. We want to make sure she has a reason to live. Suicide has always been a major hazard for the experiment.”
 
 
January 30
-- When Pansy awoke in the morning, Herná¡ndez had left. She recalled all too well the awful night before. Inexplicably, she wasn’t depressed. She knew she had been humiliated and degraded again, but she didn’t feel the appropriate emotions. “I suppose I’m getting used to it,” she told herself. “And it’s not by choice.” Stripping off the nightie, she showered and dressed. In her maid’s dress, she began to prepare for another day.

At breakfast Seá±or Herrera asked, “ ¿How do you feel this morning, Pansy?”

She reluctantly replied, “I am good, Seá±or.” She tried to smile, but didn’t do a good job of it.

“ ¡Indeed you are! You’re very good indeed!” he remarked. “Soon you can earn a little money for me. You’re almost ready to service other men. You have a remarkable talent for your new profession. But I’ll continue to enjoy an evening’s pleasure now and then. You’re my whore.” He added, “That’s not an imposition, of course. You’re getting used to the feel of a man inside you,  ¿no? More than that, you’re growing to like it.”

She ignored the twist of the verbal stiletto, curtsied automatically, and cleaned off the table.

Later José ordered her into her bikini and took her to relax on the beach, where, in that informal setting, she would speak more freely. He led the conversation around to the previous night. She asked, “ ¿Why did you rape me last night, Seá±or?  ¿Was there a reason besides sadism?”

He looked smug. “ ¿Rape you? I didn’t rape you, you asked for sex with me.  ¡You begged me!  ¿Don’t you remember? Like I said earlier, your personality is changing. Your new self–your inner slut–is going to need sex.”

She couldn’t deny his literal point, but argued, “You told me you will make me want sex. I believe you. You make… made me want sex last night. I not know how, but you do… did it last night.”

He admitted some responsibility. “But as I said, you’re getting to like it. It pleasures you, after all. And afterwards, you don’t regret it as much. Not like you did at first. It’s just a normal part of your life. You’re becoming—-not promiscuous, perhaps, but accepting. That’s your new nature.” His tone had no gloating in it. It was a simple statement of fact.

She took it as such. “ ¿Then why you have to continue to control me?  ¿Can’t you be satisfied like I am?”

“No, we’re not done with you. My father told you what he wants to do.  ¿Didn’t he say that we’re shaping your new personality?  ¿That you’re being remade from a norteamericana into a campesina? I explained all that, in some detail.”

“Yes, but…” The don had told her she’d suffer degradation and despair. Plainly this was a part of her ordeal. “Please, Seá±or, I beg you–and Don Pablo–to treat me with decency.”

José shook his head. “No. This is part of the process. Your self-esteem must be destroyed completely. You must know yourself to be worthless, by your nature a piece of human trash whose convenience and comfort don’t matter, whose only value lies in the pleasure and service you provide to men. You have to believe it. Not just understand it intellectually, but feel it deeply, almost instinctively. In addition, you must understand that nothing you do can alter this. You have no rights, no recourse. And above all, no power.” He raised an eyebrow. “Again, I think I explained all this in some detail a month ago.”

He had, but she refused to accept it–then or now. “Seá±or, to treat anyone this way is shameful…”

José interrupted, “ ¡That’s exactly the point! You’re not ‘anyone’ any more. You never will be. Now you’re just a sex toy–a plaything for men, a fucking machine–and a maid. Nothing more, now or ever. When you believe this, when you accept it as an inescapable fact, then our task will be completed.”

“ ¡That’s not all a woman is!  ¡Even a campesina!  ¡I know that! Conchita and Evelina at Las Rosas, or Susana, your own sister– ¡they are not like that!  ¡Hardly any women are like that!”

He shrugged. “Of course not. It’s a caricature. But it’s your caricature. It’s what you thought of your own maid, Mará­a Banderas–I know how you treated her–and we’re shaping you to fit it. Hardly any women may be like that–but you will be.”

“No!  ¡I won’t be like that!  ¡No woman could accept all that nonsense about herself!”

“No, not completely. Not if you are to remain sane, and a useful member of society. But your inner self will approach much closer to that ideal than it does now. The personality of the ‘typical’ campesina has some of the characteristics I described. You’ll have more than most. And after all, you approved of such women. Or so you told my sister.”

She silently cursed Seá±or Pinkerton and his misbegotten arguments. “Yes, Seá±or. But…  ¿why you tell me all this?”

“For psychological reasons. It’s the same reason we allowed you to know what was happening to your body, and your soul, last year. Your sense of impotence is greater if you know what is happening to you–if you watch it happening–and you can’t stop it. You will know you are powerless. As we intend you should know. By December your self-image as a weak and helpless woman–and a slut–should be permanent.” He smiled. “You know, I was present at your castration. I personally sliced away the last remnant of your physical manhood. Now I keep your cojones on a shelf, pickled in a jar, but I’ll give them to Suzi when she takes custody of you. Certainly there’s nothing at all masculine about you now,  ¿true?” She was struck with a renewed awareness of her soft and rounded body, nicely displayed in her skimpy bikini. And of her girlish soprano voice, now accepted as unremarkable and normal. José went on: “Now I have the privilege of reshaping your psyche, of cutting away what remains of Seá±or Cualquiera’s personality. That part of the project’s going just as efficiently. As a psychologist, I can say that I’m impressed with your progress towards your own ideal. Our plan is succeeding.”

Pansy stopped questioning him. He wouldn’t help. Even his answers were designed to leave her deep in despair. She could only hold fast to her resolve to regain her status after her release. He was right: now she was powerless. But the don had promised freedom at the year’s end. Then she could climb back.
 
 
February 18
-- Against her drug-weakened will, Pansy found that José’s prediction was correct. She enjoyed the sex that he gave her. Worse, she was coming to look forward to it. Her desire waxed and waned, but never went away. If she resisted, it only grew stronger. Gradually she fought less, as José left her frustrated if she didn’t initiate sex, and her attempts at masturbation were unsuccessful, leaving her even worse off. In spite of her resolve to accept sex only when it was forced on her, she found herself trying to entice José into bed on her own initiative. She was learning the arts of seduction by trial and error, finding what might tempt José to take her. More than that, after only four weeks, pleasing him in every way had become her goal in life. If she didn’t, then (as he had warned) she was miserable. He was pleased when she was pretty, sexy, and feminine, so she worked at her appearance and behavior. He liked humility and obedience; she acted humble and obedient. Although she despised trying to mold herself to his specifications, her deeper fear was that she was beginning to conform to them without trying: she was finding ways to serve him even if she had no specific chore to carry out, and even when he was away on the mainland. More and more, all her actions were contrived to please José. Any laxity left her depressed and slightly ill, and the remedy was to find another way to serve him. As he had promised, she was becoming the paragon of feminine virtue that Seá±or Cualquiera had described: a model maid and whore, who existed to please her man. She knew she was being conditioned exactly as José had promised, but the knowledge didn’t help. As Pansy grew accustomed to her duties, she found that life became almost pleasant, physically, and she felt almost content. Her cheerfulness, insisted on, was no longer forced. She knew she should be miserable, but the knowledge didn’t matter; she couldn’t make herself want to feel miserable, even if feeling good showed that their plans for her changing her nature were succeeding. José treated her with overt courtesy–even apparent affection–as long as she kept her place. Her surroundings were pleasant, and the work was light. Her cooking was improving under José’s tutelage, and her Spanish was becoming quite good. José spoke to her mostly in that language; she had spoken almost no English since her imprisonment on the island. Fortunately, she now functioned well in Spanish. She thought in Spanish, and even her dreams were all in Spanish.

Her life quickly became routine. Every morning she got up before sunrise and offered sex to José. Then she prepared breakfast. The day was spent cleaning the house, washing clothes, and doing any other chores that José required. If she didn’t obey quickly, or if she slacked off, she would be afflicted with depression and nausea. Worse, she knew that José could take away some part of her past, or a fragment of her identity, whenever he wished. Finding ways to please him allowed her to retain what she still had, and brought pleasure as well, so she did as he wished. When he passed near her he often stroked her breast, and she found herself almost paralyzed with lust. She had learned to control herself, but only with difficulty, and only for a short time. At night José would sometimes arouse her with a touch to her nipples, which then sprang erect and ignited a blazing desire. Sometimes he would ignore her, and in spite of her hatred for him she’d suffer from her unsatisfied need.

This morning, though, the even keel of her existence was badly rocked. She became sick when she arose, and spent five minutes retching into a toilet bowl. Although it passed quickly, she still felt queasy at breakfast, and couldn’t eat anything but a piece of toast.

José grinned at her distress. “ ¿What do you suppose your problem is, my dear? Make a guess.” Pansy speculated that she had picked up some sort of intestinal disorder, but José told her, “No, I’m afraid not.  ¿Haven’t you heard of ‘morning sickness’?”

Her eyes widened in horror. “ ¡That can’t be true!  ¡It’s not… it’s not possible! I only had a sex change operation. That doesn’t make me a real woman.  ¡I can’t get p…preg… pregnant!  ¡I can’t!”

“You can’t have periods either,  ¿no?” he told her. “Speaking of which, you’re a week overdue,  ¿yes? Get used to the idea: you’re becoming a mommy–just like Mará­a Banderas. And Suzi. She’ll be delighted to hear the news. As will Weiss.” He leaned back and sipped his hot black coffee. “A woman’s life changes when she becomes a mother. It changes radically, as you’re about to discover. As a start, it’s hard to hold a job when you have to care for a baby. But don’t worry. Being a maid’s one of the few jobs you can hold–if you can find an employer who’ll accept a baby in the house. But Suzi’ll be happy to hire you. She looks forward to watching you cope with babies. Hers and yours.” Later that day he gave her a pregnancy test. It confirmed his diagnosis.

That night José told Herná¡ndez, “The zygote you implanted in Seá±or Deon was accepted by his body, and he’s experiencing the usual physiological changes of early pregnancy.”

“As expected: the procedure’s well tested. The only new twist was altering the sex of the clone.” Back in the clinic, the endocrinologist sipped his coffee. “Having him bear his own clone was an excellent suggestion. Ibá¡á±ez will study the child as she matures. She will give us a baseline, allowing us to see what George Deon might have been like had he been born a Honduran peasant girl. And the other clones will let us study the effect of environment versus genetic endowment in a way never before possible. This experiment will revolutionize the study of personality development, perhaps as much as Pansy herself. ”

“If it succeeds. That’s not yet established.”

“I think it will. But we’ll see. We’ll see.”
 
 
February 20
-- Since early January, computerized feedback had conditioned Pansy to use Spanish instead of English, but José noticed that she still really preferred her native language, even if she didn’t have the opportunity to use it. He wondered if it might be possible to develop a positive aversion. He called Ibá¡á±ez on the radio: “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, you recall our efforts to wean Pansy from English.”

“Of course, José.  ¿Have you noticed any effect?”

“Maybe, but the effect is weak at best.  ¿Can we speed the process up?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ll use new settings to increase the Spanish bias. Using English will depress her, and she’ll get a headache after ten minutes or so. The bias won’t be intolerable, so she’ll still be able to use English. The bias’ll condition her language, including her thought processes, but we don’t want her to know that we’re influencing her.” He paused. “We’ll change her phonemes too. We can suppress sounds used in English in favor of those used in Spanish. She may acquire a good, almost accent-free Spanish, or more precisely, a local accent. In a couple of months the effect should be plain.” He smiled and added, “Of course, it’ll affect her English pronunciation too.”

“I have some further suggestion, Doctor. Ibarra’s technique could be used to erase some of her English,  ¿true?”

There was silence at the other end for a moment. “Yes, I think so. We can erase a little. Every few days we’ll erase a little more. She’ll still speak English, just not quite as well–and of course, with a heavy accent.  ¿Anything else?”

“Yes. Pansy does far too much reading for a simple campesina.  ¿Can you discourage her?”

“No problem. I’ll simply link the monitor for that part of the brain to one of the pain chips. She’ll get a bad headache whenever she reads, followed by nausea if she persists.  ¿Is her behavioral conditioning progressing well?”

“I think so. I think she’s well on her way to internalizing her status as a maid–if not as a whore. Her manner is humble, and she’s beginning to take pride in her work. George’s old persona seems to cope by withdrawing and allowing his new body to do what it must, to deal with the pressures it faces. I think that strategy will allow us to condition her thoroughly.”

“You’re probably right. Mental compartmentalization is a common mechanism for dealing with an intolerable situation. I agree, it should assist us.” He signed off.

That evening as Pansy was serving José a papaya salad, he asked, “Pansy-my-girl, tell me,  ¿would you like to go to San Pedro? We need to check you out thoroughly.” He grinned. “After all, you’re a mother-to-be, and we want to see that you get the best prenatal care. Also, you had major surgery.”

She muttered sotto voce in English, “Tell me about it!”, and winced as she used English.

“You need a checkup. Besides, you need to get away from the island. I’ll take you out to supper and a movie after they’re finished with you. And you can do some shopping.”

Sure that he didn’t have her best interests at heart, she hesitated. “ ¿Does it make any difference what I want, Seá±or? Of course I will go, if that what you want. I am just a lowly maid,  ¿remember?”

He smiled: “Not just a lowly maid; don’t forget, you’re a sexy little puta too. Anyway, like I said, you can go shopping. I’ll give you your wages, and you can get some clothes, some music… Whatever would please your pretty little head.”

Her heart leaped, but she tried to conceal it. She badly wanted to leave the island, even if only for a day or so. “Sá­, Seá±or. Y gracias.” Smiling at him and curtsying, she left to wash the dishes.
 
 
February 22
-- Two days later they left Golondrinas after breakfast. The turquoise waters of the Caribbean passed below, and the low mangrove coast of the mainland soon appeared to their left. Beyond the coast, cloud-capped mountains were barely visible through the hazy air. José explained that he’d stay over coastal waters for most of the trip. “The plane’s amphibious, and it’s safer that way. We can land anywhere.” As they passed La Ceiba and then Tela, he pointed them out. They swung inland beyond Tela and landed at San Pedro. A car from the clinic met them, and they drove towards town.

Karl Weiss was delighted with her appearance, exclaiming to her, “Fraá¼lein, you look wonderful! I have a professional interest, of course, but simply as a man, let me express my admiration. You’ve made the best of your situation, and I admire you. What do Americans say? When you have the lemon, make the lemonade! But how do you feel? Physically, I mean? I understand that you are not happy there.”

Pansy replied that she felt fine. “I’ve been trapped on a wilderness island, and I don’t think there were any diseases around. My biggest worries are sunburn and coral cuts. And the pendejo there with me, of course.”

Weiss’s Spanish was poor, but in context he could translate the pejorative. “At least you don’t have to worry about sunburn. Your skin is dark enough to protect you. And you look healthy. I almost envy you the vacation.”

She scowled, and her mood sank as she spoke English. “No,” she disagreed, “It is not a vacation. I work hard. It’s a beautiful place, yes, but my circumstances don’t allow me to enjoy it.” She lapsed back into Spanish: “At least on the island I do not have to suffer with this noise and traffic.”

Surprised, Weiss told her, “Your Spanish is sehr gut, I think. But please, speak English, for my sake. I still fight with the Spanish language.”

She obeyed: “I get lots of practice in Spanish, and not much late in English.” José noted that, given the chance, Pansy had rejected English in favor of Spanish.

Herná¡ndez joined them, and he and Weiss gave Pansy a complete examination. They took blood samples and inquired concerning her general health.

Pansy thought briefly. “Yes, I guess I am OK. Mornings I feel nauseated, but it passes.”

Weiss beamed at her and told her, “That’s normal in early pregnancy. It’s called ‘morning sickness’. Your body’s reacting exactly as we hoped.”

She frowned; “I hope you did a proper job, Doctor. For you, there may be another try. For me, this is the only body I have.” Then she brightened up, and asked, “Your success rate is high, I hope? You did tell me you were good at this sort of thing, I remember.”

Weiss positively glowed, and reassured her, “My success rate is very good. With no false modesty, I believe I am the best in the world for transplant operations. Don’t worry about it.”

Afterwards Weiss told José privately, “The ultrasound examination was favorable. Pansy’s in fine shape, and her pregnancy’s normal. She should deliver normally.” He added, “She has little liking for you. No surprise .”

After they finished, José kept his promise and took her to supper and a movie. They stayed in a good hotel and made love passionately. She called him “Jos锝 instead of the formal “Seá±or”, and with apparent affection. Afterwards they shared a nightcap. “If I treat him like a real boyfriend, he’s good to me,” she told herself. “I have to give him what he wants–and I like it anyway, even if I hate him, so I might as well enjoy it.  ¡It feels soooooo good!”

Later, while Pansy slept, José phoned the lobby. Soon two men arrived with a stretcher. Pansy was sedated, taken to Ibarra’s lab, and strapped into a chair. When Ibarra was done, she had lost many of the subtleties of English. Ibarra concentrated on verbs, always a linguistic difficulty. In particular, her use of contractions was limited, irregular verbs became regular, and the subjunctive mood was lost. Irregular forms of adjectives were taken, and adjectives replaced some adverbs. In general, her grammar would be simpler. Some English vocabulary was lost, including colors. Later she would lose more vocabulary; she’d have to use the Spanish equivalents. The process would continue over the next few months. She had only limited opportunities to use English, and the two men thought she might not discover her losses immediately. Then they worked on her self-image. She was made to repeat, over and over, “I am a whore. I am just a fuck doll. I have to give men sex–I have no choice, so there is no blame–but I’m very good at it and I enjoy it, so I don’t mind doing it. I like being a fuck doll. I want to feel a man inside me.” Every time she repeated, she received a jolt of pleasure. As one last fillip Ibarra erased the name “Pinkerton”. She might recover it again, but it would be difficult. Then he added a bit more to her biography. When he was done, he interrogated her. She retained everything he had given her.
 
 
February 23
-- Next morning José took Pansy shopping in San Pedro, where she bought a few dresses, skirts, and blouses. José bought her some sexy lingerie as well, including a red teddy and black baby-doll nighties. Her undisguised pleasure from the feminine finery was gratifying to José, as it was a measure of how much she had accepted her new rá´le. One purchase she didn’t see: a red cocktail-waitress dress, low-cut with puff sleeves and a brief skirt. José also took her to a jewelry store and had her pick out a matching set of a gold necklace and earrings. She also bought more CD’s. While she was in the store she considered attempting an escape. Her situation on the island was intolerable, and there was no way to run while she was confined there. This was the first real opportunity she had had. But the thought of trying to escape made her sick to her stomach. Her previous attempts had led to disasters, and José was utterly ruthless. Besides, on reflection she realized that she still had no money and no identity. Where could she go, how could she live? And in a few months she’d be free anyway. No, there was too much to lose and too little to gain from attempting to escape now. After lunch they returned to the airport and left San Pedro. They arrived back at Cayo Golondrinas by evening.

Pansy was unhappy when she was ordered back into her maid’s dress. “José, please, pretty-please,  ¿can I stay in my new dress for a while? It’s really more comfortable, and it’s a lot prettier.  ¿Don’t you like it on me?”

He refused: “You’re at work now. You’re not my guest here, you’re my maid, and your comfort doesn’t matter. Also, I’m not ‘José’ here, I’m ‘Seá±or Herrera’.” The pleasure chip was turned off, and her face crumpled into depression. She had become addicted to a low-level stimulation of her pleasure center; its loss was a blow. Also, José gave her a touch of the sex chip to leave her with a low-level unsatisfied sexual itch.

She didn’t argue again. “Yes, Seá±or, of course,” she quickly replied, and left to change.

When she returned, properly uniformed, José sent her back again: “That’s better–but if you want, I’ll let you make yourself prettier. You can use some lipstick–and put on those high heels.”

“Yes, Seá±or.  ¡Thank you!” she agreed, curtsying as she left. When she returned, he turned her pleasure chip back to maintenance level. He left her with the sexual itch, though.
 
 
February 26
-- Another norte struck overnight. When Pansy awakened, a light rain was falling outside, and her room felt damp and chilly. “ ¡Nonsense!” she told herself. “ ¡This room can’t be much below 20 °!” She still shivered, though, when she got up. It was still dark, but she had to prepare breakfast for Seá±or Herrera. She showered and dressed quickly, but even after she zipped up her hated uniform, she wasn’t warm. “Damn this dress,” she thought. “A skirt just isn’t comfortable in this cold weather.” She hurried to the kitchen. Cooking José’s ham and eggs would warm the room to a more comfortable temperature.

When José appeared an hour later, she complained about the cold and asked to change into slacks. He laughed at her. “You told Susana women should wear skirts, my pretty one, and skirts are what you’ll wear–now and forever,” he insisted. “Besides, you have no slacks here. And by the time you’re free, you won’t even want to wear them. But I’m happy to see that you think it’s cold. Back when you were Seá±or Cualquiera, you’d’ve considered it warm enough, especially for February. It’s just another sign that you’re becoming a real campesina.” She held her tongue and served breakfast.

José flew out for the day and she was left alone. After she cleaned the villa, she had no more to do, and she sat to read a mystery novel. After ten minutes she had a headache, so she laid it down, put on a turquoise sweater, and went outside. On impulse she walked to the island’s west tip, where the breeze carried the mixed odor of salt and mud flat. Sitting on a bench, she gazed northward across the Caribbean towards her lost home and mourned her lost identity. A year ago she had still been male, if nonfunctional, and only fourteen months ago Petunia had been his lover. Intellectually she knew what it had been like to make love to a woman, but now it seemed unreal. And he’d been a chemist in Atlanta two years ago. He had been… She tried to think. He was Seá±or… Seá±or… For some reason, she thought it was a color. Rosado? Verde? Nothing sounded right. All she could recall was “Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez”; the last name had gone like the first. She’d been calling him Seá±or Cualquiera forever, it seemed, and she hadn’t even realized her real name was gone. The doctor at San Pedro must have erased it. Shaking her head, she tried to think of how she could recover her real name. But the addresses and names of her friends and family were too confused. Then she had an idea. Celia! Celia Tolliver! The doctors had left her address in her mind. Maybe she could trick Celia into revealing Seá±or Cualquiera’s true identity. She thought a bit, and smiled to herself. Celia wasn’t one to give up, and she’d still be searching for some trace of her former lover. Maybe her persistence could be put to use. Pansy returned to the villa and composed a letter.

Celia: Your lover still think of you. He talk about how he fool you, and how you never find him. The body at Tela is not his. He live near Siguatepeque, north from Comayagua, and tell about you in your little house. Remember sea oats in vase on shelf? It is real pretty, like Stone Mountain print on wall. Now he see new girl, though. Petunia Baca here is real pretty woman.

She signed it “Your lover”. Reading over her words, they seemed unsatisfactory somehow, but she couldn’t pick out the problem. Shrugging, she sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Celia Tolliver in Stone Mountain, and added a return address in Comayagua. It was an address Petunia had left her, where she could always be reached: the home of her mother’s brother, Juan Gá³mez. “Petunia’ll get this,” she thought. “When Celia tries to find me, she’ll have to ask for me by name, and I’m sure Petunia will get me the information.” There was a problem in mailing the letter, of course–no postage, no mail service–but sooner or later she’d be able to send it off. When the letter was finished she wrote another to Petunia. In it she told what she’d done and why, and also gave her an expurgated version of her life at Golondrinas. There was no point in worrying her more than necessary.

Most of the rest of the day was spent in her needlepoint. She still didn’t know how they’d made her enjoy sewing–José had boasted that the doctors were responsible for her sudden infatuation with needlework–but under the circumstances she might as well take advantage of it. Inexplicably, she didn’t want to read. For one thing, it gave her a headache. At 5 she began to prepare for José’s return. As she thought of him, her body felt a now-familiar desire for his body, and she looked forward to his arms around her, and his… She turned away from the thought and returned to preparing his supper.
 
 
March 4
-- The rainy season had begun, less than a week after the last (she hoped) norte. So far, the wet season here was more comfortable than at Las Rosas. The temperature was higher, but the breeze was constant, and it relieved the heat. The thunderheads that piled up over the Caribbean in the afternoon were spectacular. Rain from the summer storms was heavy but brief, not like the all-day miserable gray rains of the nortes.

Migrating birds were beginning to pass through, providing some diversion from her work. She found some chipes, and a few mosqueros (“flycatchers”) were appearing. One of the chipes–she racked her brain to recall the English name, finally calling it by its Latin name, Dendroica virens–reminded her of the home from which she was exiled. The tiny feathered mite was out of place here and now, foraging among palm fronds, but it was headed north to its true abode, the pine forests of her boyhood home in… in Oklahoma. It brought back to her the heady scent of white pine in the fresh spring air of late April, when the birds first appeared. Arbutus would be blooming now, and spring beauty. When would she be able to follow that little bird home?

After breakfast Seá±or Herrera left, telling Pansy he was picking up a visitor, and to have the villa clean and lunch ready by noon. He returned at 11:30 with Seá±or Alfredo Reyes, a swarthy man in a lightweight white suit. He was in his 30’s, well-built and muscular. Pansy greeted them in her uniform, and she noted Seá±or Reyes eyeing her speculatively. She was drawn to him immediately, and she flushed, but she greeted them politely with a smile: “Bienvenidos, Seá±ores. Your lunch will be waiting for you after you clean up.”

Seá±or Herrera smiled back at her and she felt cheered. He told Seá±or Reyes, “This is Pansy, a girl of charm and unexpected talents. If there’s anything you want, just tell her and she’ll be glad to serve you.”

His guest leered at Pansy and replied, “You have good taste in servants, José. Pansy is most decorative.”

She was pleased by the compliment, but, suppressing a giggle, only replied, “Gracias, Seá±or. I’m at your service. Tell me what you want–anything–and I’ll do my best to make you happy.” She noticed that he spoke Spanish well, but with an accent. After a moment she realized it was an English accent.

After lunch she cleaned up, and the men retired to talk. Later Seá±or Reyes told her, “We’re snorkeling on the reef, and I’d like you to join us. Get your suit on and come along.”

She was happy to accept–she had learned to love snorkeling around the coral–and she responded with a smile, “Seá±or, I’ll be there with pleasure.”

He grinned back: “ ¡Forget the ‘Seá±or’ crap! I’m Alfredo, or better, Fred.” He gave the name a good American pronunciation. She looked dubious, but he continued, “Forget José. He’s formal, but I’m not. He won’t scold you.”

Reassured, Pansy smiled and replied happily, “OK, ‘Fred’. I’ll be with you soon.”

She returned in her bikini, with her dark-brown hair in a ponytail. Fred eyed her appreciatively and gave a low whistle. She turned red as she realized that not much of her body was hidden. She wasn’t accustomed to having strange men ogle her. She told herself, “You’d better get used to it, girl,” and then she realized she was sexually attracted to him too. She just didn’t feel as free to express her appreciation. “I’m ready,” she declared; “ ¡Let’s go!”

Fred paid her a lot of attention as they swam. She glanced over at Seá±or Herrera, saw his approval, and realized that he had planned it all. She enjoyed it, but she still had to prepare supper. She told Fred, and he grinned and swam over. He took her arm, pulled her over to him, and kissed her, while one hand cupped her breast. She felt the familiar stirring in her groin as her nipple hardened. She tried to pull away, but he held her there, and she felt her confusion being overcome by euphoria–and lust. She embraced and kissed him with enthusiasm before she realized that her behavior was improper, to say the least. Then, in spite of her feelings (Don’t stop, DON’T STOP) she pulled away. She swam away, and he didn’t follow. She looked back, raising her head above the water, and saw him standing in the shallow water. He blew her a kiss, smiling, and she ducked back and swam to shore.

She donned her uniform, dried and braided her hair, and prepared a light supper for Fred and Seá±or Herrera when they returned. Fred winked at her as he sat down, but she didn’t respond.

After supper, Seá±or Herrera excused himself and took her aside. “We’ll have drinks after supper while we talk business. I have important business dealings with Seá±or Reyes, and you have to please him. See he has a good time. Now, for the after-dinner drinks, I have a different uniform for you. You’ll be my cocktail waitress, so I have an appropriate, and very sexy, dress.” He took her to his bedroom and handed her a bright-red strapless satin dress. She held it up. The neckline was low-cut, and the skirt was short. “There’s a little more,” he told her, and gave her a pair of black fishnet stockings, garters, and red high-heeled pumps. “ ¡There! Now put them on,” he ordered.

She protested, “ ¡But these aren’t decent!  ¡You’ll make me look like a puta!”

He raised an eyebrow and commented, “ ¿So? You are a whore.  ¿Remember? You told me yourself. So you’re going to practice your profession now. Put on your working clothes, ‘puta’.”

Her hatred flared; but fear overcame hate and she began to obey. “ ¡Damn you to hell!” her internal observer commented. “It’s not a problem,” her body replied; “I want a man.  ¡Any man! After all, I am a whore.” She still felt shame and degradation, but as Seá±or Herrera stood there with his arms folded, she stripped to panties and bra.

He grinned: “No bra needed with this outfit, puta. Not this time. Take it off.” She obeyed, standing bare-breasted before stepping into her new dress. It was snug, but not uncomfortable, after she zipped up the back. She pulled on the stockings and attached the garters, then stepped into the heels.

Seá±or Herrera smiled, remarking, “You’re sexy as hell, my little cunt. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

She saw the whore he had named her. Her breasts were supported and displayed, not hidden, and the skirt showed her panties if she bent over. The heels lent her a seductive sway. And why should she be shocked? José had trained her well. She was a whore, and she had even come to realize the justice in her forced prostitution. As a real whore she was at least honest about it. Seá±or Cualquiera hadn’t been honest about his promiscuity.

“Perfect,  ¿yes?” He pointed to her dressing table. “Now freshen up. Use some nice bright lipstick to go with the dress, and green eye shadow. A bit of perfume, too. Put on gold hoop earrings and let your hair down over your shoulders. Let’s do this right.” She obeyed again; when she was done he told her to wait at the bar, then returned Seá±or Reyes. A short time later he called, “ ¡Pansy! Come here, girl.”

When she entered, she saw Seá±or Reyes grin with pleasure. She read lust in his eyes. Even worse, the lust was reciprocated; she wanted to bed him, too. “But then, I am just a fuck doll,” a small voice within her whispered. Ignoring her libido, she answered dutifully, “Yes, Seá±or.  ¿Can I serve you or Seá±or Reyes?  ¿What can I get you?”

“Rum cokes for both of us. Lots of ice. And one for yourself,” Seá±or Reyes ordered. She left and poured the drinks, but just a small one for herself. She served the drinks on a tray, but Seá±or Herrera took the small one. “ ¡Drink up, amigo!” he told Seá±or Reyes; “ ¡You aren’t driving home tonight! You too, Pansy. Bottoms up!” and he drained the glass. She was thirsty and gratefully obeyed. A warm alcoholic glow spread through her body.

There were several more calls for liquor. Each time she quenched her insatiable thirst. At the last call Seá±or Herrera noted that she was becoming unsteady. “Pansy, you’ve had enough for the night. Here, I’ll help you to bed.” He came over and helped her up. She was led to the guest bedroom. She lay down; Seá±or Herrera brought her new baby-doll nightie. Sitting up, she stripped off her uniform and slipped into the nightgown. She wasn’t sleepy, just too tipsy to function properly. And she still felt the lust for Seá±or Reyes that she had felt earlier. In fact, the urge for sex became stronger as she lay there.

In ten minutes the door opened, and Seá±or Reyes entered. Pansy sat up as he approached the bed. Her body, longing for his, felt a sexual thrill, and when he touched her breast through the nightie, her body twitched in anticipation. “ ¡Seá±or Reyes!” she exclaimed.

Frowning, he told her, “I’m ‘Fred’. Just call me Fred.” Then the sight of Pansy’s lush body took him. “You’re a man’s wet dream in that nightie, girl. Touch me, so I’ll know you’re real.”

She reached out and took his hand, then kissed him passionately as they embraced. She put his hand on her breast again, and, as if a button had been pushed, her body spasmed. She forgot who she was, who he was. She only wanted, needed sex. As he fondled her nipple, she pulled him onto the bed and fumbled with shirt buttons, then with his pants. He slipped them off, then his shorts, and lay down beside her. For an instant his aroused state reminded her of her former existence and returned her to a painful sobriety. She–he–had possessed a penis and had taken his pleasure from women. The absence of Seá±or Cualquiera’s male equipment pierced her with a brief but intense sense of irremediable loss as she remembered what being a man had felt like. Her own arousal suddenly transmuted into a craving for a woman–for Petunia. But she realized: Never again! Then Fred began to stroke her breasts again, and her engineered lust drove out any thought save her burning need for a man.

Later, as Fred lay sated beside her, Pansy stared up at the ceiling, where the mirror reflected their passion. She saw herself, a whore, in bed with her john, but she wasn’t ashamed. She hadn’t chosen this, she told herself; she’d been forced into it. “But anyway, I like being a whore,” she thought. “It feels so good.” Fred rolled off and lay next to her, and she pulled him close, with his head resting on her shoulder. He lifted his head after a few minutes of recovery. Returning to Spanish, he asked, “Pansy,  ¿how can you be like this? I’ve never known a woman as sexy, as… as seductive, but so innocent. When José told me you were available, I had no idea what an experience I’d have.”

Pansy told him, “Fred, you wouldn’t believe me, so I won’t tell you.” She switched to English and continued, “A girl is entitled to a few secrets.”

Fred showed some surprise, asking in English, “And you speak English too? Your English is very good. There’s hardly any accent.”

“ ¿Hardly any accent?” she wondered, and switched back to Spanish. “I was well taught. Your Spanish is excellent too. Go to sleep, Freddy. It’s late, and I’ll see you in the morning.” Exhausted and satiated, he quickly dozed off. For a while she lay awake next to him. The loss of Seá±or Cualquiera’s manhood tormented her again, more than it had at any time since that day in July when she had awakened to find her body mutilated. It seemed forever before she drifted off to sleep.
 
 
March 5
-- In the morning she awoke alone in bed. It was late, and she had a hangover. She got up, showered, and put on a clean uniform. Then she braided her hair and did her face. In the mirror the whore was gone, replaced by the maidservant. Fred and Seá±or Herrera were already eating breakfast.

Pansy apologized: “Seá±or Herrera, I’m sorry I’m late.  ¿Can I help you or Seá±or Reyes?”

José smiled and remarked, “No, you did enough. I understand you had a busy time last night.”

Her face turned red and she didn’t answer right away. Illogically, she still felt a glow of pleasure. But then she realized that she wasn’t responsible for her actions. She couldn’t control her body, but she wasn’t to blame. She was well fed, warm, healthy; she’d be free in a few months; her conscience was clear. She’d live with her situation until then, and even enjoy the pleasures it offered. She ignored Seá±or Herrera’s remark and told him, “If there’s nothing here, I’ll return to my work. I need to finish my ironing.” She left when he nodded agreement.

Pansy served them all day, fetching drinks, cooking, cleaning up after them. She felt the euphoria that she’d come to expect after sex. She also felt a continuing sexual urge, but she didn’t let it affect her manner. That evening, after she’d served supper, José ordered her to change back into her cocktail-waitress dress.

“ ¿Why bother? Of course I’ll wear it, if that’s what you want. I’m just a whore; I know it.  ¿Why not skip the preliminaries and just have me serve the drinks in my nightie? I know what you are doing, Seá±or. I can’t control my body, you do. It’s your shame, not mine.”

José turned red, then white, and suddenly she feared his reaction to her impertinence. She should have learned by now! Then he grinned, and told her, “Pansy, my lovely little puta, I shouldn’t be upset. I’m glad you realize how little power you have. Still, you should show more respect. And you do have a point. Very well: go put on your nightie. I’ll take you up on your suggestion. Leave your hair in a peasant-girl braid, and use just a touch of makeup.”

She gasped; she had meant to shame him, but he was shameless. “ ¡Seá±or Herrera! I didn’t…” She stopped; he just looked at her implacably and she knew she had to obey.

“Remember, Pansy, I do not accept disobedience or disrespect. This time, I’ll merely accept your suggestion. Now go change, then come back.”

Her libido waxed as she put on her nightie. She knew she should feel shame and disgust at being forced into prostitution, but anticipation of the ecstasy of sex overrode her qualms. She did want a man in her–after all, she was a fuck doll, wasn’t she? And she had no choice. She put on pale-pink lipstick, then returned.

The men were discussing business when she entered. “Seá±ores,  ¿may I help you?” she asked. She saw Fred’s eyes widen as he took in her lush body, with everything visible, if blurred, behind the gauzy fabric. As he realized she was available again, she saw–literally–his lust rise, and she felt her own desire waxing.

Seá±or Herrera ordered, “Go get us each a rum and coke. I think Seá±or Reyes could use a stiff drink around now.”

“Sá­, Seá±or,” and Pansy left to fetch the drinks. Upon returning she served the drinks, and then she was told to stay to talk with them for a while.

“Seá±or Reyes enjoys your company, I believe, and you are to keep him entertained this evening.” Pansy felt her nipples harden, projecting against the gauzy fabric of the nightie, and she fought to keep her body from writhing in passion. Seá±or Herrera watched with amusement, aware of her reaction. “I not certain I have much to tell Seá±or Reyes,” she managed to say, “but I like to know more about him.  ¿From where in the United States are you, Seá±or?”

He tried unsuccessfully to pull his eyes from Pansy’s full breasts and erect nipples. “I… I’m from Miami.  ¿How did you know I was American? My family’s from El Salvador, and I grew up speaking Spanish.”

With a topic of conversation, Pansy could concentrate on talk instead of her burning need for sex, and she told him, “You have a little English accent, Seá±or, although I can hardly detect it. You must be completely bilingual.”

He stuttered a bit: “Y…y…yes.  ¿And… and you?”

Seá±or Herrera interrupted, telling them, “I’m tired, and I’ve got to get up early. I’ll leave you two to amuse yourselves. Con permiso, Seá±or y Seá±orita.” He left, and Fred and Pansy were left alone.

Leering at her, Fred suggested, “Pansy, let’s talk in a more comfortable place. Come join me in my bedroom.” She followed him, and he began to undress in front of her. He stopped as if he’d had an idea, then told her, “Help me with these clothes. Take them off me,  ¿will you?”

She stripped him and ran her fingers down his back. Watching him squirm, she thought, “By God, if I am a whore,  ¡I’ll be a good one!” Fred collapsed onto the bed and she began to undo his belt. He couldn’t wait, and quickly loosened it and dropped his pants. Pansy stroked him through his shorts. He gasped.

“I’m out of shape,” he panted in English. “Don’t give me a heart attack, now!”

She smiled as he writhed, and she pulled down his shorts, passing her finger lightly across his naked belly. “Oh, you do not look all that old. You survived last night, yes?” He sat on the bed, and she joined him, rubbing her breasts against his hairy chest. Her own lust rose a notch. “Passionate wench, aren’t you, dear?” he gasped, and then pulled her down to him on the bed. She lay on her back, and as on the previous night, she saw herself in the ceiling mirror, with her legs spread in invitation. She had little time to contemplate her status, as Fred entered her quickly, and they both reached climax together. For a few seconds they lost themselves in lust, and then the tension left him.

“Pansy, how do you do that? I’m not sure I’ll ever be satisfied with other women.”

“Freddie, I am sure you manage. I can tell I is not your first, and I sure I is not your last; but not worry about other times and places. There is just here and now. Come here and lie with me.” She pulled a sheet over them. He began to talk, but he soon fell asleep.
 
 
March 6
-- In the morning she awoke to a man tickling her nipples. Lust seized her, and Fred spent himself in her loins as her hips bucked. After he finished, she told him to get cleaned up. “I need to make breakfast, Fred. Go on, I’ll join you shortly.” After he finished, she cleaned herself up and put on her uniform. When she appeared in the kitchen to prepare breakfast, both Fred and Seá±or Herrera were there. She served them, and Seá±or Herrera asked Fred whether she’d been a satisfactory companion. He rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, yes indeed. Yes indeed!” Seá±or Herrera smiled and commented in English, “Good! I’m not surprised. I’ve found Pansy ever eager to please, whatever the task.”

Fred left at 10:45 with Seá±or Herrera. Pansy, left alone, was depressed. Was this to be her “profession” for her remaining months? And after that? What was she fit for now? How could she return to her previous life? And another problem: she was six weeks pregnant. She thought, “It was early February. So, nine months…” She counted on her fingers. “That’s October… no, November. So,  ¿what do I do at the end of the year, when I’m supposed to be freed? A mother, I’ll be.” In misery she threw herself on her bed and wept. That afternoon she wrote another letter to Petunia. “I’ll try to write regularly,” she told herself. She also attempted four more letters to friends, in the hope that Don Pablo and his doctors had left a few names from her past unscrambled. She asked them to write back to Pansy Baca, in care of Petunia at the address Petunia had given her. For some incomprehensible reason she had trouble composing the letters. The correct words just wouldn’t come to mind, and when the letters were completed, they seemed wrong, somehow. She tried to edit them, but the final results didn’t satisfy her any better. At last she gave up, sealed them and addressed the envelopes. Maybe one would reach its destination.

Back on the mainland, Petunia had recovered from the drowning death of her lover, who had at least given her a beautiful baby girl. She had met another attractive man, Juan Antonio Sáºlivan. He owned a small ranch a few kilometers north of Comayagua. He’d asked her to a dance, and she was happy to accept. Seá±or Pinkerton was gone, and she couldn’t spend the rest of her life in mourning for him. Pansy would understand.
 
 
March 9
-- Two days ago José had left Pansy alone at the villa while he flew to San Pedro for supplies. She took the opportunity to swim again around the reef, and to look again at the few birds on the island. The birdlife had changed: the warblers were migrating. She found two candelitas and a reinita cariamarilla. They were new arrivals on the island, headed north. It never occurred to her that she was using Spanish names for them.

At the end of the year she could head north too. She’d find out who she really was. She’d return to… to Oklahoma?–the name seemed unfamiliar–and see her family. She could see Petunia again! She had known her for such a short time, but she loved her. But how to reconcile her love for Petunia with her desire to return home?

José returned at noon with gifts that pleased Pansy. The nine weeks on the island had approached sensory deprivation, to her thinking. He brought a mystery novel (in Spanish) and a few new dresses and skirts. She had had bathing suits, several changes of her uniform, and two skirt and three dresses from her last trip to town, but she was delighted to have new clothes. The pleasure chip helped too, but she was unaware of that, of course.

In the late afternoon José turned up her sex drive, and after supper he told her to seduce him. She stripped naked in front of him, slowly, and then, flushed with passion, she took off his clothes. He wouldn’t take her right away; he spread honey on her breasts and licked it off first. She went ballistic! After that she made love to José eagerly, and she spent the night in his bed.
 
 
March 11
-- In the morning José took her again. He left her with a high pleasure level, and after they cleaned up José got back into bed. She put on her maid’s uniform, with new high heels this time, and served him breakfast in bed. Then he showed her two more gifts, some CD’s he’d bought for her. “You like the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix, I know; here’s Strawberry Lane, and two Hendrix albums.  ¿You like?”

Ecstatic, she squealed with delight and kissed him! They listened to the CD’s together, and he told her that he was a fan of rock music as well. Then she showed him her needlepoint project. He had trouble believing this was the woman who had been given up as hopeless with a needle. She broke off in midafternoon to prepare supper, but they listened to “Eleanor Rigby” as they ate. He asked her later if she’d like to “play in the hay.” She agreed readily, and he chuckled. She had had only nine weeks of conditioning, and already her libido made her forget he had not only cut off George’s balls, but made him into a sex toy. The promise he had given Pansy in January had been fulfilled: between the drugs and the chips, Pansy was now a willing, even eager, mistress. Sex had become a reward, not a penalty. He pointed out to Pansy how far she had come towards his goal for her: “I told you, you’d enjoy sex. You’re just the little sexpot I said we’d make you.  ¿Aren’t you?  ¿Or did you forget what I said?”

She had forgotten, repressing what she couldn’t control. “ ¡No! I I only do what I must.” But she knew better, and cringed inside. “ ¡But I do want a man!  ¡I’m a fuck bunny and I like it!  ¡It feels so good!” an inner voice insisted. They were changing her. She had to fight it!

José laughed. “You like music, Pansy, so I brought you the CD’s. And I want you to learn two songs.” He gave her two scores. “You’ll sing them for my next guest.” She looked at the titles. They were “I Enjoy Being a Girl”, and “I’m Just a Girl who Can’t Say No”. She began to object, but he turned up the fear chip and at the same time cut her will power. She surrendered. “Sá­, Seá±or. As soon as I can.” Her words brought a surge of pleasure that reinforced her agreement, and she giggled. “I really can’t say no,  ¿can I?”

He reminded her again that night as she seduced him, urged on by the sex chip.
 
 
March 12
-- Next day José gave her the scores, and she began to memorize them. He made sure she enjoyed it, turning up her pleasure as she practiced in her girlish soprano, which was sweet and high, if weak. He suggested that she act a bit–”You know, waggle that cute little butt a little. Maybe pout a bit.”–and she complied happily, giggling like a schoolgirl. By suppertime she was doing a creditable job, and he let her rest. Grinning, he told her, “The songs are true, you know. I can tell, you do enjoy being a girl, in spite of yourself. And like you said, you really can’t say no. We’re succeeding.” She denied it, but only halfheartedly, as she realized that she was slowly becoming the sexy and docile slut he intended. She could reverse it after she was freed. Surely she could!

She really couldn’t say no, to her dismay. Succumbing to her libido, she seduced José again that evening. Afterwards, José drugged her and injected her with mnemosine, one of Ibarra’s fancy drugs. It stimulated the hippocampus, which fed short-term into long-term memory. She truly learned the songs by heart, as though she had been singing them for years. He also gave her a shot of metrazine, and a hypnotic suggestion that the songs really expressed her true feelings.

Before going to bed himself, José wrote to Ibá¡á±ez:

She is an efficient maid, and a passionate and skilled performer in bed. I don’t know if the change in character is permanent, but I suspect so. She appears to be addicted to the pleasure chip. Whether permanently or not, time will tell. Her conscious attitude to sex seems to be that it’s a duty her body forces her to perform. She draws a distinction between her inner identity–her ego–and her body. I have the feeling that the inner Pansy, or maybe the inner George, stands back and watches as a bystander, even when her body is in the grip of a sexual frenzy, a chip-induced euphoria, or a black depression. I believe Seá±or Deon had a detached personality, and Pansy’s experience has only strengthened this character trait. Nevertheless, and in spite of her detachment, her sexuality seems more and more to be ingrained, and I believe permanent. Given a choice of clothing, she now chooses the most revealing. Her body is attractive, of course, and now she seems to have lost her early self-consciousness concerning it. If her taste in clothing remains as it is, she will give the impression we desired: that of a rather low-class peasant girl.

As a maid she is more than satisfactory. She obeys without thought, as if born to her station. I judge that docility is becoming an integral part of her personality. Not only is she obedient, but sometimes ( ¡not always!) she no longer even seems to resent her menial position, and is grateful for small favors. Of course, I have ordered her to appear cheerful; but as you know, a feigned emotion soon begins to induce the real thing, and I judge her cheerfulness to be smothering her resentment. Also: as with many kidnap victims, her fear of punishment, and her total dependence, has caused her to begin to identify with her captor–me–and abandon her autonomy. This identification, a long-known phenomenon in inmates of prisons and concentration camps, is helping to crush the proud and stubborn norteamericana out of existence, and reshape her into a campesina. However, the process is slow, and occasionally she regresses into unhappy resentment. Even then, she shows no open hostility; she has learned that any display of such feelings (never mind disobedience) has unpleasant consequences.

I cannot judge her reaction to the language conditioning. I will bring an English-speaking guest to the island to better gauge her language preference. Certainly her Spanish is better. Oddly, though, the songs I forced her to learn were sung in flawless English.

Please tell Doctor Herná¡ndez that Pansy’s complexion is becoming noticeably darker. Already the tone is much like that of the average campesina, but I suspect that she may end up somewhat on the dark side.

Now she seems both compliant and competent, although that compliancy may depend on continuing reinforcement by our chips. I am testing that by slowly reducing use of the chips. I recommend that she be transferred to Susana sometime around mid-June.
 
 
March 17
-- Seá±or Herrera soon brought a second guest. She was glad to see him arrive; she hated to admit it, but when Seá±or Herrera was absent, the lack of sex bothered her. She enjoyed sex. She felt a thrill when she heard the plane approach, and she knew she’d be bedded that night. As Weiss had said, “When you have a lemon, make lemonade.” If she had to please men, she might as well enjoy it herself. And she had to admit, her new body gave her more sexual delight than her old one ever did.

By the time Seá±or Herrera arrived at the villa, cold drinks waited on a tray. He praised her diligence, and introduced his guest: “Andy, this is Pansy, my maid. You’ll see a lot of her while you’re here. Her job is to serve you, and she’s good at it.” He turned to Pansy and explained that Seá±or Giannetti didn’t speak Spanish well. “He wants to practice his Spanish, but don’t frustrate him, and accommodate all his needs.” She caught his double meaning, but no longer cared. Addressing his guest again, he explained that “Pansy speaks fair English, and she needs some practice too, so give her a chance to use it.” Pansy curtsyed and announced, “Your lunches is ready when you want them. I maked a nice shrimp salad, and we has fruit salad too. Can I do anything else for you, Seá±ores?” José dismissed her with a smile.

That afternoon they all went swimming. Pansy wore a red bikini, and she was pleased to see that so far there was no visible change in her waist. Only the damned morning sickness betrayed her condition.

Seá±or Giannetti paid a great deal of attention to her. “Call me Andy,” he told her. “Your boss is too stiff. I don’t hold with this formality.”

She saw his attraction to her–literally; his bathing suit had a bulge–and she felt a matching desire for him, but she didn’t respond overtly. Time for that later. She giggled reflexively and replied “Yes, Andy,” as they splashed through the shallows. “I is happy to call you what you prefer. I is rather informal myself. And what you do in Chicago?” Her English was unsure, she noticed. Thinking back, she realized she had been speaking Spanish almost exclusively for four months, with only a few sentences in English here and there–mostly there, at the San Pedro clinic. She was uncomfortable in her native tongue! Depression settled on her and a headache began to develop. She made an excuse to leave, telling Andy, “I have work to do in the villa. I is sorry, I have so much enjoyed your company, but I see you later anyway.  ¡Hasta luego, Seá±or!”

Returning to Seá±or Herrera, she requested permission to return to the villa. “Seá±or Herrera, I have to prepare supper. With your permission, Seá±or, I will begin now.”

“OK, Pansy. Get along. Just see that Seá±or Giannetti’s kept happy.”

“Of course, Seá±or, he will be happy,” she replied, and returned to her room. Changing into a dress, she began to cook a red snapper. After supper she cleaned up, then downed a quick meal. As expected, Seá±or Herrera insisted that she switch to her bargirl outfit, with appropriate accessories and makeup. She obeyed and was rewarded by Andy’s attention when she returned. Her libido responded as she saw his male interest arise again. She served them both Tom Collinses, and had one herself. They talked for a while, alternating between English and Spanish. The Spanish was easier for her. By the time Seá±or Herrera left, she was happy to be alone with Andy. He didn’t rush to bed, but asked to talk a bit more. “Pansy, your English is pretty good. If you lived for a while in the U.S., I bet you’d even lose the accent! How did you learn to speak it so well?” She wasn’t quite sure how to answer–truth definitely wasn’t an option, not while she was trapped on the island–and she finally told him, “I study it in school, y yo viajaba… I travel… traveled a little in Mexico. I has a good head for it, I guess. But your Spanish is quite good. If you live in Honduras for a while, I bet you even lose the accent!”

“Pansy, you’re both pretty and witty. Come over here and sit with me.”

Obediently she sat on his lap. She was really too large to fit there, but she managed, and he embraced her. His right hand crept to her breast and fondled it through the thin satin, arousing her quickly. She stiffened; her nipple pushed against her bodice. Andy pulled her onto the couch, slipped his hand inside the dress, and cupped the breast while he kissed her deeply. She responded by stroking his crotch through his pants. Soon he unzipped her dress and slid it down. In turn she undid his belt and pulled down his pants. Without a word she pointed to the guest bedroom. He picked her up bodily and carried her to the bed. As she was laid on the sumptuous bed she saw her reflection in the ceiling mirror. No question, she observed in a detached way, her body was attractive. Seá±or Herrera was correct; she was a good puta. Her detachment was quickly lost in the familiar and now-welcome flood of lust as he stroked her belly, then her crotch. Soon her legs were spread wide in an invitation which was accepted immediately. They made love later that night too. This time Pansy seduced Andy. She didn’t care any more, she told herself. She was a whore, yes, but an inner voice told her, “ ¡I like being a puta!”
 
 
March 18
-- In the morning, Andy was still in bed when she arose. She kissed him gently, and whispered to him, “ ¡Time for work, lover!  ¡See you at the table!”

In her maid’s dress again, she fixed the usual eggs, rice, and beans, and it was there for the men when they arrived. Seá±or Herrera told her, “I’m taking Andy out fishing today. We’ll be gone until midafternoon, but with luck we’ll bring back supper. You’ll clean the fish when we return. In the meantime, I’ve left some laundry for you, and there’s a pile of clothes to be mended, too. Iron my shirts well; I have an important meeting in Tegus tomorrow.”

Depressed at being left for the day, she curtsied and said with a resigned sigh, “Sá­, Seá±or.”

They left shortly after, and she turned to her chores for the day.

The night promised to be a repeat of the previous night. She’d serve them supper, then service Andy. He had a good body, though, and she looked forward to it. Why not?

She considered having Andy mail the letters she’d written. Her fear that he’d tell Seá±or Herrera was balanced against her need to send that information. In the end she decided to try to send them, and to ask Andy not to tell Seá±or Herrera. She also wrote a few more letters, in the hope that some one of them would reach their intended recipient and help her escape the trap she was in.

When they returned, José told Andy, “Pansy’s got a nice voice. Would you like to hear her sing?” He agreed cheerfully, and José told Pansy, “Go put on something frilly. Then show us how well sing those songs.” He jolted her with pleasure as he told her, and Pansy giggled foolishly, reacting with artificial delight. She picked out a frothy pink confection of a dress, made her face up, and reappeared. Some internal self-loathing lingered as she tripped through Hammerstein’s lyrics, but her forced delight overrode it. As she rendered a salacious version of “Can’t Say No”, Andy and José both ogled her appreciatively, and she realized that both songs were nothing but the truth. She was a whore, and she could no longer deny that José had made her like it. At least her body did. She tried to tell herself that, left to herself, she’d show it was only temporary; but she couldn’t even be sure of that.

That night as she lay next to Andy, she took stock of her position. That she was a woman, and a sexy woman, was undeniable, and she had accepted since August that she’d have to live with that. That she was a whore, a sex toy for José and whomever else he chose, was also true, and she couldn’t change that either, at least not yet. But now… Now she realized that she no longer even wanted to change it. She had become a fuck doll just as he had predicted. She had thought that she could accept sex and enjoy it without involving her innermost self. Now she realized that for the rest of her life, she’d want to give herself to a man, to feel that wonderful and hateful and glorious sensation that was a man pleasuring himself with her. It had become an inseparable part of her nature, just as José had predicted. “I want to be a fuck doll,” she admitted to herself in despair. “I like having a man inside me.  ¡I can’t help it! José is succeeding, just like he said.” She wept, and Andy awakened. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I… My… There is nothing wrong!” she told him, sniffling.

“There is. Tell me.”

“I… I want… I no want…  ¡No puedo decirle!”

“Dá­game.”

She tried to hold back, but broke down. “ ¡I am a slut!  ¡I will never escape!  ¡I hate me!”

“You’re a pretty and sexy girl. And you enjoy it, just like that song said. I don’t understand.”

“Yes… Yes, I en… enjoyed it.  ¡I do not… do not want to enjoy it!  ¡I do not like to be pretty!” She paused. “No, I mean… I mean I do not want to like to be pretty!”

“But…” He was completely confused. “Never mind. It will seem better in the morning.” He reached over and embraced her, cupping her breasts. Her reflexive lust sprang up, and she kissed him passionately. Quickly he took her, as she curled her legs around him. Afterwards she heard him mutter to himself, “Women are from another planet. Who could ever understand them?”
 
 
March 19
-- Andy left the next day. As they flew past the swamps along the coast of Gracias a Dios, José pointed out a flock of spoonbills in a lagoon. They rose as the plane passed, a vision of rose-pink against the green mangroves. José asked Andy how he enjoyed the vacation. Andy praised the island extravagantly. “A wonderful place, José. A piece of heaven! Maybe I can return some time. Please, don’t take too many people there. I’d hate to see it ruined by crowds.”

Laughing, José commented that it wasn’t likely. “There’s no room for a big resort, Andy, so there’s no chance to have economy of scale. Everything has to be brought in, including water, and it’s in the middle of nowhere. No, I don’t think you need to worry.”

“Doesn’t the staff go crazy with the isolation? I’d think your little slut’d be bored.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. All the better. She’s eager to please when I bring a guest.”

“She’s an odd girl, José. Sexy as hell and, as you say, eager to please. I think Pansy’d give an erection to a brass monkey. She made the visit special. She says she learned English in the United States, and she doesn’t talk like a Honduran girl. Where’d you find her?”

Chuckling, José replied, “She was near Comayagua–that’s south of San Pedro–when I found her. She used to be a teacher. Taught you a thing or two, didn’t she?”

Andy gave him a leer. “No question. I’ll take her course any time.” He added, “But I know she wants more outside contact. She has to be lonely on the island. She gave me some letters to mail–to her family, she said.”

Immediately José came to attention. “She did, did she? To whom? May I see them?”

His guest demurred, telling him it wouldn’t be proper. “She really didn’t want me to tell you at all, but I thought you ought to know. Still, I’d rather see they get mailed.”

José nodded. “Not important.” Inwardly he was angry at first: he had explicitly forbidden her to try to contact anyone off the island. Then he recalled that such rebellions were not only expected but desirable, as pretexts for punishment. “She’s trying to reach an old boyfriend,” he told Andy. “I’d rather she didn’t. They broke up, and it’s best if they stay apart. She’s got no sense in some things.” The La Ceiba post office was small, and he thought he might be able to recover the letters. Not that they mattered; Ibarra had promised that Pansy’s memory had been edited enough to make such attempts futile. Well, he had warned Pansy not to do this. He’d punish her, and at the same time lock her more firmly into peasant status. It would be another lesson to her, another step in conditioning her to unthinking obedience. He switched the conversation to other topics, and they flew on.
 
 
March 26
-- Around 10 AM an amphibious plane circled the island, then landed in the lagoon. As José went to greet the plane, he told Pansy, “I’ve been expecting another visitor. See that the usual refreshments are ready for him.” Leering, he added, “There isn’t much to do here on the island, so you’ll be providing the entertainment as well.” Then he ordered more seriously, “I expect you to have him in bed before the day is out.”

“Yes, Seá±or,” she acknowledged, as she left her task of the moment–sewing a new skirt for herself–and went to the kitchen. One man disembarked from the plane, and José left to fetch him. When they returned, she recognized the guest. She suppressed her conditioned lust and greeted him, “Welcome, Seá±or Bianchi. The morning is hot, and it will get hotter. I can serve to you cold beer, a rum drink, fruit nectar, or ice water.  ¿What do you like?”

Bianchi chose a beer and José ordered a rum punch. Pansy curtsied and left to fetch them. The men sat on a shady patio overlooking the lagoon. “A terrific spot you have here,” Bianchi remarked. “A vest pocket Eden!”

“I agree,” replied José. “Perhaps Seá±or Deon has come to dislike it, but he has his own reasons.”

“You speak of ‘Seá±or Deon’. Has he recovered the knowledge of his name, then?”

“No, not at all. I speak of Seá±or Deon only to remind myself that the body of the attractive girl who served us imprisons the man who dishonored my sister. But I understand you’re here to make your own judgment.”

“Of course. It’s only been a few months, but your reports, videos, and so forth indicate significant changes. More than significant: incredible. The documentation is admirable; however, we need to see for ourselves.”

“I understand, and you won’t be disappointed. I doubt Seá±or Deon will ever be fully assimilated–I don’t tell him that, of course–but his progress in that direction is remarkable. If my father hadn’t forbidden the complete erasure of Seá±or Deon’s personality and memories, I think the creation of a campesina might indeed be possible.”

“Don Pablo seems to think it’s possible anyway, even if Seá±orita Baca keeps some of Seá±or Deon.”

José shrugged. “Maybe it’s a distinction without a difference. You’ll make up your own mind, of course.” He rose. “You didn’t come here to chat with me. Pansy’ll be back in a moment; if you wish, I’ll take the suitcase to your room, and you can interview her in private.” Bianchi agreed, and José disappeared into the house.

When Pansy reappeared with the drinks, she was surprised to find Bianchi alone, waiting for her, but he gestured for her to sit next to him. “Seá±or Herrera says the punch is for you, Seá±orita,” he told her. “As you might guess, I’m here to check on how Don Pablo’s project is doing. Tell, me, what do you think? In English.”

She handed him a glass of cold Port Royal beer and sat, smoothing her skirt beneath her. “I… I not know, Seá±or. They succeed… succeed to make me to mujer, to… to wo… woman.” She sipped the strong rum punch and tried to collect her thoughts. As she had noticed with Andy, it was surprisingly difficult to express herself in English. She put it down to lack of practice.

“Of course you don’t know, girl. That wasn’t the question. I’ll make my own assessment on the progress of your psychological engineering–the reshaping of your personality. What’s your opinion about how well they are succeeding? Of course you’re female now, and you look like a peasant girl; but do you think they might actually get you to become a peasant girl in your head? Tell me what you believe–for what little it’s worth.”

“I… No, Seá±or. I is not become a campesina. I is a woman, and I must… must to live as a woman during the rest of my life, and I must to work as a maid hasta the end of the year, but they not succeed. They must not to succeed! When Don Pablo free me, I escape to… to Los Estados Unidos.”

Bianchi wasn’t surprised by the decline of Pansy’s English, as he had read the reports on her regression towards peasant status. He noted to himself that her accent remained fairly good, even if her grammar had gone to hell. “Have you thought about how you’ll prove to Immigration that you’re an American woman? And where will you go, what will you do, after you return to the United States?”

Pansy took another drink from her rum punch. It was sweet and strong, as José had taught her to make it. “I… I not know. I can not to make plans until I is free. Then maybe I know what I can to do.”

Bianchi switched to his slightly-accented Spanish. “Pablo Herrera tells me that you have a completely functional female body. In fact, he tells me that you’re pregnant now.”

She looked away. “Yes, I… They tell me I will have a baby, and I think they are right.”

“ ¿So you are sexually active, then?  ¿You enjoy sex?”

She remembered José’s order to service their visitor before the day was out. “Yes, Seá±or, I enjoy it. I… They… I do not know how they… how they did it, but they made me like men.” For a moment she considered simply inviting Seá±or Bianchi into her bed on the spot, but rejected the idea. He might turn down a direct solicitation, and José would punish her. No, she’d have to seduce him. It shouldn’t be difficult. She was a good whore.

“Tell me:  ¿How does it compare? Sex as a woman, I mean.  ¿How does it compare to what you had before, as a man?”

She shrugged. “It is very good, Seá±or, maybe better. But I can not say how it is for a real woman. Remember, I am a…” She searched for a word in Spanish, failed, and switched back to English: “I is a construct. My reactions is not normal. My experience is not typical.”

“A better-constructed woman than many born.” He thought for a moment and smiled. “By the way, do you know what Pablo Herrera calls his project?”

“I… I is not sure, but I hear… heared them to talk about Ovid.”

“Yes, that’s it: the Ovid Project. A couple of thousand years ago Roman poet by the name of Ovid wrote ‘Metamorphoses’, a work in which a character Tiresias is changed to a woman–completely changed, body and mind–as punishment. Later in the story, he–or she–was asked whether sex was better for a man or a woman. She claimed it was better for a woman. I think Ovid would’ve been delighted to hear you confirm his conjecture.”

Pansy lifted a shoulder again and sipped at her punch. “I not know, but you can be right.” Putting her drink down, she changed the subject. “We have a good beach here. The water is warm. You like to swim?”

“I might just do that–yes, I will–but I need to change first. Take me to my room, will you?”

While Bianchi changed, Pansy donned a flaming-pink bikini and freshened her makeup. When she was satisfied that she was as pretty as Conchita’s training would allow, she loaded a backpack with a beach blanket, snorkel gear, sunscreen, and rum cokes in an insulated cooler, then left to rejoin Bianchi. He ogled her openly and nodded in approval. “Amazing! The doctors outdid themselves! You’re really a very pretty girl, Pansy.” He noted to himself that the erstwhile Seá±or Deon had adopted a feminine attitude towards his appearance in a remarkably short time. Score one for Pablo Herrera’s conditioning techniques.

Pansy giggled, pleased by the compliment. “I is a girl now,” Pansy replied. “I not choosed it, I not wanted it, but is true and I can not to change it. Since I is girl, I prefer to be pretty, not ugly.”

“A reasonable attitude, under the circumstances. It’s just that I have some trouble looking at you now and trying to recall that you were a man, only fifteen months ago.” They began walking towards the beach. “I’d guess you might have the same difficulty when you look in the mirror.”

“Sometimes when I wake up, I is still surprised to see who I is. But I is getting used to it.”

“Speaking of your identity, do you think of yourself as Pansy Baca now, or still as your former self?”

“My… my identity is me. I is the same person, but only in a different package.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “But my name… I call that person Pansy Baca now.”

Bianchi marveled at her lack of insight into her own nature. “Do you know your old name?”

“No, Seá±or, they taked it. It is… it is goed. But I think it is a color.” She couldn’t recall the English words, and used Spanish: “Verde, or rosado… maybe rojo? I not know.” She stopped walking, looked at the ground, then at Bianchi. “But Don Pablo, he free me at end of year. You telled that to me yourself. I get it back then.”

“How?” The poor dope wouldn’t find it easy–and by the end of the year, his old name would be irrelevant.

“I… I not know. But I find a way.”

“And if you do, then what? What will you do when you’re free?”

Kill the Herreras, father and son, she thought. But she only said, “I go back to the USA, get professional life back. I must… must to live as woman–I is woman–but I is professional woman.” She began walking again. “Seá±or Bianchi, when you see me last year, you say you can to help me if I come to you. Please, help me!”

He shook his head. “I can’t do anything now. My boss wants me to observe you as you change into a peasant girl. After all, his office is paying a lot to be able to follow your transformation into a campesina, and he says you have more changes waiting for you–although to me you seem pretty well transformed already. Really, I sympathize with you–it’s a terrible position you’re in–but I can’t get you off the island now, and I’d lose my job if I tried. And we’re learning a lot for our money, learning things that we can’t find out any other way.”

They arrived at the beach, and the turquoise lagoon, rippled by the breeze, stretched before them. Pansy set her burden down in the shade of a fig tree that arched over the beach. As she spread the blanket over the coral sand, Bianchi told her, “Really, my office hopes you stay here for ten years or so. They want to study you, to see if you really become a campesina, as Don Pablo predicts. But I think I can persuade them that they can study you more efficiently if you return to the US. Of course, you wouldn’t become a peasant girl then–but they could watch you adapt to your womanhood, however you do it. Maybe you’ll even become a professional woman, as you hope.” And Hell would open for skating lessons, he thought. He smiled: “As a Hispanic girl–even a synthetic one–you could even take advantage of affirmative-action educational programs, and maybe recover some of your losses.”

Pansy hadn’t expected immediate help–after all, she knew he couldn’t smuggle her off the island, even if he wished, and she knew his office was complicit in her ordeal–but at least he had been honest with her, and his offer was something to consider. “Like you know, Seá±or, I lose real name, and like you telled to me, La Migra is a problem. But I really is norteamericana, US citizen. You know who I is. You can to tell me? You help prove I is citizen so I can to stay in US?”

“Possibly after December, but like I told you, definitely not now. Even then, I’d have to check higher up.”

Pansy didn’t hope for much from him–she had been burned too many times–but she was grateful for the sympathy, and for the possibility, at least, of future help. “Thank you, Seá±or. I remember that on next January. Now, the sun here is strong.” She took a tube of ointment out of the basket. “I have sunscreen, so lie down and I put it on you.” He lay on his stomach, and she rubbed sunscreen into his neck, shoulders, back, arms, and legs. Ordering him to turn over, she repeated the process on his chest and face, delicately dabbing ointment around his nose and ears. She finished his arms and legs, “accidentally” brushing his groin in the process and noting his incipient arousal. “Seá±or, please, you put on me the sunscreen now?” she asked when she was done. He agreed, covering her thoroughly; her own lust began to burn. “We have wonderful fish and such in the lagoon,” she told him, “and the coral is very pretty. I have snorkels and fins in the pack. Will you like to see it?”

“Yes, why not? With such an attractive guide, how could I refuse?”

They swam for fifteen minutes before Bianchi asked to return to the shore. He admired her smooth brown complexion as she walked to the beach blanket and fished her purse from the backpack, and he wondered if she knew it wasn’t just a suntan. Pablo Herrera had sent a recent photograph, of course, but it didn’t do this sexy creature justice. She wasn’t just a woman, she was a hot babe! Whether she ever became a campesina was, in his opinion, unimportant. There was very little of George Deon in the attractive girl in front of him, who at that moment was peering into a compact mirror and repairing her makeup.

After Pansy had skillfully blotted her fresh hot-pink lipstick, she sat on the blanket next to her guest and smiled. “Your Spanish is excellent, Seá±or. My own is much more good than it used to be–much more good than I ever expected it to be–but not as good as yours.  ¿Do you mind if we speak Spanish?  ¿And where you learned it?”

“No, I don’t mind a bit. I’ve had many assignments in Latin America, and my Spanish has had a lot of practice.” He picked up his glass and finished the remaining beer. “But tell me: you agree that you’re a woman, and that you’ll always be a woman. Also, you say that sex as a woman is enjoyable.  ¿Do you think you’ll ever marry, after you’re free?”

“ ¡No!” Pansy was emphatic. “ ¡I will not marry! I will become a professional again, and a husband will want… will want me to stay at home and be… be ‘housewife’.” She used the English word.

“ ¿And your baby? You’ll be a mother then, of course.”

“I… I do not know. I do not know what to do about it. I will think about something after I am free.” Such as, putting the bastard up for adoption. She picked up the remaining punch and downed it. “I never planned to deal with a baby.”

“Pablo Herrera says it will help tie you down–prevent you from running off as soon as your formal captivity is over. But he wasn’t sure that you’d be fertile. Your total sex-change operation is relatively new, and in general it has only a 45% chance of success. Doctor Weiss is very good at his profession–maybe the best–but even he only runs about 70%.”

Seá±or Bianchi clearly knew a lot about her, and about Don Pablo’s plans for her. But then, he was helping to pay for her degradation. No, that was wrong; he was just a low-level employee, “just following orders”. “ ¿And what other surprises will I have?  ¿Will they leave me anything of the man who came down here fifteen months ago?”

Bianchi shrugged. “I don’t know. They don’t tell us–or at least me–the details of your treatment in advance. We only know the final objective–and you already know what that is.”

Only too well. “ ¿Can you guess? I think there is not much to be done now.  ¡Look at me! ” He obeyed, grinning, and openly ran his eyes up and down her body. She flushed, but went on: “I am the picture of a campesina. I think–no, I know–they can erase more of my memories and put new ones in my head, for me to think I was really born here. But Don Pablo said I would always know I am a norteamericano put into a campesina body for punishment. If I will remember that,  ¿how I can be a real campesina in my head?”

Bianchi switched back to English. “Damned if I know. If it’s any help, José Herrera doesn’t know either. And I doubt Pablo Herrera and his doctors know. My own feeling is, you won’t–or not quite completely. But whether you become a ‘real campesina’–whatever that is, and we could debate the definition for a long time–won’t matter. For the Ovid Project, the measure of success will be whether you go running back to Susana Herrera after you’re freed, asking to work as her maid. If you don’t, if instead you come running to me at the San Pedro consulate, or if you find some other job, then the project will be judged less than a complete success, and we get some of our money back.” He finished his beer, now only cool. “I have to say, I think the project is largely successful already. The physical changes are almost beyond belief. Every individual change you’ve undergone–the sexual reassignment surgery followed by pregnancy, the genetic engineering, the extreme plastic-surgery makeover and the vocal change–all of those’ve been done before. They’re not routine, not at all, but individually they’re not unprecedented. You may be the first to have all of them done to you, and you’re almost certainly the first to have them forced on you. And that’s even before we consider the changes to your mind!”

Pansy had trouble following him, but got the gist of his speech. She continued in Spanish (it seemed a lot more comfortable): “But those changes–to my mind–are the ones Don Pablo wants most. That is what he told me.”

He switched back: “Yes, of course. The physical changes are but a means to that end. And those changes–what Don Pablo calls ‘psychological engineering’–are the ones our office is most interested in as well.”

“You talk about your office:  ¿What office is that?”

Bianchi chuckled. “Sorry, my dear, I can’t tell you that. Classified, and all that.”

She wasn’t surprised. “ ¿Where are you from, then?”

“Las Vegas.”

The meadows? She shook her head; it made no sense. No matter. “I understand this… this Ovid Project is supposed to make people behave better by changing them.  ¿Isn’t that like using a hammer to kill ants? It can work, but it’s so much trouble and expense.  ¿And what about the Constitution?  ¿Doesn’t it stop very bad punishments?”

“ ¿You mean the ‘cruel and unusual’ bit? Well, first of all, that’s awfully flexible.” He ticked off the remaining points on his fingers. “Second, not everything gets into the newspapers  ¿Are you so naíve, you think the government never bends the rules a little bit?  ¿Or a lot? And third, I never said this was an official government project, or that we’d put the knowledge to use in the way Pablo Herrera expects. As for your first objection:  ¿Do you know how fucking much it costs to keep a federal inmate–or a state inmate–in prison?  ¡A million dollars to be rid of him forever would be a bargain!” He paused, looked straight at Pansy, and continued: “You, of course, are a special case. As a one-of-a-kind experimental subject, and the showpiece of a demonstration project, you’ve been very expensive. That’s why Pablo Herrera has been selling front-row seats–so to speak–to your transformation. Everyone wins: he gets some of his expenses recovered, and we get the techniques–the technology–without having to pursue all the dead ends. Or bury the dead subjects.”

“Everyone wins but me. And the dead subjects.”

“I don’t know about them–well, I do, they’re losers, most of them–but you do get something out of it. You get to live, with a chance to lead a full life after your release. From what Seá±or Herrera told me, after you got his daughter pregnant and abandoned her, your chances of getting out of Honduras with a whole skin were small to none. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“ ¿Lucky?  ¿A full life as a… as a campesina? No, that doesn’t…”

“ ¿Are you conceding the success of the project, then?  ¿You agree you will be a campesina?  ¿And do you believe that a campesina cannot have a full life?”

“I… No, I…” She shook her head, confused and just a bit tipsy. “I don’t… don’t think…”

“They made you into a very pretty girl, you know. I think you could make a good life for yourself as a woman. A full life. Maybe even as a wife to some lucky fellow. You told me that sex as a woman is very good. That would imply that you find men attractive now,  ¿true? Then marriage might be a good option for you.”

“I… I do, but…” She was confused.

“Look at me, Pansy.  ¿Don’t you find me attractive?”

She obeyed, studying the slender man with olive skin, dark-brown hair, a prominent nose, and a short brush mustache. He was an attractive man. Very attractive. She giggled without noticing. “Yes… yes, Seá±or, I… I think you are handsome.” Unconsciously she turned towards him and pushed her breasts against his torso. He put one arm around her and cupped a breast with his other hand, stroking it gently. “ ¿Wouldn’t you like to give me a kiss, my pretty one?” he asked softly. All rational calculation fled, and she embraced him, pressing her lips against his. Bianchi’s tongue forced itself between her lips, and she responded in kind.

Afterwards they returned to the water, where Pansy pointed out some brightly-colored sea slugs. Bianchi noted that she showed no embarrassment or remorse after their romp on the beach.

That evening, just before sunset, José had Pansy prepare spaghetti Calabrese for their guest. She serve them on the patio, where scarlet and gold thunderheads towered over the barely-visible mainland to the south. A steady trade-wind breeze tempered the heat and humidity. As Pansy poured a glass of Chianti for Bianchi, José explained that the meal was a legacy of her earlier life. “Seá±or Cualquiera was a fairly good cook, although he had a limited repertoire. We decided to keep that aspect of his personality.”

“I approve of the decision. She cooked an excellent meal! I’d say there’s not too much of the original personality left, though. Your little Pansy seems thoroughly–amazingly!–feminine, and quite well assimilated into her new status.” Then he frowned: “But how dependable is the process of transformation? You may have succeeded in creating a good maid from a self-centered and thoughtless idiot, but can you do it reliably?”

“In all honesty, I doubt it. I think Seá±or Cualquiera may have had a particularly weak personality. But it’s a good start–and it certainly demonstrates that it’s possible.” He paused, then called, “ ¡Pansy!  ¡Bring us a pitcher of ice water!” She responded, “Yes, Seá±or, right away,” and headed for the kitchen. José continued in a lower tone: “Don’t be fooled into believing that George Deon is gone yet. Pansy has learned to–well, not quite dissemble–but to behave as she knows we want–as if she were a campesina born. It’s been a painful lesson, and she learned it well, but it’s not yet truly an integral part of her personality. Given a chance, she’d be out of here in a flash.”

“But what chance would she have if she left? What chance will she have when you’re finished?”

“Next to none at all, to improve her status. At least if we finish the job successfully, which isn’t a sure thing. And even then, we think she’ll try to escape the new life we’ve planned for her. It’ll take some time after she’s freed before she realizes that, even without any coercion, she’s trapped.”

Pansy reappeared with the pitcher. Curtsying, she asked, “ ¿Can I pour you or Seá±or Bianchi a glass?”

“Yes, please, for both of us,” José replied. “Then you can bring dessert, and begin clearing the table.” Turning back to Bianchi, he went on: “Our psychologists tell us that Pansy’s new personality isn’t yet stabilized. We’ll have to monitor her for the next few years to see how she develops. Will she marry? Will she be a good mother? We don’t know.” He steepled his hands in front of his chin–a gesture reminiscent of his father. “And of course, your support will bring you the same information.”

“Of course.” Unless Pansy Baca succeeds in getting back to the USA, Bianchi thought. His agency could study her much more effectively if she were near at hand. “I have another question, though. Doesn’t Pansy’s knowledge of what’s being done to her hinder her full transformation? Wouldn’t it be easier to change her, if she didn’t know what was being done to her?”

José leaned back and admired the view, as the sun sank below the level of the distant clouds and gilded the Caribbean. “Yes, it might be. It would be. But there is another consideration. Yes, armed with that knowledge, she can fight against the changes she sees taking place in her body, and in her mind. She has fought them. But every battle is lost–and the very fight brings worse changes. We try to hold back radical transformations–the castration of Seá±or Cualquiera, for example, or the loss of his technical knowledge–until there’s some rebellion. That way, the rebellion itself–even if it’s just a lack of diligence–becomes subconsciously associated both with futility and with nasty consequences. As time has passed, our girl has become much more docile and obedient. She doesn’t fight any more. Life’s much more pleasant if she just goes along–and slowly she is coming to believe that implicitly, in her innermost being. Consciously, Pansy intends to be an exemplary maid only until her release in January–but by then, our psychologists believe, her personality will be permanently shaped to that mold.”

“Excuse me, Seá±or Herrera,” Pansy interrupted him. “The mango ice cream is ready.” She held out a tray with two dishes of the confection.

“Thank you, my dear,” he replied, taking one dish and letting her pass the other to Bianchi. “But wait just a moment.  ¿Did you hear any of the explanation I was giving Seá±or Bianchi?”

Reluctantly she admitted, “Yes, Seá±or. I… I did not try, but I heard.”

“That’s all right, Pansy. It’s nothing I haven’t told you already. Tell me:  ¿Is my analysis correct?  ¿Do you intend to be a faithful, efficient, and obedient maidservant until January–for the reasons I gave–and then do you intend to leave?”

“Yes, Seá±or. I must do as I am told until I am free. Then Don Pablo promised I can do whatever I want.”

“If we succeed–and we are succeeding–then the Pansy Baca who is freed will be a girly airhead who wants several things. First, you’ll want to be the prettiest girl in Comayagua; second, you’ll want to be a maid for Suzi; and third, you’ll want some good-looking peasant to be your boyfriend–and then, your husband.” He turned back to Bianchi. “But despite the personality we’re engineering into her–into Seá±orita Baca–we think that at some level Seá±or Cualquiera will still persist. At least for a while, he’ll recall what it was like to have a respected professional career, to have a six-figure income… to hold a girl in his arms. He’ll know he could’ve been Pablo Herrera’s son-in-law and inherited a fortune.” His smile was a shark’s grimace. “For a while. Then, the doctors say, he’ll fade away, and only Pansy-Ann will remain. Just a maid. A docile and obedient maid.” Turning to Pansy, he asked, “ ¿Is that right, Pansy?”

She had been through this too many times. “Yes, Seá±or, that is your intention, and Don Pablo’s intention. Maybe you are right. I do not know.  ¿Do you want me to clear the table now, Seá±or?”

A little annoyed, José answered, “Not just yet, Pansy. Seá±or Bianchi and I will finish dessert first. When we’re finished, then you clear the table. After that you may have supper while we discuss matters.”

“Very well, Seá±or.” She curtsied and stood to one side while the men finished the ice cream in the glow of a spectacular crimson sunset.

Back in the house, Bianchi commented, “You’re a little hard on her, aren’t you?”

José nodded. “More than a little. It’s part of the regimen. She’s learning that her comfort and convenience are of no importance, and that she’s powerless to change that fact. We’re trying to internalize that attitude, so that her sense of self-worth is minimal, and she thinks of herself as nothing more than a fuck-toy. When she enters into my sister’s service, she’ll be treated better–but still with a firm hand–and we’re hoping that’ll maximize the chance that she’ll… well, ‘bond’ might be too strong a word; perhaps ‘identify’ with my sister’s household. At the least, she’ll think becoming a maid is a great step upward.” He shrugged. “We don’t really know what’s most likely to succeed–and for different subjects, other approaches may prove more effective. Or perhaps even for Pansy, another approach might be better. We’re exploring unknown territory here. In any case, you’ll have access to all the data.” He lifted a brandy to his lips. “But tell me: You’ve had a chance to interview our prime subject. What do you think of her? Impressive, yes?”

“Very much so. I was surprised that she’s retained as much… well, as much personality as she has.” He looked out the window, towards the patio where Pansy was eating spaghetti in the gathering dusk by the light of an overhead lamp. “After all that George Deon has gone through, I had feared that he’d be a broken man.”

José laughed out loud. “Well, as a man, he’s very definitely broken. Completely beyond repair! More seriously, though, we’re trying to construct a healthy and functional feminine personality. We have to walk a fine line; as you know, some earlier subjects broke under the stress. We don’t want a vegetable, or a suicide; there’d be little point in all the trouble and expense, if we end with a corpse. Much easier to use a bullet in the first place!”

“You say you’re trying to minimize her self-esteem. Your words to her tonight seemed designed to do more than that. I’d say it was an attempt to crush her spirit entirely.”

“It’s a fine line. ‘Minimize’ may be too strong, but certainly we need to lower her self-esteem. The old, self-centered and arrogant George Deon is still hanging on. He dreams of escaping and resuming his professional career after January, albeit with a new body. We need to prevent that. We think we are preventing it–but only time will tell. And we have nine more months. We have a few more measures that should ensure that Pansy doesn’t rise above the station we intend for her. When I say we want her to have a lower self-esteem, I mean we’re looking for a personality appropriate to a campesina, who’s fit only for ‘woman’s work’: housework, child-rearing. and sex–and who knows it. Fortunately, George himself made our task simpler. His own notion of a woman’s proper place in society corresponds well with what we intend for him.” He downed the last of the brandy. “We’re locking George’s psyche into the prison of a peasant girl’s mindset, and disposing of the key.”

“Perhaps.” Bianchi nodded. “I agree, the physical change is impressive and the changes in George’s psyche are also remarkable; but it seems to me, your goal’s far from assured. As a woman, she still has feminist notions, and has no intention of settling for a life of babies and laundry.”

José retreated a little: “Of course you’re right–I should say, we’ll try to lock her in, then dispose of the key. Pansy may yet escape–I mean, escape permanent peasant status–in spite of all we do. I’m sure we could guarantee success if we wiped her mind of all the Deon memories; but my father wants to let Pansy keep the knowledge of who she was.” He shrugged. “I admit, it makes a more interesting experiment–a lot harder to predict. There’ll be two sets of memories, two different and conflicting life experiences, within the single head. The ‘Pansy Baca’ set will be appropriate to the body and to the conditioning we’re imposing on her; but George’s will have the dubious advantage of being somewhat more accurate. Next year we’ll see which set prevails.” He looked out the window towards the west, where a red glow lingered on the western horizon. “But I have my own prejudices concerning Pansy. I know you’re here for an independent evaluation. Do you want to talk to her again this evening, or maybe tomorrow morning before you leave?” Cocking his head, he added, “And would you like a bed partner tonight? I’m sure Pansy would be delighted to entertain you.”

Bianchi laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. I’ll speak with her tomorrow; I have to get my notes up to date tonight. And no, it’s not necessary to provide entertainment.”

“OK then. I have my own chores to attend, so I’ll leave you to your notes. Good night.”
 
 
March 27
-- Bianchi arose just before dawn, as the sky brightened to a pale blue. Pansy was already preparing breakfast, having laid out José’s clothing and given him his morning fuck. “And a good morning to you, Seá±orita, ” he greeted her. “Up early, I see.”

“As I am sure you know, I am up early every day, Seá±or,” she replied. “You–or your department–pay a good deal of money to keep track of what I do. And to support what is being done to me.”

“Yes, of course you’re right. But we have to check in person to make our own judgment. And we have no particular stake in seeing that the project is successful. If you return to your old life–or some approximation of it, as much as your changed circumstances allow–then we’d still have data concerning just how you overcame the obstacles. And our offer of assistance still stands: Come to the consulate and see me, and we’ll get you back to the USA.”

“As you yourself told me, Seá±or, after New Year’s Day.” She laid a clean cloth over the table and began to lay out silverware. “I can not risk to try to disobey the Herreras until then.”

“But you know they’ll do more to your head. Your memories, skills, knowledge…”

“Yes, Seá±or. But like Seá±or Herrera told you, if I fight them, if I try to escape, if I do not work hard–if I do anything to make them angry, I will lose more. If I obey, if I act like they want, I will lose less.”

“ ¿So you won’t come to me before January?”

“I cannot.” She looked away. “Besides, I cannot trust you. You–your office–wants a…a ‘guinea pig’ just like Don Pablo. If you are paying him to get the information, then I think you might keep me prisoner, to get more information.”

“No, we’d need to see how you manage your new circumstances on your own–just like Pablo Herrera will.”

“Maybe, but I cannot trust you. Don Pablo is evil, but I trust him to keep his word.”

“ ¿And José Herrera?”

She spat on the ground. “He is a… a…” Her Spanish failed her. “He is psychopath!”

Bianchi tended to agree. “I understand, you’re in a bad situation. ‘A rock and a hard place’. They’re grinding you away, bit by bit. I think of Pablo Herrera’s team as…well, maybe as sculptors, carving a peasant girl out of the marble of a norteamericano. Maybe it’s a bad analogy.” He sat at the table. “But please,  ¿could you make me a cup of coffee?”

Pansy replied, “Yes, of course, Seá±or,” curtsied, then flushed and went to the cupboard to fetch the coffee. As she busied herself, Bianchi asked, “ ¿How much memory do you have of growing up as a girl? I understand that they’ve given you a new biography. I know it’s false, and so do you, but tell me about it.  ¿Where was Pansy-Ann Baca born?”

Pansy described her imposed memories in detail as she worked, and recounted what she could recall of George’s life. She finished by explaining, “Of course, even for what I think I remember about George, I don’t know if it’s true. I must wait until I am free before I can recover anything. Even if I find something now, I am sure the doctors will erase it again.”

“Pansy, I have to say, I doubt it will matter. You will live your life as Pansy-Ann, a Honduran woman. The details of your old life as a man would be just a distraction, and irrelevant.”

“ ¡No! I mean, yes, Seá±or, I will have to live as a woman, but I will be a norteamericana. I am a norteamericana. I was born in Oklamo, and I am a US citizen. I will need some of those details.” She finished setting the table.

José appeared in the doorway. “Buenos dá­as,” he greeted them. “Seá±or Bianchi,  ¿have you had a good discussion with Pansy?  ¿Has she been cooperative?” He sat at the table and added, “Please, sit down. Join me in a cup of coffee.” Turning to Pansy, he ordered, “Pour us two cups, girl.”

“Thank you, Seá±or. Yes, it’s been productive,” Bianchi replied. “And yes, she’s cooperated well, although I think she’d rather not. Certainly she doesn’t trust me–she told me so, straight out–but that’s quite rational. After all, as she pointed out, my office is supporting your project.”

“ ¿And what do you think?”

“My detailed report is confidential, of course. But I think I can say that the Ovid Project shows promise. Pansy-Ann is not a campesina, and much of the original personality remains–but there is definite movement towards your goal.” He raised the freshly-poured coffee to his lips and admired the sparkle of the morning sun reflecting off the breeze-rippled lagoon in the near distance. “By the way, I looked up the Roman poet Ovid, and his magnum opus.”

“Of course. It seemed appropriate to name the project after him.”

“I agree. But in the poem, Tiresias succeeded in regaining his male identity after seven years.  ¿What about Pansy?”

“Hopeless. Maybe she can escape her intended campesina status, but that’s the most she can hope for. We’ll see.”

“Indeed. I’m done here, so I’ll be heading back to San Pedro after breakfast. I must say, you’ve been a good host.” He grinned: “I especially compliment your efficient one-woman staff. She’s made my stay here very pleasant.”

“I knew she would. Not exactly willingly, as you note–but in a few years, after her metamorphosis is completed, she should really be this way by nature. Again, we’ll have to wait and see.”
 
 
April 1
-- Before dawn, and long before Seá±or Herrera would awaken, Pansy got out of bed, slipped on a skirt and blouse, and crept from the house to walk along the shore. The sky was pink in the east, shading to midnight blue overhead. Frigatebirds, silhouetted against the rosy horizon, were already rising from their roosts in the mangroves. Raucous calls from the tern colony announced the new day. A steady northeast breeze carried the odor of salt and mud from the mangrove flats. Pansy’s nausea had subsided, but her breasts were swelling again, and she thought her waist was a bit thicker. Or was it just her imagination? Pregnancy was an affliction of women, and the former Seá±or Cualquiera knew little about what to expect. It scared the hell out of him!

Today was her twentieth birthday: a horrible way to celebrate it! But where would she be, what would she be doing, on her twenty-first? She tried to think about her future–if any. In nine months, Don Pablo promised, she’d be free. She had fantasized about it for a long time, but really, what could she do with freedom? Don Pablo had held out some hope that she’d be able to escape from a menial status; but he had also implied that it would be difficult. She needed to consider the hand she was dealt, and how best to play it. Two years ago she had been playing poker in Atlanta with… whoever–their names were lost. Celia remained clear in her memory, and for a moment Pansy idly wondered what she was doing. Seá±or Cualquiera could have been happily married now, she mused. Shaking off her memories, she returned to the problem at hand. She had Celia’s problem, and then some. Upon her release, she’d be Pansy Baca, by all appearances a Honduran woman with a baby but no husband. And no family. And no credentials of any kind. There was one more liability. She hated to admit it, but they had definitely attained one of their goals: she enjoyed sex as a woman. A lot. And sex meant that she’d need a man.

Against those liabilities, what assets did she have? Well, there were a few, the ones Don Pablo had intended to give her. She was pretty, with a nice body. She was a good seamstress and a trained maid. And a damn good whore, she admitted; José had done what he’d promised. Well, if she was attractive and sexy, maybe she could use those attributes to help her achieve her goal. Some assets were also left to her from her previous existence. She had a technical education, good in math and chemistry. Or at least she thought she did; she’d have to check that none had been erased. She spoke English well–she was tempted to say, like a native, but now she was uncertain. Could these assets be used, given her present identity? Possibly, but it wouldn’t be easy, given her liabilities. Especially the new baby. Somehow she couldn’t see Suzi providing child care while she worked. She’d laugh herself sick! An abortion? She dismissed the possibility. It wouldn’t be allowed while she was still within her two-year captivity, and the baby would arrive before her release. No coincidence, that. Give it up for adoption? Conceivable but unlikely; she rather thought Don Pablo would block that exit. OK, she’d probably be saddled with the brat–at least until her release. As a maid, Susana’s maid, there’d be no problem, of course; she could easily handle that job with an infant. Despite herself, she admired the don’s ingenuity in trapping her.

One more asset, if it was that: she was valuable to the doctors who had worked on her and put her in this fix. She had been told that. It was a mixed blessing, because it was also in their interests to see that she didn’t escape. But at least they’d see she didn’t starve or die of some treatable disease.

There were also assets locked away. She did have a family and friends. And credentials: a degree from Oklamo State, a U.S. passport. All useless unless she could prove her true identity–an identity she didn’t even know. Her baby would still be a liability, even if these assets could be tapped, but it wouldn’t be an insuperable problem. Of course, there was another liability: she was a freak, a man who’d gotten pregnant. Probably there’d be little chance of a normal life. She sighed. Her difficulties were multiplied by her pregnancy. She supposed that, from Susana’s point of view, it was only fair that Seá±or Cualquiera should discover that in a personal way. Celia’d probably appreciate it too. And Mará­a Banderas.

The problem was laid out: how to save herself from her intended life, trapped as Susana’s maid, and make a new start. An optimum solution would allow her to regain her old identity, with its American citizenship; the first step would be to find what that identity had been. From there, the path was still full of pitfalls, and not simple at all: finding the identity it was one thing, but proving it was another. A minimal solution would be to make a new life–a decent life–with her remaining assets, as Pansy Baca. And that too would be difficult.

She finally concluded, reluctantly, that Don Pablo was correct. However she looked at her problem, the only solution she could find was to get married after her release from servitude. She needed to find a good man, one who’d allow her some independence and give her support, to recover her career. Not a campesino! Never!

She gazed over the ocean. The sun had risen, and already it was getting hot. “ ¡Jesáºs y Mará­a!” she thought; “ ¡It must be 6:15 already!  ¡I need to offer a fuck to Seá±or Herrera!  ¡And breakfast is not ready yet!” Hitching up her skirt, she ran across the sand and coral rock. There might still be time to avoid a disaster.
 
 
April 11
-- Pansy got up at dawn again to please Seá±or Herrera and to prepare breakfast. As was her habit, she lost herself in the work, thinking as little as possible. When he appeared at the table, she served him dispassionately and efficiently. He flew to La Ceiba after breakfast, leaving Pansy alone on the island again, and she busied herself cleaning up. The flight to and from town wouldn’t take long, and he’d be back for lunch.

Pansy served lunch on his return. As she cleared the table and prepared to do the dishes, José leaned back in his chair and looked at his maid almost fondly. It was hard to believe, but George Deon–he allowed himself to use the name–was concealed in that luscious and compliant body. Well hidden: the body held no trace of him, and the mind had been conditioned very differently. Seá±or Deon had walled his ego off from the stress of Pansy’s life, to preserve it intact. “Dissociative Disorder” was the technical term. The drawback, from George’s point of view, was that the “Pansy” persona could be shaped with little resistance, and would become dominant. José hoped that George Deon would have a long and unhappy life in that pretty little cage of a body. The cage was securely barred, and there was no reason to kill its occupant.

The chips had been used only sparingly for a month, and not at all for two weeks, but the conditioning was holding. Two more men had come to the island to enjoy Pansy’s company, and he himself had slept with her frequently. There was no lessening of sexuality on Pansy’s part. Her body now provided adequate sex drive and orgasmic reward by itself. Her womanly skills were quite adequate; her deportment was exemplary; and her docility was undeniable. As she had been conditioned, she curtsied automatically, without thinking. Susana’d be pleased at the results. And soon. It was about time for delivery.

He gestured to Pansy.

She hurried over. “ ¿Seá±or?  ¿What can I do for you?”

“Get me a rum coke.”

“Sá­, Seá±or.  ¿With ice or without?”

“With, but only a little.”

She gave another curtsy and hurried off to fetch it. José sighed; he’d miss her. However, he had other things to do; his life had been on hold since he had accepted this project. The vacation had been pleasant, but it had kept him from doing many other things.

Pansy returned with the drink. He caught her eye. “We’re going to take a trip to San Pedro today, Pansy. You need another checkup, and you’ll have it at the clinic in the morning. You’ll be three months pregnant next week, you know.”

She flushed and looked away. “I know, Seá±or.”

“If you like, you can go shopping afterwards. And we could spend a day at Tela. I know you used to like to visit there.”

She glanced at him suspiciously. Tela was where Seá±or Cualquiera had trysted with Susana, and where he had abandoned her shamefully. Nevertheless, she remembered it fondly. “Certainly, Seá±or.  ¿Do you want me to pack your clothes?”

“Please.”

She gave him another curtsy and left to prepare. The new letters she had written would finally get mailed!
 
 
April 12
-- The next morning they left their hotel, near the clinic. José took her in early for her checkup, so that Weiss, Herná¡ndez, and Ibá¡á±ez could see that nothing had gone wrong with their masterpiece. They concluded that Pansy was eminently healthy, and that she carried a normal healthy fetus. However, their specialties did not at all qualify them for prenatal medical practice, and with Don Pablo’s approval, they took Pansy to a gynecologist in Comayagua, Doctor Isabel Cantáº. She was left ignorant of Pansy’s peculiar history.

After poking, prodding, taking a blood sample, and examining a sonogram, Doctor CantẠconfirmed their collective opinion: “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, this woman appears to have a normal pregnancy, barring any surprises in the blood tests. The fetus seems healthy. Her pelvic structure is adequate, and in the natural course of things she can expect a normal delivery.  ¿Was there any particular problem I should be aware of?”

“No, Doctor, I expect no problems, but gynecology isn’t my specialty, and we felt that we ought to have you look at her. She had extensive abdominal surgery, as you undoubtedly noticed, but it healed well with no complications. She’ll be back for routine examinations and the final delivery as your patient, if you accept her. Don Pablo will be responsible for the bill.”

She sniffed: “ ¿Another charity patient? Yes, I suppose I’ll take her. Her husband should pay, though. If she has one. Yes, I noticed the abdominal scar. It’s quite recent, but as you say, she seems to have healed well, and the surgeon did an excellent job of keeping the scarring to a minimum. The surgery doesn’t seem to have affected her ability to carry a child.”

After she left the doctors shook hands. Herná¡ndez remarked to Weiss, straight-faced, “With all due respect to Doctor Cantáº, I must disagree with her conclusion. I think your surgery indeed affected her ability to carry a child. Quite strongly affected it, in fact.” They burst out laughing, but Pansy didn’t join in.

Ibá¡á±ez commented to Weiss, “It seems even a medical examination–at least, a routine exam–doesn’t show abnormalities. Doctor, I congratulate you on a job well done.”

“Thank you. I’m delighted with the results so far, of course, but there’s one more test remaining. We must see yet whether Pansy is fertile in the normal course of events.”

José chimed in. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I believe the result of your work–all three of you–will ensure that the needed experiments are done. I see evidence for that anyway.”

Pansy, sitting on a bench after her examination, flushed but kept silent.

The doctors advised José to keep her close, at least until the child was born. Weiss was insistent. “José, she’s a medical wonder. She’s done well, considering the massive changes in her body. Nevertheless, you must know that complications are still possible. She’s unique. During her pregnancy she should be near medical assistance. You have some medical training, but you’re a psychologist. She could need a surgeon quickly.”

He agreed. “Soon I’ll finish Pansy’s training on the island, and then, until she has her baby, she can remain closer to the clinic. Susana’s place is near enough, I think.”

Ibá¡á±ez asked to speak privately with Pansy. “José, all signs indicate that her conditioning’s taken, but I’d still like to interview her. It’s really necessary for my study.  ¿Could you bring her in after lunch?”

“Of course, Doctor.  ¿How long do you expect you’ll need?”

“Not long. Say, two hours. I’ll talk to her and run a few tests. I wish we had tests from her earlier self as a control, but testing him was impractical, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll have her back at 1 o’clock.”

José and Pansy left before noon, He took her to lunch at a good restaurant and told her that their psychologist would test her again. “But Ibá¡á±ez thinks our work with you is nearly done, and we can send you back to Suzi. Your new life there should stabilize your transformation. The routine of your job as a maid, and the pressures of society, will see to that.”

Pansy knew that José was certainly correct over the short run, but she retained higher ambitions than a career as a maid, for Susana or anyone else. She was capable of more. She knew better than to contradict him, though. “With respect, Seá±or Herrera, I do not think I object to working for Susana, even though I know that she will make me work hard. I do not want to stay with you, and I will be happy to see you no more. I do not think I have a choice anyway,  ¿true?”

“True. You’ve been given more freedom of movement, but that’s only because your options are limited. At the end of the year–eight months and a bit–all your formal restrictions will be removed, but now you’re still subject to our wishes.”

“And then I can just return to my old life. I can go back to the U.S., return to my profession as a chemist, as if this couple of years was a bad dream.” Her tone was bitter.

He chuckled. “At least you can try. I bet you think about it a lot. We’ll watch with interest. You’re intelligent enough–if not nearly so intelligent as you used to be. Maybe you’ll find some ingenious way to escape the life we’ve planned for you. I rather think most aspects of your old life are beyond recovery, though. Probably all of them. We’ll see,  ¿won’t we?”

After lunch Pansy managed to drop off her letters surreptitiously. Upon their return to the clinic, José handed her over to Ibá¡á±ez. “Seá±orita Baca,” he greeted her cheerfully, “Good afternoon. I’ve looked forward to this meeting. You’ve changed a lot since I last saw you.”

She looked at the short stout man in a white lab coat with hatred. “Doctor Ibá¡á±ez, I am not happy to see you–unless I get to see you in Hell. I think you have been responsible for my treatment in many ways.”

“Yes, that’s right. You’re still my responsibility until the end of the year, but I think most of my work’s finished. I asked for this meeting to evaluate the results.”

Pansy looked away. She hated to cooperate, but she knew she was still helpless. Rebellion had always left her worse off. “Very well, Seá±or. Do what you want.”

He led her to a small cubicle with a wooden chair and desk. A blank form lay on the desk. “I have a couple of tests for you. The first is a psychological evaluation. Here, take a look.”

Pansy glanced at the form. “It looks like a short version of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Analysis. I have seen it, but not in Spanish before now.”

Slightly annoyed, Ibá¡á±ez remarked, “So you’re familiar with it. I thought you were a chemist.  ¿Where did you see it before?”

“In a psychology course, and then again when I applied for a job.  ¿What else is there?”

“When you finish the MMPA, I’ll give you an IQ test. You can start this now. This button will call me when you’re done,” he added, pointing to a button on the desk.

He left her, and she settled down to fill in the test. It was familiar, and she finished fairly soon. It gave her a headache, though. She rang for Ibá¡á±ez, and he was there within a minute.

“Good, good. Here’s the next test.” He handed it to her. “It has a time limit. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

She had it completed when he returned, but her headache was worse, and she’d begun to feel sick. “Here it is, Seá±or.  ¿What now?”

A Rorschach test took a few minutes, then another IQ test, this one designed for both literates and illiterates. The doctor administered the test orally. Then he told her to write two essays, one in English on her childhood days and a second in Spanish on Las Rosas. “I’ll give you ten minutes for each.”

The English essay was a nightmare. She hunted for words and couldn’t find them. In some cases she substituted Spanish without even noticing. When the essays were done, her headache was terrible. She complained to Ibá¡á±ez; he gave her an aspirin, then took her to another room for an interview. He told Pansy that it was being recorded. “It serves two purposes, Seá±orita. The first is analysis of your personality, and the second is simply to discover, if you’ll tell us, what your plans are when you’re released. In return, I may be able to answer any questions you might have. I emphasize, may be able; I’m not free to answer all questions.”

Pansy leaned forward. “Fair enough, Doctor. First:  ¿Who am I? Or better,  ¿who was I?”

“Well put, my dear. The two aren’t the same. The answer to the first question is Pansy-Ann Baca, of course. The answer to the second I cannot reveal to you. Seá±or Cualquiera, as I think you call him, must remain anonymous. He is dying, anyhow. And to forestall further questions along that line, I may not replace any of your lost memories.  ¿What else?”

She slumped back. “I did not expect an answer to that question, Doctor. I ask this one:  ¿Will you let me find the answer myself?  ¿Or will I always be stopped from knowing who I was?”

“I’m not certain. That’s up to the don. I think you’ll be free to search. If that’s so, then you won’t get any help, but there won’t be any hindrance. I’d ask Don Pablo; I think he’ll tell you the truth.”

She sat up again. “For a few months I will be Susana’s maid. I am resigned to that. And I believe Don Pablo when he tells me I will be free to leave after that. But he is very powerful. His help could make a big difference in my search for an alternative.  ¿What can I expect?”

“Again, I’m not certain, but I think he’ll be neutral. Ask him.”

“I am pregnant. After the baby is born, I will need to care for it. That will make it very difficult for me to go to work.  ¿Will I receive any assistance in caring for the baby?  ¿Will I be allowed to take him with me when I leave?”

“My guess is, you’ll be free to take the child anywhere, but you’ll not be allowed to mistreat or neglect it. While you stay with the Herreras, you and the child will be provided for, but there’ll be no assistance if you leave. You’ll be on your own.”

She nodded. “I see. Tying me to Susana. I understood that already, but I wanted it confirmed.”

Ibá¡á±ez pointed out that she was no more tied down than any other unmarried mother. “Including Susana. You should be aware that her child has greatly limited her choices. And the arrangement tying you to Seá±orita Herrera is no stronger than it is for any other campesina. If you find another way to support yourself and the baby, you are free to use it.”

Flushing, she admitted the parallel. “I can argue that she has more resources than me. But yes, I understand. Don Pablo made certain that I will understand the problems of a single mother. Now, Doctor,  ¿what about you?  ¿What about your research? I know that I am your prime… prime ‘guinea pig’.  ¿Are you finished with me?”

“Basically, yes. There’ll be a little more in the next few months, maybe. And there’ll be no more experiments after your release. That’s if you behave properly for Seá±orita Herrera. If your behavior is unsatisfactory in any way, we retain the privilege of further action. You see, we won’t want any more changes in you. We’ll just want to know if the changes in your personality will be permanent.”

“Doctor, this is not my field, but I am a scientist, and I think as an experiment I am badly designed, if you forgive my criticism. Too complicated.  ¿Do I behave like I do because of your conditioning?  ¿Or is it this pretty new body you have put me into, with its new chemistry and all?”

Ibá¡á±ez frowned at first, but then he laughed. “Pansy, my congratulations. I and my colleagues put forward exactly that objection at the beginning of this project. For obvious reasons, Don Pablo insisted that the experiment be done his way. Yes, we’ll need other experiments to obtain definitive answers to that question. Simpler ones, as you say.  ¿Have you thought of going into psychology, Seá±orita? You might have a bright future there.”

She glared at him. “Doctor, you made sure that my choice of careers is limited. I am intended for maid service and nothing more,  ¿remember? Now, I am about out of questions. Those you are willing to answer, at any rate. Ask me yours.”

He shook his head. “I don’t need to. You’ve answered me already. I wanted to know your intentions and desires for the future. I wanted to know if your ‘Seá±or Cualquiera’ was still there. I wanted a feel for your present personality. I have all that. You’re free to go. José’s waiting in the outer office.”

She straightened her skirt, picked up her purse, and returned to the entrance, where Seá±or Herrera waited.

They spent the rest of the afternoon shopping, as promised. José told her he’d treat her to any clothes she’d like. “Or at least anything within reason and within your restrictions. Susana tells me, no slacks.” Pansy cursed the day Seá±or Cualquiera had expressed his opinions concerning women in skirts to Suzi, but at least she had spent a good deal of José’s money on fashionable dresses. José reminded her, “You’d better pick out some maternity clothes too. Your belly’s going to be bulging soon.” She swore at him silently, but followed his advice. When they finished shopping, he asked if there was anything else she’d like.

“ ¡My freedom and my manhood!” she retorted.

He laughed. “I think you know that your manhood is beyond recall, sweetling. You’d better learn to enjoy your womanhood; it’s all you’ll ever have now.”

She followed him reluctantly. “I know it, damn you. It may be all I have, but I do not enjoy it. I never will.”

“ ¿Oh?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “In bed you certainly seem to enjoy a woman’s pleasures.  ¿Don’t you like sex?  ¿Or am I wrong?”

“You know you are right. You control my physical reactions.”

“Sweet cheeks, you react like any normal girl. If you think back to the women you seduced–and I know you still remember the sexual adventures you had when you used to be a man–you’ll realize you’re just like them. Your body makes you enjoy sex. Nature designed you to make babies, and that pleasure’s a bribe, in a way, to persuade you to bear children.”

She had no immediate rebuttal. What he said was true, she knew. But after brief thought she argued, “I do not enjoy it. My body enjoys it.”

He chuckled again. “That’s sophistry, my dear, as I think you know. You’ll come to recognize that you want sex after you’ve been without it for a while. Not your body:  ¡you! Just as much as you ever did when you were a man. Now,  ¿is there anything else?  ¿Freedom, I think you said? You’ll have it in January.  ¿What will you do with it?”

“I will go back home. If I must be woman, I will rather be woman in the United States. And since I am still a citizen of there, I will go back in a minute if I am free.” Then she’d devote the rest of her life to revenge, especially on José.

“ ¿Will you really? I doubt it. Even if you could, you’re better off in Honduras. Here you have a job. There, nothing. You’re better off here.”

She shook her head violently. “ ¡I will go… I would go back in a minute!  ¡Just give me the chance!”

They reached his car and got in. As he pulled away from the curb he told her, “There’s a consulate here in San Pedro. I’ll take you there tomorrow if you wish, and you can try to get a new passport.  ¿In what name would you like it?”

“ ¡Yes!  ¡Oh, yes!” Then she recalled her experience at the embassy in Tegus. Her face fell and she said dejectedly, “I know it is not possible now, like you do. I can not prove I am American. They will not help me.” But it had to be possible. There was evidence: genetic testing, scars from her surgery, dental records. Once she was released–it was less than nine months now–she could assemble the proof that she was really a norteamericano. Then she corrected herself sadly in her mind: she had been a norteamericano, in a different universe, such a long time ago. But she was still a norteamericana, and she was entitled to recognition as such. She would go back. And if the Herreras were correct, and she was indeed trapped, at least she could take her revenge.

After dinner and a poor movie, they returned to the hotel. That night José had her seduce him again, and she did so with enthusiasm. Although she was three months pregnant, her body responded as well as ever, even without any prodding from a relay. “Ibá¡á±ez did as good a job as Weiss,” José told himself as Pansy reached climax. “She’s no counterfeit woman in her mind either.”
 
 
April 13
-- After lunch, José gave Pansy the afternoon off. “Enjoy yourself at the beach,” he told her. “I’ll meet you here at 3:30, and then we’ll return to Golondrinas.” She donned her yellow bikini under his appreciative eye, and he left. She marveled at the deeply bronzed color of her skin–it was set off well by the bikini–and thought, “I never got a tan like this before. My skin always ended up burned instead. But then, I never spent a month on a Caribbean island before.” After applying sunscreen out of habit, she lay on a blanket, where she was ogled by the local men. She ignored them. By now she was accustomed to their admiring stares. A remaining fragment of Seá±or Cualquiera resented the attention, but Pansy had concluded that her only escape was to find a middle-class husband, and now she welcomed the evidence, given by the male leers, that she was attractive. José met her in midafternoon, and they were back at Golondrinas in time for Pansy to prepare a supper of red snapper.