“Sometimes, when you’re surrounded by problems, all you can do is concentrate on the most immediate one, in this case, nausea. Lying in the trunk of a moving car, completely unable to move my arms and with precious little ability to move anything else, covered in something like a bag, all I could do was think of not being sick. Being sick into a gag could choke me. The journey seemed as long as the rest of my life to date, but just pure misery. Eventually the car bumped and stopped, banging of doors, sound of boot being opened, hands pulling at the “bag” covering me, my gag was loosened and I could feel a nozzle from a water bottle rubbing against my lips. I drank a little, then gasped,

“Please, sick, please, sick.”

A kind of grunt, I was being lifted out of the boot and my feet placed on the ground. I had no shoes, the ground was rough, gravel. Some hands steadied me until I was able to balance, not easy when blindfolded and shackled. I was led by the collar, just a few paces, turned to my right and pushed backwards. I could feel that I was into the open door of a car. A hand pushed my head down gently, like in the American cop movies, and I was sitting on the seat, feet outside. I had developed sufficient awareness of my placing that I was able to lift my legs and pull them into the car.

“Quiet, yes?”

Either that or the gag again; I nodded,

“Quiet yes, thanks Sir.”

In school we had called this “sucking up to”. I saw no disadvantage in playing that role now. Self-respect is a flexible concept.

The car moved off again, me sitting in what was obviously the back seat. The drive was more tolerable now and with my fears of choking myself allayed, my mind was crowded with fear of what was happening and to come. I struggled to think of good things, Lisa, our time out in Athens, “Lets go girls”. Pain kept intruding; the handcuffs were rigid and soon my wrists began to ache. I also had to keep leaning forward to stop them digging into the small of my back; they were too rigid to let me move my arms to the side. Eventually I found some comfort with my head leaning on the back of the passenger seat ahead of me; in those days there were no head rests. Strangely, in this position, every so often I felt the driver’s hand reaching back to stroke my head. I resisted the temptation to say “Woof, Woof”, but it did make me feel like a dog.

The car had slowed down, there was a lot of honking of horns, we were going around corners, stopping suddenly, moving off again. Eventually things quietened down a bit, but we were moving forward slowly, in low gear, weaving, then we stopped. Some banging of car doors, I could feel the door beside me open, my legs were lifted and pulled outside, some pulling at the “bag” or whatever covered me, then I was slowly being dragged out of the car by my collar. There was quite a lot of street noise around me; surely this can’t be happening in public. Led along slowly, I had to learn stepping short. If I didn’t, my leg was suddenly stopped by the shackle which hurt my ankles. A short walk later, I was stopped, a door creaked, I was led inside. I knew this because it was cool; outside was very hot. The door shut, the “bag” was pulled from over me, part relief from the heat, part realization that I was now displayed in a harem costume. The blindfold was pulled up off my head. The usual blinking around trying to get my bearings.

I was standing in a small, poorly lit area, carpets on the floor, tapestries hanging around. Mastar was standing beside me, holding a black loose long garment in his hands, like that worn by Afghan women. Obviously this was the “bag” that I had been wearing. He took the loose chain end and now led me at a bit of a distance, into the room, then behind a tapestry, and to an old door bolted top and bottom, Mastar opened the bolts and lead me in. He turned on a light, there were no windows. We were in a relatively large room. On one side there was a large table, almost the size of a billiards table, made of dark wood, a few chairs, something like a large A frame leaning up against a wall in one corner, two old looking doors with two large bolts on top and bottom, both open. My eyes caught some metal rings screwed into the ceiling beams. Shit!

Mastar led me through one of the doors into a small room. Again, there was no window. There was one small table against a wall, a mirror on the wall above it, a kip mat rolled up in one corner with some bedspreads or blankets folded beside that. In one corner, a shower, eastern toilet and washbasin with a surrounding curtain, pulled back. I did notice that the light switch was inside the door; at least I would have control of my own light!

The loose end of the “surplus” chain attached to my collar was then attached with a padlock to another chain, in turn attached to a ring on a bar which ran the full length of the room. I could move around; I hoped I could lie down. Mastar stood behind me and pulled me back, into him. His hands came around to my front; some rubbing inside my top, under my harem pants, nibbling of my ear and neck. He stepped back, fiddled with my handcuffs and I felt my hands being released. It was such a relief to be able to bring my hands to my front; I rubbed my wrists, then the front of my shoulders. Mastar started to massage my shoulders; I just relaxed into it, take relief from wherever it comes. Then a slap on the ass and he left; both bolts on my cell door were shot home, then I heard the bolts on the outer door being closed as well.

I looked around my new home. Strangely, my first concern was to ensure that I could lie down. I rolled out the kip mat, threw a bedspread, or whatever, over this and lay down. I had a foot to spare; OK, I can sleep. The sink taps worked, the shower water worked, the toilet worked, there were some large towels. I was conscious that I had been wearing the same, probably polyester, harem set for a few days and felt that it was now quite dirty. I took it off, threw it into the sink, wrapped myself in a towel and washed it with the soap on the sink. I hung it in the shower to dry. Now that I had nothing to do, I started to feel the collar around my neck, dragging me down. I sat on the table in my towel, holding the chain to my shackles with my hands to get some relief. Eventually, feeling really weary, I lay down, thought of Lisa and sobbed. I was at a low ebb; I thought things couldn’t get lower; naive, wasn’t I?”

“Not really,” Helen answered. “you had no reference points, no way of knowing how things would go. Was this the first time you really cried?”

“I think so…I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused…”

“No problem… whenever you’re ready…”

Helen had arrived this morning as expected. Lisa said that she’d meet her first and bring her to me. As the door opened in the room where I was sitting I heard Lisa’s voice…

“Whatever, take it easy on her…”

Now Helen and I were alone… I’m struggling with memories…

“A long time later, I’ve no idea of time, a young woman came into the room. She had a tray which she left on the table. She took something from the tray and came over to me… she had two small blue pills in her hand. I looked at them, at her, she nodded and gave me a glass of water. WTF… they would be forced down my mouth in any event… I took them. She was about 19/20, I couldn’t guess what race, maybe Greek or Turkish, pretty. She was wearing a kaftan type dress. I saw bruises on her ankles; she probably had recently been shackled herself. She reached out a hand to help me up, I took it, got up, chains clanking as I steadied myself. She gestured to the tray… some plates of food on it. There was no chair; I pantomimed sitting, she shook her head. I knew that there were chairs in the outer room, I just wasn’t allowed to have one. She glanced over at my clothes hanging in the shower to dry and left the room. I washed my hands and started to eat, slowly. I reckoned that I had plenty of time, and the boredom of having nothing to do was very wearing.

The girl returned after about half an hour with some clothes, a long, brightly coloured, sarong-type wrap skirt and a short top. She helped me to put on the top. It was laced in front with two lace holes each side and about a hand width gap between the edges when closed. I remember thinking that it would have looked good on a woman with nice boobs, and somewhat regretting that I didn’t have any. I then thought that this was a strange thought to be having in the circumstances. She demonstrated how to wrap and fasten the skirt and left again. I took off my towel, put on the skirt and got back to being bored again.

A long time later, the door opened again, Mastar this time. He had a chair which he proceeded to sit on, leaving me sitting on my kip mat on the ground. He reached down and put a loop in the chain between my collar and shackles using a small padlock. Now I couldn’t stand.

“Mastar”,

pointing to himself. Then pointing to me,

“Xania”.

I said nothing, “Mastar” sounded too close to “Master” in English and I had two names of my own, one given by my parents, the other by Lisa and Maria. I wanted to hold on to my own identity, I felt that it was all I had left now. Again, pointing at himself, then me,

“Mastar, Xania”.

He put a foot on the shackle chain, close to the shackle. This was pushing the shackle down into my ankle; it hurt. I decided to play stupid.

“Mastar,” pointing to me, “Xania”, pointing to him.

He shook his head, again pointing to himself and then me.

“Mastar, Xania”.

Now I got really stupid,

“You Tarzan, me Jane”.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face; I expected to be punched. I wasn’t. He reached into the pocket of his robe and took out something that looked like a small policeman’s baton It was about a foot long, about two fingers wide, one end was a handle, the other had a leather cover. He was moving in a slow, maddening way, I couldn’t tell if this was just his way or if he realized that anticipation can be as bad, or worse, than actual punishment. He took off the cover and turned a switch at the end of the handle. He held up one finger to me, then reached down, grabbed the chain of my shackle where his foot was resting, and quickly pulled my leg up, tipping me backwards against the wall. He waited until I had recovered and could watch him, then touched the baton off the sole of my foot. I convulsed as an electric shock ran up my leg and gave an involuntary yelp of pain. He got up, went out, came back with a long strip of material and the rigid handcuffs. He grabbed one wrist and twisted my arm, pushing my body down, then grabbed the other wrist and did the same. I felt the handcuffs being fitted and locked, awkwardly my palms were facing outward. Pinched nose and the gag was forced into my mouth when I went to breath. He pulled me into an upright sitting position against the wall, watching him, I could feel myself shaking. Again, pointing,

“Mastar, Xania”.

I still hadn’t learned, I shook my head, expecting the baton to be applied again. Nothing happened, he reached into his pocket, slowly, and took out a condom. He showed it to me, then tipped it off the business end of the baton. He didn’t rush, he had to give me time to realize the implications of his gestures.

“Mastar, Xania”.

I knew that I was beaten. I nodded. He took off the gag and looked at me, pointing to himself.

“Mastar”,

I answered. That word was easy to remember and pronounce. He pointed to me, I tried to remember the pronunciation,

“Xan…, Xan…,”

“Xania”.

He knew I was trying and needed to hear my new name again.

“Xania”, I repeated.

He nodded and left the room, leaving me handcuffed and hunched over because of the shortened chain. Again, the slow insidious cramping and just constant pain from the way I was tied up was as bad as the electric shock, just not as intense. I needed to reevaluate, I couldn’t win by resisting, I would just be beaten into submission. I had to play a long game, keep as well as I could, look around for whatever opportunities would arise to alleviate my situation, maybe even escape… no, don’t get your hopes up I told myself… just be patient. In the meantime, just pain…

He came back into the room after what seemed like an eternity and pulled me back up into the sitting position. I had been kneeling with my head on the ground to try and get some relief from the way I was tied. He pointed to himself,

“Mastar”, I responded. Then he pointed to me.

“Xania” I answered to his unspoken command.

He nodded then reached into his pocket and took out what looked like a small metal cross. What didn’t he have down his robe! He reached in and pulled me back into the kneeling position and unlocked my hands. The “cross” was some kind of multi-key. Again, the relief of being able to move my shoulders. He then unlocked the padlock shortening my chain and helped me to my feet. I eventually got to stand steady as the pain began to subside; now time to show that I’d learned my lesson. I turned towards him and, in so far as my shackles would allow, I curtsied, slowly. He looked surprised, then the ghost of a smile. Using his multikey, he unlocked one chain from my collar, leaving the collar on my neck, still connected to the metal bar across the roof. Then he removed my shackles, pushed them under the table and shuffled out… more bolts slammed shut. I consoled myself that Round 1 was a draw. I had been forced to acknowledge my new name and his mastery, but I had been rewarded by having most of my chains removed. Lesson learned.

Boredom again. I still ached a bit and my foot was sore from the electric baton so I couldn’t even pace. I wondered why I was kidnapped and by now had deduced that it definitely wasn’t ransom, why give me a new name. It seemed like I was to be held as a slave, but for what purpose? I had some suspicions but pushed these aside. I had determined to deal with things as they arise, not spend my time imagining torments in the future.

Eventually the same girl came back, more food and a large bottle of water. This time she was dressed in a very revealing, blue, belly-dancing outfit and her face was heavily made up. Her hands were painted with some blue designs, henna I learned later. The “skirt” of her outfit hung down to the ground at the front and back, but without sides other than a thin belt, hung low, well below her waist. There was some Arabic writing tattooed on the outside of her upper legs, reaching up from midway above her knees almost to her hips.
I guessed that she was about to start work.
I pointed to the clothes I was wearing and said,

“Thanks”.

She looked and said,

“Thanks, Shukran”

“Thanks, Shukran”

Shukran must mean Thanks. I had had my first Arabic lesson. I pointed to myself,

“Xania”

She repeated my name then pointed to herself,

“Mayda”

I repeated her name, and she pointed to the Arabic writing on her thighs, first one, then the other, and repeated.

“Mayda”.

She smiled and left.

My suspicions as to why I was kidnapped were being confirmed. Again, I tried to push these aside. I ate the food, slowly. It kept me occupied for some time at least. I guessed that it was night-time; Mayda had been going to work in what was mainly a night-time pursuit. I wasn’t really tired, probably pumped up with adrenaline, but eventually I turned out the light and tried to go to sleep. I slept fitfully, drifting off sometimes, lying awake at others. I could just about hear some noise, like a party or the sounds of a bar, but I wasn’t sure. I might just have been imagining it. I lay there, I kept telling myself not to let go, stay alive, stay well… eventually I drifted off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept. I heard the sounds of the outer door bolts being opened, but nobody came in. I could hear some taking, sounds like furniture being pulled around. It must be morning, but no sign of any breakfast arriving so maybe very early? My cell door opened suddenly and two heavy-set men that I’d never seen before virtually burst in, grabbed me by an arm each, unlocked the chain from my collar, and frog-marched me into the outer room. I had almost no time to take in the scene, at least two other men, a flash of colour that was a woman, something like a big old radio set on the table. I was propelled over to large A frame in the corner. Up close, it was like an overgrown artists easel, with a series of what I took to be peg holes running all the way along the heavy timber legs. I was held facing this while the woman came over and undid my top.

“If you just f***ing ask, I’ll do it myself”,

I blurted out before both arms being twisted reminded me to shut up. The top was pulled back over my shoulders and the two goons holding me slipped it down my arms and off. I was pivoted around to face the room and my arms were pulled above my head and fastened with cord to the A frame, first at my wrists and then at my elbows. I saw the size of the arms of the two goons; they were as big as my legs! Arms pinned, they grabbed an ankle each, pulled my legs apart and tied my ankles to the A frame. My sarong was pulled off, and my knees were tied off to the frame. This had the effect of twisting my legs outward, uncomfortably. While they were at my legs, the woman had come in behind me and tied a blindfold over my eyes. She put what felt like a smooth block of timber across the back of my neck and adjusted it to lie just at the base of my skull, probably held in place someway using the holes in the frame. Something with a material feel was brought across the front of my neck, behind the crossing timber, up and wrapped around my mouth as both a restraint and gag…”

“Need a break?”

Helen was watching me gripping the chair again. This time I was dressed less formally, a cotton vest top over a sports bra and a denim mini. My supply of dresses was limited and the previous day had alerted me that these sessions were akin to a workout. I was reliving the terror of that particular day, probably the worst day of my captivity. When I felt the cloth go around my neck I thought that I was about to be strangled. I waited a few minutes, composed myself, and said,

“No, let’s do this.”

“OK, whenever you’re ready…”

“Actually, that was the worst. I wasn’t strangled, I was still alive, there was still hope. I felt a stab in my ass, probably a needle. Then I felt a flat board being slid in behind my ass, another type of crossing timber… after that, it’s a blur.

I woke up flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling. I guessed, from the size of the ceiling that I was still in the outer room. I couldn’t move and spent the next few minutes trying to figure out why. I couldn’t be sure what part of me hurt the most, face, abdomen, nipples, and probably the worst, I felt like I had just been kicked in the groin. As consciousness returned and I could move my head to look around, I realized that I was tied down on the large table, arms spread out so that my hands were floating in thin air, and my left arm was attached to a drip. I drifted in and out of consciousness for some time, then became aware that Mayda was standing over me. She rubbed my forehead gently and, when sure I was awake, brought a water-bottle nozzle to my lips. I took a little and stopped as a wave of nausea spread over me. I could see her take the top off the bottle, wet her fingers, and rub them on my lips.

“Shukran”,

- thanks – I managed to croak. A small smile…

“Ahalan, was ahalan”

I later learned that this meant, effectively, “you’re welcome”. Mayda went over to the door and pressed something. Eventually the door opened and Mastar came in. He looked at the drip bag, it was about a quarter full. He grunted, directed Mayda out of the room, and left himself. She came back later, in her dancing clothes, to check on me; it must be near night again. She checked the drip bag, this time it was empty, and left. Shortly afterwards some man that I hadn’t seen before came in and changed the drip bag. He also brought the sort of bottle given to bed ridden patients in the hospital to pee which was a welcome relief. I’m guessing that he was a nurse. Some time later Mayda came in, offered me some water which I could now take, and left. She must have been going off-shift.

I must have spent the night strapped immobile to the table. The door opened in the morning and one of the goons came in. He must have spent 10 minutes untying me from the table. I went to get up when he just put a hand on my chest to stop me, then lifted me up and carried me into the cell. He had already left a chair in there, draped with a towel, and placed me into it very gently. I jumped a little when I sat, my groin was still sore. I was sitting in front of the mirror, I could see a ring in my left nostril and in both my nipples. My face looked a bit red. I looked down and saw another ring in my bellybutton. There was Arabic writing on the outside of both my upper legs, I guessed it must read “Xania”. I gingerly felt around my very tender groin, then stood up shakily to look at myself in the mirror. There were stitches in my scrotum but, as far as I could tell, nothing else there.”

“How did that make you feel?”

Helen was trying to keep me going. I had stopped talking and was reliving that experience.

“What do you expect me to say? Devastated? Despairing? Angry?”

“I don’t know what to expect, I’ve never met this situation before”.

“A lot of thoughts came together. I could never have sex with a woman again; would Lisa ever have me back if I survived? Lisa is a lesbian so maybe…; it was all a jumble. But no black despair, in a way, I now knew which direction I had to go if I ever got back to the world. Before this I wasn’t sure”

“What direction is that?”

“Sex change (the term GRS didn’t exist then), I can’t, or I don’t, want to continue on as a man. I feel that I’m basically a girl and I want to live my life as one.”

“I’ll be blunt, OK? Just because you’ve been castrated doesn’t mean that your only option is to get a sex change”.

“That’s not the reason, although there is some truth in what you just said. I’ve been struggling with this since before I left Ireland. I’ve always envied girls, their beauty, softness, sheer sensuality. I know now that I’ve never been comfortable as a man. I did not know how to express this before, nor even how to think it. Now that I’m halfway to being a girl I don’t want to stop. And now I don’t have the one big impediment that I had to proceeding before; I can’t sleep with girls anymore.”

“You’re probably more that half-way, and I wouldn’t rule out sleeping with girls…

“Ah yes, the blue pills; can you prescribe?”

“Sorry, I’m not a doctor, but I’ll talk to one.”

“Thanks”.

We finished for the day. I was in much better condition than the day before, so Lisa and I walked down a steep path to the beach before dinner. We were staying in a luxury villa attached to one of Aristotle’s hotels. He had made this available from when he knew that I had been found, even before the rescue had happened. We could walk to the nearby hotel for dinner, or have it delivered to us. A housekeeper called each day and brought food for breakfast and lunch, as well as cleaning the place up. We strolled along the beach, our arms around each other, she waited for me to talk.

“You remember that I said I wasn’t the same person that you last met on the yacht? I meant that just about in every way.”

“I know that. Remember I showered and slept with you, I could hardly miss it. I’d put your boobs at about mid-teens.”

We had stopped walking and were face to face. She slid a hand under my top, under my sports bra, and rubbed my developing breast.

“It’s not just that, we, I, can’t have sex like before.”

“I know that too. I was warned to expect this from before you were rescued.”

We walked a little more. Lisa’s turn to speak.

“You know, when we first met, I felt that you were as much a girl as a boy, apart from the obvious of course. You didn’t act like a boy, feel like a boy, to me. Remember I got you to put on a skirt, day 1?”

I nodded,

“You just slipped it on. When you were wearing the tunic, you were even more like a girl, even dealing with wandering hands the same way as a girl would…”

“I was learning from you”, I interrupted. “I was enjoying my time, feeling like a girl, and regretting that I only had 6 weeks or so to go”.

“I was growing more attached to you the more I saw you as feminine, to when I had a chance to really see you as a girl in Athens, it just seemed right that you were my girlfriend, maybe a little different…”

“Probably at the time, more than a little different?”

“OK, with your own built in sex toy!”

We had always used a little levity to deal with serious matters.

“I’ve told Helen that I want to change sex.”

“I kinda guessed you would; you know you haven’t looked for any male clothes or been anything other than a girl since we came here?”

“I guess not; I haven’t felt like anything except a girl. Theres going to be a lot to do. I’ve asked Helen about getting a prescription for hormones as a start. I don’t know how much surgery will cost or how to even arrange it. In the meantime, I’ll need to figure out how to get the money, what to do about college, how to tell my family…”.

“And I need to teach you about how we girls do things!”