WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1997, 9:00 A.M., DIARY OF LYLE E. ABBOT (Formerly Eunice Branca), UNDERGROUND RESEARCH FACILITY, LOCATION DELETED CONSISTENT WITH PROVISIONS OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

They have us in some kind of underground complex and they won’t tell us where it is or let us contact anyone outside the complex. Actually, they won’t even let us go anywhere outside the security section they have us living in without armed guards, guards who don’t seem to know how to show any expression except “surly.” Except for that, they could be poster boys for an advertisement for those Beefeaters in their cute red uniforms that guard that Palace or whatever in London, that is if Beefeaters always wore decontamination suits and carried automatic weapons.

I don’t even see them leering at Lyle, prancing around like an innocent child in my former body. Of course, these one piece, hospital green, pocketless, shapeless, paper jumpsuits they make us prisoners–excuse me, contract help–wear can’t be helping there. I remember I always thought men’s clothing was boring, but compared to this stuff men’s suits are absolutely flamboyant. Even the underwear is paper, which brings up another point.

For the first few days after this happened, I didn’t feel any of my usual urges–oh, alright, I wasn’t getting horny. At the time, I thought it was just the shock of the change, but now I’m not so sure. Now those urges are back and it’s getting harder and harder to control them. This damn penis seems to go rigid at the most inopportune times. Several times, I’ve even woken up in the morning with soggy, shredded paper underpants and a crotch covered with sticky goo. The first time I thought I had peed on myself until I started cleaning it off. Then I realized I had probably had what the boys would call a wet dream.

Before I forget, it’s a real bitch eating with these paper clothes. Spilling liquids on one is NOT fun. I almost seriously burned myself at breakfast once by spilling hot coffee on myself and Eunice L. was even less pleased when I jumped and jostled her arm so that she spilled her orange juice on her chest and watched that portion of her jumpsuit dissolve. Even then, there was no response from those damned guards. It’s like they’re not even human!

The really annoying part is that they have this place set up with everything we could possibly need–and I mean everything. They have all our clothes, all the equipment from Sternlicht’s lab, and even the lab rats are here. If that’s not enough, they have all the furniture from every home we were in since the accident.

I think they thought someone might “catch” whatever we had by sitting on one of our couches, something like the old jokes about getting a sexually transmitted disease by sitting on a toilet. Come on, guys. I mean really!

Actually, I guess it wasn’t that stupid, although I hate to admit it. It turns out that the virus is transmitted by bodily excretions. Contact with the air or some other non living thing kills it so a sneeze or that toilet I mentioned before is not going to transmit it, and fecal matter and urine have acids that kill it, but it’s blood borne and can be transmitted sexually. Semen or saliva transfers it from one body to another. Hmm. I guess that might be why no one’s tried to kiss Eunice or me yet. I also guess we’re going to need a bit more than breathe mints before we can go out dating again.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1997, DIARY OF EUNICE L. BRANCA (Formerly Lyle Abbot), UNDERGROUND RESEARCH FACILITY, LOCATION DELETED CONSISTENT WITH PROVISIONS OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I miss my body.

I feel like everyone is staring at me all the time; or at least everyone except the guards. I swear they are made out of stone, or at least their faces are. I think I might have caught a glimpse of some embarrassing swelling in the groin of one young man the other day when I accidentally spilled orange juice over my breasts. I hope I’m not getting paranoid. Better talk to Lyle E. about this.

Most of the technicians, scientists and officers act strange, too. The women talk to me and smile and everything, but, when I turn around, I feel like they’re trying to tear me to shreds with their eyes. When it’s just us women–I’m still not really used to that thought–it seems that they do nothing but talk about clothes, children and cooking, in between snide digs at those not present.

The men are even worse–except for the statuary, I mean guards. They tend to keep glancing away from my face to look at my breasts and I don’t understand why so many of them seem to need to find excuses to touch my arm, my butt, my shoulder, etc.

The way they try to help me is nice. I find myself tempted to play the poor helpless woman and let them get my food, my drinks, my laundry–believe it or not one guy really offered–but Lyle E. warned me that I might not get all my lingerie back if I accepted his offer. Once I almost tripped as this guy bumped me as he tried to jump in front of me to open a door.

My real concern is about me. I seem more emotional. Additionally, I’m more aware of other’s emotions and more concerned for their feelings. This is the first really major change I’ve noted in my most essential self.

The feeling-more-emotional part I understand and can explain in terms of the estrogen flooding my body–yes, I checked and it really is–but I though I knew at least a bit about human biology and I can’t figure why I care more about other’s emotions. I mean it’s not a bad thing, nor is it like I didn’t care before; I just don’t understand it.

When I spoke to Dr. Harriman...

Did I mention he’s here too? So are Eunice and Sternlicht (the BASTARD). Guess who is the only one who can leave here? Sorry, I got off topic for a moment. We’ll talk more about him later.

Anyway, when I spoke to Dr. Harriman, we wondered if it wasn’t acclimatization, which means because I was spending more time with women I was becoming more attuned to what they spoke about.

I’m not sure I agreed with that, but I didn’t want to hurt Dr. Harriman’s feelings so I just nodded my head as if to agree, which is, of course, a perfect example of exactly what I’m so worried about in the first place. I know he wouldn’t have minded if I had politely disagreed.

Speaking as a scientist, I would expect that if it was just acclimatization, the behavior would be situation specific. I would demonstrate more concern about the feelings of women as they expected it of me, while remaining more my old self around others. I wonder if we underestimate the impact of hormones on ourselves. Of course, there’s no way that I’m going to give Sternlicht even that much information. His emotions I don’t care about.

I’ve said it before, and now I’m going to say it again. One of the great moments of my life was when I was finally able to kick the BASTARD in the balls and see him double over in pain. He always keeps either a guard or a table between us nowadays, which is a hoot in and of itself. I wonder–was he always afraid of women deep down inside?

At any rate, he’s the one that set us up in Chinatown. He’s the one that got us put in this hi tech jail and biolab. And he’s the one running the show here.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1997, 7:30 P.M., OLD HOME RESTAURANT, LOWER MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

“If you’ve never been here before, you’ll be astounded by the portions. It’s entirely Certified Angus Beef, prepared wonderfully. There’s even a special blend of coffee that you must try. It makes those gourmet blends seem like colored water. Even the aroma is addictive. That’s why I try to take all my clients here.”

“I have been here. It is well prepared and hearty fare, but we are both aware that the objective of this engagement is to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Dr. Sternlicht turned away from his companion and imperiously flagged down a waiter. “Coffee,” he demanded. “Now.”

“Yes, sir. Anything for you sir?” the waiter turned to a swarthy man with a beaked nose and fast moving, almost darting hands.

“He may order more later. Get me the coffee I ordered. Now! Make it two.”

The swarthy man watched the waiter depart. “Well thanks for the coffee, but I really haven’t eaten. Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead. Feel free to charge a meal to my expense account–two if you wish–if it will assist us in bringing a speedy end to this discussion. I have many other things to do, I assure you.”

“Right,” he grunted in annoyance, as if anyone would even consider cheating his bosses unlike those government hotshots who make the creative bookkeeping on their expense accounts into an art form.

“To business then. My people have seen the specs and are interested. Your price is steep, but acceptable. However, without a sample of the product we can’t continue.”

“Your humor is unappreciated,” Sternlicht snapped back. In a tone that made it clear he was not asking a question, he continued. “I will provide a demonstration if necessary, but a sample would defeat the purposes of our agreement, would it not.”

“Wonderful.” The game had been played; gambit and counter-gambit. Both knew where they stood.

The waiter returned with the coffees. Dr. Sternlicht quickly dismissed him again with a perfunctory, “Thank you,” and the waiter left without another word.

“Are you aware that you have dandruff on your jacket?” Dr. Sternlicht asked. The swarthy man began brushing at his shoulders.

“Not here, you oaf! Use the bathroom rather than brushing your bodily wastes on me and into my beverage,” Sternlicht growled.

As the man got up, Sternlicht continued, “I will have departed before you return. Tell your employers to have someone contact me at the telephone number on this card at the time specified in three weeks to finalize our negotiations.”

“That’s it?”

“Concise and accurate. Yes, ‘that’s it’ as you said. Brush yourself off and enjoy your meal. Oh, and you are quite correct. The coffee is outstanding.”

The swarthy man nodded. “Very well. Look for me next month.” They shook hands.

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Dr. Sternlicht apologized. “My ring must have a sharp edge.”

SENIOR EDITOR’S NOTE: The following material comes from security videotapes. It is still not known how they were recovered but the images are clearly identifiable and expert opinion is that the tapes are unadulterated.

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7, 10:30 P.M., UNDER-GROUND RESEARCH FACILITY, LOCATION DELETED CONSISTENT WITH PROVISIONS OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ACT

Lyle E. and Eunice L. were sitting slouched on a couch watching a rerun of Gilligan’s Island. Dr. Harriman was hunched over a computer terminal typing enthusiastically.

“The boredom is cruel and unusual punishment. I don’t believe I’m actually watching this garbage on Saturday of all nights.” Lyle E. grumped. “Oh, and sit right.”

“Why bother? We’re never getting out of here. There’s no need to do anything, let alone be a ‘propa lady,’” lady.” Still, Eunice L. she sat up anyway. Suddenly she began to cry and as Lyle E. put her hands around her, she leaned into him weeping quietly.

Dr. Herbert Harriman stopped typing. “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked with his usual understatement, despite the concern etched on his face.

“Yes. Thank you Dr. Harriman.” Her tears continued, but at a trickle as Lyle E. continued to hold her, one hand gently rubbing her arm.

“We’re trapped,” Eunice L. said after sucking in a ragged breath. “We’re never getting out of here. They’re going to study us and then kill us, aren’t they?”

Lyle said nothing, but stopped rubbing just long enough to turn off the television.

“Please call me Herbert my dear,” Dr. Harriman replied gently, “and I recommend you not assume the worst. Life has a strange way of surprising us. For example, tomorrow we will finally have our own clothing back. That means our presence will not be so obviously discordant in comparison with others.”

“Yeah!” Lyle E. chortled as he jumped into the conversation with a broad smile on his face and a teasing glint in his eye. “Now you get to appreciate the wonder of feminine attire from the inside out.”

“Great, now I get to wear Eunice’s clothes and draw even more stares and pats on the fanny,” Eunice L. sighed after first glaring briefly at Lyle E. “Oh well, back in training again, right Euni...” She looked up at Lyle E., “I mean Lyle.”

Lyle E. surreptitiously waved Dr. Harriman away.

Taking the hint the older man said, “I think I’ll stretch out in my bedroom and read a bit. You kids should probably talk.”

As Dr. Harriman left, Lyle E. leaned over and gently kissed Eunice L. on the head and spoke in a soothing whisper, “It will be all right. We’ll get out of here somehow. Be strong.”

Eunice L. looked up at Lyle E. with a peculiar expression. “You know, I always thought I loved the old Eunice and these last few weeks getting to really know you has been wonderful,” she said tentatively, “but somehow I never thought I’d be saying that to a man.

Without saying a word, Lyle E. gently squeezed Eunice L.’s shoulder. His other hand reached up and stroked her hair as Eunice L.’s head slowly slide back to its comfortable perch on his shoulder.

A few seconds later, Lyle E. shifted position a bit and tilted his head down so that he could kiss her full on the lips. Their arms moved about each other and the kiss became more intimate. There was a low moan of enjoyment.

Suddenly, Eunice L. broke away. “This is not right. You’re a...”

Lyle E. gently brushed a finger across Eunice L.’s lips, interrupting her words. Staring into her eyes, he asked. “Do you love me?”

Eunice looked deep into Lyle E.’s eyes for several seconds before nodding yes.

“Was I hurting you?”

A shake, no.

“Would you like me to continue?”

A look of fear.

“You’re afraid?”

A nod, yes.

“But you’d still like me to continue?”

A nod, yes, but more tentative.

“Was I hurting you?”

She shook her head; still gazing deeply into what had once been her own eyes.

“Would you like for me to continue?”

A brief nod.

“You’re sure? I know you’re afraid and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Again, the slightest of nods.

“But you’d still like for me to go on, regardless.”

In answer, without looking away for even a second, Eunice L. reached out and touched Lyle’s cheek. He had not shaved that morning, and it was rough and scratchy to the touch.

Then Lyle grinned, the expression lighting up his face like a spring sunrise. “That’s my lady,” he whispered, reaching out and pulling Eunice to him.

“That’s my real lady at long, long last.”

“Stop me any time you think you need to.” He bent over and they kissed again.

Lyle E.’s hand moved to gently brush at Eunice L.’s hair, then moved down to touch her breast though the rough fabric of her paper jumpsuit, being as gentle as he could to provide pleasure.

Eunice L. shivered, but did not stop him. With a feather light touch, he began to circle the aureole, first with one finger, then two and finally four. With the addition of each finger, the pressure increased, though only slightly. Cupping the breast, he continued rubbing while occasionally pinching the areola. It quickly became swollen and hard.

“Doesn’t that feel good? I always used to love that.”

“Mmmmm. It feels wonderful. Please don’t stop. It’s like my whole body is finally relaxing for the first time since this started.”

“Let’s move to my bedroom.” Lyle E. suggested. He stood and gently pulled Eunice L. to her feet. Partially supporting her, and still gently stroking and pinching her breast, he guided her to his bedroom. Eunice L. trembled, but Lyle E. was unsure whether it was from anticipation or fear until she pulled him down onto the bed beside him and kissed him deeply.

Lyle E. started unsnapping the closures of the jumpsuit.

“No!” Eunice’s hand gently rested on top of his, stopping him. “I…I love you. I do! I really do. But even though I love you, this is still wrong. I…I want to be doing this to a woman, not be the woman. It’s not you. I love you, the fantastic, caring, understanding spirit I’ve learned to love, but I…I…” Tears crept from her eyes and slowly slid down her cheek and onto the bedspread.

Lyle E. immediately stopped rubbing, but kept his hand by her breast. “If you really love me, you love ME, not my body. Would you love me if I had black hair, if I had an overbite, or even if I had very small breasts?”

Eunice L. hesitated for several seconds. “N...no. I guess not.”

“If any of that did matter we would have no future, would we?”

“No.” Quicker this time. “But it still feels wrong.”

“What feels wrong, having someone love you?” He began gently stroking Eunice L.’s breast again.

“No. Being in the female role. It doesn’t seem ri...mmmm.” Lyle E.’s hand had been busy. He had rubbed through the paper of the jumpsuit and it was now massaging her bare breast.

“How does that feel?”

“Mmmmm. Goooood. Veeeery good.”

“Then it can’t be wrong.” Lyle E. continued kneading. “Tell you what, close your eyes and imagine each of us is whoever you want us to be.”

“That’s weird,” Eunice L. giggled; a pleasant change from the tears. Her eyes were hopeful–wistful.

“Try it. You might like it.” Lyle E.’s hand was still palpating her breast while his lips and tongue had begun moving down towards her belly button.

“Oh, hell.” Eunice L. closed her eyes as he passed her navel. Just before he reached the beginning of her pubic hair, Eunice L. began shrugging off the remains of her jumpsuit, thinking of nothing but what was to come.