Life quickly settled into a routine. We generally picked up guests in the afternoon from a morning flight, or occasionally from a private aircraft. We all mustered to greet them and take their luggage, all delivered from the airport by limousine. Onboarding was a key point for Maria, Lisa and me. George did the initial greeting, then Maria took over, whilst Lisa and I kept the champagne and canapes going. The cabins had been prepared by the “shore crew”, down to the champagne minis in the bar, chocolates on the table and towels in the “heads”. All guest cabins were en-suite.

Our first batch of guests were the senior executive team of a UK corporation, on a “team building” exercise. This designation effectively allowed the corporation to indulge its senior executives whilst avoiding benefit-in-kind tax. As I discovered, these were amongst our most difficult trips. Basically, the executives, exclusively male, started drinking at lunchtime and were, as we described them, “moldy” by dinner time. Lisa and I had to do the dinner service and I saw what Lisa had been talking about when she first saw my fake authentic Greek tunic.

Hands would appear from nowhere and slide along her legs, reaching up towards the top; she had a practiced turn which moved her away from the interloper without it appearing that she had avoided the grope. Her face never betrayed annoyance; she would turn towards the miscreant, smile sweetly and say, “Can I get you another drink, Sir?” I was astonished at her aplomb; a real professional.

It was hard work; at sea, Lisa and I handled the guest cabins and the guest areas such as the lounge and dining area. Depending on the guests, one of us could be up until 3 or 4AM, and the other up at 5AM to get breakfast. Maria helped out, particularly at dinner. Most dinners were “formal”. We dressed up in faux classical Greek dress and served the guests with food arriving up from “Chef” in the Galley. Maria generally did the wines and the bar, preparing drinks which we served, generally supervising, and keeping herself away from wandering hands.

As the guys had more drink, the less discerning they became and I had to learn to copy Lisa’s maneuvers as hands slipped up my legs. It became even more of an issue for me when we had mixed groups on board. Whether to match their menfolk’s groping of the female crew, or to express their own inner desires, the women were fascinated by my tunic and frequently slipped their hands up my legs, until I turned, smiled and said, “Another drink, Ladies?”. Generally, I took the late shift with the male groups and Lisa did the mornings. Most groups were mixed and we shared these. We never had an all female group; sign of the times back then, and maybe even now.

I didn’t mind the work, I even enjoyed it. Sharing a cabin with Lisa was bringing me to a place that I I didn’t really know existed, and I drifted easily along.

Shortly after I had started, I came into our cabin to find Lisa painting her nails. She had done her toenails and left hand already and was just starting on her right hand.

“Just in time,” she said, “you can do this for me”.

“I’ll try, but you seem to have done OK so far?”

“I’m no good using my left hand; it’ll take me ages.”

I enjoyed taking her hand and she showed me how to ensure that I didn’t have too much nail polish on the brush and how to spread it evenly on her nails. I then dried it off with the hairdryer which she had already used on her completed nails.

“Thanks, let me do yours.”

The thought delighted me, but I saw a practical problem.

“I can’t go around with pink nails,” I said.

“No, no, I’ll do them in clear varnish,” Lisa replied. “It won’t be noticeable.”

And so it all started… first clear nail varnish, then BB cream – to smooth out my complexion and protect my face from the sun – and muted eye shadow so that my eye lids would not stand out as white in a now lightly browned face. Lisa was clearly enjoying the process and, whilst feigning reluctance, I was happy to go along.

Maria noticed, but didn’t comment. She probably assessed that it was not likely to cause problems for the guests; the men probably wouldn’t notice and the women wouldn’t mind. George, our skipper, who shared an en-suite crew cabin with Maria, said nothing, likely having been briefed by her. Jorge and Dimitri, our two deck crew, both studying to become skippers themselves, were curious more than anything else, particularly as it was obvious that I was wearing a nightdress under my robe when I visited the heads. Chef, who shared with Greg, never commented on anything, and never spoke unless it was for a purpose.

Greg, our engineer, had started his working life as an Artificer in the Royal Navy and had recently retired as a senior Petty Officer. Recently divorced, he had moved to the Mediterranean to start a new life in sunnier climes. The Royal Navy, as indeed all Navies at the time, was definitely homophobic. He had already mistaken me for a girl when we first met, and viewed my changing appearance with some misgivings.

“You sure you’re not a girl?” he said one day as we both sat at the crew dining table.

“I think Lisa is trying to make us into a matching pair,” I replied. “I’m only around for a few weeks anyway...”

I didn’t finish my last comment, leaving it ambiguous. It could have meant that I’ll be done using makeup and wearing nighties soon, or I’ll be leaving the crew soon so he didn't have to worry.

“She’s a nice girl, but be careful,” Greg said.

I had no idea what he meant, but didn’t push the point

Lisa and I had both turned in one night when, unusually, she started talking to me from her upper bunk. She asked me about my school and my life there then asked…

“Have you a girlfriend back in Ireland?

I wasn’t expecting that; heretofore we had not really delved into each other’s private lives.

“No,” I replied, “all boys school… a bit hard to have one… how about you?”

It seemed right that the question be reciprocated.

“A girlfriend?”

“No, no… I meant a boyfriend!”

A few seconds of silence…

“Actually girlfriend would be correct, and I don’t”, Lisa said, a little softly and hesitantly.

Now I knew why she had started the conversation. She had been building up to telling me.

“Not a problem for me in case you’re worried about that,” I said. “Do the other crew know?” Actually I was rather taken aback but my debating experience helped me to hide it.

“Maria does; I told her one day when she saw George being a little too friendly with me,” Lisa replied. “I didn’t want her to see me as a threat. I think Greg knows now. He tried it on with me when he started last year and I told him that I wasn’t interested… and he’s quite friendly with George.”

The clear implication was that Maria had told George, who had told Greg. Maybe that’s what Greg meant when he told me to be careful. In a way I was very disappointed as I rather fancied Lisa – who wouldn’t. And it might explain why she was intent on making me as feminine as she, and I, could easily get away with. I had never knowingly met a Lesbian before; I thought it most appropriate to do so in Greece – after all the word lesbian derives from the name of a Greek island, Lesbos.

At the end of my third week we were docking for 3 days in Athens. The yacht was getting its electricity generator replaced. Greg would remain to supervise the work. Chef would visit his family and George, Jorge and Dimitri were doing a “Loran C” course ashore. This was a new navigation system that had recently been installed and would operate alongside the Decca… belt and braces. Following this we were to take the yacht, without guests, to Heraklion in Crete where we would pick up the owner and his family for a two week cruise to Paphos in Cyprus, then to Alexandria and back to Heraklion. I was due to leave the yacht after one further short cruise with paying guests from Heraklion to Athens. I was not looking forward to leaving as I had grown attached to the lifestyle, and to Lisa.

As there would be a lot of noise, coming and going and general mayhem, Maria, Lisa and I were to stay in a local hotel, the same one that George, Jorge and Dimitri were using for their course. We went ashore and kept the same sharing arrangements, George and Maria, Jorge and Dimitri, Lisa and I.

We all breakfasted together the first morning. I was now back in “civvies”, the shorts and t-shirt that I had brought from Ireland. When the three sailors headed off for their course, Maria and Lisa said that they were going for a girls day out.

“See you at dinner, so”, I said, a little disappointed to be left alone.

“Oh no, you’re coming along,” said Lisa, then to Maria,

“See you in the lobby in an hour”.

Lisa and I went back to our room and, as we went inside, ran her hand over my cheeks and chin…

“Shave again!”, more a command than a request.

I looked a little blank so she said…

“Girls day out, so you’re coming as a girl!”

“Does Maria know?”

“Of course, she’s the boss!”

I was over the moon, even though it was sunny morning with no moon around! I shaved very carefully, redid my underarms and legs standing in the bath, and came out. Lisa was standing half into or half out of a short blue dress with thin shoulder straps.

“My bra straps are too obvious”, she said, unhooked and discarded the bra, slipped back into the dress, turned her back to me and said,

“Zip me up”.

I obliged, she looked into the mirror, lifted and sorted her boobs and said,

“I think that’s fine.”

I couldn’t talk, she had unselfconsciously flashed her boobs at me, and I was mesmerized.

She caught my look…

“Oops… never mind, time to work on you; put these on.”

She pointed to my bed at a red dress and bra. I took off my shirt and fumbled with the bra…

“Here, let me close that.”

I slipped on the dress and Lisa zipped me up. Unlike her spaghetti straps, mine had a v neck and loose short sleeves, really just cap sleeves. The dress was loose below a high waist and flared nicely, hiding my male hips. I slid my shorts off under the dress.

“How’d you get the fit?” I asked.

“Remember Maria has your measurements from when she got your uniform”.

Lisa started to work on my face, cream, bb cream, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick. She fluffed out my hair and sprayed if to keep the style. It took some time until she declared that “that’ll do” and stood back to admire her handiwork. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a reasonable imitation of a woman; I would pass if not scrutinized too closely. Lisa reached over my shoulders and slipped some bra inserts inside my bra brushing her hands off my nipples.

“If you do that I’ll forget that you’re a lesbian”.

My voice had returned.

She laughed,

“I might forget that you’re a man… look in the mirror!”

The ensemble was completed with a pair of the white flat shoes that we wore on board.

“We’ll get you some nice sandals, until then these’ll have to do”.

We stepped out into the corridor and Lisa closed the door behind us. I hesitated, I was terrified, I was thrilled, I was giddy. Lisa slipped her arm through mine and guided me to the lobby. Maria looked at me, smiled, took my other arm and said,

“Let’s go girls”.

The opening of the Shania Twain song, Feel Like A Woman, always reminds me of that moment. It was appropriate in so many ways and I remembered that scene through some very dark days that were to come.

I had a great day. The girls first steered me to a cheap shop where I was provided with some flimsy faux gold sandals and a matching shoulder bag. I was about to discard my slip-ons when Maria said,

“You’ll probably need those later”,

so I slipped them into my bag.

In guy mode, I would probably been bored as the girls appeared to drift aimlessly from shop to shop, not buying much, until we fetched up at a small café for lunch. I slipped off my sandals, rubbed my feet, and put my slip-ons back on. The girls grinned.

“You’ll get used to it.”

We had a nice, leisurely lunch, a luxury seldom enjoyed on the yacht. A bit more shopping saw me end up with some costume jewelry clip-ons, necklace and bangles. We were due to meet the guys at 7:30pm for dinner and were on our way back to the hotel for a glass of wine when we passed a hairdresser/beauticians close by. Maria and Lisa looked at it, looked at me, looked at each other and nodded. Maria went in, Lisa and I waited outside.

“What are you two planning?” I asked, trying to sound suspicious. I guessed what was afoot.

“Don’t tell me that you haven’t enjoyed being a woman today”, Lisa said.

“OK, but I’ve got to get changed before we meet the guys”.

“No, I think we’ll go out as three couples.”

“But I can’t… “

“Why not? They’ve already seen you in makeup, a tunic and a nightdress. Besides, it’ll be fun!”

Maria came out, gave us a thumbs up, and they both propelled me into the shop. I was seated in a chair before a mirror. The hairdresser spoke no English so Lisa and Maria discussed their preferences in English, and then Maria spoke to the hairdresser in Greek. No one consulted me!

The girls left for their glass of wine and I was left at the mercy of the beautician/hairdresser. My hair is a variety of red/brown with a tendency towards being unruly. The hairdresser washed and towel dried it, then proceeded to thin it out and layer it down around my head. Finally she worked on the front giving me a longish fringe before passing me to a colleague who proceeded to give me some highlights. I’d long since ceased to be worried; I just relaxed and went along for the ride. Then a third lady cleaned off all my makeup and proceeded to redo it. When she was almost finished, I recognized Maria’s voice behind me; they were back. Some more chatting in Greek, the make-up lady finished and I was looking into the mirror at a young woman. The makeup was good, but it was really the haircut that made the difference, clearly feminine, framing my face and softening its contours.

A face appeared on either shoulder, Lisa and Maria had joined me in the mirror, Maria smiling, Lisa grinning from ear to ear. They were also all glammed up, we were going directly to the restaurant. My transformation finished, I stood up and reached for my bag and wallet to pay. Maria caught my hand, this was the first time that she’d ever touched me, shook her head and said that it was on the Yacht’s expenses account. I slipped my sandals back on, received a good brush down from the beautician, and we all headed off to dinner.

“Hi Maria, Lisa, where’s Jim?”

George, always the consummate gentleman rose to greet us as we entered the restaurant. He looked at me, smiled and said,

“Hi, I’m George, this is Jorge and Dimitri”,

before turning back to Maria to ascertain Jim’s, my, whereabouts.

“George, Dimitri, Jorge, this is Jasmine. She’s replacing Jim this evening”.

Looks of confusion, then slow recognition as Dimitri pushed my chair in and I smoothed my dress under me.

Maria was helped to her seat by George whilst Lisa playfully bumped Jorge over one place with her hips to make the table a circle of boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, apparent girl!

Dimitri looked sideways and said lowly,

“I would never have guessed that you weren’t a girl”.

Jorge, on my other side, nodded, his eyes like two saucers.

“We asked Jasmine to join us so that we would have a nice, balanced boy/girl group for dinner…”

And then, we carried on pretty much as normal. I kept my voice low and soft, and Maria and Lisa covered all questions in relation to my transformation on the basis that it was a prank. Dinner finished, we wandered slowly back to our hotel, George linked Maria, Jorge linked Lisa, and Dimitri linked me, most considerately.

We arrived back to the hotel and split up, Dimitri and Jorge relinquishing our arms, and Lisa and I went into our own room and closed the door. We both kicked off our shoes, Lisa turned her back to me and asked me to unzip her. I slid her zip all the way down and she slipped the dress off and turned towards me. I couldn’t help but look at her boobs.

“Given that you’re a girl tonight, maybe we…”

She moved closer, and I moved towards her. I put my hands on her shoulders and drew her in. My own bra was getting in the way of my fully appreciating her embrace, but she was already unzipping my dress and I felt her undo the clasp of my bra. She slid my dress and bra forward off my shoulders, stepped back to let them both fall to the ground and moved in close again…

I started to pull on my shorts next morning. We were a little late getting up; not surprising. I had planned to have breakfast before my shower.

“No way, I want to spend the day with the girl I slept with last night”, Lisa was just dragging herself out of bed.

I shaved, carefully, despite being late as I could not risk a cut! My beard was very light in colour and density and I could have delayed shaving in male mode, but definitely not as a girl!

Lisa was already dressed when I finished shaving; like me she was planning to shower later. She helped me into my bra and dress, sat me down and quickly applied some makeup and combed my hair. The new cut made it much easier to handle.

The rest of the gang were already having breakfast when we got to the dining room; they had occupied a table for 6 and kept some seats for us. Maria looked at us and smiled; there’s something about the way a couple act that makes it clear that they are more than friends and she had picked up on this immediately. The guys seemed a little surprised that I was still dressed as a girl; was this not dragging our “prank” out a bit? They had to leave after about 10 minutes as their course was starting, leaving Lisa, Maria and myself at the table. We couldn’t laze around as we had booked a guide to take us on a walking tour; he was due to meet us at the hotel at 10am. We finished breakfast and went back to our rooms to get ready. I stepped into the shower, had just got the water right, when Lisa stepped in beside me.

“Save water, shower with a friend”, she said, quoting what had become a type of catchphrase in the UK and Ireland at the time. I can’t recall its’ origin.

We quickly got ready, Lisa sorting out my makeup and hair. Back down in the lobby just before 10am, Maria was already chatting with the guide and introduced us as Lisa and Jasmine. We headed off, me wearing my onboard shoes (which I couldn’t wear again on the yacht) with my sandals in my bag. We did the classical sites, which I had already visited with the Greek class, but enjoyed all the more now as a girl, walking around with girls. My voice was my main problem; I had to work to try to keep it soft. We stopped for a coffee mid-way and Lisa had to divert me when I inadvertently started towards the men’s toilet!

The tour finished and the guide joined us for a late lunch at 2pm. We finished at 3pm, said goodbye to the guide, who kissed all 3 of us on the cheek, and headed back towards the shopping streets. Maria went to split off,

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to wander around alone”.

Both Lisa and I spoke together and persuaded her to stay with us. She wasn’t displeased, her offer had been more out of politeness. She did note that we hadn’t denied being “lovebirds”; it was obvious as we had linked each other on the tour. Girls can do this as friends without causing comment, and only Maria and Lisa knew that I wasn’t a girl… or was I.

I have since heard a joke about the difference between a transvestite and a transgirl; the punch line is “about two years”. I had moved from a desire to wear skirts to being really comfortable passing as a girl in the space of 3 weeks. When I left home, I would never have thought that in about five weeks I would be walking about in a dress with two pretty girl friends. Neither did I think that I would be sleeping with a self-declared lesbian. I was never a macho type. Other than swimming and some track work, I had avoided the tougher sports at school and was much happier playing table tennis or chess than Gaelic football, which was a form of religion in our school. I was never attracted to men; I adored girls, even as I envied them their pretty dresses and skirts. Was I a lesbian? Ireland was just beginning to emerge from the dark ages of Catholic church domination, even repression, but, having attended a Catholic boarding school, I still believed that homosexuality was a deviance. Never having heard to transvestitism, I guessed that it was also a deviance but of a lesser kind. I was very confused.

My clip-on earrings kept slipping off, so I removed them and put them in my bag. The girls noticed and steered me into a jeweler’s shop. About 20 minutes later I emerged with newly pierced ears and two small gold earrings, a present from Lisa. I had very little money as I had not yet been paid other than a “per-diem” allowance. Our meals and the hotel were directly paid by the Yacht charter business.

The team was due to have dinner in a rather up-market restaurant. Both Maria and Lisa had dresses in the hotel suitable for this environment; I only had my sundress which would not have been suitable, even if I hadn’t worn it around now for the better part of two days in a very warm climate. Neither had I any suitable male clothes, as I had only travelled with shorts and t-shirts. I suggested that I give it a miss, have a pizza, and meet them back in the hotel for a drink. The girls weren’t happy, but it seemed to be the obvious solution. Then, as we passed the window of a ladies boutique, Maria stopped, looked in the window, and called us back. A mannequin was outfitted in a light grey, silk-effect, A-line or flared dress, knee length, with sleeves. A high figure of drachma was crossed out by marker and half the amount written alongside. I can’t remember the figures, as the drachma exchange rate was a bit absurd. Maria was looking in her bag; I could see that she was counting her money. She started to lead us in when I stopped her.

“Maria, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, I don’t have the money and you can’t be paying”.

“I’ll add the dress to the Yacht’s wardrobe”.

I looked blankly at her.

“We have some dresses on board to lend to guests; some girls use them from time to time, and I need to add a bigger sized one anyway”.

In we went, and the dress was available in the larger size. That’s why it was on sale; the tourist season was ending and most Greek ladies are more petit than Northern Europeans. It was new for me to go into the ladies changing room, Lisa came in with me, something that guys would never do. She helped me out of my sundress, straightened my bra and pulled the grey dress over my head. There was a zipper on the side which she closed for me. We went out and looked in the mirror with Maria and the boutique owner. Other than being a bit flat up top, the dress fitted well, the flare again disguising my lack of hips. The boutique owner wandered off and returned with a heavily padded bra. Lisa took it from her, propelled me back into the changing room, helped me out of the dress and the bra that I was wearing, and into the new one. I resisted the temptation to start anything with her in case my appreciation of her charms became obvious when we went back out!

We bought the dress and the bra, added a pair of tights and left. The girls decided that my cheap gold sandals would be OK with the dress, they were still new and I had not really worn them much. Shopping finished, we strolled back to the hotel. The guys were to meet us there and we would all walk together to the restaurant. We went to our rooms, showered, changes and Lisa did my makeup. This time, she talked me through it; she obviously thought that this was a skill that I needed to develop, but there was no time to let me practice. I also received a lesson in putting on tights, Lisa had brought a pair of white cotton gloves along and put these on to pull on her tights.

“Less chance of snagging them with your nails”.

I followed suit, albeit rather clumsily, and eventually got the tights on and straight. It felt good but, given the heat, I would have preferred stockings! Both dressed, we looked in the mirror together, both beaming. Lisa had a small cassette type camera with which she took an unaimed picture of the mirror. We wouldn’t find out how it came out until Lisa got the film developed when the 24 shots had all been used. We had about 5 minutes and I turned to kiss Lisa. She stopped me; we would ruin our lipstick!

Again, stepping out of the bedroom and closing the door behind me gave me a kind of thrill, a combination of excitement, anxiety and ecstasy. The anxiety was dampened because I was with Lisa, meeting a group who now knew me and apparently accepted me in my new persona. I have occasionally wondered how it must be for other transgirls, who have to dress without female help, and go out alone for a first time, some time. In retrospect, I had it easy. We met the gang in the bar, Maria was already there with George and possibly had told them what to expect as no one passed comment. Dimitri even said, pleasantly,

“Hi Jasmine, nice to see you again.”

We went to the restaurant and again I practiced keeping my voice soft, and eating slowly, taking smaller amounts on my fork and generally trying to be ladylike. I took it easy on the wine; I couldn’t afford to get tipsy and anyway, I had to ensure that I was in good shape for when we got back to the hotel later that night. After the main course, Lisa excused herself to go to the ladies’ room and nodded to me to go with her. She had serious empathy and realized that I would not have felt comfortable to go on my own in a crowded establishment where there would be other women present. We went in, occupied a stall each and I was most careful not to make noise; it would be a dead giveaway. Lisa waited for me, we washed our hands and she touched up my and her lipsticks and we rejoined the gang.

George had a somewhat serious look on his face as we returned. The three sailors were discussing the weather forecast for our trip to Heraklion, Maria was listening intently. The forecast, George explained, was marginal. We would not do the trip if we had guests on board as it was likely to be a rough ride, Force 7 on the starboard bow for much of the trip. Maybe the forecast would change in the intervening day, we still had one day left in port, but that could also be for the worse. Maria decided that we would go back on board the following day and stow everything in anticipation of heavy weather. The sailors still had a half day of their course to go but would join us from midday on.

Decision made, we ordered dessert and coffee and, as tomorrow would be a working day, headed back to the hotel for a reasonably early night.

“Do try to get a good night’s sleep”, Maria joked as we all split up to go to our rooms.

Lisa and I postponed the sleep bit for a while and afterwards, lying snuggled against her back with my arm around her, I said…

“I’m very confused Lisa. I don’t think that I’ve ever been happier than these last few weeks, and these last two days especially… I’ve really enjoyed being a girl with you and Maria… and here we are together… and you’re lesbian… what am I?”

She turned around so that we were lying face to face, smiled and said,

“You’re like me; you’re a lesbian too!”

And that is almost exactly what I was thinking. I wanted this life to continue indefinitely, but I was scheduled to return to Ireland in three weeks to take up a college place. This would be the safe, predictable, boring and correct thing to do. If I left, would I ever see Lisa again? Travel back then was much more expensive and difficult than now, so probably not. Also, there was simply no way to pursue this “lifestyle” in Ireland. If a “scene” existed, it could only be in Dublin and I had applied for college in Galway, a very nice, provincial city, but small and rather conservative.

We were up early the following morning and Lisa insisted that I wear my sundress back to the boat. What the hell, everybody except Greg and Chef had already seen me, and we both wanted to continue the illusion for as long as possible. We finished breakfast, returned to our rooms, packed and met Maria in the lobby where she checked us all out with a company credit card. Lisa drove the runabout, a Renault 4, back to the marina; Maria didn’t particularly like to drive and I was not comfortable with driving on the “wrong” side of the road. We parked up and went on board. I met some workmen as I headed to our cabin but didn’t see Greg; he was probably up to his ears in bits of generator or something in the engine room. We changed into t-shirts and shorts and set about methodically stowing everything that we thought could move. This was easier than it sounds; boats are generally designed for this and items such as glasses and cups slot into special slots in drawers to keep them safe. To be sure, we wrapped every item in a sheet of kitchen paper to soften any impact and reduce movement. Plates were interleaved with kitchen paper, drawers were locked, vases removed from tables… the list goes on. Maria both worked and supervised, a case of all hands on deck!

Chef hadn’t arrived back yet so Lisa took the car and got pizza for lunch for the 4 crew on board, Greg and us three “girls”. We were tucking in at the crew table in the galley when Greg joined us. He was a little hassled as he had to complete the generator job, secure the engine room and check the bilge pumps before we sailed. He did notice my nail varnish, red to match my sundress, and my makeup. He also noticed that Lisa and I were now apparently closer that heretofore… on leaving to go back to work he just said,

“See you girls later.”

I didn’t mind; I rather liked being called a girl not, even if a little sarcastically.

The sailors arrived back soon after we had finished lunch, they had lunched at the hotel and quickly started to check and stow everything on deck. By 6pm we were all finished, and Chef had just arrived back. We were going ashore for a meal at a local restaurant when George called us all to the bridge for a briefing. In turn Maria, Greg, Jorge and Dimitri confirmed that they were happy that their respective areas were rigged for heavy weather. Chef would do his area after dinner ashore, and food thereafter would be fairly basic, sandwiches, soup, coffee, and some cereal, yogurt and fruit for breakfast.

George explained the cast-off procedure. Because of the work on the generator, we were alongside the pontoon as opposed to the usual stern-to practice in the Mediterranean. This was a problem as the wind was blowing us onto the pontoon, and George reckoned that it would be too strong for the trusters alone to deal with. The plan was to cast off, leaving a strong line from our bow, back to the pontoon approximately midship. This was called a “spring”. The port engine would go ahead, the starboard engine astern, to push the bow against the pontoon and the stern would move out, with the stern truster helping out. Once the stern was well out, both engines would go astern for a few seconds to bring the yacht into clear water, then the starboard engine would go ahead to pivot the boat to port before it headed out from the marina. Immediately both the engines went astern, it would be possible to cast off the spring which would be recovered by marina staff; George didn’t want it being pulled into a maneuvering boat in case it fouled the propellors. We were each given a role; mine was at the stern with a hand-held radio to call out the distance remaining as the boat went astern and look out for hazards generally. I would also cast off the stern line, to be collected by the shore crew, on George’s radio command.

George then continued with the safety briefing. Life jackets were to be worn at all times except in our cabins. Movement around was to be limited and, once underway, nobody was to go on deck without George’s permission or without a lifeline. We had an option of being on the bridge, there was plenty of room as guests were often to be found there when underway, or being in our cabins. The bridge would give us some visibility which was a partial antidote to sea sickness, however our cabins were lower down and amidships, so we would experience less motion. Maria passed out some sea-sickness tablets which we should take immediately on waking as they took some time to become effective.

Briefing complete, we headed off for dinner, a quiet affair, and quickly off to bed. Lisa slid in beside me on the lower bunk and we eventually went to sleep. We woke at 4:30am, took our sea-sickness tablets, quickly completed our ablutions, had a quiet breakfast, got our life jackets and got ready for the off. For the first time we were wearing “foulies”, waterproof gear, as the wind was already quite strong. The engines were already running, and shore power and water were being disconnected as I made my way aft. I was nervous as I didn’t want to mess up my simple tasks in this very difficult maneuver. The radio crackled…

“Stand by on the lines”.

There were two men on the pontoon. One walked to the line from our bow to the midship’s point on the pontoon, gave a thumbs up, and resumed his place at the bow line. The wind was slightly astern so the bow line went first.

“Cast off forward”.

“Forward line clear”.

“Cast off stern”.

I undid the line from the cleat and slipped it through the cutout in the side, the shoreman quickly pulled it in. I pressed the button (PTT) on the radio.

“Stern line clear”.

The engines rumbled and the stern moved out, water swirling around us.

“Going astern”.

The boat moved backwards, with a distinctive drift of the stern back towards the pontoon.

"Cast off spring."

"Spring clear."

I pressed the PTT,

“Thirty meters, twenty meters, ten meters”.

The engine rumbles grew louder and the water foamed at our stern. At the stern, it looked to me that the stern was moving back onto the pontoon, but I knew from our briefing that the starboard engine was now going ahead and the bow was swinging out. Then we were going forward, faster than normal as going slow would mean greater wind drift in proportion to our forward movement.

“Deck crew, well done, let’s get you inside and the hatch secured”.

I went up to the bridge to return the radio to its charging station, Lisa arrived in from her position on the bow where she had been helping to recover and stow the fenders. George took a quick look over his shoulder,

“Well done girls”

before quickly turning back to the helm. It looked like I was now being viewed as a girl, even though Greg, who was standing at the throttles having operated them during the maneuver, shook his head slightly but said nothing. Soon the rest of the deck crew were in, handing in radios, removing their foulies and getting back into their lifejackets. The bridge was warm, it wasn’t raining yet and visibility was good. We sat on the high guest bench at the rear of the bridge and watched as George steered the yacht out the gap in the breakwater with its red and green navigation lights. Outside the sea was much more lively and we pitched and rolled as George and Greg worked to find the right speed and trim tab position to give us the best ride. Lisa and I were, naturally, sitting close together, but I resisted any temptation to put my arm over her shoulder. Nobody had said it but instinctively we knew that we needed to keep our relationship inside our cabin or off the yacht.

Sea sickness pills can cause some people to feel drowsy, especially if not actively employed, and I decided to go below and lie down in our cabin. When Lisa said that she would do the same; Maria playfully rolled her eyes and we both headed below. The sensation in the cabin was different, the motion definitely less but with no visual references. We both slid out of our clothes, which we left on the top bunk in case we needed to dress in a hurry and wedged ourselves together in the bottom bunk. It would have been difficult to get up to much given the motion of the boat and we both fell asleep. We both got up at different times to use the heads and agreed that this was quite a difficult job in a rough sea. It wasn’t a storm; George explained later that it was at the higher end of Force 7, almost a gale, whereas a storm is defined as Force 10.

The distance from Athens to Heraklion is about 180 nautical miles, at an economical cruising speed of 9 knots about 20 hours. This trip took 30 hours. Lisa and I spent most of the time together in our cabin, and talked a lot about our lives to date. Mine was pretty straightforward; hers more complicated. Lisa’s father worked in the City, which I learned meant that he worked in Finance and they were quite well off. She went to a private school, did her A levels, and was to go to University. But she hadn’t been happy at school; she felt that she didn’t fit in and wanted to take some time off before going to college. Her parents agreed that she could travel with a girl friend and defer university for a year; they didn’t realize that girl friend meant girlfriend. By the time they arrived in Greece, having “done" Spain and Italy, that relationship was strained. When Lisa secured a short term job on the Yacht, her now-ex-girlfriend went back to the UK. That should have been that, but the disgruntled ex-partner told her parents about the relationship, probably in an attempt to shock them. Her parents spoke to, or rather accosted, Lisa’s parents on the basis that their perverted daughter (Lisa) had corrupted their precious petal. A telegram, a difficult telephone conversation, and a stern and unkind letter from her parents convinced Lisa that the parental relationship was broken and she stayed in Greece and with the Yacht.

“They had been delighted that I was travelling with a girl and so worried that I’d get pregnant or run off with a man. Now they’d probably be delighted to know that I’m sleeping with one… or at least someone who normally presents as one!”

“I don’t think that they’d be very happy with me, especially if I turned up in the sundress… way too short!”

“You’d be ok in the grey dress; it looks elegant on you.”

We lapsed into silence for a while. The boat pitched, rocked and rolled…

“I don’t want to go back home”, I finally said.

“How would it work?” Lisa responded. “I don’t want you to go home either, but how long can you keep up switching between being a boy and a girl?”

“I don’t know; it’s all new to me, remember?”

“You know”, Lisa said, “I felt that you were different when we met. I wondered what you’d be like as a girl…”

“So you started to turn me into one…” I interrupted softly.

“Not like you objected!” Lisa retorted playfully. “Seriously, I felt that you weren’t like other lads, more like a girl than any other boy I’d met. And that’s why we’ve ended up together.”

“I think that you know yourself better than I know me”, I responded. “Three weeks ago I was a reasonably normal male, hiding a secret desire to wear skirts. Now I’m happy to be seen and treated as a girl… albeit a lesbian.”

“So you’re not going to let Greg or Dimitri shift you?” Lisa altered between playfulness and seriousness. Actually we both did; it was a way to handle a serious conversation and not get in too deep.

“Not my type,” I answered. “Seriously… I find the thought …”

“And do you think the same about two girls together…. about me?

“To me, that’s completely different… girls have such lovely bodies… who wouldn’t want to play with them, feel them, hug them, kiss them, be one of them…”. I was nibbling her neck and ear as I talked, or rather murmured.

Lisa reached a hand back and rubbed my leg… “You know, I think you really are a lesbian…”

The yacht’s motion started to ease as we proceeded south, coming into the shelter of the Crete coast. We got up and dressed, donned our lifejackets and made our way up to the bridge. All was quiet. George was asleep on the guest bench at the rear of the bridge, his head on Maria’s lap. Her head was tilted to the side, somewhat asleep as well. Jorge was helming, Dimitri and Greg were nowhere to be seen. We crept to Jorge so as not to wake Maria or George; he whispered that the others were in their bunks. Dimitri was due on the helm in an hour or so. The lifejacket-at-all times order was now rescinded inside the yacht, but the no-going-on-deck order persisted. Dawn was breaking, the sun low on the horizon on our port bow, so we must have turned more towards the East than our initial course. I offered to go below to get coffee and a sandwich for Jorge; he nodded gratefully.

I was back up on the bridge in less than 5 minutes with an enclosed “stay warm” mug of what we called “café-au-lait” back then, and a ham and cheese sandwich: I knew that Jorge liked milky coffee in the morning. Holding the helm, Jorge tried to catch the sandwich, so I offered to take the helm for him. He must have been a bit jaded for he agreed. I had to hold the course on 130 Degrees on the compass. This isn’t as easy as it sounds as the corrections are counter-intuitive, but I was making a good attempt at it when we both realized that George was standing behind us. Poor Jorge got a fright and went to take the helm back, but George motioned to him to relax and have his coffee, leaving me at the helm, albeit with George in arms reach. Apparently he had woken up, Maria indicated for silence and pointed to me. Lisa was too far away to warn me and Maria had put her finger to her lips in any event. Watching me helm for a few minutes, George started to coach me on my tendency to overcorrect and asked where I had learned.

“Just watching you guys.”

“Seriously, you haven’t done this before?”

“No, first time.”

“I think I’ll add your girls to the bridge watch”, George joked, looking at Maria, who responded that we had enough to do without doing his work as well. I picked on the reference to “your girls”; I was getting very comfortable with being seen like that.

Jorge had now finished his breakfast and offered to take the helm back. George told him to get some sleep; we’d be Ok until Dimitri’s shift started. Apparently, George had helmed for the first 6 hours or so then established a shift of 2 hours on, 4 hours off, with Greg, Dimitri and Jorge. As skipper, he had to stay on the bridge in the heavy weather, but could take a nap on the bench. Maria had stayed with him; they both looked wrecked. Lisa offered to go below to get breakfast for them both; George accepted the offer and, gently caressing Maria’s head, suggested that she go below to eat and turn in. She nodded wearily, caught his hand momentarily, then moved away slowly, unsure of her footing on the still moving deck. Other than when I first met them, and they didn’t mean me to notice, this was the first time I’d seen them publicly show affection on board.

I stayed helming when Lisa returned with George’s breakfast, black coffee this time, and he leaned against the helm console and ate.

“Of course, there’s no reason why a girl can’t be a skipper” he mused, half to himself.

“What owner would hire us?” Lisa asked.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he replied.

Apart from the fact that he was still referring to me as a girl, this conversation also reflected well on George. At that time, most men, and Greek men particularly, had views on what a woman’s role should be, and that did not involve skippering yachts. He was obviously well ahead in the enlightenment stakes.

“Of course it’s probably easier for you” he said, turning to me, “depending on which side of the fence that you land”.

It didn’t shock me… he had pretty well summed up my dilemma. Lisa looked over at me… time to lighten the mood again…

“You must be Spartan”, I said.

He looked puzzled…

“Famous for being laconic, summing things up in the shortest way possible and not wasting words”, I elaborated.

“You know your Greek”, he laughed.

Dimitri came up on the bridge and I gratefully relinquished the helm. My short stint, and in a lively sea, had required a fair bit of concentration and Lisa and I needed to get back to our own work.

We worked our way methodically through the boat “reception” areas, then on to the guest cabins, or “Staterooms”. Again, I’ve no idea why they’re called that. There was no apparent damage and anything that had drifted out of place was quickly sorted. The sea state continued to moderate and was no more than Force 4 as we approached Heraklion. We woke Maria in time for us all to get to our berthing stations and George moored us without any problems in the Venetian Harbour. Local contractors arrived fairly quickly to give the boat a complete washdown; we were totally encrusted with salt.

Maria briefed us on the owner’s group, and on his particular tastes. He was Greek, about 60, divorced and remarried. His current wife was American, about 40, they had one 7-year-old child. His son from his first marriage, early 30s, was joining him, with his wife, no children. The last person joining was his daughter Sophie from his first marriage. She was 28, recently divorced, and travelling on her own. Aristotle, the owner, had made his money in the tourist trade and owned a string of hotels across Greece, mainly on the Islands. As he was Greek, we would not be doing the faux Greek costumes at dinner. Shorts were not regarded as suitable for formal service with the owner on board so this would be handled by Maria and Lisa wearing their uniform white skirts. I was relegated to cabin duty and working with Chef during dinner… if he let me into the galley!

The Yacht was shipshape by about 3pm, the Owner and his party were due to be on board by 5pm, with dinner at 7. George had to hold on until the owner arrived, greet him, and get to bed! Aristotle and his party arrived around 5:20pm and the reception team lined up at the stern. I was not included – shorts again! Lisa told me the story afterwards, somewhat in awe of Aristotle. He arrived on first, greeted George with a handshake, and then greeted both Maria and Lisa by name and with a kiss on either cheek. He had only met Lisa once before but remembered her all the same. Like a number of self-made individuals, and many politicians, he was a real people person.

He turned to Maria after he had greeted Lisa and said,

“You’re short a girl?”

“We have a temporary stewardes… steward on board. He’s very good but doesn’t have a formal uniform so he’s not doing front-of-house”.

Aristotle continued moving forward as the rest of the party came on board, heading for the door leading to the companionway to the crew quarters.

“I must say “Hello” to Chef; I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”

It turned out that Aristotle and Chef were from the same village, their families being friends. Aristotle considered family and friendship more important than position and status, and that it was appropriate for him to go to the galley to greet Chef.

And that’s how I met Aristotle; I was in the galley arranging canapes on the service lift that Maria and Lisa would serve. He bounced into the kitchen, all 5 foot 6 inches of him, and hugged Chef. For the first time I learned that Chef’s name was Nicholas. They chatted in Greek for a minute or so and then Aristotle saw me. He came over and reached out his hand…

At this stage, I had reverted to my Reserve Defense Forces experience and was standing at what the Army calls “attention”. I was way underage to join, but in those days, that wasn’t a problem.

I shook his hand and introduced myself as Jim. He studied me a little… taking in a girl’s haircut, BB cream and eyeshadow… he had a way of focusing all his attention on the person that he was interacting with that was almost unnerving.

“So, you’re the new steward?”

“Yes, sir, just filling in before going to college.”

“Have you enjoyed your time here?”

“Absolutely sir, I’ve loved the experience and have really been helped out by all the crew, especially by Purser (Maria’s official title) and the other stewardess, Lisa.”

“Other stewardess? Hmmmmm… nice to meet you”. He turned away to leave…

“And you, sir,”

And I gave a small curtsy. Automatic, I don’t know why, I don’t know how I knew how to do it. I must have picked it up from the TV series “Upstairs Downstairs” which had run on Irish TV a few years beforehand.

The canapes went up in the service lift, more ice for the champagne, and things quieted down for a while.

Maria came flying down the companionway, went into the store locker where she kept the purser’s supplies, pulled out one of Anna’s skirts, checked it for wrinkles or marks, threw it at me and said,

“You’re back on front of house, Change into a fresh t-shirt”.

“Huh?”

“Aristotle asked me about you. When I explained your story, he laughed and said he couldn’t tell whether you were a boy or girl, and you didn’t seem to know either, so you should do front-of-house in a skirt”

This was to be a third new experience for me. I had started as a male in a costume dress or tunic, presenting as a male. Then I presented as a female, wearing a dress and pretending to be a girl. Now I would be presenting as something in-between, male, but dressed and made-up as a girl. This was going to be interesting.

The family glanced at me a little curiously at the dinner service. Maria had overheard some conversation that, as I was sleeping with Lisa who preferred girls, that this was a Corporal Klinger type ruse on my part to get into her bed… actually not a bad idea had I thought of it in the beginning. Otherwise things progressed as normal without any hands slipping up our skirts. This was a family group and all were impeccably behaved, with the slight exception of Sophie, who drank too much wine and got a little tipsy. Dinner completed; the group were all turned in by 11:30pm as we were starting early the following day. Lisa and I quickly cleaned the dining areas and headed for our cabin to get some sleep. As this was an owner’s cruise, we were working together both early and late shifts; everything had to be perfect.

About 12:30, just as I had finished washing my teeth, the phone buzzed in the cabin. This was an extension installed just before this trip and calls were diverted to here when the galley was unmanned. This was to ensure constant availability for the owner’s party. Lisa was in bed already, so I answered. It was Sophie, asking for come champagne to be brought to her cabin; she was still partying. I slipped my skirt and t-shirt back on, got a half-sized bottle from the cooler in the galley, climbed the companionway, put the bottle on a linen covered tray along with a glass and an ice-bucket, walked to Sophie’s cabin and knocked very gently on the door.

“Come in.”

I entered, Sophie was not visible, but her voice floated out from the en-suite heads.

“Can you open it and put it on the table?”

I opened the bottle carefully so as not to have champagne spraying all over the cabin and was just putting the bottle into the ice bucket when I felt a tug on the hem of my skirt. I half turned and then looked away again; Sophie was standing right beside me wearing only satin or silk French knickers. From my quick glance, I could see that her face was flushed.

“Will that be all Ma’am?” I asked. It wasn’t unusual to have women sunbathing topless on the upper deck, but I wasn’t happy to be in the cabin of the owner’s daughter in this circumstance.

“Shy, aren’t we? I bet the other stewardess doesn’t think you’re shy!”

Sophie had now pressed up against my back and reached her hands under my t-shirt. She started to gently rub my nipples.

“Ma’am, I don’t think that this is a good idea, and like you said, I have a girlfriend on board.”

One hand reached down to slip up the front of my skirt; it was becoming obvious that, despite my dilemma, I was appreciating her attention.

“Hmmm, you’re not all shy… I’m sure your girlfriend won’t mind sharing you with me for a while.”

“Please Ma’am, I’ll lose my job and girlfriend.”

“Don’t you find me attractive?”

She was now inside my panties and edging them down. I knew that she was high and that I would be the biggest loser if this continued. I turned to face her, thus extracting her hand from under my skirt and caught her gently and firmly around the waist, hugging her closely which would keep her hands from my front at least. Her eyes were somewhat glazed over; I reckoned that she had taken something else as well as the drink.

“Yes, Ma’am, I think that you’re beautiful, and you know that I like you. In the morning you’ll know that I was right not to stay.”

Her eyes welled up and she turned away and sat on the bed…

“I won’t be this lonely in the morning…”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am…”

I edged out the door, closed it gently, tiptoed down the companionway and into our cabin. I sat on the edge of the lower bunk, shaking. Lisa was half asleep.

“Well, you took your time. Are you sure that it was only champagne that she wanted?”

She reached out a hand and put it on my leg.

“You’re shaking; what happened? Are you OK?”

“She didn’t only want champagne; you’re doing any late service for Sophie in future.”

I told Lisa the story.

“What happens if she says that you molested her?”

“Why would she say that?”

“Trust me on this; we’re calling Maria.”

Lisa went and roused Maria. George heard her knock, heard her whispered conversation with Maria and said,

“I’m coming too!”

We met around the crew table in the galley. Both George and Maria had notebooks and made me repeat the story in forensic detail whilst they both wrote it down. I felt really uncomfortable relating, especially in front of Lisa, how a woman had molested me. After about two hours we all turned in, though I got little sleep. Lisa lay behind me and hugged me all night; I was conscious to try not to move so that she could get some rest.

Four hours later Maria knocked and opened the door when I answered. She and Lisa were to do breakfast and I was to stay away until they had “scouted the area”. Obviously someone besides me watched war or cowboy movies! The group arrived individually, Sophie last. Lisa told me later that she looked a bit the worse for wear, but not wrecked. She had an envelope in her hand, one of those from the staterooms usually used by paying guests to write letters to their friend on yacht stationery to show that they had been on board. She was also last to leave and, when Maria was out of earshot spoke to Lisa.

“Where’s Jim today?”

“He had to help Chef; we have a small problem in the galley.”

“Give him this”.

Sophie passed the envelope to Lisa who took it and came directly to our cabin. I opened the envelope; on the boat stationery, two words were written, “Sorry”, and under that “Thanks”. I got dressed, Lisa briefed me on her cover story, and I followed her up to clear up the breakfast area… normal service had resumed. I tucked the envelope into the waistband of my skirt under my t-shirt – no pockets - and quietly showed it to Maria and then George.

I guessed that Sophie would be feeling foolish when we first met, so I put on my best “front-of-house” smile when she was on her way to the bridge to watch the departure.

“Good morning, Ma’am”.

A wry smile…

“Good morning, Jim”.

The rest of the trip to Paphos and the voyage to Alexandria was fairly uneventful. There was no crew shore leave in Paphos but we were to have an opportunity to go ashore in Alexandria. We arrived in the Eastern harbour around mid-day, even this late in the year it was very warm. We picked up a swinging mooring and launched the dingy at the stern. This was a fairly large, fast RIB, but could only be operated at limited speed because of the number of boats in the harbour. An official launch came alongside for some paperwork, although an agent had already completed most of this in advance of our arrival, including paying the necessary “administration fees” to ensure a hassle-free process. A security boat also arrived; it was to stay beside us for the duration of our stay. Aristotle had chosen the eastern harbour, instead of the marina’s further West, as it was right in town instead of being 100kms out. This meant that we needed our own security as the yacht could be very easily boarded if not guarded. The group were to go ashore for a 3-day tour, staying in hotels for two days before returning to stay on board for another two days in Alexandria. Aristotle was interested in breaking into the local hotel market and was combining business with pleasure.

Almost immediately on the owner’s group’s departure, a fuel boat came alongside to fill our tanks. All of our fenders had to be deployed to keep this workboat away from our pristine hull; then we had to scrub the fenders! That done, time for shore leave. A member of the sailing crew and a member of the cabin crew had to be onboard at all times. Chef had no intention of going ashore; he never did unless he had to. We picked cards, highest to go ashore first, lowest to go the second day. I was going ashore with Greg and Dimitri, Day 2 would be Maria, Lisa and Jorge. George would stay on board; it would not be wise for the skipper to be absent should anything occur.

I dressed in the gear that I had brought out to Greece initially. Egypt was and still is a very intolerant society where what they see as sexual deviance is concerned and I was now doing my best to look male! Earrings out, no make-up, hair in ponytail, baseball cap to hide my fringe. Greg was the guide; he was well used to the Middle East from his Royal Navy days, but not with Alexandria itself as the Royal Navy hadn’t been there for some time.

We headed for the Souk. This was like nothing I had experienced to date; a riot of colour, smells and noise. We were accosted on all sides with people trying to sell us everything from leather goods to “Rolex” watches to “ancient” swords. Greg and Dimitri had gotten into a haggle with a merchant over a brace of reasonably genuine looking percussion cap muzzle loading pistols when a colourful stall caught my eye. I wandered over.

The stall was selling harem and belly-dancing costumes; a harem set was pinned on a cardboard cutout of an old Hollywood starlet, probably from the 40s judging by her hairstyle. I looked at the set intently. It was made from a blue, chiffon type material, gaudily edged with gold trim. The short top had a halter neck and was tied with a bow in the front. Some gold trim was sewn in the strategic places to hide the nipples. The bottom appeared to be two triangular pieces of material tied around the cardboard cutouts waist. They came down the legs on the outside and were fastened at the aankle, leaving the inside leg open. The two triangles overlapped in the strategic areas in the front and rear. The effect was incredibly sexy, and I pictured myself, or Lisa, or both of us in that set.

“For your girl, yes?”

An Arab man in traditional dress was looking intently at me.

“Yes, she would look great in it”,

I was only half lying…

“I have more, come, come I show you”.

He headed through the stall into a packed room full of boxes and some more cutouts. I followed him in, wondering how I would manage to buy two costumes, in different sizes, without him becoming suspicious.

“This very good…”

He was holding up another cutout, this time with a belly dancing costume.

It was dark inside, so I had to move closer to get a good look. A hand with a cloth came from behind my head and was jammed over my mouth and nose and I was grabbed around the arms and torso. I tried to move, but there was a funny smell…

I was sitting in a bright room overlooking the sea. It was already warm, thought not yet hot. I felt confused, happy, sad, and a bit afraid. A knock on the door and a lady walked in. She came over to me, I stood up and we shook hands. She was somewhere between 35 and 40 , friendly, wearing a dark skirt, white blouse, medium heels and carrying a briefcase.

“Hi, I’m Helen, mind if I sit down?”

“Of course, sorry, please do sit.”

She sat in an armchair on my right. I turned towards her.

“What do I call you?

“Jim, Jasmine, as you prefer”.

“I think Jasmine will be best – I think that’s where your mind is now.”

I was wearing a mid-length light blue dress with heels. Jasmine did seem more appropriate.

“Are you the shrink?”

“I’m a clinical psychologist, but you can call me a shrink if you prefer. I’m not a doctor, I’m just here to help you deal with what’s happened before you step back into the world again.”

“Lisa called it decompression, your word I’m assuming?”

“Yes; you’ve been through things most people will never experience. Sometimes that can continue to hurt, not just you, but those around you, especially those closest to you. I might be able to help you deal with that.”

“Is that why I can’t call home?”

“It’s not can’t. You can walk out right now and call whoever you want. But we’ve seen this before, know what might help. Will you let me help?”

“Then how come you let Lisa meet me? Were you not concerned about her?”

“You needed to meet someone that you could trust; anyway, we couldn’t have stopped her!”

“If I’m like you say, I don’t want to hurt her.”

“She’s hurt already, but not something you’ve done.”

I shifted uncomfortably. I thought could manage my own pain, but could not countenance her being hurt. I looked expectantly at Helen.

“You weren’t targeted randomly…”

“What’s that got to do with Lisa?”

“Just bear with me; I’ll explain. Do you remember the security boat that came alongside in Alexandria?”

I nodded.

“We can’t prove it, but we think that one of the crew fingered you”,

We both understood that fingered in this case meant identified…

“Have you ever heard of mukhannathun?”

I shook my head.

“Homosexuality in Egypt, and a lot of countries in the Middle East is illegal. Being transgender is not, and sex change is regarded by some as a cure for homosexuality. I know that makes no sense to us, but it’s where thinking is here.
But of course, there are men who want to use what we call rent boys. Mukhannathun are regarded as not being really male. The concept is hard to define but seems to encompass someone whose neither sex or is in the process of changing from one sex to another. Having sex with them is arguably not homosexuality.”

The penny dropped. I had been fingered because I was seen as intersex, or some variant thereof. Lisa was blaming herself for setting me on that road.

“But it’s not Lisa’s fault; I was always able to stop her dressing me, I just didn’t want to!”

“Probably only you can tell her that. I know that she has looked after you since yesterday, and will be staying with you while you’re here, but she needs some looking after too.”

“How do I do that?”

“Maybe you can start by telling me what happened?”

She had picked up a writing pad.

“Do I get to see your notes?”

I wasn’t challenging, more curious.

“If you want, when they’re typed up… I use Pitman Shorthand”

I nodded, but no words came. I didn’t know where to start. I was looking at the floor, nodding as I tried to find where, how, to get into this… Helen spoke first…

“Dimitri and Greg searched around for you for about an hour, but nobody apparently had seen you. Eventually they ran back to the harbour, got dropped out to the yacht and told George. He contacted the boss of the security company that was guarding the Yacht who contacted the police”

“Given that they had fingered me, that probably didn’t help?”

“We think that the owner was OK, just one bad staff member… anyway, you were probably followed to the souk and that’s where we lost you…

“I remember going into the stall with the harem and belly dancing gear… next thing I remember is waking up with an enormous headache…. I couldn’t move…it took some time to get some idea of where I was. I was lying on something scratchy, like a blanket, on something hard. Actually it was the floor. I couldn’t move my arms, eventually I realized that they were tied behind my back. My wrists hurt and I figured out that my ankles were tied to my wrists… hog tied as Americans would say. I couldn’t open my eyes, a blindfold, and there was something soft stuffed in my mouth.

I must have groaned or made a noise. Someone shook me. I tried to grunt into my gag, then it was being removed. A voice in my ear….

“Shhhhhssssss”

I grunted once, hoping that he would read this as assent to a clear instruction to keep quite. The gag came off and I felt the nozzle of a waterbottle rubbing against my lips. I opened them and a hand cradled my head as I sucked in water. I was given small amounts at a time, regularly, until eventually I said quietly,

“OK”

The gag was not replaced. I lay still, my head throbbing, listening to low, incomprehensible talk.

I felt someone untying the rope tying my legs to my wrists and then my legs were untied. My wrists throbbed as the pressure was released. They were still tied behind my back but at least were not being pulled by my legs anymore. I was pulled to my feet and held upright until I was able to stand. Something was wrapped around the back of my neck and I was led forward slowly, guided through some turns and then stopped. I felt someone tying rope around each ankle, but my legs were not tied close together so I could stand and move a little. Whatever was around my neck was removed and then my blindfold pulled off.

For a moment I couldn’t see, then my eyes adjusted slowly to the light. I was standing facing a sink and mirror. Instead of my own shorts and t-shirt, I was wearing the harem set that I had first admired at the stall! I had to hold onto the sink to stop from falling… WTF is the modern abbreviation for what I was thinking. Sometimes the mind is overwhelmed by the amount of information it has to process and freezes, like a modern computer screen: That’s where I was at right then. I looked around; there was an eastern toilet to my right, beyond that a shower with a curtain.

Still holding onto the sink, I looked to my left. A man was standing in the bathroom doorway, dressed in local dress, about 45, holding a leather belt in his hand. That’s what must have been around my neck. Some rope and cloth were lying on the floor just outside the doorway. He had a beard and was making no attempt to hide his face. He pointed to the sink. There was a disposable razor and some shaving cream lying on it; I looked back him and he pantomimed shaving. I started, then he caught my arm to stop me and opened the bow of the top that I was wearing and took it off me. He then pantomimed shaving under his arms. I did this every second day anyway but complied with what he wanted. I knew that, with my legs fettered, he could easily overpower me if I tried to fight, and I also knew that he wasn’t alone from having heard voices earlier.

I finished shaving and he indicated that he wanted me to turn my back to him. I pointed to the toilet; he nodded, and I shuffled over. The harem pants that I was wearing was open on the inside from ankle to ankle, so I did not have to try to take it off, but I felt very self-conscious peeing in front of him. I finished and washed my hands. He again indicated that I turn my back to him. He caught my left arm and tied a rope around my wrist, then the other wrist. This time it wasn’t too tight, just firm. Then he fitted the harem top on me, slipping the halter-neck over my head and tying the bow in front by putting his arms around me. This brought him really close to me, too close, and I could tell that he was enjoying himself. My blindfold was put back on and I was led, slowly as the fetter was still on my ankles, to somewhere else. I had no sense of where I was being led. I felt a chair being pushed into the back of my knees and I sat down. I was bent forward and my arms pulled over the back of the chair and tied to some part of it. Without removing the fetter my ankles were tied to the chair legs.

I must have been sitting like this for about 10 minutes when I heard the door open and close. Something was plonked down close to me with a slight thump. My blindfold was removed, but I could not see by whom as they were standing behind me. I felt softer hands, clearly a woman’s, gather my hair, pulling it back from my face and tying it in a pony-tail. She put one hand behind my neck and pulled my head gently backwards by my pony-tail until my face was tilted up at a slight angle. There was a bit of fiddling around my back and I realized that she had tied whatever she used to make my pony-tail to the back of the chair to keep my head tilted. She moved around the chair and I could see, from the corner of my eye, that there was a small table beside me with a container of something on it. Her eyes were somewhat expressionless; her face looked hard and worn. I found it hard to tell her age, maybe 50. She rubbed her hands along my face, then started to rub some cream into it. She was doing my makeup!

This went on for a long time, over an hour. She spent longest on my eyes, then eyebrows, face and lips. She fiddled around with my ears, discovered the piercings, and attached a pair of long, gold coloured, rather boxy earrings. She looked at my nose and I was afraid that she was going to pierce it but she left it alone, much to my relief. Then she untied the cord, or whatever, leading to my ponytail, loosened out my hair and started to brush it. She took two pieces from in front, just above my ears, brought these to the back and fastened them in place with a hair slide. She stood back to admire her handiwork, then, almost as an afterthought, she picked up a mirror from the table and brought it in front of my face so that I could see myself.

I had worn make up before, but this was a bit of a shock. Eyeliner had been applied with a very heavy hand, and I had bright blue eyeshadow to match my top. My lipstick seemed gaudy and my face was several shades browner than Lisa had ever done it. The makeup was faded down my neck so that there was no visible line between it and my own rather pale skin. Looking pleased with her work, she picked up her makeup box, patted me on the shoulder and left the room. She didn’t replace my blindfold; that would have ruined the makeup!

Almost immediately two men came into the room, the guy who had watched my shave, and a younger man, about 30. They had some tools and proceeded to screw a metal ring with a screw tail into one of the wooden beams that held up the ceiling. They used a hand drill to make an initial hole, then screwed the ring into place using an iron bar pushed through it. I guessed that holding me was a unique event, otherwise they would have this in place as a fixture. Satisfied with their handiwork, they turned to me. They lifted the chair and placed it just under the ceiling ring. My hands were untied, brought to my front and retied. A loop was tied into the free ends of the rope tying my hands and a longer rope was run through this and up through the ceiling ring. The younger man pulled the end of this rope, pulling my arms upwards. The older man untied the ropes tying my ankles to the chair and removed the fetter. The younger man then pulled his rope tighter and I was hauled to my feet, arms overhead, hands almost touching the ceiling bean and ring, just a foot away. He tied this rope off to the loop and left the free end dangle down behind my back. The older man left the room and came back with a thin plank, about 4 foot long. Using his drill, he bored two holes, one at either end, and carried the plank around behind me. He pushed a loop of rope through one of the holes and tied it around my right ankle. He then did the same to my left ankle, pulling my legs apart. This had the added effect of reducing my height slightly and I was trying to stand on my toes to take the pressure off my wrists. They saw this and slackened the rope going through the ring to let me down a little.

Looking at me, the older man said something to his mate in Arabic; they both laughed then the younger man, who was standing behind me, caught me around the waist and slipped a hand up under my top, then up under my harem pants. Again I could feel that he was enjoying this. The older man said something, again they both laughed and his friend let me go, giving me a good slap on the ass as he walked away. I was feeling very humiliated, scared and helpless; I was struggling not to cry.

The younger man had left the room, now he returned with an instamatic camera. The makeup and harem set now made some sense. A desk lamp was put on the table and turned towards me to improve the lighting. The younger man proceeded to take some pictures of my face, then full length. As I couldn’t turn and the light was fixed, the older man would lift me and push the plank around to change my direction for side and rear shots. I thought that they had finished, then another conversation in Arabic. My hands were released from the ceiling ring, then retied behind my back. Then they were refastened to the rope going through the ceiling ring and pulled upwards. This hurt, and forced my shoulders down. I made a sound, half protest, half whimper of pain, and received a few sharp slaps on the ass. I gritted my teeth to keep quiet. The two men then lifted the table around in front of me, the table lamp was now on the floor. They pushed the table into me so that I was now bent over it at about 45 degrees. The rope was tightened more, forcing me lower until I was almost bent flat on the table, my legs held apart by the makeshift spreader bar. Some more pictures were taken from behind me, then the rope pulling my arms up was released and I fell onto the table. Instead of pulling me up, the younger man held me down from behind with one hand and proceeded to rub up against my rear. The older man spoke a little sharply to him and he pulled back. They pushed the chair in behind me again, caught me by the arms and mostly slid me off the table onto the chair. The older man used the long rope to lash me to the chair and I was left alone again

I heard the men speak to the woman as they left and her voice responding. I heard her come into the room. There was a younger woman with her, probably late teens. She seemed embarrassed, hesitant. They started to clean the makeup off my face. Eventually, job completed, they left. The younger woman came back into the room after some time had passed. She had a plate of rolled pittas, with some filling. She left the plate on the table, came back with another chair, sat opposite me, took one of the rolls and started to feed me. Her eyes were gentle, kind, troubled. I ate slowly, this was my first food since I was captured; I had no idea how long ago that was. I soon could hear from the voices outside that the men had returned and was glad that it was the girl who was feeding me. When the food was finished, she gave me some water to drink, then gently cleaned my lips with a tissue and stood up to leave. I looked at her, nodded and whispered “thanks”. I don’t know if she understood the word, but the meaning was plain enough: She hesitated, nodded back, and left.”

All this had tumbled out, sometimes in a torrent, sometimes slowly as I looked for how to express something without being too explicit… and suddenly I stopped. I was thinking about the young Arab woman. After a few minutes silence, Helen’s voice cut in, she wanted to keep me talking.

“How long were you kept in that first place?”

“Two days. I was fed twice a day, left mostly by myself. It was the hardest part, both physically and mentally. I was still in shock, and was soon aching pretty much all over from being left tied up. The only times I was untied was to use the bathroom. I had to shave each day, face, legs, armpits… at least I got to shower. The worst was the fear, boredom, when the mind is unoccupied it can go to some very dark places. I tried to focus on Lisa, our time out in Athens, working on the Yacht. Fear kept coming back no matter how hard I tried…”

“How did you leave there?”

“The morning of the third day… I had finished washing, had been fed, when there was a bit of commotion. I had been left lying on the blanket on the floor when the two men came in, obviously in a hurry, and hauled me onto the chair. Same as before, the older woman did my makeup, this time with some help from the younger one. When they were finished the men came back, tied my hands in front and pulled me up using the ceiling ring again. The spreader bar was put on my legs and the women pulled my clothes a bit to get them to fall as best they could. They all went out and I was left alone for a few minutes, then the older man came back in with another man, mid 40’s, local dress, expensive watch, jewellery, carrying a leather satchel.

The new man, who I would eventually get used to calling “Mastar”, came over to me slowly, walked around me, then started to feel my legs, rub his hands along my belly and back, inside my top and then under my harem pants. He even caught my jaw and pulled my mouth open to look at my teeth! He stood back and the two men started talking, probably haggling. This went on for some time, rising to a crescendo, then falling back to a quieter tone. As the talk died down Mastar said something to the older man who nodded. He came over to me, released the rope holding my arms up and tied my hands behind my back again. I was again hauled up with my arms behind me, pushing my head and shoulders down. Mastar was looking in the satchel which he had left on the floor. He stood up, pulling on a surgical-type glove…”

I had stopped talking again, remembering the sheer terror and humiliation that I had been feeling at this point. Helen let me be silent for a few minutes…

“He checked my out and said something to the older man. He went back to his satchel, put his glove into a plastic bag, took out a bottle of what I assume was some form of disinfectant and rubbed it into his hands. I remember that he was moving quite slowly, he seemed relaxed! He carried the bag over towards me, put it on the ground and started pulling out a set of shackles. I was still bent over with my arms pulled up behind me. He put one shackle on my ankle, the second wouldn’t reach my other ankle as the spreader bar/board was too wide. The older man was behind me untying my legs from the spreader and pushed my right leg inwards, to be grabbed and shackled by Mastar. I was struggling to keep my balance, my arms and shoulders taking all the pressure; they both grabbed me and steadied me. Mastar then fixed and locked a steel collar around my neck, this was joined to the shackles by a chain. There was another chain dangling from the collar, apparently going nowhere. He took his time, even gently pulling my hair outside the collar. He reached into his bag again and brought out what looked like a metal figure 8, with a hinge at one end and a lock at the other. He moved behind me and I could feel this being fitted to my wrists above where the rope was tying them together. He gave me a slap on the ass, then held me steady while the rope was loosened, and I was able to straighten up.

As Mastar was back searching through his leather bag, it was clear that he was a professional at this. He had all the gear and his laid back approach indicated that this was nothing new to him. He stood up this time with some cloths. I was blindfolded, then my nose was pinched closed. When I opened my mouth to breath, a gag was quickly slipped in and tightened behind my head. Something material was pulled over my head then down over my body. I was led along, I had no idea where, slowly as I had only about two foot of chain between the shackles. I heard a car boot being opened and I was suddenly lifted and left down, obviously into the boot. It was closed, not slammed, then I heard the car door close and the engine start.”

“I think we need to leave it there for today”,

Helen interrupted, unusually. I looked at her and she nodded down towards my hands. I was digging them into the arms of the armchair that I was sitting in, the backs of my hands were white. She passed me a tissue; I was covered in sweat. I wiped my face.

“I know this is very hard now, but it will be worse if you bottle it up. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time, OK?!

I nodded. She got up and opened to door and called out,

“Hi Lisa, I’m off now”.

I heard a brief murmur of conversation, then Lisa came into the room. She sat quietly opposite me for a few minutes then said.

“Maybe you would like to take a shower and change?”

My dress was soaked with sweat, I nodded, she reached out a hand to help me up and walked me to the bedroom. She helped me out of my dress and started the shower. I stepped in and slid the curtain over and started to wash; the curtain opened slightly and Lisa slipped in beside me.

“Remember? Save water, shower with a friend”.

She washed me, taking some time to feel around my body. We were both a bit self-conscious; this was going to take a bit of time.

Shower over, we sat on a couch overlooking the sea and chatted a bit. Lisa told me afterwards that she had been briefed on bringing me up-to-date on what had happened when I disappeared. The police were, as expected, useless and disinterested. They were even less interested when they saw the only recent photo of me; the one Lisa took in the mirror when I was made up as a girl. Aristotle, on the other hand, was furious. He saw the kidnapping of one of his staff as a personal affront and immediately contacted his Head of Security, a former member of the Greek intelligence community. He wasn’t in a position to do much, except to identify a local retired intelligence officer, now freelancing. This man’s name was never divulged to us. His first move was to keep this out of the papers and media. If it became a major media issue, things in Egypt might get too hot and I’d be moved to the Gulf. Let it die down. Aristotle’s Head of Security was dispatched to Ireland to brief my family and persuade them likewise to keep a lid on the story, not an easy task, but he succeeded and thereafter served as liaison between my family and the attempts to find me. He was just flying back now, having confirmed that I was safe, being looked after, needed some time and would be in contact as soon as possible.

The basic premise of the search was that word about me would surface in the appropriate community in about three months. It would be hard to keep this quite amongst the fraternity who were involved in the scene. The Local Agent would maintain a listening watch through his network. The yacht was delayed for a few days in Alexandria but eventually sailed back to Heraklion. There was a lot of self-recrimination on board. Lisa, and to a much lesser extent, Maria felt guilty about their role in my apparent transformation, while Greg and Dimitri felt directly responsible for losing me.

“It was thinking of you that kept me going”, I said. “Our time in Athens in particular, but all of the three or four weeks before I was kidnapped were the best days of my life”.

Lisa looked down, looked sad.

“But it’s my fault that you were taken; I was pushing you down a road that led to this.”

“Were you pushing or was I pulling? You can’t be responsible for me turning into the person I want to be. Remember you told me twice that you thought that I was a lesbian? Well I am, now more than ever….

And neither of us could possibly have foreseen the kidnapping. Wrong place, wrong time, shit happens…

Neither of us can go forward blaming ourselves for this; what sort of a life would we have together?”

That slipped out… bad timing as there was a lot to sort out…. and I had no idea if Lisa saw a long term future for us. That dream had kept me going for 4 long months when I could have easily turned to despair, but it was my dream, not necessarily hers.

“Life together?

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve spent the last 4 months dreaming about a future with you. It kept me going.”

“But you don’t have to dream now; you’re safe, you’ll be back with your family soon.”

“It’s still a dream for me; but no pressure! You’ll have your own dreams.”

“And if our dreams coincide?”

“I have been changed; I’m not the same person that shared a cabin with you on the yacht”.

“More than a cabin, if I recall correctly.”

She slid over on the couch and nestled into me.

“We don’t have to solve anything now… let’s just keep dreaming”.

“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!”

We were late getting up the next morning. Lisa met Helen in her dressing gown and showed her to the lounge whilst I speed-dressed, no need for shaving any more. I slowed down to make a dignified entry into the lounge, Helen was sitting on her usual armchair and rose to greet me.

“Sorry I’m late, slept in…”

“Looks like you both did… all OK?”

“Yes, great… definitely, great…”

“I’ve something for you, things are a little more relaxed here than in the UK.”

“Ireland actually, but no problem, just because we speak English we’re often mistaken for Brits.”

“Sorry, Ireland. One a day; how many were you on?

She handed me a small flat box. Inside was the disk with the daily little blue pill. They looked just like the hormone pills that I had been given in captivity.

“Four a day at first, then two after I was beginning to show their impact”.

“If they’re the same strength, that was a massive overdose! And an excessive dose doesn’t speed anything up. I’ve promised the Doctor that you’ll call when you pass through Athens for a full physical. Here’s the address.”

She passed me an A5 sheet of paper with the name, address and telephone number neatly typed. Athens seemed like a thousand miles away, but I would have to go through it in any event when leaving Greece.

“How’d you get these? The doctor is in Athens?”

“We spoke on the telephone and he faxed the prescription.”

“Thanks, I feel that it’s important not to break the continuity.”

“Do these still fit in with your current situation?” She meant the pills…

“Huh?”

“You and Lisa; it seems like you’re getting back to where you were at!”

“Yes, but we’ve a lot to learn again. We can never really get back to where we were at. And I need to get a job and get some money together for surgery.”

“Don’t rush anything; this is a bad time to make decisions….Come in…”

Lisa had knocked on the door and came in with a tray; coffee, breakfast rolls of cured meat and soft cheese. This was our missed breakfast. She had brought a roll for Helen as well. Lisa joined us and chatted a bit; it was clear that she knew more about the search for me than Helen. She was being briefed as it progressed, as, to a more censored extent, were my family. They were not aware of my dalliance with femininity and Aristotle, having discussed this with Lisa, directed that they be led to believe that my kidnapping had been an error and I had been mistaken for a relative of his, to be ransomed in due course.

“You know the first clue to your whereabouts was the electrolysis.”

“How’s that?”,

Helen asked before I had time to process Lisa’s statement. Lisa and I had not gotten around to the details of my rescue yet.

“The Local Agent was expecting that an electrolysis machine might be needed and kept an eye on sales, basically paying staff in the sales outlets for information. There’s a limited number of distributors and any sale outside the normal beauty business, or very rich community was suspect. One machine was bought by a youngish woman within days of your disappearance. She didn’t appear to be very well off and didn’t specify a business on the receipt, which she would have done if she was buying for a legitimate business. The salesman, our informant, offered to carry the equipment to the car, and noted the number. It took a bit of digging apparently but eventually he traced the purchase as most likely being for the place you were held.”

Lisa found it hard to say in front of Helen and I that I was actually being held in a brothel. She continued,

“That wasn’t conclusive, there was a chance that the girls were using it themselves, but unlikely as it’s an expensive piece of kit.”

“So the thousands of pinpricks I got from that machine were worth it”,

I joked, remembering many days of work by a series of amateur depiliators. We had finished our impromptu breakfast, and Lisa took the tray and excused herself.

“Who operated the machine?”

Helen was leading me gently into the story again…

“I reckon all the girls working there had a go, some were better than others and a lot of the less skilled ones dropped out. The skill might be eyesight and a steady hand.

Things actually started to look up after the first day when I had the “surgery”. I was pretty much left alone for a day, apart from being given food, water, painkillers, and two blue pills with both my two daily meals. The following day, after I had breakfast, I was conscious that I hadn’t shaved and pantomimed shaving to ask for a razor. I didn’t get one but later, two girls came into the cell and beckoned me to go with them. The outer room was locked, so I couldn’t escape in any event. What I thought was a big radio was on the table and they indicated that I was to lie with my head close to it. There was some discussion between them while I was trying to figure out what was going on, then one started to rub my face, or so I thought. The first pinprick was a bit of a shock, then it kept happening. Actually this was their second time using the machine; they had practiced on me when I was sedated. After a while, two more girls came in and took over. I caught a glimpse of “Goon” when the door opened so a run for it was out of the question. Apart from the annoying pinpricks, the experience wasn’t too unpleasant. The girls were chatting away as they worked, occasionally addressing incomprehensible words to me to which I tried to respond, but there’s a limit to the ability to use sign language when lying on your back on a table! Still, human interaction is preferable to virtually solitary confinement, and the company of pretty women is always welcome, even if we can’t talk to each other.

Eventually the girls stopped working on my face and I was given a tube of cream to rub into it. Some hand signals indicated that they would be back tomorrow. I wasn’t locked into my cell so, apart from using the toilet, I stayed on the outer room, pacing about. I tried to avoid seeing the big A frame that I had been tied to, and of course it popped into view every time I turned.

After a short interval, a woman came into the room, burdened with a big “gettoblaster”, and an armful of clothes. She was in a belly dancing kit, but surely it was far too early for her to be going to work. I took the big gettoblaster from her and she indicated with her head that I should put it on the table. Its amazing how well humans can communicate without speaking. She shook out the clothes and held a belly dancer’s skirt, or whatever it’s called, up against me. The first one was too small, she tried another. It would have to do. She gestured that I should put it on. I retreated into my cell to change in some privacy. I took a minute to figure out how the skirt fastened before taking off my sarong and putting it on. Like the other outfits I’d seen the girls wearing, this had two large gaps exposing my legs right up to the low waistbelt. I felt very naked and vulnerable and very self-conscious as I emerged from the cell. I kept expecting the skirt to fall off, I didn’t have the hips to hold it up. I pantomimed this to the dancer who fiddled about with waistband for a bit, then seemed to indicate that she was happy with the outcome. Wish I was! She held up some tops before deciding that my own crop top was ok. She pointed at my chest, lifted her own boobs and shook her head. The meaning was abundantly clear.

She plugged in the gettoblaster, put a cassette tape into it and pressed play. As the music played, she started to dance. She made it look so easy, sensual, hypnotic, a combination of arm and hip movements which blended together perfectly. She stopped the tape; I smiled and nodded to indicate appreciation. I was afraid to clap; I’m not sure why now as my clapping would not have been any louder than the music. The dancer then, without the music, started to do a circular motion with her hips. She indicated that I was to do the same. It looked easy; it wasn’t. I tried a few times, then she stopped me and repeated the exercise, this time holding her palm flat against her stomach. I copied; it gave me a reference point for holding my midriff still, while moving my hips. I was getting it. She had me practice that for quite a while, reversing the motion every so often. Then she demonstrated a figure of 8 movement, doing it first one way, then in the opposite direction. I managed to follow and she kept me doing this for quite a while. She seemed pleased with her success to date. Then she demonstrated how to drop one hip, keeping the other at the same height, more practice, both hips, I was flagging. This was an intense workout. Next, lift one hip, then the other. More practice, I was jaded, time to stop.

She lifted the gettoblaster, carried it into my cell and plugged it in. She pressed play, then did all the actions again, in time with the music, scrolled the tape back to the start, pointed to the tape deck, rotated her hips and pointed to me. I was to practice! I pantomimed writing, so I could make a note of each movement. She nodded, indicated tomorrow, and left, locking the cell door behind her. Interesting how a hand moved forward in an upwards then downwards curve is so easily understood as “tomorrow” or “next time”.

And I did practice; it gave me something to focus on, and expend energy in some way other than fretting. I was working away with the music playing when Mayda came with my food. She was wearing her own dancing set, going to work again. She put the tray on the table and indicated to me to continue, joined me for a few movements, smiled and left. I ate, slowly as usual, then noticed something about the gettoblaster. It had a multiband radio, including Long Wave. I extended the aerial, moved the band selector to the LW position, made sure the volume was down and started to search by rotating the selection knob. I eventually found the BBC World Service; I was back in the World again, even if only in a small, surreptitious way. I listened for a while, then carefully folded down the aerial, moved the selection knob back to roughly where it had been, changed the band selector back to MW, where it had been, and drifted off to sleep.

The days continued roughly on this pattern. A selection of girls attacked my face each morning, giving me a break when it became obvious that my skin needed to recover. Then, to my initial considerable embarrassment, they started to work on my groin area. I got a fright when one of the girls casually opened my sarong skirt one day and just started to work down there. I had to remind myself that they weren’t exactly unfamiliar with the male, or in my case ex-male, anatomy. My dance instructress was called Mariyam, who seemed to be late 20’s, maybe 30, older than the other girls. She seemed reasonable pleased with my progress. Working with her, I was picking up the names of body parts such as hip, foot, leg, etc. as well as the names of the dance movements. I was working hard at the dance and was getting quite good at it. It was keeping me fit, filling in time, and giving me something to focus on.

Mayda normally brought me my meals and we mostly got a few minutes when she taught me some Arabic, or danced with me before going to work. I’m not sure how this arrangement came to be, maybe she asked to keep this role, maybe she was just appointed by whoever ran the place on a day-to-day basis. One thing I noticed, she never left before watching me take my two blue pills with my morning and evening meals. For a long time, I didn’t know what these pills were, I thought maybe tranquilizers. Then after about 4 weeks, I began to notice that my nipples had become much more sensitive and there was what I can only describe as hard areas, almost lumps, under them. These continued to develop very slowly until, by the time of my rescue, I had two distinct, though very small, mounds on my chest. This doesn’t particularly trouble me; I was slowly deciding that when, and never “if”, I rejoined the world, I don’t want to continue to live as a male. I tried to envisage how I could live as a female; staying in Ireland is out of the question as society is fairly intolerant of “deviance”.”

I was drifting between my tenses, trying to describe feelings which I had when captive, many of which were still unresolved. Yes, I was free now, I had made up my mind what I was going to do, but I still had no idea how to do it.

“Do you see yourself as deviant?”

As I had paused to consider the mountain facing me and still to be climbed, Helen had picked up on my last word.

“No, I’m not a deviant, but everyone at home will think that I am. They’ll try to say that I was obviously traumatized by what has happened to me and have become a bit unhinged, or something like that. It would give them a way to rationalize something that would be a disgrace on the family if there weren’t an external driver. They’ll probably even believe that themselves.”

“You’ve been thinking this through.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think!”

“How did you keep track of time?

“The days had a routine like I was saying, there was no difference apparent to me for weekends – do they even have weekends in Egypt? I kept track of the weeks through the radio, I listened in late at night, and very carefully returned the knobs to their original place, or something near it. Did you ever listen to the BBC World Service?”

Helen shook her head.

“They have a signature tune called “Lillibulero”. They probably don’t know that it’s an anti-Irish rant from the late 1600’s. Rant or not, I listened to that tune very low, every night. It was my connection to the world. Maybe Mastar didn’t care that I could listen to radio but, in his place, I wouldn’t have let me. Maybe they didn’t know about the World Service? I suppose I’ll never know the answer.”

“And they never caught you?”

“Never.

After a few weeks, I was beginning to feel the stress of never seeing daylight. I got my meaning across to both Mayda and Mariyam one day. It obviously worked as the following morning one of the “Goons” came into my cell and indicated for me to follow him. We climbed up a good few flights of narrow stairs, and came, through a heavy door, out onto the roof. There were some metal chairs and tables with a few of the girls lazing around. The roof was screened from view by a sort of sackcloth screening. I was brought over to a chair and table. There was a chain padlocked to the table and the other end was padlocked to the ring on my collar. The Goon put his finger to his lips to indicate silence and left. I put my face up to the sun and closed my eyes to luxuriate in it. After a few minutes, I heard a scraping of chairs as the four or five girls already on the roof got up and carried their chairs over to where I was. Again, indicating for silence, they started to introduce themselves. I reciprocated and the low murmur of whispered conversation resumed, with occasional attempts to include me through a combination of sign language and my pigeon Arabic. I was very grateful for the gesture, very happy with their company, and more than a little fascinated as two of the girls had their tops off and were completely unselfconscious about it. I tried not to stare! After about an hour or so they started to drift off and the Goon collected and returned me to the outer locked room. Soon the “electrolysis team” arrived and back to normal service.

The roof became a regular part of my routine and was very welcome for two reasons; I was getting sun, for sure and that lifted my spirits. Probably more important was the company. The girls always sat with me and tried to include me in their world. Now I didn’t feel so alone. I wasn’t sure how many, if any, of the girls were there entirely voluntarily but they seemed to be getting on with whatever life had thrown them. Maybe that’s how to survive? One day I noticed that one of the “roof regulars” had been missing for a few days and asked about her. Eventually I understood that she had been bought by a client. My initial reaction was something between confusion and shock, but the girls assured me that this was “jayid”, good. I surmise that one way out of this life for the girls was to develop a relationship of some sort with a client and for him to buy her from Mastar. I’m not sure it could be described as buying her freedom.”

“Probably no woman is entirely free in that society?”

I wasn’t quite sure where Helen was going with that half question, half statement. I let it rest.

“It might seem strange for me to be saying this, but after the first few days of terror, with a fair bit of pain thrown it, life was becoming tolerable. There was the worry of what was to come when my training, grooming, whatever, was finished but I tried to ignore that. By the end of the second month the hair on my face, and other places, was very much lighter. I was given a razor for my legs and underarms and warned not to use it on my face. The dancing was fairly intense, and my Arabic was starting to improve. I missed having a textbook, but I couldn’t read the script even if I had been given one.

Mastar rarely appeared for the first two months after the initial days. In the third month he started to take more of an interest in both my appearance and dancing. He came in towards the end of a dance class one day and watched me perform or train. When the class was over he dismissed Mariyam, then told me to take my top off. I was now getting a bit self-conscious about showing my chest; I didn’t have boobs in any meaningful sense, but it was obvious that something was developing. I was told to put my hands on my head; he came around behind me, reached his hands around my sides, and started to play with my nipples. I was afraid at first that he would pull the rings but he was reasonably gentle and the odd approving grunt seemed to indicate that he was pleased with my reaction. My nipples had become incredibly sensitive and, try as I might, I couldn’t contain the odd gasp as he continued to play with me. He was pressed up against me and I was afraid that he was about to push this a bit further: It certainly felt as if he wanted to and I was acutely conscious that all I was wearing was a belly dancing skirt, not much in the way of a barrier!

But he didn’t. He took his hands away from my nipples and sort of lifted my hands off my head to indicate that I could take them down. He caught my shoulders and turned me towards my cell door and gave me his usual slap on the ass, all of which I took as a command to go into the cell. My top was still on the table in the outer room, but I didn’t dare turn around to get it. I hoped it would still be there in the morning or that Mayda would bring it to me when she came with my evening meal. I took off my belly dancing skirt, hung it on a hanger on a peg on the wall and changed into my harem pants set. That, with my sarong and top, and the belly dancing skirt were all the clothes that I possessed.

My regime changed again that evening. Mayda came as usual but brought no food. I took the two tablets that she proffered. She handed me my top, which I hung up, then she told me to follow her. We hadn’t got to sentences, but we were able to converse in a limited way with individual and short combinations of words. We left the outer room and I glanced towards the door; it was closed, and I presume locked. I wasn’t sure if I was being tested and there was no point in making a break for it without being reasonably sure of success; that would put my ingratiation back by months, perhaps permanently. We headed up stairs to what was a room just under the roof, spanning at least half of the entire building. Inside was a riot of colour, individual carpets lay on the floor around the walls, tapestries and mirrors adorned the walls, a few stools and small cabinets were scattered among the carpets. There was a large low table in the center of the room with serving plates of food, some jugs, cups, napkins and no cutlery, around which about 15 girls were seated on the floor, picking things from the various plates and obviously having their evening meal. All the girls that I knew so far were there except Mariyam, along with a few that I hadn’t met yet.

Mayda pushed in amongst the girls, made a place for me and asked me to sit. I indicated that I would like to wash my hands so she brought me to a large washroom with an array of sinks and mirrors. Hands washed, we returned to the table and I squatted amongst the girls and started to eat, using only my right hand. To use a left hand is considered unclean as it was supposed to be used for personal hygiene. I ate slowly; I had developed this habit over the previous months and tried to keep up with the conversation going on around. Again, the girls were kind and considerate to me, although our ability to interact was necessarily limited by language. With the food mostly gone the girls started to drift away from the table, mostly starting to do their makeup and changing into their dancing costumes. Some cleared off the table and left everything on a table outside the door, to be collected by the male waiting staff. I learned later that generally only Mastar was allowed into this space, though sometimes the Goons could come in if there was trouble. I was no longer regarded as male, not even by myself.

As there were girls changing all around me, I indicated to Mayda that I should leave. She shook her head, and brought me with her when she was doing her own makeup. It dawned on me that this was a further stage of training. Unselfconsciously, she had me help her to get into her dancing set, ornate necklaces, bangles, and little cymbals attached to her fingers. I noticed that many of the girls were quite, how do I say, close, to each other during the dressing process but wasn’t sure if this meant a relationship or was just the way girls in this situation behaved. Like a lot of the girls, once finished, Mayda did a little dance routine to check that everything was ok, a sort of test run. Then she brought me back down the stairs and locked me into my cell.”

“That was quite an eventful day”,

Helen had let me talk on for quite a while uninterrupted.

“Obviously Mastar, or whoever, had decided that you were sufficiently compliant to be integrated with the rest of the girls?”

I noted that she was also including me as a girl.

“Yes, and I had worked hard at that. I think the timing also coincided with the electrolysis, my dancing progress and the hormones all coming to a certain point together. I think Mastar’s little mauling session was essentially to check my physical reactions and compliance. When I was first captured, I would have tried to fight if my hands weren’t always handcuffed; this time I didn’t, very deliberately.”

“Ok, that’ll do us for today. I’ve brought these for you, remember you asked for a copy of my notes.”

She handed me an A4 envelope.

“Can I show these to Lisa?”

“Yes, particularly as I’m around again tomorrow. Remember how hard it was for you to tell me some of these things? It’ll be even harder on her to read them, but better she finds out now so that you’re keeping nothing buried inside that you feel you can’t tell her.

I’m bringing Theodore, Aristotle’s Head of Security with me tomorrow. He can let you know how the rescue side was working. See you tomorrow.”

It was well before dinner time so I sat alone in the room reading through Helen’s notes. They were neatly typed out, using blue carbon paper as was usual at the time. Eventually Lisa came in and sat silently opposite me; she would do this when she wanted to talk, but didn’t want to interrupt my thoughts. Eventually I spoke,

“These are Helen’s notes, would you like to read them?”

“Should I? Aren’t they private?”

“Not private from you, but not easy reading”.

She knew that she should read the notes, otherwise I wouldn’t have offered them to her. She started to read; I watched her from the corner of my eye and saw her start to stiffen in her chair. She continued to read, I heard a sob, then she put down the paper and started to cry. I held her and whispered.

“Sorry, it’s just important that you know all this…”

I must have held her for 10 minutes before she slowly regained her composure.

“It’s me who should be sorry, you had to go through this, I’m only reading it!”

“It’s harder for you now. I know all what’s happened; I’ve had months to deal with it. You’re really just seeing it for the first time. You don’t have to finish this today.”

“No, I’ll read it.”

Lisa read the notes, sometimes putting them down, then forcing herself to continue. When she was finished, I put the notes back into the envelope and we locked them in the villa safe. Dinner was brought from the hotel, but it was a very quiet affair. I held her in my arms all night hoping that I’d done the right thing showing her these notes. Was I being selfish, sharing a trauma that she needn’t know about? Logic said that it was the right thing to do, but logic doesn’t always feel right at the time.

I got up early the next morning and prepared breakfast. I was just getting a tray ready for Lisa when she appeared so we sat together at the breakfast bar.

“Sorry about last night, it was just such a shock to see the detail…”

“No need to feel sorry; I hope that I did the right thing showing it to you.

I want to get some time alone with Theodore this morning when they come. Can you keep Helen out of my hair?”

It was as transparent as a pane of glass but it gave me a chance to offer Lisa the morning counselling session; she accepted the offer,

“Yeah, sure!”.

When Helen and Theodore arrived we both met them at the door. Unlike Lisa, I hadn’t met Theodore before. Lisa brought Helen into the lounge and I steered Theodore to an outside patio. When we sat down, I noticed him looking at the tattoos on my legs, visible when my denim mini rode up.

“Apparently they spell a name given to me, Xania, although I don’t read Arabic”.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare”.

“That’s all right, I’ll put it down to professional curiosity”.

“I gather Lisa has brought you up to date to where we tracked the building after getting a car number?”

“Yes, sounds like a smart bit of work by the Local Agent. Am I going to meet him?”

“Sorry, No, I’m the only one who actually knows who he is. It’s for his safety, you understand?”

“I understand, just I’d like to thank him some day.”

“I’ll pass it on and maybe he will meet you some day.

The story is that, once we had identified the building and were about 55% sure that’s where you were being held, we needed to get someone in there, someone not known. We used a Lebanese freelancer, posing as a businessman looking for opportunities in Egypt, as the man to send in. It wasn’t hard to arrange as that type of establishment always has a passing trade. As a foreign businessman travelling alone, he also had a cover for frequent visits.”

“Nice work if you can get it; I met him of course in the rescue, but he had been well known to us all before. The girls noticed that he often came, generally alone, western light grey or light blue suits. Talkative and always tipped well.”

“Did they ever suspect anything?”

“No, they just thought of him as a good patron, a regular who treated them well. He made his way around the girls so some suspected that he might be looking for a woman to buy.”

“Good to know; he might be useful in a similar role again. Anyway, eventually he picked up, from little things the girls said, that there was a new entertainer to come on stream soon, but he probably wouldn’t be interested. That was a clue in itself; an entertainer that he would not be interested in. This surveillance lasted for a good few weeks, though we had to pull him out twice to pretend he had gone on business trips to make his cover more believable. Then one day, he saw you dancing”.

“Yes, after I was brought to the girls’ room to eat, do make up etc., things started to move along. I started to be trained in makeup and eventually Mariyam brought in two new dancing kits for me. These were probably adapted ‘specially for me. There was more “tail” to the skirts, probably to disguise my lack of hips. What appeared to be a decorative rope belt or cord around my waist was actually attached to the skirt belt at the front and back to stop the skirts slipping down on my hips. There were padded tops as well to improve the appearance of my shimmy. Then I was told that I would be joining the “floor show”, though now yet available for “private entertainment”. The metal collar was unlocked from my neck, leaving an obvious mark. This was to be covered by a decorative collar when I was dressed. I was decked out in an array of bracelets and ankle bracelets, bigger earrings and belly ring to replace the small holding rings there since I was pierced.

Mariyam and Mayda brought me to the floor during the day to show me the layout. There was a small dance floor, surrounded by curtained off semicircular benches with a small table in the center. Even though I would not be doing this at first, I was shown how to push the table into the center of the couch, or to the side depending on the number of men in the booth to make room for some private entertainment. All the booths were open to the front for a full view of the stage, but a curtain could be pulled across when required.

Entertainment in the booths was limited to some topless dancing and general foreplay, culminating in oral sex. Should a client want more from his chosen girl, there were rooms on a type of balcony over the booths. These were dominated by a large four-poster bed and there was a small toilet and washbasin en-suite. These rooms probably had been bigger once, but were modified to accommodate the ensuite, thus losing about a quarter of their size. The client did not engage the girls directly but through a functionary who ascertained the clients wishes and chosen girl, called the girl from the dance floor and instructed her accordingly.

I was mildly surprised to be told that there was no alcohol. Refreshments consisted of Turkish coffee, water, sharbat, local sweets and hubbly bubbly pipes, or hookahs. Service was by exclusively young men in white Egyptian robes, a red sash and a fez. No women were involved in the service. The Goons were dressed in a kind of sleeveless tunic top and baggy trousers. They were the bouncers, and were, by and large, a fairly intimidating crew.

I was to be started on a slow night, Monday. Things generally heated up quite a bit on Thursday, and Friday nights, tapering off on Saturday, going quite again by Sunday. The basic idea was to generate interest during the week and get word out to the weekend clients that there was a new “mukhannathun” available and effectively run an auction on Thursday night and the same, but with an expected lower return, on Friday as I would no longer be fully “new”.

I ate with the girls as usual on Monday but had butterflies, stage-fright, so took little actual food. I got a bit of good-natured ribbing from the girls then Mayda and I helped each other dress. This was the first time that I had changed in this room and was very self-conscious. Once dressed, we did a little routine to check out our gear and warm up a little. Because of the size of the floor, only half the dancers went out first; the rest waiting in a small area hidden from the stage by hanging tapestries. After a time, the dancers on the floor would either be engaged by a client and replaced, or, if not engaged, rested and replaced. I was out with the first batch.

I wished that I could close my eyes but I would have bumped into the other dancers and spoiled the show. I tried to concentrate only on the dancers, the stage and the music and block out the booths and their occupants. Eventually I started to relax into the dance, my stress dropped and my dance became more fluid and, hopefully, graceful. After about 15 minutes I was taken off, rested and did four more stints before being packed off to my cell by a Goon. I was tired out by the experience and a bit emotionally drawn, and having undressed and taken off my makeup, I slept without listening to the World Service for the first time.”

“You started Monday? We had you picked up by Tuesday.”

Theodore seemed pleased at the success of this aspect of the surveillance.

“Monday, yes, but what if I had been started when your Lebanese agent was pulled out? I would have been “used goods” by the time you had found me. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I’m just thinking how close this ran”.

“We had to take the chance. If our agent’s story was not believed, both of you could have lost out. We even had him visit various Ministries to enquire about import permits and suchlike in case his background was checked. We don’t think that Mastar, as you call him, was able to operate at that level. It was more in his line to keep the local police on the payroll and arrange freebies for them from time to time. That’s why we couldn’t go to the police once we had found you; you might have simply disappeared.

We knew that we couldn’t use the Lebanese agent to extract you but once the positive ID was made, we had a second stage ready. Our man this time was a former Omani security agent who was to claim to be a purchasing agent for an unnamed Gulf state person of importance and some wealth. We had to be a bit careful here as we were using Aristotle’s money. The story was that he was a sometime business contact of the Lebanese agent. He had been contacted as soon as the Lebanese agent had seen you and realized his possible interest. He had flown in immediately as his client was most interested in “fresh” company. Actually, some of this is true as he waited in Oman until called and then did fly in, all part of the cover story. He was able to be at the auction by Thursday. He arrived, was introduced by the Lebanese agent, and was fully accepted as genuine, having been introduced by a well-known regular client!”

I picked up the story from my perspective for a bit.

“That was a pressure day for me; I was almost sick with worry, fear, whatever. The girls had tried to get me to smoke a little weed in the runup, to try to get me to relax. Actually it wasn’t much used in the girls’ room, more as a medicine than to get high. I did the dances on the floor each night as practice and the girls showed me how to slip condoms out of little hidden pockets in the waistband of their skirts. We each had four hidden away that way.

By Thursday it was too late to smoke some weed as it might make me sick, and I was sorry that I hadn’t taken their earlier advice. I didn’t eat anything, got dressed with Mayda and down to the waiting room. This time I wasn’t on the floor initially, the old show trick of building up anticipation. Eventually I was sent out and tried hard to concentrate on the dance, trying to forget that I was actually being sold, or at least rented out, as I rather mechanically went through the routine. I noticed Mastar going to booths, then moving along to others. I tried to blank it out… impossible…

It was almost a relief to be called off the dancefloor and led to a booth by Mastar. One man, whom I hadn’t seen before, was getting up from his seat and picking up an old, slightly worn leather bag, a bit like what doctors use. I recognized the Lebanese business man and we exchanged smiles before Mastar and the new man led me up the stairs and into one of the bedrooms. I tried to smile and act as if this was normal; inside I was frankly terrified. I was surprised to be directed to sit on the bed and the two men continued talking. I was called up by Mastar after some time and got what I can only describe as a thorough physical by the new man. I’m going to call him the Omani, OK?

After a bit more haggling they appeared to have made a deal. My Arabic could only pick up snatches but apparently the Omani wanted to take me away now and pay later; Mastar wanted his money before I left; the Omani didn’t want to leave me alone now in case I was “used” while he was away. After a bit of haggling, it was agreed that the Lebanese agent would remain with me in my cell while the Omani got the money.”

“That was actually a bit of theatre”, Theodore butted in. “We thought that the Omani could not go in with the money as no one in his apparent situation would do that. They would simply be robbed and disappeared.”

“I was brought back to my cell and Mastar and the Omani waited with me until the Lebanese agent arrived, escorted by one of the Goons. There was a slight delay as he was being entertained by one of the girls while the haggling went on over me! Master and the Omani left; I virtually collapsed into the chair as the enormity of what had happened sunk in. Instead of staying here, with a group of girls that I had grown to be part of, I was to be brought off somewhere where I would probably disappear. It was a good job that I hadn’t eaten or I would have been sick. I rested my head on the table and started to sob; I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye to my friends. Seeing my distress the Lebanese man came over from the corner where he was standing and said softly,

“Good man, won’t beat, good life”.

“He shouldn’t have done that”, Theodore said. “It was foolish to divulge anything to you, even that, until you were safely away.”

“I suppose he felt sorry for me. Anyway, after a while, Mastar came back with his bag of tricks, handcuffs, gag and big Afghan dress. He handcuffed my hands behind me with normal handcuffs, not the rigid ones he used before, gagged me and dropped the big Afghan dress over my head, no shackles, collar or blindfold this time. Mastar and the Lebanese man brought me to a car, a big old Mercedes, and I was put in the back with the Lebanese man. A Goon came out pulling a robe over his normal attire and sat in the front, Mastar drove.

We stopped in front of a mosque in a quiet area and waited. A white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up and the Omani got out. He appeared unhappy about the presence of the Goon and ostentatiously took a pistol from the pocket of his robe and replaced it again. I recognized it as a Browning Automatic from my time in the Reserves. Point made, he put a cheap briefcase on the ground in front of Mastar who picked it up, put it on the bonnet of the Mercedes and checked it. He seemed satisfied and nodded to the Lebanese man who walked me to the back door of the Toyota. There was another bit of farce as the Omani put a second set of handcuffs on me, got the key of the original set from Mastar, took them off me and handed them to the Goon.

The Lebanese man helped me gently into the rear seat of the Land Cruiser and climbed in beside me. The car moved off slowly, finding its way out of the built-up area, and onto a highway. No one spoke, then as we gathered speed on the highway, the Omani spoke, in flawless English,

“Jasmine, Jim, you’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”