Besides, I didn't have the crypto to break the mods on my DNA. I needed better facilities than even I had had to crack them.
There were such facilities in town, and I briefly considered applying for a job at one of them - as secretary, washerwoman, whatever - but even if I did this, and somehow got surreptitious access to their systems, the kind of background knowledge I would need was not currently available to me. I cursed myself for suppressing all academic knowledge beyond that typical of a freshman college student. It more or less put a monkey wrench in my plans.
School work also kept me busy. I found myself reapplying myself to subjects I was sure I had known before, but were now fresh and new to me.
It wasn't until a week later, that I thought of a possibility. I needed help. I obviously couldn't look to John for it, since it served his purposes well to keep me as I was. I would have to let someone else in on the secret. Someone I trusted. Johnny Dentz. Not exactly a saint, but he had the ability to do what I needed done, and he had most of the facilities.
The only problem was, though I had trusted him implicitly when I was a man, my intuition told me I would now have to be careful around him. If I let him in on my secret, he'd know the mods I'd made, and could wield considerable power over me.
But he was a known quantity. I didn't have the ability to change myself back - the knowledge, the facilities, the resources - I had put everything I could in my own way. But he could do it. The trick was to not let him know he was doing it.
Chapter 14
The pager startled me, buzzing its silent call for attention as I was walking out the door of my own old office, tired from my first day of work as Mr. Dentz's secretary. I'd gotten my foot in the door; Mr. Dentz had treated me as I'd expected he would a fresh looking girl with little office experience. I'd been thinking about how different a man can be depending on who he's talking to when the pager went off.
I walked around the corner and ducked into a doorway. I pulled the pager off my hip, where it'd been resting quietly for the past ten days.
The page read, "6:30 PM 9th/29th. 335 9th Ave. Basement apt." I frowned. I'd been too busy scheming lately to have anything like a life, so it wasn't like I would have to change my plans much. But I didn't have money for subway fare - I'd have to walk something like forty blocks. In a half hour I could just make it. I briefly considered ignoring the page, but thought better of it. His watchers were still camped out in front of my house. He'd get me one way or another if he wanted me. Better to obey.
Besides, my adrenaline was kicking in again, my nipples hardening. Dammit. Damn this horny little body.
I walked fast, and just made it to the building with five minutes to spare. It was a tenement building, ill-kept and in disrepair, with a bodega storefront. Two old Cuban men eyed me with evident but vague interest. They had the look of old men too poor for nano; their age was written on their faces. A cute young office girl? White? In that building? I could see them mentally ticking off the names of men they knew living there, to figure out who the lucky guy was.
I found the stairs down to the basement apartment. I knocked on the old wooden frame.
The door opened, a large hand shot out, grabbed me by my dress and yanked me inside.
It was dark, and my eyes didn't have time to adjust as the hands pinioned my wrists, twisted them over my head and pinning them against the wall. My hands felt and tried to grasp a wall-mounted lamp; the man's hands jerked mine to the left, out of reach. A knife turned downward between my breasts, and jerked down to my pubic mound, the dull side against my skin. My dress ripped open, fell wide, exposing my front.
Two quick cuts and the straps fell away, along with my dress. I was thrown to the ground, and a heavy weight sat on my back. The man cut away my g-string and pulled off my shoes. Leather cuffs around my ankles; a padlock.
The weight shifted and hands grabbed my wrists. They were similarly restrained behind me. A blindfold over my eyes.
I was yanked up to my knees. A third padlock joined my wrists to my ankles. I remember thinking angrily that that had been my best dress - and what would I wear when he'd finished with me, anyway?
Those thoughts were running through my head as I heard the man walking slowly around me, not speaking. I heard a strange whistling sound - like a fly swatter - and a half-second later felt my body struck backwards a fraction by the force of a blow across my small breasts. At the same moment I felt the pain flame outward through my whole body from two thin lines of white injury - one across each breast. I cried out, and would have fallen backwards helplessly if a hand didn't steady me.
That fucking riding crop. It had left streaks across my buttocks the last time, and had hurt; this was far worse. There was less padding, so I felt the blow compress my breast flesh into my ribcage, practically cutting my breasts in two.
And, as I'd already discovered, my breasts were far more sensitive to touch, and to pain, than my ass.
Another blow whistled across my tender flesh. This time I braced for it; incredibly, the pain was even greater.
Five more and I'd fallen backward, my arms and legs chained under me, and there was no hand to steady me. Another eight blows and the pain was left to fester; he'd stopped. I was sobbing.
His hands lifted me back up onto my knees. They were not gentle hands.
"Kiss my boots," he commanded. At least the voice was John's. I leaned forward blindly, and was grateful that he'd placed his boots accurately. I found them with my lips and kissed one, then the other.
He lifted a boot and brought it down slowly on my neck, pinning my head sideways against his other boot, my cheek squished against the unforgiving toe. I jerked, but found no way out; my ankles were already pulled up against my ass by the short lead between them and my wrists.
"What is my name, slut?" John asked.
"John Maynard," I whispered. The whistle of the crop as it struck my left buttock.
"You don't have the right to use my given name. You're not worthy of it. You call me Master, you little cunt. Say it."
"Master," I sobbed.
"Yes. Good." The boot lifted and he stepped away. "Sit up; you look pathetic like that." I obeyed, gratefully - the tension in my restraints slackened and stopped digging into my flesh. "Don't slouch. Shoulders back, tits out. Put your hands on the soles of your feet. Good." He kicked my thighs apart. "Although you hardly deserved the gift of manhood, you did have qualities admirable in a man, Anne-Marie - you were clever, aggressive, and cunning. You stripped yourself of all aggressive tendencies when you changed. I want you to understand that cleverness and cunning are no longer desirable qualities, and I don't want to see you exhibiting them. I understand you're now in Mr. Dentz's employ. Fine. I like to see you doing secretary's work. But don't attempt anything stupid. You need to begin to think like a slave girl, and the qualities that are becoming in a slave girl are entirely different from the qualities you possess or used to possess. The qualities I seek are already instinctive in you, thanks to your nano-conditioning; but I expect you to cultivate them actively.
"To that end, some formal training, to help you focus. Tonight you're going to learn the slave positions, Anne-Marie. The slave positions are poses I require all my slaves to learn to perform instinctively. The positions have various practical uses for me, but additionally provide structure to your submission. By learning them, you will hopefully begin to see your position relative to me as one not of simple obedience, but of active submission. I don't want to just use you; I want you to present yourself for my use.
"You will learn them blindfolded. This is to center your focus on your own body, its position, its uses in each position, without outside distraction. When you have learned to perform the slave positions blindfolded, then you will be free to go for the evening. It will take longer than you might think though; I'm very exacting."
I felt his hand on my shoulder. "When I command you to kneel, you will assume this position, with your hands on the soles of your feet, close
together so that I can padlock them. I'm going to remove the locks now." He knelt behind me and removed the three padlocks. I heard him stand again.
"When I tell you to present yourself, you move onto all fours, then lay your face and shoulders on the floor, bringing your hands together behind you, palms facing away from the small of your back. Keep your ass exposed. Present yourself, Anne-Marie."
I hesitantly leaned forward onto my hands and knees, blindly feeling for obstructions. I bent down and pressed my cheek against the floor, then twisted my hands behind me.
He kicked my ankles apart.
"Always keep your legs as far apart as your flexibility allows. If your ankles are chained together, it's acceptable to spread only your knees. But since they aren't, keep them out here. Arch your back, so that your tits are pressed against the floor and your ass is in the air." I obeyed. "Good. I can see your cunt is already wet." He slipped a finger into my cleft, feeling the moisture. I moaned.
"Kneel, Anne-Marie," he commanded. I obediently rolled back up to a kneeling position, carefully assuming the pose he'd dictated before.
"Stand at attention, Anne-Marie," he commanded. I rose unsteadily to my feet, not sure what stance to position myself in.
Again he kicked my feet apart, and twisted my arms behind me. He pushed my head down.
"At ease, Anne-Marie," he commanded, and twisted my body into the pose he desired - my right leg bent to one side, my wieght borne by the other, and my hands at my sides. He pushed my head to the right, following the direction of my right upper leg. "This position is actually more fatiguing than attention, but it looks relaxed."
He walked me through a dozen other poses - kneeling back on my haunches, with my hands supporting my weight; lying on my back, hands pinned under my back; spreadeagled against the wall, leaning forward; and so on.
Once I'd gotten the rudiments, he began to work me, commanding me to change positions faster than I could assume them, and using the riding crop to encourage speed. He ran me through the complete set of positions five times, correcting posture and stance with a push of the crop's shaft or tip. In all that time his hands never touched me.
He padlocked my wrists behind me, and ran me through the positions again, showing me the alterations in form required by my reduced mobility - which compromises were acceptable, which were not. By now I was damp with sweat.
Four more repetitions with my wrists bound behind me. Five with them bound in front. Five with my ankles chained together. Five with my ankles chained, and my wrists bound behind me. Five with my ankles chained, and my wrists bound in front.
Abruptly the stream of commands stopped. I was kneeling upright, my ankles padlocked together and my wrists padlocked in front of me, so my wrists were at the back of my neck, and my elbows out. I was panting heavily, sweaty, sore, bruised, and barely able to keep position, because I was so weary.
"A good start." He hung a kind of chain necklace around my neck. "Wait until you hear the alarm chime. Then you may free yourself and leave." I heard his footsteps move to the door. Then the door shut.
I waited. For all I knew he had a goon watching me; I decided to be a good girl.
Something like an hour later (maybe two?) an alarm clock pinged twice. I let my hands drop to my lap and slouched forward. My arms were shuddering and twitching from holding the kneeling stance for so long, and I simply lay down on my side in exhaustion. I reached back and felt for the buckle cinching down my blindfold; I found it and undid the hasp.
The room was floodlit with flourescents, and they hurt my eyes. I had imagined the room to be dimly lit at best. I looked down at the necklace John had put on me; at the end hung a single key.
It took some work to angle the key into the padlock joining my wrists; I had to hold it between two thumbs and hold the padlock with my pinkies - but I got the hasp open and my wrists fell free. It was easy then to open the locks on each of my wrist cuffs. Soon all four fetters were on the ground, and I was standing shakily, looking around.
Aside from the leather cuffs and padlocks, the room was completely bare - except for a red dress on a hanger, hung on a nail, and my shoes and purse laid underneath it.
It was the same design as the one I had worn, but with a higher hemline. I put it on and saw that it just barely covered my ass and crotch. No bending over for me, not tonight anyway. I put on the shoes, picked up my purse.
Hell, I thought to myself, as I walked back up the steps. I've been scheming for over a week to get out of this man's power, and he just pages me and I flip over like a ditz and give him what he wants. My cuntlips felt swollen and sensitive from overstimulation and lack of release. I checked out my body for unseemly exposure; I found that John had placed each of his blows with the crop expertly. All were - barely - hidden under the dress - though if I leaned forward a fraction I'd expose bluish welts at either angle.
When I got home it was midnight. I fell into bed, fully clothed, and dropped into a heavy slumber that lasted until next morning.
Chapter 15
I awoke feeling like every muscle in my body had been ripped apart. It was the feeling I used to get when I'd pushed a workout too far. The sad part was that I wouldn't gain any muscle mass for the effort. I sat up, groaning.
I was sore, and I stank. I got up and stumbled into the bathroom. I peed, then, deciding on a bath instead of a shower, ran water and minced painfully out to the kitchenette, doffing the wrinkled dress and shoes along the way.
Whoever designed my kitchenette clearly didn't have a petite girl in mind. There were no shelves under the tiny countertop, and the shelves above the sink were well out of reach. If I'd made myself just four inches taller, I reprimanded myself for the hundredth time as I used a milk crate to reach for the coffee tin. I made a pot and stuffed the tin in the fridge - screw the shelves if I can't reach them.
Back in the bathroom, I sipped coffee and sat gingerly, my bare ass perched on the toilet seat, watching the water rise. I poured some bubble bath stuff in and let the foam fill the tub.
What a mess I'd made. Or rather, what a mess John had mad of me. I hadn't forgotten that his scheming, his nano-mods, had persuaded me to do this to myself. The problem, in my mind, was that to the man I had been, his actions would have incited murderous impulses, while to the woman - to the girl - I now was, they only inspired fear and a vague awe at his power. That and a sense of excited, humming arousal. I confessed to myself: I was attracted to the man.
Don't dwell on it.
I slipped into the tub gratefully, coffee mug still in hand. I cradled it in both hands and sipped.
I had to admit to myself that everything John had done to me so far had invariably pushed me to the edge of sexual arousal. The man had a knack for knowing exactly what to do to me, and when.
So here was a dilemma. I had a choice: try to escape - to my masculinity, to my old life, out of John's clutches, free; or remain in this body, as it was, and so remain under John's power.
The attraction of my old life was obvious: it was mine. I had friends, family, money, power, a profession. Currently I had none of these, unless you counted a guy who liked to beat you a friend.
On the other hand...I tried hard to remember the last time I had been kept on the brink of orgasm as long as I had the night before, working my way through an impossibly humiliating set of positions, with John's occasional cruel or caressing touch keeping me on the edge. I didn't think I had. Ever. The closest thing was copping a feel with a date when I was fourteen. Sex after that had been...reliable. This was four hours of unbearable excitement.
Besides, I was younger. Much younger. This body had the strength and resilience of youth, with none of the aches and pains. Unless you counted whipmarks.
But on the other hand: I had much more in common with people of my generation than I did with the young know-nothings surrounding me in class. Who could I really talk to here?
Then again, did I really know more than them? My educational level was now in keepi
ng with my physical age. I doubted I could hold up my end of a conversation with a forty-year old any better than another kid my age, and would come across as naive as the rest.
My biggest blind spot was culture. I knew nothing of contemporary fashion, music, slang - none of it.
I ended up feeling even more confused than ever. The tennis match going on in my brain was dizzying and deeply unsatisfying. Compounding the problem was the fact that I knew I couldn't go to work today - for Mr. Dentz. Another day lost for Plan A. Reluctantly I sat up and reached for my cellphone, sitting on the sink countertop.
I knew he wouldn't fire me - I was useless anyway, and it was obvious he hired me purely as an office decoration. So I went ahead and called in sick. I dropped the phone over the rim of the tub and sank down into the water, letting the hot suds wash over my face.
God dammit! What the hell had happened to my life? And what was I going to do?
Chapter 16
Three days passed before I could sit down without wincing. The welts on my breasts had faded to faint purplish bruises, and now only stung if I unwisely prodded them.
Those three days were the first time I'd really given myself to reflect on my dilemma since John had come into the picture. I skipped work, skipped school, and only left the house to get groceries.
I don't think I was depressed, exactly - just overwhelmed. The more I thought about the problem, the more indecisive I became. And indecisiveness was not something I was used to. I was sure my new submissive nature figured in there somewhere. Like it or not, I was literally a different person. Anne-Marie, I was discovering, was a nail biter, angst-ridden and had a hard time choosing between different courses of action. Which made me easily dominated. Part of me was quite happy to let others decide what was best for me.
Lengthy contemplation of my dilemma invariably regressed into masturbation. The main problem was that my dilemma fit perfectly the kind of fantasies my new bio-emotional makeup responded strongly to. In the face of an overbearing, dominating force, my instinctive reaction was no longer to fight back, but to submit. And the idea of a man having as much control over me as John did made me unspeakably horny.
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