Colonel, Your Slip Is Showing, Sir!

By Ginger Collins

PROLOGUE

It was no longer my imagination. As I looked at my reflected masculine image in a hand-held mirror, I could clearly see my head of hair was much fuller than before and grew more quickly. In addition, it was slowly turning a lighter blond color as if I were highlighting it. Moreover, I noticed that I was developing breasts. Definite fatty protuberances were clearly taking shape. My areoles were larger and decidedly pinkish. My nipples were no longer mere nubs but had a measurable shaft even when passive. When I rubbed them, they elongated even further and were quite taut. Fingering them was a pleasant sensation, very sensual, that produced a tingling feeling within me. Confliction abounded. I was simultaneously fascinated and confounded by these exotic and bizarre changes that were occurring within my body. How and why does a 38-year-old male, presumably in perfect health, suddenly start to develop female breasts? What made it harder for me was the fact that I was a Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel and Naval Aviator in command of a Helicopter Squadron in a combat zone. My unpremeditated biological change was certainly not in keeping with the good order and discipline of my unit. Fortunately, we were rotating out of the dessert within a week and were actually in the process of turning our aircraft and equipment over to our replacement squadron. My latest tour in the hellhole known as Iraq was almost over. I was relatively certain that I could make it out of country unmasked. It would not be easy, though.

For almost a month, now, I had been taping my newly acquired growths with an Ace bandage in order to conceal them. It also meant very early and late showers in the communal shower tent when no one was around to observe me. As a matter of fact, I could not even strip to my T-shirt in front of people anymore. It was too revealing. So, I spent a lot of time in my flight suit with the zipper fully zipped. Further to my bewilderment, I noticed that I was shaving my facial hair less and less. Currently, I was down to twice a week. On the other hand, that my muscle tone was waning and my body fat was increasing and not only in the pectoral area. Over the past few weeks at night as I lay in my rack and examined my body I found that I was fleshier in those areas where I had previously been lean. Unknown forces were obviously at work and my body chemistry was haywire. With much trepidation, I replaced the mirror in my shaving kit, taped my boobs, donned underwear, a flight suit, boots, and my shoulder holster 9mm weapon. I topped myself off with a squadron emblazoned baseball cap and trooped off to the Group Commander’s office for his weekly briefing of squadron commanders. At least for a few more days, my personal confusion would take a back seat to the war.

CHAPTER I: BALI BRA MAY CALL YOU

Two months later as the taxi drove me to the Navy Annex in Arlington Virginia, the home of the U. S. Marine Corps, I knew that my fighting days were over. After three combat tours in the dessert or “sand box” as we referred to Iraq/Afghanistan, there was no way that I was going back, at least, not as a Marine Corps officer. The Corps was a warrior society and I was no longer a member in good standing of its cutting edge. For reasons beyond my control, I was decidedly unwelcome. In keeping with this surreal atmosphere (talk about irony), the Mid-Easterner cab driver after repeated looks in his rearview mirror had long ago given up on my sexual identity. When he pulled up to the entrance, he shrugged his shoulders, pointed to his meter and said, “$22.40, sir” although with a question mark inflection in his voice. He wasn’t sure and that gifted me with perverse pleasure. I gave him the correct amount, a thank you, and a $5 tip as I alighted from his vehicle. He once again, checked my androgynous facial features. A faint smile, which could have meant anything, parted his lips. Then he was gone. I checked my watch. It read 17:00 hours. Thus, I had a few minutes to spare for my 17:15 meeting with the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps. Not surprisingly, the parking lot was deserted since it was late on a Saturday afternoon. This was a rather strange time for a meeting, but one in keeping with my personal situation. The Marine Corps definitely wanted me out sight and better yet, out of mind.

The Assistant Commandant’s receptionist, a tall, slender female Master Sergeant in Service ‘A’ uniform with slacks, whose name tag read “Mancillas” greeted me professionally, “Good evening, Colonel. General Walsh will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. May I take your coat?”

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Mancillas.” The coat to which she referred was a London Fog; one I wore almost constantly now publicly in order to cover up my 36A breasts when they were not taped down. Today, they were not so restrained. Rather, they were comfortably encased in a nylon Bali bra. My unbuttoned sport jacket and loose-fitting polo shirt hid them somewhat, albeit not completely. I removed my overcoat while affecting as much of a concave chest posture as I could manage and handed it to her while I closely watched her face for a reaction. There was none. Either she did not suspect or she had been well briefed. Time would tell.

As I sat and waited, I idly scanned a copy “Leatherneck” magazine, an old edition, and surreptitiously glanced at the receptionist as she typed at her computer. More and more I was paying careful attention to women’s fashion, makeup, movements, gestures, body language, speech patterns, and voice tones. It was a matter of survival. At the rate my body was morphing from Mars to Venus, I would soon need these skills full time.

Master Sergeant Mancillas interrupted my reverie with “General Walsh will see you now, sir. Please come this way.” I did as she bade and was ushered into the General’s spacious office. In my best military fashion, I walked briskly to a spot two paces in front of his desk, stood at attention before him, and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Carson reporting as ordered, sir.” There was no concavity to my chest now. Both my chest “weapons” were on full display. I wondered if my nipples were showing. I kind of hoped they were.

“At ease, Colonel. This is going to be an informal and off-the-record conversation,” General Walsh said before we shook hands pro forma and he escorted me across his large office over to a lounging area that consisted of a couch, stuffed chairs, and coffee table arrangement that were by a window with a spectacular view of Arlington National Cemetery. He chose a large chair that was clearly his. I sat down to his right on one end of the couch.

A proverbial pregnant pause followed. Despite his years of command presence, he was obviously ill at ease with the subject of our late afternoon táªte-á -táªte. Secretly, I relished his discomfort. I knew how he felt.

“Colonel,” he began. “You have an outstanding record as a Marine officer and Naval Aviator. Your combat flying in Iraq and Afghanistan was exemplary and I noted with pleasure your award of the Distinguished Flying Cross and 10 Air Medals as well as a Purple Heart.” He paused, seemingly lost with regard to how to proceed next and then sputtered, “Ah, hell, Colonel, let’s cut to the chase. We can’t have our Marines, particularly field grade officers, undergoing sex changes even if they are not voluntary as you claim. You understand that, don’t you?” Without giving me an opportunity to answer, he continued, “Just look at you. You’ve got breasts for crying out loud.” He shook his head in bewilderment and looked down at his shoes. There was no way he could look me in the eye.

My passionate response was equally as candid as I replied, “I understand that General. Please bear in mind, though, that this is not something I wished or brought upon myself. I am a victim just as much as if I had been severely wounded in combat. Everything in my life was normal until this last of my three back-to-back tours in the ‘sand box.’ In effect, sir, I am a wounded warrior and I feel that I should be treated accordingly. The Marine Corps has a reputation for taking care of its own.” As I said these words, I looked him straight in the eye although he continued to avoid mine.

My plea must have touched a nerve for he relaxed a bit and slightly nodded his head before saying, “Good point, Colonel. What do you propose?”

“I want to stay on active duty and get my 20 years so that I can retire with my pension and benefits. As you know, sir, that’s two years away. To continue my career, I propose to change my name from Terry Carson to Terri Walker--- that’s Terri with an ‘i’ and in a matter of a few weeks begin living full time as female. By the way, ‘Walker’ is my middle name. There are numerous independent billets extraneous to the Marine Corps to which I can be assigned. The remoter the assignment, the better it will be. If one doesn’t exist, you can create one. No doubt the CIA could easily create a temporary identity for me that would be discrete and authentic; one that would not bring any embarrassment either to the Corps or to myself. I might add that I am a competent officer whether I wear pants or a skirt, and that I can be of continued valuable service to the Corps.”

At the word, “skirt,” I noticed that General Walsh visibly winced and I hoped I had not overplayed my hand. Apparently I had not for he answered, “Okay, Colonel. I’ll look into it and get back to you. In the meantime, you are to stay on administrative leave and continue your medical consultations and testing at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Please, keep a low profile. It’s best for all concerned.” The interview was over. I reclaimed my coat from Master Sergeant Mancillas and headed out into the rapidly approaching darkness.

CHAPTER II: TORQUE AND SLACKER

My low profile didn’t last much beyond the confines of the General’s office, though. As luck would have it, on my way out of the Headquarters building after my “prayer session” with General Walsh, I ran smack into an old friend whom I had first met in flight school at Pensacola 18 years earlier when I was a student and he was a formation instructor. Now he was a Brigadier General and the number one assistant to a three-star general in the Corps’s Division of Aviation. It was none other than my former flight leader, drinking buddy, and friend from several operational squadrons plus commanding officer, Bob “Torque” Hanson. He saw me first and called me by my nickname, “Hey, Slacker, what the hell are you doing here?” “Slacker” of course was a jibe at my Type “A” personality. I was the classic anal-retentive. I pretended not to hear and continued walking hoping that he would think he was mistaken.

These hopes were immediately dashed as once again I heard Torque call out, “Slacker, get your sorry ass over here before I get pissed off.” I surrendered to the inevitable, assumed my best concave chest posture, manufactured a false smile of confidence, and turned to meet my past. It met me head on. A crushing handshake on his part was followed with the usual “son-of-bitch it’s good to see you” mutually exchanged amenities. Naturally, I was concerned with his reaction to my changing appearance. To my surprise, his only comment was, “You sure look different. Have you lost some weight?” I answered as casually as I could, “ Yeah, repeated trips to the ‘sand box’ will do that to you.” Suffice it to say, there was no way I could make a graceful exit from his company.

Thirty minutes later, I was sipping an ice-cold martini with him in his bachelor pad apartment in nearby Crystal City and reminiscing about combat flying and the broken state of the Army and Marine Corps because of the debacle in Iraq. He must have thought it odd that I kept my London Fog on as I settled into his living room settee, but as a polite host he pretended not to notice my eccentric behavior. I, on the other hand, feigned mainland coldness. Two martinis later, however, I discarded the overcoat while sucking in my chest and hunching my shoulders forward. It wasn’t a perfect disguise; howsoever, because he wasn’t looking for tits on me, he didn’t see any. The situation reminded me of Edger Allan Poe’s “Purloined Letter,” where the obvious was in plain sight. Anyway, I didn’t push my luck and for the most part remained fairly vigilant despite the 80 proof Bombay Gin coursing through my bloodstream.

We continued our “war stories.” As we did, alcohol flowed, along with poetic license or exaggeration. Soon, Torque and I were the best Marine Corps combat pilots since Pappy Boyington and Joe Foss. For the moment, I forgot that I was an erstwhile man or hybrid woman and was caught up in the temporary cessation of my cares and woes. Torque was a great guy and I was his long-time protégé and friend. So relaxed was I that I had not noticed before that he was now sitting alongside me and that our legs were occasionally touching and that more and more he was nudging me with his elbow as he spoke and periodically resting his arm around my shoulder. Our putative intimacy was not born of sexual innuendo but rather shared life or death decisions under fire, right? Well not quite. When he began to nuzzle my ear, even in my drunkenness, I sensed that this was more than combat camaraderie. Before I could voice my consent or objection, though, he had framed my head with both his hands and had inserted a large tongue in my mouth, which instantly sought mine. Confusion as opposed to anger was my reaction and I met his invading member with mine. It was a fairly pleasant sensation and all my circuits grounded. Thus, I neither approved nor disapproved of his invasion of my person. Passiveness best described my mood. In light of this, his advances continued. The next thing I knew, Torque had unzipped his pants and pulled out his sizeable penis, which in its aroused state looked like a telephone pole. It was awesome in structure and implied intent. I was speechless. He took my hand, placed it around his prized member, and with his hand cupped over mine began a slow stroking motion. Once he was satisfied with the pace of my stroke, he devoted both of his hands to unbuckling and unzipping me. Then things got interesting. The softness of the fabric of my underpants first caught his roaming tactile attention. Next, his fingers explored their lacy waistband. I could tell that he sensed something wasn’t right. In a nanosecond thereafter, I heard him exclaim, “Holy shit. You’re wearing panties.” I was and they were pink.

The disgust and revulsion in his voice could probably have been heard throughout the entire Fairfax County. His penis shriveled to a mere shadow of itself. Suddenly, I was being body searched by him. He pulled my panty waistband out and took a cursory look at my atrophied male genitalia. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “You asshole.” I fully expected his next move and I wasn’t disappointed. His rapidly moving hands reached under my polo shirt and were met with a ribbon-adorned camisole and my Bali bra. He felt my breasts, but his only interest in these appendages was to see if they were real. Unfortunately, they were. He didn’t expect them and I hadn’t asked for them. Both of us were disappointed. He was more than I. At least, I was getting used to them.

“What the fuck have you done to yourself, Slacker?” he sneered. Completely overlooked in his righteous tone was the fact that he was the author of unsolicited homosexual advances to me, an officer junior in rank to him. The Service’s Uniform Code of Military Justice would have a field day with him if I were to prefer charges. It would be a public relations disaster for the Marine Corps of unlimited scope. The irony was not lost on me, but I kept it to myself. Truthfully, I was more wrapped up in my personal crisis than I was in Torque’s sexual preferences.

“It’s a long story, Torque. Do you really want to know?” I countered with as much dignity and aplomb as I could muster, which wasn’t much considering the circumstances.

“Yeah, shooter, I do. Go ahead,” he said calmly albeit with disdain. As he did, he made a trip to the kitchen and returned with two cold bottles of Tecate beer, one of which he tossed to me. A bottle opener on the fly completed the deal.

I swigged a long draught and began my tale. For the next hour or so, I gave him a detailed description of how against my will I was going from Terry to Terri. Torque sat in rapt silence. I went on to tell him that the doctors at both Bethesda Naval Hospital in Washington, D.C. and at the U. S. Navy’s School of Aviation Medicine in Pensacola, Florida were completely baffled and stymied by my medical condition. They all agreed it had to do with a hormonal imbalance. Large amounts of estrogen were overwhelming my normal supply of testosterone. In effect, my testosterone production was not only nullified, it was an increasingly negative value in comparison to the estrogen that was taking control over my body chemistry. Where was the estrogen coming from and why? At first they thought that I was administering it to myself. Close observation of me as an in-patient, however, at both facilities and extensive psychological evaluation and laboratory testing disabused them of that notion, however. Moreover, testosterone injections were to no avail. Some unknown internal mechanism in my body immediately countered with a greater onslaught of estrogen. In short, I was slowly losing the sexual determination war. My maleness was in retreat and a mysterious femaleness was in ascendancy.

Specialists gave me no more than another month or so before my newly arrived secondary female characteristics would be in full bloom. I ticked them off for Torque: no body hair, smoother skin, increased body fat, a smaller waist, fuller hips, and breast development, of course. Psychological changes were creeping into my persona as well. I was now prone to inexplicable mood changes, crying jags, and hot flashes. On the other hand, I did feel more peaceful and I was certainly less aggressive as I was being chemically castrated. That was an unexpected plus. “So, the long and short of my saga, Torque,” I concluded, “Is that I am the equivalent of a pre-operative male-to-female transsexual who is about seven months into a supervised hormone ingestion regimen.”

Torque finally broke his silence. “What do you mean by ‘pre-operative’?” he asked.

“Before going under the knife,” I answered.

“Ouch,” he grimaced and crossed his legs.

“Not really, Torque. Everything is relative. As a male, a penis is a big deal to you. To me as a female transsexual, though, it’s a big obstacle; one that I am going to rid myself of surgically in a matter of months.” I paused more for effect rather than to collect my thoughts because I had given a lot of thought to my strange metamorphosis. I pressed on, “In fact, I along with others are of the opinion that I will pass quite successfully as a woman. There is no question in my mind that given my circumstances, I would much prefer to be a transsexual woman than a feminized male. To be truthful, I really don’t think of myself much as a male anymore. That’s why I wear a bra and panties. I even sleep in a nightgown now. By the way, nightgowns are very comfortable. As a dig at his coming out of the closet, I threw in, “You might have your boyfriend try one.”

Torque’s retort was, “Don’t be a wiseass, Slacker. You have a full plate as it is.” To emphasize his point, he also flipped me the “bird.” It was time to leave. We were both emotionally spent. As I did, instead of a handshake, he squeezed both my hands and gave me a chaste kiss on the forehead. “Stay in touch, Slacker,” he admonished, “And be careful.”

“I will, Torque. You too,” I replied. Then I was out the door and more confused than ever.

CHAPTER III: SWEET AND SASSY

As if things in my life were not careening enough, the next two months went to fast forward. My case handler at Bethesda Naval Hospital, Navy Commander Gail Smith, advised me for my own peace of mind to accept my new niche in life and to dress, act, and live accordingly. So with her help, I really did begin my real life transition from Terry with a “y” to Terri with an “i.” It began in earnest when she dropped by my apartment early one morning with some basic female attire and accessories to outfit me with so we could go shopping for a complete wardrobe. She was actually quite excited about seeing me cross the gender bridge. “Terri,” she began enthusiastically, “This is going to be a lot of fun. It’s going to be a girl’s day where you indulge and pamper yourself as only a woman can. Trust me, ‘hon,’ you’re going to love it. Now, strip down to your ‘undies’ and put these on. I hope you’re not planning on wearing panty hose, today, because you’re getting a pedicure.” I didn’t bother to answer her as I went into my striptease. To her evident delight after I discarded my standard polo shirt and khaki cargo pants, she soon found out my underpinnings consisted solely of panties and a bra. She eyed me from top-to-bottom and smiled approvingly as I slipped into the coral T-top with V-neckline, flowered Capri pants, and platinum, quarter-strap sandals that she had brought me

Eight hours later, Gail and I sat sipping chilled, crisp Chardonnays in a hip Georgetown bistro. It had been quite a day. My external transformation from Terry to Terri was more than complete. A facial, manicure, pedicure, and a sleek, feminine hairstyle can do that to you. So does the right underwear, especially, soft, lacy, and delicate unmentionables. It’s even better when you have a bra fitting such as the one I had had earlier in the day between my trips to the Spa and the Beauty Salon. I felt especially feminine now that my former male exterior frame was draped with chic silk and gabardine fabrics in the form of a semi-sheer, white, scoop blouse and a red A-line skirt with matching red, sling sandals to show off my Malibu Red toenails. As we chatted, I found myself occasionally tapping my freshly painted and expertly shaped fingernails on the table top in staccato bursts. It was both sensuous and fun. What was even more fun was watching the various guys in the place check Gail and me out. Gail was an attractive woman and apparently I was too. This added to my satisfaction and contentment. I wondered what it would be like to have sex in my new persona? I decided to find out.

Forty-five minutes after Gail and I had bid adieu at the bistro with an obligatory friendship hug with hunched shoulders so that our breasts wouldn’t touch and with our faces turned at right angles so as not to muss our respective make up, I found myself on the stoop of Torque’s apartment house ringing his doorbell with considerable trepidation. For what it’s worth, I had not gone there directly. My inner self insisted that I stop by my apartment first and change from my afternoon outfit that included sandals and casual attire to something a little more sophisticated. I elected to wear a red, silk, sheath dress, black fishnet stockings, and three-inch, “fuck me” pumps. Since it was only around 8:30 in the evening, I was fairly sure he would be home. What I wasn’t so sure about was how he would react to me in my feminine presentation. The voice box squawked, “Who’s there?” I nervously answered, “Slacker.” There was a short pause, but then the electric release on the door buzzed and I click-clacked my way into the foyer and across to the elevator. My heart was pounding and my cheeks felt flushed. I was on final approach into a box canyon with no wave-off capability.

I rapped gently on his apartment door. It opened almost immediately and my moment of truth was at hand. We silently inspected each other for what seemed like an eternity. Torque was barefoot and wearing blue jeans and green T-shirt. His hair was slightly tousled and he had a hint of beard stubble. His lean body looked trim and fit. From his facial expression I could detect nothing. I felt uncomfortable under its penetrating, neutral gaze and in an attempt to disguise my unease and shaking knees, I clutched my purse with both my hands tightly and simply said, “Well, Marine, are you going to ask me in or not?” He smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and with a sweeping hand gesture towards the interior replied, “By all means, Ms. Slacker, please come in. May I take your coat?” Since I wasn’t wearing one, this was either sarcasm or humor and I hoped that it was the latter.

I sat down on his couch, put my purse on the far side, crossed my legs, and carefully arranged my dress so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. In bygone days, I would have flopped into a seated position. Now, it was an orchestrated entry and one that I had mastered after much practice. I was positioned on the edge of the cushion, my back was straight, and my head was held high. Why not? It went with my new image.

Torque took it all in silently and I knew that he didn’t miss a beat as he sat down beside me. What I didn’t know was what he was thinking. Disgust? Revulsion? Contempt? Sympathy? To my immense surprise, he said, “You look nice. Very polished.” At this, all my pent up emotions erupted in a fury and I began to cry. “Damn you, Torque. Look what you’ve done to my mascara,” I eked out in between sobs. He closed the distance between us on the couch and gently embraced me. I immediately returned the favor and began hugging him as if he were a life preserver. In a manner of seconds we were kissing each other as if our lives depended upon it, and in a sense they did. He was a closet homosexual, who had long been in unrequited love with me, one of his former male pilots who now masqueraded quite successfully as a woman. As for me, I was a burgeoning, albeit artificial female, who was veering down a twisting, sexual orientation highway with a heavy, stiletto-heeled foot on the gas pedal and no brakes. Heretofore, I wanted to bang girls. Now I wanted to perform oral sex on one of my former squadron commanders who was gay! Talk about inverted flight…

We continued our clawing and pawing of each other. He broke one of our frantic clinches to say, “I’m not used to lipstick and tits.” I laughed, and countered, “I’m not used to beard stubbles, muscles, big tongues, and dicks.” And speaking of dicks, I started to grope his crotch. His bulge got bigger so I knew that I had hit pay dirt. His breathing became heavier and his tongue had completely caused mine to retract in full retreat. He was all over the inside of my mouth. It was like getting my teeth cleaned. As he continued to grope and tongue me, I casually undid the top button on his fly. Then ever so slowly, I eased his zipper down. Next I slid my right hand inside his jockey briefs and began to massage his balls. He started to shudder. It was obviously a long time since he had had a foreign hand visit his nether region. His penis was rock hard, and when I pulled the upper band of his briefs down to unmask his manhood in all its glory, it was poised like a missile ready to leave a launching pad. It sprang to full attention and was pointed at the stars and quivering ever so slightly. Let the countdown begin, I thought! I then broke our embrace and said, “Torque, please stand up.”

His response was, “Huh?”

I quickly jumped to my feet and said, ‘Trust me.”

With a puzzled look on his face, he reluctantly did as I asked. Once we were standing face to face, I pulled his T-shirt off and his jeans and briefs down to his ankles. I then got down on my knees so that I was eye to eye with his Cyclops, which I noted was oozing a tiny drop of semen. In a flash, I reached into my purse and pulled out my lipstick and compact and refreshed my lips.

“What the hell are you doing, Slacker?” he asked in a tone that harbored amusement and incredulity.

“Just fulfilling a fantasy, Torque,” I replied. “Or maybe it’s destiny, but for my first blowjob, I want to do it in the classic manner. Okay?”

So there I was, a male, former Marine pilot on my knees in a sheik cocktail dress, fishnet hose, high heels, a disarranged hairdo, smudged mascara, and recently acquired boobs getting ready to give my old drinking and flying buddy, and former commanding officer oral sex. If only General Walsh could see us now, I mused. Oh, well, my signal was “Charlie” as we say in carrier operations and I took the base of his shaft with my right hand and eased my open mouth like a big O-ring onto the head of his prick and adjusted it for zero tolerance. Bingo. It was a perfect fit. Subsequently, I let my tongue and lips do the walking as I experimented with how much of his love stick I could ingest. It turned out that I could handle a lot. I licked, sucked, slurped, and swallowed his “main stay” with as much imagination as I could muster. At first, he was passive and simply along for the ride. In short order, though, he got into the spirit of things and started to thrust his pelvis in my direction in sync with the piston-like motions of my mouth as I deeply inhaled his stiff erection. What I lacked in finesse, I made up for in enthusiasm. There was no doubt that he was enjoying this coupling, but so was I. Maybe there was truth to the old saw about “giving is better than receiving.” As I continued to gobble away, I could feel his penis gorge and his pelvic thrusts start to take on more intensity.

The end was near and when he when he climaxed, he went out with a big bang. It was as if someone had placed a garden hose inside my mouth and turned the water on at full pressure. My mouth cavity was filled to bursting with his love juice. It was all I could do to keep it from spilling it out as I gamely swallowed large amounts of his ejaculate in quick succession. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered something to the effect that semen was non-fattening. I sincerely hoped so because I had just consumed a massive quantity of it. Ever the good Marine, I licked him completely dry and disengaged from his appendage, which by now was rather placid, lipstick smeared, and a mere shadow of its former size.

“Mission accomplished General?” I teasingly asked.

“Ooh-Ray,” he answered in kind. “You are one hell-of-a cocksucker, Lieutenant Colonel Walker.” That said it all. Afterwards, he marched off to the bathroom with his tight buns clutching each other as if they would never part and his drooping balls clanging against each other. Omigod, and the best was yet to come!

CHAPTER IV: CRUNCH TIME

And come it did about an hour later after a lengthy, naked, grappling session on his large bed with him on top of a spread-eagled me. Our hands, mouths, tongues, and lips had been all over each other like prisoners on a jailbreak, when he simply said, “Slacker, it’s time.” There was no confusion between us. I knew what he meant and continued to tongue his ear while gently massaging his testicles. He eased up from me slightly so he could turn on the nightstand lamp. Next he opened the stand’s drawer and pulled out a pack of condoms along with a jar of lubricant jelly, a pair of rubber gloves, and several hand towels. It was crunch time.

“Scared?” he asked.

“No. I’m curious, though. Will it hurt?”

“Not if we go slow and use a lot of lubricant,’ he assured me as he tore the tinfoil open on the prophylactic and carefully slipped it on his tumescent member. It reminded me somewhat of a woman easing a leg into her hose. Wow, how my perspective had changed! What really caught my attention, however, was when he slipped a rubber glove on his right hand, opened the KY jar, inserted his middle finger into it, and came up with a huge gob of the stuff attached.

“Okay, Slacker, a little aerobatics are in order,” he said as he recoiled into a kneeling position above and facing me and spread my legs. “Lift your legs up and place one on each of my shoulders.” I did as he instructed and never in my life had I felt so vulnerable, not even when flying combat and taking fire. It was an incredibly submissive position and I was simultaneously excited and nervous. “Relax, okay?” he soothed.

I almost did until I felt his gloved finger begin to slowly enter my rectal area. The lubricant was cold and yucky feeling. I winced. He stopped. The start-stop process was repeated several times until his finger was fully inserted and the lube had been deposited. In the meantime, I wavered between desire and revulsion at my situation. As we say in the flying game, this was truly “dead reckoning” navigation for me.

Just as I was getting used to the presence of the foreign object in this unfamiliar place, he swiftly removed it. I then watched in fascination as he removed the glove and this time with his bare fingers reached back into the lube jar and extracted a large dollop and lavishly applied it to his sheathed penis. After drying his fingers with a hand towel, he moved into the attack position and once again I felt a greasy, cylindrical object about to invade me. To his credit, he was gentle and unhurried. He knew when to push, when to stop and rest, and when to continue. Constantly, he importuned me to “relax and take it easy.” Eventually I did and my fear and discomfort began to meld into acceptance. About the time he was fully inserted to the hilt and I could feel his balls against my underside, I felt anxiety free. At this point, we both rested. His penetration of me had produced no pain but rather strange and unusual sensations. What came next though, launched me like a cat shot from a carrier deck. He began to thrust in and out, ever so slowly at first, then faster. All at once, the sensations and nerve excitations that I was experiencing went from neutral to positive to joyfully ecstatic in a flash and I began to thrust my pelvis back in sync with him. At the same time I began to finger my nipples. Waves of pleasures began to engulf my entire body starting from my toes and spreading everywhere. Even my long dormant and atrophied penis was affected and I could feel that it was dripping. I had never experienced an orgasm like this and it was multiple.

By now, Torque and I were thrashing together like wild animals in heat. Each of us wanted to fuck the other’s brains out and we almost did. I came for the last time at the same time Torque shot his load. And what a load it was. His panting reached fever pitch, his thrusting became frenzied, and his cock engorged to what felt like twice its diameter. Bam, bam, bam, I could feel his prick shudder as each of his ejaculation salvos was fired. It was the most satisfying sexual encounter I had ever had. As Torque pulled out, I was so happy I started to cry. “Hey, Slacker,” Torque intoned gently, “I’ve never had a guy cry before after I balled him. I guess underneath all those girly clothes you are a chick after all. Congratulations, dearest.” Then he was off to the bathroom again with his limp dick, tight buns, and swinging balls. It had been quite a night so far and it wasn’t over yet. I shuddered with happiness.

An hour later we were once more engaged in coitus only this time to fulfill a sexual fantasy of mine, we did it “doggie” style on the floor with me on all fours wearing my fishnets, heels, and garter belt. My hair was disheveled and my tits were banging against my chest in consonance with our mutual thrusting. I never before had felt so sexy and horny and powerful. I had Torque at my beck and call. His hard-on had reached the edge-of-the-cliff mode. He had to get it off. There would be no backing off or pulling out prior to his orgasm. I fully understood now the power of the pussy a woman has or in my case, a transwoman engaged in anal intercourse as the recipient. It was awesome! Just as he was about to come, he removed his hands from each of my hips and started to stroke my breasts with emphasis on my nipples. The effect was electric as well as immediate. We soon climaxed simultaneously in a glorious finale that left both of us gasping. This would be a tough act to follow I silently mused

CHAPTER V: THE CHOPPING BLOCK

It would be an act that was never to be repeated verbatim, however, because two weeks later I checked into Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore for my sexual reassignment surgery. I traveled alone and in civilian clothes. General Walsh was insistent that I keep the Marine Corps out of my bizarre personal situation as much as possible although the operation was being paid for through a government insurance program. Anyway, that was the least of my worries as I was administered anesthesia and went out like a light. The “big knife” was next. I was on “bingo” fuel as we say in the military when you divert to your alternate airport with no fuel to spare. My problem was a little more extreme. There would be no “wave off” if I screwed up the approach. When I woke up I would truly be a feminine Terri. My old self, namely, Terry with the large Rolex watch, Wings of Gold, and a macho personality would be as extinct as the great piston war birds of the past. So be it. I felt like I was being reborn, only this time I would be swaddled in pink rather than blue. Blissfully, everything went black

I awoke many hours later to an unreal scene. The images were blurry but someone was stroking my brow. Another was holding my hand. An authoritative voice from somewhere was asking me, presumably, “How do you feel?” I wasn’t sure. It took me a long time to focus and to recapture reality. As my senses re-entered the world, I realized that it was my doctor who was stroking my brow and none other than my gay boyfriend, Torque, who was holding my hand. Relief and joy instantly trumped my uncertainty and fear and I started to come alive. My rebirth went all the more quickly as both assured me that the operation had been a smashing success. My male hardware was gone and I was now the possessor of the female species’ most powerful characteristic, an operational vagina. I squeezed Torque’s hand in grateful acknowledgement and once again succumbed to the effects of the anesthesiology and fatigue of the operation and passed out.

Subsequent hospital awakenings were less dramatic and more mundane. As the days sped by, I was poked, prodded, and examined by doctors and nurses as well as bathed and fed. There were assisted trips to the bathroom where I experienced my new style of urination. There would be no more uplifting of toilet seats for me. Hereafter, they would be battened down. I was also introduced to the necessary practice of dilation of my new sexual acquisition. Suffice it to say, it was painful and time consuming. I was told, however, that pleasure would eventually take the place of pain as my vagina was shaped into a permanent opening. Naturally, I was anxious to find out! I prayed that Torque would like sex face-to-face as much as he liked it chest-to-back.

My hospital rehabilitation went quicker than I anticipated and in about two weeks I was again ensconced in Torque’s apartment in Crystal City where I was told to take it easy, rest, recuperate, and dilate, dilate, dilate. For six weeks, I diligently did. Sometimes, Torque helped, and that was fun. As his reward or incentive, I would give him a blowjob afterward. He was one compliant and “happy camper.” As a tease, whenever I was ready to blow him, I would apply heavy coats of lipstick beforehand. This became our code. In fact, he started to carry a tube of mine around with him in his pocket. When he became horny, which was quite often, he would pull it out with great fanfare, and place it on the coffee, end or kitchen table before me. I would smile coyly and pretend to examine it as if I didn’t know its significance. This in turn would drive Torque rock hard and a huge tent pole would form in his pants. The more I dallied, the antsier he became.

In fact, one day, I lingered too long. Out of a sense of power or control, perhaps, I slowly and provocatively applied lip liner, lipstick, and gloss to my botox-enhanced lips. I thought that I was being cute and sexy. Torque thought that I was being difficult. Although I was seductive, I was sending mixed signals. Not good! He was horny and the twain didn’t meet. Too my dismay and chagrin, he slapped the compact mirror and gloss out of my hands. They flew to various scattered landing points in the living room The next thing I knew, he manhandled me onto the floor, flopped me on my stomach, raised my dress, pulled my panties down, and shoved his penis into my anus without lube or protection and began to pound me like this was the last chopper out of Saigon back in 1975. I was both surprised and overwhelmed. My good side knew that I was being raped. My bad side enjoyed it! In short order, he came like a tidal wave. It was massive and engulfing. So much so, that I could feel his semen leaking out of me. We were past the point of no return. He had marked me as surely as a wolf marks his territory. I was his and he was the Alpha Male. I quivered with a mixture of disdain and delight as he slapped my ass, marched off to the bathroom to clean up, and left me crying and whimpering in a fetal position on the floor. It had been the best fuck of my life!

We never discussed this lovemaking bout again, but it was always understood thereafter that Torque was one horny guy and needed a lot of servicing. I was more than happy to oblige. In the course of a typical day, I would give him a blowjob when he woke up in the morning before I made his coffee and toast. In the evening before dinner I would give him a scotch and soda along with a hand job. At night, before we went to sleep, I would have him nuzzle one of my tits, which he absolutely adored. Then, when he was rock-hard, I would guide his cock into my faux vagina and make sure that he had come.

On occasion and just for fun since I had no duties to perform at Head Quarters Marine Corps (HQMC), I would don my new, female, Service ‘A” Uniform complete with black pumps, gloves, and a purse and breeze off to his office at the Navy Annex on some official pretext. Invariably, I would first stop by the Assistant Commandant’s office, if General Walsh was not around, to see my friend, Master Sergeant Mancillas, for the latest gossip on what was taking place in the building. She seemed to know where all the bodies were buried and delighted in telling me their location. I in turn would later pass this on to Torque and it gave him an edge in the political machinations that took place at HQMC.

Then so armed, I would visit Torque in his lair as if I were on official business. Monkey business was more like it because as soon as his office assistant left and closed the door, he would swivel back comfortably in his chair while I unzipped his fly, reached though his boxer shorts, and grabbed his dick. I would lick the underside of its head to get his attention, which took about as long as a heartbeat. I was highly experienced at sucking his cock by now so I could easily ingest it whole in my mouth without a gag reflex. I thought of myself as an expert flute musician and masterfully played tunes on it that I knew he liked. And like them he did. Just before he would come, he would purr softly, almost like a cat. His ejaculation was always boat-threatening capsizeble, but I was ready and never spilled a drop on his trousers. He had to be carefully groomed in case he was called to the General Walsh’s or the Commandant’s office.

CHAPTER VI: THE PINK SLIPPER

On one of my sexual forays to Torque’s office, though, Master Sergeant Mancillas had some disconcerting news for me when I stopped by her office to gossip. She told me that General Walsh had become aware of my intimate relationship with Torque and was making threatening noises. Just as she started to go into the details, a cavalcade of visitors and phone calls interrupted us. “I’ll meet you tonight at the ‘Pink Slipper’ at seven,” she hurriedly whispered. “We need to talk. Do you know where it’s at?”

“No, but I’ll find it,” I replied. “Where is it?”

“Southwest DC. Here’s the address,” she said as she scribbled it quickly on a receptionist’s card. “Don’t overdress, but wear something soft and summery.” Then with a conspiratorial wink, she was gone. Duty called.

I expected the “Pink Slipper” to be a “ladies” bar and it was, but not quite the kind I had in mind. From the outside it was an innocuous looking, just another out-of-the way, watering hole. Once inside, though, it screamed something more than mere sisterhood or feminine solidarity. It was as if the distant Isle of Lesbos had been transplanted to our nation’s capital in total. This was definitely Lesbian country and I in my “soft and summery” thin frock was eye candy for most of the bar’s occupants. There was an obvious dress code. The Alpha females were for the most part wearing baggy pants, sneakers or boots with laces loosely tied, and tank tops without bras. Headbands were favored and make up was non-existent. These women varied in size, shape, and attractiveness; however, one thing was certain: it was all very butch. I felt as if I were hanging on a hook in a meat locker waiting to be picked up and carried off for slaughter. It was intimidating, but exciting at the same time.

I was evaluating my next move when seemingly out of nowhere, Master Sergeant Mancillas or “Jane” as she was known to me when we were alone, appeared at my side. True to the bar’s dress code, she wore dessert-cami-cargo pants, dessert-combat boots, and a dark green tank top with no bra. Her nipples were large and distinct. Beads of sweat dotted her brow and I noticed several black hairs protruding from her armpits. Outside of black eyeliner, her face was bereft of makeup. In one hand she had a pencil-thin cigar. In the other, a longneck bottle of beer. “Hi, Slacker,” she greeted me. “I can see why Torque has the ‘hots’ for you. Let’s sit down and get out of the limelight.” That was okay with me as I followed her to a booth that offered considerable privacy from the bar’s patrons. I slid in first, and to my surprise, she sat alongside of me rather than across. No doubt, bar etiquette.

“General Walsh is on to you and Torque,” she began, “And he is royally pissed. He says your relationship is contrary to quote, ‘good order and discipline,’ unquote not to mention Torque’s future as a General Officer. In short, I’m supposed to tell you to knock it off. If you don’t, he’ll take it out on Torque. Do you get the drift?” She ended her monologue with a long swig of her beer and a deep inhalation of her cheroot.

“I get the drift,” I replied, “But I’m not sure what to do. Torque and I are not threats to the Marine Corps. This just doesn’t seem fair.” My eyes misted up and I could feel my mascara start to run. Just what I needed. So much for grace under pressure! I took a scented hankie from my purse and dabbed at them ever so gently. That didn’t help and I began to cry softly.

“Hey, Slacker, take it easy,” Jane intoned gently. “I’ve got a plan. Let’s go over to my apartment and discuss it. We chicks have to stick together. It’s called solidarity.” With her right arm she began to hug me and I felt better for it. Her left hand found my left thigh at the panty line and she began to finger it. I knew what she was doing and for some reason it didn’t bother me. In fact, I encouraged it by moving her hand closer to the center of my crotch. She might well be Torque’s career lifeline and I wasn’t about to let it go. “Okay, Jane,” I said. Meet me outside and I’ll follow you.”

An hour or so later, Jane and I were ensconced on her queen-size bed, naked as jaybirds, and busy as bees with our tongues, mouths, hands and vibrators as we repeatedly visited each and every orifice of the other’s respective bodies. I hadn’t been with a woman in some time and certainly not since my “chop” operation so I wasn’t quite sure how it would go. It went well! Women are more finely attuned to erogenous zones, and the pace of love making between them is slower. Plus it’s a lot of fun when there are four tits to play with as opposed to two. I noted with amusement that her genital area was bushy as opposed to mine, which was shaven clean. There was also the question of competition between us as to who had the better vibrator. She had the home court advantage in that she could draw on an assortment of pleasure makers from her bedside light stand while I could only fall back on my small “Pocket Rocket” that I always carried discreetly in my purse. Still, I held my own in our jousting and in fact brought her to a galactic orgasm before she did the same for me. After multiple, mutual outbursts, we both became satiated and it was time for “pillow talk,” the real reason for my visit.

“Here’s the deal, Slacker,” Jane began as she occasionally rubbed my clit with her right index finger. “Next week, General Walsh is going to call you into his office and tell you that he is about to transfer you to a remote and usually unfilled NATO liaison billet in Norway where you’ll serve out the rest of your time until you hit your magic 20 years which is about a year-and-a half from now. As for Torque, General Walsh is going to warn him never to see or communicate with you again as long as Torque is on active duty. If he does, General Walsh plans to kill his career either through a backwater assignment or poor fitness report so that Torque won’t get his second star and will be forced to retire. Do you get the drift?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied as I casually fingered her left nipple with my right hand. “And it seems so unfair and hopeless. Why can’t he just leave us alone?” I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Damn that estrogen!

Jane laughed before she said, “He used to be an okay dude, really fair, but in the last year or so, he has become a right-wing hypocrite, and that’s why he won’t be able to pull this off.”

I bolted upright in bed. “What do you mean?” I gasped for air and then almost in a squeak asked, “Why not?”

“Because ‘sweetie’, I have some highly incriminating evidence against him that would greatly embarrass the Marine Corps and make him look like the proverbial ‘laughing stock.’ Put something on and I’ll show you.” With that, she rolled out of bed and jumped into a set of white, male briefs and matching crew neck, T-shirt. I followed suit but donned my pink panties and lace-lavished-full slip. Barefoot I followed her out to the kitchen where we sat down across from each other at a table and I eagerly awaited her proposed solution to my dilemma. It was not long in coming.

In short order, she produced a thick manila folder crammed with color pictures of General Walsh along with a chronology of web site visits, times, and dates that made my head swim. It was almost unbelievable! I knew immediately that I would not be going to Norway and that Torque would not be denied his second star. Unbridled joy replaced my misty eyes. “This is incredulous, Jane,” I gushed. “How did you get it?”

Jane smiled wickedly as she began her explanation, “It was easy. Like many, older folks, the General is not a computer whiz and has lax security with regard to his personal laptop. Frequently, when he leaves the office to attend meetings or what not, especially on weekends, he leaves it unattended on his desk. That’s when I raid the cookie jar. I’m good at math and hacking comes naturally to me. In his case it was child’s play. I tinkered around with some of his tactical call signs and squadron numerical designations from his flying days, and bingo! I had his password. It must have taken me all of an hour,” she laughed. “Once I was in, it was easy to find where he spent most of his time.”

“And you’ve never disclosed it to anyone?” I asked.

“Nope, I held off because of my alternative life style which you saw and experienced tonight. Thus, I was willing to let him have his private forays on the wild side until I saw the hypocrisy in his righteous attitude towards you and Torque. By giving this information to you, I think that in my own way, I’m striking a blow for Human Rights for the entire Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender Community.”

“Can he trace this disclosure back to you,” I asked more in amusement than from concern.

“He might be able to, but so what? He could never prove it, and besides, any threat or negative action that he made to me, and I would automatically ‘out’ him. The military has a term for it: ‘Mutual Assured Destruction.’ We’ll both live with it. So, don’t worry about me. Look out for yourself and Torque.”

“I will, Jane, but how can I ever thank you?”

“Come back to bed, honey, and fire up your vibrator, hands, mouth, and tongue.” With that, she headed toward the bedroom. So did I and for about the next two hours, I gave her what she afterward claimed was some of the best sex of her life.”

CHAPTER VII: CAT FIGHT AT HEADQUARTERS MARINE CORPS

Four days later, I was summoned to appear in General Walsh’s office on a Tuesday at 14:00. Although I would wear my Service ‘A’ Uniform with skirt, my underpinnings were absolutely sensuous as well as luxurious and gave me an inner confidence like a top-flight showgirl. Ever the professional Marine, I went to great lengths to be immaculately groomed. This included a trip to my beauty salon in the morning for a touch-up haircut, manicure, and light, professional make over. By the time my appointed hour approached, I was more than ready to bust some glass ceilings and kick some ass. For good measure, I wore my Naval Aviator Wings, Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medals, and Purple Heart Ribbons. I knew that would get both the General’s attention and ire.

Master Sergeant Mancillas with a poker face greeted me upon my arrival. You would never know from her cool, business demeanor that five nights earlier I had reduced her to a quivering, groaning and sweating state of sexual bliss. She had really gotten it off and I must confess, so had I. My neo pussy twitched reflexively as I remembered our joyful, bedroom acrobatics. Ever the professional, though, she maintained her neutral façade and simply said, “Colonel, the General will see you now.”

“Thank you,” I replied as I purposefully entered his office, stopped two steps before his massive desk at attention with my uniform pumps at just the right 45-degree angle, and announced, “Lieutenant Colonel Terri Walker, the Marine Corps’ greatest female pilot, reporting as ordered, Sir.” It was hard to keep a straight face, but somehow, I did. He did not. His face contorted with anger and distaste seen only in movies as he leaped up from his chair and shouted, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing Carson?”

“It’s Walker, Sir. Lieutenant Colonel Walker,” I replied soothingly. “Lieutenant Colonel Carson died about six months ago at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore from wounds he received in Iraq. I believe you are intimately familiar with the circumstances.”

“I know who the fuck you are.” His words were spat out like expended tobacco juice. “And I’m about to do something about it. Ever hear of Norway? If you haven’t, you soon will. Two days from now you will report to the American Embassy there in Oslo on detached, special assignment where you will serve for the next year-and-a half playing with your vibrator until your retirement when the Marine Corps can finally cleanse you from its ranks. You are to cease all contact with Brigadier General Hanson. Do you read me, Colonel?”

“Yes, I do, General, but I don’t care for the Norway assignment. The winters are too cold. Besides, it will separate me from Torque, excuse me, I mean Brigadier General Hanson, to whom I am engaged, and I don’t think that’s in my best interest. So, General, I respectfully decline the assignment. No, I have decided to stay right here in DC in my present job, which consists of nothing more than making my man happy. Are we clear on that, Sir?”

Suffice it to say, General Walsh was speechless and his brow was furrowed. I could almost hear his mental gears slowing grinding under a great load. Rather than prolong the awkward pause and the unnecessary sparring between us, however, I deftly pulled the thick, manila folder from my attaché case and plopped it on his desk as I said, “General, I’m not going any place, but if you’re not careful, and contrite I might add, you may be.” At first he stood motionless, but not for long after I opened and spread color picture after color picture before him. He turned beat red and I could detect the hint of a tremor in his hands. A small moan escaped his pursed lips and his eyes closed in shock and disbelief.

The displayed pictures said it all. The accompanying web site and chat room logs only made his lack of leverage worse. It was not my intent to overplay my hand, but I couldn’t resist fingering one incriminating photo in particular where the resolute General was completely submissive in his maid’s costume with partially exposed ruffle panties while affecting a curtsey.

The “pics” that followed were more of the same: the General in a Cheer Leader’s outfit with huge, bulging tits; or stuffed into a too tight, Nurse’s uniform in which he held a catheter device in one hand and a enema bottle in the other; or reveling in a mini-skirted, flight attendant’s attire and a lecherous grin; or demurely sheathed in a lacy bridal gown clutching a bouquet with a coy smile; and best of all, this resolute, masculine, paragon of John Wayne values was draped in a female Marine’s Evening Dress Uniform complete with full-length skirt and a great fitting, bobbed wig. He looked almost “passable,” and instinctively, I complimented him on it. The irony of the situation caused me to laugh. The General didn’t, though. He immediately went into a damage control mode.

“Okay, Colonel, what do you want?”

“You know what I want General. I want you to lay off Torque and me. For starters, I am to stay here in Washington until I retire and Torque is to remain as the Deputy Chief of Staff for Aviation until the Commanding General, Third Marine Air Wing (Forward) billet in Iraq opens up in about four months.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“You have no choice, Sir. If not, when I leave this office today, these pictures and logs will be e-mailed to every Major Command in the Marine Corps plus every General Officer starting with the Commandant. In addition, I will deliver copies to the Washington Post, New York Times, Navy Times, and Marine Corps Times.”

“If I agree to your terms, Colonel, how do I know you won’t later release this stuff anyway?”

“You don’t, General, and that will keep you on your best behavior with regard to Torque and me.”

“Alright, Colonel. I agree.” His shoulders sagged and there was complete resignation in his voice. It was unconditional surrender. “Before you leave, I’d like to try and offer you an explanation for this, if you’re interested.”

“Yes, I am, General, but it’s not necessary. As you know, because of my own peculiar fate, I am an expert on gender confusion.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you, Colonel. I think you can relate to my situation. Let’s sit down, please.” With that, he ushered me over to the same couch upon which I had sat a year earlier when he had emphatically expressed his concern that my sex change was not in keeping with the good order and discipline of the Marine Corps. What a difference a year makes, I mused.

“Terri,” he began. “From as far back as I can remember, I’ve lived a double life. I was born a male, but I always wanted to be a female. Naturally, I repressed those feelings. Back in the 40’s and 50’s when I grew up, you didn’t talk about these things; but never a day has gone by when I didn’t want to slip into lingerie, a dress or skirt, and sashay off to a beauty parlor to get my nails and hair done. To make a long story short, I lived in this shadowy, twilight world until the inter-net came to be. To my amazement, I found out that there were thousands of people just like me and I took great comfort in that. So, I went from a net surfer or voyeur to an active cross dresser when I began to order women’s apparel on line. To store the stuff, I rent a self-storage unit in Arlington that I’ve made into a mini bedroom with clothes closet, a makeup table, full-length mirror, and couch. Most of these pictures you’ve seen are from makeovers at various transformation salons across the country. I visit them discretely whenever I can.”

“Does your wife know, General?” I asked.

“No, of course not. For obvious reasons it’s a closely held secret. Up until today, I thought only a few fellow cross dressers were privy to my obsession. Needless to say, I have always kept my identity hidden, even from them. It would be a major news story if this leaked out and a tremendous public relations blow for the Marine Corps.”

“Yes, it would,” I answered. “But why have you been so vengeful with regard to Torque and me? My conversion to femininity was certainly beyond my control although I will confess that I am enjoying it thoroughly, and I can see now why some men such as you are driven to cross dress. Women do have more fun in life and I do prefer sisterhood to brotherhood.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Jealously, perhaps. Frustration, too. You see, Colonel Walker, you are the woman I want to be. I guess I wanted you out of the picture so then I wouldn’t be so envious.” He paused, grasping for words to convey his complex thoughts. Finally, he continued, “I really am sorry for how I have handled your situation. Will you please accept my apology?” As he said this, he took both of my hands in his and clasped them firmly. His sincerity was palpable.

“Yes, General, I will.” Our eyes met and held. Implied between us was that Torque and I were free to pursue our happiness and that the General’s double life would not be exposed. “I’d better be going now,” I continued. “I’m meeting Torque for cocktails and dinner tonight at the Army/Navy Club.” And I did.

We had a great dinner and afterwards a great roll in the hay. As a special treat for Torque, I strapped on a huge dildo that I had recently ordered on line and told him to “Bend over, General, and assume the position.” He did and squealed in delight like a little boy as I rammed it home, again and again.

Three weeks later, Torque and I were married in the Chapel on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland from which we had both graduated in what seemed like lifetimes ago. He was resplendent in his Blue-White Dress Uniform along with his fellow General Officers, eight of which, made an arch of swords for us as we left the Chapel and entered our new life together. General Walsh walked me down the aisle and gave me away. No doubt he vicariously shared my satin and lace and all the rustle and bustle. I hope so, anyway. In any event, confetti reigned and so did the champagne and war stories that I could no longer participate in. So be it! Most of them were bullshit anyway.

I felt ultra sexy in my Versace knock-off wedding gown. Torque promised that he would wear nothing under his white, Dacron trousers but a “hard on,” and he didn’t. I was similarly without inhibitions, that is, no panties covered my Venus parts. In short, I was wet and he was dripping. As a private joke, I ensured that my “dyke” friend and co-conspirator, Jane Mancillas, caught the bridal garter after I subtlety flashed our small, but spirited group of HQMC invitees while removing it. Did Torque and I live happily ever after? No, but we had a good run while it lasted. Semper Fidelis!

EPILOGUE

MASTER GUNNERY SERGEANT JANE MANCILLAS: retired as the Executive Secretary for the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps two years later with little fanfare. She didn’t need a gala sendoff, not with her insider and cynical knowledge of how Washington, D. C., worked. The Corps awarded her a Meritorious Service Medal (her third) and General Walsh said all the right things at her retirement ceremony in his office. Later that evening, her friends at the Pink Slipper threw her a wingding that was memorable in all aspects and included a panties and bra-wrestling competition in a huge tub of whipped cream.

Not one to waste time, she immediately founded her own computer consulting company, Data Blush, with emphasis on data base protection. In rapid order, her firm took off, and her clients soon numbered some of the Capital’s heaviest hitters. She is in much demand. In her spare time, she holds court at the Pink Slipper where she is now a co-owner.

GENERAL KEN WALSH: retired shortly after Master Gunnery Sergeant Mancillas. His outdoor retirement ceremony had all the ruffles and flourishes befitting a General Officer. Everyone from the Secretary of Defense on down was there. It was a grand occasion as he walked off into the sunset to launch a new career that was considerably different from his 34 years in the Marine Corps, where he had been one of the few “MIG Masters” during the Vietnam War. (While flying an exchange tour with the Air Force out of Ubon, Thailand, he had bagged a MIG-21 on one of the legendary Robin Olds’ fighter sweeps near Phuc Yen, North Vietnam. In doing so, he became only one of four Marine pilots to record confirmed MIG kills during that long war.)

For starters, he and his wife, Alice, settled quietly in a Georgetown town house and avoided the public eye and virtually all-social events. Shortly thereafter, they separated amicably, and he moved into an apartment in NW Washington where his life took an explosive turn like a confined river busting its artificial channeling and resuming its natural course. He began to dress and live as a woman full time as part of the Benjamin Standards known as the Real Life Test, which is a requirement for sexual reassignment surgery (SRS). It was very hush-hush and was handled well by all those intimate to it.

After his 12 month test, which he claimed was one of most exhilarating experiences of his life, Ken Walsh, age 57, underwent SRS in Thailand and came back as Kendra Walsh, a passable, matronly, middle-aged lady of impeccable dress and deportment. Like many transsexuals, at times her voice did not always match her appearance, and her shoulders were a little too broad, but that was overlooked by her exuberance and mastered femininity. This was one happy lady!

BRIGADIER GENERAL ROBERT “TORQUE” HANSON: never received his second star, although he was certainly on track for it. Torque left HQMC shortly after his marriage to Lieutenant Colonel Terri Walker for a plum, combat assignment as the Commanding General, Third Marine Air Wing (Forward) at Al Asad Airbase, Iraq. It was his third trip to the “Sand Box.” It would also be his last. Two months into his tour, he was killed when a CH-53E that he was co-piloting crashed as the result of enemy small arms fire during a re-supply mission in a supposedly secure landing zone. So much for the success of the Administration’s surge! His wife, Terri, took the news stoically, but not without acute pain. She wore her black widow clothes including a veiled hat with dignity and poise at Torque’s interment in Arlington National Cemetery. Outwardly she was brave and resolute. Inwardly, she was in a state of torment. Too much had happened to her in too short a period of time. She wondered if the gods would ever cease toying with her?

LIEUTENANT COLONEL TERRI WALKER: retired from the Marine Corps as soon as she reached the 20-year mark. Her last assignment was as an Aide-de-Camp to General Ken Walsh, her one-time foe and now, good friend, protector, and mentor. His counseling during the grief-filled days following Torque’s death did much to help her keep her sanity.

Initially, she became Jane’s partner at the Pink Slipper. Subsequently, at Jane’s urging, Terri became the Director of Operations for Data Blush. There was a steep learning curve, but Jane taught her the necessities, and Terri was a rapt pupil. Soon Terri was off and running and sporting the professional, business look attired in sleek skirt suits, chic heels, understated and expensive accessories, and luxurious lingerie that made her feel oh-so-good. Not surprisingly, she continued her friendship with Kendra Walsh and it wasn’t long before Kendra was appointed Director of Human Resources for Data Blush, a position for which she was uniquely qualified.

Love reared its lovely head one more time as Jane and Terri made a quick trip to San Francisco to take advantage of that location’s relaxed same-sex marriage laws. They honey mooned at the Marine’s Memorial Club, naturally, downtown near Union Square. Her cactus flower had come into full bloom. The gods had turned their attention elsewhere.

She and Jane annually attend the Marine Corps Ball at HQMC. In fact, their company, Data Blush, underwrites a portion of it and always purchases at least two corporate tables in support of the event. Last year, the former General Ken Walsh, now known as Ms. Kendra Walsh, was hostess at one of the tables while Master Gunnery Sergeant Mancillas, USMC (Retired) did the honors at the other one. Lieutenant Colonel Terri Walker, USMC (Retired) flitted back and forth between the two in her Gucci gown and Manolo Blaynicks and enjoyed the evening tremendously. All’s well that ends well, and I think that under the circumstances, this tale did.

FINIS

Author’s note: This is a work of fiction and fantasy. References to the Iraq/Afghanistan Wars and Marine Corps Aviation in general as well as to Headquarters Marine Corps (HQMC) and the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps in particular were done for story background. There is no actual resemblance to real persons or factual happenings. These characters and events took flight solely in the “theater of my imagination.” There they will remain. Suffice it to say, I have nothing but the utmost admiration and respect for Marine Aviation and its employment in the Mid-East on behalf of our National Interests.