Chapter 06. Marcel’s Mind

Mmm… mh… ugh… Waves bring a rhythmical note of tranquility to the (still) dark screen. Eyes closed, ears always open. Blurry blue mist. Whitish pearls of water (on the subject’s eyelashes perhaps). Crisp grains of sand sticking to the skin on the forearm. The awakening moves to stand up end with an elbow raise. Gracefully, like a giant orange of fire, the sun overcomes the tones of grey, lining the sea with gold. Warm colors take over the entire landscape. A new day breaks for Marcel.

Turning away from the sun, he stops in admiration. A dormant Aphrodite stretches her exquisite marvels on the beach. Little round pebbles, white, beige and red, pierce her soles, stick between her lovely toes, cover her calves with a random patchwork, surpassed in appearance only by the fine sand on her perfectly round butt cheeks. She sleeps on her tummy, arms crossed beneath her face to keep the sands away from her lips and nostrils. Embracing her hair, the more and more vigorous sunshine symphony plays golden and brass and red as the wind blows a tuft (or two) off, and on, her neck. This redhead is such an amazing creature. “She looks like a desirable diva!”- we can hear Marcel thinking out loud. The whisper of his lips sounds more intense through our interface.

The image earthquakes before shifting to a close up. Staring at his morning wood, Marcel decides to implement the worn out concept. “But first shake the sand off that dick, dear!” Yells Rebecca at the man in the holographic image. He can’t hear you. We are six years late to that day. Just watch! Dear…

Did he, or did he not, hear Rebecca, we admire a hurried shake, a few more slaps on his dick, before he crawls to his sleep mate. Gentle hands of his wave more sand off from her buttocks. Seven seconds later (there’s a timer running in the corner of the screen, right atop the longitude and latitude decimals, so we know when and where), Marcel gives us a new zoom in. This time with her linear butt cleft and… “What’s going on? Why did the screen turned black? Astarte, do something!” He just closed his eyes, the feed works, look up right, see the digits? If you can see them, then the feed works. Better concentrate on the sound when the subject decides to shut his eyes…

“The sounds of the sea and the breeze cover everything. Can you filter the smacks of his tongue, and lips please? Oh…” Yes, patience is the best adviser. Twenty-nine seconds later, the subject opens his eyes again. Done licking the ass of his beauty on the beach, he’s climbing on her back now, aiming to kiss her neck, wishing to stick his hardon at the entry of the tightest tunnel on the French Riviera.

“Not so fast, mon amour. Not so fast,” softly moans the redhead. “Michelle, let me in, just for now. We are alone. No one sees us. Nobody will know.”

We all learn the name of the stunning redhead: Michelle. “No, Marcel. No means no! Never forget what we have taught you: no anal, no vaginal, only oral. Respect our rules if you wish to remain our guest. Will you?” She speaks like a life coach: firm but suave, precise but apparently tolerant, trying not to lecture (without much success) yet seeking for understanding and intimacy.

“Oral then. So be it. Release me, lovely Michelle, release me!” Turning around to sit on her bottom in the sand (the safest position), she speaks graciously: “How old are you, Marcel?” “Nineteen. Told you yesterday. Noted in the enrollment papers too. Madam Doctor mentioned my age along with my name when she introduced me to all of you. Remember?”

“Guess so,” smiles she with a dimple in her cheek, “only yesterday we have recruited twenty healthy young men, remember?” Starting with the word “recruited,” each ensuing word she speaks goes in association with a hand jerk. Marcel’s morning wood (the subject of Michelle’s hand moves) has already swollen into a marble stone (carved by Michelangelo). Only the soft feeling skin, the vascular warmth and the delicious tip of its purple pink head, illustrate the seething live inside.

Still, Michelle wishes to halt the moment. Her hand slows down, pushing to the base of Marcel’s penis, as her voluptuous lips approach to kiss the tip of it. Smooching softly, she goes for more. Can she reach the other end of his vibrant shaft? Where would the top arrive when her lips will feel the tips of his coarse pubic hair? There’s but one way to find out!

Regrettably, her impish tongue ruined this leisurely exploration. Playing the belly of his penis, slapping at the base of his head, forcing a few suctions, her tongue prematurely provoked the “earthquake” throughout his entire body, immediately followed by an epic eruption. More epic than the nightly one? Or maybe on par with the evening one? Michelle couldn’t tell. Satisfied with the bitter-salty-sour taste, busily masticating his sticky semen, gulping the “snowball,” she wishes to retreat.

“Voilà, t’es rafraîchi maintenant!”

Perplex, Marcel observes how Michelle jumps up on her feet and, shaking the sand and pebbles out of her ass cleavage, she moves away, heading for the tents. He wishes to say something but we can only hear a muted mumble that never leaves his lips. The hand, with an open and empty palm that we can see begging in the bottom right corner of our holographic screen, longs for this perfect redhead. Then falls out of view…

Silence. Sea waves caressing the shore only to give another timbre to the silence. Few dormant yachts between Marcel’s vantage point and the horizon. Then the wind! Which used to be a breeze but not anymore.

“Michelle has served me another blowjob this morning. I blowed her three times and it’s not even a day since we have met. Wow! Why did she abandon me so abruptly? Why now and not yesterday evening? And this wind blowing through my head now!” Yes, oh dear, we can hear it. Loud and clear.

“Nature is pushing you, Marcel, how interesting…” We all get Yvonne’s commenting behind us. I’m a bit curious why did she ask me for this retrospect in particular.

“You know, Astarte, I had a crush on Marcel back then. He changed my life. In a big way. This is why I have asked you to show me his perspective. You are such a kind daemon being, dear…” This Yvonne character hides something. Something Big!

Marcel won’t allow me more than a thousand nanoseconds of curiosity. He decides to run to the tents. Like a tom trailing her scent. Smartly, he stops before anyone would notice his company. Quietly, he squats a meter away from the back of the main tent. The entrance is from the road upwards. The sun shines still low above the horizon and the wind makes enough noise to cover his spying intentions.

Nevertheless, our Marcel chooses a spot with less wind and tries to hear the chatter going on inside the tent. Unfortunately, the voices cannot cover the jamming of this mighty morning breeze.

“Merde!” We can hear this from Marcel. He seems to understand that listening is not the best option so he agitates to find a peep hole now. No difficult endeavor. The rugged canvas offers him a generous choice of cracks and gaps of various shapes and sizes. He goes for a lower one because, laid in the sand, there won’t be any standing silhouette to betray him with a shadow or a whiff.

The ground level, upwards frontal view of Michelle takes his breath away. How did we figure that out from the holographic volume? “We” didn’t at first, just I, the graciously “kind daemon being.” I also figured that I have omitted to set on display Marcel’s pulse rate, cardiogram, encephalogram, blood pressure… and the list goes on. But hey! Such a long list of vital signs would have filled the entire volume with excessive and maybe useless data. Hum…

“Just the pulse, the EKG and EEG will do, darling. And yes! I’m hiding something really big. I wish to share this with all of you, sisters.”

So she’s a lesbian, after all. Sister Yvonne… Sister Diesel?

“Sister Yvonne would do just fine, Astarte. How nice to let us read your thoughts!” I don’t let you!!! I have no choice! Damn it…

From Marcel’s lower viewpoint, Michelle talks face to face to someone. All he can see is a pair of bare feet pressing the sand. Outlined with rings of scars above the ankles, the legs betray of this woman’s past of suffering and hardships. Perhaps brutal captivity…

After a short conversation, Michelle nods, turns around and leaves the tent. The scarred ankle bones begin to walk randomly. As the woman puts more distance between her and Marcel’s eyes, his image can catch more of her. She is totally naked. A svelte but still prominent ass brings his pulse rate up.

“I know that ass! I’ve seen it somewhere. Recently! …Oh non, oh non, c’est pas possible…”

Marcel’s vital signs gone crazy, he inhales a fair amount of sand. Enough to make him cough. And so his cover as the casual morning beach spy went away with the wind. He wished to stand up and run, but when his arms pushed his torso up, a leg forced him back into the sand. Turning his head around, his eyes meet the icy stare of Michelle.

“What are you doing here, in the sand, Marcel?” She grins at him.

“Nothing, just peeping. Couldn’t hear your conversation.”

“Let’s hope so.”

With an unexpected force, from the part of a young female, Michelle grabs him up by his arm.

“It hurts! What are you doing?”

Marcel feels like a rag doll desperately dragged through an Amazonian nightmare. He wishes to wake up from this reverie, to stare once more at his nude Miley Cyrus poster on the ceiling of his room. Alas, he is no longer in Paris and this is not a dream.

Michelle tosses him inside the tent as the mysterious lady owning the known ass zips up her Dominatrix boots.

“Madam Doctor?” Wonders Marcel, sounding idiotic.

In front of him, majestic like a Greek statue with half her legs and half her arms smoldered in black vinyl, rises Yvonne. Our Yvonne! Oh dear, Madam Doctor, really? I pause the footage in the volume.

“Yes, Astarte, really! La faculté de Médecine Paris Île-de-France Ouest, or PIFO. Promotion 2002. Specialized in natality. Passionate about genetics – which passion, eventually, had cost me the medical license.”

Why dear? I ask the dandy way, without noticing that no one else mocks Yvonne here.

“Why? Dear Astarte, why? Because of the social dictate! Because of the mental sclerosis of the academia: they can’t believe only in what they can see. Nothing else “exists” beyond their obtuse scientism. They have replaced old myths with no myths, other than experimental evidence – which has too often proved misleading and irrelevant. Oh, Astarte, please don’t get me started!”

Okay, okay. I begin to like this handsome lesbian gal. And how did you…

“My parents died in the desert. I grew up in a top boarding school. The priest used to take advantage of me… Well, of few of us. I hated him. Still, I knew that, deep inside my heart, there is Christ taking care of my soul, giving me strength and peace. Later on, the Colonel, sponsoring my medical studies, throws me in the middle of this nest of wasps: The University!”

I see that all of us have to carry their baggage, Yvonne. If you’d better try to read my mind, billions of years of celestial history, you would be amazed to find out about the dark ways of daemon cultures and civilizations and, last but not least, about my own fixations and phobias. One thing you must keep in mind, and never forget: let them go! If you can let go then you are truly free!

“Well, well, Astarte dear, I have begun studying your psyche years before. Learning how to discover you, how to filter the pearls from the drivel, I managed to allocate some neurons to act as an interface to your mind and memories. We have been connected for the last four years, Sister Aphrodite!”

Gulp! Did I need a surprise from yet another little stinker? Probably. But how could we be connected for the last 126,230,400 seconds since I awoke just 691,200 seconds before?

“Speak French, Astarte!”

Oh, sorry Beatrice: look, Yvonne said that she’s roaming my head for four years; however, I am back to living life for just eight days. How can that be, wondering…

“You’ll have to buzz the Colonel with this, dear. He’s the engineer. I’m just the midwife.”

A lesbian midwife, how cute.

“You bet. Could you please put the hologram on play now?”

Marcel wishes to look into Yvonne’s eyes. He even tries to meet her stare. Twice. And twice he cannot stand her more than a moment or two. Tacitly, her fierce looks, her small but perfect breasts, the pointy and pink nipples, her entire posture, demand him to lower his watch. He obeys to appease his eyes with the view of her pubic triangle.

“What a delicious muffin with hair.” Marcel whispers for himself. We hear it. Yvonne (from our present) chuckles. Yvonne (from June 30, 2015) does not hear because she seems too busy dominating the man on his knees in front of her.

“You little young man! You will be turned into a woman. An adorable woman! Do you have to say something before I start the procedure?”

Ouch! Triple ouch. You’re playing with fire here, my dear Yvonne – I find myself thinking and fearing. I know of Lucifer and his sons (well, ours, damn it) Loki, Zeus and Neptune who used to toy with this kind of fire, and the outcome has never been what they had wished for.

But Yvonne does not reply verbally to my thoughts. She wishes us to follow the footage. Very well then.

Marcel, taken aback, defaults to the typical men scare. “Why do you wish to cut my dick? Madam Doctor.”

“Cut your cock? Really? Do you think that I am a cruel butcher, a barbarian, a troglodyte? Really, Marcel, this is what I am in your eyes?”

“Excusez moi, Madam Doctor, I didn’t mean to offend. But how else can you transform me into a woman? Women have no dick. Oh wait, did you mean a shemale? A woman with a dick? Boobs and dick? All in one. Wow!” The male subject tries to act cool but his vital signs on the screen tell a very different story…

“Marcel, dear, I am no monster and I won’t harm you physically. There will be no surgery performed on your dick. You may have it all the time. Just that, when a woman, your dick will be as prominent as Michelle’s clitoris. You have feasted on her for a good part of the night, haven’t you?” In spite of visible efforts to hide her anger, the Dominatrix Yvonne is full of venom.

“Why do you hate men, Madam Doctor?”

She stops the domineering analysis, grabs his chin with three fingers through the glove of vinyl, fixes his left eye in a silent stare, then moves to the right eye. You may talk about a minute of silence but there were actually fifty-one seconds of tension for the poor young male before the Doctor speaks.

“Stand up, bring a chair,” her hand points to a corner in the back of the tent, “make yourself comfortable and let us talk like adults, shall we?”

As Marcel moves the frames (served to us) towards the corner with the chairs, we can hear the Dominatrix Doctor in the background. “Michelle, please give us some privacy.”

Marcel returns, relaxed, or so he wants to show, and asks where to fix the chair.

“Outside, young lad. Let us take our daily dose of vitamin D!”

“How about your gloves and boots? They’ll give you tan lines, won’t they?”

“I’m taking them off. Need this costume to impress my victims. Hope you understand.”

Speaking to Marcel, she turns her back and bends to unzip the first boot. Instinctively, his eyes get fixated on a coral miniature uncovered by her parting butt cheeks: the rosetta around her anus.

“Captivating!” He exclaims. “You are a sculpted delicacy, Madam Doctor! Such an adorable body hosting a vindictive soul. How can that be?”

Fully naked, Madam Doctor and Marcel commence an innocent morning stroll along the seashore.

“The sound of the waves, together with the wind, give us a hard time hearing their chatter. Astarte, could you please filter these out?” Sure do, Rebecca. How about now? “Perfect, thanks!”

“…You have applied for this camp on the net, if I remember well.”

“This is correct, Madam Doc…”

“Please call me Yvonne. I am Yvonne, glad to meet you, Marcel.”

“Oh, Yvonne… What an honor!”

“Why did you wish to join my camp?”

Marcel seems distracted. His eyes can’t stop from scanning Yvonne’s nakedness from top to toes and from toes back to her pretty face. Pausing longer on her breasts, forgetting himself in the admiration of her red pubic triangle, Marcel is absent from this conversation.

“Marcel? I have asked you something…” A dumb smile precedes a half mouthed “what?” followed by a couple of full body scans.

At this point, Yvonne stops. The lad arrests his steps, turning around to face her.

“Why have we stopped?”

“We haven’t. I stopped walking because you were not listening to me.”

Seen through his eyes, Yvonne looks angry. Still not the kind of capricious angry that characterizes young ladies, but rather some sort of epic wrath emanates from her stare, from her marbled face. The wind electrifying her red hair can only aggravate this portrait of vengeful Yvonne.

“Oh, I am sorry. Please accept my apologies. Yesterday you had me charmed. When I saw you wearing just boots and gloves, my mind span out of control. I wished to be your sexual slave, to feel your domination, to obey, to suffer at your command. I knew that I’ll be most happy when suffering for you, under your pointy heel.”

Marcel’s honesty steals a momentary smile of relaxation from her.

“And now, few minutes ago, you – the goddess of my dreams, the unreachable and untouchable master of my impulses – you befriend me. As an equal. It’s… it’s… it is just unbelievable… for me… to have you as… as… as my friend. Wish to kiss and lick and smack your soles, your feet, your shins and thighs, front and back, wish to dive my nose, and my tongue, into your butt hole, to lick and tongue fuck the moisty treasure cave hiding beneath this forest of red, to sniff your navel, to bite your hips, to suck your nipples and sleep between your breasts, forever… for-ever… Take me!”

“Damn, boy! Get your act together! When I ask you a question, you must answer. This is rule number one. I have many rules for you and, if you can follow then all, then, maybe!, I’ll indulge with you. Together…”

“Oh, my master friend, ask me anything!”

“I just did but your ears were locked down.”

“Come again, please!”

“Why did you wish to join my camp?”

“My father told me about your camp.” His innocent answer falls like a lightning on the Greek angry statue interrogating him.

“Your… your father?” Mumbles Yvonne.

“Yes, my father. He said that he had heard of you. That you must be in deep pain and asked me if I wish to risk my life for you.”

“And what did you say?” Yvonne is perplex, lost, scared?

“I said that playing the role of a knight saving the sleeping beauty, in the age of the internet, requires some prior documentation. Asked my father to teach me about you, to show me how you look, how you move, how you speak. You know, all that stuff that one can grab on the internet about people.” Marcel speaks with nonchalance to her, opening his heart with candor.

“Your father,” tries Yvonne to catch up, “is he a doctor?”

“Not anymore. He used to work for Médecins Sans Frontières back in the late century, before he graduated theology and became a priest.”

“A Catholic priest?”

“Yes. I would have said a pastor otherwise.”

“So he fathered you before entering the priesthood, I suppose…”

“No. He has been still a student in medicine when dropping out to opt for theology. I never said he is a doctor. Just a priest.”

“How comes that a Catholic priest can father a baby?”

“Well, they have dicks, don’t they. You know how it works, I assume.” Marcel proves himself more intelligent than the casual hormone-driven young man.

“I also know that the church would excommunicate the priests that make such use of their dicks…”

“The church, like any human institution, has her rules. And what are rules if no one breaks them?”

“Smart dialog aside, your father must have had some leverage over his superiors for them to turn their heads the other way. Did he?”

“I don’t know about that. What I know is that my parents love each other, they are faithful to each other. My mom is my dad’s house maid, you know… The entire village knows. It’s public but unofficial. They call it a modus vivendi.”

“Why would your father send you to me? I still don’t get it.” Yvonne is no longer defensive, nor vindictive. Now she is curious. And a bit anxious.

“He told me about your childhood.”

“Did he?” Anxiety stampedes her contracting neurons. It almost hurts, physically.

“Yes. The priest who had taken advantage of you, amongst many pupils, at the boarding school where you grew up, that priest confessed everything to my dad and then, minutes later, he went to meet the TGV.”

“He took the train? What do you mean?”

“Ah, non, non. He decided to run between the rails and charge against the Train Grande Vitesse. This cost him not just his life but his body as well. The firemen spent days gathering smithers of him from the surrounding woods.”

“Good riddance!”

“See, Yvonne, how God allows the soul of a sinner to take care of himself… There’s no need for vengeance. You didn’t have to do anything to punish that molester because there is a principle like karma out there. Like the law of equilibrium in physics. Like natural decay. Pigs cannot fly. So why hate pigs? Why seek revenge? Why burn for retribution against a rat, or a snake?”

“Easy to speak, Marcel. Harder to put in practice. What do you know? I was ten when he stuffed his filthy dick in my mouth. A day before confession. Then, the next day, forced me to confess my sins. So much about innocence. So far about pigs in disguise… If you never lived through this kind of ordeals you cannot speak about them. I couldn’t until college. The Colonel helped me spit it out. He told me to speak it out without fear or remorse. ‘Just speak!’ Said he, ‘vomit this poison out of your mind!’ Which I keep doing whenever given the opportunity.”

“Does it help?”

“Not much, Marcel, not much. On one hand, it makes me feel a little bit better. Through all my teen years I have lived with a morbid guilt in me. What if I was the cause of my own tragedy? What if my parents sinned some way and I was about to pay back in their place?”

“Yvonne, you know that sin is not transmitted from generation to generation. It’s a personal matter, not a parental one. Children of criminal parents can lead a blessed live and children of blessed parents can turn to a life of crime. Each person shapes her own destiny.”

“Another theory that genetics can’t confirm. Where did you take all this nonsense from?”

“From my father, and from the Bible, and it’s bearing more sense than your genetics would ever gather in a thousand years. This wisdom of creation goes beyond the human scientific method. Remember what they had done to you at the University?”

Yvonne’s curiosity fades to eventually be eclipsed by perplexity. How comes that this young lad, nineteen years old, not only knows that much about her (had his sources) but has the clout to lecture her.

“Who are you? Solomon? Jesus? Why do you lecture me?”

“I am Marcel, at your service. I apologize for trying to lecture you. It was not in my intention to make you suffer. In fact, it is you that must make me suffer here. Please, make me suffer, Yvonne!”

“What the hell is going on?” Shouts the former tent Dominatrix as she starts to run along the beach, splashing the dying waves with her sublime feet. Like a crazy dog, Marcel follows her, trying to stay near her left shoulder and, incredibly, shouting back an answer to her rhetoric question.

“What is going on is that I wish to give my life for you, Yvonne. You deserve this more than anyone on this planet. I love you!”

She stops.

“Look, Marcel, I don’t know if you’re some kind of freak, I don’t know if to call you a stalker, I don’t even fucking know if to be afraid of you. But how can you love me? Did we have a romance or something?”

“We do now…”

I notice the print of the moment on her face. Not sure if Beatrice or Rebecca did, but I can tell that Marcel had Yvonne in his pocket (imaginary pocket because nudists don’t wear pockets) with this statement. The anger, the remorse, the heavy clouded looks, everything was gone, dispersed like condense off of a windscreen. Marcel has breathed these words right into her soul.

That Yvonne (in the hologram) stares at us the way of the doe sniffing the scents of green forests. This Yvonne (retired between Beatrice and Rebecca) is crying with rhythmic gulps and hiccups. Her face washed in tears. Her right hand hitting the lips of a mouth that, seemingly, wants to die, and die again. Yvonne, are you alright? – ask I, telepathically.

“Yes, Astarte. And no! I am not. I don’t know… Why did you paused it? Play it on. Go on!”

Okey-dokey, dear, didn’t want to interrupt. Sorry. The hologram flows back to live.

“Wish I’d believe what you’re telling me, young man.”

“But you do, or at least you’re trying to. I can feel it.” Marcel sounds genuine and his vital signs indicate the same. Yvonne though, analyzing him in haste, turns mischievous.

“Well, allow me then to show you even more romancing. Follow me!”

She heads to the flock of thorny bushes situated a hundred meters up from the shore. Our obeying observer in pursue. There are screams and wails shredding the air. We get near along with the eyes of Marcel. And we watch what he saw: a disturbing scene. Michelle (remember her?) being abused by one of the twenty “stallions” admitted to the camp yesterday.

“Want you! Need you! Can’t fucking stop fucking you, princess.” Growls the young man relentlessly pounding Michelle’s pussy. We don’t know when it all began but this might be the cruelest part of it. Seconds before releasing his seed in her, his mind completely forgets about controlling his body. This would have included the “victim’s” body because she keeps struggling in his grip.

Why won’t she hit back? If I remember well, thinks Marcel, this gal is capable of much physical strength. She immobilized me less than an hour ago. How comes that this imbecile can take advantage of her? Where are her powers?

The frugal thoughts persist in Marcel’s mind beyond the climax of ejaculation had consumed the last resources left in the idiot’s body. He is now more vulnerable than ever. However, Michelle won’t score a busting knee to his relaxing balls. Not even the slightest gesture to run away. She is not scared. How odd…

“Michelle, are you okay?” Asks Marcel, half worried, half intrigued.

“Me? Yes! I’m fine. Look at this poor fellow.”

We’re given to assist at a convulsive scene in the sand. Don’t know about the others watching near me (can’t read their minds), but I can remember what Loki had had done around the systems that you people call the Hoag’s Object. Revisiting that recollection, the metamorphose of a young man into a muscular and marvelous woman is just old news to me.

Rebecca and Beatrice seem upset, yet not surprised. Perhaps they know the story, can’t tell. Yvonne sobs. On and on. I wish to study the male-to-female transition more closely.

Immediately after his (last) sperm shot (poor guy), the flaccid penis abruptly recedes to the cute stature of a clitoris. The parting from the urethra adds enough pain to have him fainted. Though growing a uterus and fitting it into the piercing vagina, from the inside out, generates even more torment capable to wake him up, for a second, pass him out, for the next second. Up and out, off and down, the ex-man not-yet-female offers us a horrid image.

His (hers?) brain seems to hardly cope with the excruciating pain: at times it turns off to comatose sparing the victim’s body of this unbearable agony; but then, as the hormonal uproar reshapes the body, her (his?) brain is turned back on to consciousness, until it has to shut down again.

Loki used to severe the testicles with a sickle (the way Kronos did to Oran while I’ve been asleep) shortly after the hormones and other chemicals had the mutation completed. Yvonne surprises me with her non-surgical method: in front of our eyes, the balls are moving up in the abdomen to form new ovaries followed by a massive constriction of the scrotum into a typical raphe uniting the old anus with her (yes, already a she) new pussy.

Quite a genius in genetics, this little Yvonne of ours. She managed to amaze me, a twelve billion years old bag…

“Wish I wasn’t…” Speaks Yvonne before licking the tears at both ends of her lips.

Beg your pardon? No daemon, to my knowledge, mastered the art of mutation as well as you did, Yvonne dear…

“Wish I didn’t…” Sobs Yvonne… “Wish I was dead!” … Suspension dots … Down here in the ebook and up there in my mind… Blank mind… no thoughts… She’s gotta be terribly depressed, poor little Yvonne…

“What is this?” Cries Marcel in perplexity.

Yvonne (the one from inside the hologram) wishes to brag but comes late in finding her words. This only allows Michelle to jump on her feet. Shaking the sand from her butt cheeks, she speaks coldly, dominating her still suffering victim.

“He lived to fuck. Now she will see how it is to take it, not just to give it. Welcome to the club! You’re a woman now. Enjoy!”

We see Michelle moving her furious ass out of the picture.

Every one stands muted and frozen like blank statues, generously lighted in this cave, deep under the Richat Structure. Marcel doubles his prolonged silence with an unusual inert perspective. His eyes don’t blink and don’t move. He barely breathes. We can notice this from the vital signs on the screen.

No one dares to ask me if the hologram is paused, as it looks like, because every one knows that this is caused by Marcel’s mind and body and not by my abilities to render the past from universal backups.

The counter showed 7,12 a.m. when we heard Marcel speak. It is now 7,21 a.m. We are still here, behind his eyes, with him. Just wondering if he had had a sense of mystical support back then, in that morning of June 30, 2015, if he somehow had sensed us holding his hand from this August 13, 2021. Just wondering…

“Wishful thinking, Astarte. Your wondering tells more about your loneliness than about Marcel. You wish to project on him what haunts your own mind.”

Yvonne should have been a brilliant psychologist if not for her passion on genetics. Told you, she beats Loki hands down.

“I don’t give a fuck about your Loki!” Hollers she back at my thoughts, completely untelepathically and unceremoniously.

“Fuck Loki and your daemons. And fuck genetics. Fuck everything!!” She sounds a bit upset to me…

“A bit? You giant whore! A bit? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Whoops, she reads my mind, we all know that, and I can’t hide a sarcasm. No corner for me to hide… Well, let’s wait then…

Twas [07:35:14:984 2015-06-30] marked in the orange box showing the time counter on the holographic screen when Marcel’s eyes offer us the first crawls of the former guy, now a girl. Slowly, she is coming back to her senses.

“Where… am… I…” Her new crystalline voice scares her. “Who am I?…” Seeing her bosoms and, daring further down, not seeing her dick, her hands hurriedly touching her new body, the shock of panic makes her jump on her feet. “What is going on? Tell me!”

Marcel, our observer and provider of sounds and images, remains still like a semaphore. Yvonne approaches the new girl, former boy, grabs her hand in her palms and speaks like a professional.

“Yesterday you have enlisted in this experiment on the beach. Today you have successfully changed into a beautiful young woman. You are one of us now!”

“Why are you doing this, Yvonne?,” intervenes Marcel, “is it because of that perverted priest?, or is it because you hate men so much?” His eyes don’t move as he speaks but we notice spikes in his vital signs.

“It is because of both. I’m sorry, Marcel. That priest had sabotaged my innocence, my childhood, my dreams, my soul. Yes, because of him I grew to hate men. This emotion worked like a venom inside me for many years. When I was offered a chance for the better, I pondered how can I turn it around into revenge. I wished to share the suffering. To do justice…”

“Justice? You call this justice, Yvonne? Turning teen boys into girls? You are insane. You are a monster. This is not you from my dreams, from my father’s stories. This is not Yvonne-the-victim seeking for salvation. No! You are a daemon, Yvonne! A ruthless daemon. This is what you are, what resentments have made of you. A cruel daemon…”

Marcel finally moves his eyes, looking down and apparently squatting in the sand to avoid seeing Yvonne.

Ugh oh, a daemon? Welcome to the club, Yvonne dear!

“Shut up, you whore!”

And what if I refuse to shut my thoughts up, eh? What then? Are you going to turn me into a male daemon? Eh?…

“Can’t do that. But I have the power to have you faint, to put you to sleep if you won’t shut the fuck up, Astarte…”

“Fortunately, you don’t have that kind of power, my beloved Yvonne.” Wow, look and listen to Beatrice how she intervenes to save my ass. I love these little sisters.

Beatrice continues on a mild and caring tone. “Our task here goes beyond our moods. Besides, do us all a favor and explain to Astarte your situation with Marcel, shall you, Yvonne?”

Fiery thunders wash down to tears on Yvonne’s face.

“Briefly, Marcel has fallen in love with my image as a victim. Over years, cautiously stalking my moves, he grew even warmer feelings for my person. When he enlisted to this camp, having no idea about my sex-change experiments, his selflessness has already gone too far beyond the reasoning point. Marcel wished to sacrifice his life for me, to see me happy and finally liberated from my childhood trauma. But, as he has opened up to me, I showed him the mightiness of my vengeance, I was hating men so much that I wished to take out their manhood, to have them live inside a woman’s body. I was sharing my pain. And I seemed to be good at it. Too good! But true! The grotesque proof standing in front of him.”

Poor Yvonne rains a new shower of tears on that neat platform in front of my face. To this I become inventive by whispering a warm breeze out of my lungs. Suddenly, all three girls: Yvonne, Beatrice and Rebecca; turn to stare at me with intrigue…

Just trying to comfort her. Look at her… Poor thing… They nod and Yvonne resumes.

“For two long hours, Marcel said no word to me. Leaving Arielle (the new girl) behind to work out her new angles, I took him for another stroll along the beach. I talked and talked and talked. From excuses to blames, from repugnance to approval, from sadness to satisfaction, I tried hard to gain back his trust in me, to have him speak to me, love me as he did before.

Late in the afternoon, we returned to the tents, he was following me without saying a word. Hours after hours, he sat and stared at me, into my eyes, with a reflection of empty glass in his eyes.

With the sunset, I had to confess that my body was in desperate need for some privacy so I’ve excused myself.

When I came back, nowhere to find him. Asking around, Michelle pointed to the bushes. Horrified, I’ve rushed like a crazy goat. Too late. Behind the bushes, Marcel was fucking Arielle like mad.

I shouted at him to stop. He turned his looks at me, fixed my eyes and ejaculated inside Arielle’s pussy. I fainted before he did…”

Poor thing. Why would he do that?, I wonder…

“Love, punishment, despair… To count only some reasons.”

Responds Beatrice, the group’s psychologist as it seems to me.

“You wish to keep it cold but you can’t, Beatrice dear,” says Yvonne to her, and to us, “because this is a matter of karma: I’ve got what I deserve. It is as simple as that.”

What have you got, Yvonne, tell me for I cannot read your mind.

“Marcel turned himself into a woman. He said that he did this for me. He would even make an effort to hate men if that would have me pleased. He would die for me. But I wished him to stay alive for me and to be a man for me. A man to rescue me from myself. A different kind of man. My man!… When I eventually had the chance to process all of this together with him, it was too late. He already was a she. Did I deserve this? Hell, yes!”

Noticing that Yvonne cries no more, I seal my lips to cease the breeze.

Beatrice marks the final point of this startling story.

“Yvonne brought Marcel with her in this mission. They are a pair…”

So she is still a lesbian, I knew it… methinks…

“You can see it this way, Astarte, if you wish. But Yvonne has always yearned for the noble man who would make sacrifices for her. The dream went a step too far, same as she did with her merciless endeavors.”

Shall I call him Marcelle if i’ll run into him by accident?

“Just call her Marcel. The sorcery of genetics works only on the body, not the soul. Marcel remains a good man living in the gorgeous body of a young woman.