>>162 I don't remember the title though. Help? --- “Got yah mail, freak!†The Scout drops a package into your lap and sprints off. For all that the plain brown wrapping does nothing to reveal its contents, you know very well what’s hidden inside. Anticipation heats your body. You take it to your room and close but do not lock the door. No one ever approaches you--the blank visage of your mask and incomprehensible speech spooks them off. Or perhaps it has something to do with the glee you express as you watch the skin crackled and peel off the backs your enemies. Either way, you are isolated off the battlefield. Sometimes, their distance makes you feel lonely, but mostly you’re glad to escape their attention. Especially now. You cut the twine with your ax and tear the thick paper. There’s a note inside. Beloved Brother, I hope this package finds you in good health. Mother asks after you often and I tell her you’re enjoying yourself with your new friends. Please take some time to write to her. You and daddy may have your differences, but she misses hearing from you. I know you prefer lighter shades, but I simply couldn’t resist buying this. It will compliment your eyes beautifully. Trust your older (and wiser) sister on that. Remember to remain discreet, dear brother, and keep your spirits up. Love and Kisses Deidre You pull out her gifts with care and reverence. Thin black stockings with matching garters, a short silk dress, dark eyeliner and shadow, and a tube of lipstick labeled ‘Sinful Scarlet.†Popping off the cap, you can see that the shade is a deep red and a thrill of excitement shoots down your spine. You quickly strip yourself of your suit and boots, for once uninhibited by your appearance, and pick up a stocking with trembling hands. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you stretch out your left leg and place it at the tip of your toes, slowly rolling it up and over the arch of your foot, then your ankle. Calf. Knee. And finally thigh, where the elastic snaps on your flesh. Your eyes roll back at the cling of it, so tight on a male body. Your mask muffles a throaty moan. First touch of fabric is always the best in some ways. It is blessed relief and the knowledge that you will be able to take pleasure in something other than the tortured screams of an enemy Spy. The other stocking slides on in much the same fashion, and you decide to go without the garters this time. You have no matching panties. It still takes a lot out of you to ask your sister to buy intimate undergarments. She accepted your need for women’s clothes, angel of mercy that she is, but the sexual aspect of it is something you both choose not to acknowledge. In truth, it’s not really about sex. It’s about the ecstasy of beauty. A powerful illusion. You are glad that you chose to forgo the underwear when the dress slides coolly over your erect penis. A teasing, glorious touch. The lacy edge of the bottom just brushes the tops of your knees. It’s a modest length, but the dress is obviously made to seduce. The plunging neckline would make your mother frown in disapproval at any trollop wearing it. And now you’re the trollop wearing it. The thought makes you giggle. You idly think about this dress on a mysterious woman in Paris. She is sharing a cigarette with the BLU spy on a hotel veranda. Or perhaps it clutches the bosom of a buxom blond in a Texas saloon, jiggling with her breasts as she laughs at the Engineer’s jokes. Maybe it conceals the slim form of an exotic courtesan in Vietnam, earning her salary from a foreign soldier. Or on a thickly-built woman with a whip and a German accent. A knowing neighbor undressing in a Boston bathroom as the naughty little boy she babysits peaks through her window. But no, this dress does not belong to any of them. It’s yours and yours alone. Forced to awkwardly stretch over a hideous, flat chest. Narrow hips. Disfigured belly. No, don’t think about that.[i] You shake your head and run your hands over your nipples in an attempt to regain momentum. You are lovely. You are feminine. These clothes were made for you. It’s a mantra in your head that you repeat as you grope under the bed for your only pair of heels. These were a happy accident, the result of a break-in to an enemy base. You don’t know why a Communist Russian woman sequestered in a place of battle would have delicate heels in her room, but you’re grateful for it. Her shoes are the only ones you’ve found that fit your large feet. By the time she caught you swiping them, she was too busy dying to say anything about it. You slip them on, buckling the almost laughably delicate straps. Standing in them makes you feel more exposed somehow. Everything is lifted, forced to sway as you walk. You couldn’t run in these if you wanted to, but you could easily destroy someone’s genitals with the point of your heel. It’s a strange mix of feeling foolishly helpless and utterly powerful. You teeter across the wooden floors of the base, listening to your heels click, finding your stride. You wink at the imaginary men who’ve stopped to stare or whistle, blushing coyly. Saying, “Oh [i]stop it, you silly boys!†Only it comes out as more of a ‘Hr strrp et, hhu shlly brrs†and the voice is not exactly girlish. You’ve long since lost the choir boy alto of your youth. Testicles dropped, asbestos filled your lungs and ruined your vocal chords. That fey, skinny body you used to hate so much grew just as your mother said it would. Into this apish, scar-thickened monstrosity of manhood. You swallow down disgust. The clothes are the only things that make you feel human anymore. These trappings of feminine beauty. All day you stalk through the dust--a faceless, sadistic, grunting beast. The high of adrenaline and power transforms you. Remakes you. And oh the glee, the ecstasy of watching an invisible spy suddenly ignite, a pillar of screaming flame floating across the desert. Your cock rises at the very thought of it. All the helplessness and pain of your childhood and adolescence, the cruelty given out by the boys around you first for being too beautiful, then for being too hideous. All of it burns away under the flame. You are the one with the control now. You are the one laughing. Men twice your size fall at your feet and cower. Maybe no woman will ever touch you without revulsion, but these dead and dying men are your lovers now. You take your pleasure from their smoking black bodies. Every day of carnage that passes erases more of the man you used to be. And at night, showering alone in the darkness, the thought of becoming the Pyro haunts you. The mask is your face. Your voice. Your identity. That’s why you need this. The garters and the makeup. You need them to wipe away the monster. You must make something of yourself. Something soft and lovely. Something wanted, kind. Gloriously sensual. You stop pacing and reach under your dress to clutch yourself, squeezing up to the head of your cock. A few more strokes and you finally have the courage to take off your mask. The feeling of cool air on your face is almost enough to trigger climax right then and there, and you moan just to hear your own voice echo clearly in the room. You resist the urge to bring yourself off now. This is not the moment. After all, you’ve yet to put on your face. You choose a silvery-grey eyeshadow, streaking it across your fully-formed left eyelid. Your right eyelid is unfortunately absent, but you decide to brush a bit of shadow just under your brow to even things out. Eyeliner has always been a challenge despite your sister’s patient lessons. Successfully applying it without poking yourself or smearing is something you can never quite manage. You try your best. A bit of playful pink blush for both cheeks. Mascara--your favorite to apply. You remember watching your mother put it on in the mornings, looking perfectly classic in her primping rituals. Like Grace Kelly. That prissy little brush lengthening and darkening her striking lashes. Finally the lipstick. You take off the top, smelling the wax, and press it to your mouth. One firm stroke for the bottom, one for the top. Then your rub your lips together, releasing them with a delightful little pop. You rummage around your trunk for a tiny box and pull out a pair of pearl drop earrings. You pierced your ears yourself, sterilizing the needle with your flamethrower and penetrating the lobes while the metal was still hot. The throb of it was delicious. Humming happily, you slide the earrings into place, relishing the weight of them as they swing. It’s time. You stand in front of your closet, clench your eyes shut, and reach for the handle. “Like ripping off a bandage,†you whisper to yourself. A full-length mirror hangs on the other side of this door. There is always a moment before jumping into the blue when you’re not quite sure if the parachute will open. Either you soar or you break. Fantasy holds you aloft; reality crushes you on the concrete. Bracing yourself for impact, you take a deep breath, swing the door open, and lift your eyes. Your reflection meets your gaze with one of her own. Both of you smile together. There you are, you saucy, glorious minx. The lipstick seems especially bright in contrast to your paleness. Your eyeshadow is uneven as expected. Your mascara clumped despite your best efforts. And of course, your scars are as disfiguring and awful as ever, shining with newer skin and deeply embedded into your face. To anyone watching, you look like a sick joke. A clownish parody. But… But. To you, there is nothing more perfect. The face in the mirror is unmarred. It is beauty incarnate. And it’s you. God, it’s such a freeing feeling to own and love your body this way. Like breathing without pain again, a sensation you can scarcely remember. Wonderful, wonderful. You’re a new woman. You collapse back onto the bed and let the tears streak down the sides of your temples, making paths through your scars like rainwater in a dirty gutter. Your lips tremble under your smile but you don’t dare open them yet lest you wail loudly. The dress conveniently rucks up to your stomach, and you slide your hands over your belly to pull at your pubic hair. Someday, you must remind yourself to ask Dee for some opera gloves. You imagine how they’d feel as you take hold of your cock again and stroke your foreskin up over the tip, then down to unsheath yourself. Your hips jerk slightly at the sensation. â€Yeah, c’mon, touch yerself. Show me your tits.†You gasp. Scout is vulgar, never more so than when he speaks to you from the inside. Obediently, you pull your dress up to your armpits and stroke over your nipples. You turn your head, but cannot hide your embarrassment. â€Don’t be shy, now, darlin. I’m gonna take real good care a’you. Like a gentleman should.†You laugh. There’s nothing gentlemanly about this. Quite the contrary. But the Engineer’s hands are rough with calluses and they feel so good on your cheeks. “Kiss me,†you say. Though your voice is surely as rough and low as it usually is, to you it sounds like a bell. Sweet, clear. â€Aah, mon cher. To kiss you would be a great honor. But where shall I kiss you, hm? On your belly? You sweet little nipples?†You lick your fingers and rub them across your chest. â€Or perhaps I will penetrate your mouth wiz my tongue.†Your mouth opens to accept him, only taking in air. But you can practically taste the tobacco on his breath. His lips are warm and soft. God. God. You are stroking frantically now.