Wednesday, March 23, 2011

David Jones and the Pursuit of Dr. Bell

This is one I really enjoyed writing, but it is quite a bit longer than the others (like twice as long).  It centers on a man named David Jones (an agent for a covert government agency) who, when the Great Change occurs, is tasked with investigating the veracity of the claims, and then, tracking down Dr. Bell.  At the same time, he undergoes the same changes other white men experience.

Like I said, I enjoyed writing this one, because it deals with a lot of issues that people had with the other stories.  I simply didn't deal with those issues because they didn't belong in the other stories.  They belong in this one.  Also, I like the idea of someone adapting to their situation, and developing a different method to achieve their goals while still remaining true to who they are. 

So, here it is:

David Jones and the Pursuit of Dr. Bell
by Nikki J

David Jones was a dangerous man.  He wasn't big (only 5'10” and 180 lbs.), but that suited him.  He wasn't handsome either – just average.  In fact, everything about him screamed “normal.”  He looked like a computer programer or accountant; it was all by design.  He was about as far from being any of those things as was possible.

He walked down the street, a measured distance behind his prey.  David wore a nondescript suit, and he easily blended into the crowd of pedestrians.  But if one were to look closely, to really watch him, they would see that his eyes rarely strayed very far from a man twenty feet ahead of him.  And those eyes.  Those icy blue eyes were they only detail about David Jones which a stranger might remember.

The man David was following was a big fellow with dark hair and a ponytail.  David knew that the man was eastern European, and that he was in the city to broker an arms deal.  David's job was to prevent that from happening.

David, you see, was a member of a covert government organization whose job it was to do those things  which needed to be done, but about which, no one needed to know.  He was a rarely noticed shadow, protecting his country from threats about which it knew so little.

Jones followed the big eastern European man for a few more blocks, until David saw him duck into a small grocery store.  He melted into the shadow of an alley, and pulled his watch to his mouth.  He pushed a button, and said, “Target has entered the grocery store on 9th street.  Waiting for backup.”

He wasn't a typical agent – not as the movies might have portrayed him, at least.  He dealt in information.  Sure, he knew how to handle himself in a fight.  He had received years of training in weapons and martial skills, but if he was confronted with a need for physical violence, something had gone horribly wrong.  No, he watched.  He gathered information, and then he relayed that information to someone else who had no identity to hide.

Jones saw the S.W.A.T. van pull up, men in black body armor, and carrying automatic weapons piling out.  He watched as they breached the door, and went in.  He heard the shots fired.  And then he saw the eastern European escorted from the building in handcuffs.  Half an hour later, when the ambulance har arrived, he saw a trio of bodies rolled out on stretchers.

David Jones was a dangerous man.  He melted back into the shadows of the alley, and soon, emerged on the other side.  He merged with the flow of traffic, unnoticed and unseen.


David leaned back in his favorite leather chair.  It had been so long since he had been home.  He propped his feet up on the ottoman, and gently swirled the scotch (on the rocks, as was his custom) in his glass.  He was antsy.  It hadn't been his idea to take time off; his superiors had strongly suggested it.  He had spent almost four years in the field, and they were convinced that he would soon crack under pressure if he didn't take a short respite soon.

They obviously didn't know David Jones very well.  But then again, he thought, who did?  David Jones wasn't even his real name.  It had been given to him shortly after he had completed his introductory mission.

He took a sip from his scotch, and then set it down on the table next to him.  What the hell was he supposed to do with three months of vacation?  He had no love of the tropics (his pale skin tended to burn).  Nor did he have any real hobbies.  There were no old friends with which to catch up.  He had his job and nothing else.

A different man might bemoan his loneliness, but that was not David's way.  He simply accepted that the state of his personal life was a necessary sacrifice.  Instead, he sat in his chair, thinking, planning.  He had the freedom to pursue any mission he desired, and so, he chose to ponder which criminal organization he might target next.

He was deep in thought when his cellular phone rang.  Before the second ring was through, he picked it up.

“This is Jones,” he said.

“There has been an incident.  Your presence is required at --”

“I know where I'm supposed to go.  I'll be there in ten minutes,” Jones said authoritatively.


Nine minutes later, David stood next to an out-of-order payphone outside of a large, apparently abandoned warehouse.  He punched a series of digits on the phone, and stepped back.  Then, a hole in the wall of the warehouse opened, and in stepped David Jones.

The decrepit warehouse had been a facade.  Inside was a high tech facility from which the country's most secret missions were conducted.  David had seen it all before, and was unfazed by the banks of computers, huge computer screens, and monitoring stations.  He strode through the room confidently.

David had been trained to notice even the smallest detail in any given situation, but even an untrained buffoon would have known that whatever the issue was, the bald black man with a goatee whose face was plastered on every screen had been the cause.

Soon, David had crossed quite a distance, and found himself outside of an office.  He knocked and waited.  After a few seconds, the door opened.

“Good.  Jones.  Take a seat,” David heard a familiar voice say as he walked in.  He looked around.  There were three other people in the room.  One, he recognized as Mr. Owens, his direct superior.  The other two were foreign to him.  One was a female in her late 20s or early 30s.  The other was a male in his 40s.  The female, Jones had to admit, was quite attractive in a classical sort of way.  She had long blonde, wavy hair, generous breasts, and, from what he could say, quite a fit body.  It was difficult to judge because she was seated, but Jones estimated that her height was probably in the 5'7” range.  The man, on the other hand, had the body of a former athlete gone to seed.  His salt and pepper hair had a noticeable bald spot at the crown, and his pallid skin said that he spent most of his time indoors.

In seconds, Jones had deduced that the older man was a senior analyst and that the woman was some sort of expert – on what, David didn't know.

“Agent Jones,” Mr. Owens explained, his words rasp with age.  “This is Kim Wilson.  And this is Patrick Dansby.”  Jones nodded in greeting.  “They are here because they have information which will be invaluable to your next mission.”

“Who is the guy on all of the screens and what has he done?” Jones asked.

“Never miss a trick, do you?” Mr. Owens chuckled.  “That man,” he pointed out the window to one of the screens, “is Dr. Omar Bell.  He has released a biochemical agent into the atmosphere all over the world.  It, ah, well, Mr. Dansby here is the expert, so I'll let him explain it.”

Mr. Dansby cleared his throat, and then began, “Dr. Bell is a Nobel Prize winning biochemist, but he also dabbles in genetics.  He is a brilliant but ultimately troubled man.  Dr. Bell is an extreme black supremecist.  He believes that the hardships African Americans have faced throughout history have molded them into a superior race.  More than that, though, he believes that  White people should be punished because of the oppression of his people.  And so, he has launched an attack aimed at those he feels are responsible for the plight of African Americans.”

Mr. Owens handed Jones a piece of paper, and said, “This is the letter he sent to all of the major news agencies.  They dismissed it as a hoax by a crazy man, but --”

Ms. Wilson spoke up, saying, “But there's something there, in the air.  We haven't identified it  yet, but it's there.”

“What is the purpose of this chemical?” Jones asked.

“Just read the letter,” Owens responded.

The letter read as follows:

Dear World:

For too long, we African Americans have stood by, and let the rest of the world discriminate against us.  We have taken it until we can take it no longer.  So, I have decided to do something to take the rest of you down a rung.  I'm sure you won't believe me at first, but over time, you will see that this is no hoax.

I have decided to make a little change in the hierarchy of our species.  Earlier this week, I released a biological agent into the atmosphere, and tests have shown that that agent had spread throughout the world's air supply.

Do not panic.  I am not trying to kill anyone, though I'm sure some would wish it.  No, the agent is designed to do one thing: reassert the dominance of the black race.  This chemical will only affect white males.

Ah, but what will it do to those oppressors?  Well, it will do a number of things.  The changes (which are permanent and irreversible) will take a variable amount of time, depending on the person, and are purely physiological.

1. White mailes will shrink slightly to be more in line with the height and weight range of white females.  There are few ways to predict how it will affect individuals in this regard, but I've found that, generally, you will skew a little towards the size range you would have been, had you been born female (although, it will probably be a little on the low side of that range).

2.  Their already small pensises and testicles will shrink to better match their smaller bodies.

3.  Their anuses wiill gain elasticity and sensitivity, effectively making it a sex organ.

4. The pitch of their voices will rise.

5. Their hips will widen, and their shape will generally become more feminine.

6. Their nipples will enlarge slightly, and they will gain sensitivity.

7. Finally, their muscularture will become greatly reduced, and their skin and basic face shape will soften.

Basically, the white male will become something in between the current idea of male and a female (with a heavy leaning towards femininity). As I said, these changes are permanent and irreversible.  All (current and future) white males will show these traits.

As I said, most people will not lend credence to these claims until after the changes start (which should be quite soon), but after a year or two, the world will have changed, and I think for the better.


Dr. Omar Bell

Jones looked from the piece of paper, and asked, “Is this possible?”

“It shouldn't be,” Ms. Wilson responded.  “But he wasn't lying about putting something in the air.  Likely, he's just trying to start a panic, but --”

“If he's not lying, we could have mass chaos,” Owens finished.

“Where do I fit in?” Jones asked, already knowing the answer.

“Find out the truth.  Figure out where this man is, and bring him to justice,” Owens responded.  “You have the full support of the agency, and --”

Jones interrupted.  “No offense sir, but you all would just get in the way.  I will do some research here, and then I will conduct my investigation alone.  I need access to everything we have on Dr. Bell, but mainly I want to examine financial records.”

And so, they went to work.  David's investigation went on for four tedious hours before he came upon something promising.  Dr. Bell had paid a large sum of money to the biochemist who had developed the drug which would eventually cure cancer.  George Young was his name.  The man had dropped off the face of the earth almost six years previously.  Interesting.  Further investigation revealed that Dr. Bell's company had received large charitable donations from two men: a man believed to be a petty criminal named Jamal Pierce and a former businessman (Jones could find no more specific records) named Michael Adams.

David had his investigation mapped out.  Likely, the leads would result in dead ends, but he had to at least check.


And so, two days later, David was halfway across the country, and knocking on a typical suburban house's door.  It opened, revealing a little old lady.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

David produced a badge which said F.B.I. (which he most certainly wasn't).  “Ma'am.  I'm sorry to bother you, but I am looking for one George Young.  This is his last known address.”

“What did George do?  Is he in trouble again?”  the old lady asked.

“No, ma'am, not that I know of.  I just need to ask him some questions about a former business acquaintance of his,” Jones responded.  “May I come in?”

“Sure,” the old lady responded.  “Have a seat.”  Jones sat on an ugly couch.  “George was always a different sort of child.”

“Is he your son?” Jones asked.

“Yes, though what kind of son doesn't even visit his mother for over five years...and he used to come by every Sunday,” she remembered.  “But then one day, he burst through the door.  He kept blabbering about having done something, and that some people were after him.  I just figured he was being paranoid, you know.”

“He didn't live here?” David queried.  The old woman shook her head.

“Not since, well, before he even graduated college,” she said.  “He moved around a lot after he made his money.  And then, like I said, he just up and vanished.”

“Do you have a picture?” David requested.  The old lady rummaged in her purse which  had been hanging on a closet doorknob, and pulled out picture.  She handed it to David.  The man in the picture was tall, but skinny to the point of being gangly.  His white, freckled face was ugly, and his red hair was unkempt.

“May I keep this?” Jones asked, and the old woman conceded.  “Is there anything else you can tell me about George which might help our investigation?”

“Well, there is something.  Or someone, I suppose.  Leo.  Leo Robertson,” the old woman sighed.  “Leo used to bully George something fierce.  George blamed Leo for a lot – mostly his unpopularity in high school and college.  There were  a few incidents.  One time about a year before he left, I heard him talking on the phone about Leo's progress.  He sounded so malicious is why I remember.  I had never heard him talk like that before.”

“Leo Robertson, you say?” Jones asked.  The woman nodded.  David rose, and said, “Thank you, ma'am.”

He was out the door a few seconds later, and in his car after that.  He picked up his phone.

“Yeah.  I need you to run a name for me – Leo Robertson.  Thanks.  And I'm sending a scan of a picture  that I want you to check against our database,” David said.  “Okay. Get back to me soon.”


David leaned against his car outside of a strip club called Bunnies.  Leo Robertson's (now named Leah Robertson) indicated that he now worked there.  He went in.

The club was dark, and a pretty (if well-worn) girl danced on stage topless.  David approached the bar.

“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked.

David produced his badge.  “I need to speak with the owner.”  The bartender nodded, and ducked into an office behind the bar.  A few seconds later, he emerged, trailed by a fat, hairy man with slicked back hair.

“What can I do for you?”  the fat man asked.

“Leah Robertson.  I need to speak with her,” David responded.

“Dan.  Go get Leah,” the fat man said.  “What's this about, anyway?  She in trouble?”

“No.  Just trying to find someone she knew a while back,” David responded.

David prided himself on reading people.  It was a gift.  He could take the smallest details about a person, and figure out who and what they were.  But there is no way that he could have ever recognized Leah as a former man.

She walked in, her wide hips swaying.  It wasn't the pronounced movement of someone trying to be sexy.  No, it was subtle.  Natural.  She was only wearing  a little g-string bikini, and a top which left little to the imagination.  Sure, Jones recognized her breasts as fake...but how many strippers had natural breasts?

She walked up to David, and said, “You wanted to see me, sugar?” She even sounded like a girl.

“Yes,” he flashed his badge.  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

The fat man piped up, “You can use my office.”


David and Leah were escorted into the office (it was dirty, of course), and Leah sat down as David stood.

As soon as the door closed, David said, “I know who you are.  Leo Robertson.”

Leah was silent.  “What do you want?  Please don't tell anyone.  I'll get fired, and --”

“What can you tell me about George Young?” David asked.

“George?  I haven't seen George in over five years,” Leah responded. She was silent for a few seconds, and then a tear rolled down her smooth cheek.  “He did this to me, you know.”

“What?” Jones asked.

Leah stood, and gestured to her body, “This.”


“No, except for the boobs,” Leah explained, “And I did that for work.”

“I don't understand,” Jones said.

“I don't either,” Leah said.  “But one day, a little over five years ago, I started changing.  I didn't really notice at first.  I don't know why.  I guess it's easy to see now, but then, it was all so surreal.  I used to be just a normal guy.  A normal straight man.  But over the course of a few months, I shrank, my body changed shape, and even my dick shrank.  And then, I started to crave sex with men.  It wasn't long before I became what you see now – a sexy little stripper.  I still don't quite know how it happened.  Most of the time, I don't think about it, and I'm fine.  Sometimes I'm actually happy.  But there are moments when I feel like nothing is quite right.  Because it isn't.  I'm not supposed to be here.  I'm not supposed to be this person.”

“You say you don't know how it happened.  How do you know it was George?”  Jones asked.

“He told me so,” Leah said.  “He came in, asked for me specifically for a lap dance, and afterward, told me who he was, and that he had been behind my change.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Jones asked.



Jones was reeling.  Even a mind as calm and collected as his struggled to wrap itself around the implications of the former man now named Leah.  Leah had explained (in great detail) how he had changed, and the description mirrored the letter which Dr. Bell had written.

He sat in his car, thinking about the situation he was in.  He had pursued this case with a somewhat nonchalant attitude.  He was still professional and efficient, but his heart hadn't been really in it.  Jones just hadn't thought the doctor's crazy claims had any merit, and that he was on a wild goose chase, pursuing a man who was guilty only of perpetrating a hoax.  Now, Jones wasn't so sure.  If this George Young could do it, then it was possible.  More, the two had obviously had contact.

He was pondering his next move when his phone rang.

“Hello?”  he said, his steady voice masking his worry.

“That picture you sent me?  George Young, right?” the analyst on the other end asked.  David answered in the affirmative.  “Well, you can stop looking for him.  A body matching his description turned up a few states over from where you are almost five years ago.”

“Are we sure?”  Jones asked.

“We're digging up the body as we speak to compare dental records, but we're pretty sure,” the analyst explained.

“Okay, thanks,” Jones responded.  “I --” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.  “I'll touch.”  He hung up the phone.

If he suspected that Dr. Bell's plan was coming true before, now he was almost positive.  His voice had just changed.  Jones had never had a particularly low-pitched voice, and sometimes, he was even mistaken for deep-voiced woman on occasion.  Now, though, no one in their right mind would even mistake his voice for a man's.  He made a few sounds, testing it out.  No, that voice was about as high-pitched as any woman's he had ever heard (and higher than most).  It was starting.

But such was the nature of David Jones that he refused to lose focus.  He would continue to follow the trail until it went cold.  He still had a couple of leads to track down, and maybe – just maybe – he could  end this whole thing before it could really get going.

He started his car.  He had a long way to go, and time was running short.


Jones stood in front of a mansion less than two days later.  He had driven up the eastern seaboard, and arrived in New York a day before, but he had quickly learned that the criminal named Jamal Pierce had moved a few years previous – apparently drug lords had retirement plans too.  It didn't take him long to find out that Mr. Pierce had moved to an estate outside of the city.  He still got a trickle of income from the lieutenant to which he had left his empire, but for all intents and purposes, he was out of the game.

David knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, a petite black woman answered the door.  Her skin was light, like she had had one black parent and one white, and her hair was straightened.  At around 5'3”, she couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and five pounds.  She wore a pair of (artfully) tattered jeans and a low-cut pink tee-shirt.

“Yes, ma'am,” he flashed his fake F.B.I. Badge.  “I'm here to see Jamal Pierce.  Is he around?”

She did a bit of a double-take at his voice, but then, as if remembering something, dismissed it.

“Sure, come on in, and I'll go get him,” she answered, allowing him in.

She disappeared up the stairs as Jones sat down in a lavishly furnished sitting room.  He looked around. This Jamal had obviously had money for quite some time – he didn't have the trappings of newly acquired money (bad taste – if it's expensive and shiny, I want it!).  No, Jamal had taste.

It was only a couple of minutes before a muscular black man descended the stairs, the woman trailing.

“What can I do for you, officer?” he asked in a deep baritone.

“Agent,” Jones responded.  “Agent David Jones of the F.B.I.”  Jones rose, and crossed to Jamal.

“Agent, then,” he extended his hand, and Jones took it.  “What's this about?”

“Let me get a few things out of the way first,” Jones said.  Jamal nodded.  “I know who you are, and most of the things you've done.  I don't care about any of that.  You are not the subject of my investigation.  I am here trying to find Dr. Omar Bell.  I know you've done business with him in the past.  I don't care about your part in this.  I just want to find this man.”

“Fair enough,” Jamal said. “Ask your questions, but I don't know where he is.  I haven't seen him in years.”

“What was the nature of your business?” Jones asked.  “I know you paid him quite a lot of money.  What was it for?”

Jamal turned to the woman, and said, “Mara, strip.”

“That's --”

“No, this is the answer to your question, Agent Jones,” Jamal said as Mara immediately started removing her clothes.  Jones sat uncomfortably watching the girl remove her clothes.  After a few seconds, she was completely nude, and Jones saw that she wasn't a woman at all.  She was a man – or something like one.  She had a penis, at least, though it was quite small at only a couple of inches.

“This,” Jamal said, gesturing to Mara.  “This is what I paid for.”

“I don't understand.  Is she --”

“He. Mara is not a woman,” Jamal explained.  “As you can see.  Let me clarify.  Or better yet, let's have Mara do it.”

After a few seconds, Mara began.  He told of his former life as a stick-up boy (a gangster who robbed other criminals), and how he had been captured.  He told of how he had been changed over the course of a year (or so...Mara was unsure of the time frame), and matter-of-factly told of how he had lived for close to two years as little more than a sex slave to Jamal's gang.

“But then Jamal took me away from all of that,” Mara said with genuine affection.  “He retired, and brought me here.”

The story was similar to the one Leah had told (at least inasmuch as the changes).  But the chemical seemed to have been refined.

“And you say you don't know where he is?  You have no way of contacting him?” Jones asked Jamal.

“No, and I imagine you'll have a hard time finding him.  He's hiding now, after he released that virus or whatever it was,” Jamal explained.  “The changes are already starting.”  It wasn't a question, but Jones nodded.

“Anything else you can tell me?”  Jones asked.

“Me? No.  But if you'd like to talk to Mara (who was still naked) about what to expect, feel free,” Jamal offered.  “As for me, I have a phone appointment to keep. You boys have a nice chat.”  With that, he rose, and disappeared up the stairs.

Mara and Jones sat silently for a few moments before David finally said, “You can put your clothes back on, you know.”  Mara shrugged.

“Makes no difference to me, but if it makes you uncomfortable...”  She quickly dressed.

“So...” Jones began.  “What should I expect?”

“For your life and your entire outlook on the world to change,” Mara answered.  “The changes aren't just physical.  It's strange. Everything works together so well.”

“What do you mean?”  Jones asked.

“Well, before the change, I liked women – I was completely heterosexual.  But as I changed, men became more attractive to me.  And women...well, let's just say that I don't swing that way anymore.  And then there's the feeling – I don't know if this Dr. Bell did something, but anal's so much more pleasurable than anything I had before the change.  It's all cooled off quite a bit over the last couple of years.  I was an absolute nymphomaniac for a while.  Now, though, it just feels natural to be with a man.  I guess it's all about giving you this attraction and then reinforcing it positively,” Mara explained.

“You seem to have thought a lot about this,” Jones said.

“Well, like I said, before I was all man.  I liked women,” Mara said.  “And now, I'm about as far from that as can be.  It's only natural that I think about it, right?  Just expect a whole lot of changes, Agent Jones.”


David was convinced.  The threat was real.  As he sat in his car, he thought about what Mara had said.  It made sense.  If Dr. Bell could somehow change a person's attractions, and then reinforce it with pleasure, it would make the changes for more palatable to his victims.  That made them easier to control.

He leaned his head back, letting out a deep sigh and thought about the impending changes.  Was he to become something akin to Mara or Leah?  Both had had breast implants, so it seemed that chest growth was not part of the plan.  He reached for a brown folder in the passenger seat, and opened it.  Inside was Dr. Bell's letter.  He re-read it, trying to imagine what he might look like, what he might become.

He knew that, all around the world, white men were sporting brand new high pitched voices.  They ranged in pitch based on the starting point.  A deep voice became a femininely husky voice.  As was Jone's case, a high-ptiched male voice would become a high-pitched female voice.  He sighed again, and turned the page.

He had one more lead.  Michael Adams, the former businessman who lived across the country in California.

Jones called his contact at the agency, and set up a flight from New York to Los Angeles.  It wouldn't leave for another day, so Jones checked himself into the airport's hotel.

The next morning, Jones stepped out of the shower, and was drying himself off when he noticed that all of his body  hair was gone.  He ran a hand over his smooth face.  Step two, it seemed, was finished.  He pushed the information to the back of his mind.  He had to concentrate on the task at hand.


David arrived in Los Angeles the next night.  He had tried to sleep on the plane, but it had eluded him.  Instead, he mentally went over his case, trying to develop a timeline.

It was becoming clear that George Young had developed the original compound as a revenge plot against a former bully.  The huge sum of money paid to the now deceased young scientist seemed to confirm the purchase of that compound by Dr. Bell.  But Dr. Bell had run low on funds, so he sold his services to Jamal Pierce, who had a rival feminized.  Jones suspected that the feminization of Mara had served two purposes: a test and a way to generate capital.

But this Michael Adams was a wild card.  Nothing about him seemed to fit in with Omar Bell.  He was a black man, but he was not militant.  He was even a registered Republican.  He had made quite a bit of money a few years back through savvy investing, and had since quietly lived his life.  But he had donated over six million dollars to Dr. Bell's organization (it had been assumed that the organization's purpose had been to research a cure for autism).

No, something about Michael Adams wasn't right.

It being night when he arrived, Jones opted to get some sleep, and checked into a hotel.  He fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning, he awoke, and began to dress.  His sharp mind noticed that his pants were looser in the waist, and that their cuffs drug the ground when he walked.  Time was running out.  Soon, he knew, the changes would really start.


The apartment was expensive, Jones knew.  It took an entire floor of the building.  But that wasn't surprising. Michael Adams was a rich man, and he had every right to live like one.  David knocked on the door.  A couple of minutes later, a stocky black man answered it.

Jones flashed his badge, and said, “Yes, sir.  I'm Agent David Jones, F.B.I.  I'd like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

“About what?” Adams asked.

“Dr. Omar Bell,” Jones answered.

“Yeah.  Come on in,” Adams said, stepping aside.  As Jones stepped through, Adams continued, “This is about that stuff he put in the air, right?”

“Yes,” Jones said.  “We're trying to find him.”

“I'm not sure where he is,” Michael said.  “I've only seen him a few times since college.  And I never thought he'd go this far.  I mean, he was always kind of off about the whole race thing.  Always angry.  I was never sure why.  But I never thought he'd pull a stunt like this.”

“You said you knew him in college?”  Jones asked.

“Oh, I assumed that's why you were here.  We were room mates for almost two years,” Adams explained.  “Wait.  If it's not because of that, then why are you here?”

“You donated almost six million dollars to his organization three years ago,” David stated.  “I want to know what he did to deserve that sort of donation.”

“I, uh...” Adams began.

Jones interrupted him.  “I don't think I need to remind you what this is about.  Do you have any idea of the chaos this is going to cause when the changes start?  I know that you know it's possible, and more, that it's been done before.  Is that what he did?  Did he change someone for you?  Do you have some former rival stashed in here wearing skimpy lingerie?”

After a few seconds, Adams said, “It wasn't like that.”

“What wasn't like that?  So he did change someone?”  David asked.

“It was a rash decision.  I was in a very dark place at the time.  And then Omar just called up out of the blue, and we had dinner.  It was just supposed to be two old friends catching up.  But, like I said, I was in a bad place then.  I was already planning something very stupid.  So I told Omar my problems.  I had just been unjustly blamed for losing a huge account at work.  It had been Tony's fault, but I got blamed because he was the boss' nephew.  So I got fired.  After over twenty years with the company, I got fired because of something I didn't do.”

“But then, Omar made a suggestion.  It sounded crazy, but I was a little crazy then, so I agreed.   Phillip was Tony's son, his pride and joy.  So Omar suggested that we take from Tony that which he valued most,” Michael explained.

“I kidnapped him,” Michael said, his eyes staring off into space, his voice distant.  “But it didn't stop there.  Omar had developed this chemical --”

Jones interrupted, “He actually didn't.  He bought it from a kid down in West Virginia.”

“Oh. I didn't know that.  Well, anyway.  We changed the kid.  It was beyond belief, like something out of a kinky science fiction movie.  This was a big kid, an athlete, but by the time we were done, he was just tiny.  He couldn't have been much taller than five feet, and he weighed just north of a hundred pounds.  I don't know exactly how it worked – Omar explained it, but I didn't really pay attention to the details – but he changed more than what the kid looked like.”

Jones spoke up, “He changed the boy's sexual orientation, didn't he?”

“Yes.  And that kid was sex-crazed.  He absolutely loved men by the time we were done with him,” Adams explained.  “I know that what I did was inexcusable, but the kid, for his part, took it well.  It might have been the conditioning or something in the chemical, but after the year was over, he didn't really seem like he missed his former life at all.”

“That happened in most of the other cases too,” Jones said.  He knew that it was the reinforcement combined with a resignation that these poor boys couldn't really do anything to change their situations.     “Where is he now?”

“I don't know,” Adams said.  “His father, Tony, lives about two or three hours from here. That's who we sent him back to.  If anyone knows where Phillip ended up, he will.”

“And Dr. Bell?  Any clue where he might be hiding?” Jones asked.

After a second or two, Adams said, “You know, a few years ago, before all this happened, I would have told you to go to hell.  But I see that he's sick.  I've always known, I guess. The way he blamed everything on the white man.  But I liked him.  We were friends.  Now, he's just gone way too far.”  Adams looked away.  “You have something to write with?  Good.  We took Phillip to a compound in northern Africa, in the middle of the Sahara.  That's the only place I know of where Omar might be.”  And then, Adams gave him the coordinates of the compound and Tony's address.


David had two choices.  He could either pursue the lead, and find the African compound, or he could satisfy his curiosity, and go see what had happened to this Phillip Green.  Curiosity won out.

So, he got into his car, and drove north, towards Tony Green's residence.  The trip took more like six hours than a few, and it was dark well before he arrived.  He kept driving, and soon, was in the small town in which Tony lived.  It being late, he checked into a motel for the night.

As he lay in the bed, his mind wandered over the case.  This Dr. Bell had proven that he could do what he claimed, and early reports were that nearly all (if not every one) white male had displayed changes.  He pondered a world in which all white males had changed, wondering what the world would do.

He fell asleep having found no answers to his concerns.

The next morning, Jones awoke, and he knew he was slightly smaller.  His body felt different. Most people wouldn't notice such a small change (he estimated it to be about a centimeter in height and maybe a few pounds worth of muscle), but David was trained to notice the slightest details.  He dismissed it from his mind. He already knew what was coming.  There was little point in dwelling on it.

He arrived at Tony's house (or cabin, as it happened) about thirty minutes later, and knocked on the door.  A few seconds later, David identified himself as an agent of the F.B.I., and was allowed in.

Tony was an older man – probably around fifty or so – and he looked worn.  His eyes were sunken into his face, and his cheeks looked hollow.

“What can I do for you?” Tony asked his high-pitched voice raspy.

“It's about your son,” David answered.

“I --”  Tony began, then paused.  “Have you found him?”

“Let's just skip all of this,” David said.  “I know your son came back home, but that he was changed.  I even know who did it and why.  I'm just satisfying my curiosity here, trying to see how the kid has fared.”

“Oh...” Tony said.  “He's fine, last I checked.  He's living as my niece.”  Tony paused.  “Wait, you know who did this?  And why?”

“You don't?”  David asked.

“I know it was some guy named Mike, but beyond that...” he trailed off.

“Michael Adams.  He was a former coworker of yours, but was fired when he was blamed for one of your mistakes.  He took it personally, and thought that you needed to be punished,” David answered.

“Adams...I vaguely recall.  So, he did this?”  Tony asked.  “But why my son?  And is he being arrested?”

“He chose to abduct and feminize your son because, well, he figured that was the best way to hurt to whether he's being arrested.  No.  He has provided valuable information to another investigation and we've chosen not to prosecute,” Jones lied.  He had no intention of filing any reports, and so, the information as good as didn't exist.

“I see,” Tony said.  “What do you want, then?”

“Any information you might have regarding your son,” David said.

“Like I said, he's back in the city working as a secretary or something,” Tony explained.  “Beyond that, you know what was done to him, right?”

“Yes,” Jones replied.

“They sent me some pictures and  videos documenting his transformation if that would help,” Tony offered.

“Whatever you can give us,” Jones replied.


David started from the beginning.  He had returned to his hotel with a series of pictures and videos on his portable hard drive.  He had plugged them into his computer, and started with the pictures.

They depicted a tall, nude, and athletic young man posing very femininely.  The next set showed that all of his body hair was gone.  The rest of the pictures showed that his body was changing, with him losing height and body mass.  Soon, the boy had a body similar to those of the victims Jones had already seen (except this boy had no breasts).

Then, David moved onto the videos.  The first was of the naked Phillip telling his father that he was okay.  The next was of Phillip dancing.  After that was what looked like a handheld amateur video of the boy joking around, and, basically, acting girlish.  And then came the sex videos.  They started out with a black girl having sex with the boy, but it wasn't sex between a man and a woman.  It was closer to what one would expect from two lesbians.  Near the end of the video, when the girl was gone, Phillip spread his legs, and masturbated with a dildo.

The next video was similar to the last, but different.  This time, there was penetration via a double-ended dildo.  In the next one, the girl wore a strap-on dildo.  The final video was quite a long one (which David fast-forwarded through mostly, in which the boy had a threesome with two men.

When he was done, David compared one of the first series of pictures to a still taken from the last video.  The resemblance was there, certainly.  But absent breasts, and with a (small) penis, the end result looked like it could have been Phillip's sister.  Jones wondered why Tony had kept them.

Shrugging, and then closing his laptop, he turned off the light, and went to sleep.


It had been over a week since  Jones had watched the videos, and he had lost almost three inches in height, and about forty pounds, leaving him at approximately 5'7” and 150 lbs.  He had spent the time doing more research.  He found and spoke to Phillip, who proved to be quite a vapid boy.   Curiously, Phillip had not chosen to get breast implants.  The boy had echoed what the videos had hinted, and Jones found little of worth in the interview.

Then, he had set about making travel arrangements to Africa, and for transportation once he got there.  The compound being in the middle of the Sahara desert meant that careful planning was required or Jones would likely find himself dead amidst the sands.

The preparation took about three days.  The flight took another.

So, after everything was said and done, a week had passed, and Jones found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror of an African airport's restroom.  His khaki pants were held up by a tightly cinched leather belt, but it was clear to anyone who looked that David wore ill-fitting clothes.  His shirt hung loosely on his much narrower shoulders, and his pants legs were rolled up.

More than that, David's face had begun to soften.  He had been expecting it, of course, but the expecting something and seeing it happen firsthand are two very different things.  Even his eyes seemed bigger.

He gathered his case, and left the restroom, gliding through the crowd of people.  He felt slight and vulnerable, but he suppressed the feeling, though it had merit.  Soon, he had left the airport for a crowded street.  As he walked, he knew he was getting stares.  It wasn't his white skin.  It was his size and ill-fitting clothes.

After a couple of blocks, David ducked into an alley, and strode to the end.  After glancing back the way he had come, he pushed a specific brick, and it depressed.  A second later, a door opened to his right.  He stepped through, and it closed behind him.

“Greetings, Agent Jones,” a friendly voice greeted him.  It was Samir al-Qurah, an old friend.  David noticed that the man had changed little since last they had met.

“Hello, Samir,” Jones responded, and the two shook hands.  “I don't mean to rush, but we're running out of time.  I need a few things in addition to the transportation I asked for before.”

“What do you need?”  Samir asked.

“Clothes.  I'm changing Samir.  You can see that.  And it's not going to stop.  But I can't walk around looking like a kid wearing his father's clothes.  My life depends on my ability to go unnoticed, and I can't do that in these clothes,” Jones explained.  “So, I need something I can wear that looks normal.”

Samir thought for a moment, and then said, “How much do you expect to change?”

“Over the next month, I may lose up to five more inches in height and up to fifty more pounds,” Jones responded.

“We could put you in some robes.  They wouldn't pass close inspection, but it could get you through the city without much notice,” Samir said.

“Okay, that will work,” Jones agreed.


And so Jones found himself a few hours later, traversing the Sahara desert on the back of a camel in a woman's robe.  It had been the only thing that Samir could find on such short notice.

He had nearly a week of travel ahead of him, so he had packed accordingly.

Jones traveled at night, and slept during the day.  But each morning, before he pitched his tent, Jones took stock of the changes to his body.  He was steadily losing weight, he knew, but his rear-end had begun to round out, and his hips had started widening.  It wasn't pronounced, but he noticed it.

After six days, Jones arrived at the compound.  It was a huge concrete structure, and looked like it had been abandoned for years.  He eased his camel closer, and dismounted near a door.  He tried it – locked.

Jones pulled a small kit out, and picked it.  It swung open eerily.  David grabbed a flashlight from his pack, and entered the compound.

Walking through it, he knew that his first impression had been correct; it was abandoned, and had been for some time.  A thick layer of dust coated the floor.  He set about exploring it, looking for clues as to Dr. Bell's whereabouts.

He found Phillip's old bedroom, still furnished but looking all the worse for wear.  He found the dance studio.  He even found a few abandoned cells.  The kitchen was devoid of food.  And then he found Dr. Bell's office, and in it, he found a filing cabinet.

He searched through it, and found Dr. Bell's financial records.  This was neither the time nor the place.  He left them there, and returned with a large nylon sack.  He emptied the filing cabinet's contents into the sack, and then continued his search.  He found more papers and correspondence in the desk, but other than that, the room had nothing more to offer.  Nor did the rest of the compound.  He picked up the sack, and nearly tipped over from thew weight.  Remembering his now slighter figure and thus, his lessened strength, Jones resigned himself to dragging the sack from the compound.  Getting it onto the camel was a chore, but he accomplished it.

The trip back was uneventful save that he encountered a sandstorm.  He took shelter in an abandoned French fort, but it delayed him by nearly three more days.  During that time, he occupied himself by examining the papers from the compound.  He was surprised by just how many people had been involved with this Dr. Bell (though many, he knew, had no knowledge of their involvement).  But he found a few promising leads.

The storm passed, and David went on his way, arriving back at Samir's place sixteen days after he had left. Once there, he packed the papers into boxes, and told Samir to send them back to the headquarters.

“And now, I need a shower and some sleep,” Jones said.

Samir showed him where he could clean up, and once inside the bathroom, Jones stripped off his robe. The shower went on longer than he had intended (it felt quite good after the grime of travel).  Once he was out, he looked in the mirror.  His body had changed drastically since he had last looked at it.  He judged himself to be about 5'5” and no more than 110 lbs. Which meant that he had a slender, willowy body rather than the curvier bodies of the other victims of Dr. Bell.  That wasn't to say that he didn't have curves – he did.  His waist was thin, and his hips flared.  He was just more...elongated than they were.

Then there was his penis.  He had never been that large, and never had measured himself.  But now his penis was quite small at only two-inches long.

He knew the changes were nearly complete.  He could only hope that he didn't lose anymore size.


David arrived back home two days later, and went immediately to headquarters.  He was immediately greeted by Ms. Wilson, who said, “We've been waiting on you.  In the conference room.”  David nodded, and followed her.  She now stood  taller than him by quite a bit (especially in heels).

David was a little surprised when he walked into the conference room which contained Mr. Owens, Mr. Dansby, and a black man with whom he was not acquainted.  David and Ms. Wilson sat down, but David couldn't help but notice the difference in the two other white men in the room.

Mr. Owens, who was pushing sixty, had been a small man to begin with, but now he was positively tiny at 5'1” (he might have even been under five feet).  His face was blatantly feminine, and he looked like an old grandmother in a suit rather than the director of one of the most secret organizations in the world.  Mr. Dansby had shrunk as well, but he had lost only some of his heft.  If you were fat before, it seems that Dr. Bell's compound would not change that.  The effect was that Mr. Dansby looked like a plump, middle-aged woman (complete with breasts).  Even his hair had filled in.

“David,” Mr. Owens said. “Have a seat.  You know Mr. Dansby and Ms. Wilson.  The fellow down there is Frank Sikes.”  David nodded in acknowledgement.  Mr. Owens continued, “What did you find?”

Jones recounted his investigation down to the last detail.  He finished, saying, “And I intend to study those files to try to find more leads.”

Sikes spoke up, “And how are you dealing with the changes?”

“I'm managing,” Jones responded. “I can do my job, if that's what you're asking.  Is that all? Because I'd like to get back to work.”

“No,” Owens responded.  “The government has tasked us with an additional mandate.  We are supposed to soothe the transition of the affected men.  The government is scared to death of riots like those occurring down in Mexico.  As the person most familiar with what is going to happen to everyone, we thought we'd ask you your opinion.”

Jones was taken off of his guard by the question.  “Many will only require a small push, something to make it okay to go with what they're feeling. But basically, we're going to have to make these men understand that, well, we aren't really men anymore.  We're something different.  We need to make them embrace what they are.”

“How so?” Sikes asked.

“In all of the cases I've seen, it is made quite clear that the chemical changes men to the point that they become attracted to men.  That, coupled with the fact that anal sex will prove quite pleasurable for these men means that they will make natural sexual partners for, well, real men,” Jones explained.  “We just need to make sure that these men know that it's okay.  If it all possible, we should encourage it.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Jones spoke up.  “It will be difficult, but I think it's possible.  It certainly won't be as simple as what you say, but I think I have a plan.”

And so he outlined his plan.  He wanted a three-pronged strategy in which they attacked the white male's sense of masculinity, made the white male feel okay about his newly found sexual urges, and a push to separate the white males from other males.

The first would be the most difficult, and thus, the most complicated.  The agency would plant a series of articles on the internet and in various magazines with the intent of persuading these white men that they were quite different from a real man, and that they should embrace those differences.  They would have articles ranging from how a white man should dress to how he could acquire sexual partners.  In addition, Sikes assured them that they could get the fashion and entertainment industry to play along, portraying white men something quite akin to women.

The next part was trickier, and it was intertwined with the first.  Basically, they needed the pornography industry behind them.  People needed to see white men trying to have sex with women (and failing as men) and they needed to see white men as the submissive sexual partners of real men.

Finally, they would push legislation through state legislatures that made sure that men and white men would stay separate.  They would require separate bathrooms, separate dressing rooms, and separate locker rooms (in schools).  This would serve two purposes.  One, it would keep these white men from being sexually assaulted.  But more, it would let these white men know that they are attractive to real men, and thus, needed to be separated.

When they were finished brainstorming, they were about to break the meeting when Owens said, “Jones, one more thing.  If we're going to do this, we need to make sure that all government employees dress appropriately.  That means that you're going to need a new wardrobe.”

“Yes, sir,” Jones said.  And then an idea hit him.  “And we should call them bois, B-O-I-S.  It will be easier than referring to them as white males.”


A few hours later, Jones was pouring over the financial records when Ms. Wilson came in. Jones looked up.

“I just wrote this article, and I want to know if this is what you were thinking when you suggested it,” she said.  “Will you read it?”

“Sure,” he replied, and she handed him the piece of paper.

The article read as follows:

Adjustment: What Every Sissy Should Know
by Yvonne Harris

A couple of months ago, Dr. Omar Bell released a biochemical agent into the atmosphere which, over the last few months, has effectively eradicated our idea of the white male.  Gone is the masculine all-American man, and in his place is a petite (usually no taller than 5'6”) cross between a boy and a woman.  But I don't need to tell you that. Chances are that if you're reading this, you know first hand how you've changed.  The purpose of this article is meant to be informative.  I keep seeing white males (which I will, from now on, call bois) running around still trying to act like a man.  You are not.  You are a boi.  But this article is meant to address a few main issues:  comportment, sex (naughty!), and dress.  So, without further ado, here we go!

As intimated previously, the first issue I will touch on is comportment.  What does that mean, you might ask.  Well, comportment is a fancy term for how you behave, but it's more than that.  It includes everything from posture to the way you might walk.  This might seem strange that you bois might need to learn how to act differently, but, well, you look silly trying to act like a man.  Imagine a teenage girl trying to act like her daddy.  That's how strange it is to see a boi strutting around like a man.
No, bois should act differently because you are different.  I can't stress that enough.  So, a few pointers for you bois out there.  First, try to keep your back slightly arched.  It will make your rear-end look just absolutely darling.  Second, try to sway your hips a little.  Men like that (more on that later).  Third, don't be afraid to do aerobic.  You need to keep your figure.  A fat boi is a lonely boi.  I recommend stripperaerobics, but anything will do.  But the most important tip I can give you is this:  watch women and imitate them.  You are far closer to one of them (with quite similar sexual goals, I might add – again, more on that later), and they've been doing it for a lot longer than you have.  Watch us, bois, and learn!

The second thing we need to talk about is dress.  Most of you have probably noticed that none of your clothes even remotely fit anymore (unless you were one scrawny boy to begin with).  So, you will need to buy a whole new wardrobe.  Most department stores have opened a new section aimed directly at bois, so that's a good place to start.  But if you're on a budget, don't be afraid to borrow from a girlfriend, wife, or a sister if they're close to your size.

A few things to note, though.  I'll start with undergarments. Bois wear panties.  Yes.  Not briefs.  Not boxers.  Panties.  Your shape dictates that you wear them.  Learn to love it.  I myself just love wearing a new, sexy pair of panties.  They just make me feel so confident!  Some bois have fully embraced their femininity and started wearing bras.  I applaud your adaptability, but I am of the humble opinion that bois shouldn't wear them.  They don't, after all, have breasts (yet!  Who knows what that crazy Dr. Bell did?).  But you aren't girls.  You are bois.  Bois don't have breasts, so have no need for bras.

As for outerwear, it is appropriate for a boi to wear basically anything a girl might wear.  Everything from skirts to jeans to blouses and dresses.  If you think you look good, then wear it.  But be advised: you will look silly in male clothes (if you can find some that even remotely fit right).  You'll never get a man like that.  No, stick to the women's or bois (or even the juniors section).

Finally, I want to talk a little bit about sex.  If you are offended by it, just quit reading now.

Okay, still with me?  Good.  You bois may have noticed a certain lack of size in the genitals department.  Many of you may have been embarrassed by this development.  Don't be!  It's perfectly natural for a boi to have a small penis.  Recent studies have shown that the average white male's penis is now around an inch and a half long when flaccid, but it's not uncommon for them to be even smaller (My husband's is actually less than an inch long.  It's just as cute as can be!).  Don't worry bois, those things aren't terribly important anymore, and I'll tell you why.

You may have noticed that your anus is quite a bit more sensitive than it was before.  That is by design.  Think of it as your new sex organ.  Women have vaginas.  Men have their penises.  And bois have their anuses.  Don't be afraid to try it out, take that thing out for a spin, if you will.  Borrow your girlfriend's vibrator (or your sister's if you're comfortable asking for it) and go to town!  You'll soon find that it's “just heavenly” (my husband's words).

Now comes what will be the biggest change to your life.  You've probably already guessed it.  But bois belong with men.  It is simple science.  Bois emit almost identical pheromones to that of women, and studies have shown that they respond similarly to women when exposed to male pheromones.  What does that mean?  Sorry bois, but you are attracted to men now. More, though, men will be attracted to you.  Resist that attraction if you want, but it's natural.  Couple that with the fact that they have the equipment to please you, and you'll see why man/boi relationships have risen by 400% since Dr. Bell released his concoction on the world.

A lot of bois will refuse to accept that being heterosexual means that they prefer men.  This means that these bois will basically become lesbians.  Or at least for all practical purposes, they will.  Most of these women married (or were girlfriends ) to men.  That in mind, I suggest you take a trip to your local “adult” store and browse for something, ah...penetrative.  You're both going to get urges, so it's best to have something on hand that might satisfy you.

I suspect that many of you reading this are still in denial.  Time for some tough love.  Look in the mirror, honey.  What do you see?  Is that a man?  Certainly not.  Is it a woman?  Nope.  That is a boi staring back at you.  Time to start acting the part.

Now, you may need counseling, and that's fine.  The government has set up counseling centers around the country for just such a need.  Go there.  Learn to accept the new you.  I hope that this article has helped you.  Thanks, and see you next week when we examine just what your panties say about you as a person.

Jones looked up, and said, “That's...perfect, Ms. Wilson.”

She smiled, and said, “You can call me Kim you know.”

“You seem to have given this a lot of thought,” Jones noted.    Kim shrugged.  “Maybe you can help me, then.”

“With what?” Kim asked.

“Owens said that I need a new wardrobe.  I can't disagree. None of my clothes fit anymore,” Jones responded.  “I was just wondering if you might help me acquire some new clothes.”

Kim smiled even more broadly, “Of course, honey.  When?”

Jones shrugged.  “Now? I need a break anyway.”

“Well, first things first.  We need to measure you.  Do you think you've stopped changing?”  Kim asked.

“I think so,” Jones said.  “But I can't be sure.  The other cases stopped changing after about a month.”

“Do you want to do it here?” Kim asked.

“Here is as good a place as any,” Jones responded.  Kim disappeared out the door, and returned a few minutes later.

And so she started measuring David.  His waist measured twenty-one and a half inches, and his hips were thirty-five inches. She measured his inseam, his arms, and around his chest, writing down his measurements.

Then, they left.


The two arrived at the mall a little while later, and Kim dragged him towards the lingerie section of a department store.  He was content to let her have free reign, so she picked out myriad panties for him in all sorts of styles.  Then, they bought some business suits (skirted, of course), some jeans, a few pairs of shorts, and some tops.  They even bought a few dresses and skirts, some new shoes, and some stockings.

As they moved through the store, Jones noticed other bois shamefully browsing through women's jeans  and tee-shirts, usually accompanied by a woman.  The bois were obviously uncomfortable, but they were there.  That's what was important.  They had already started to accept their difference, and it was only a matter of time before their plan pushed them over the edge into fully embracing it.

Kim wanted to make sure the clothes fit, so they stopped by at David's apartment before returning to headquarters.  He tried on each outfit, and was surprised at how well they fit.  Sure, the jeans and shorts were tighter than  he was used to, but it wasn't uncomfortable.  That's just how they were cut.  As for the skirts and dresses – those were strange.  He felt somewhat vulnerable in them.

“You're going to have to learn to walk in heels, you know,” Kim said as he padded into the living room wearing one of the suits.  Underneath, he wore panties, a garter belt, and stockings.  “It will look strange if you're wearing those skirts without heels.”

“I think I'll just wear a pair of jeans back to the office.  I don't think I'm quite ready for a skirt yet,” Jones said.

“I don't know.  You looked pretty good to me,” Kim replied, smiling.

Jones smiled back, and then disappeared into his room.  He stripped off his clothes, and then his lingerie, and was about to pull on a pink thong when Kim knocked on the door.  Trying to embrace his new role, he slipped on his panties, and said, “Come in.”

“I --” she stopped mid-sentence as she looked David up and down.  “I didn't realize you were so...”

“Girlish?” Jones asked.

“Beautiful,” Kim responded.  “I took your measurements,”

“Thanks, I guess,” David said.

After a second, she blurted out, “Is it really as tiny as they all say?”

“What?” Jones asked, knowing full well what she was talking about.

“Your...thing,” she said, pointing to his crotch.

Jones pulled down his panties.

“Oh my gosh.  It is so cute!” Kim said.  “Oh, I'm so sorry.  I said that before I thought about it.”

“It's fine,” Jones replied, puling his panties back up.  “I should probably get used to that reaction anyway.  Besides, according to your article, it's perfectly natural, right?” Jones smiled.


David went back to work that day, and tried to concentrate on his examination of the documents.  But he couldn't get his mind off of the other events of the day.  They were really going to encourage the white male to let go of his masculinity, and to embrace his attraction to men.  He couldn't help but wonder if what they were doing was wrong, even though he thoroughly believed in its necessity.  Even when he could let that thought slip from his head, he was acutely aware of his attire.  It wasn't that it was uncomfortable.  It was more along the lines that he didn't like the attention that it got him.  So, he stayed in his little office most of the time.

Days went by, and slowly, David began to build a profile of Dr. Bell's finances.  After three weeks, he was done.  It was another month before David found Dr. Bell's whereabouts.  The doctor had bought a huge luxury yacht, and through some contacts, David had found that Dr. Bell was using it as his mobile base of operations.  That opened up a host of difficulties, first among them that the doctor could be basically anywhere at any given time.  His contacts told him that the doctor often would go months without resurfacing.

In the meantime, their plan was working.  Boi was now an accepted term to describe a white male.  And those bois routinely wore extremely feminine clothing.  Further, it was quickly becoming commonplace for bois to be seen on the arms of men (usually black, though members of some other races had escaped the effects of the compound).  And, most of all, they were calm.  There had only been a few protests.   David didn't think that they knew what they were protesting, those bois, but protest they did.

As for his personal dress, he embraced it like any other project in his life. He learned to walk in high heels within a week of buying his first pair, and was, by now, used to wearing his new clothes.  He had even gone out and bought some more of his own.

But he had a problem.  He had assumed that people had been staring at him because he was a boi dressed like a girl (a rarity when he started), but the stares did not stop as other bois began dressing similarly.  No, they were staring because of the way he looked.

David had always taken his nondescript looks for granted.  It was his biggest asset in the field.  He was unused to admiring stares (from anyone, much less men).  He didn't really like being noticed, but that didn't stop it from happening.  More than once, he had been hit on by men, and had learned how to politely refuse.

Time went on, and things settled into a rhythm.  He continued to wait for more information.  Dr. Bell briefly reappeared about a year after he first released the compound, but quickly disappeared before he could be taken into custody.  But David was patient.  He watched and he waited.

At the fourteen month mark, David contacted one of his contacts who told him that Dr. Bell would come to his city every 2-4 months, and resupply.  In addition, the doctor would abscond to a local club to pick up his harem for the week.  Apparently Dr. Bell was quite active, sexually, and he was willing to pay girls (or bois) quite handsomely to live on his yacht for a time.  He had no shortage of attractive mates.

That was the break David had been waiting for.  He knew where Dr. Bell was going to be.  He simply had to go there and wait.  Eventually the doctor would show up.  He decided to go to Owens with the new information.


“So you want to go there and catch him?” Owens asked.  “To what purpose?”

“To take him into custody and make him create a cure,” David responded.

“He won't do that,” Sikes said.  “He'd rather rot in prison than give that up.”

“No, it has to be something else,” Owens said.  “It's a long shot, but we need to get someone on that boat.  It's likely he keeps his work on board.  He might even keep a sample of the compound's source.  With that, we might be able to reverse engineer a cure.”
“If that was possible, couldn't you have done that with what he released into the air?” Jones asked.

“No,” answered Kim.  “It had degenerated too much by that point.”

“So, what's the plan?” Sikes asked.

“Isn't it obvious?” Jones replied.  “The yacht only has one real weak spot – the girls and bois he brings on board.  We're going to have to sneak someone in.”

“But who?” Owens asked.  “A female agent?”

“No,” Jones replied.  “Me.”

“But --” Owens began to protest.

“My contact says he takes at least two or three bois on board each time,” Jones said.  “And, modesty aside, I know how I look.  I can do this.”

Kim said, “Not without training, you can't.  You're beautiful.  You know that.  But you don't move like you should.  You don't act like you should.  You need to let go of your inhibitions and become a real boi, rather than just dressing like one.”

“So, I need a crash course in boihood, I guess,” Jones answered.  “You seem to know a lot about it.  Teach me, then.”


So, David arrived at Kim's apartment later that day.  She answered the door, and allowed him in.

“So, where do we start?” David asked.

“First, you have to agree to do what I say when I say it.  This is quick, and it's going to be dirty, so we don't need to hear your objections,” Kim said.

“Okay,” David answered.

“Strip,” Kim said.  David reluctantly obeyed.  He stood there naked while she circled.  “You have a good start.  But you need to stand with your back slightly arched. Make it feel like you're poking your ass out.  Good.  Later, I'm taking you to a ballet studio.  Nothing builds grace like ballet.  After that, we're going to hit the town.  But I want you to constantly keep your back arched like that.  It should be your default posture.” She stopped in front of him, and asked, “Are you a virgin?”

“No,” David said defiantly.  “I lost my virginity when I was --”

“I'm not talking about that.  I'm talking about whether or not you've been fucked in the ass yet,” Kim said.

“I have not.”

“We're going to have to fix that,” Kim said.

“I --”

“No arguments.  You are a boi.  Bois like men.  Bois want to get fucked by men,” Kim said.  “If you can't think like that, you may as well not even try this mission.”

Later, Kim took him to a ballet studio, just like she had said.  David wore a pink leotard while the ballet teacher gave him his lesson.  It was harder than he had expected, but he got through it okay.  Kim took him back to her apartment, and said, “I know you don't have any appropriate clothes, so we're going to put you in some of mine.”

“Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

Kim picked out a light purple skirt (which was scandalously short), some white thigh-high stockings, and a tight white tee-shirt which didn't come down to his navel.  The tee-shirt had the word “Hottie” written across the front.

David felt ridiculous when he put the clothes on.  Then, Kim showed him how to do his makeup (with special attention given tot he eyeliner) and short hair.

“Lots of bois have short hair, so that's not a problem,” Kim explained.

When Kim deemed him ready, the two left.


They stood outside of a club named Universe for a few moments.  David had enough time to read the words “100% All American Beef” before Kim dragged him inside.  He was speechless as he took in the scene.

On the stages were muscular men in various stages of undress.  Most were black, but there were a couple of Latinos and even one oriental man.  Some were halfway through routines, and thus, wore parts of their costumes.  Some only wore g-string bikinis which barely contained their manhood.  And still others wore absolutely nothing, their large cocks flopping around as they danced.

And then there were the customers; they were a mix of bois and women of all ages and shapes.  Not all bois had been as lucky as David.  There were fat bois, ugly bois, and pretty bois.  Young, middle aged, and downright old, they all were eager customers, throwing dollars at or stuffing the same into the beefy strippers' g-strings.

David was aware of the recent boom in male strip clubs, but only as a statistic in the back of his mind.  He hadn't really thought of them as such visceral places.  Clubs aimed at men still outnumbered them by quite a bit, but the gap had closed by quite a bit.  It only made sense.  There were quite a few more customers now, and the market had reacted in kind.

“What are we doing here?” David asked Kim as they sat down near a stage.

“You have to get used to it, David.  You will be in close contact with real men when you're posing as a club boi during the mission.  You can't act like you're acting now, so reserved.  Like I said, you can't be inhibited.  You have to embrace your boihood,” Kim explained over the thumping music.

“So I have to act like a slut?  Not all bois do, you know.  Most just went about living their lives like before, and --”  Kim interrupted him.

“But you're not posing as one of them,” Kim said.  “You are going to be the type of boi who will accept money to be the sexual partner of a rich man.  So, become that person,”  she finished.

With that on his mind, David sat watching the dancer nearest him.  He started off his routine dressed like a cowboy, gradually removing layers until all he wore were a pair of chaps.  His big, black cock danced as the stripper moved.  To his dismay, David felt his small penis harden.  He even brought himself to contribute a few dollars to the man's take.

“I'll be right back,” Kim said, and she disappeared into the crowd.  David sat uncomfortably.

A few seconds later, Kim returned, and took his hand.  Hers was bigger than his.  She said, “Come with me.”

She led him towards  a back room.  A bouncer pulled the curtain back, letting them through.  She sat David down in a chair, and David asked, “What are we doing?” He knew what was about to happen.

A shirtless man walked in, his muscles bulging.

“This is my boifriend,” Kim said, gesturing to David.  “Give him a good time, will you.”  And then she walked through the curtains.

Then, the man started dancing, stripping off first his pants, and then the g-string he wore underneath.  He rubbed his cock on David, and flopped the big thing around in his face.

“You can touch it, you know,” the stripper said.  “You don't have to just sit there.”  The man turned, putting his rear in David's face.

Committing himself to his role, David reached out a tentative hand, and gently stroked the man's muscular ass.  It was like granite.  “There you go.  Loosen up,” he coaxed.

And David did.  He was horny, but David had made a habit of controlling his baser instincts.  Everything was cold, calculated, and buried deep inside.  Even as a man, he had rarely let himself free.  Sure, he had had many sexual partners, but it was usually only for sexual release.  He felt attraction.  He felt arousal, but it was always in the back of his mind.

Now, though, it was different.  He had let his desires reach the forefront.  In fact, he had pulled them out.  He had forced himself to feel his arousal.  It was like opening a floodgate.

Soon, his hands were all over the muscular stripper.  He felt the man's rigid abdominal muscles.  David stroked his shapely pectorals.  He ran his hands down the stripper's big, strong arms.  Finally, he touched the man's semi-hard member.  It was softer than he had expected.  He wrapped his dainty hand around the big, black cock.  His hand could barely fit around the thing.  It responded to his touch by growing slightly harder.

Then, David started to stroke it.  He went slowly, enjoying the cock's feel in his hand.  It grew harder until it was fully erect.  Without thought, and almost on instinct, David bent his head, and licked it.  Embarrassed, he drew his head back, and said, “Oh, I'm sorry.  I don't --”

“It's okay, baby.  Do what you want. It's your dime,” the stripper said with a smile.  “If you want to lick it, go ahead.”

David gave a sheepish smile, and bent back down to taste the cock.  He only licked at first, with one hand playing with the man's heavy balls while the other felt his muscular torso.  After a few minutes, though, he started to take the head into his mouth.  It hardly fit, but he was determined (and quite horny), so he persevered.  It wasn't long before he was sucking it, his head bobbing up and down.  And so went his first blowjob.  It was quick.  It was dirty.  And it was sloppy, but he got the job done.  The stripper came in David's mouth.  It was salty.

He spit it out on the floor after the stripper stepped back.

“I had you pegged for a swallower,” the stripper said, and then shrugged.  “Come back anytime.”  And then he pulled his g-string on, and walked away.


“You did a great job tonight, David,” Kim said on the way back to her apartment.  “I thought it would take you a few more days to get past any sexual blocks you might have, but you surprised me.  You need to work on your technique of course, but it's a great start.”

They had stayed for a few more hours at the strip club, and David had to admit that he quite enjoyed himself.  He knew that it was merely his mind reacting to the men's pheromones, but he was attracted to them.  He couldn't deny it.  He knew that his mind would learn to associate the sight of a male body with attraction, and he would begin to (or he already had begun to) find them attractive even without the pheromones (in pictures, from afar, etc.).  He knew all of that, but knowing doesn't mean being able to help it.

“You'll be staying with me for the duration of this training,” Kim said.  As she parked her car outside of her apartment building.  “You will spend the entirety of your time in the apartment naked.  We can't have that pesky self-consciousness poke its nasty head out again, can we?  You must get used to your body and people's reactions to it.”

And so it went for nearly two weeks. David spent the majority of each day either in ballet or practicing his boi-ish comportment.  At night, Kim took him to various clubs.  Some were strip clubs like that the one to which she had taken him on the first night, but others were more traditional dance clubs.  Once David had decided to commit himself to the role, everything started clicking in place.  Part of it, he knew, was his mind subconsciously trying to adjust to his new place, but he also consciously pushed himself to become the boi Kim wanted him to be.

Though he found himself acting the part of a club boi, David refused all sexual advances (of which, there were many).  After his first real intimate encounter with a man, David was afraid.  His emotional release frightened him more even than the changes to his body had.  He knew it was coming.  He knew that he would have to experience sex with a man before he put himself in the field.  But he delayed it as best he could.

And then, on the last night before their allotted training time was up, Kim and David were driving from one club to another when Kim broached the subject.

“You're going to have to do it, you know,” Kim said.  David looked at her as if he didn't know to what she was referring.  “With a man.  It's a big part of really becoming a boi.  You know that.  I was hoping you'd do it on your own, but I guess not.  I know this is hard for you David.  We can do it together if you want.  Maybe that will make it feel less...real.”

David was a little surprised by her openness.  But Kim had it all wrong.  He didn't so much mind the idea of sex with a man.  It was the way he might react that he was afraid of.  He didn't want to lose control.  In the end, though, he agreed.  Kim seemed almost excited.

It didn't take the two long to pick up a man once they had arrived at the club.  They were, after all, both quite beautiful.  Not many men will turn down a chance at a threesome with two eager, sexy, and gorgeous sexual partners.


Kim and David arrived back at her apartment later that night, leading a tall, strong black man into the domicile.  The three were naked and kissing one another in a matter of minutes.  David pushed his inhibitions to the back of his mind, and participated with gusto.

The kissing quickly turned into the boi and woman kneeling in front of the black man.  David took the cock first, and Kim smiled as David sucked it.  He had come so far.  They alternated between one sucking, the other kissing and licking his balls, switching every so often.  A few minutes passed, and the man was ready.

Kim guided David onto his back, and spread his legs wide.  His little cock was rigid (and a full three inches long!).  The man climbed on top of David, and without preamble, entered him.  It was crude, but the man plunged in, filling David's virgin ass.  David cried out in pain.  The man was huge.  After a few thrusts, the pain turned to pleasure as he worked in and out of David's asshole.

They fucked like that for a few minutes, but it was over quicker than David would have liked.  Then, it was Kim's turn.  She was fucked doggystyle while David licked, and sucked her breasts.

They took turns getting fucked for a while longer, but soon, the man ran low on stamina, and left.  He left his number.  David, however, was satisfied.  Still horny, but satisfied.

The next day, while lying in bed next to Kim (they had continued to fool around after the man had left), David knew why Kim had insisted on his having sex with a man.  His entire outlook on life had changed.  It didn't feel shameful (as he expected it to) or sleazy.  It felt right.  It was strange, but he thought back to Kim's faked article.  He was a boi.  Boi's belong with men.  How true that statement was, even though Kim had not known it at the time.


David and Kim entered the headquarters that day, and all eyes were on them.  Or maybe all eyes were on David.  They had a meeting with Owens, Sikes, and Dansby, so the two quickly found their way to the conference room.

Inside, Owens looked better than he had before. David pondered it until he realized that the old boi was wearing makeup.  Dansby was still fat, but he had lost a little weight.  He also wore makeup.  The effect was a slightly matronly look on the middle-aged boi.

When David walked in after Kim, the effect was immediate.  He had chosen to wear a mini-skirted business suit, and he knew he looked amazing.

“Wow,” Dansby said.  “The change is --”

“Remarkable,” Owens finished.  “You two have done a fantastic job.  I can't quite put my finger on what exactly has changed, but...I know you're posture is different, and you seem more graceful, but there's more to it than that.”

“Thank you,” Kim and David said in unison, smiling.

“I admit I was skeptical before,” Sikes said. “But now, you have my full support.”

“I have to ask, though,” Owens said.  “Do we really want to do this?”

“What do you mean?” Dansby asked.

“Do we want things to go back to the way they were?  Hear me out.  The boihood campaign has been a resounding success.  We haven't had many issues with violence against these bois, unless you include a few domestic disturbances between women and bois. Black women, in particular have become quite aggressive when protecting what they deem to be their territory – black men.  But violence overall is down by almost thirty percent in this country.  Crime in various inner cities is down by almost forty percent.  This sort of decrease is unprecedented,” Owens explained.  “Statisticians have credited the drop to a new demand for black men in more physically demanding jobs once occupied by white men.  Most professional bois have landed on their feet, and moved on with their lives.  Bois with skills have also retained their jobs.  But many labor jobs, mostly in construction, have fallen to black men.”

“So what are you saying?” Jones asked.  “That we should just leave it as is, and see where that takes us?”

“I'm saying that we should think about it,” Owens responded.  “Our economy is actually growing.  Crime is down to unprecedented lows.  Sure, it took a period of adjustment, but the country is doing better now than it has in decades.”

“But what about the bois who haven't adjusted,” Jones responded.  “They're out there, you know.  Just because your statistics don't say anything about them doesn't mean they don't exist.  They're living their lives the best they can, but they know that they're not who they should be.  Nobody wants to hear about them, so they just get ignored.  Nobody wants to see a story about a sad, depressed boy who shuts himself up in his house, only to rarely venture outside, much less accept what he has become.  Should we just say to hell with them because we want a low crime rate?”

“I'm only saying that we need to look at the big picture here,” Owens responded.

“We need to get this cure,” Kim said.  “These people need to have the choice to live their lives the way they want to.”

“I agree,” Sikes said.

“Dansby?” Owens said.  “Do you have an opinion?”

“I'm happy with the way I am,” Dansby replied.  “But I know a few bois who aren't.  They shouldn't have to live their lives as something they know in their hearts they aren't.  I say we go ahead with the mission.  If we get the compound and develop a cure, great.  If we don't, at least we tried.”

“I suppose I'm overruled, then,” Owens said.  “Let's get down to the details then.”

And the four people began to plan.


David stood in front of his closet for close to an hour, trying to decide what to wear.  Butterflies danced in his tummy as he thought about the upcoming night.  The plan was simple.  He would pose as a club boi looking for a good time.  Rationally, he knew that it was unlikely that Bell would come into the club on that particular night, but he couldn't help but imagine how it might be if he did.  He shook himself from his idle thoughts.  It was starting to get late.

In the time he had been trying to decide what to wear, he had only chosen his panties – a hot pink thong.  After a while, he chose a matching dress.  It was quite short, and loose with an elastic band around the bottom.  On top, it was flimsy and nearly see-through.  He slipped it on, and looked in the mirror.

Satisfied with his look, he put on a pair of strappy heels, and left the hotel.  It had been decided that David would undertake this mission alone.  Kim had volunteered to accompany him, but she lacked the training necessary to keep herself out of danger.  David smiled as he felt eyes on him as he walked down the street (his hotel was only a couple of blocks away from the club).  He had chosen his attire well.

The club was quite large, and was named simply Mist.  David's contact had said that Mist was the only club Dr. Bell ever visited when he was in town.  The doorman let David skip the line, and he sauntered in.

That night was a bust.  David danced all night, but Dr. Bell didn't show.  He politely rebuffed a few would-be suitors, but did allow some to buy  him drinks.  He danced with quite a few, and quite suggestively.

He went back to his hotel disappointed.  David knew that it had been silly to get his hopes up, but that didn't detract from his foul mood as he lay down for bed.

The days passed, and each night, David went to the club.  He had been avoiding it (David still wasn't comfortable with one-night stands), but he knew that he had to look to his reputation.  A beautiful, sexy club boi who showed up every night, but never went home with anyone drew suspicion.  So, every few nights, David went home with a stranger.  He chose only successful looking men with which to copulate; he had a reputation to develop after all.

As the days passed into weeks, and weeks into more than a month, David began to realize that the stereotypes about black men were completely without merit.  He saw all manner of penises: small, big, short, long – they varied so much.  The men themselves were quite different as well.  There were a few shy ones, a couple of really dominant ones.  David encountered a a sweet, sentimental man or two, and even, once an older man who couldn't get it up.  No, David decided, black men were just men like any other.

David tried to stay cold and calculated beneath his party boi facade, but it was difficult.  If one plays the part too long, soon, that act becomes a part of reality.  With each night in the club spent flirting  and dancing with men, and with every sexual partner, David lost more and more of his ability to stay separate from his club boi alter ego.

After a month, he had simply let go.  He still kept his goals in his mind, and he still noticed nearly everything.  But his propensity to stick to the shadows and try not to be noticed was gone, probably never to be seen again.  David had become something else, something more than he had been before.  Where once he had been content to watch from afar, now he just inserted himself into a situation, and hid in plain sight.

Another month passed, and David had fallen into his new life completely.  He had even made a few friends, all of which called him Davy, and most of the regulars at the club knew him on sight.  But they knew him as a somewhat flighty, extremely sexual, and fun-loving party boi.

After three months, Davy's patience paid off.  He was dancing on the floor when a middle-aged black man walked in.  Davy immediately recognized him as Dr. Bell.  He was bald with a black goatee shot with gray.  Accompanying him was a huge man who Davy assumed was Bell's bodyguard.


Dr. Bell walked into the club feeling quite good about himself.  Though he liked life on the yacht, he was glad to be back on land, even if it was only for a brief visit.  The constant back and forth of the waves, while pleasant most of the time, would get on his nerves from time to time.  And so, he looked forward to his nights on shore.

But a simple love of being on firm ground was not the only reason for Dr. Bell's excitement.  In fact, it wasn't even the biggest.  No, Dr. Bell was eager to replace his current bevvy of beautiful bois and girls.  He was a man of great appetite, and he quickly tired of the half dozen members of his harem.  So, he looked forward to replacing them with a new batch every few months.  Bois or girls, it mattered little.  So long as they were beautiful, Dr. Bell saw little difference.

As he walked through the club, the owner directed him to the VIP room.  After he sat down, he turned to his bodyguard,  and said, “Go find me some new friends, Clarence.”  Clarence had impeccable taste, which applied for two reasons.  One, he was extremely loyal to his employer.  They had been through a lot together; Clarence had been with him since the beginning.  Two, Clarence enjoyed the ministrations of his choices almost as much as his boss.

And then Dr. Bell saw him.  He was tall for a boi – probably 5'5” or 5'6” and had the body of a runway model.  Slim, with willowy limbs, the boi danced seductively along to the music.  His short hair was artfully disheveled.  Dr. Bell got Clarence's attention, and said, “Make sure to bring that one.”


Davy knew that Dr. Bell had noticed him.  He had seen the doctor watching him from the balcony VIP section.  A few minutes later, the big bodyguard came to collect him.  Showtime.

Davy, along with a few other bois and women, was led up to the VIP section.  Davy put on the best show he possibly could, alternately teasing Dr. Bell, dancing suggestively, and even kissing and dancing with the other girls and bois.

Davy was delighted to notice that Dr. Bell's eyes rarely left him.  The night wore on, and soon, the club began to empty.  Before the night was through, Clarence pulled Davy aside, and said, “Dr. Bell has taken a liking to you, boi, and he wishes for you to accompany him on his yacht for a few months.  You will be compensated for your time.”

Davy feigned speechlessness, but Clarence continued, “Is this agreeable to you? Everything will be provided for you, your every want and need satisfied.”  Davy nodded.

“Good.  The yacht is moored at the address on the card,” Clarence handed him the card.  “Be there tomorrow morning at 9 am.”

And with that, Clarence stepped away, walked to one of the other companions, and presumably extended the same invitation.

Davy could hardly contain his excitement.  He was in. A few minutes later, Dr. Bell walked up to where he was dancing, and took his hand, kissing it.  “Until tomorrow then, my lovely.”  Then he was gone.


Davy lounged naked on the deck next to two girls and another boi, each quite striking.  But he knew (and felt pride in the fact) he was the most beautiful.  It had been a whirlwind of a day.  Davy had arrived at the dock a little before nine that morning.  He had chosen to wear a cute, short pair of denim shorts, and a tank top which revealed quite a bit of midriff.

He had been escorted onto the sleek yacht (Davy estimated that it was close to 90 feet long), which had multiple stories, a helicopter pad, a jacuzzi, and a small saltwater pool.  Davy  knew that it cost upwards of one-hundred million dollars.  After a short tour of the massive boat, he was shown where he would be sleeping -  it was a huge room which took up nearly an entire level.  He would be sharing that room with the others (two bois and four women, besides himself), but there was ample room.

“Dr. Bell likes the idea of you all sleeping in the same bed, but do not feel that you are required to do so,” Clarence had told them.  “Other arrangements can be made.”

None of them wanted to displease their benefactor, so they all agreed that one bed was perfect.  As it turned out, the bed was absolutely enormous, and had plenty of room for them all.  There were two bathrooms, and a hot tub dedicated to their use as well.  Dr. Bell, it seemed, wanted his harem to want for nothing.

Davy's mission was simple, but, at the same time, quite complicated.  He was to find out whether the doctor kept a sample of his compound on board (most intelligence suggested that he did), find a way to retrieve it, and steal it.  In addition, he was to collect as much of the doctor's research as possible, and get it off the yacht.  Simple.  But even the best circumstance meant that he would be spending up to 4 months as the harem boi of a known terrorist.  That, however, was better than the alternative – getting caught and killed.

And so, he stayed in character.  It wasn't difficult, as he had been Davy for the last few months anyway.      That first day set the tone for his entire stay.  For most of the day, he lay near the pool, sunbathing naked with the others.  From time to time, one of the crew would happen by, and stare at the beautiful bois and women before going about their business.

Inevitably, they talked about their lives.  One of the bois (a blonde named Percy) had been a construction worker before the change.  The other boi was a brunette named Eric who was a college student majoring in philosophy.  The women's names were Amy, Ingrid (a Swede), and Betty.  Amy was a short, curvy brunette (an exotic dancer by profession), Ingrid was an aspiring model, and Betty was a housewife whose marriage had recently been dissolved by the state.

Introductions were barely through when Clarence came before them.

He pointed to Davy.  “You,” he said.  “Dr. Bell wishes your company.”

Davy rose languidly, and took note of the Clarence's stare.  The big man led him into the first floor of the yacht, and then into an elevator, which rose all the way to the top.  The door opened to opulence.  A crystal chandelier sparkled as it swayed with the gentle rocking of the waves.  Everywhere, there was dark, polished wood.  Expensive looking art (Davy had never been much of an art admirer himself0 hung on the walls, and oriental rugs decorated the floors. The furniture looked somewhat uncomfortable but very nice.  In the back of the room were a pair of staircases, which went in opposite directions, leading up to a balcony, on which rested a four-poster, king-sized bed.  Dr. Bell stood on the balcony, looking at them as they approached.  He only wore a bathrobe, and a pair of silk boxer shorts.

“Ah, my lovely,” Dr. Bell said.  “Let's get acquainted, you and I.”  Davy mounted the steps, his little cock bouncing.  When Davy stood in front of him, he said, “Let's get a good look at you, then.”  He twirled his finger, indicating that Davy should turn a circle.

“I did that to you, you know,” Dr. Bell said, as Davy turned.  “I made you what you are today.”

“I know,” Davy responded.  “Thank you.”

“What did you do before the change?” Bell asked.

“I was – I still am a school teacher,” Davy lied. “Ninth grade english.”

“Is that so?  Why are you not in class as we speak teaching pubescent teenagers about nouns and prepositions, then?”  Bell asked.

“I took a year off to acclimate myself to the, ah, changes,” Davy continued the lie.  He and Kim had come up with the story.

“And how is that going?  Are you acclimated?” Bell smiled as he stepped closer to Davy.

“Yes, sir,” Davy answered.  His face was mere inches from Bell's.

“Show me,” Bell commanded.  And they kissed.  Davy thanked his training (both before the mission had begun and the months leading up to his boarding the yacht).  Without it, he surely would have pulled away disgusted by the terrorist.

But his training held true, and he kissed back.  After a few seconds, Davy broke away, and started working down Dr. Bell's neck, planting little kisses along the way.  Then, he moved down the black man's chest, running his fingers through Bell's graying chest hair.  Davy couldn't help thinking that Bell could use a little less lounging, and a little more physical activity as he kissed along his slightly chubby torso.

Davy flowed down to his knees, and hooked his fingers under the waistband of Bell's boxers.  Then, he pulled them down, revealing the man's penis.  It wasn't tiny, but it was a long way from big.  Davy judged it to be a little smaller than average.  He started kissing it, and it grew hard at his ministrations.  Dr. Bell rested his hand on Davy's head, but Davy wasn't going to rush it.  He knew that the teasing would make it that much better when he took the cock in his mouth.  He licked it for a couple of minutes, briefly wrapping his lips around the head every so often.  And then he started to suck.  Davy had learned a lot in the months as a party boi, and he was quite a skilled cocksucker.

“Get on the bed,” Bell instructed after a few minutes. “I want to fuck that sweet little ass of yours.  No, on all fours.  Yeah, like that.”  Bell climbed onto the bed behind him.  His cock slipped in easily, and he started fucking.  He had little skill, and less stamina.  He just rammed it in there over and over again.  Even so, it wasn't devoid of all pleasure for Davy (He didn't orgasm, but instead faked it).  It was over after only a couple of minutes.

Still panting, and lying on the bed next to Davy, Dr. Bell said, “You can go now.”


And so it went for the next couple of weeks.  Sometimes Dr. Bell only wanted one of them (though Davy noted that he was picked more often than the others).  Other times, Bell wanted two, three, or even all of them.  He particularly liked to watch the bois lick and finger one another.

As for his mission, Davy dared not try anything so early in the trip.  He knew they were watching him.  So, he continued to play his part, mentally marking every detail of the yacht.  He even figured out the most likely place for Dr. Bell's lab, workshop, or office (wherever the man did his work).  It was a  below deck, and Davy had caught glimpse of it one day when he was being escorted to Dr. Bell's quarters.  Two armed guards stood in front of it, and it had a keypad near the knob.

One day, he and the other bois and girls were sitting on the bed (naked, of course – they rarely wore clothes, and when they did, it was usually just lingerie) talking when an interesting subject actually came up.

“Let's say that an antagonist of a story is racist,” Eric said.  “Does that make the story itself racist?”

“Of course not,” Davy replied.

“No, let me finish.  Let's say that the entire story is based on a racist act.  For instance, let's fictionalize the situation we're in, just for the sake of argument,” Eric said.  “Now, in each of our stories, we're the protagonist.  We're the hero.  So who is the villain?”

“Dr. Bell,” Amy piped in.

“Right,” Eric said. “He unleashed this compound on the world for blatantly racist reasons.  Let's say someone wrote a story about that – does that make the author, or the story itself racist?”

“I wouldn't think so,” Davy said.  “I mean, if Dr. Bell is the villain, doesn't that mean that the story doesn't really condone what he's doing?”

“Exactly,” Eric replied.  “Now, let's say that the story turns out like ours – we're obviously all happy with the changes, right?  Does that change the fact that Dr. Bell is the villain, and that his racist actions are, at the very least, crazy and wrong?”

“Of course not,” Davy said.  “Just because the characters in a story persevere, making the best of their new lives does not mean that what Bell did is condoned by the author.  In fact, it might mean the exact opposite.  I'd suggest that the story is, at the very least, a satire – probably a poorly written, badly placed, convoluted attempt at some sort of fetish erotic fiction – but a satire which makes fun of the idea that anyone should have to pay for the crimes of the past.  The idea that people can't put the past where it belongs and look to the present or the future is quite prevalent in all societies.  But it's a bad writer who has to spell all of that out.”

“Get off your soap box, boi,” Betty said, throwing a pillow at Davy.  “But good point about this hypothetical story.”

The conversation devolved into what-ifs and other hypothetical stories (who knows how it got brought  up in the first place) ranging from a discussion about whether stories depicting racism were somehow worse than stories involving kidnap, torture, pedophilia, or rape (which Eric claimed would garner less negative interest than racism) to what sort of kinks each was into.

All in all, Davy gained a newly found respect for the intelligence of his harem mates.  That night, they all snuggled in close as the slept.


The days dragged on, each as repetitive as the last, and Davy got bored.  Sure, they all had plenty of sex (a lot of it kinky), and Davy enjoyed the company in which he found himself.  But he couldn't help but feel like the clock was ticking.  A month passed, and he still had made little headway in his mission.  He was still Bell's favorite sexual partner, but that afforded him little opportunity to work towards accomplishing his task.

One month turned into two, and he knew that he would soon have to make his move.  Bell had already tired of both Betty and Percy (those two had found themselves in the eager embrace of Clarence).  They both claimed that he was a much more attentive lover than Dr. Bell.

Two months became three, and Davy was on the verge of panic.  The rest of the harem were rarely seen by Dr. Bell, which meant that Davy found himself in the doctor's arms nearly everyday.  Then, after he had been on the yacht for three and a half months, Clarence came to him, saying, “We will be docking tomorrow.  Before we do, Dr. Bell wishes to see you.”

It went like any of their other sessions.  Clarence led Davy to Dr. Bell's quarters, and Dr. Bell soon had him on all fours, screaming in (fake) pleasure.  When Dr. Bell had cum, the two lay there for a few seconds before Davy got up to leave.

“No.  Stay a moment longer, Davy,” Bell said.  Davy sat down on the bed. That was new.  “Lay beside me.”  He patted the bed next to him.  Davy lay down, his ass to Bell's crotch as Bell absently played with Davy's nipple.

“I know who you are, Davy Jones,” Bell said after a few moments.  “You are a government agent.  There is no point in denying it.  I have known since that first day you were on the yacht.  I have to say that it was quite a thrill to fuck the boi who would bring down the world I created.  I daresay you enjoyed it quite a bit yourself.”

Davy chuckled.  “No.  Not really.  That small cock of yours?  I thought you might be a boi yourself when I first saw it.”

Bell slapped his ass, and hard, “Good bois don't mock their superiors.”  After a few moments, Bell said, “As Clarence told you, we will be docking tomorrow.  You will not be allowed to leave.  You may return to your room for a while, but for two days while we are on shore, you will be locked away.  You may go.”

He slapped Davy's ass again.  “And once we are back at sea, you will not return here.  I do not want ungrateful bois.”


Davy's mind raced as he returned to his room.  His face must have shown his distress, because Eric asked, “What's wrong?  What happened?”

“Nothing,” Davy lied.  “I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me is all.  And Dr. Bell just asked me to say a while longer.”

The others smiled, and congratulated him.  Amy spoke up, saying, “If you don't watch out, he might marry you.  Mrs. Davy Bell.  Has a nice ring to it.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Davy said, lying down.

Betty sat in one of the tubs, shaving her legs.  She said, “You bois have it all.  You don't have to worry about getting pregnant.  Your bodies are fantastic.  And you never, ever have to shave your legs.  What I would give to never have to deal with razorburn again....”

Davy quit listening.  He had heard it all before.  For the first time in his life, Davy had no idea what to do next.


A few hours before the planned landfall, Clarence appeared in the harem to escort Davy to a more secure location.  Davy said a few brief goodbyes, and promised to get back in touch with them when he left the yacht.

Then, Clarence escorted him to what appeared to be the big man's quarters.  It wasn't nearly as opulent as Bell's, but it was nice (but small).  It only had a single bed, and not much space in which to move.  Clarence motioned for Davy to sit, and then he sat himself on a chair beside a desk.

“I'll be your guard for the next two days,” Clarence informed Davy.  “You may get dressed if you wish.  There is little need for nudity here.”

Suddenly, at Clarence's slightly disapproving look, Davy felt suddenly very exposed.  He had nude for the better part of three months, but one look from the hulking guard, and he was embarrassed.  Davy opened his small suitcase (which hadn't been opened since he had replaced the shorts and tank top which he had worn that first day), pulled out a pair of panties, and slipped them on.  Then, he found a pair of jeans and white blouse, and put them on.

Then, Davy lay back on the bed, and studied his guard.  There was no chance of physically overpowering him.  The man was built like an NFL defensive lineman.

“So, how long have you worked for Dr. Bell,” Davy asked.

“Over ten years now.  I was head of security at his organization before we...before he released the compound,” Clarence explained.  Davy detected a bit of bitterness.

“What did you do before that?” Davy asked.  When no answer was forthcoming, he said, “Look, we're both stuck in here for two days.  I just thought a little conversation might make it all easier.”

He was still silent, so, with an audible sigh, Davy leaned back on the pillows.  A few seconds later, Clarence answered, “I was a Marine for fifteen years.”

“See much combat?” Davy asked.

“A fair bit,” Clarence said.  “I don't really like to talk about it.”

“And how do you feel about Dr. Bell being an enemy of the state?”  Davy asked.

“Dr. Bell is a great man,” was Clarence's only answer.

“But you must know that what he's done is wrong,” Davy said.  “Surely your moral compass isn't as skewed as his.”

“Did you know that racism between white people and black people is almost non-existent now?” Clarence asked.  “Think about it.  Whites certainly don't hate blacks – they actively pursue relationships with them.  Blacks don't hate whites – they wouldn't get that far trying to have sex with one if they did.  Sure, there are a few fringe detractors.  But those are quickly becoming the overwhelming minority.”

“But what about all those lives he destroyed, those families he broke apart?” Davy asked.

“Collateral damage,” Clarence responded.  “Dr. Bell is a great man,” Clarence added, almost to convince himself.  “Now, I have a question for you,” Clarence said.  “Do you really enjoy sex with men?  I've heard you with Dr. Bell, and it sounds like it.”

“With him? I fake it.  But I have enjoyed sex with some men.  It depends on the man, I guess,” Davy responded honestly.

“I've heard that bois were incredibly horny, and that sex with men was extraordinarily pleasurable for them.  There was one boi – Bell didn't change him; some other guy did – well this boi had bullied this other guy in high school.  To get back at him, the guy changed the boi.  Well, he was something else; that boi loved sex more than any girl I've ever seen.”

“Leo.  Leo Robertson.  He was changed by George Young,” Davy said.

“Yeah, that was him.  How do you know?” Clarence asked.

“I spoke with Leo a couple of years ago.  He now goes by Leah, and works in a strip club.  I can assure you that he is not happy with his situation.  He actually broke down in tears telling me his story,” Davy responded.

“Really?  He seemed happy when I saw him,” Clarence responded.  “Dr. Bell had me look at the results first hand.  He was working in the strip club, still, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.”

“That's common.  Many bois go through a period of adjustment which can last up to two and a half years in which their libidos are quite high.  In addition, these bois are experiencing new feelings, and new ways of attaining pleasure.  The result is greatly increased sexual activity.  After that period, though, their lives go back to normal, and they have similar sexual appetites to a woman.  Believe me.  I've spent the last three years experiencing the changes and doing research myself,” Davy explained.  “The picture is not nearly as rosy as it might seem at first glance.”

“What do you mean?” Clarence asked.

“Well, we expect that quite a few bois will become depressed.  With their sexual appetites going back to normal, they'll have more time and inclination to look at their lives,” Davy said.  “There has already been an increase in boi suicide over the last few months – probably more since I've been away from it all.”

“So what you're saying is that the world we're living in now – it's all just an illusion covering up a melting pot which is about to boil over,” Clarence reasoned.

“Couldn't have put it better myself,” Davy said.

“Interesting,” Clarence said, but no conversation continued after that.


A few hours later, Clarence excused himself, leaving another man standing guard outside.  He didn't say where he was going; nor did Davy asked.  The man had been lost in thought for hours, silently contemplating the implications of their conversation.  Davy could practically see the gears turning in the big man's head.

That gave Davy time to study his guard.  He was handsome if one went for the big type (and Davy had to admit that he did).  Clarence certainly wasn't ripped, but he had muscle to spare.  His arms were as bit (or even bigger) than Davy's thin waist.  But there was something beyond the facade of a lumbering oaf – Davy saw a thoughtfulness in the man's eyes, as he sat pondering their conversation.

Davy had to admit that he was attracted to the stoic guard.

When Clarence returned, night had fallen.  The big man sat down, and without preamble, asked, “What about you?  Would you turn back if given the chance?”

Davy thought about the question for a few moments.  Moments turned to minutes, and nearly fifteen passed before he said, “I don't think so.  It's been a hard transition for me, but I think I'm happy the way I am.  Before, my life was hollow.  I didn't let any emotion out.  Now, I feel like I can.  I feel freer than I ever have before.”  Davy was being more honest than he ever had been, even with himself.

“So who's to say that others haven't come to a similar conclusion?”  Clarence asked.

“No one.  That's my point.  They – we – should have the choice,” Davy said.

“Is that what you would do, then?  Simply give people a choice?” Clarence queried.

Davy responded, “Yes.  That's all we want to do.  If it makes you feel any better, we questioned whether we should as well.  It's not an easy question to answer.  But we decided that those people who might take the choice of returning to manhood deserve the opportunity to make that choice rather than live a life not meant for them.”

And then Clarence went silent once again.  Aside from a few bathroom breaks and Clarence offering to get food  (which Davy eagerly accepted), the two did not speak again before Davy fell asleep.


“Is there any way we can take a walk?  I really need to stretch my legs,” Davy said.  Another day had passed, and it was dark.  Likely, Dr. Bell was busy procuring a fresh harem at that very moment.

“I guess so,” Clarence said.  “Just don't try anything.”

Davy had no intention of trying anything.  It would do him little good to go overboard; what he needed was on that yacht, and by the time he could contact anyone, it would likely be long gone.  And he couldn't take out Clarence and the two armed guards near the door.  So, he meant it when he said, “I won't.”

They walked along the deck a few minutes later, the lights of the city's skyline blinking in the distance.  In another world, in another situation, Davy might have considered it romantic.  He leaned over the rail, staring at the lights.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” he said softly.

“It is,” Clarence responded.  “And so are you.”

“Thanks,” Davy said, somewhat dismissively.

“I mean it,” Clarence said, turning Davy around.  “Inside and out.  I've never met anyone like you.  You don't --”

“Not out here,” Davy said, nodding his head towards a few gawking members of the crew.

Clarence took the hint, and escorted Davy back to the cabin which was Davy's prison.

Davy sat down on the bed, and leaned back.  Clarence stood, his broad back towards Davy.

“You confuse me, Davy.  Mix things all up.  But I meant what I said,” Clarence stated, and turned towards Davy.  “You don't treat me like other people treat me.  You actually think I'm capable of sorting out the answers, and that I'm not just dumb muscle.”

“You're not,” Davy said softly.

“And you are gorgeous,” Clarence said.  “Noble, gorgeous, smart, and sexy.  It's quite a combination.  I--”

Davy stood, and put a finger over his mouth.  He looked up at the big man, and said, “Shhh.  I get it.  You like me.  I like you too.”

Then, Davy wrapped his hand around the back of Clarence's muscular neck, and pulled.  Clarence complied, and bent down.  Davy, standing on his tiptoes, kissed the big man.

When they broke free, Clarence tried to speak, but again, Davy silenced him.  In a fury of discarded clothes, they were both naked in a couple of minutes.  They hardly broke their lip lock during the entirety of their disrobing.  Naked, Davy playfully shoved Clarence to the bed, and straddled him.

They continued to kiss, and Davy felt Clarence's stiff cock brushing against his ass.  After a couple of minutes, Clarence lifted Davy easily, and laid him down on the bed with his ass hanging off slightly.  Then he knelt between Davy's legs.  Clarence took his small cock and balls into his mouth in one motion, and started tonguing them while one of his big fingers began exploring Davy's rectum.  Davy was in heaven.  No one had ever done that before!

It didn't take long for Davy to squirt in Clarence's mouth.  To Davy's surprise, Clarence swallowed it.

Then, Clarence stood, and Davy got his first really good look at the man's penis.  It wasn't huge (Davy had seen bigger), but it was much bigger than Bell's.  He leaned over Davy, and started to push his cock against Davy's asshole before Davy said, “No.  I want to be on top.”  Clarence shrugged, and picked Davy up as if he were weightless.  Still holding him, Clarence sat down.

“Lay back, and let me do all the work,” Davy said, lust filling his voice.

Clarence complied, and Davy reached back, grasping the big man's cock.  He raised his ass to where Clarence's cock just barely brushed his anus, and then he guided it in.  It felt absolutely wonderful – much better than any of Davy's other sexual partners, but it had little to do with the actual sensation.  Clarence was the first time he had actually chosen to have sex,  not to advance the case, not as training, and certainly not to get something.  No, Davy was being fucked by a man because he wanted that man to fuck him, and for no other reason.

When they were finished, Davy simply collapsed onto Clarence's broad chest.  He could hear the big man's heart thumping.  Later, Davy felt content as he lay in his lover's arms, and fell asleep.


The yacht weighed anchor and left the next morning.

Davy was careful not to mention his mission's goals to Clarence, though he suspected that the big man expected it.  Part of it was because Davy didn't want Clarence to think that he had slept with him simply to get what he wanted.  The other part, the logical part, told him that it made  no sense to do it now – wait until the boat docked again.

There were two reasons, but Davy really only cared about the first.  It was improbably, but Davy found that he had feelings for the big man.  They had spent a mere two days together, most of it silent, but Davy knew that what he was feeling was real.  And he recognized that same feeling in Clarence.  The man was intelligent, handsome, and loyal (though his loyalty was misplaced when it came to Dr. Bell).  What more could a boi want?

Davy's second tour on the yacht was quite a bit more enjoyable than the first as he spent a good portion of it in Clarence's cabin having wild sex.  The rest of the time was spent with the two just sharing one another's company.  Dr. Bell, it seemed, had forgotten about his passenger in lieu of breaking in his new harem.

It was probably – no, not probably – it was the best time of Davy's life.  He was in love, and nothing could change that.

All was bliss until one day, three months in, Clarence came to him and said, “We're going to dock again tomorrow.  But Dr. Bell wants to see you.  I think I've convinced him to let you go. I told him I loved you, and he seemed happy about it,” Clarence said.  He obviously had deluded himself into thinking that Dr. Bell really was his friend.  Davy wasn't so naïve.


The two entered Dr. Bell's quarters a few minutes later.

“Ah, the two lovebirds,” Bell said.  “Come in.  I want to show you something, Clarence.  You,” he pointed to Davy.  “Come here.”  Bell stood at the bottom of the stairs.

When Davy got to him, he said, “Strip, boi.”
Davy looked back at Clarence, who stood stoically, silently.  Resigned, Davy removed his clothing.

“Are you watching, Clarence?” Bell asked.  “Because I want you to see what your intended wife really is – a littls slut white boi.  I bet he asked you to help him steal the compound, didn't he?”  Dr. Bell started unzipping his pants.

“He didn't.”

“Oh well, he would have,” Bell had his cock out. “Bend over, boi.”  When Davy was too slow, Bell roughly bent him over, shouting, “I said bend over, slut!” Was Clarence going to let this happen?

“Don't do this, Omar,” Clarence said, his fist clenched.

“This,” Bell slapped Davy's ass.  “This is my ass.  And you, you're my employee.  You leave when I say you can leave.  You don't dictate to me.  And you --”

Clarence tackled the maniac, and started punching.  His rage was such that he didn't stop until the mad doctor was dead, his face a bloody, unrecognizable pulp.  Tears in his eyes, Clarence just kept saying, “You can't have him, Omar.”  He didn't stop until long after his hands were bruised and bloody (and probably broken).

Davy, having quickly pulled on his panties, approached Clarence cautiously, lest he catch a stray fist.  He need not have worried, though.  Clarence could never hurt Davy.  And so it happened that Clarence stopped beating the already dead man, and laid his head in Davy's lap, tears flowing freely.  Clarence's rage slowly subsided, but there he stayed, in his lover's arms, weeping freely.


The next day, the yacht docked, and the two lovers disembarked, trailed by a confused bevy of sexy bois and women.  The crew had an idea of what had happened, but none knew the true story or where Dr. Bell's body lay (Clarence had unceremoniously thrown it over board).

As for the mission, Davy never even had to ask.  Clarence had merely walked up to the guards, told them to step aside, and retrieved a canister of the original compound.  He also removed the hard drives from every computer in the lab which was behind the locked door.

The two then went to the agency's headquarters (the trip across the country was quite nice, as it felt like a holiday road trip – with lots of sex).  When they arrived, the most in the agency was surprised that Davy had even survived, much less succeeded.  The only complaint was that Dr. Bell had perished, and therefore would not be able to proved them with further information.

As it stood, though, it only took the agency two more years to concoct a cure.  A further six months later, and the cure was made available to anyone who wanted it.  Only about twenty percent took it (though the media reported a far lesser number).

As for Davy and Clarence, they were married nearly six years after Dr. Bell had released the compound into the atmosphere.  The world had changed so much, even in the last two years.

Many people had formed negative stereotypes of bois – that they were flighty, sex-crazy, nymphomaniacs, but soon, the world began to notice that none of those stereotypes continued to exist after the bois' adjustment period.  They were people, just like any other – though quite different from what they had been.  They had the same hopes and dreams of anyone – love and success, chief among them.

And so life went on, and the world had three genders:  Men, Women, and Bois.  No one truly mourned Dr. Bell, but he did make his way into the history books – Clarence  always said that that was what he really wanted.  Davy wasn't so sure; he regarded Bell as just another crazy terrorist who had inadvertently made his life complete.


  1. Dear Nikki J,

    this story is really fantastic and wonderful. It has everything: Unique characters, romance, love, sex, fate and crime. You composed it perfectly and at high quality, and even added meaning to it.

    i was so tempted to identify myself with David / Davy, and really was touched by his story.

    You are really a most brilliant, talented and skilled author, and i hope to read much more of You in the future.

    Most horny regards,
    Keuschling (online-boy of Master Chirenon)


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