(The Princess Alexandra appears 158 years later in "Nude Therapy: Phase 6;" the incident below is mentioned in "Nude Therapy: Phase 7".)
The basement is dank, even in March. I should be shivering but it is unspeakably hot as I have been forcibly stripped of my dress, my corset, my shift and my petticoats. All have been ripped down and off and thrown to the dirt floor. I stand in my bloomers, over my garter and stockings, still blindfolded, arms still stubbornly over my breasts.
"Please... please!"
John doesn't know: if he tries to rape me I will kill him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I surrendered my body to the Elemental who merged with me; dying as he became one with me, thirty-eight years ago. I died in a way--I am no longer totally human--but I remain young, as long as my transformed vagina/womb feeds upon the semen of men. I accidentally killed my first one: I still cry uncontrollably over that terrible, fatal mistake. But I will happily use my body to kill this one tonight if he dares to enter me.
I was born in what is now Greece in June 1801. I was always the prettiest one--until I wasn't.
My family claimed royal descent, so we were forced to leave when the troubles broke out in '21.
There were so many young beauties vying for attention in the courts of England, our new, and hopefully temporary home. I was a beauty--but suddenly I was by far not the only one.
I had somehow attained the age of twenty-five; still unmarried, still engaging in endless discussions on war and the state of world affairs, with gentlemen and ladies alike.
Then, The Group approached me. They claimed that they had prevented wars and changed the course of history with their "feminine wiles"--they meant, of course, the judicious use of, or the withholding of--access to their vaginas.
But--why contact me--at the tender age of twenty-five? Why was I viewed, even by women--as an older, wiser one? I have had lovers but now they were gone... there would always be younger and brighter lights to attract those fluttering moths.
So. I indulged myself in all of the intrigue: are there whispers of war, stirrings of dissent? But how was I to influence men of war when my own not unattractive vagina was somehow no longer in play?
Then, darker whispers of ancient tomes with strange spells and even stranger curses. Could these be used to stave off war? To vanquish enemies? In one of these books, I found my answer. Silly girls: they assumed the book was lost. It was only under my skirts, like nothing and no one else.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I walked out into the bitter January morning, wearing nothing but my shift--and carrying the book. Patches of snow and ice on the ground and I cried out in pain as I slipped and stumbled to the stream in my bare feet.
I threw off my shift and stood naked with legs spread just over the cold, flowing water. It was my monthly time, at my own most copious flow, and, as I watched my bloody mess drip into the water I recited the meaningless syllables:
"Mowr goff sentorusum. Denigue ix naysome." Nonsense!
I felt them surrounding me before I saw them. I was swarmed with stinging bites of static electricity. I thought I heard:
"Are you certain?"
I nodded. Then they manifested as visible swirls of miniaturized lightning strikes; flashes of impossibly tiny but oh so bright lights.
"Open your soul."
I cried out, arms raised, legs wide.
It entered me like a bull pushing into the hapless body of a fallen matador. I crumpled back from the stream onto the cold ground.
Suddenly it wasn't cold. I knew I was being transformed. Soon, the heat of my body melted away all ice and snow in my immediate vicinity.
Then I felt a ramrod deep inside me, opening up my female passages impossibly wide. I cried out in pain, then in pleasure. Then I felt the change deep in my womb... what was my womb! I knew that I could no longer have children, but I didn't cry. Children are only one's hedge against eternity... and now, I could live forever.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The basement... of my debasement. John's hands are on my bloomers. His excuse for stripping me naked is his theory that Union spies--particularly women--carry secret papers identifying themselves in their "nether regions." He has already sent the two of his men upstairs--David and George--after they furiously manhandled my bared breasts.
"The rest of her is for me!" he proclaimed.
I hate being blindfolded! For some reason, I cannot see them with eyes closed or covered. They hate me as much as they hate all Mankind, yet their ubiquitous presence is some kind of comfort.
John rips my bloomers down to my knees and my gasp at being so indecently revealed is real.
"Why are you doing this to me? I am not a spy! I told you: there are many in the British Empire who would prefer a Southern victory. I represent them, not the blessed Union! Please, please: don't look at my shame! Please don't touch me!!"
I sense him kneeling so that his head is now level with my jungle of hair. I can, at will, release my feminine liquids and, once he senses them, he will be unable to resist.
But it will still be rape... and I will still have to kill him. I steel myself to play the part of the shocked, blushing lady until this maniac is done.
"Hmmm... at least you are not a whore, as some of them make this area much less wooly for a gentleman's easy entry."
John pulls me roughly apart.
"Dry as a bone!" He snorts and releases my inner lips. "Perhaps it is the blindfold: if you could only see me, these floodgates would be releasing a veritable torrent!"
I sense him standing. "Nothing in the lady's hidey-hole; but then, you must be used to that condition! Wait until you hear the upper door slam. Then get dressed and get out of here! If there truly are British sympathizers, tell the fuckers we need money, not promises."
He slaps me smartly on my bare rump. "The cellar door is open: out into the alley and to the street with you, where you belong!"
And he stomps off.
