When I sat down, he pushed forward a jar of hard candy on the table.
“Have some!”
Those sweethearts had knocked out all my teeth, but I took the candy and shoved it up against the inside of my cheek. I don’t like putting these words together, but how else are you gonna say it.
“It looks like you’ve had it pretty hard the last few days?”
I didn’t say anything. No point answering rhetorical questions.
The investigator understood that, too, so he continued:
“According to your personal file, you were a good student in all subjects. What do you know about the Big Blitz?”
That was a trick question. “Big Blitz” was a Western term, it hadn’t taken in our country. Lisping, I rehashed for him what I knew from history class. The wave of female mortality that had swept through the whole planet fifteen years ago and killed off ninety-nine and nine tenths percent of the women on Earth was explained by a mutation of the human microbiome caused by anomalous solar activity that had happened about six months before the tragedy.
That’s how all the Western homos explained the disaster. Our scientists proved a long time ago that it was a virus outbreak from secret NATO labs. The homos had wanted only for Russian women to die, but they miscalculated — almost all the women on the planet fell victim to the virus. Only two or three million were left in the whole world. But unfortunately, those lost forever the ability to give birth, so the problem of natural reproduction for the human population is still unresolved. My brother and me, my classmates, and millions of my generation were the last ones born the natural way. But we didn’t know our mothers — they died pretty much right after we were born.
“You are a diligent student,” the investigator complimented me. “But do you know why those few thousand women survived?”
Obviously, young and naïve as I was then, I didn’t know why.
“It so happens that they weren’t women in the full sense of the word. They were transsexuals. Born male, they felt trapped in an alien body, and only after their sex-reassignment surgery did they become what they are now. Now do you understand?”
The investigator looked at me like I was supposed to guess what comes next. And I did — just like I had guessed that Sasha the maid wasn’t a maid, but a butler. And guessed why, exactly, Dad hadn’t wanted to hire them.
“No,” I said.
“But why not? It’s been established, transsexuals get as much pleasure from sexual contact as men. There’s nothing unnatural in that — you’ll just become a woman, that’s all.
“And will I have to wear a tracking bracelet?”
“In the incarceration camp you’ll wear a tracking neck collar. And you won’t be getting any pleasure from sexual contact, as you most likely have had a chance to experience. In any case, I’m not here to offer you a choice.”
He took out a sheet of paper from his brief and read out loud:
“‘By decision of the closed court hearing, Nagorskikh, Nikolai Olegovich is found guilty of committing a felony as defined by Article 121, Section 3, Clause 1, and is sentenced to surgical castration. The verdict is final and not subject to appeal.’”
He didn’t expect such a quick reaction from me. I jumped from my chair and wrapped my hands around the investigator’s throat. Too bad, I didn’t have a chance to commit at least a few felonies on him before the guard rushed in and treated me to the tender mercies of his stun gun.
They took me back to the common cell and the nightmare started again. They beat and raped me for two more weeks, ‘til I felt a complete apathy to whatever was happening to my body. I was jerking off two convicts, sucking off a third one, and spreading my cheeks for a fourth one, and I didn’t feel anything. Just physical exhaustion. It’s that easy — believe me, it’s not worth the trouble to look at me like I’m some kinda monster.
Fourteen days later they transferred me, all used up physically and emotionally, back to the hospital. There they fattened me up and started getting me ready for the surgery. I was getting the female hormones with my food; how I moved and how I talked started getting softer and smoother. I can’t say it bothered me. I just gave up. So when they put me on a gurney and rolled me down to the operating room, I didn’t fight it. And so now you see here in front of you what you see.
I had to undergo multiple surgeries — nobody turns into a woman overnight. Genital reconstruction, hormonal therapy, and a few plastic surgeries to make the face more feminine. When I had almost become a woman, I got silicone breast implants. That’s what the client wanted and ordered.
They trained us in a secret school. We future housemaids and sex instructors were custom-made, that’s why a lot of the time classes were one-on-one. We only went through sex and humiliation together.
“You chicks listen up,” our commander Rostislav would say. (We didn’t know his last name because we didn’t need to know.) “In the near future you will be free — released to atone for your crimes with hard but noble labor. Every one of you will have an employer who’ll feed and clothe you, and maintain your appearance in whatever way he prefers. Don’t delude yourselves that “love will come with time.” Get it into your skulls once and for alclass="underline" you’re just a household appliance whose function is to fuck and to do the menial dirty work. It’s possible that your boss won’t give you the dirty work to do and will just fuck you, or the other way around. He might worship you like a goddess, or treat you like dirt and beat the shit out of you — that’s his sacred right. Because when you set foot on the path of vice, you lost your humanity. Remember that in the future. It’ll make it a lot easier for you to live.”
He was right: if you don’t think about what’s happened to you, how you wound up in this situation, and just do your job — life becomes easy and simple. I would think back on Sasha the housemaid, her professionalism and a certain degree of freedom she enjoyed as a result of it. She could walk all around town and all the men would give her the eye. She got presents for the 8th of March, International Women’s Day. She could wear whatever clothes she wanted, and even go to resorts for summer vacations. Of course, she still had to deal with all the problems that come with men by herself, too.
By the way, later on I learned the story of Sasha and Sergei Igorich. Their real names were Vitya and Roma, and they were in love. No, they weren’t fags. They really loved each other. They got caught in their student dorm. Vitya was arrested, but Roma got away. He looked for Vitya a long time, faked his documents, and criss-crossed the whole country back and forth, ‘til he found out that the big government quota that year was for high school sex instructors. That’s how Roma (now going by Sergei Igorich) found Vitya (now Sasha). They even got married, but right then that fucking Uncle Gosha from Siberia spoiled their game.
Anyway, let’s get back to our talk. Some housemaids lucked out: they’d get married, own property, become equal to their husbands, and after his death they could take charge of his estate, and have a kid — their husband’s clone. But they never forgot that all of this was ephemeral. Because they weren’t really women, just despicable homos, whose sole reason for existence was to fuck and do menial jobs.
They taught us how to please a man. They taught us how to submit, how to swallow our pride, which by then was gone, anyway. But like Rostislav used to say, “Submission is a muscle. If you don’t keep using it, you lose it fast.”
He was right about that, too. They’d recommend you send your housemaid every six months to a refresher camp, where she’d be humiliated, beaten, and raped — submission training. If a boss thought his maid was already submissive enough, he was risking his life — sometimes, maybe even more than his life. I can see you know what I mean.