FUTURES RESEARCH

9006 - WOMAN POWER - 1998

My high heels were killing me and my girdle was getting tighter by the minute. It wasn't that I didn't love my job. In an information age, being a data jockey was one of the fun jobs. Normally, though, I could do the job comfortably seated in my cabin, surrounded by banks of screens which would make the team at a space launch centre green with envy. The chromo-screen behind me, on which I could compose any effect - from a desert island to outer space - was the envy of my girl-friends; how would you fancy being able to match your office décor to your outfit!

That day, however, I had been on zoo duty; riding shotgun on the few eccentrics who insisted on visiting us in person rather than using their vidwall to connect. There was a certain nostalgia about this work, though. Even the name over the portico said 'public library' rather than 'global data warehouse', which was now the vogue - and which, suitably decorated with live pictures of Earth from space, invited you to enter our web sites. On days such as this I fancied myself as a librarian - one of those jobs which had long-since ceased to exist - but which I thought had a romantic air to it. But I drew the line at dressing like the frumps they were traditionally supposed to be. Indeed, I probably went the other way, dressing rather more tarty than normal; my tightly-fitting dress lower at the top and higher at the bottom than on other days. After all, I had nice tits and a pert bum, so why not flaunt them when I had a chance. But there was a price to pay, as every part of my body ached, from standing all day.

To be honest, it was a weird bunch of customers in front of whom I chose to flaunt my body. We now called them personal service clients, which I thought rather a risqué title - and sometimes it seemed justified! Quite literally, personal service rather than data was what they sought. The carrels where they could use the public screens, a much simpler version of our own, offered little privacy; but that was often a benefit for us, for the designers had not allowed for the occupants needing help as often as they claimed they did. We were supposed to merely be decorative features at the control desk. Fat chance! The punters didn't come to us because they had no screens, everyone had a screen these days; even if it was part of the cheapest video package. Hell, you could walk down almost any street and pick out a working discard from almost any dumpster!

No! They came to us for three reasons. Some came because they were irretrievably IT illiterate. They genuinely wanted to find out about things, but really couldn't use the equipment. So we had to operate it for them, squeezed into a carrel specifically designed for just one. But you had to admire their tenacity. Despite their handicaps, they genuinely wanted to learn. Some of these indeed became regular visitors, exploring - with our help - exotic worlds they couldn't otherwise attain. Take, for example, one our most regular visitors, Kitty. She must have been at least a hundred, but she was determined to learn everything there was to know about geology. The reason for this was tragic. Her only son was at university studying the subject when he was killed in a rock-fall; and she was determined that his work would in some sense continue. She was a darling, apologising every time she had to ask for our help, and after years of visiting ‘her library’ was able to find her way around a data location without help - happily moving from topic to topic, and even printing out the ones she wanted to keep. But when moving from one source to another, something that still posed problems for the rest of us, she needed direct help; and one of us had to squeeze in to the carrel with her, leaning at some very odd angles to operate the keyboard. But, at least, once she was at her new location she would happily look after herself for the next few hours.

The next category seemed, on the surface, to be much the same; but these were the ones whose only friends were us. Locked up most of their day in anonymous apartment blocks, their loneliness was painful. It was certainly tangible when they walked in through the front door of our library. Their downcast eyes lit up when we greeted them. We knew just how important, as their only human contacts, we were to them - so we treated them just like our friends. Indeed, most often they never even made it to the carrels, but sat on the semi-circle of chairs next in front of our counter - the rules strictly forbade them coming behind the counter - where we chatted endlessly with them. I am sure we heard tales of the important events in their lives many times over. But we listened out of genuine friendship. We were really important to these people - and that always gives me a kick. Sometimes what they described was fascinating, offering an insight into times gone by. It was a pity that our funds no longer supported a living history archive, otherwise we could have recorded some of these unique memories for posterity. The service's reliance on personal autobiographical collections - a recent fad on the web - was, I thought, missing a whole chunk of society. But those web sites were cost-free to the state; the 'owners' endowed them so they continued - as a form of immortality - long after death. But, at the other end of the scale, we were offering a therapeutic form of friendship - even sharing our coffee and cakes - which made their lives that little bit more bearable.

The third category was the dirty old men, though not all of them were old, and just a few dirty old women. The carrels offered them an ideal way of coming into intimate contact with a nubile young body; a sin of the flesh which was seemingly otherwise denied to them. We knew most of them and, if we didn't, we soon recognised the symptoms - the downcast eyes as they slid into the carrels and then expertly fired up the screens. We dreaded the next step, their claim that they were stuck on some complicated exercise; which only a - nubile young - librarian could help with! Even so, I usually volunteered for the task. Call me a pervert, but I sympathised with their problems. It was just another form of loneliness, and we were quite happy to welcome our other lonely visitors - and even to cuddle them from time to time - so why not these too.

With this group, of the sexually bereft, I knew what was coming when I went to help them. As I squeezed into the carrel with them, they didn't move aside as did the other users. Indeed, their bodies noticeably tensed as I came into contact with them. Their thighs touched mine, and their chests touched my arm. Most were satisfied with that, the physical closeness of two bodies almost together, and a sniff of an exotic perfume; I must admit that, on zoo days, I liberally drenched myself with my most exotic perfume, one which was supposed to contain pheromones which would turn even an elephant on. Just a few of them also suffered from wandering hands. They would 'accidentally' brush my breast and then, if I said nothing, just as accidentally cup one; or they would put their arm around me and clasp my butt. I gently discouraged such approaches, though of course I could have had their perpetrators thrown into the local gaol, on quite serious harassment charges. I was often amazed that they were so desperate for such company that they would risk a brush with the law, but I did nothing. I was as sorry for them as for my centenarian friend. When, occasionally, they subsequently developed telltale damp patches on the front of their trousers, I almost cheered for them.

Some did go too far, though, taking service too much at face value. Taking advantage of my low neckline, they managed to get their hands into my bra and tried to play with my nipples - one even managed to kiss one! Or they put their hands up my short skirt, between my thighs to rub my privates, and some even started to pull my knickers aside. Now I admit I am no blushing virgin, and usually enjoy such attentions, but when I have I wide choice of boyfriends who needs these creeps! This is where my stiletto heels came into play. In the close proximity of a carrel they can wreak havoc with an offending male's feet - and the screams I have heard attest to their deterrent effect.

So you can understand just how tired I was as I opened the front door to my bachelor pad, kicked off my high heels and flopped down on the couch. It took me some time before I could raise enough energy to wriggle out of my dress and then out of the panty girdle - pure bliss - and then the tights, ruined by the holes my last bout of public service had resulted in. Finally my bra, and I almost crawled into the bathroom and into the bath, even before there was enough water for the whirlpool to start. I stayed there, soaking luxuriously in all the oils the dispenser had added, for almost an hour - until I felt refreshed enough to face the evening ahead.

Preparing for it was a chore I loved. After washing and setting my hair; it was brunette and I wore it so straight that it was an art to get it right. I oiled, powdered and pampered every inch of my hairless body. Then, as usual, I spent more than half an hour in front of my make-up mirror; plucking every stray eyebrow, and painting everything else. The result was a genuine work of art, framed by my brunette fringe which I had just brushed and sprayed into its final shape. Only then did I finally start to dress, in front of the full-length mirror, in which I examined and - I must admit - admired my young body. My face, framed by dark hair, was not exactly beautiful, but it was more than just pretty and, as I pouted by provocatively red lips, it could look sexy. My breasts, just being popped into a shapely white lace bra, were big enough for my boyfriends to fondle, without any hint of droop; and the nipples were like organ-stops. A reasonable waist, especially when held in by my high-tech girdle, and a neat bottom, which I was told offered a nice handful, and good thighs and legs, not too heavy not too skinny - but just right for spreading. As I turned, I examined my penis. It was not a problem for my boyfriends, most of them simply ignored it, and it was essential for my girlfriends; for I was in a bisexual phase - and in something of a quandary. I was approaching thirty years old, and I was being forced to think about forming a family. My friends told me so, my parents and siblings told me so, and even the very confused hormones floating around my body told me so! I would soon have a choice to make. Was I going to be a boy or girl or, perhaps, retain the characteristics of both? Anyway, for tonight at least the decision was already made. I was a hundred percent girl - well almost so!

As if to confirm the point, I threw off what I had just so carefully put on, and clothed myself in shocking pink, from my satin frilled undies to my low cut dress. I knew I was making some sort of statement, which my boyfriends would appreciate, but it was mainly an act of defiance against the world; even though it was a world that happily accepted my eccentricities. Indeed, they were no longer really eccentricities. In what was reckoned to be a woman's world, lots of us youngsters desperately wanted to be as feminine as possible. I wasn't alone in my dreams, there were millions of us. I turned one last time in front of the mirror, and was pleased with what I saw. Even I fancied me, which merely exacerbated my equivocal feelings!

The evening started much as usual, chattering with the usual crowd in the powder room as we, girls of both sexes, touched up our make-up and took our sex-enhancers. Thus it was that I finally emerged onto the dance-floor radiating the sort of sexiness that advertised, above all, confident availability! My usual boyfriends were there, and I was flattered to see that most of them instinctively started to move in my direction. I must have succeeded in my avowed aim of being the sexiest girl on the floor. They deferred, however, to my current paramour; six foot three when standing stark naked, which he usually was when I was around. He was an athlete, and it showed in his lovemaking. If I was starting the evening off somewhat stiff, I would ache in every bone of my body in the morning; but in between would be a glorious experience, which would have left me screaming at least half a dozen times for more.

It was Friday, so we danced into the small hours, the usual cocktail of drugs keeping us as fresh as when we started. All the boys treated me like a lady, which I definitely was not - whichever way you looked at it. As the evening progressed, some began to treat me as a whore - which I was. Unlike the problems I faced in my working day, this groping was very welcome - and turned me on. In any case, this time the gropers knew exactly what to expect. The shock to the system of the no-hopers in the library, if they had ever managed to get into my knickers, might have killed them! Now the petting brought me to the point at which I might start to develop my own embarrassing damp patches. The choice had to be made! Should it be Paul, every part of him was over-sized, and it felt like it. Ray, on the other hand, was small and not terribly well endowed, but he was one of the few boyfriends who didn't ignore my penis. So the joy I experienced with him was almost as great, but in a different way. I was turning the decision over in my mind when I was propositioned, or at least asked to dance, by a girl who I had never seen before. She was very young and, from her tense nervousness, I would have said inexperienced; but she was pretty enough. As I have explained, I was not averse to girls; indeed that was part of my quandary. But, to be honest, I rarely had an encounter with one, my feminine disguise rather militated against that. But here, for once, was just such an opportunity, so the boys lost their chance.

Dancing, powdered cheek to powdered cheek, and satin clad bust to satin clad bust, we seemed to go well together - I had resolved the only difficulty by leading! Indeed, she clearly started to relax, almost clinging to me, so close that my erection, fortunately held in by the girdle, started to grow again. It was good to have a girl in my arms again.

Back at the apartment, on the couch, we gradually got more passionate, cuddling, kissing, petting; until there was nothing left to do but to undress each other. I was quicker, for her obvious lack of experience led to a number of fumbles, so I found myself admiring every aspect of her trim little figure, when she had only had my pert breasts to study in return. I think she was non-plussed by the panty-girdle, it was decidedly unfashionable - but it was necessary to hide embarrassing pieces of me from the world! So, I helped her with that. But it was only when she finally pulled my tights down that she started screaming, shrinking back into the corner of the couch and screaming louder than I thought possible. My apartment was soundproofed; my boyfriends and I often made almost as much noise as this, but for very different reasons. But, even so, I started to worry about what the neighbours might think - would they call the police? So I tried to calm her down. I slapped her face - as they always do in the old movies - but that only made her scream louder. Finally, in desperation, I kissed her, and held onto her for grim death. It worked, don't ask me why, but within seconds she was a damp bundle in my arms. Some might then have taken her as she was, but I'm not that much of a whore.

So, when she had finally calmed down - and in the process consumed half a bottle of my best whiskey - I quizzed her about her over-the-top reaction. The explanation, it turned out, was laughably simple. She really was young and innocent; and straight! She hadn't even had many heterosexual experiences, she genuinely was one of the few nice young girls left in a corrupt world. But she wasn't certain that she really was that nice - and she feared she might be lesbian. It was to confront this fear that she had forced herself to visit our den of iniquity. Unfortunately, she had chosen one of my cattier girl-friends in whom to confide; and to point out to her the lesbians on the dance-floor. My discarded old flame had mischievously exacted her revenge by identifying me as the supreme example of the species! This created an agony for the girl still sobbing in my arms. She saw me as the prettiest girl in the room, a comment I found quite flattering, and - horror of horrors - she found herself attracted to me. She had, thus, spent the whole evening hiding in the darkest corners of the club watching me; simultaneously fascinated by and repelled by the turmoil of emotions inside her. She was, she now realised, really a lesbian. There could be no doubt now. Even so, it had taken almost the whole evening, together with a handful of confidence pills and a number of false starts, before she had finally made the proposal.

Back at my apartment she was finally coming to terms with her lesbian feelings. As we undressed she had even started to look forward to the climaxes to come. But then the telltale object had been exposed, and her already swirling emotions ran amuck. She went out of control - as I knew to my cost. She didn't know whether she was a lesbian or not, whether she was horrified or delighted, attracted or repelled, happy or miserable, still innocent or spoiled for ever. My own equivocations, which in some ways paralleled her own, were a mere molehill compared with the mountain she was now trying to climb!

I am proud to say that I didn't make love to her at that point; she was far too vulnerable. Instead we spent the night talking to each other; and then we made love! In this modern age the happy ending should be that we lived happily ever after; two girls, one with a dick, in a wonderful partnership. The more mundane outcome was that both our equivocations resolved themselves. I stopped taking the hormones, and within a couple of months my breasts disappeared and my five-o'clock shadow returned. Soon after we were married - as a very conventional boy and girl in love. Now we are on our way to set up our first home, and start a family, on the new frontier; where a man is a man.

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