breasted, round-bottomed, tan-skinned Native Girl, her soft, sensuous features framed by a slick dark cascade of jet-black hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders. She was modestly holding her hands over her breasts and pussy for some sort of covering, and her slightly-bent knees, her trmbling coyness.... everything about her seemed to radiate shy femininity.

And I knew with a sinking feeling that she was looking at me and seeing exactly the same thing!

That afternoon, we found some soft, edible fruit and a fresh-water stream. Nourished somewhat, we decided to follow the stream inland to see what we could find. But before we knew it, it was Night, and the two of us huddled together in the bough of a huge tree for mutual warmth and protection until morning. All that shivering night, I felt feminine thighs pressed against mine, a feminine bottom nudging my own, and feminine breasts occasionally grazing my nipples. And yet, all night long, I knew, somewhere inside me, that this was really a man next to me! And that somehow, he must be feeling the same confusion about my gender!

It was a difficult night.

Next morning we found some more fruit, washed ourselves a little in the cold water from the stream, and set off once more. We tried once to make grass skirts from theabundant

vegetation, but in our unskilled fingers, everything we tried fell apart almost as soon as we put it on, so we continued our journey in embarassing nudity. I realized, of course, that this heightened sense of modesty was a by-product of the psychlogical treatments we had received while being feminized, and I explained as much to Eric, but it did no good; we were still stuck in coy poses, like shy young schoolgirls.

Then, shortly after Noon, we heard voices somewhere up ahead of us!

Cautiously, we rounded a bend

in the stream and peered through the tall foliage at an incredible sight. Ahead of us, the river widened, and there, on the gently-sloping shore, a group of women were carrying baskets full of brightly-colored cloth down to the water to be washed. Further out in the water, other women were cleaning the clothes and themselves, sporting about in the clear water, speaking softly in some strange language and giggling from time to time.

As we watched, it seemed that the women would finally get a sarong or some such thing rinsed off, then take it out to nearby rocks where it would be laid flat to dry quickly in the sun. Then, when it was dry enough, someone would either fold it up and put it away in a basket, or else put it on herself and walk away.