makeup, but the woman stopped him.

"You're not to do that," she said wearily. "We don't want anyone to remember any resemblance at all."

Esteban hesitated, and then left the facecloth where it was. He might have overpowered the woman with him, but what would happen then with Jorge and the driver might be worse than he was being treated now.

The brunette girl could not sleep with the garters on, and 'she' would have laddered the black stockings even more if she lay down in them. So she sat on the not-too-clean covers, slipped off high heels, raised 'her' petticoats and began to unfasten the garters and the garter belt. It was funny that he should feel so unlike Irena. Now, he knew that he was just Esteban rolling black stock- ings down his slim, smooth legs. Despite the bra and clinging slip, he had lost a lot of the feeling of being a girl even though this clothing was in many ways more sensual

than Irena's clothes.

He had to stand to slip the garter belt out of his pan- ties, and as he did so, he heard the key turn in the lock. He had just smoothed down the long petticoat slip, when another woman came in, in, along with Jorge and the truck driver.

The woman was older and heavily made up. She wore heavy jade jewelry at her neck, ears, on her fingers and at her wrists. She even wore a heavy silver brooch, inset with jade.

"Didn't we tell you no- one would recognize her, huh?" snickered Jorge. "Didn't we tell you Conchita?" He seemed anxious to please her. The raven-haired, older woman turned and gave him a cold stare, but that only set him to jiggling more. The woman then turned her gaze back to the slim, garishly madeup bru- nette, seated now quite demurely at the end of the wooden bed.

"I know you're over thirty," she rasped, after staring at 'Irena' for over a full minute, "but you don't look a day more than eighteen to me. That's money for you, I suppose.' She snorted. "We gotta pre- serve the heroine of the Rev- olution, ain't we?"

""

Esteban looked down at the dusty hem of the the women's black dress. He quaked inside his petticoats as she came clo- ser, making a detailed inspec- tion of 'her' face and figure. "You're right," the woman said grudgingly over her shoulder towards the others. "She don't look anything like the Presi- dent now. She leered at Esteban. "She looks like a

---

proper little slut just like one of my girls." She raised her hand as if to strike 'Irena' and laughed at the fear that showed in Esteban's black lined eyes as he shrank away from her.

"All right," she said, turning back to Jorge. "I'll let you keep her here until your brother makes the new deal. But I want my cut and a head start across the border before you .....take her out

of here.'

The slight pause was enough to send a cold shiver up Esteban's spine. How could he have been so stupid as to let Consuela think that he preferred death to discovery. Now that death seemed cer- tain, he wanted to scream and cry out who he was, never mind the contempt they'd show him. But he knew they'd kill 'him' right away. Only as 'she,' Irena, did Esteban have a chance of staying alive for just a little longer. Inside his brain, a little voice was sobbing as he thought of death. Every part of his body was cold, and he shivered un- controllably feeling his panties slip against the soft nylon of his petticoats.

"Don't worry, giggled Jorge. "If we don't get our money from the Paymaster, we

40.

can always make a dollar on her downstairs, can't we?”

Esteban found himself very closely guarded in the the next few days. Either Maria, Pablo, the driver of the truck, or Conchita, often called Madame by the others, an odd jumb- ling of the languages, watched 'her' every move. He found himself striving for a femin- inity that he didn't know he possessed in his efforts to con- ceal whatever masculinity might have given him away. Dressing in even more exotic clothes provided by Conchita, he tried to remember every gesture Con- suela had made, even as she had put on her stockings. His parody of her, if he had but known it, was almost exact.

Hair and makeup were done for 'her' by Maria, or occasionally Conchita, neither of whom bothered to remove the brunette wig. Irena's hair was combed and then the heavy makeup was applied so that his eyes became dark caverns in his head, his lashes heavy with the layers of mascara applied to them.

""

His dresses varied from the mid-calf, red silk that he'd worn for Maria to frilled, ankle-length, evening gowns. "You know,' said Conchita to Maria, after watching the delicate way in which 'she' smoothed a gaudy, flowered silk dress over 'her' hips, "she could make a really sweet working girl. She's got the looks."

Esteban felt his stomach muscles knotting. The bra and panties seemed to cling tighter. The huge, shell-type earrings rattled against his neck as he shook nervously. "She's got class," said Maria quickly. "Too much not to be obvious in the cantina."

A crafty look came into Conchita's eyes that brought a lump to to Esteban's throat, the black, velvet bow he wore