Alexandra: 1865

(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.

I rip the blindfold off and dress quickly. Within minutes, I am once again the very image of a genteel, Washingtonian lady.

I do not cry. Remember: I am only half human. I can control my tears, my female lubrication--even my lactation.

I do not cry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In days I drop off my coded report in the current numbered box at the Post Office. I assume my unknown contact is in the White House. All arranged through The Group. (They know me as the "original" Alexandra's long-lost daughter; poor Alexandra presumed drowned in a boating accident.) I am on a mission to help to ensure a Union victory.

The Group sees this still-fledgling country as the greatest hope in spreading democracy on Earth.

I wait more days. Then a letter in my own box regarding a "garden party"--a meeting; as well as a rather strangely exact date and time. The numbers code to map coordinates--my contact and I have the same District map.

All translates to a 9 PM meeting in a church near the White House. I will take a carriage part way to ensure that I have no followers.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I sat in the cramped pew... the smoke and the smell of the sputtering altar candle filled the place with a thick gray fog.

Religion... does nothing for me. I have speculated that early Man's encounters with the Elementals led him to conclude that: if there were "evil spirts" then there must also be good. And of course, both factions must have their own King.

I was startled by movement in front of me: the shape of a slowly-rising, hooded figure emerged from out of the smoke at the altar.

"Oh, Father!" I church-whispered, "I didn't know anyone was here... I hope I haven't disturbed you from your prayers!"

The gray hood dropped as the increasingly tall, gaunt figure turned to me. A shock of recognition: that craggy face, that beard.

"Some call me 'Father Abraham,' I strongly doubt that such as I deserve such a Biblical appellation! But Miss: I do sincerely pray... for our nation!"

"Mr. President!" Now I was sputtering even more than the altar candle. "You can't be here!!"

He laughed as he settled quite close to me in my pew. "And, yet: here I am! I simply had to meet the little lady who has my so-called intelligence services in the proverbial tizzy. And, yet: you are no 'little lady'... you are..."

And then he suddenly took my hand. I breathed out a "No!" as I now could read the very maleness of his body.

My revised female senses allow me such insight. Here was a man who was sexually active, but not needy. I tried to push away an image of his dutiful wife, performing her weekly duties, looking pointedly away while clutching her bedclothes.

And then... I began to have my cursed visions.

"No..." I sighed out but they began.

The intelligences I call Elementals flicker in and out of our own space and time. They frequently travel to the future or perhaps only a possible future. I do not know... they rarely speak, so most of my knowledge has been obtained through sense and thought.

But... I have one of them living or dying inside me. I see through it's "eyes:"

The cold dead face of the great man seated next to me. Like granite... no: it is granite! It is a massive statue of the President, seated on a chair as if reluctantly on a throne, endlessly gazing out onto a reflecting pool, as if endlessly gazing out upon the torment of his own soul.

I gasped again: "A monument... to a martyr!" I spoke involuntarily.

Lincoln released my hand. He sat motionless, staring ahead. Then he turned to me.

"You... you have the Sight! Tell me... I have watchers everywhere! Even now... I did not stride to this place alone. Do you see my boy... my Willie? Is he here, now watching over me?"

I turned from him and shook my head. "My 'gift' is my curse! I see only the worst... so no: I see no balm in Gilead; no watchers on some distant shore. Of that, I see nothing."

He sighed heavily and just smiled. "I knew that there was something about you. Interesting that you deport yourself as a princess, and yet the Princess also known as Alexandra passed from this world decades ago."

I smiled back, warily. Did only I have the Sight?

"She would be in her sixties by now; I do hope that I look better than that!" I said, hopefully teasing.

"You look..." now he actually blushed. "Enough of such frivolous talk! Do not worry yourself over your subject of interest. Is he really going to seize me as a hostage, and carry me physically into the deepest South? I think not. These are the ravings of an actor; a gentleman who has become the black sheep of his illustrious family: John Wilkes Booth."

I was stunned. "A Booth... the brother of Edwin?"

The President nodded. "He is a known Confederate sympathizer and is prone to violent outbursts. The only way that that poseur is harming me is in his own mind... or perhaps in some misbegotten play, on stage."

I was still shaking my head. "You must be more careful! You--this country--have such great potential. You--"

"My dear lady,"' he seemed to force a chuckle as he got up. "Trapped as I am in the White Prison--pardon me--the White House, I still must serve those daring souls who elected me."

He looked toward the back of the church and nodded. "I have many watchers, but I can ill-afford to waste one watching a man whose chosen profession is to play dress-up and prance around in public with a faux sword. And yet... I will be careful. Can any man refuse such a heartfelt request from such a beautiful lady?"

I heard his steps retreating. I did not turn around. My cheeks were wet and I rubbed my fingers: tears, unbidden tears!

Perhaps I was still more human than I thought. And perhaps I knew that this was the last time I would ever see him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Near on the Ides of April, and I received the message in my box that I was dreading:

"Garden party cancelled: may be rain!"

Damn! Not only was I being immediately summoned back to England, but there was a chance that I was in mortal danger.

I had been living out of my steamer trunk for the last nine months. I knew the arrangements that had to be made. I had no male lovers to drain or to hold me down--only a pretty little thing from a dressmaker's shop. She had done much more for me than simply take my measurements with my clothing off. I would leave my dear a very personal note... as well as all of my perfumes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Standing near my trunk and waving off the swarm of porters. Damn and damn again! I had no time to hire a ladies maid to accompany me on my voyage and I was sticking out as a very well-dressed sore thumb.

I looked disconsolately at the smallish boat that would allegedly carry me across the stormy Atlantic. Well, as they say, beggars can't be choosers.

Then, there was a great hue and cry on the street leading in. A paper boy was shouting, men were cursing and women appeared prepared to faint. I gave a porter a gold dollar coin to sit on my trunk. I promised him another one if he was still there when I returned. He grinned deliriously and toothlessly. He was probably only twenty.

I stubbornly pushed my way through the throng of people--I am clearly going the wrong way. I thrust some coins at the paper boy, a young lad who should be in school.

The headline is a screaming nightmare:

"LINCOLN ASSASSINATED!

Seward Feared Dead

Manhunt on for Suspect."

I dropped the paper as if it was on fire. "Useless, useless," I muttered. How was I to know these would be the penultimate words of the damned assassin?

I felt my world slipping away. This nation, with such great potential--I felt that all was lost. I foresaw a century or more of senseless turmoil over the fact that some human beings have different color skin than others.

I felt myself fall back.

"Oh Miss! Oh Miss! Here: let me help you!"

I was being held and led by strong, masculine arms. I collapsed onto a bench.

I opened my eyes and saw a rather handsome--and very concerned--young man, perhaps thirty. He had a nice, somewhat uncombed mop of dark blonde hair, was clean-shaven and bareheaded in his great coat.

"Oh Miss: are you alright? It is the most distressing news!"

I was breathing him in, trying to forget the madness, basking in his masculinity. I was already releasing my feminine scent; my interior lips were also getting slightly moist. If I was with a male for long enough, he would find me irresistible. I am not bragging--this is my curse.

Then he took my hand and any intimate secrets he held were bared to me. This man had not ejaculated in weeks; not even a nighttime emission. In the normal course, the body breaks down unspent semen. Under my spell, men were in agony. Churchmen and saints alike would moan and crawl between my naked, open legs.

"If I may help you in any way... my meager bags are already on board." He helped me up and took my arm. I directed him to my trunk.

"My wife..." his voice broke, "a terrible plague took her just three weeks past. She has--had--relations in England and I simply cannot wait weeks for correspondence." He shook his head. "I am a man of action although I may not appear so now! But if you, dear lady, require assistance, I will do anything in my power."

I smiled as he was already falling. We arranged for my trunk to be taken aboard. Now I had to tell him... something.

"My mother... she is unwell. Only a short note but, like you, I cannot wait! I do not even have a maidservant to assist me... I am a woman alone."

"Not any more," he said fiercely. Now his arm was indecorously around my waist. "I am here to support and to defend my... sister, as we both begin our sad travels."

Sister? I thought. Tonight, if I wanted, he would be divesting me of every shred of my clothing and plunging himself inside me. But... best to portion our lovemaking out. Too much too soon and he would have nothing left to give me. By any measure, however, it would be a memorable voyage for us both.

Then I saw them starting to swirl around me. "No: not now!" I exclaimed.

"Oh my dear! What is it? I don't even know my pretty lady's name!"

"Alexandra," I gasped out as I gripped his hand tight.

I had a vision of me walking through a graveyard on a bright, sunny day. I knelt on one grave and I looked down at myself. I was only wearing some kind of short, colorful shift, or an impossibly short skirt. My legs were tan and shapely and they glowed in the sun. I traced the inscription on the headstone with my fingers:

"Michael Winston Manning;

Born July 21, 1834 -- Died April 15, 1912:

Lost at sea with his loving wife.

May their souls find eternal rest."

Then there was his wife: a Mary Noone Manning, two years younger.

I made a sudden decision. I would love him one last time on the ship to the point of nearly draining out all of his bodily fluids through his male organ. And I would leave him a letter, warning him that there were other succubi out there like me, preying on unwary men who dared cross oceans--even in their old age.

The image faded. I put my hands to my face and realized I was crying again.

"Michael," I sighed through my tears, "my dear Michael! You are both my hero and my angel and we will take care of one another."

He looked at me strangely.

"I do not think I ever told you my name..."