Things were a bit unhinged inside Gerlinde as she continued the operation - the transformation.  Her mind was like a door not set quite right; reflections breezed in and out, darkness and light seeped this way and that.<br/><br/>Part of her remained fixed on what she was doing, moving in the expert alignment of metal and flesh and surgical schemes that had been so accidentally genius that it landed her in her task at the Stalag.  Gerlinde Baumann had been bad at balancing her checkbook and bad at catching trains at the right time.  The balance of bone and muscle and immune systems and hormones were like music to her Mozart's ear.  There could not be too many notes for her to coordinate.  The timing of circulatory systems, endocrine reactions and nanoguided osteorepair were clocked by an endless gallery of metronomes, clicking instinctively within her brain.<br/><br/>So she was calm, on that level, as she moved the shears to just below the second knuckle, set them just right against the base of the knob, and closed them.  More parting water; more wax easing aside.  More feeble, almost perfunctory, rushing of blood.  Another digit hit the plastic pan with a thump.<br/><br/>But she also sang about Struwwlpeter in her mind - Shaggy Peter, who had his thumbs cut off by a passing tailor in punishment for sucking them.  She sang inside her head and bright colors swirled about, and a tittering laughter reminded her that Lisle had been good at sucking too, and liked being sucked.  And the singing twisted and rose like the weak pulses of blood from the two, staunched and severed digits as Gerlinde moved her shears to just below the second knuckle of the third.<br/><br/>She cut.  And as she cut, part of her was saying that it was too late to turn back now.  That it wasn't just bone and ligament and muscle she was cutting.  She was snip, snip, snipping away Lisle's humanity.  Lisle's, and her own.<br/><br/>And as she took the fourth finger, and heard it hit the pan, Gerlinde became aware of another thumping.<br/><br/>Her penis was pipe about to burst.  The awareness was a fierce and flooding thing as it came to her.  It grabbed ahold of those tumultuous thoughts and tugged.  The genius in her continued along its perfect work.  She even managed to respond to Lisle with that text-crisp, clinical part of herself.<br/><br/>"Cats do have toes, puss pussy."  Gerlinde said, fitting the shears to the fifth and final finger.  The mutilated hand was cut so cleanly - just little circles of white within larger circles of pink where the fingers used to be - it no longer resembled a hand.  It was what the nanoguides she would soon introduce into Lisle would turn it into:  It better resembled a paw with one fragile, ungainly finger stuck on it.  "But their feet and legs fit differently.  Now don't they?"<br/><br/>She looked up from her work, dove the ice cubes of her eyes right into the green romance of little Lisle's.  She smiled like an icon in a Sunday school book.  And just like that, Gerlinde knew she was about to cum.<br/><br/>Awareness of her own anatomy inventoried with awareness of Lisle's.<br/><br/>Glans, engorged and sensitized.  Lisle's pinky finger, resting in monofilament metal.  Urethra, tumid with semen delivered thick from the vas deferens.  Lisle's wrist, snug with bloodlessness in its tourniquet.  Testicles, contracted; shaft fully erect.  Lisle's eyes, still watching, delivering the cool, sure facts of her transformation to her brain.<br/><br/>Gerlinde clipped.<br/><br/>The last finger thunked into the pan.<br/><br/>Rhythmic contractions from prostate through to the glans ejected a millileter of sperm onto Lisle's belly.  Gerlinde sighed and shuddered in her leathers as she spent, ribboning Lisle's tummy with hot semen in gummy strips.  Calm hands grabbed up the next hand, slid the pan under it hastily, and set the shears.<br/><br/>"Oh, pussy pussy you'll look so beautiful with your paws."<br/><br/>She was still gasping out the words, still spraying hot seed on Lisle, as she stared into the girl's eyes and continued cutting.