Molly Grows Up
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Mark had never been to the offices of Albert Setter, Head of Security. It was on the ground floor of their large office block in Durham Street. When he entered he was surprised how large it was – he had expected a small office suited to a man who dished out the pass cards. In fact, the office was well appointed with bookshelves, a lounge area and a large old style desk, behind which sat the heavy set Albert Setter.

“See here my good man, I have a busy day so perhaps we could deal with this quickly, please.” Mark spoke condescendingly, and the “please” was an afterthought. But he was impatient on that particular day. There was a large trade in a valuable forward position under negotiation.

“I am sorry to have to bring you down here Mr. Fowler, but I felt in the circumstances it was in your interests to be discrete”. Setter’s accent was slightly cockney but well spoken, and it seemed to Mark, to match his appearance perfectly. He looked tough, and he was. Ex army and metropolitan police. But his suit was tailored and immaculate.

But why discretion? Mark had come to get a new card. He was curious – still impatient, but curious rather than concerned.

“Come and take a seat, Mr Fowler”. He did, despite his concern about the time. So he stayed on the edge of the seat.

“As you know my card ceased to function on Monday,” said Mark. “I tried to have my assistant collect a new one, but for some reason you require me here. What is going on?”

“Truth be told, I fixed the card to get you down here. A little bit of a ruse Mr. Fowler”. Setter was smiling. What was going on?

“Seriously, I am in a rush today. Please get to the point.”

“Right then sir, I wil,l” said Albert. “To get straight to the point, I have some bad news for you, but some good news. Part of my job is to investigate any internal impropriety. And the bad news is that after three months investigation I have established that you sir, have embezzled just shy of a million pounds from this organisation”.

Mark’s stomach turned in a flash. The blood drained from his face and from his head, leaving him pale and dizzy. And the nausea was almost gagging. He had been found out. He should perhaps have said to himself, “It was bound to happen”, but for now there was just a blackness. He could say nothing, but it was clear he did not need to. He slipped back in the chair.

“Now the good news – good news for you that is. The other thing that I have found out about, is Molly. I know all about her.”

If the bad news had brought Mark to his knees, this put him on the canvas. This is the good news? Again, he could say nothing.

“I confess that I have been watching Molly for some time,” Setter continued. “I put a camera in her flat a month or so ago. I have been watching her. I have recorded all her activities – the visits by girlfriends, the playpen, the sleepovers, everything.”

“What do you want? What are you proposing to do?” Mark had brought himself to be able to speak. He knew that something was coming. A lifeline. The good news for him.

“Well, it’s like this: The truth is that I have sort of fallen for Molly. I see real potential in that girl. I wouldn’t want to see her harmed in any way. As I am the only one with full knowledge of my investigation of your dishonesty, I could sort of … bury the information so to speak, to win her favours as it were …”

Mark was thinking: Was this man playing with me? Like a cat with an exhausted mouse, batting it about before biting off its head? He could destroy his career and send him to jail. And he knew about Molly. Whatever reputation was left he could also destroy. Mark had nothing to offer. So why the meeting? There was a chance of something here.

At this point the business sense that had made Mark such a successful market dealer started to come forward. Is there something to negotiate?

“You have me at your total advantage it would seem”, Mark’s voice seemed to himself, to be curiously self-contained, because in the pit of his stomach he was terrified. “You will need to tell me exactly what you want.”

“That is simple”, said Albert, “I want Molly. I want her to be my … my girlfriend. Not just yet. I know she’s only little. I want her to be all the woman she can be.”

When Mark realised from the look on Albert’s face, that he was serious, he became worried. The look was lustful – Albert Setter was hardly looking at him, but he was thinking about Molly. He was thinking about fondling Molly, or even having sex with Molly. The reason why Mark was worried was because, he was Molly.

***

Mark was not a homosexual. Do not make that mistake. He was married to Jennifer and they had two young (pre teen) children. Home life was hardly idyllic - Mark and Jennifer had a cool relationship, although sex was regular and pleasurable enough. Mark had never contemplated sex with men, he just had a thing … a fetish if you like.

Mark’s relationship with his children suffered from his devotion to his work. It was distant, and had become more so since their young personalities had developed. He learned that he disliked them as people. They were spoiled as he had been at their age, but in others he found this trait disagreeable.

Even before his marriage Mark had been a closet transvestite, if that is what it was. Jennifer had discovered little girl things before they were married, but she had determined that she would disregard any strange proclivities in him Mark was sexually able and would be a good provider in the future – that was what mattered to Jennifer.

She had only asked that he keep his obsession out of her sight. Early on he had kept a suitcase and had periodically used small motel rooms to dress. He would count the days until she went to visit her mother in Devon, preferably for the weekend, so that he could dress at home and engage in domestic activities in his alternate persona.

Lately, with his ill-gotten gains, Mark had been able to secure a flat in the city. His suitcase had now become a closet. He could excuse himself as working late, or even being out of town, and he could fully immerse himself in being Molly.

Somehow, with all the stresses at work, being able to be somebody else was the therapy he needed. And not just being somebody else, but being somebody who had no responsibilities and did not have to think. That is because Molly was just a child – perhaps only ten years old. All she thought about was being pretty and tidy, and perhaps one day growing up to be a princess. She had dollies to play with and Disney films to watch. And she had a friend too – her play friend Delia.

In fact, Delia was a prostitute, and Mark was a regular customer. There was no sex as such. Mark and Delia would dress as little girls and play. Delia had a collection of dolls. Sometimes they would do one another’s hair (Molly’s hair was a long light brown wig) and sometimes experiment with make up like older girls, but for Mark, Molly would always be a little girl – pre-pubescent. On a few occasions Delia would talk about comparing bottoms. They would giggle together and maybe Delia would stroke him to ejaculation, but it was not essential. For Mark, all of the satisfaction was just being Molly for that night.

He had to explain this to Setter.

“I think you misunderstand me, Mr. Setter,” he explained. “I’m not gay. This is a fantasy. Just an occasional release. There is no Molly. You have me completely, but we must find some other way to persuade you to keep all my secrets. If we can talk money I am sure we can make an arrangement.”

“Truth is, Mr. Fowler, I have no need of money.” He looked like he meant it. “I just like the occasional small amusement. Not reporting you could get me in trouble, but I can pay for my risks and for my pleasures. The time has come for you to pay for yours.” He fixed Mark with a gaze of pure determination. There was no talking his way out of this.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Molly’s maturity starts today. Her puberty is on the horizon.” Setter pulled from the drawer of his desk a large syringe and examined the contents of it up against the desk lamp. “Trousers down, Mr. Fowler. Bend over and take your medicine.”

“That’s not what I think it is?” Mark swallowed deeply. “Female hormones?”

“Correct.” Setter stood and came around the desk. “You don’t have much choice really. A little bit of essence of woman or you lose everything and go to prison. Your call?”

Mark tried to think quickly. “How do I know that you will keep my secrets? If I let you do this you may spill the beans tomorrow, after your little joke with me.”

“For my sins, I’m already a party to your theft. I have known about it for months. If I am to turn you in I could do it anonymously, but you could take me down anytime if the secret is out. If you accept my proposal then we are in it together, and you could drag us down together. Think about it.”

The truth is that it was too hard for Mark to think about at that moment. The man with the syringe held his life in his hands. Perhaps he could work something out, but here and now he had to recognize where the bargaining strength lay. Not with him. He slipped down his trousers and the syringe entered the flesh of his right buttock.

***

The rules were simple: Mark was to take two tablets every day, one pink and one a pale orange, he was to submit to regular blood tests to see his hormone levels were up, and he was not to cut his hair. Mark had the good fortune to have a good head of dark hair, which he had always worn a little too long in the front, but otherwise quite short. Before any other physical signs were present his wife and others remarked that his hair was getting long.

In many ways it was a relief that any changes in his body were so slow. Albert Setter hardly troubled him. Every couple of weeks he would respond to a call and visit Setters office where a sample of his blood was expertly drawn by Setter himself. There would be some passing reference to local news but neither man would mention Molly or what was happening. For Mark it became almost unreal.

Perhaps what he was taking were placebo pills, and it was all some perverse joke. But then there were some small signs – a softening of the skin, slowing of his beard growth, a soreness around the nipples without any obvious swelling. And there were the tears. He had occasionally been wracked with fear about his circumstances and the risk of being caught which resulted in sort of cold sweats for an hour or so, but now it was girlish sobbing. When this happened, he thought that he could feel the hormones in his system. He felt guilty and girlish. Not like the girlish feeling he enjoyed as Molly, but a real helplessness. A helplessness that needed a strong person to help him through. But there was nobody.

He visited the apartment. He looked for the camera but could not find it. He put on a dress and his wig, but he did not call on Delia. It was as if this could only be resolved by him, or perhaps by him and Molly. Somehow this had become her problem too. And with Molly having problems being her did not have the same release for him.

***

“I’m not sure that I like this Oscar Wilde look.” David Davenport, the head of Investment said after closing the door to his office behind them. The quarterly review was on.

David went on: “Your funds are all performing well as we would expect from you. Returns are all better that City averages. Risk profiles have stood up to scrutiny. All good. But are there changes afoot in your life at the moment?”

“Why would you say that?” asked Mark.

“You know, I’m not sure,” said David. “Just a perception that you seem to be a little different.”

“Yes, I have started wearing my hair a little longer. A different look maybe. I will have it tidied up. I am keen to keep a professional appearance.”

“Quite so,” said David. “Quite so.” Mark left his boss’s office and returned to his station. He caught a glimpse of himself in the partition glass.

Albert Setter was less than helpful. He flatly refused any haircut. “Things are coming along nicely I think,” he had said to him only the day before.

Finally, he agreed that Mark could have his hair “restyled”. He had made an appointment with a ladies’ hairdressing salon that would open for him after hours. He was to ask for Jill.

She was expecting him. “Albert has told me all about this,” she said. “He has insisted on what he wants done and he has told me that we will both be in trouble if he does not get what he wants.” She smiled as she said it but Mark knew that whatever was planned for him, he had to comply.

His hair had grown well and seemed to have become softer to the touch. But it hung over his collar and was not a good look for a man in his position. Jill’s answer was to cut it at the back but leave the rest long – a bob. The cut was unmistakably female.

“Just use some hair oil and slick it back behind your ears. When you want to look pretty you just need to wash the oil out … and use this conditioner. No, no, it’s yours. Mr. Setter is picking up the bill for this styling.”

***

Albert Setter was not keen on too much discussion between them at the office, so he agreed to meet Mark at his flat (or rather Molly’s flat) during the lunch hour. Things were getting out of hand and Mark knew it. His appearance was beginning to raise eyebrows. Curiously his co-workers hardly noticed, but to people who had not known him before, or witnessed the changes without noticing them, he appeared almost genderless.

“I am not sure where this is leading, but as I explained to you, Mr. Setter, I’m not gay,” insisted Mark. “I am not even really a transvestite. So, you are mistaken if you think that. Molly is just a child that I retreat into. I am not sure why Molly is a girl. Just more helpless I suppose. What I am saying to you is that I can never be some kind of fantasy quasi-female for you. I am just not that way inclined.”

“Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself,” said Albert.

“This has to stop,” said Mark. “If this continues I face the sack at work, and God knows what at home. Already I have ceased to function sexually.”

“I don’t think Jennifer will mind,” said Albert. “Her tennis coach keeps her satisfied.”

Mark was unprepared for this, and instead of asking the obvious questions his mouth just dribbled something meaningless.

“I have photos,” said Albert. “You can have them. You can show her too. You can move out and come to live here. I would like that. I want Molly to step out of the shadows. I think it is time she did.”

Mark expected there to be a devious face on this man as he said these words – the face of a man who was slowly destroying him, but instead there seemed to be a wistful detachment. For the first time Mark realized that this was not a sadistic game, but some genuine desire on the part of Albert. Rather than vicious he was simply perverted and deluded.

He should not have been shocked that Jennifer was unfaithful. Things were not great between them. In fact, in truth they never had been. He asked for the photos and they were delivered to his desk that afternoon. They carried dates indicating that this affair had been going on for years.

Mark had no intention of following Albert’s suggestion, and leaving her, and he told her so, but the confrontation was bitter. He found himself, by choice, at the apartment that night, with only his personal papers and a few clothes.

He felt a little depressed. He took a shower and washed his hair. He used the shampoo and conditioner that the salon had given him, and dried his hair by blotting it with a towel. He then sat at the vanity and looked at himself. He wondered for a moment and then reached for the round brush and the hair dryer. He found himself doing what the salon had done, to give his bob volume and a curl under.

Even though his face still looked male to him, his hair looked so pretty and feminine. Suddenly he felt like somebody else. He was not the sad and worried Mark. He was more like the carefree Molly, but not infantile like her. He was somehow more mature and thoughtful, but still a simple person, looking for love and protection, and not power and wealth. But above all, the anxious thoughts were gone.

He decided that he needed to be that person tonight, as a refuge from his doubts and fears. He looked in the dresser and the wardrobe to see what Setter had bought for him. He found panties, and a nightie, a lacy robe to go over them, and fluffy slippers with a slight heel. He put everything on. He walked around the apartment and then sat to watch TV for a while. He watched a rom-com that had been recorded. He cried a little, but he had plenty of tissues.

He woke up in the morning and it was late. Yesterday’s tragedy had turned into a blissful evening, but now the worries of work were upon him. When he looked in the mirror in the morning, his hair was still in good shape. He checked his face to see if he needed a shave. These days he could get away with not shaving every day.

He spotted just a few dark whiskers. It hardly seemed worth shaving. He used tweezers instead, and just pulled them out. He looked again. He used the tweezers again to pull out a few hairs under his eyebrows. Just a few. But then they looked out of balance. Just a few on the other side. A few more. He had made a bit of mess of things.

He decided to call in sick. He never did that. He was conscientious to a fault. He was always thinking of what others were doing if he was not there. He was a man without too much loyalty towards his employer – he had been stealing from them for years - but rather a fear of losing his place among his aggressive fellow workers. Fear and suspicion were his drivers. That is why he needed to escape into Molly sometimes, he reasoned. She was nothing like that.

Right now, what he really needed was a day off as Molly. In fact, as it was a Friday, he could have almost three days as somebody else and leave every other thought to one side. It was thrilling prospect.

But for now, he had an eyebrow problem. He decided to call the salon, and make an appointment.

***

“Your hair looks really good,” said Jill. “We won’t need to wash it again. Maybe just a brushing and a little lacquer. But we need to fix those brows.”

Mark had decided to wear something gender-neutral to the salon. After all, his hair looked like that of a woman. So, he wore some things from the wardrobe. Some tight slacks and a loose top, and some sandals on his feet. Underneath it all he had on panties and an empty bra. It just seemed the right thing to put on first. He had a bag over his shoulder and the slacks had no pockets and he needed to carry his keys, phone and wallet.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Jill. “But I have taken the liberty of calling Mr. Setter to see whether he will pay. He has suggested that we offer you a complete service, as his treat.”

There was a part of Mark that was annoyed that she had done that. But he was not going to interrupt his day with any thoughts of the Office, or Setter, or David, or anybody. So, he simply asked: “What is on offer?”

Somehow the idea of a body wax seemed liberating rather than the prospect of pain. He had contemplated shaving parts of his body before, when as Molly it seemed so unnatural. Instead he was stuck with long sleeves and opaque tights. It was all because Jennifer would notice if body hair was missing, and he would need to explain what he could not. Now, with no Jennifer, there could be no body hair. None at all. Drastic, but exciting. And when he put his suit on come Monday, nobody would notice.

It was a painful experience, but with the moisturizing treatment that followed, and the body made sensitive, it was electrifying. He felt truly naked. Naked and vulnerable, but not afraid. He liked to feel that way.

The work on the eyebrows seemed minor by comparison. However, the outcome of that would be far harder to hide. They were the eyebrows of a woman.

“I have taken no more off,” said Jill. “I have just evened them up. There is some length so you can brush back like this, to disguise them when you dress as a man, but they will still look plucked.” They did. This could be a problem.

“But for now,” she continued, “Mr. Setter has offered a full facial and makeup job. What do you say?”

Now, this might be a crucial point. Mark was stopping this right now. He could shave off his eyebrows and perhaps even his head, so that he could turn up to work on Monday as the victim of some terrible pranking or shocking disease whereby he had lost all the hair on his body overnight. But he liked his hair, even the way it looked now. So instead he found himself wondering how good he might look fully presented as female. So, what he said was: “Yes please.”

And a half an hour later a woman walked out of that salon. Her soft shiny bobbed hair bounced as she walked, one sandaled foot before the other. Her face was beautiful, with her dark eyes and full lashes. The bag in her manicured hand now contained the products to refresh the work done. Her head was full of the instructions that she had received on how to do it. She felt good, but she felt even better when she realized that she was the object of admiring glances.

She thought: ‘I wish I was wearing a dress’ as the waxing girl had told her that her legs were great. And she wondered what it would be like to have breasts in this empty bra, bouncing as she walked. That would be the full package.

But walking as he was, in public, in gender neutral clothes, he felt feminine and confident. In fact, in some ways he felt more confident than Mark Fowler did, with his expensive tailored suit on. Mark Fowler was a man under pressure, but the person he was now, had nothing to think about but which dress would show off her legs best.

As she walked back to the flat, the thought occurred to her that what Setter was offering was an existence as a kept woman. She could be what he suggested - a grown up version of Molly. Not childish and silly, but not burdened by doubts and responsibilities either. Was it possible?

Plainly it was not. But at least for today she was happy to continue as she. She looked in the closet at what had been provided. There was a dress in there. And panty hose. And shoes with a heel that could easily be walked on. And a little waisted jacket with floral patterned panels. Everything was in her size. It was as if Setter had asked a style specialist to fill the wardrobe, with clothes for a stylish and successful woman.

In the drawer of the tall chest she found a bra and pantie set in pink. There were also fake breasts – wobbly bags with nipples on them to insert in the bra. And there was some kind of device to conceal the penis and allow the panties to fit over a flush front. She had to calm herself and slow down, in order to get dressed without damaging any of these beautiful things with her shaking hands. She found it surprisingly easy. Even the pantyhose. Mark had seen his wife put on these clothes most days.

She took the bag again, freshening her makeup before she went outside. She just strolled around the shops nearby, browsing through clothing racks and shelves of shoes in various shops. “What a life,” she thought. All of the doubts and fears that plagued Mark, the pressure to perform, the worry of his crimes being discovered, the demands of his wife, the lack of love from his family – none of these things were in her head. She was Molly, but a Molly who could walk in the real world. Perhaps, somebody Mark could be.

When she was asked whether she needed assistance, she could only whisper “Just browsing” because she feared that her voice would give her away. She would need to fix that if she was to do this again. She wanted to, but after tomorrow and Sunday, it would all be over. On Sunday night he would need to consider how to solve his worsened eyebrow situation. Until then, he wanted to keep his head occupied only with pleasant thoughts. Feminine thoughts.

Her cellphone rang. It was Albert. “Where are you?” he said. “You are not in the flat.” He would know that. She did not like the tone of the enquiry. It angered her, but not in a way she felt was too negative.

She was in a shop. She tried to answer in her highest voice: “I’m just out window shopping.” It did not sound right, but at least it did not sound male. And it was measured, and calm.

“You’re Molly, aren’t you?” asked Albert. “Molly has stepped out.”

“Mmmhmm,” she confirmed. Molly had indeed, stepped out.

“I want to see you,” said Albert. “I want to take you to dinner. In fact, it’s too early for dinner. I want to see you now. I’ll meet you for a drink first. Are you near ‘The Admiral Byng’?

“Mmmhmm,” she confirmed.

“I’ll be there in 1 hour,” he said. “I am sure that you can keep shopping until then.”

Oh yes. She could.

***

She decided that she would be late. Albert Setter was waiting outside the pub looking for her. He looked past her first, not recognizing her until she was almost upon him. Then when he did he clapped his hands twice with a huge smile on his face.

“Molly,” he said. “I have been waiting so long to meet you. May I kiss you on the cheek?”

She offered it to him and he pecked it politely.

“I want to know if you know how to treat a lady properly,” she said. She had been practicing a voice in the park, using the recording function on her phone. It needed a lot more work but at least she would not have to whisper or hum.

“That’s all I want to do,” said Albert. “I am sure that you will pull me up if I fall short.”

“I will,” she said. “And I’ll have a drink thank you. A nice glass of white wine. In fact, if they have it, Champagne.”

He bought a bottle. It came in a bucket with two tall flutes, and, with somewhat less style, a bowl of nuts.

“You look fantastic,” he said. “Somehow I knew you would. From the moment that I first saw the little girl I knew that there was a wonderful woman just waiting to emerge. And now here she is.” He smiled and raised his glass to hers, a toast: “To Molly.”

They both drank, but then she corrected him: “Margaret. Molly is a name for a little girl, or a whore. Please call me Margaret.”

“Entirely appropriate, my dear,” said Albert, addressing her like that for the first time. To this man, this was no longer Mark Fowler. A change had been wrought. The woman with the silky dark bob, the perfectly made up eyes and the full painted lips, was far more beautiful than he could have hoped.

And as he looked at her, it suddenly dawned on Margaret that the tables were now turned. Now it was she who had power over him rather than the other way around. Suddenly she knew that she had nothing to fear from this man. He clearly was fascinated by her.

Albert asked her to talk about herself. He wanted to know more about her back story. It was all an invention of course, and unrehearsed at that. But curiously it just came forth, from the moment that she opened her mouth. She had very little of Mark in her story. She used Jennifer’s schools and some reference to places Mark had been, but Margaret’s parents and home life were a total fabrication. It was immensely enjoyable. He listened intently. She felt in control.

“Do you work?” asked Albert.

“As little as possible,” said Margaret with a wave of her manicured hand. “A little admin work, perhaps. I can’t type very well, and my telephone voice is not up to reception work. At least not at the minute.” It occurred to Margaret that she was describing any work that avoided pressure or obligation, the things that were crushing Mark.

“I have booked us for dinner somewhere nice,” said Albert. And then with some thought for the lady he was with, he added: “If you would give me the pleasure of hosting you.”

“Why certainly, Mr. Setter,” she said, graciously.

***

Margaret had decided that the restaurant was more her style. Mark Fowler had enjoyed carousing in a pub, but she was too classy for that. Shortly after they were seated she took the opportunity to refresh her makeup in the ladies room. She liked what she saw. The attractive woman with the glossy dark bob hairstyle looked professional but still feminine. There was steel in her posture and her expression. There was no hint of the pathetic little girl who gave rise to this woman. Margaret Fowler was in control. Molly was in her past.

She made a point of standing at the table when she returned. It seemed far too long for Setter to take the hint, and jump up to pull out her chair.

“Thank you, Bertie,” she said, sweetly.

Bertie. She had called him Bertie. Somehow it seemed right for the Setter whom she now saw so clearly. He was undoubtedly good at his job, but beneath the toughness he seemed to her to be a rather pathetic figure. A tranny chaser or a sissy lover. Somebody who would watch a poor creature like Molly on closed circuit TV as she went about her playtime.

He seemed a little perturbed by the name she had assigned him, but he quickly melted when she looked at him warmly and said: “Now, tell me all about yourself Bertie. I really don’t know you at all, and I am sooo interested to hear your story.”

“Well, I, …,” he began, searching for words. But then he looked back at her intently and said: “I cannot believe how beautiful you are. You can never go back. I will not allow it.”

“Go back?” she quizzed playfully. “Whatever do you mean? Go back to what?” She pretended to look at the menu.

“Go back to Mark,” he said. “I don’t want to see you like that. I won’t have it.”

“But I have to live, silly,” Margaret teased. She put a hand under her smooth chin and tilted her head. She could see the desire in his eyes. It was burning him up. She felt strong, but feminine. New feelings, but good feelings.

“You are not the only person in the firm with secrets,” he said. “It goes right to the top. I am making plenty of money. Too much for just me. You will never want for money I promise you. Be Margaret. Be Margaret forever. Be my Margaret.”

“I am not sure,” she said, looking down. “Should I have the sole or the lamb?”

***

They got back to Molly’s flat after midnight.

The logical thing would have been to not invite him up. Perhaps just allow him to kiss her on the cheek only, then bid him goodnight. But Margaret was facing a decision, and she felt that (as Mark might say) the situation required more analysis.

It had been a degustation meal that was a little light on volume, paired with wines that had been more generously dispensed. As a result they were both relaxed, if not a little drunk. Surely if she had not been she would not have invited him up.

So when he asked politely if he could come up for a while, she agreed.

“Do you mind if I get changed?” she asked. He seemed so excited by the prospect that Margaret pondered whether this might be going too far.

In the bathroom she now had an opportunity to see herself naked. From the neck up she was definitely female. Below the neck her breasts had developed quite a bit. She had previously viewed them with horror every morning. Now the feeling was disappointment. They were too small. Nevertheless, when she cupped them and felt the soft tissue of developing glands, she felt pleased. She felt womanly.

Following the waxing her skin had been inflamed. Now it was not only smooth, but soft, with the perfume of the moisturizer still lingering.

Below her chest her waist seemed thick. Perhaps a corset might help to give her shape?

Below that there was something out of place. She tucked it back between her legs. It disappeared so easily that she barely gave a thought that it even existed. After all, the legs looked so good – perhaps her best feature, below the neck that is.

She decided that she needed to tape things back. She found some surgical tape in the first aid drawer. She was unskilled in this, but she made it work. Then she pulled French style high waisted panties up her legs. She decided against a nightie, although she had just the thing. Instead she put on the apricot peignoir robe of the set Albert had sent her weeks before. It was not completely see through.

She scrubbed her teeth, and checked her hair, mascara and lipstick. Then she floated into the living room.

Albert was sitting on the sofa gazing at her. She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled at him. She thought that she could see him shudder slightly. His look was unmistakably lustful.

“Is this what you want to see?” she asked, letting the robe part so that he could see her chest and belly.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “It is more perfect than I could have imagined.” He stood up, apparently with some difficulty due to the obvious erection developing. He approached her with his mouth open and trembling. He whispered: “Can I touch them?”

She said nothing. But she pushed her breasts proudly forward.

When he cupped them, she was suddenly aware of how sensitive they were. She had guessed that he would want to do this, and she had planned to moan a little to lead him on, but she found herself gasping involuntarily. His touch did excite her.

“So, this is what you have done,” she said. “How am I expected to turn up to work on Monday?”

“I told you over dinner,” he said, “I don’t want you to go to work. I want you to be yourself, not him. I can provide for you.”

“I am not sure what you want from me,” Margaret said. “I am not gay. If you want sex, then I cannot offer you that. If that is what you wanted by having me do this to my body, then you have made a mistake.”

“I will not force you to do anything that you do not want to do,” he said.

“But you already have,” she said. “Look at me.”

He looked at her in disbelief. He seemed to be saying that this was down to her, not him. How could he think that? Was he right?

***

“You’re late,” snapped Jennifer at the small man in the pin-stripe suit. “You had best come in.”

She walked ahead of them, so she did not take any notice of the two others following her husband’s solicitor into the room. It was not until they were all in the dining room where she had laid out some papers on the table, that she found herself looking for Mark. Instead the others were a thick set fellow in a bespoke tailored suit, and an attractive dark-haired woman in a stylish dress hugging her curvy figure and narrow waist, and black patent high heels on her feet. Jennifer noted that the hem was high showing off her shapely legs, but it still looked thoroughly classy. She assumed that they were both staff from the solicitor’s office.

“Where is Mark?” she asked. “He has to be here to sign the documents. We cannot get very far without him.” She checked the papers on the table.

“I am right here.” She heard his voice. And she looked up. She saw his eyes, but outlined in black and with long painted eyelashes. The woman in front of her was her husband.

“You have to be joking,” Jennifer said, the amazement on her face evident. It took her a moment to consider what was going on. She knew that her husband had a fetish, something long ago put out of her memory, but this was no costume. There was hardly a trace of a man in the person she was married to. Then there was the thick set man, sitting far too close to the transvestite, and with a look in his eye that was decidedly odd.

“I am here to sign over the house to you, and the joint account,” this person said in a voice that was no longer her husband’s. It was higher but husky. It was a woman’s voice, saying: “I have no need of it”. And a woman’s hand held the pen – a hand soft and pale, with long shaped nails painted pink.

Jennifer’s stomach turned. She felt disgust and sadness together, and suspicion. She needed to say something. Something mean and spiteful. “So, you’re gay now?” It was all she could come up with.

Without responding, the papers were signed, and shunted down the table to be witnessed by the solicitor.

“What about the children,” Jennifer exclaimed, almost screaming. “What do you plan to tell them about how you are living.”

Margaret had her handbag on the table. It was a Balenciaga bag that she had chosen, and Albert had paid for. She was putting her pen back but contemplating taking out her compact to check her lipstick. Instead she reached for one of the calling cards she had recently had printed. She slid it onto the table saying: “If they want to see me, there is our address. Albert and I would happy to receive them.” It read simply: “Albert & Margaret” and then an address in up-market Chelsea.

As she stood, Albert quickly rose to shift her chair. There was a mirror on the wall, so Margaret checked the curl under of her bob – a truly feminine gesture. She could see Jennifer’s face reflected in the mirror. Without turning she said: “Goodbye Jenny.”

Outside on the step, Albert seemed relieved it was over. She put her arm through his and said: “Let’s go home Bertie.”

I don’t like you calling me Bertie,” he said. “Couldn’t you call me Albie or Al instead?”

She frowned.

***

The maid’s hand appeared to shake a little as she poured the scotch into Giles’ glass. She did not look up, so Giles could only see the top of her wigged head as she retreated.

When the door closed behind her, he said, with some concern: “Don’t tell me that is your husband?”

“Goodness, no,” said Margaret, examining the contents of her own glass. “That is Alice. She is simply an admirer.”

“That I can understand,” he said with a smirk. “But just so you know, I am not like that. If you have any plans to dominate me as you clearly do that creature, I am not your man.”

“I know that,” she said adamantly. “That is not the kind of person who can truly treat me like a woman. But I am sure you are.”

“I know I am,” he said, taking a sip of the smoky liquor.

“Alice just likes to hang around,” Margaret continued. “She just likes to see me being me. It’s a little weird I know, Darling, but she is so devoted that I could not bear not having her with me. Do you mind terribly?”

“Well I will have to get used to it, I suppose,” said Giles. “I want you, and I want you happy.”

“Oh, Sweetheart,” she said. “You say the nicest things.” She moved closer to him on the sofa and slid her hand onto the crotch of his trousers. There was an immediate response under the fabric.

She looked up at him. Her shoulder length glossy dark hair fell about her shoulders like a silk curtain. He could see that her eyes yearned for him.

He slipped his hand through the front of her apricot colored peignoir robe and felt her right breast, full and round, with a nipple now stiffening, just as he was.

“Let’s go to bed right now,” he said.

She led him down the hall, but he stopped half way.

“I need to use your toilet first,” he said. Get into bed and I will be right there.”

Alice was turning down the bed. She looked ridiculous. Albert was too big and powerful. The painted eyes and lips, and the curly blond wig could not conceal him, any more that the French maid costume. She said: “Please Margaret. I don’t want to watch.”

“But that’s what you do? Isn’t it Bertie? You watch.”

Albert thought: ‘At least she is not calling me Alice’. But that seemed nothing compared to the humiliation she subjected him to remorselessly.

She let the coat and the nightie drop right in front of him so that she could taunt him with the beauty of her body. It was a body that Albert had paid for – the perfect breasts and the new vagina, something he had yet to sample, if he ever would.

Albert could hear the toilet flush. Margaret could see the horror in his face as her lover was about to enter the room.

“All right,” she said. “You don’t have to stay. You run along, Alice. In fact, Giles finds you a little creepy, so it is better without you here.”

So as Giles entered the room, Alice backed out of it, proffering a little curtsey as she did so. She was well trained.

Margaret was still standing. Naked and glorious.

“Christ, you are magnificent,” said Giles.

Margaret pulled him onto the bed. She said: “You should have seen me when I was a little girl.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2018