Synopsis:

David's ascent, or descent, depending on one's point of view, into femininity continues with a cruel inevitability. But then a distant flicker of hope, of light at the end of the tunnel. Or will it turn out to be an approaching train? And Coralie returns, but alas no longer the girl you may remember. Oh, and some of the 'why' is revealed unto David. Not that he finds it reassuring.

Story:

Because David's tale is slow in its serialisation, and long in the telling, it was suggested to me that the following character list might help in jogging reader's memories. Hope it helps.

Characters in order of appearance/mention in Part 9

David. The hero whose adventures we follow. Generally referred to by others as Sophie. ‘Recruited’ and then subjected to months in ‘Reception’ before progressing to the ‘Holding Wing’ where the subsequent action, a part from his stay in the hospital facility, has taken place.

Laura. David’s mentor in the ‘Holding Wing’. Her other charges being Anne and Emma.

Emma. Was another of Laura’s charges, but a genetic girl. She, with Christine and Alice, represents the other, outwardly charitable, function of the Holding Wing, which is the education and training of girls coming from under-privileged and troubled backgrounds. Now graduated from the Holding wing and is a junior staff member

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician.

Veronica Staff. Tutor in Deportment

Sally Staff. Tutor in Voice Training

Ms. Shelton. Staff. Tutor in Fashion (First appearance)

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

Dr. Victoria Walters. A surgeon in the employ of The Venumar Foundation. She was responsible for his recovery after his knifing. She was previously given a passing mention in Grace de Messembry’s ‘surgical intervention’ threat in Chapter 14.

Grace de Messembry. Majority, perhaps sole, shareholder in the Venumar Foundation, which in itself is the controlling influence of numerous international companies. She is apparently the source and instigator of all David’s current woes

Anne. One of Laura’s charges. She was already at the Holding Wing before David’s arrival. Her background is that of a boy saved from drug abuse and social problems by one of the charitable organisations under the aegis of the Venumar foundation.

Daisy A genetic girl. In Laura’s group, replacing Emma. (First appearance)

Janet. Janet Saggren A colleague of Laura’s. Her charges being Christine, Alice and Coralie.

Coralie. The latest ‘recruit’ at the beginning of her feminisation. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing.

Olive. A predecessor of David’s and friend of Anne’s. Her suicide was seemingly directly related to her experiences at Rehabilitation to where she was sent for infraction of the rules.

Dr. Tabatha O’Neill. Staff. Psychiatrist.

Helen Vanbrugh. Grace de Messembry's close confidante on whom she appears to exercise a moderating influence. She was at David's first interview when he was named Sophie. It is to be assumed that she has director status in the Venumar Foundation.

Nigel. One of the boys attending the last Post-Inspection party at which he made advances to David, whose stiletto heel subsequently broke bones in his foot.

Tommy. Another boy at the Post-Inspection party. Grace de Messembry sought David’s advice as to whether he would make a satisfactory girl.

Girls of a masculine provenance seem destined to proceed to the Finishing Centre after the Holding Wing. At least Mona did. Other less complicated girls seem to graduate to the A. & A. programme (“‘Assessment and Assignment’ apparently). Emma passed through A & A before returning as assistant to Laura and Janet. Nothing is known for sure about the Finishing Centre as no-one so far has ever come back from it. All seem to be loosely grouped under the title “The Academy”

It should be remembered that the plot unfolds through the eyes of David. The descriptions of the people above conform to David’s understanding of their function, character, etc. Use of words such as ‘seemingly’, ‘perhaps’, and ‘apparent’ are because the facts, or surmises, can only be as David understands them. The reader has no other authority from whom he or she can seek verification.

Chapter 27.

The penis jerked in his hand, as the first jets of semen surged to the back of his throat, to subside into a repetitive twitching as the remainder of the cartridge’s contents voided themselves into his mouth. His cheeks bulged as a thin gelatinous trickle of the stuff escaped from the corner of his lips and a string of viscous pearls bled slowly down the side of his chin.

Eleven minutes forty three seconds. David looked at the oval, pinkish, face of his watch before rising to his feet and making for the bathroom. He was getting better at it. Three minutes thirteen seconds better. And his jaw ached less. Technique was more productive than desperate effort.

He brushed his teeth, had a mouthwash. Felt better. Not that the taste was repulsive. Quite bland really although the texture was strangely unctuous. How close it was to the real thing he had no way of knowing. Hoped desperately against hope that he never would. But the act encapsulated both his own subservience and his apparent destiny. He felt so very dirty. So very abandoned.

Three minutes thirteen seconds better. It had been far worse back there. Back in his hospital room when he had to contend also with the spectre of the pretty nurse coming in through the door to find him sucking on the false penis. And the sheer bloody obstinacy of the thing. Unyielding and unresponsive. Sullen and inactive in his hand. His mouth aching with effort. Forced back to the 'How to please your Man' DVD to learn technique. All the time conscious that she might at any moment enter. Rehearsing what he could possibly say if she did. Imagining her placing the tea tray in front of him with a smirked 'Whenever you are ready Sophie dear.'

To learn the technique was to drastically reduce the period of time in which he was vulnerable to the humiliation. At least being back in his room in the Holding Wing spared him that. Back home, hidden from others' eyes, from others' secret laughter behind well schooled expressions. Back home. Back in the Holding Wing.

At least here he had some illusions of privacy. There he had always been aware of the corridor outside. The silhouettes of others glimpsed through the frosted glass of the door. The sound of footsteps, of other unknown voices. Of an outside world complicit in his fate. Indifferent to it.

Compounded by his restricted immobility in a smaller area. A bed, the armchair alongside it. The tiny bathroom. All liable to be invaded by nurses or visitors.

Laura had arrived five minutes after Emma's departure with various 'essentials', including the abhorred ‘Oral Gratification Training Aid’ complete with a fresh box of cartridges. Hospitalisation had brought no respite from his obligation to embrace femininity. That much Laura had made plain during her visit. Not that she needed to. David was only too aware of his situation. Aware that the ice was ever thinner now that the question of the knife had been dropped into the equation. And Rehabilitation seemed an even more immediate threat with Coralie's dispatch there. At any moment David feared he might be seized and made to follow. If, no not if, as soon as she had revealed where she had found the knife. But nothing happened. Normality returned.

Or what passed for normality. The established routine of lessons, hours of instruction in the beautician's arts by Mrs Townsend, deportment by Veronica and in voice training by Sally. They at least passed the time, kept his mind from turning over and over in ever more futile speculations. Kept him in touch with some sort of reality, however unwelcome. Even a new addition, a Ms. Shelton, who had led him into the intricacies of the fashion world, had provided an interest, even a form of escape, in which he could hide from what it all meant.

The reality became nightmarish though with Mrs. Felicity Cranwell and her sessions encompassing the wilder shores of female sexuality. Her sweetly coy innuendos, her all-girls-together manner. Worse, far worse, his forced acceptance of her training schedules. His humiliation in both the act itself and in his acceptance of it. In the hospital facility it was magnified by the fear of being caught by a visitor or one of the nursing staff, whilst sucking on the damn thing. All compounded by the fact he couldn't make it work. Couldn't activate the bloody cartridge so it would, in discharging its load, bring the session to an end. His jaw, his whole mouth aching, he had had to pause and watch the accompanying DVD and study the intricacies of technique necessary to spark off the artificial penis' artificial orgasm. Time and time again, day after day. Eleven minutes and forty three seconds was a hard earned, record breaking, sprint

So his return to his room in the Holding Wing had an air of reaching a haven, of a homecoming.

Much as David hated the idea he could not deny it.

Laura had brought him back that afternoon. In a wheel chair. She and two male porters both of whom were about 6' 4'' and built like the proverbial brick outhouses. Just along a couple of short corridors and two floors up in a lift. No way to run. Even if he had known where to, or had recovered sufficiently to, or if the two hulking porters had suffered simultaneous and fatal cardiac arrests. Just corridors bounded by doors which he now knew he could not open.

Dr. Walters had removed his dressings that morning. There were only two thin red marks remaining to show where the knife had slit open the flesh across his ribs. He was assured that in another two or three weeks they too would have faded away. No need now for the heavy carapace. Just a deep bodied liberty bodice garment which held his chest firmly but lightly. It even had delicate lace edged bra cups incorporated and special lightweight breast forms had been found to give the requisite silhouette.

“Don't let it worry you Sophie dear,” Dr. Walters had said. “I know they feels all wrong. No real satisfying heft and of course they don't make the bust sway as it should, no sexy jiggle, but you will be soon be able to wear your normal ones. Just give it another week. Just to make sure.”

“I do think Grace de Messembry could have been a little more flexible about a hormone regime.” This last to Laura who had been present at the examination. “It would have made such a difference and I do think Sophie deserves every consideration after all she has gone through, and after all she will....”

Her sentence had faded in mid air. Said or unsaid though the message was the same. David shook his head to rid himself of the memory of the thought. He felt his hair brush against his cheek, his earrings lightly kiss the soft skin by his ears. The thought smiled at him gently and retreated to the fringe of his consciousness, where it jostled with other feminine concerns that now seemed to congregate there. Always present, not quite in the shadows any more, smiling at him, whispering to him.

He was to meet Laura and Anne on the roof garden in an hour. He had to get ready. Mustn't be seen looking dowdy and washed out. He owed it to them, to Anne in particular, just to reassure them that he was recovering. Dear Anne. She at least understood, even if she had accepted the ..., had made the adjustment, was now .... well .... reconciled. And there was to be the new girl there, Emma's replacement; he mustn't let the side down. Needed to support Laura.

A long hot soak was what he needed first. A long hot soak with lots of bath salts and bubbles. Time to relax, to put the last few days behind him. To think positively. But first he must decide what wear to meet them all ..... A long hot soak would help there too.

Fifty minutes later David was sitting at his dressing table, leaning earnestly forward to the mirror, as with the utmost concentration he removed a minute errant hair from what was already a perfectly arched eyebrow. With a small sigh of satisfaction he sat back and examined the result. At least his make-up skills had benefited from the long boring hours in hospital. The dusty pink of the new silk slip that Laura had given him was a bit of an eye opener. Pink really wasn't his favourite colour, he was always a little chary of it, but this particular dusky shade really was something special. And the lacy bodice and the frilled lace at the hem were so deliciously ... well frivolous. Not too mention the matching satin bows. Mmmmmm.

And just a spritz of the perfume that had been Grace de Messembry's present. Just to mark as special his return from the hospital.

With one last approving glance he stood up and went to the bed on which lay a Cacharel silk satin dress in a dusky pink only the slightest bit darker than the slip. Only slightly darker but just sufficient to give it an even more sultry look. It really was so very elegant with ribbed edging on the short V neckline, on the short sleeves and on the gather below the bust.

Ready to go. And only five minutes late. Well he was worth the wait David smiled to himself as he did a final half pirouette before the cheval glass near the door. The smile reflected back to him in the tall full length mirror. The smile of a very attractive girl. An attractive, immaculately turned out, girl.

The smile died in the mirror. Died on the lips of the attractive girl in the mirror. David found himself looking at himself, looking at David. A David dressed as a girl. Dressed by David as a girl. Dressed willingly. Christ! Dressed and prepared with pleasure, with enthusiasm even. Sophie not David

The shades at the edge of his consciousness retreated, reformed, whispered amongst themselves.

Christ! It was happening now for longer periods. Longer periods in which he would forget. Longer periods in which he would lose himself. Longer periods in which he would be lost.

Not just forget he was wearing a dress or a bra with false tits. That was easy. That was even normal. If you did it day in day out, day after day, one could not always be aware of the silk against the skin, of the weight on the chest. Of the heels and the perfume. Of all the outward trappings of femininity. The sensations were staled by custom. That was reasonable. If you twisted an ankle, burnt a finger, or even got lost in a book or heated in a conversation. For a measurable time other thoughts often took over. You didn't think 'wearing panties still feels odd and incidentally that searing and quite excruciating pain in my finger probably means I have caught it in a door, and I do so wish I didn't have to grow my nails quite so long,' .

But what was happening to him was different. Quite different. Different from the outer trappings. This concerned the inner core. Sophie seemed to take over for increasing periods of time. The increasing dreams were worrying enough but this concerned his waking hours in full daylight.

He had to fight it. The TV, the DVDs, and their hidden subliminal messages must be getting to him. But he could not escape them. Some he had to watch as part of the agreed programme. Some he didn't need to but .... Hell, he couldn't sit staring at a blank wall in his room all his solitary hours, and the books and magazines he had available were probably as insidious in their implanting of ideas!

But he must be aware. The battlefield was in his mind and he must exercise his own thoughts there. He needed to hold on for dear life to what and who he was.

For a moment he was tempted to change into something simple, less feminine than the dusky pink dress which he realised was essentially Laura's choice. “With those lightweight boobs and bodice you really need to wear silk slips so that your clothes move freely Sophie dear,” she had said. “And I saw one only this morning that I know you will just love. .... and the perfect dress to go with it! I know you will just love the colour!”

But it was too late. He was already late and the others would be waiting; and whatever he changed into would be only comparatively less feminine. He was quibbling over matters of degree. Conscious of the frilled lace of the slip brushing his thighs under the dusky pink dress he stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the roof garden.

It was early evening and warmer now than in those early days of May when he had first arrived. The roses that edged the walkways were now in full bloom and they, and the lavender that had been planted amongst them, calmed the senses with their fragrance. Laura was sitting, alongside another girl, at the small table near the bar with her back towards the steps, but Anne was facing expectantly and she was on her feet and running towards David before he had fully gained the garden level.

“Sophie darling! Dearest Sophie!” Her hug has all enveloping. Her body soft and perfumed to put the roses and lavender to shame. Supple and feminine, her hair brushing his cheek. Any vestigial traces of maleness in facial bone structure vanquished by the beautician's art. Not that one looked for traces. Her gestures and movements were so archetypal feminine, schooled by minute attention and long practice, that Anne and masculinity could surely not even breath the same air.

“Dearest Sophie!” Her hands clasping his shoulders she stepped away from the embrace and looked at him, her head slightly on one side, as a girl might regard a particularly expensive gown she was considering purchasing, holding it at arms length to catch the effect of the play of light on it. And then, as if satisfied by what she saw, she enfolded him in her arms again.

“I have missed you so much Sophie. Been so worried. We all have. And it has been just terrible not to be able to see you, although Laura has given us daily bulletins. And Emma having gone away too. It has been terrible. I have been so very worried. You must promise never to do such a silly thing again. Well of course it wasn't silly ... it was sooo brave of you. But you could have been killed and then what would we have done?”

“Put her down Anne dear. Remember her ribs. She will need to be hospitalised all over again if you squeeze her so.” Laura was there now standing behind her.

“Welcome back Sophie dear. I don't think I need to tell you how much you have been missed.” Laura's hazel eyes smiled at him, sincere, reinforcing her welcome.

Oh Sophie I am so sorry, I forgot, please forgive me!” Anne released David as if he were some fragile Royal Doulton figurine.

“It's alright Anne dear. I'm nearly mended. And anyway a greeting from you can only complete the healing process.” He smiled at her. He was glad to see her. Glad to be back here and away from the hospital facility.

“And you must meet Daisy.” Laura gestured towards the other girl at the table who had risen to face them. “Sophie this is Daisy. Daisy this is Sophie.”

David muttered a greeting to the waif like girl who stood there nervously. She was small with light brown hair and enormous brown doe eyes. Cockney by the sound of her voice but that would be schooled out of her.

“Anne has been training Daisy on how to prepare a gin and tonic in anticipation of your return,” Laura smiled. “So now is her opportunity to show what a good student she is and for you to show how good a judge you are.”

David sat there, at home but trying not to be. His gin and tonic in front of him. Ice jostling the lime as the bubbles floated upwards. It was a warm balmy evening. His companions were warm and friendly. It was Friday evening with a leisurely weekend stretching before him

He was in a sort of hell. An insidious one that seduced by pleasing. Whose kind understanding disarmed his resistance. A hell that accepted him, cosseted him, told him he was amongst friends.

Even the new girl Daisy. He had been chary at first, nervous of her. As with the nurse in the hospital facility he was hypersensitive to the fact that he was masquerading as a girl. Fearful of what she might think of him, embarrassed that he appeared less than a man, anticipating their scorn for being what he must appear to be. But if anything she seemed nervous of him, deferring to him, treating him as a senior girl. Nothing in her demeanour suggested that she detected in him anything other than a female whose accomplishments she, Daisy, was anxious to emulate.

Later Janet Saggren's group joined them. David's dusky pink dress was oohed and aahed over yet again. The tale, with individual embellishments, of the previous Friday's happenings was told and retold. David was told how brave and decisive he had been, how well he had recovered, how absolutely stunning he looked now, and how they all adored him.

It turned into an impromptu welcome-back-Sophie party. They all dined together, with joined tables and much clinking of glasses and general girlish merriment.

Later, much later when David had finally regained the solitude of his room, he undressed, cleaned off his make-up, applied the recommended night cleansing cream to his face, and crawled in his baby doll into bed. And slept.

And the dreams that came were gentle and comforting. They soothed him and spoke to him of summer evenings and the laughter of friends. Of being at home amongst those who appreciated him, who thought him amusing, and pretty, and desirable. Dreams where there was always the scent of roses and lavender in the air, always the embrace of soft supple bodies and the caress of silken hair against his cheek. What bliss to be a part of, to be at one with, such a world!

Unless of course you were a man and those attributes described you rather than others.

It was the butt plug that woke him. Seven o'clock of the morning. He didn't need an alarm clock. At seven o'clock always that spreading warmth that in turn stiffened and hardened his penis. He lay there waiting for it to subside. Trying not to touch himself, not to fondle himself, not to succumb to desire awakened in such a manner. The desire, the physical yearning for sex, was strong and so very urgent. Yet let it not be awakened, not be controlled, by that. Let it pass first. But this morning it continued until well past the five minutes which had been the norm until then, until his prostrate was itself twitching and squirming under its attention. Out of his control his cock spasmed in the dying moments of the plug's own movements. He grasped the softening organ between finger and thumb as he stumbled to the bathroom to finally release the long lumpen streams into the toilet.

Even this act seemed to no longer be under his control but could be activated without his consent. Humiliation even as his masculinity was asserted. At least he could though. For the moment. Until such time as he was put on a hormone regime that had been so often referred to. Not now. Not now they had said. But sometime surely? That much was implicit. And surely that must.... maybe it wouldn't, but surely it must? In the long term....

Saturday morning and the weekend stretched before him. Forty eight hours free of lessons on how to fulfill his feminine potential, a pause in the incessant indoctrination. But a time to be equally dreaded. Forty eight hours in which he had plenty of time to think. To brood on past wrongs and future terrors. On the terrors of an unknown that seemed less and less unknown. More and more predestined.

Dressed in a rose Cuban strap top and mid thigh black skirt of a soft jersey material, he went in search of breakfast and company. His choice of clothes was dictated by the contents of a wardrobe revamped in his absence. His search for company occasioned by his need to escape his own company and the thoughts that crowded in on him when alone.

At the breakfast table for company he found not only Anne and Daisy, but a sparkling Emma who, as she explained, was now officially joining them as assistant to Laura and Janet.

“But not till Monday darlings,” she explained. “I am just here as a friend now. I am supposed to be taking this weekend off but I couldn't wait to see you both and to tell you. We shall have such fun, and I know I can be such a help.”

So the morning meal was stretched by coffees towards noon. Gossip, and plans, and how Emma's elevation to being 'one of them' would make no difference to their friendship. And how she could help them so much. And what fun it would be. And who she could invite to the next post-Inspection party. Oh and did they know that Laura had put Michael in touch with her and that he had invited her out to dinner that very day? And how he had some dreamy friends and she was sure that amongst them there would be someone who would be just right for Anne and Sophie, and how ....

And then Daisy had to be brought into the conversation and everything had to be repeated, had to be explained to her....

And how Laura had wanted her back in good time before Coralie's return as she would be needed to ...

“Coralie? Back here?” David woke from the sedative effect of the gossip. “Is he, is she coming back? When?”

“Of course she is Sophie dear! Where else would she go? And Laura says we all have to be extra nice to her to help her get over... help her recover from.... get used to us all again and .... well... settle back into the routine here again.”

Emma's eyes turned to David in sudden alarm. “Oh poppet I know that it must be sooo difficult for you after the terrible thing she did, but you will try won't you. I mean I think you will find she is truly sorry and....” Emma floundered.

“Emma, don't worry. It wasn't her fault. I know how she felt. I ....”

David could only think 'There for the grace of God go I. Might still go if the truth about the knife is known or if.... Of if he fell into one of many pitfalls.'

He shook his head and then quietly to Emma. “Don't worry. She is a victim like ....”

'Christ be careful' he thought, 'otherwise you will follow in her footsteps.'

“I mean she, Coralie, was not thinking... I am sure it was not through malice, not through wishing to harm me, I just got in the way, was just a victim of circumstances.”

Emma rose and hugged him. “Sophie dear you are such a forgiving angel. You are just the sweetest natured girl, isn't she Anne?”

“Of course she is, but we have always known she is.” This with a grave smile from a suddenly rather subdued Anne.

David knew she must be remembering Olive's death, and wondering how Coralie had survived her spell in Rehabilitation. As was he, with the added concern of what she had said under interrogation about his part in secreting the knife. Nothing more had been said though. Nothing had happened since Grace de Messembry's visit although the fear still smouldered at the back of his mind. And in a curious way that was almost more worrying. Coralie must have known. And if she did know she would have told. They would see to that! They must know surely? And yet .... nothing?

He smiled at them. “Not an angel at all,” he said. “Just trying to be fair.”

And with that the talk strayed back into more girl gossip involving fashion, and Emma's forthcoming dinner date with the dishy Michael, and what she should wear for it.

David's weekend passed as he desperately tried to immerse himself in this humdrum feminine trivia. Anything to keep the demons of thought at bay. Not that it did of course, but at least he found minutes of refuge when the questioning was stilled. Sometimes he was too successful and he slipped seamlessly into the rá´le. Relaxed feminine moments when his training took over. When he became Sophie. Then he would find himself jerking back into reality with a start such as he remembered from college lectures when the fall of his hungover head had halted him on the brink of sleep's abyss.

More and ever more it happened. It became ever easier for him to escape into acceptance. An unquestioning acceptance where his demons of thought were stilled.

Monday brought a return to the routine of work and lectures. It was if he had never been away. Apart from the fact that he now had no hopes of escape through an unlocked door. Or of managing to acquire keys to doors. And if he ruled out doors ....?

What escape was there?

And if he ruled out escape.....?

Chapter 28.

His Tuesday's appointment with Dr. Tabatha was the first time he had seen her since before the knifing. She had, she explained in apologising for her absence, been called away for ten days on another case.

“So I missed all the excitement,” she smiled. “I gather you were quite the heroine of the hour? Grace de Messembry was quite cross with me for not being there. She felt that I had a role to play in soothing any trauma that you might have suffered. Did you? Suffer any traumas I mean?”

“No.”

“No? Most people would. All that blood. You could have been killed they say. A different angle of the knife. That is all.”

“It happened so quickly. It was over before I had time to think. Just an instinctive reaction.”

“Of course. I understand. But traumas come afterwards when the shouting and tumult have died away. In the stillness of the night when you are alone. Later, sometimes much later.”

“Not with me. I had, have other.... No, not with me. It doesn't seem to be that important.”

Dr. Tabatha smiled at him in an understanding way. “No, not that important. I don't suppose it would be. Not in the scale of things. No reliving of the moment then? No dreams?”

“No dreams of that.”

“No dreams of that.” Dr Tabatha devoted all her attention to her silver pencil as it performed arabesques in between her fingers. “But dreams of something else perhaps? I recall you accused me of inducing some by hypnosis at an earlier session.”

“I still have those dreams.”

“Which dreams?”

“Of being a girl. Each night. And sometimes even ....”

“And they are still so very unpleasant? But no, as I recall they were rather enjoyable at the time, but worrying in retrospect, on waking?”

“Not just worrying! Hateful!”

“Oh.”

There was a pause. A long pause. The silver pencil twirled in Dr. Tabatha's fingers.

“And you said 'and sometimes even'. Sometimes even what?”

“Even when I am awake.”

“You have waking dreams? Daydreams of being a girl? People usually daydream about things they desire, would like to happen. Whereas I thought you ....?”

“No, not daydreams. I just seem to forget that I am not a girl. I mean .... It is difficult to explain....

“Try.”

“I just forget I am me. For minutes on end. As long as thirty minutes once, sometimes. I seem to slip away .... into another reality. Become someone other than me..... Become....”

“Whom?”

David closed his eyes. They felt wet under his lashes.

“Sophie..... Sophie I suppose. I seem to get carried away by it all. By the femininity. More and more.”

Dr. Tabatha's pencil stilled. She nodded.

“And it is unpleasant? Unpleasant at the time? Or .... like your dreams? Only when you wake?

“When I jerk back into reality. Like wakening; when I realise what has happened.... I feel ashamed that I let myself .... And fearful that .....”

“Fearful?”

“Dreadfully. Scared to death.”

“Of what?”

“That I am losing myself. That in the future I will loose myself. Become someone, no something, other. There can be no greater fear.”

“And yet the experience itself is not unpleasant?” The pencil was moving again, turning slowly now, thoughtfully even, the fingers considering every twist.

“No.” The word emerged reluctantly. “The reverse really. When I am relaxed, contented even, I am most vulnerable to it. To .... to being other than me.”

The wetness behind his lashes, seeped out, and gathering itself into a small tear, crept out from under the mascara, over the liner and trickled hesitantly down his cheek.

“And?” The prompt was a gentle one.

“That is the worst of all. The real me knows knows neither contentment nor relaxation. How can I? The real me is in a hell from which I can only find relief, escape from, by ..... by not being me.”

There was a almost inaudible clink as Dr. Tabatha laid the pencil down. She sighed.

“I do not know how I can help you Sophie. I am supposed to help you find peace of mind, to ease mental anguish, but such relief is what you fear most.”

David was beyond words. The tear channel felt cold on his cheek. He knew words would undam the lurking flood. A nod, eyes downcast, was all he could manage.

Dr. Tabatha's low voice seem to come from further away. It sounded strained. Almost as if she too was caught up in an emotional involvement. But perhaps it was just that David's consuming misery formed a layer of insulation around him.

“Eventually you will have to come to terms with the situation Sophie you know. I can smooth the jagged edges for you. But only you can solve what now appears unsolvable to you. Only you can choose. And mean it. Accept or reject.”

“I can choose? Choose? What choice have I?” David's voice twisted bitterly through his choked throat, the words falling, dead weight, between them.

“Only you know the answer to that Sophie. Or can arrive at an answer to that. And mean it. And accept it. Whatever it is. Only you.”

She picked up her slim silver pencil again.

“In the meantime Sophie dear, lets see what a little hypnotherapy to ease away the tensions, clear away the extraneous clutter.”

She sensed David's reluctance.

“As ever Sophie you have my word that nothing I do will be harmful or against your interests. And again I assure you that I cannot make you more feminine or less masculine by one iota. It just doesn't work like that. Sometimes it might be easier if it did.”

She moved the little video screen in position and flicked a switch.

“Just relax,” she said. “Watch the screen and listen and relax .....”

The curious, now becoming familiar, numbness crept through David's limbs as he listened to her voice softly, soothingly, cajoling, gentling him. Speaking of fears that were not fears, of the need to be at one with himself. Calming him. Calming him, David, by name, and allaying any worries of loss, lightening his despair. Nobody had called him David since he came here. But now she did. Now Dr. Tabatha did. Allaying anxieties and asking him to relax, to .....

And it is true that when he awoke he did feel calmer, more relaxed; although of course nothing had changed. Nothing, just as Dr. Tabatha had foretold.

Nor did much change for the rest of the week. The lessons continued. With Sally for Voice Training and Veronica for Deportment. Sessions with Mrs. Townsend which delved ever deeper into the art and application of cosmetics, and with Ms. Shelton who led him into the highways and byways of fashion.

And with the disturbingly salacious Mrs. Felicity Cranwell, more journeys into the dark world of Female Sexuality. With great pleasure, and even greater insistence, she announced that she, Sophie, could now graduate from the initial butt plug to the second size. “Only four to go after this darling,” she had exclaimed with her trade mark girlish enthusiasm, “and then you will be ready for all eventualities. Such a lucky girl!”

Early Thursday morning, David had a visit from Dr. Walters.

“Just a check-up Sophie to make sure all is progressing well.”

And all apparently was. No inflammation and the scars, although still there, were far less red. and already smoother against the surrounding skin.

Dr. Walters smilingly broke the glad tidings to David

“Grace de Messembry will be so pleased Sophie! I promised her that there would be absolutely no mark on your breast and it very much looks as if my optimism was justified. Indeed I do think that you will be able to go back to wearing your proper breast forms in time for tomorrow's Inspection. So very satisfactory!”

David had forgotten about the Inspection. Well not forgotten exactly. That was not possible as it, and the need to prepare for it, be at one's best for it, was a constant refrain. He just had not realised that it was so imminent. Perhaps it was that he had forgotten it was Thursday or that Friday followed Thursday. Or that it was nearly a fortnight since the skirmish on the roof garden.

“Just one little proviso, Sophie dear, you must wear at least a light corset or some form of bustier to support the weight rather than an ordinary bra. And absolutely no adhesives!”

She smiled at David encouragingly.

“But I am sure that Laura will be able to find you something ravishingly pretty that will fit the bill. And at least you will be able to wear your clothes with more confidence. Balance and feel are so important. Dear Veronica was telling me how difficult it has been for your deportment with those flimsy foam things. No heft to them. No heft at all and .... well no sway, no jiggle.

Hardly had the door closed behind her than David was dragged from his contemplation of the morrow's meeting with Grace de Messembry, by the familiar double tap that presaged the entry of Laura.

She had not been so ever present since his return. Emma's arrival to help her and Janet Saggren had seemed to have had the effect of making the two mother hens busier than ever as they showed their new assistant the ropes. Or perhaps it was just that she was concentrating on preparing Daisy for her first hurdle. David and Anne seem to have been promoted to school prefect status, largely relied upon to ask for help and guidance as and when they themselves felt the need, rather than being forced fed. Not that any lapse or lack of enthusiasm on David's part passed unnoticed. Reminders of his promise to, his bargain with, Grace de Messembry, and the sure and certain consequences of any breach of such, arrived swiftly enough if he was at all lax in his pursuit of femininity. But it was as if Laura felt that the crucial stage was over and that she could relax as far as he was concerned and concentrate on other priorities.

As if he had already been consigned to the file marked 'Inevitable — Just Aid Achieve Perfection'.

The aid to perfection this time took the shape of a selection of light corsets and bustiers suitable for his breast forms as suggested by Dr. Walters. David forced himself to enthuse as Laura spread the garments out, held them against him, and then helped him try them on. His body had forgotten the heavy sway of the Venumar forms. Dr. Walters had been right. The difference in posture and movement was marked. So much more natural to be feminine in movement and gesture. Looking down at the softly swelling mounds under the scalloped
lace edge of a pretty champagne satin bustier, David again saw through Sophie's eyes, and smiled an unforced welcome at the return of the enhanced femininity.

Perhaps Laura sensed it, for she too smiled gently and caressed his side in a sympathetic, girl to girl gesture, running appreciative fingers down the silky material.

“So much nicer Sophie dear, so much nicer. It's by Favia del Core, one of the new generation Italian designers. So romantic the tapestry satin, with the ribbon lace front and back. And a snap front .... so practical!”

She giggled.

“And it comes with matching g-string panties which are perhaps not so practical for you darling. Such a pity! Still something to aspire to perhaps....”

This last casual phrase jolted David back to himself. He wondered if Laura had dropped it in on purpose as a test. She wasn't normally so careless. She didn't say things that might ..... might alarm. And 'something to aspire to' certainly did alarm in that context! But if she had she gave no sign and seemingly did not notice his mental shift, as she enthusiastically extolled the virtues of the bustier's detachable lace sleeves that could be worn on or off the shoulders.

A couple of hours later the alarm bells rang again. A loud, strident, tintinnabulation.

They were about to start lunch. David was hesitating between a delicate beef consommé and some chicken pate, allegedly home made. Anne and Daisy had already opted for the former but thought they ought perhaps to wait for Emma who had, so Anne said, promised to join them.

And at that moment Emma did. All smiles as she came into the restaurant and hurried towards them. Hurried towards them trailing Coralie in her wake.

The latter was outwardly just the same as the morning David had last seen her. At least at a distance. Blonde, pretty and petite with a flawless complexion. David thought now, as then, how well they had chosen, Grace de Messembry and her nameless talent scouts. She was still a trifle unsure on her 3” heels and her movements were stilted and artificial. Not, David cringed at the thought, as polished as he was, certainly not in the same league as Anne, but the potential was there as it had always been.

And yet there was something different. Before Coralie had radiated vitality. A vitality born of defiance, sheer bloody mindedness, a snarl at all-powerful authority. Perversely it had made her more alive, more vibrantly attractive in being what she rebelled against being. Even at her most sullen her energy had smoldered. Awaiting to erupt.

As she drew near David could see she was now but a shadow of what she had been. Now all had changed. Now she was trying. Trying desperately to achieve grace and femininity. She walked erect, her chest proud to display her breasts, her hips moved self consciously as did her elbows and wrists. All wanting, wanting so very much to do the right thing. To be girlish. To be what she was meant to be. To fulfill the destiny ordained for her.

And all that wanting, all that desperate, febrile, wanting was concentrated and reflected out through her large blue eyes, under her mascaraed lashes.

Those waiting at the table were on their feet as Emma stepped slightly to one side to allow Coralie to greet them.

“I am so very, very, sorry.” The words tumbled from her lips, repetitive, incoherent; but no-one could doubt their sincerity. “Please forgive me. I am so so sorry .... It will never happen again ... I promise! I am so ashamed! What must you all think?”

She turned to David, tears streaming down the satin of her cheeks, “I don't know what to say. Just that I didn't mean to hurt you .... That I am so sorry. And after all that you had done to help me, to help me understand... What must you think of me? Please forgive. I am soo.... soo...”

She stumbled and half fell into his arms, her head buried on his shoulder, her body shaking.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I will be, am, such a good girl now.”

The poignancy of this last phrase distilled into a pain in David's own heart.

His arms closed round her back. Held her tight. It was an automatic an action as when he had tried to intercept Coralie's knife nearly a fortnight ago.

“Don't worry,” he said. “Of course I forgive you. Nothing to forgive really. You poor darling, such stress.... Please don't cry.”

Over Coralie's shoulder, David saw Emma watching him. Saw her incline her head slightly in a small nod of approval. Saw that Laura had now also entered and was standing watching.

The sobbing slowly died down, reduced to sniffling and then silence. David unwrapped his arms and exposed her to the gentle forgiveness of Anne.

Then they all sat down and ate. Coralie first refreshing her make up in an attempt to repair the ravages caused by her grief. The conversation was artificial, all apart from Coralie making resolute efforts to skirt round the events on the roof garden. Trying to draw her into more general conversation with little snippets of compliments as to how pretty she looked. Coralie herself could not stay away from the subject of her contrition for long though and kept returning to it with promises of how she would make it up to them all in the future by her exemplary behaviour.

“And I am sure I don't deserve it, but Grace de Messembry was so sweet and forgiving. I was worried sick that she wouldn't let me have this second chance to find my true self.”

David choked over his sea bass and needed to drain his glass of white wine, aided by some helping pats on the back by Laura, before he could nod his appreciation of this evidence of their benefactor's generous nature.

“I feared she would just throw me out, abandon me, after what I did .... But she was so kind as to say that she still believed I had promise.”

Coralie's gaze turned on Anne and David.

“You must adore her so. And I know she thinks the world of both of you. All I had to do, she said, was to follow your example. To apply myself whole heartedly to the task before me and that all the support in the world was here to enable me to achieve perfection.”

David felt a chill creep in the central core of his spine. He daren't speak. He knew both Laura and Emma were watching him. Hopefully for different reasons.

“She, Grace de Messembry, told me that if I could blossom as you two have done then all her work would have been well worth while. That my success that would be reward enough for her.”

David could not trust himself to speak. Thankfully he left Anne to enthuse over Coralie's new found conviction and to promise all possible help in her endeavours.

“You are amongst friends here darling Coralie. Truly you are. We are just so glad that you are back with us.”

The spine's chill became a shiver. David looked down and saw his breasts quiver slightly, felt their new weight. Unconsciously his hand rose to them. His exquisitely manicured hand with the perfect lacquered nails and the pretty sparkle of the ring. He could not afford silence.

“Yes Coralie darling. Of course you can count on us. On our friendship. You know you can.”

It was lame. But it was all he could manage.

She turned towards him and he knew then that behind the desperate wanting that he had first read in those large blue, carefully accentuated, eyes there lay something else. Something that gave the eyes an extra darkness. It was not something that you could see, not something you could identify. More like the image of a void. A black hole which had found refuge there, hiding from space. The mirror image of an abyss into which those eyes had once looked. An abyss in whose depths they had seen things that should not be seen. And which would ever rest in the memory, haunting the very soul.

David remembered Olive's suicide and although he, please God, would never fathom its full depths, it came to him in a harsh blazing insight why she had sought death.

Chapter 29.

'Click-clack, click-clack.' His heels beat out the rhythm to the sway of his hips as he ascended the steps to the roof garden. As his head rose above the floor level he could feel the sun warm on his face. It was early and he was the first to arrive. Laura and Emma, with Mrs. Townsend in close attendance, were devoting all their energies to perfecting, as near as was humanly possible, the grooming of Daisy and Coralie. Even Anne, herself quite impeccably arrayed and prepared, hovered round offering advice, encouragement, and carefully judged, confidence boosting, flattery.

David had fled. His needed time, if only a few minutes, away from it all.

He was, he knew, beautifully turned out. He did not need Laura's and Mrs. Townsend's assurances, although of those there had indeed been plenty. His hair was longer and fuller now and the weeks of care and conditioning had allowed a cut that softened his face so that in conjunction with Mrs. Townsend's cosmetic wizardry, no casual observer would ever detect any trace of masculine bone structure in his face. Just the elegance of a rather beautiful girl blossoming into her early twenties.

His dress flowed around him, a deceptively simple dark russet sleeveless dress in pure linen. Long, reaching to mid calf, slightly fitted and seductively styled with a jellabah neckline and high side slits to mid thigh.

Grace de Messembry would be well pleased with the progress he had made, with this outward confirmation of his embracing of femininity.

As was becoming the norm he had slept well too, awaking refreshed and bright eyed after a night of content and ease. Not perhaps dreamless for at the edges of his consciousness he could remember, if not the dreams themselves then their general tenor. But that too was the norm and, as always, he was grateful that the detail escaped him.

Perhaps then Grace de Messembry would have reason to be well pleased with his inward progress too, he thought bitterly, if she could but know his mind. The thought occurred to him that perhaps she could. It provided no comfort.

He stood at the edge of the garden, staring through the glass panels that had been erected after Olive's death. How many weeks had it been? Five? Christ not even quite five! He was aware of his ghosted reflection in the glass. The reflection of a very attractive, utterly feminine, girl. A girl whose appearance he himself was feminine enough to identify with. To regard critically and to appreciate from a female stand point.

And the process seemed unstoppable. Resistance took him down the path of Olive and Coralie. The one dead, the other .... well he only knew that Coralie's fate was not to be envied. Better to be Sophie than to be what Coralie had become.

An unstoppable process. Hope of escape was a dream that had vanished at Emma's revelation about the VeriChip implants. He would need wings to get out of the Holding Wing alone. And as to what lay beyond....?

And staying here would lead inevitably, sickeningly, to what they had in mind for him. And, as he increasingly knew, some degree of acceptance by him. Some degree? What did the word 'some' signify? It would be acceptance. He would be broken.

Just like the branches? He had almost forgotten what had once been his burning resolve to solve that mystery. It seemed increasingly academic. What matter the reason why now? And anyway that too had proved beyond him. Unless bare branches was just a slang term for what he, Anne and Coralie were....? No that did not make sense either. And what had China to do with it? None of it made sense. Mona must have been mistaken. None of it .....

“The others are on their way. If they all look as stunning as you Sophie dear, poor Grace de Messembry will have absolutely nothing to complain of.”

Lost in thought he had not heard Anne's approach. She stood by him now, her perfume sweetly fresh in his nostrils.

“Thinking of Olive darling? I often do. And now poor Coralie... Please Sophie dear, promise me you won't....”

Other feet clattering on the stairs. Voices chattering excitedly. Anne reached out with a gentle reassuring grip on David's arm as they both turned towards the new arrivals.

“.... won't do anything silly darling.”

Hardly had Emma arrived shepherding Daisy and Janet Saggren's three girls, than there was a rather more restrained tip tap of heels and Grace de Messembry and Helen Vanbrugh, smiling and talking to Janet and Laura, were amongst them, composed and serene as ever.

Loathe Grace de Messembry as he may, David could not but admire the perfection of her beauty and social grace. As a mere male David would just have marvelled at her. Now with the advantage of force fed feminine awareness he had an even greater appreciation of just how rare a creature she was. In any company but her's, Helen Vanbrugh would have been the central point of interest; alongside Grace de Messembry she was merely a background figure.

Laura had once described Grace de Messembry to David as the only woman she had ever met who when she left a room, other women could not recall quite what she had been wearing. Her presence transcended detail.

Now all the charm was in evidence as the two visitors circulated amongst the little crowd. Daisy and Coralie were the centre of interest and David managed to escape with a murmured greeting and a few compliments. As the Inspection proper got under way David sat with Daisy and Anne making light conversation, each awaiting nervously their turn for the grilling to come. Emma had joined Laura and Janet as part of the charmed circle around the inquisitors, Grace de Messembry and Helen.

One by one the girls were called to the examining group. Daisy first, then Coralie, Christine and Alice.

“Saving the best until the last as always” Anne giggled softly, reaching out and resting her hands gently on David's hand rested gently on David's. “Don't worry Sophie dear, you look as pretty as a picture. Just be careful, think before you speak and remember your lessons. Above all give her all the confirmation she wants. Let her think.... “

“...she is winning.” David finished the sentence for her. “That at least won't be difficult.”

And then Anne too was called away to face the the questioning. After her session she had just time for a whispered “It's O.K. She's in a good mood,” as she crossed with David as he hurried to obey his own summons.

And so it seemed. He was greeted with warm smiles Helen waved him into a chair opposite her and Grace de Messembry. Janet and Emma stood behind, spectators, but Laura moved round to stand slightly behind his right shoulder. David remembered how she had done so at his first Inspection. Giving him support; protection if needs be. And he was grateful now as then.

“But how lovely you are looking Sophie dear,” Grace de Messembry purred, her voice silken with appreciation. “Such a wonderful recovery I hear from Dr. Winters, and now I have the proof before my own eyes.” Those same green eyes sparkled with a pleasure that almost completely masked the quiet amusement lurking deep.

“Thank you Miss de Messembry.” David heard his automatic response as his head inclined briefly in acknowledgment. “Dr. Walters as been very kind.”

“And Dr. O'Neill tells me that you seem to have no inner scars either? So resilient!”

“I am fine thank you Miss de Messembry. Everyone has been very kind and helpful.”

“I am sure that all of us here will find ample repayment in your continued progress Sophie dear. Tell me about that dear. About your progress I mean.”

She smiled at him. David had rehearsed this moment in his mind. Again and again, foreseeing the question. When it came he was lost. The bright, confident, hypocritical, response lost.

“My progress? I.... I think it is going well. And ..... “

Then in desperation.

“Well I mean no scars and I am feeling.....”

The shake of Grace de Messembry's head conveyed infinite patience.

“No Sophie dear. Don't be obtuse. I want to know about how you see your journey into femininity. I can see it that externally it is a credit to you and all the staff here, you're well on your way to becoming such a pretty girl, but how do you feel in your innermost self? No longer any foolish hankerings after an irrevocably dead past?”

She half turned in her chair to address Helen Vanbrugh. “I have always thought Helen that, deny it though she may, dear Sophie's progress has always suffered from being haunted by ghosts of what might have been. However committed she is to fulfilling her bright new destiny, she has never really managed to shake off a certain negativity in her outlook.”

Helen looked grave but, Grace de Messembry swiveled back to address herself to David again, she gave him a slight smiling nod of encouragement, of warning perhaps.

“You may be right Grace, but she has had a rather traumatic time of late and it may well just be an unconscious reaction to all the excitement. Is that not so Sophie dear?”

“Yes Miss Helen. I do try to be positive Miss Grace. Really. To be as feminine as you require, to be all that I promised.”

“Sophie dear, it is not a question of being as feminine as I require. My only concern is that you find whole hearted fulfillment in your chosen path. I thought we had agreed together that the feminine state was one that you wished desperately to achieve. I remember you promised me to enthusiastically embrace it as quite the best option open to you. Now if you are having second thoughts all you have to do is to say. Then we can discuss where we go from here. All I want is your happiness Sophie dear. As I think I told you last time, I would like you to think of me as an elder sister. One who only has your best interests at heart.”

The corners of her beautifully formed lips twitched slightly. Her smile was frank and encouraging.

David began to panic. He felt the sweat form. Laura put a hand on his shoulder.

“I do, really I do Miss Grace. I expressed myself badly. I meant to say that I wanted ....?”

But Grace de Messembry seemed not to notice. Not to be listening even. Her thoughts were elsewhere. Off on a tangent.

“Have you had a chance to chat to Coralie since her return Sophie dear?”

“No Miss Grace. Well that is I have met her and chatted of course, with the other girls over a meal, but ....”

“You know I am relying on Anne and yourself to help her find herself. Just now I thought she seemed a little disoriented, Not quite herself. Rather sad even. Of course I may be wrong. What is your impression dear?”

“She .... she seems much improved, much more feminine Miss Grace. As I say I haven't had much time to ....”

“Much improved. More feminine .... Yes I am sure you are right Sophie. She certainly is much more feminine isn't she? I noticed that too. All that old rebelliousness completely vanished. Don't you agree dear?”

“Yes Miss Grace. As you say she is .... is much more at ease with herself, much calmer now.”

“Yesssss.” With the long sibilants Grace de Messembry seem to weigh David's opinion. Turning it round. Looking at it from different angles.

“A change of air, of environment, such as provided in Rehabilitation, can indeed do wonders Sophie dear. And yet I do still worry a teeny bit about the poor girl. She does seem to have lost that vital spark that can make all the difference between a girl being merely pretty rather than really ravishing. Much calmer is all very desirable in her case no doubt, but it can be taken too far.”

She smiled conspiratorially at him. David was aware that Helen was watching him intently also. The sweat was running down his body now. Pooling cold under the breast forms.

“As with most things”, Grace de Messembry mused, “there is is a price to pay and sometimes one wonders if ....? But why should you worry your pretty head about such abstract questions which are of no concern to you Sophie dear? No immediate concern at least.”

The smile on the face of the tiger.

“All I want is to stress how much I am counting on you to help Coralie. To lead by example really. Show her how much fun being a girl can be. Help her recover the spark that she seems to have lost. Will you do that for me Sophie dear? “

“Yes. Of course Miss Grace. Anything I can do .....”

“I never doubted it for a moment. You are becoming such a sweet, good natured, girl! Now where were we? You mustn't let me get side tracked Sophie dear.”

“Grace I do believe you get carried away by your own oratory.” This from Helen. “You were questioning Sophie's commitment to femininity and then wouldn't stay long enough to hear the poor girl's protestations. It really is too bad of you to upset her so.”

“Upset her? Really Helen what a thing to say! I haven't upset you have I Sophie dear? All I want is what is best for you. All my girls are precious to me of course but I confess Sophie has wormed her way into my affections and has a special claim on my interest.”

She smiled beguilingly at David. “Dear Helen is so sensitive! And so very protective of all our little brood here! Sophie dear I am sure however you do not judge me so harshly. You know that I have only your best interests at heart and if I have your word that you really do delight in all aspects of your journey here, that you have never been happier, then of course that is quite good enough me. No more needs to be said on the subject.”

A delicately raised eyebrow added emphasis to the implied question. Grace de Messembry's lips parted slightly as if to savour the expected response.

David knew he had no option but compliance. The discussion on Coralie's progress had not been quite what it seemed.

“Miss Grace, of course, I truly fully accept and .... and welcome .... being a girl, and appreciate all the help and support here ....all the, your, kindnesses. And I am so sorry if my inadequate responses earlier gave you cause to doubt that, to think otherwise.”

“How sweet of you Sophie dear! And are you truly happy?”

David bowed his head. Knew defeat.

“Yes Miss Grace. Truly happy. All my dreams are of being truly female.”

That at least, he thought bitterly, was true.

Helen was smiling at him. Again the slight nod. This time of approval perhaps. Laura's grip on his shoulders relaxed.

Another bridge crossed. Burnt behind him.

Grace de Messembry was gathering up a few papers on the table in front of her. Putting them in a slim folder of dark green Moroccan leather and discrete gold trim. And then.

“I almost forgot. How remiss of me. I promised to review the matter of the proposed little surgical modification at the next Inspection. Alas we were somewhat side tracked then by poor Coralie's outburst of temper, but at least it has given us more time for reflection.”

Her voice radiated judicious concern.

“As I recall Helen and Laura persuaded me that it would counter productive, a reminder of lost masculinity if anything. What do you think now Sophie dear? After all you are the one it is designed to benefit. Do you think it would help you to concentrate on those little feminine actions and mannerisms that need to become instinctive?”

“ No .... No Miss Grace. Or rather yes .... I mean yes, they have become instinctive. I don't forget anymore. I am truly much more feminine now. Things like that, sitting I mean, and other things are quite instinctive. Why I even dream as a female. I mean No. No I don't think it would help. It would still be counter productive. Laura and Miss Helen were quite right.”

“Sophie dear. You sound quite flustered! I can't think why. I am only thinking of your own good. Trying to help you. You know I would not do anything to upset you. Your interests are quite paramount dear. You have my absolute assurance that nothing will be done against your wishes unless we feel that the long term benefit to you overwhelmingly outweighs any trivial, personal, short term considerations.”

She smiled reassuringly at an ashen faced David.

“It was just that I thought Sophie dear, that having met Dr. Walters, and having struck up such a rapport with her, you might have been less worried about the mechanics of the operation and seen only the benefits that would conceivably accrue.”

“No Miss Grace. I mean I do like Dr. Walters and she has been very kind but I am becoming, have become, so feminine now that I don't think that it would help. The surgical intervention I mean. I don't think it would help.”

Grace de Messembry nodded, apparently considering carefully what would be best for him.

“Right then we will leave it open shall we dear? See how you get on. After all the option is always there if required in the future isn't it?”

She completed the transfer of her papers to her case and smiled benignly at David.

“And you Sophie dear? Have you any questions that you would like to ask me before we join the others? “

The idea took him by surprise.

“No Miss de Messembry, I don't think so. You have made everything perfectly clear.”

“I am sure we understand each other perfectly dear? But you have really nothing else troubling you? Nothing at all?”

David wondered desperately if he had forgotten something.

“No Miss Grace. Nothing ....”

“That's good dear. It is just that I thought you might be a teeny weeny bit concerned about that curious affair about the knife that Coralie used? So glad you have put it out of your mind. Even Coralie seems a little confused. The poor girl was not herself of course, so her account is naturally somewhat garbled. And mere speculation on what is passed is a singularly futile pursuit don't you think. Particularly when there is so much in the future to enjoy. So much to achieve.”

She rose indicating that the interview was at an end.

“I do so envy you and the other girls Sophie dear. On the threshold of it all. Such an exciting journey towards a fulfillment still to come.”

The smile was beatific.

“Let's go and relax over a drink. I do so think we have earned it.”

Bar Grace de Messembry's usual little speech, saying how well they had all done and announcing that Laura's little group had just scraped home to win the contest and that accordingly all her girls would receive presents of perfume and lingerie, that was it. Another Inspection over.

But not the customary post-Inspection party on the roof garden. It was much as David remembered from his first weekend. Mid June now with the evening sun warm on his shoulders, the light touching his earrings and the necklace arrowing towards his cleavage. The same seductively styled dress, the same long Italian boots. Largely the same company too. Anne of course and Emma too. The latter circling the impromptu dance floor in the arms of the ensnared Michael, her beau from that same evening that now seemed such an age ago. Some of the same male guests too. No Nigel certainly who was still limping badly, or so Grace de Messembry had informed him earlier.

“I know that you will be terribly disappointed that poor Nigel will not be able to make it this evening Sophie dear,” she had said. “The unfortunate boy can still hardly walk. Just don't damage the new guests, if you can help it though. You have no idea how difficult it is becoming to find presentable young men.” She had smiled roguishly at him. “And we need some in reserve for the future. One must distinguish, if only slightly, between girl fodder and cannon fodder.”

No Tommy either, although no reason was given for his absence. And the thought preyed on David's mind that he might already be being softened up in the isolation of one of Reception's bleak little cells.

Here, not so many yards away from those cells, it was all very civilised. Another world. Soft music playing, attentive handsome escorts, and the roof garden making a quite idyllic setting for an intimate summer evening party. Girlish laughter matching the polite murmur of the boys' voices as courtesies and compliments were exchanged. Ice tinkled in the in the crystal glassed Pimms. House martins wheeled overhead and, high above them, swifts performed scimitar winged arabesques. Another world. But in reality only a progression on the same theme. The same bricks and mortar, the same restraints, the same destiny

Grace de Messembry's appearance had been brief. She had arrived with Helen Vanbrugh, trailing behind her a gaggle of invited young males. Once these had been cast off to make their own way in the little social world, the two women had circulated independently, drinks in hand, being sociable with the girls.

“You really are looking lovelier than ever his evening Sophie dear,” she had said. “I am really becoming quite jealous!”

“You mustn't tease me Miss Grace,” for once one of David's carefully prepared phrases against such an eventuality, had sprung to his mind. “Alongside your beauty, any claim I have is mere impertinence.” It sounded clumsy.

Grace de Messembry had laughed delightedly. “What a sweet girl you are Sophie dear. But you have no need of such a silver tongue. Particularly as you are the possessor of such other attributes. The paying of such compliments is best left to the men folk. That is one of the few things they are good for. All we have to do is acknowledge them gracefully and wait for more substantial tokens of appreciation.”

“Yes Miss Grace.”

“Don't be so po-faced Sophie dear, you really have such a lot to learn about men and their usefulness in the feminine scheme of things. That is really what I wanted a word about dear.”

“A word? About men Miss Grace?” David had felt the unease that invariably half paralysed him in Grace de Messembry's presence, rocket upwards.

“Yes. It is such a lovely evening,” Grace de Messembry's gaze had swept appreciatively around the scene before her. “And I want you to take full advantage of it. As regards the men dear. It really is time you started to learn how to deal with them and in this cloistered setting you normally have so few opportunities. So I will expect you to make the most of it, of this evening.”

“Make the most of it? But ..... But ... Miss Grace, you don't mean that I should....? Please, I don't think....”

Grace de Messembry's delighted laughter had trilled out, so that several heads had turned in her direction.

“Sophie! Sophie dear, what a sexy little vixen you are turning out to be! So quick to find a naughty innuendo! No darling, I do not mean you to bed the assembled guests. Just to treat them normally. Dance with them, flirt with them a little, let them know that you are a girl. Practice some feminine wiles on them. Find out what makes them tick.”

David had felt a hot blush creeping up from his neck into his cheeks.

His tormentor's amusement had bubbled over. “On what a goose you are Sophie. I just want you to behave like a girl. Explore the potential your femininity gifts you. Delight in it!”

The green eyes had sparkled.

“You don't need to play the wanton dear. Not at this stage anyway. Unless you absolutely feel you must that is? Unless some young man triggers off an irresistible urge!”

The elegant eyebrows had risen inquisitorially.

“But originally all I wanted to do was to ensure that you had a lovely time with the young men I have brought for your entertainment. And to urge you to flirt with, rather than maim, them.”

David had stood silent before her sensing her genuine amusement, embarrassed beyond words.

“Sophie, you really are a delight. I am so very pleased that you were recruited to our little exercise. Our little community. I can't wait to tell Helen what a forward little minx you are turning out to be!”

And she had passed on to talk to Daisy, still smiling to herself.

Shortly afterwards, she and Helen had made their farewells and left. Laura and Janet had not tarried long after, leaving Emma in her new role as the sole representative of authority. Not that Emma was interested in wielding it, her attention being devoted to securing her prey, Michael.

David was conscious though that, whereas authority might lack a rigorous representative, it was still there, its ubiquitous surveillance systems watching and listening. So he had tried to comply to Grace de Messembry's thinly veiled commands. He had smiled at the men, held interested eye contact, acknowledged compliments as graciously as he could, shown amusement when appropriate, admiration when called for. He had flirted with them.

He had accepted invitations to dance. In the slow smoochy numbers he had let himself be held close, feeling his partner's body pressed against him, forcing himself to respond with pressure from his own groin when hard, erect maleness was pressed against him, and hands gently massaged his lower back and buttocks emphasising the contact. He had leant his head on their shoulders and allowed his hair and perfume to seduce their senses. He had sighed contentedly when they had kissed his neck, nibbled his ear.

He had accepted their offers of drinks. He sought refuge in the numbing of the senses that alcohol gave. He needed it to get through the evening, to allay the self disgust that his behaviour aroused. That he had no choice did not seem a justification, but just another side to his own weakness. He became distanced from his surrounding. The noise, the faces, the words were all perfectly clear, but as if witnessed through a thin partition. As if they were but ghosts, or perhaps more correctly as if he were the ghost amongst them, the living, by some curious error.

His feet were killing him. Squeezed toes sore, ankles aching, as were the calf muscles still not fully accustomed to dancing in 3” heels. He pleaded that he had danced enough. Begged them to remember that he was only out of hospital and that the evening had been too great a strain for an invalid. Someone called Jason was still persistent in his attentions, laying his fingers on David's, trailing his hand on his shoulders when he passed his chair, but David hardly noticed now, accepting it as part of being what, who, he was. Anne was busily fending off the attentions of a blond haired youth called Ben whom David vaguely recognised from the earlier party a month ago. She seemed in a state of suppressed excitement, had been so since the Inspection and had obviously news to share, but so far the opportunity to do so had not arisen. In the meantime she was dealing competently, if unenthusiastically, with her admirer.

Emma and Michael seemed to be inhabiting a small cocooned world of their own. Lost in mutual adoration they were making plans for meeting again later in the week. David tried not to think about what Emma's new found freedom meant. Tried not to remember when he as a young man could date a girl in a place, at a time, of his own. He took another sip of his drink, smiled absently at Jason, gently withdrew his hand out of his reach, and sought distraction in the doings of the others.

Christine and Daisy were in the arms of their partners, close wrapped in their arms, swaying rather than dancing, their feet hardly moving. Alice and Coralie were standing by the bar with the remaining men .... David's eyes suddenly came into sharp focus again. No they weren't! Well Coralie at least wasn't. Had been when last he looked. But wasn't now! Maybe she had gone for a pee? Alice was there with two men. Two? There should be three! Grace de Messembry had brought a surplus male. A reserve she had called him. “Just in case dear Sophie takes a dislike to one and maims him,” she had said.

David suddenly felt connected again. They were supposed to be looking out for her. She was vulnerable, so vulnerable. His eyes scanned the garden. No sign of her, of them. Of either of them. Perhaps she had gone down to the main floor? No. No-one could use those stairs in high heels without alerting the entire building. There was only one place she, they, could be. The bar area fronted the wooden summerhouse, but behind it there was a largish room with a table, a couple of chairs and storage cupboards; and beyond that a small kitchen area and the toilets. Or rather a toilet. The little girls room which, on occasions such as this, lost its feminine exclusivity.

David's unease grew. Olive's suicide had happened a few days after her time at the Rehabilitation Centre. And now Coralie ....

He rose, his hand reaching for Anne's shoulder. “This little girl needs to powder her nose,” he simpered. “Coming girls?” It was out of character. The phrasing, the tone of voice. Even coming from one conforming to an stylised ideal of feminine behaviour, it was over the top. It would have taken much more than that to penetrate Emma's preoccupation with Michael but Anne picked up on it immediately.

“Of course Sophie darling,” she trilled. “The boys will just have to do without us for a few minutes. Absence makes the heart grow so much fonder darlings! Just chat amongst yourselves about boring old football.”

She blew a mocking kiss at them as she too rose and, hurrying, caught up with David as he made towards the summer house.

“What's the matter?”

He stopped and turned towards her.

“It's Coralie,” he said. “She's vanished. I think she must be in there.” He inclined his head towards the summerhouse. “And I am worried. It may be O.K., but, well I don't think she is in any state to....”

“No she isn't, You're right Sophie.”

David saw his concern suddenly mirrored in her face.

“The windows. At the side. Let's try the kitchen. The loo one's opaque,” she said.

The side window was half obscured by trailing purple wisteria, and the lighting in the kitchen was minimal, but it was enough to reveal Coralie jack knifed forward over a table, the skirt of her dress piled up on her back, her panties wrenched down around one splayed ankle and now caught under the heel of her elegant court shoe. The soft light picked out the white globes of her arse cheeks framed by the tightly stretched black straps of her garter belt. Her whole body lurched rhythmically, thrust forward relentlessly by the penetrating strokes of the cock of the man standing behind her. Thrust forward and then falling back on the reciprocating piston recoil as if fearful that the maleness filling her would escape.

Both seemed oblivious of the other. Each lost in the fulfillment of their own lust. The motion of their bodies synchronised to the grunts, the little moans and cries that escaped their lips. Two creatures in rut.

Anne and David stood there, momentarily frozen, as Coralie, apparently consumed by her passion, raised her head and then they saw the tears streaming from her staring, unseeing, eyes. Tears rolling fast down her face, trailing mascara lines in little runnels in their wake.

Chapter 30.

“Let it be. Let them be.” They turned to find Emma standing behind them.

“It's too late now.” Her hands gently but firmly held their upper arms and steered them away.

“But she was crying Emma. In distress. We must help. It can't be right!”

In David's mind's eye the image of Coralie's grief stricken face lingered, starkly real and urgent.

“It would only make things worse Sophie dear, if we all charged in on her now. It would make her feel guilty, ashamed, dirty even. It has happened. If we had been more alert perhaps ....” Emma shook her head wearily. “But we weren't .... and even then.... Let her be Sophie, Let her be dear.” .

“Emma she was being raped. Raped. We must....”

“No she wasn't Sophie dear.” Anne broke in. “No she wasn't. Emma's right. She has been programmed. She probably instigated it. Led him on. To intervene now would be to make things worse. Emma is right. Leave it be. Come away.”

She moved round to David's other side and Emma and she together steered him away from the window.

“But you saw her tears. Tears streaming down her face. Tears. She was in terrible, heartrending, distress”

“The tears were Martin's, Sophie. Martins, not Coralie's.” Anne's voice was infinitely sad as if she too shared the desolation that loss brings.

The gentle sorrow was echoed in Emma's words too.

“We witnessed a catharsis Sophie. The death of Martin. They were his tears, not tears for him. Coralie needed to rid herself of him. To move out from under his shadow. That is why she ....... why she sought sex. She has no choice. It is required of her. To be penetrated. To explore femininity to the full. It is her salvation. Without that life would be unsupportable. As Olive found it to be.”

Anne was reflective, quiet in her own memories, remembering the choices she herself had made.

“You can't be two people Sophie. Certainly not after Rehabilitation. Not when you hate what you once were. Loathe the conflict between what you once were and what you are destined to be. Coralie now passionately desires to be a female. Martin was the symbol of the maleness that now revolts her to the very depth of her being. And so Martin had to die. It is very simple. The tears were his farewell.”

She repeated quietly to herself, more for her own benefit than that of her listeners.

“Very simple. Once you have been there. I only glimpsed it. But it was enough.”

They joined the others at he bar. In their absence their partners had quit the table and joined Alice and the two other male guests at the bar. Emma thrust a large measure of single malt into David's hand. He drank deeply trying to control his shaking hands.

There was the sound of furniture being moved, of a door closing, from the room behind the bar, and a man appeared. The man whom David had seen a few minutes ago with his penis embedded deep inside Coralie. He was smiling in a self satisfied way and as he emerged from behind the bar itself he gave a broad knowing wink to the other men; a confident enquiring smile to the girls. The smile of a man confident in his own indisputable maleness and the attraction that such had for the other, weaker, sex.

David turned away and moved on leaden feet out to the other side of the garden looking out through the plate glass panels at the darkling landscape. The landscape of another country.

There was a further bustle at the bar and he turned to see Coralie re-emerge from the back room. She paused, turning to examine herself in the mirror on the wall behind her, smoothed down the back of her dress, and then dropped a mocking curtsy to the others, the men and the girls. She made a little moue to her recent lover. “Don't you think at the very least a girl deserves a drink after that darling?” She enquired sweetly, moving close and proffering her lips for a kiss.

The party broke up shortly afterwards. Emma resumed her mantle of authority and gently chivvied them to drink-up before escorting the guests down the stairs and out. Out to the world beyond. Coralie and the rest of the girls departed to their respective rooms. All apart from Anne who came over to David, carrying with her the remains of the malt which he had left on the bar.

“You forgot your drink,” she said, handing the glass to him, companionably taking a small sip from her own. David looking down at his glass saw little circles form on the surface of the whisky as the tremor in his hands communicated itself to the liquid.

There was silence between them for a while. And then, softly, tentatively.....

“You remember that other evening here Sophie dear? When I told you of my visit there .... to the Rehabilitation Centre. That preview? The glimpse they gave me?”

David nodded.

“Coralie had the full course. A whole fortnight. As Olive had.”

David looked across the countryside, to where in the distance the lights of a village were flickering in the encroaching dusk.

“It is best for her now Sophie. Please understand. She cannot go back. Cannot now even meet Martin in her mind again. Must not remember who, what, she once was.”

David nodded, struggling towards an acceptance of what she was telling him.

“What you, what we, saw tonight Sophie, was Coralie seeking to divorce herself from a past that to her now seems beyond all horror. She was trying to find a way to achieve contentment in her ordained future.”

Anne shook her head. Her dark bobbed hair swirled across her neck and set her earrings a-sparkle.

“I express it badly.... I can't find the words .... Unless you have been there yourself... Pray Heaven you don't .... But Emma was right. Coralie now has no other option. All we can do is give support. Try to help her be Coralie.”

She smiled. A trace of sadness in her eyes, but an echo more from the past than a present sorrow.

“As I have become Anne.”

“I promise”They stood there together in companionable silence lost in their own thoughts.

Then David remembered.

“Anne, earlier on, before the episode with Coralie, you seemed.... I had the impression that you had something to tell. Some news ....?”

She smiled at him, the excitement seeping back. “

Yes, I have Sophie dear, I wanted to tell you. Only its terribly hush hush. It may not even happen, well it will happen but not now.....” She took a deep breath. “It's really a secret but there is no harm in me telling you, although it's not certain, but Grace de Messembry intimated that the next Inspection might be my last!”

“Your last?”

“Yes, she said, gave me to understand that she was pleased with my progress and that there would be a vacancy at the Finishing Centre shortly and ....”

She saw the look in David's eyes.

“Oh Sophie It will be awful leaving you. But neither of us can stay here for ever you know. And I want to move on now. I need to be what I have to be. It is important now for me....And I have still another fortnight here even if....if all goes well””

“Yes of course you have to go Anne darling.” David's tone was flat. “I am just being selfish. It is just that I will miss you so. But if you really want to go, then of course you must, and I am glad for you.”

He managed a smile. Tried to think what it would be like without her support.

“But Sophie darling, I am sure you will be joining me soon. Really you are such a lovely, attractive girl now. You will be moving on as well soon, I am sure. It is just that, well I think you have to want to.... inside.... and I'm not sure if .... yet.”

She moved to put her arms round him, comforting him.

“I know it is what you want though Anne and I am truly pleased for you. And we shall keep in touch until we do meet again.”

“I am not counting my chickens just yet though,” Anne smiled. “It's just a possibility. I shall probably be here for ages yet, You will be glad to see the back of me when I finally get my marching orders.”

“I could never be that Anne,” David said. “Glad to see the back of you I mean.”

“Yes, I know. But it must be a secret, our secret. Till I know for sure. You mustn't mention it to anyone. Promise.”

“I promise.”

They stood there in the enfolding darkness, silent until again a clatter of footsteps on the stairs heralded Emma's return.

David drained his glass, savouring the final drops as they both turned to greet her.

“Bed time.” she said. “Thank God we have the weekend before us in which to recuperate.”

“Will Michael figure in the recuperation?” asked Anne smiling.

“He'd better!” was the reply.

Back in his own room, David extracted his feet from the high white leather boots and massaged his toes. He unfastened his stockings from his garter belt tabs with practiced ease and carefully peeled them down his legs. There was a roughness there, on thighs and calves, and he knew he would have to apply depilatory cream in the morning. The white Jean-Paul Gaultier dress was carefully smoothed out and hung in the wardrobe. He sat in bustier, panties, and slip before the mirror of his dressing table and carefully removed his make up and applied night cream.

Then to the bathroom, before divesting himself of all his undies and slipping into a silken dream of a nightie.

He didn't need to think about it any more. The actions came naturally now, automatically. It was what one, a girl, did before she got into bed.

It was what David did every night, without fail, before he got into bed. What he would continue to do until ....

He slipped between the cool sheets and lay there in the darkness. Tired and needing sleep. Needing to escape the fears that tormented his day, but dreading the relief that sleep would bring. Knowing that the comforting dreams that would soothe and comfort his spirit would involve him in being Sophie.

And so, at last, unwillingly he slept.

And he dreamt, as he had known he would, as he always did nowadays, of pleasant things, of gentle things. Relaxing, comforting dreams that refreshed his soul and brought him to the dawn refreshed.

Refreshed. Until he woke into that dawn and the reality came flooding back in. But there was increasingly a lull before it did. More and more the dreams seemed to extend a little into his waking moments, while reality waited outside, leaving him in peace a few precious moments longer. Just a few moments longer as the girl in the dreams.

So the days passed. The routine was established. After the weekend, when femininity had actively to be sought as a leisure pursuit, came the weekdays. Days filled with the relentless tuition sessions honing his feminine skills, deadening the memory of past male behavioural patterns.

Days when his acceptance of his status as a girl was assumed. Because non acceptance was unthinkable.

Even Anne assumed it. She was far to considerate of his feelings to mention it of course. Or perhaps she just thought it a fait accompli, or a fait soon to be, inevitably to be, accompli, and therefore not worth the mention. But David could see that she considered that his path must inescapably lead him to where her's had, and that his own acceptance of that must follow as night follows day. As her's had.

Emma too. And Laura. They watched his struggles with a sort of sad resignation knowing that there could only be one end. As one might watch a dear friend suffering from some obstinate mental aberration, stubbornly refusing to see what was so obvious to all the others. Bearing with him in his folly, ready to welcome him home when he at last could bring himself to admit the error of his ways. The ruin of his hopes.

Coralie in all probability did not even notice that he clung so desperately to whatever inward vestiges of male identity remained to him. She only saw the pretty girl, with the evermore accomplished female mannerisms and habits, and envied him for his skills and proficiency in the femininity to which she herself now so fervently aspired. Sophie and Anne had become role models for her as she strove desperately to make up for the extra weeks' immersion that they had had in which to absorb their destiny.

And as for the tutors, to them he was another girl who needed polishing, refining so that she could become as near a perfect example of her kind, whatever that was, as their not inconsiderable expertise could make him. Failure didn't come into it.

Perhaps Dr. Tabatha O'Neill knew differently but if she did she gave no sign.

And then it changed quite unexpectedly. Or at least appeared to. Or gave the glimmer of a chance of changing. And it came from an unexpected source.

The next weekend turned out to be wet. Constant drizzle with a grey sky presaging yet more drizzle to come. David was emerging with the others from a talk on 'Fashions in the Twenties', a Saturday treat kindly organised as a diversion by Ms. Shelton, when she called him back.

“Helen Vanbrugh asked me to tell you that she wants to see you,” she said. “Now. In the library.”

“Now?”

“Well she said at your convenience after this talk. You may interpret that as you will but.....”

David found her sitting reading at a table at the far end of the room. She stood up as he entered and smiled a greeting.

“Sophie dear, so glad of you to drop in. I do so hope I have not torn you away from the other girls? I know how irritating it can be to have one's precious leisure time eaten away.”

“No Miss Helen, please don't apologise. I am at your service naturally.”

“Dear Sophie, now you mustn't stand on ceremony. I am just here as a friend. For an informal chat. This isn't an Inspection. Just a little talk between friends dear.”

She gestured to one side and David saw that someone had left a selection of drinks on a tray with in an adjoining alcove.

“Perhaps you will do the honours dear? I will have a glass of the white wine please, whereas I believe you might prefer a gin and tonic.”

David moved over to the alcove and busied himself as instructed, whilst she demonstrated the art of doing nothing with skill and grace. As he had so often observed, she was beautiful indeed, immaculately turned out in what must qualify unjustly as casual wear, superbly sculpted dark blue slacks and a simple linen top that fell over breasts that needed neither emphasis nor flattery, with a fine cashmere scarf in a sort of modern paisley design, draped carelessly, artfully carelessly, over her shoulders and side. Obviously benefitting from the same schooling as Grace de Messembry in all matters pertaining to elegance and comportment, her presence was electric.

“Cheers Sophie dear,” raising her glass fleetingly in David's direction before touching it to her lips, “your very good health. Now please sit down and let's have an old fashioned natter. And please Sophie I do so earnestly assure you that this is most definitely not a case where things may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

She slid into a chair and motioned for David to do likewise. The tray lay between them, slightly to one side.

“If you just tell me what you think I want to hear we won't get anywhere Sophie. I certainly won't learn anything new and nor will you dear.”

The dark brown eyes assessed him carefully. Searching how to win his confidence.

“Just a girl-to-girl chat. No strings to it, no secrets between us, no recriminations afterwards.”

A warm smile.

“Although I have just a sneaking suspicion that for you a girl-to-girl chat may not be quite the attraction that some may think it?”

David said nothing. His throat felt suddenly a little dry. He sipped the ice cold drink. Tasted the juniper through the quinine and lime.

“No matter.” Helen continued. “What do you think of Anne? I think you have become close friends”

“Yes we have. Become friends. I am very fond of her. She has shown me great kindness.”

“And Emma, and Laura too. You have the gift of making friends, of attracting people. You even intrigue Grace. And of course I too find myself having a quiet drink and a chat with you. People like you, sympathise, empathise even, with you.

“I have always liked people.” It sounded lame.

“But Emma and Anne have become important to you? Understandably of course as the only ones you could trust in this place. The rest of us are all suspect to say the very least.”

“Yes. Even with Laura. I can never be quite sure although she has been kind, and I ... and Dr Tabatha said that I could..... Trust her I mean. But then Dr. Tabatha is .....”

“....also working for the Foundation, and, in spite of all her protestations, might equally be lying through her teeth.” Helen Vanbrugh smilingly finished the sentence off for him.

David looked down at his glass. Too wary to reply. The conversation was heading for, had arrived in, sensitive areas.

“For what its worth Sophie, Dr Tabatha is very strict about all matters she considers ethical. Grace teases her about it even, and admittedly it can be an irritation, but she couldn't really do her job otherwise.”

She ran her finger round the rim of her glass reflectively. “But then I would say that wouldn't I? That is your problem, our problem, isn't it. There is no point that is marked 'The truth starts here'.”

David sipped his drink. Giving himself time to think. The truth seemed easiest.

“Yes. I know I am being manipulated. I cannot take anything at face value.”

Helen Vanbrugh nodded.

“Of course you are being manipulated Sophie dear. The process involves considerable manipulation. And from our point of view of course we cannot take everything you say at face value either, can we dear?”

“But that is not fair!” David indignation over rode his prudence. “I have to dissemble. It is required of me. I have to conform. If I don't you....”

“Mmmmm I could argue dear that conforming does not necessarily involve dissembling; accepting is a viable option. But the point I am trying to make, without allocation of blame, is that all this uncertainty as to where truth begins and ends does muddy the waters of communication between us. We can at least agree on that, can't we?”

“Yes. I suppose it does. But I don't see how agreeing on it alters it.”

“Being open about things always helps Sophie; hopefully we can build on it.”

She swirled the wine round in her glass in an elegant twisting movement of the wrist, seemingly absorbed in watching it drain down the sides.

“But to get back to your friends. Emma and Anne. The former now has other responsibilities and is, well, perhaps slightly distanced now by what you may regard as thirty pieces of silver, whilst Anne awaits her imminent departure to the Finishing Centre. You will find it rather lonelier here in future.”

David was suddenly alert. Anne had said it was a secret, a possibility only, but a secret and he had promised ....

Anne's departure? I don't know. I.... What departure?”

Helen Vanbrugh smiled gently at his discomfiture.

“Don't worry Sophie. I just assumed she had told you of the possibility. It would be natural for her to do so and there is no harm at all in your knowing. In fact I am pleased she has.”

David tried to look non-committal, neither denying nor confirming the fact.

“You can put her mind at rest Sophie; tell her that her place there has been confirmed. It will be formally announced at Friday's Inspection and she will leave at the weekend. Laura of course knows and doubtless Emma also now.”

“I will tell her,” he said. “She will be pleased. And you are right. I will miss her.”

Helen Vanbrugh sipped her drink and looked at David in a silence that seem to drag out, minutes long.

“You don't have too,” she said. “There are two vacancies on the intake. You can opt to go with her. I have a proposition for you.”

David saw the ground open at his feet. It must be a trap. Perhaps even worse it could be quite straightforward, all that it seemed to be. To be sent to the Finishing Centre. To be finished. To be completed. To be a girl.

“Such hesitation Sophie dear? My, my for a girl committed to the pursuit of her femininity you seem somewhat reluctant to seize the opportunity? I had hoped you would be delighted.”

“Miss Helen, it is just that it takes me by surprise. Anne is so much more accomplished than I. She has been here longer, and .... And I don't even know what the Finishing Centre is really. I don't know what will be expected of me there. What it will do to me?”

“Then let me enlighten you Sophie dear. In the interest of that openness and truth of which we spoke earlier. Firstly the Finishing Centre. The name really says it all. The process, of which you are experiencing the initial stages here at the Holding Wing, is carried to its logical conclusion there. This is quite a makeshift operation here really. An environment originally designed to help underprivileged and destitute girls find new identities, new lives, has been expanded to serve the same purpose for males, starting them on the path to the same female destination.”

“Against their will!” David blurted out.

“Sometimes against their will. Yes.” Helen Vanbrugh acknowledged. “That is one of the differences between here and the Finishing Centre.”

“It is different there? One has a choice?”

“Yes it is different there. A lot more freedom. And there are lots of choices. But not the one to which I think you refer alas. The difference is that all there do desire to be female from the moment of their arrival. Otherwise they would not have been offered a place there. They have already made that choice.”

“Here in the Holding Wing we just bring them to the point where they make that choice and are happy in having made it.”

“And they do? Happily make that choice?” David's voice was low, intense.

“Yes Sophie dear.” Helen's voice was gentle. “They always do. Eventually. It is inevitable. It is not really a question of choice at all. It is just an acknowledgment of what they have become.”

“No! That cannot be.”

“Sophie you said earlier that Anne was more accomplished than you. Well perhaps she is, fractionally. It was really my second point, but .... Go and look at yourself in the looking glass there dear.” Helen Vanbrugh nodded to a full length mirror that was on the wall next to the door, a standard location in all the rooms. “And tell me what you see.”

David went and did as he was bid. Stood there staring at the reflection of a pretty girl, standing easily in a naturally elegant stance. One hand touching her hair in a feminine gesture, the other smoothing her dress down the side of her thigh. Remarkable only perhaps in the perfection of make up and hair which indicated a high degree of sophisticated care. He tried to relax, to be more himself, but only succeeded in looking rather gauche, in a particularly feminine way. In the back of the mirror she could see the reflection of Helen Vanbrugh smiling knowingly at him.

“I don't need to say anything do I Sophie dear,” she said. “Just look and be honest with yourself. Look carefully. And be realistic.”

David turned away. Retraced his steps to the table. Sat down and took a long swig from his glass. Saw his painted nails around it. The ring sparkling on his finger.

“You have been here six weeks,” she said. “Not even six weeks indeed.”

“It is just an outward show,” David said defiantly.

“That's not quite true though is it Sophie? Now you aren't really being honest with yourself. There is more, we both know there is.”

David put his glass down. It was empty. Helen Vanbrugh nodded to him. An assent. She reached over and dropped to ice cubes into his glass. He picked up the wine bottle and topped up her glass before giving himself another gin and tonic.

“And after another six months dear? And we might even cheat a little you know. So many ways of doing that. Really believe me, we are only haggling over a time scale. Better get used to being Sophie”

She sipped her wine and pursed her lips in a little gesture of appreciation. It made her look very sexy.

“Would you like to hear more about the Finishing Centre? Then I can put my proposition to you. If I read you aright dear, I think you may be agreeably surprised by that at least.”

David nodded. There was no point in not hearing her out. And he might learn something useful. Not that anything would make much difference.

“As I was saying, the Finishing Centre exists for the sole purpose of allowing you to complete your transition. Hormonal treatment is naturally a standard procedure. As you are probably aware, within the Venumar Group are to be found leading companies in this field of whose expertise full benefit is taken. There are also a couple of minor surgical interventions to supplement such, none of which, to allay any fears you may have, are either irreversible or painful. There are available a full range of more serious surgical procedures up to and including full gender reassignment surgery. The latter right at the cutting edge of modern surgical technology as indeed are all our in-house procedures.”

She pulled a wry face, smiling, at the unintentional pun.

David's world seem revolve. He sought to steady himself.

“You offer me a vacancy there. You expect me to .....?”

She waved the question aside.

“All these more drastic 'improvements' Sophie dear are only carried out at the behest of the girl herself. Nothing is done unless she desires it.”

“I expect they do though? Don't they? Desire the ops. I mean.” David's sarcasm was bitter.

Helen Vanbrugh affected not to notice it.

“Yes Sophie almost invariably. After all that is what they are there for. It is their ultimate gaol. If they didn't ask to complete their journey it would be a failure for all concerned.”

“And that is your proposition Miss Helen? That I take up this opportunity to accompany Anne on the next stage of her journey?”

“It is your journey as well Sophie dear remember. But yes .... and no. I have a slight variation in mind for you.”

“What.” A flat question. It was far too serious a matter to elaborate.

The question was answered by another. One that stopped David dead. One to which he had been searching for answer since he first woke up in Reception months ago.

“Do you know why you are here dear?”

“No.” Jesus Christ she surely wasn't going to tell him that? Now?

“We need data. On the feminisation of males. How to feminise them, most efficient methods of so doing and accompanying downsides. The effects of, sources of raw material, potential success rates, sexual behaviour of finished result, psychological profiles, ethnic suitability, etc. The list goes on and on. So many categories. I won't bore you with them. Indeed I can't remember half of them myself.”

She smiled at him.

“Basically you are an essential part of a far reaching and in depth field trial. A global one.”

“Why? Why? In God's name! Why?”

“Well that is not far me to say alas Sophie dear. I personally can see no harm in you're knowing, but company policy decrees otherwise. It is a very sensitive area with government's involved and you know how paranoiac they can be about the left hand not knowing what the right one is doing. Not letting the right hand itself know most of the time even. National security and all that.”

“The bare branches?” A bow at a venture. But it had to be.

“Ah yes I heard that you were asking about those. Such a clever girl. Yes Sophie dear, bare branches refer. But beyond that dear I am afraid my openness does not extend. The ultimate reason is anyway irrelevant. What is important is that you understand that whilst the process of your feminisation is of great interest to us, our interest, commercially at least, stops there. The finished article is free to do whatever she will. Go wherever she will.”

“You don't care do you? Don't give a bugger about people as human beings!”

“On the contrary Sophie, I care very much. Believe it or not so does Grace also. You, Anne, and Mona, Coralie even, are particularly close. From the very beginning we have seen all of you develop here in this U.K. facility. We have all become involved in your fortunes. As I said you have the knack of getting people to like you. True we only get to know the girls from the other countries when they arrive at our Finishing Centre, when their decision is made. But, without exception, all our girls prosper when they leave us. They have opportunities that they would not otherwise have come near to. We see to that. All are at least reconciled to their new life, The majority prefer it. And I know it may strike a jarring note with you, but their financial future is assured.”

“As was Olive's!”

Helen Vanbrugh bowed her head. Studied her own glass.

“Yes. That was indeed a tragedy. There is no excuse. We caused her death and it haunts us.. Rehabilitation was in it's early days then. It is still not a success. Nowhere near it. It creates more problems than it solves. Dr. Tabatha is scathing about it. We are improving it, but then, well then it failed....”

There was a silence between them. David was still livid, his indignation boiling bitter deep within him. Deep beyond the reach of words.

“It may be little consolation to you now Sophie,” Helen Vanbrugh continued, “but your flat is still in your name. All your bills are settled promptly as they arrive and a salary in line with the original recruiting offer is paid into your bank monthly.”

His flat seemed far away. Unreal. Of no concern. There was no future worth considering.

“I tell you all this so that what I propose will make sense.”

Her voice seemed to come from a distance.

“In a field trial we need a constant. Something to measure the performance of others against. To gauge the effect of our treatments.”

“We are all just statistics to you. My destiny is to be a statistic. If I were to be sold off as a whore then at least there would be an honest useful end to it.”

Helen Vanbrugh sighed, and seemed to steady herself. Her voice was low and patient.

“Listen Sophie. Listen to what I have to say. I could send you there as such a girl. I know the principal of the school well. She is a personal friend of mine. You may recall her from your first interview. I will speak to her to see if she will agree to you being the one who receives the placebos. So you don't have hormones, that any injection or small intervention will be for conformity only. That you maintain your physical integrity free of any introduced stimuli.”

She paused watching David carefully. Trying to reach him through his mingled anger and despair.

“I cannot guarantee anything at this stage. The final decision must be her's. It is her responsibility. But if you like, if you agree, I will try.”

David roused himself. Perhaps after all ... He looked up. Interest, hope even. beginning to stir.

“Why me?”

“It has to be someone.” She shrugged. “And I think perhaps we owe it to you Sophie. After the way you acted over the Coralie affair. Her attack on Grace. And perhaps because I think, and Dr. Tabatha agrees incidentally, that your acceptance of your femininity is not as deep as others might believe.”

She smiled.

“I am torn a little bit. I think you would make a lovely girl. And I think that when you have accepted that you will have a rich and happy life. But perhaps you have earned the right of choice.”

He nodded, His mind racing, looking for snags, for hidden agendas.

“And of course you may still. I hope you do. Fully accept your female destiny I mean. At the Centre you will still be subject to all the other pressures and influences contrived to lead you down that road. And never underestimate the peer pressure of the other girls, not to mention the distance you have already travelled. It may already be too late after all.”

She eyed him, seeming to add up, to calculate. his chances.

“Do you want me to try? To arrange it?”

He nodded. It might be a snare. But it might be genuine and at least it offered a chance.

“Yes. Yes please. And thank you Miss Helen.”

“Two conditions that you must be aware of Sophie dear. Two caveats that if broken would cancel it.”

The snag! David thought. The bloody snag!

She read his thoughts.

“No. Nothing untoward. Nothing to worry about Sophie. The first is just good practice. The second is in your interests.”

She watched him relax slightly.

“Ideally no one on the programme should know that one amongst you is being treated differently. Not even the person concerned. It skews the result. That is standard practice. But we have no option. You do know. We can't draw the names out of the bag and chose by hazard. That would be depriving those girls who seek femininity of their desired aim. But no-one else must know. The principal herself will of course as will those assessing results and monitoring progress, but they are not the people with whom you will normally be in contact.”.

Helen Vanbrugh paused to marshal her points.

“It is vitally important Sophie. Great care will be taken to ensure that your treatment will superficially be identical to that given to the other girls. For the good reason that most will not know, and those that do cannot admit it, you must never refer to this to any of the staff there. Not to the Doctors, nor tutors nor administrators, not to Grace de Messembry, particularly not to Grace de Messembry. Not even to myself again. If you do they will deny it. If you insist you will be put back on the normal programme. All that we discussed here forgotten. Do you understand?”

"Yes, but what if ....”

“No 'but what ifs', no exceptions. Do not mention it, hint at it to anyone.”

“And the second proviso?”

“The second condition follows naturally from the first. It is in your interest, in case the environment there does indeed dissuade you from your present inclination. Because you must not refer to, or hint at, any difference in your treatment, should you request, or volunteer for, surgical intervention that will be taken as a sign that you wish to end your special status. For example should you ask for breast implants then from that moment onwards your pills, injections etc., will no longer be placebos but the real thing. Indeed you will doubtless be put on a crash course to enable you to recover lost ground. Such will be irrevocable.”

David tried to grapple with the information. His head was spinning.

“Do you agree Sophie dear? Should I try to intercede?” Helen Vanbrugh asked. “Will you go along with Anne to the Finishing Centre? Or bide a little longer here in the Holding Wing until such time as an offer such as this will be .... well quite irrelevant?

Notes:

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