Chapter 3

I forced myself to be aloof, to block out the sight of casual murder, and to make sure it wasn’t going to happen to me. Back in our part of the prison, Dirk gave Cloe a hug and a kiss, and then turned to me, to hold me close and deliver a kiss as gentle, but more urgent, than the one that Spike had given me last night.

Bull, who had stayed in the cells to keep guard of our little section, then spoke.

“Boss, Marshall came up while you were outside, and told me that Doctor Mark will be here next week, for two days. I hope that I wasn’t being a smart-arse, but I told him that he should schedule Delia for Tuesday.”

“Well done, Bull. I think that I can wait for a little while longer to savour her delights. I do love a bit of tit sucking. Cloe, can you make sure she’s ready for Tuesday morning? No breakfast as Doctor Mark likes to start early.”

Cloe nodded and we left the others to enter our cell.

“Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It does. By Tuesday afternoon you’ll have your own breasts and will be well on the way to satisfying Dirk. When we go to the Library, on Monday, there’ll be a package for you, with some happy pills to take on Tuesday morning, as well as a sachet of evil stuff for you to put in water and drink on Monday night. You won’t get a lot of sleep because you’ll be on the latrine all night. I’ll send a message tomorrow, to get you some soft bras for after the operation.”

“So, who is Doctor Mark?”

“He comes every now and then to look after the girls in the women’s prison. Some of them get money so that they can have an enhancement while still inside. He must do a dozen or more each time he’s here. He owes Dirk a lot of favours, as a mixed he was having a lot of trouble finishing his education under apartheid, and Dirk got him into a college that had a more forgiving system, which they had to keep secret from the government. I believe that they gave classes in an old church, to give gifted coloured’s a chance of a good life.”

The rest of the day passed quietly, with me now having a lot more on my mind. I did ask Cloe if taking a book out of the Library was allowed, as it would help to pass the time once I was on my own. She thought that it would be all right, as long as I kept it out of sight, in the hessian bag, when taking it to the cell, then taking it back.

The following day was Friday, our next Library day. Cloe had been given the papers to go out. I was looking forward to this, time away from the cell and a decent meal wasn’t to be scoffed at. It all happened in a similar fashion to the previous time. The only difference was that while we were having lunch with the guards, a new face appeared and ordered me to follow him. He led me to a small medical room and proceeded to give me a full check-up, making notes as he went. He was very nice and then told me that he would see me on Tuesday, as he would be putting me under. As he walked me back to the canteen, he told me to plan to look after a ‘D’ set when they had finished.

I told Cloe this when we were alone, and she grinned.

“I think Dirk could be in love. None of us had bigger than ‘C’, so he must be planning to keep you around. You may have got under his skin more than you did with Spike. Those babies will ensure your future when you get out, with your looks you’ll be a stunner in the right dress.”

Saturday was our laundry day. Cloe and I had two bags, each. One for our underwear, and the other for our dirty jumpsuit dress. We were then given one big bag with our companions’ washing. When we finally got to the laundry, I was staggered to see the size of the room and the number of machines. We got our own loads going first, and then turned our attention to the huge pile from the rest of our wing.

There was a pair of rubber gloves which I was told to put on, so that I could sort through the piles. All of the bloody, and soiled, items needed to be dropped into a bubbling vat. The rest went into the washers, moving to another when the first was set going. It wasn’t the nicest job I’d ever had, but we kept at it until the earlier washing machines stopped. We transferred the clothes to the driers and then I had to pull the soiled items out of the vat and load the vacant washers. Our own things had been washed and dried, then put into the bags we had brought with us.

With all the machines chugging away, Cloe pressed a button by a door, and we left the laundry, going through doors that opened as we approached, until we were back in the canteen. There, we had a nice meal, a good bit of talking to the guards, and were then sent back to the laundry to finish the job. By the time we had emptied the last of the driers, I was feeling that I had really done a days’ work. I now understood the plight of girls in the women’s prisons who had to do this sort of work every day, usually washing hospital linen. When we were escorted back, we gave the big bag to Bull, and carried our own things into the cell to put away.

The big event on Sunday was the church service. It was very low-key, the only parishioners present being us six head wyfies. There was no communion, but the preacher did talk about doing right, which was probably something he did as a standard sermon, so making the authorities happy. Back in the cell I was happy to find that the slops had changed taste, to something like chicken.

Monday, we were back in the Library. As predicted, there was a bag of things for me to take, with a note on the when and how. The lunch was good, and the guards all commented on how good I would look when they next saw me. Monday night I took the gunk and spent much of the night on the latrine. Tuesday morning, I took the happy pills with a glass of water and was escorted back to the admin to await my fate.

It wasn’t long before a trusty, in orange hospital scrubs, came to take me out of the prison, and across the connecting road to the women’s prison, where we went through a number of doors to end up in a pre-operation room, where I joined six girls, all in differing states of consciousness. With my clothing in a marked bag, and wearing a hospital gown, I was on a bed and given an injection. One by one, the others were taken away, until I was the last. By this time, I didn’t give a damn what they were going to do to me.

The guy I had seen before came in and jabbed something into the back of my hand and I faded into blessed sleep. When I came round, I was on a bed in what looked like an ordinary hospital ward. A nurse gave me a sip of water and told me, in a very stern voice, not to speak until I was told I was able. There were tubes in my arms and a weight on my chest that hadn’t been there before. Both wrists were cuffed to the side-rails and all I could do was to lay there and recover my wits. I spent the time going back over my earlier life, remembering all the little details that I wanted to keep. Finally, happy that I had retained it all, I went off to sleep.

I woke, naturally, on Wednesday morning. Wondering why I didn’t need to pee, and then realised that I may have a catheter in my dick. My head felt better but I could feel the bandages around my chest, and a strange feeling in my throat. The nurse reminded me not to talk as she gave me a sip of water. Later on, she spoon fed me with something that looked like baby food. In the middle of the morning, there was a bustling along the ward as a man, who I thought may be Doctor Mark by his skin colour, looked at each of us, one by one, looking at the charts and giving instructions.

When he got to me, he smiled broadly.

“You’re looking good, Delia. Dirk asked me to give you the works, and I must say that I excelled myself. Don’t speak, I’ll tell you what we did. You now have a very nice set of ‘D’ sized breasts, they match your build and will look wonderful. I also gave you a tracheal shave and I threw in a couple of extras, as a bonus. You’ll see for yourself when you look in a mirror, but I can tell you that you will never need to buy cosmetics until you get let out. As long as you promise to stay still, I’ll ask that you get uncuffed, but any wrong move will have you cuffed again. This part of the prison is outside the wire and walls, so we take good care not to let you escape. Mind you, you won’t get far with the tubes in you.”

With that, he left the ward, no doubt heading for the theatre to continue his work. The nurse came to me and reminded me that I had to stay still, and to stay quiet, then undid the cuffs. Before she left me, she smiled.

“You’re a lucky girl in the making, dear. I’ve never seen a wyfie have as much done as you have. If Doctor Mark had gone any further, we would be sending you back to be with the other women. Just rest, you’ll be here a few more days.”

I nodded as she adjusted something on the drip, then I faded into an induced sleep, again. When I woke up again, it was dark, and a nurse came to give me some water and rearrange me on the bed. More comfortable I slept again, until I was woken by a nurse taking my blood pressure. She made notes and then took my temperature. I already had a pulse monitor clipped to a finger and she made sure everything was correct.

As she left, she put the clipboard on the bed. Once she was well away, I reached for it and looked at the papers. Buried, on the bottom of the pile, was a piece of paperwork that made me smile.

Authorisation and consent form.

It was signed D.E. Strauss and that was witnessed by a Miss Bella Olongo, company secretary of the Hender Charitable Foundation.

This was wrong on so many counts, it almost made me laugh out loud, until I remembered I wasn’t to talk. Firstly, the name was the one that I was using in Pretoria when I was arrested. It had good enough paperwork to make the police think that I was that person. The signature was one I was using at the time, and I had suspicions that the one on the form was a copy of the one on the check I had given my lawyer. Bella was, of course, wyfie number two.

What made me think was why they needed me to sign a form that absolved them of any wrongdoing. Surely, enhancement surgery was commonplace now. I didn’t know what part of me he had shaved, and I had not seen the results of the cosmetic additions he had spoken about. Perhaps he had turned me into some kind of monster. No, that couldn’t have been it, the nurses were all smiling and helpful.

The answers came just after the breakfast trays were taken away from the other patients. A tall, beautiful, dark girl, dressed in theatre scrubs came into the ward and straight up to my bed. She picked up the clipboard from where I had tossed it and read it through.

“Delia, I’m sure that you have a lot of questions about your procedure. I’ll have a look at your throat first and then you may be able to ask them.”

She got me to put my head back and unwrapped a bandage from my neck, then pulled away a dressing. She swiped it with a wipe and smiled.

“Excellent, you are a quick healer. Now, don’t force it, but say ‘Aarhh and Ooohh’ for me.

I did as she asked, and it sounded strange. It was almost as if I was now a soprano.

“Wonderful, now I will tell you exactly what went on in the theatre on Tuesday. The first thing we did, once you were stretched out and sleeping, was to have two technicians working on your face with a laser, to remove any hairs and stop any hairs returning. You will never have to shave again. While that was going on, Doctor Mark set up a liposuction around your stomach and lower chest area. These only need tiny incisions to get the suction tube in. We took out around two kilograms of fat, so you now have a smaller waistline than you had before.”

“The face I get, but why the fat bit?” Hell, I sounded like my last girlfriend.

“Right, this is where we get to the exciting part. Doctor Mark has developed a new way of doing breast enhancements. It involves taking fat from obese women and modifying it to not be toxic to another body. It also has extra ingredients, like a plant-based oestrogen supplement. He brought fifteen kilograms of this mix, and your two were mixed in with that before we went to the next phase. None of this is yet authorised by the government so it was good to have a willing, and worthy, person to try it out.”

“So, I’m a guineapig?”

“A very beautiful one, yes. The Femgel mix is then carefully injected into the places it’s needed. We put six and a half kilograms into each breast, and the rest was divided between your buttocks, sorry, I mean that each buttock got half the remainder. When we finished that, there was a while before we were certain that it would stay where we put it, so Doctor Mark tried out a new stain cosmetic treatment that he has devised, and I must say it looks fantastic!”

“What about the voice, I didn’t sound like this the other day?”

“Right, that was a little extra he did before he went home. He is a brilliant surgeon and a pleasure to watch. We don’t normally do that procedure here, but he has developed a keyhole method which he showed us, on you. Your voice now, is your voice for life, and it sounds nice.”

“So, what about the post-operative problems that may occur?”

“Those are straight forward. The Femgel that you have in your breasts and buttocks may migrate to other places, making you look odd. That is easily fixed with liposuction. The other thing that hasn’t shown in tests, is that it may harden with age, in which case it may have to be removed surgically. The cosmetic stain is long lasting but may fade and need to be renewed. The prison will allow you out, to be taken to his surgery, so that you can be checked over, say, about every three months. It’s so wonderful to have someone like you who is happy to let us do this and is going to be in a controlled environment for an extended time. I’m sure that it will look good on your parole interview.”

That said, she gave me a beaming smile and went off to speak to a nurse before heading out of the ward. The nurse came over to my bed.

“Delia, I’ve been told that we can prepare you for normal activity. I’ll be back to take out the drips and the catheter in a moment, then we can get you out of bed for a bit of a walk.”

While I waited for her to come back, I had a bit of a think. This bit with using one of my names made me think back to when I was a toddler. As far as my mother was concerned, I was either ‘Brat’ or ’Bastard’, I had the thought that I may have sometimes been called Jimmy when we were out. She made her money by spending a lot of time on her back. Later in life, when I finally asked if I had a father, she couldn’t decide which of her ten regulars or dozens of ‘walk-ins’ it may have been. When I was twelve, I ran away from home and lived on the edge for a few years.

I had basic schooling and could read and write so was a bit better off than a lot of the street kids. I did odd jobs and skirted with the law until a wonderful co-incidence dropped into my life. I was swabbing out an old warehouse in Merefong, for a few rand a day, when I walked in on a murder. Three gang members had killed another guy, a white one, and were discussing how they were going to dispose of the body. I piped up that I would do it, for a payment. They quickly agreed, put some notes in my hand and left with a small sack. I saw that they had cut off his head with a chainsaw and there was blood all over his shirt, but his pants were still clean. I stripped the body and set to work with the chainsaw, putting the bits into sacks. I then put the sacks on a cart and trundled it two blocks to a piggery, where I fed his bits to the pigs.

Back in the warehouse, I hosed off the crime scene and sprayed disinfectant. That’s when I discovered that it must have been a gang retribution, rather than a robbery. I had his watch, and I found that, in the jeans, I had his wallet and some more money. His identification could have been me, the birthday close to whatever mine may have been. He also had a student card and a letter that was his acceptance in a college, in Jo’burg. His parents will, undoubtedly, see his head and declare him dead, so I put on his pants and boots, dropped his other stuff into the incinerator bin, and went off to find my belongings in an old tree.

By the next day, I had hitched a ride to Jo’burg and found somewhere to put my head down in a cheap place in West Cliff. On the appointed day, I fronted up at the Business School and started some real education. I knew I was good with maths, so I signed on to a computer studies class, learning how to use computers with all of the various software modules. I found that I was also good with my English.

I got myself part-time jobs to pay my fees and eat, and graduated, three years later, with a certificate. I counted myself lucky that no-one had come around to see who it was who was using this identification. I became good enough, on the computer, to manufacture my own identification papers, printing certificates in three other names. I also did other paperwork in each name, borrowing another guys driving licence to produce a false one, his payment being a couple in names that he had given me.

That done, I took a train to Durban, where the previous papers were destroyed, and a new person began looking around for something to do. I was working as a bartender, one night, when two real estate agents were talking. They were discussing how you can describe a place to make it sell quickly. I was close enough to say that I thought that would be easy. One pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of a kraal.

“Describe that, if you can.”

“Well, I would say that it’s a quaint, typical older home, with period features in a lovely country setting where you can wake to the sounds of the birds and step out to see the local wildlife.”

“Wow, I’d even buy that one, myself. Tell me you have more than a bartender qualification and I’ll offer you a job.

“I do have a certificate in Business Studies from the Jo’burg Business School. I can handle all of the current computer packages.”

He slid his card across the bar.

“Come and see me tomorrow to prove it and you can start straight away.”

So, that’s how I got into real estate. I was able to settle in quickly, making up the advertising material and writing copy. After three years there, I decided that I could make more money selling, than helping someone else make the money while paying me a salary. I left and went to Port Elizabeth to start my life of crime. From there it was zigzagging across the county. Cape Town, Bloemfontein, Kimberley, Jo’burg, Pretoria, then back to Durban for a while. I was in the process of going around the other way when I was arrested.

I was a saver, not spending unless I had to, and I ended up with a bank account in every place, all under fictitious names, as well as safe deposit boxes in most places. The two keys that were safely packed away in the prison storage, contained all of my identifications in one box, and all of the other keys, plus some cash, in the other. I realised, now, that the only papers that I could now use were the ones I had created for Holly Martin, the tomboy estate agent. The pictures would have to be changed, though.

When the nurse came back, she proceeded to strip all of the drips, cannulas and recording attachments. Then it was the lovely part, having the catheter removed. After that, she got me to swing my legs off the bed and try to stand. That’s when I found that my centre of balance had shifted, considerably. With some help, I was able to walk to the shower room and she removed the bandages from my chest before I went under. I was amazed at how lifelike my breasts were, and also how sensitive they were under the spray. I was able to wash my hair and she wrapped me in a soft towel when I got out. She then opened a cupboard door that had a full-length mirror inside, so I could, finally, look at my new self.

If my dick had been working, I would have given myself a woodie. The face was that of a goddess. The skin was smooth, and they had removed my eyebrows, replacing them with arches of smoky black stain, that was matched by the stain on my eyelids. I now had a kissable pout, with a dark red pair of lips. The breasts were quite magnificent, and there was only the odd patch on my body to cover the tiny incisions. When I turned sideways, I could see immediately the difference in my butt. With the smaller waist, I was not quite hourglass but damn near close to it.

After I had dried, the nurse handed me a nightie and dressing gown, the led me back to my bed. I had to admit, to myself, that there was no going back, now. I had become the wyfie to shame all wyfies.

Marianne Gregory © 2023