Synopsis:

And is it true? The light at the end of the tunnel grows brighter. David's time at the Holding Wing seems to be numbered and pastures greener by far beckon. But greener for whom, even supposing that he gets to feel them under his feet? In the meantime though hope is alive again. In David's breast at least. And talking of breasts.....

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 10

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 returning as a junior staff member

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

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

Dr. Tabatha O’Neill. Staff. Psychiatrist.

Mrs Townsend. Staff. The beautician.

Mrs. Felicity Cranwell. Staff. Tutor in Female Sexuality

Coralie. The latest ‘recruit’ to feminisation. Tried to knife Grace de Messembry but the attempt was instinctively foiled by David. As a result of this attack she passed a fortnight in Rehabilitation. She shares David’s background, having been forcibly recruited and conditioned at Reception before arriving at the Holding Wing.

Christine. A genetic girl in Janet Saggren’s charge

Alice. A genetic girl in Janet Saggren’s charge

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

Daisy A genetic girl. In Laura’s group, replacing Emma.

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 31.

They looked at each other, waiting, weighing possibilities, probabilities.

They looked at each other, the elegant, sophisticate called Helen, and the pretty girl whom she called Sophie.

The one seemingly without a care in the world, the other racked with more doubts and fears than it seemed possible her slender shoulders could bear.

“Do you find the conditions so upsetting Sophie dear? Or are you having second thoughts?”

“Words like 'irrevocable' frighten me Miss Helen, and somehow, somehow they bring it all home to me.”

What he did not have to say. They both knew.

“It is only a word Sophie dear. Words do not change the reality. A reality you have already indicated you preferred. To go with Anne to the greater freedom beyond or to stay here and hope against hope for .... well for divine intervention.”

He didn't trust her. He didn't trust any of them. He saw his long red nails on the glass as he finished his drink in a decisive swallow. The motion of his arm moved his breast, and he felt the bra strap gently remind him of its weight. For once perhaps this was a case of better the devil you don't know. The devil he did know seemed to have covered all the angles. The Finishing Centre couldn't be worse. And it might, just might, be better. There he might have a chance; here he knew he no longer did. And Anne would be there.

“Yes. Yes I would like to go. Thank you again Miss Helen.”

Her dark eyes regarded him steadily over her glass as she paused it at her lips.

“I, we indeed, haven't given up on you Sophie you know. This isn't a simple passport back to masculinity. Do not thank me for that.”

She drained her drink with a little flourish, returning the glass to the tray.

“ If I were a betting girl,” she mused, “I know where I would put my money. On the emergence of the beautiful butterfly already here at its chrysalis stage.”

She rose, indicating the end of the interview.

“At least dear, you will never now be able to claim that you never had any real choice. You will have to take some of the responsibility, of the credit, yourself for what you may become. You won't be able to take refuge in the reproach that it was all our doing.”

In the corridor she turned to him. “Remember to tell Anne that she will be going. And with a companion. I will tell Laura. Whatever the result, I applaud your choice, you need to move on.”

She smiled at him and turning strolled down the corridor towards the exit which opened on silent hinges in obedience to her implanted VeriChip's authorisation.

David watched her go. He was starting to shake a little. He knew that whilst what was bad here was all too immutable, the good was seldom what it seemed. And yet perhaps this move to the Centre did offer some way of surviving, of escaping. Hope, against all the odds, was reborn.

The plug in his arse started to vibrate, mocking him and his hopes. That at least he could not hope to escape at the Finishing Centre. With a rather stilted walk he went in search of Anne.

He found her where he expected her to be. Thin watery sunshine had chased away the drizzle and she was in a corner of the roof garden, staring out through the glass panels at the countryside beyond. The view that had been Olive's last.

They stood in companionable silence together for a while. David wondering what the future held. Anne perhaps reflecting on what the past had lost.

At last. “I have just had a meeting with Helen Vanbrugh,” David said. “Quite a long one actually. She told me I could tell you that it was alright. About your going to the Finishing Centre.”

Anne turned to him, eyes sparkling. “I can go? She said it was alright?”

Her hand on his arm. Grasping tightly. Communicating her excitement.

“Yes.” He smiled at her. “Yes you can go Anne dear. You can go. After this Friday's Inspection. She is going to tell Laura.”

Her grip on his arm softened, gentled.

“I shall miss you Sophie darling. Miss you so very much.”

“I am to go with you Anne dear. That is what Helen wanted to see me about. She said .... “

His words were lost as Anne threw herself at him, winding her arms round him, clasping him close to her.

“It was the only thing, leaving you here, the only thing that spoilt it for me.” There were tears in her eyes, enhancing their sparkle. A detached part of David's mind registered them as being tears of joy, tears such as he could not recall ever seeing before. Not even then. Before the 'now' had started. Never seen, just read about.

“I begged them all, Laura, Helen, Grace de Messembry. I pleaded with them to let you come too. Told them it was silly to keep you here any longer, that you were such a delightful girl, such a fast learner, and better than I really. I told them they must let you .....”

David hugged her close.

“So I owe it all to you do I. You little minx! How dare you browbeat poor Grace de Messembry like that!”

Anne freed herself just enough to poke a finger hard into his ribs.

“Don't tease Sophie. I am serious. It makes such a difference. And I did you know. I told them all. That you should come with me.”

“I know Anne dear. And going with you does make all the difference. Helen said I would be lonely without you and she is right. I do not know if I am ready to go or if I should go, but you make the difference. You are the deciding factor. Otherwise....”

His voice trailed off as doubt niggled uncomfortably, ever present, at the back of his mind.

“Pooh! Fiddlesticks! What rubbish you talk Sophie dear. Of course you are ready. We shall have such fun! It will be a real giggle. Just you wait and see!”

She took his hand and smiled at him. “Let's have a celebratory drink. Laura will be here soon. I can't wait to see her face!”

David was towed across to the bar, Anne chattering excitedly the while. “Darling you will be a star. Helen wouldn't have asked you otherwise. I just know you will. I am sure Laura will say the same! What will the others say?”

“I think we should keep it to ourselves Anne dear. Just us, Laura and Emma. Helen said that I could tell you, and that the other two would know but .....”

“Of course Sophie dear, you are quite right, as always darling, but it will be soooo hard. I am useless at secrets ....”

David turned his own secret over in his mind. Perhaps Anne couldn't have kept something like that to herself. Maybe that was why Helen had chosen him? Believing that he was capable of discretion, of dissembling. Holding close and inviolate the knowledge that he alone was outside the loop ....

“Just a tonic Anne, with a dash of angustura,” he said. “No gin. I had a couple of those with Helen. And any more I shall be telling the world.”

If this was to be a solution, his salvation, he must watch what he said. Even with Anne he had to be careful. Discretion and alcohol made uneasy bedfellows and already he felt his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Don't be so stuffy Sophie darling, Just one won't hurt. To celebrate. Both of us moving on. So important. You can't not have any mother's ruin! Not today!”

David would have protested more strongly but his attention was diverted by the sound of heels heralding the arrival of Laura. She swept towards them, arms outstretched as Anne splashed two liberal gins into the ice packed crystal tumblers.

“Sophie, dear, dear Sophie! She hugged him. “I am so pleased for you darling. Helen has told me. So pleased. And I am sure that you are ready. That you will just love it there.”

“Make that three darling.” This to Anne over David's shoulder. “And don't stint the gin.”

David sat with them, trying not to drink the tempting gin. It was unusual to see Laura on a Saturday afternoon. It was obviously important enough for her to sacrifice her free time. Perhaps Helen had forewarned her; perhaps she just wanted to be with them to share their pleasure.

“It seems only yesterday when I first had a drink here in the garden,” Anne was saying. “It was a campari I remember. I had never had one before. Olive suggested it. Olive....”

Her name brought momentary silence with it.

Laura reached out, laying her hand on Anne's. “Yes, poor Olive,” she said gently.

Anne shook her head as if to banish the spectre. “It seems so long ago now. I was such an awkward .... girl. I remember I spilt some down my dress. I caught my glass on my boobs of all things, not expecting them to be there. It was all so new to me. I was so ashamed, and .... lost.”

David nodded, remembering is own arrival. It had been all so new to him too. Had all been so new. Had been. Wasn't now. Now it was so normal, so everyday. Difficult to envisage it otherwise.

He remembered his own shame, and that feeling of loss that had never ever gone away. Remembered Anne too. Brought in to show him his destiny on that first evening.

He spoke unthinkingly. Words forming in his mouth, echoing his thoughts.

“You were already a lovely girl when I arrived,” he said. “I remember my first evening. Laura asked you in to meet me. Do you remember. She said we would be friends. I.....”

David's voice choked. It, he, had been so different then ....”

“Darling Sophie of course I do, you were quite exhausted after all that time in that dreadful reception place, not at all the glamour puss you are now!”

“I remember the fuss she made about wearing that simple little denim dress and how I had to coax her into it,” giggled Laura. “Such a time I had of it. And you think she was exhausted Anne? I was worn out. She really played up, wanting to be all butch and macho. Quite adamant that skirts were not for her.”

“I remember the dress too Laura,” said Anne. “I can understand why she baulked at it. Not her style at all, just a simple tunic. No allure at all. And no boobs either. If you had given her a little silk clingy number slit to the hip she would have been in it like a shot.”

They were laughing at him, teasing him, sharing with him. No malice or intent to do anything that could now upset him. Just to see the folly of his resistance in retrospect and rejoice with them that he had moved on.

“Talking of boobs,” Laura said, “reminds me. I brought these for you. I know that they are forbidden in the Holding Wing”. She rummaged in her handbag. “But they will give you a flying start and I don't see how it matters for one week if the other girls don't know. One of each every morning and evening. Just let them dissolve under the tongue.”

The bag yielded four pill packets. Two of which she gave to Anne and two to Sophie.

“There you are darlings, the result of Venumar Laboratories latest research. Basically antiandrogens in one packet and and estrogens in the other. Both under fancy names of course. Doubtless The Finishing Centre will come up with a few additional treatments and refinements but these are more than capable of making your dreams come true.”

“Laura! You are such a darling!” cried Anne!

David stared at the packages in his hand. One orange, the other purple. These must be the real things. Only Helen knew what she had proposed. Unless Helen had given her them? But if he asked it would sound grudging

“Yes thanks Laura. You are soooo good to us!” There seemed little else he could do. He must play along. Even if the tablets were hormones or what ever antiandrogens were, it couldn't really matter. Not for a week. These things took time.

Tentatively then.

“Did Helen say we should, that you could start us on ....”

“Oh no Sophie dear, but I am sure she won't mind. She was sympathetic to Dr. Walters when she wanted to prescribe hormones after your scarring. And if it wasn't for Grace de Messembry being so adamant about it, would probably have argued for it more forcibly then. As it is what possible harm can there be in it now?”

Her smile encompassed them both.

“I shall miss you both you know. You must promise me that you will visit.”

Laura's voice broke through his fears

“We will be able to visit? To see you again?” Anne leant forward excitedly.

“Of course. Why not if you want to. As I hope to see you. We will still be close neighbours. It is not a long goodbye. Dr Tabatha, Mrs Townsend, Mrs. Cranwell, most of the staff here also work there. It is all part of the same estate. Five minutes walk. That is all it will take.”

“Estate?” It seemed an odd word to use David thought.

“You will see for yourselves in a few short days. I don't want to spoil the surprise. All you need to know is that there you will have much more freedom of movement and of contacts. You will no longer be in a closed community. The Centre is just part of the complex,”

“Other people? Apart from the girls in the Centre?”

Laura laughed. “Wait and see Anne dear. But yes there will be other people, apart from your fellow students, People who work in some of the other Venumar interests there. It is part of the process, of your training. That you meet and mingle with others in a normal social environment. You will be free to come and go as you want. Within reason of course.”

“Come and go as we want?” David struggled to come to terms with the concept. It could not be true.

“I said wait and see dear. Initially there will be restrictions of course. You can have no conception of what your training has so far cost the Foundation darlings. You both represent a very large investment on their part and they wouldn't want to let that vanish over the horizon without trace. Certainly not at this crucial stage of your development.”

She regarded them with an almost maternal patience and smile.

“I know you wouldn't be going there unless your dedication is beyond question, but I suppose their attitude is better be safe than sorry. However you will find it far more relaxed than it is here. And progressively yes, you will be able to come and go anywhere your fancy takes you.”

Chapter 32.

In his dream that night David revisited his school. He had always remembered it as a boy's school and he had been a boy there, a boy in a boy's school and it was strange therefore that it seemed natural to him that it was now co-educational. Girls seem to be all around him. Sometimes he would be talking to one of the boys he remembered and he would .... no she would have become a co-educational girl, prettier than he had remembered her to be, and with breasts which looked really rather promising and better developed than his own which really wasn't surprising because boys like him, like Sophie, don't have breasts until they are rather older. Unless they asked for them of course which made all the difference. And when James Evans kissed him and told him how he had wanted to do just that and more for simply ages, he was so pleased he had asked because breasts made all the difference to a girl. Everyone seemed so pleased to see him and even the Old Bunsen the Physics master whom he had never really liked before said he had always known he had it in him to fully develop his talents in a knowing way and a wink he felt quite warm and tingly inside and that made everything so worthwhile and rewarding and he was pleased that the finishing laboratory had a new centre and everyone could pass through it and become more feminine, paradise really, even Old Bunsen whose breasts though were only 'A' cup and had a silly bra on which didn't match his robes at all but having his hair like that was such an improvement. And the bell for the next period went just as he was really enjoying himself and he didn't want to leave and ....

It was morning. The butt plug throbbed deep within him. David lay there adjusting to the reality of the day, of the sunshine filtering into his room, lying in mote-filled beams across his bed, the dream fading, but still remembered for a few fleeting moments.

They, the dreams, were now an accepted, inescapable, part of his existence. As always on their fading he was filled with a dreadful fear that nagged away at him. The fear that he was indeed losing control over his inner masculinity. That it was seeping away, insidiously being replaced by the acceptance of a softer feminine self. Even the fear seemed dulled now though. Perhaps because one can't replicate fear day after day, it wears away, watered down by familiarity, eroded by waiting.

And perhaps it was less this Sunday morning because perhaps it need not be. Before there had been no refuge from it. No place to hide. But now? But now there was a little corner of hope to which he could retreat. From there he could look out at his fear, examine it from all angles, turn it over in his mind. See it for what it really was.

It was fear. Simply that. Not an inescapable destiny forced upon him. Destiny and fear were not the same thing at all. Fear was only an internal mental problem.

And even that Destiny, that source of his fear, was now not necessarily so.

There were sunlit uplands beyond to which he could win through. If it were to be a mental struggle only, then the battlefield would be his. It would be in his head and that was on home ground. It could be won. The more he turned it over in his mind, the more he was convinced that Helen's offer implied that he could win. There could be no possible point in his being a sort of bench mark against which the progress of others could be measured if he were inevitably to share their common destiny. It would be of no value to the Venumar Foundation. And being of value to them was the only consideration they recognised.

Later that Sunday morning at his dressing table, waiting en deshabille for the two tablets under his tongue to dissolve before he could apply his lipstick. He looked at the attractive girl in the mirror quietly watching him. Knew she was him, that the lingerie silkenly flattering her body was the same that clung to his. Found himself turning over in his mind what he was to wear; anticipating the sensation of the chosen clothes as they moved over his body. And David thought, if he was honest with himself, the sensation was pleasant enough. The feel of silk and satin caressing his skin, of stocking clad leg sliding against stocking clad leg, of freedom of air circulating under a skirt, even the taste of lipstick, the scent of perfume. On a girl in one's arms they would all be desirable, sexually arousing even. It was just that on him they represented something that was abhorrent. No that was wrong too, Femininity wasn't abhorrent. It was only the thought of him being feminine that was. The thought? Or him being? They were not the same. Perhaps both? But if not both, which?

And then the blessed thought that it did not matter now. Not so much anyway. If he had to wear womens' clothes for the next few months it did not matter. He could even let himself enjoy the tactile pleasures without relating them to a loss of masculinity. Even having false boobs did not matter. They were just there to give line and style to the clothes. They were an adjunct to the those clothes, and not to him. It was, yes was .... he must be positive .... it was only a temporary state of affairs.

For the rest of the week, this inner conviction sustained him. Sometimes he was plagued by searing doubts, sinking back into a morass of misery; sometimes optimism coursed through him and he imagined a sure and certain route to freedom. Mostly he just had the feeling that the Finishing Centre on Helen's terms was a positive step that could, with luck, be a way of regaining his life. The life they had stolen from him. Even at his most pessimistic though, when the doubts swirled around in his head, hope was there too, and hope gave him a refuge and a strength.

The dreams at night did not matter. They were but dreams. And admittedly pleasant ones too.

The waking dreams, which were ever more frequent, ever more convincing and longer lasting, could be seen as what they really were. A natural consequence of his submersion in the feminine world. An extension of his present world of an all embracing femininity that permeated everything he did. Amongst friends, relaxing, or with only his mirrored reflection smiling back at him, mimicking each subtly girlish gesture, was it not the most natural thing in the world that he should slip into an complicit, easy, acceptance? It meant only that he was confident enough in his own true identity to relax.

The lessons, the tutorials were now of no consequence. They were no longer a preparation for a future destiny but an interesting exercise in conforming to the will of others in order to deceive them. To lead them astray in their calculations. He applied himself with a new will to do well. To ensure that there would be no second thoughts. That none of them would protest to Grace de Messembry that he was in truth far from ready leave them.

Only with Dr. Tabatha was he uncertain. It occurred to him that she might be privy to Helen's proposal. They seemed close and Helen herself had told him that she had been consulted on his, David's, state of acceptance. But he could not let her know of the proposal nor of his agreement. And she was astute, knew more about him than he would have liked. And he was deeply suspicious of her sessions of hypnotherapy. All in all he was ill at ease, unsure.

But if she knew of his imminent departure from the Holding Wing, or of the terms agreed with Helen, or even if she sensed David's unease, she gave no sign. She only mentioned that she had heard from the other tutors of his increased application and corresponding accelerated progress. She even smilingly ventured polite surprise, hinting at a change in his attitude, and hoping that this was but a forerunner of happier times ahead. As always though her voice betrayed no conviction of her own relating to such alleged progress, more a gentle enquiry inviting David to confirm or deny the its truth or otherwise.

And as always he had left her after the hypnotherapy feeling more at peace. Any inner turmoil stilled, more inclined to see the positive side to his advancement to the Finishing Centre.

And more and more, since his moment of rationalisation before the mirror, the clothes, the make up, the perfumes became less abhorrent to him. In truth abhorrent was no longer the correct word. Nor had it been for some time. You can't wear skirts and dresses, silken lingerie, stockings, all the trappings of sexy femininity day after day and maintain a high degree of abhorrence towards them. It is as with fear. Custom stales the sensation.

Even the sex toys, the anal plug and the grotesquely named 'Oral Gratification Training Aid' seemed less horrific now, although still maintaining their ability to disgust. The latter's humiliation was of an ever shorter duration, dramatically improved to under seven minutes before the cartridge voided its contents into his mouth. One small anomaly had caused a passing vague concern. He was sure that when he had first opened the box the cartridges had been Type VF19. He remembered his relief that at least they had not been the VF23 which the accompanying booklet had designated as containing hormone additives. In his general distaste for the whole procedure he had not paid much attention since but he suddenly saw that the current ones were marked Type VF20(a). Even stranger was that the box was also clearly marked with this Type No. It must have been switched; perhaps they had got them mixed up when they had brought them to the hospital facility? But it was odd. Not that it mattered much he thought. There seemed no discernible difference in taste or consistency, and as long as they weren't the VF23s! Anyway he might have been mistaken. Much water had passed under the bridge since then and this was trivia in comparison.

The rest of the week passed quickly. Freed of the burden of despair, David was able to relax more. Evenings spent with Anne and the other girls on the roof garden were no longer marred by bitterness and black inner solitude. Emma would frequently join them, Laura too sometimes, and it seemed as if a last barrier had been lifted.

He was no longer apart, but one of them. Easy in their company, accepted and accepting. Indistinguishable from them, his perfume mingling with their's as the dusk descended; his voice, his laughter, now schooled to blend with their own. He drank sociably as one does amongst friends. Not as one does alone to hide from oneself.

Friday, the day of the Inspection, David was up early. A luxurious soaking in the bath, aware of his freshly depilated body smooth to the touch, his skin softened by the pampering regime of creams and unguents. He soaped his breasts, only faint lines now to mark where the knife had slid along his rib cage. Saw the ten red ovals of his toenails peeping through the bubbles at the far end. They would be covered today but needed repainting nonetheless, his training always emphasising how a girl must not be slipshod in her preparations. Today there must be no hitches. No failing to achieve the perfection that would ensure that Grace de Messembry would give her seal of approval to his progression to the Finishing Centre.

He had worried and worried as to what he should wear to create the right impression. Anne, Emma and Laura had all been consulted. The general, oft debated opinion, was that he should go for a fairly sophisticated yet fun look. Sexy in a flirty rather than obvious way. Dr. Walters had told him that he could use adhesive again for his breast forms which was such good news as it gave him a much wider choice of bras and accordingly dress styles.

He waved his fingers gently to hasten the drying process of his nails. In the mirror's reflection he could see his dress hanging behind him on the wardrobe door. A dark bottle green sheaf of native silk. Off the shoulder, decorous at the front but plunging down at the rear to the small of his back with just a criss cross of thin straps there to hold it precariously in place. It had an asymmetrical hem which at its highest point was quite decidedly, indeed outrageously, revealing, although a slight ruffle made it look a little more respectable than the reality warranted. It would however test his deportment to the limit if he didn't want to flash his knickers at all and sundry.

His focus shifted back to is own reflection. His strapless bra was deceptively fragile. Satin support with transparent gauze tops, embroidered below and lace edged above. Wasted of course because it would be quite hidden but, as Emma had pointed out, knowing one was equally pretty underneath gave a girl such a confidence boost. Hidden from the mirror's gaze, his matching French knickers were even more deceptive in their lacy frivolity, holding his penis in a fierce, unrelenting, embrace tucked tight back between his legs. No leeway in the dress' line to accommodate that sort of bulge. They had unanimously opted for hold-ups rather than having a suspender belt. Somewhat reluctantly because of the sexy allure of the latter, but under the slim silk sheaf dress the tabs would show up terribly. A little too tarty they had thought. And Laura had clinched it by producing some hold-ups with seams which struck exactly the right note!

He leant forward, examining his make-up earnestly. Mrs. Townsend would be in later to help to give a final last minute gloss but he wanted to show her and Laura that he had now mastered the art himself, and was quite capable of achieving something akin to perfection.

Laura had found him a small day necklace, a thin gold chain with a single emerald drop in a art deco gold setting with matching earrings. Paste only of course but quality, and the settings and chain were genuine.

In front of the cheval glass he stopped and made a by-now-automatic pirouette, appraising himself as he had been schooled to do. He saw nothing that did not epitomise careful cultivated femininity. He nodded approval to himself. Surely Grace de Messembry would approve? Would let him take up Helen's offer. Surely?

Later that morning, after Mrs. Townsend had indeed found small minor improvements to make, perhaps more to satisfy herself, or to give David morale boosting confidence, rather than from necessity, he walked with Anne up the stairs to the roof garden.

Both resplendent. Anne in an ice-blue outfit that reflected in the deeper blue of her eyes; he in the bottle green silk sheaf. Both confident in their immaculate appearance, both nevertheless nervous because with Grace de Messembry one never knew.

Coralie, Christine and Alice were already there in a little serious cluster around Janet Saggren who seemed to be giving them last minute instruction.

Anne squeezed his hand. “It will be alright,” she whispered. “You'll see.”

“I know,” he replied. “Alright for both of us.”

A clatter on the stairs and Emma along with Daisy, the newest and hence the last of the girls to receive last minute ministrations, hove into view, both a little breathless. “She's here,” Emma said. “On her way, with Laura.”

A more staid, light but measured tread, and two heads appeared, The dark one of Laura bent towards the deep autumnal red of Grace de Messembry's.

They all turned towards them. Moved towards them, respectfully, unconsciously, to form a little court round them. David listened expectantly for other footsteps but there were none. Helen Vanbrugh was not with them.

Little time was wasted on preliminaries. Grace de Messembry seated herself at the prepared table flanked by Laura and Janet Saggren, with Emma hovering behind them. At first everything went smoothly, efficiently. Missing Helen's presence, Grace de Messembry seemed more business like, less inclined to indulge in her usual teasing circuitous approach.

First Christine, then Alice, then Daisy sat in the little chair before her. All were greeted and dismissed with smiles, all passed smoothly. Then it was Coralie's turn and that too seemed to be progressing well. As it was expected to. Coralie, since her return had been desperate to embrace her femininity. Impatient at what she deemed to be her own slow progress, Blaming herself for any perceived shortcomings. Worryingly unnatural as it may be, at least it could give no grounds for Grace de Messembry to accuse her of the two great sins of lack of effort and insincerity.

But suddenly Coralie was crying, tears streaming down her face, her body racked with despair. Rising from her chair, standing with her hands first flat on the table before her, and then raised and clasped in what looked like supplication.

“Please! Oh please, Miss Grace. I will do anything. But please. Only let me. Please!”

Her voice was loud, jagged with emotion. Its carefully tutored femininity cracking under the strain. The waiting girls turned towards the raised frantic voice where before there had been but a gentle murmur of conversation. But Coralie was unaware of the attention that her outburst had provoked. She stayed there, hunched forward, gazing at Grace de Messembry, silent now but every taut line of her body echoing her desperate entreaty.

Then a sob that shook her body and a final “Please?”

Grace de Messembry, taken aback by the passion of Coralie's outburst, seemed at first lost for words. Then, as those standing behind her moved round to the other side of the table, she leant forward, her hands enfolding those, still clasped, of the trembling figure before her, and spoke to her, low and urgently. David could not initially catch what she said but as he and Anne impulsively moved forward, responding to a nod from Laura, he heard .....

“.... control, calm yourself dear. I will think about it I promise, but you must understand that it is against all the rules here. But perhaps there are extenuating circumstances in your case. I will think about it.”

Emma and Janet were half supporting Coralie as Anne and David arrived at the table.

“I promise to give it very careful consideration. But you must calm yourself now.”

Grace de Messembry turned to Emma. “You and Anne try to calm her. A largish brandy might help. Sophie dear you can stay here.” She gestured to the chair vacated by Coralie and sank back into her own chair as Laura and Janet moved back to her side of the the table.

David sat as he was bid, watching out of the corner of his eye as Emma and Anne led a shaking Coralie away.

Grace de Messembry smiled at him. Never a good start.

“Such an emotional girl poor Coralie. I do so hope you aren't going to throw any wobblers Sophie dear? But then I am sure Anne and you are much more sensible, much more advanced as it were? And such exciting news?”

The smile, the pause, invited a response.

“Yes indeed Miss Grace.” David hesitated, uncertain. Presumably she was referring to the move. Helen would have discussed it with her. But to what extent? And what was behind the scene with Coralie?

“Yes I am thrilled Miss Grace, We both are. Naturally.”

Again the smile, under appraising green eyes.

“You seem a little distracted dear. I was expecting greater sparkle from you. A spring in the step, that sort of thing. But I suppose you are distracted by witnessing poor Coralie's distress? Such a caring girl!”

Grace de Messembry half turned to Laura and Janet.

“Perhaps dear Sophie's opinion would be of use to us here. After all she must be experiencing the same desires and emotions, although naturally hers' are so much nearer to fulfillment now she has progressed to the hormone stage....”

Here Grace de Messembry glanced back at David with an all-girls-together look of complicity.

“Don't worry Sophie dear, Laura has already confessed to me about allowing you to start a hormone regime, and although it was rather naughtily premature of her, and against all the rules of course, I don't see any harm in it and after all a girl does need to be spoilt from time to time.”

An elegant eyelid drooped in a slow suggestive wink before she turned her attention back to those behind her.

“...... and implants are just a natural progression, just icing on the cake as it were, two cup cakes in this instance of course,” the corners of her lips twitched upwards as in appreciation of the aptness of the image invoked, “so I am sure Sophie must herself experience that same exquisite longing for breasts that is such an essential emotion in all those that aspire to full femininity.”

Her full attention shifted back to David awaiting his confirmation.

“Yes,” David did not disappoint. Dared not embrace the futility of doing so. “Yes of course Miss Grace.”

A soft trill of inclusive laughter rewarded him.

“You really must learn not to look so embarrassed about admitting to these feelings Sophie dear. We have all shared them. I so longed for my boobs to grow, to be able to flaunt them. Any impatience you and Anne are feeling has also been ours. In this you are at one with all your sisters. Don't deny that you have never fantasised as to what it will be like when your very own boobs fill your bra? Dreamed about the day when you will bid farewell to your breast forms?”

“Yes Miss Grace. I have indeed.”

For once David could speak without fear that his lack of sincerity would be detected. Could swear on the bible that that at least was true. Doubly true! He had dreamt of the day when he would be rid of his breast forms, when he would again be flat cheated. But alas, and more and more, dreams in which he had indeed been the proud owner of the most deliciously perky and well rounded breasts had invaded his sleep, unbidden but pervasive.

“In poor Coralie the desire seems rather to have got out of control Sophie dear. I am afraid that she is prone to getting quite hysterical about it, as you probably noticed just now. She professes that life without boobs is simply not worthwhile and .... well.....”

The chestnut hair swayed gently, her head moving gently to and fro as she pondered the frailties of Coralie's condition.

“.... you know how my girls' welfare and happiness is my foremost consideration, and I do realise that poor Coralie has been exposed to quite traumatic stresses of late, but rules are there for a purpose. Hormones can cause such mood swings in young girls and that can be counterproductive, and implants are so much better when one has already benefited from the initial breast formation as provided by the hormones. It is so much more satisfactory to allow development in the nipples and aureolae first. The horse should come before the cart. Don't you agree Sophie dear?”

“Yes Miss Grace, I am sure that you are right, I don't know very much about it though, not being .... I mean .... not having breasts myself, I ....”

“Don't split hairs Sophie dear. Possession of the actual physical attributes is a mere technicality, a matter of time only. What is important is that you have the longing for them, the overwhelming need of the assurance of your indisputable femininity that they will bring.”

Grace de Messembry paused, leaning forward slightly as if trying to read his thoughts.

“You don't look as if breasts are truly your heart's desire Sophie? You haven't changed your mind have you ....?”

David inwardly screamed at his facial muscles to respond, to replicate enthusiasm and desire. Helen's lifeline was at at stake.

“Of course not Miss Grace. I dream of having them. Breasts are my desired destiny, I was concerned about Coralie, wondering how I could help.”

“Your destiny is far more conclusive than breasts alone Sophie dear. They are but a stepping stone on your journey. Your concern for Coralie does you credit though.....”

Her smile of reassurance fractionally lowered the tension in David's bow strung nerves. Very fractionally. Whether they were his destiny or not, their destiny for him was confirmed unless Helen's offer held.

“.... so tell me, what do you advise? Should I go against all that I hold to be true, against all received wisdom indeed, and succumb to her girlish tantrums, or ....”

Her head tilted slightly in query as if to balance the raising of an eyebrow, one diamond earring glinting as it swung free of a tress of her hair.

“....or should I give way, should I humour her and let her have the boobs upon which she is so fixated? Bearing in mid her past history and uncertain mental equilibrium? What would you do in my shoes dear?”

The cogs in David's brain whirred frantically, searching for an answer that would please, an answer of which she would approve, an answer that would illustrate his own understanding, an answer that would outwardly confirm his own supposed yearnings.

The eyebrow, carefully, exquisitely, sculpted, was higher now.

He saw a returned Emma looking at him from behind Grace de Messembry's back, almost fiercely willing him on. What would she do, say, what would .....

“Let her just have the hormones Miss Grace, .....”

Emma was nodding, as was Laura.

“..... she needs to feel that she is making progress, as we all do, but she more, much more than us after .. well after .... And you can explain .... tell her that it is for her own good, that the process must be natural, that her breasts must burgeon naturally first before she can have implants. That to achieve perfection she must be patient ... just hormones.....”

Grace de Messembry was smiling. In agreement?

“.... I know she is already mentally fragile, but if her desire is so fiercely all consuming, then perhaps the risk of mood swings is a chance worth taking. Better mood swings whilst she rejoices at her progress, whilst she has the security that such would give, than acerbate her sense of failure, of unworthiness to be female, by your outright rejection.”

“Mmmm I see. Not just a pretty face Sophie dear....”

Grace de Messembry nodded twice, three times.

“I think you may well be right. And of course she need not be introduced to Uncle Silas yet awhile.... What a clever girl you are!. Helen was right about you, in that respect at least. I wonder if she is right about you in other ways dear? About you going to the Finishing Centre for example? Do you think you are ready to take the final steps?”

The smile would in other women perhaps have been described as maternal. But the adjective was a grotesque mockery when applied to Grace de Messembry.

“Yes Miss Grace, we talked about it at length, Miss Helen and I, we both, felt that I should seize this opportunity to become fem .... to complete my journey. And I am grateful for the opportunity, and I promise to ....”

Christ he was rambling, and he should have said 'become female', but he hadn't been able to. But she just had to believe him. Jesus.! She just had to. Otherwise he could not hold out. And how much did she know? Had Helen told her everything? Why was she talking about hormones? She never said anything without a reason! And who was Uncle Silas for fuck's sake?

“.... as I promised Miss Helen that I will embrace, without questioning, eagerly, that ultimate destiny.... my femininity.”

Grace de Messembry held up her hand, palm outwards in a pantomime gesture to stop the flow of words.

“Of course you will Sophie dear, that has always been beyond doubt. It is just the timing that has been in question. Whether or not you have fully come to terms with that reality, accepted it wholeheartedly so that you will be able to fully benefit from all the facilities and processes that the Centre has to offer. Without us having to play little games to get you to comply?”

The smile frank, open, beguiling in its honesty.

“Such fun Sophie dear. So very amusing, but becoming rather boring don't you think? I know I do. We now want to put all that behind us now and work together with common purpose.”

She grimaced self deprecatingly.

“Dear God, I am beginning to sound like a politician. Heaven forfend! Forgive the verbiage Sophie dear, but you know what I mean.”

It wasn't a question.

“Yes Miss Grace, I was hoping that Miss Helen would be here to tell you, to reassure you ....”

“Unfortunately she has had to go to the Far East at short notice, China and India, for the Foundation, I shall be joining her there next Wednesday myself. However ....”

Grace de Messembry looked at her watch and seemed to come to a time driven decision.

“.... we have had a long chat about you and the general state of play and she assures me that the move is very much in all our interests. And who am I to question her judgment in these matters? I just wouldn't dare Sophie dear. She can get so very cross at the slightest hint of opposition.”

A mock shudder depicting horror.

“And quite the tigress defending her young where you and Anne are concerned.”

“So it is alright Miss Grace? About going to the Finishing Centre? For Anne and I?”

“But of course Sophie dear, I thought Helen had made that clear. Once she had your agreement and assurance it was all cut and dried. It is not for me to interfere in decisions of that nature. They are up to the staff here in consultation with Helen who, of course, has the final say. But you know me Sophie dear! I just wanted to be sure in my own mind that you had not been harried in any way, or felt you had to agree just to please us. Your wellbeing is of course paramount and I just wanted, selfishly, for my own peace of mind, to know that it is something you really want, something for which you feel quite ready.”

“Yes it is indeed. Something I really want, am ready for, Miss Grace.”

“I can see that now dear. Such a weight off my mind! All we have now is a little task for you to perform. A little tradition that has grown up here in the Holding Wing. Nothing too onerous but quite important for some sweet girl's future.”

David tensed. Christ the sting in the tail!

“What we want you to do Sophie dear is to christen your successor here. We do have two recruits standing in the wings as it were. Two new girls who have been carefully prepared, primed to follow in your footsteps. All they need is names. So what do you suggest dear? Just the one, Anne will christen the other.”

It sounded so simple David thought. So simple and yet .... and yet they were involving him. Offloading on to him some of the responsibility. Making him an active participant, sloughing off onto him some of the guilt, however small. Some other man-to-be-girl would have to live with a daily, an hourly, reminder of his decision for the rest of their ....”

“Come Sophie dear,” her voice cut across his thoughts. “What do you suggest? Poor Olive should have chosen a name for you of course, but as the circumstances .....” She hesitated, “.... As that was not possible, I myself chose yours dear, and you have told me often how pleased you are with it, so now you can bestow the same blessing on a new sister.”

David thought wildly. It didn't matter. Don't cross her. Give the man-to-be-girl a name. It can make no difference to whomsoever .... Just give her a name.

“Margaret ... perhaps ..... or Fiona? Or Cecilia or Jaqueline.... or ....”

“Sophie dear, we are not filling a whole gymkhana programme. Just one will be sufficient.”

“Fiona Miss Grace, Fiona, if you think that would be suitable?”

“Eminently so Sophie dear. I can't wait to see her face when I tell her! I am sure she will be delighted. Such a pretty feminine name!”

The smile was all embracing. David felt the tension ebb away.

“Nor run along and get yourself a drink dear. And ask Anne if she would be so good as to step across and join us. And do enjoy this your last evening here.”

The Plymouth gin had rarely tasted so good, the lime caressed by the tonic water's bubbles, seldom blended so refreshingly. He had made it. He had a chance to be fully David again

He had hardly savoured the first mouthful, before Anne was back along side him. Herself all a-bubble with excitement and pleasure. He knew it was too late for her, that she no longer wished to reclaim her previous identity, but he knew too that she needed to move on. That for her also the Finishing Centre offered a closure. A homecoming. And he rejoiced for her.

The euphoria lasted throughout the evening.

Grace de Messembry was not present at the customary party. Only the usual bevy of her 'nephews'. Anne and David had initially been the centre of attention as the rest of the girls congratulated them on their graduation from the Holding Wing. Coralie had recovered herself and she too, whilst professing to be consumed with envy, seemed to be back on an even keel, after being told that she could start a hormone regime. Envy mingled with gratitude as Grace de Messembry had let her know that it was David's advice that had gained her the privilege.

Tomorrow it would all be different David thought. Helen had said that her money was still on him failing to break out of the net, on his eventual acceptance of his butterfly destiny. But deep down his determination burnt and he knew, he just knew, that he could do it. It would not be easy. But with his body free of chemical interference, his spirit could take all that they could throw at it. For however long they chose to do it.

Tomorrow it would all be different.

And so it didn't matter on this his last night at the Holding Wing. It didn't matter when the nephews danced with him, when they held him tight in slow clinches barely moving on the little round dance floor. Didn't matter when their hands slid down his silken dress, over his buttocks, gently feeling his bum cheeks, tracing with insistent fingers the line of his panties. Didn't even matter when their erections were pressed invitingly, promisingly, against his groin, writhing to the music in a slow importunacy.

Because tomorrow it would all be different. Get through this evening. Because it no longer mattered that other men saw him as a desirable female. That other men, although they knew he wasn't, believed him so to be. Their bodies and senses betrayed them. Bodies and senses that were in turn betrayed by him.

So he drank and laughed and chatted to the other girls, exchanging comments about the men. And in an odd way he enjoyed himself. Felt as if he was in control for the first time in months. In control of the men who desired him as a woman. Knew that, in spite of their knowledge of the truth, they wanted to believe in his deception. He was far more powerful than they. He could manipulate their truth.

And of course none of it really mattered, because tomorrow it would all be different.

Notes:

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