Synopsis
A wealthy and beautiful Spanish Countess prepares for a private dinner party with her husband and children at the White House with the President and First Lady. As she arrives, she casts her mind back to a very different life.

Jim, a young boy, is brought up in a deprived and abusive home in London’s East End. Aware of his TS condition, he suffers abuse and humiliation, culminating in a homosexual predator taking advantage of him. Finding himself in jail, undergoing special ‘treatment’ to combat his ‘anger’ problems, the young man finally is abused by the state.

When you hit the bottom, there is only one way to go. And a girl called Jemma decides to go up.

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The Legal Stuff: A Fairy’s Tale  ©2004 Tanya Allan
 
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Permission is granted for it to be copied and read by individuals, and for no other purpose. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited, and may only be posted to free sites with the express permission of the author.
 
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
 
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
 
This is only a story, and it contains adult material, which includes sex and intimate descriptive details pertaining to genitalia. If this is likely to offend, then don’t read it.
 
 

 
Please enjoy.

Tanya
 
 
Prologue
 
 
There was a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

It was Diego, the butler. He took one step into the room and then stood there, immobile.

“Yes Diego, it is time?”

“Si, Condesa, Frank has brought the car round, and is waiting out the front of the house.”

“Gracias, Diego. Is my husband ready?”

“Si Condesa. He is in his study with Carlos.”

“Then I’ll be down directly.”

Diego bowed his head and withdrew, closing my dressing room door gently.

I was seated at my dressing table as I put the finishing touches to my make up. My long blonde hair was up for this evening and the large diamond tiara with matching earrings and necklace had come from the vault especially for this special event. The necklace lay on my breast, as the low cut ice blue silk evening dress exposed more of my ample cleavage than usual. The dress cost me $10,000 on my last visit to New York and it really was exquisite. I slipped on the shoes that had cost me a small fortune in Milan eight weeks ago.

I stared at my reflection, attempting to fault the person who looked back at me. Clarissa had done my nails to perfection, yet again, so I was pleased.

I’m thirty-eight now, yet I thought I looked to be in my early thirties. I still have that cracking hourglass figure I had when Francesco had first met me that day in London. I had been twenty then, but now I had to spend two hours a day in the gym and swim half a mile in our pool before breakfast in order to keep it. I smiled as the mature, beautiful woman smiled back. I winked one eye very slowly, sharing the joke with myself.

“You look fantastic, ma’am,” said my personal assistant, Stephanie.

“Thanks, Stephanie, but what did I say about calling me Jemma?”

The girl reddened slightly but smiled.

She was in her mid-twenties and slightly taller than I was, about five seven, but very slender. She had long brown hair, fashionably styled and was dressed in a fawn skirt with a white blouse. She was strikingly pretty, with very large green eyes.

“I’m sorry, Jemma. I find it so much easier. Otherwise I forget when we’re in company.”

I stood up, picked up my evening bag and wrapped the white fox stole around my shoulders. I walked over to her and gave her a hug.

“Stephanie, my love, you’re family, you know that.”

Returning the hug, the girl smiled.

“I know. You’ve done so much for me, but I still find it awkward.”

“I know, but you know how I hate fancy titles?”

“I know.”

“How’s Frank?” I asked, changing the subject to her husband

“He’s fine.”

“And the kids?”

“There’re with their mother for the holiday. We’ll see them in a week or so, in time for school.”

“Any news about the baby?”

The girl blushed again.

“We passed the vetting procedure, we hope that we will have one in a month or so.”

I smiled. “That’s so exciting. I’m so pleased. It must be like a dream come true after all you’ve been through?”

“It certainly is. I just can’t thank you enough. After all, if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t be here now and I certainly wouldn’t be married to such a lovely man.”

“You are a sweetie. You have no idea how pleased I am at how things have turned out.”

“Thanks.”

“As I said, you’re family now.”

I turned, walking out of the room with her behind me down the large marble staircase to the huge hall below. My stepdaughter was waiting, looking up at me with that lovely smile I’d come to value. She was eighteen and a real Latin beauty. Her gorgeous long hair was almost jet-black, and when her huge brown eyes flashed, she could melt a man’s heart at a hundred paces.

The bright red evening dress she wore was superb, as we had bought it at the same time as mine in New York. Hers was $1000 less expensive. The diamonds she wore were almost as large as mine, so she looked simply ravishing.

“Mama, you look very beautiful, I think,” she said.

“Well, thank you, Chita, but I fear you put me in the shade every time these days. You look absolutely stunning, my dear. Your mother would be so proud of you. I know I am.”

She smiled coyly.

“I hope so. But as you have been my Mama for most my life, I’m pleased you are proud of me.”

“Oh, Chita, you know I am.”

We had a gentle hug, as neither of us wanted to mess our makeup or hair.

Conchita had been only eighteen months old when I had married her father, so she had no memory of her real mother. I had tried to be a good mother to both my stepchildren, and was proud of how they had both turned out. Conchita had graduated from her private school in New England in the summer. I was so proud, as she was going to Oxford in the autumn to read English and dramatic art.

My stepson Carlos, or Chuck as I called him, had just graduated from Harvard with a degree in Business Studies. He was twenty-three now, so had been nearly five when we had married. He wanted to spend some time in the military, but his father had persuaded him to finish his studies first. It had been a shrewd move, as he had met a delightful American girl called Kirsty, to whom he was now engaged to be married, thus, shelving thoughts of joining the army for the time being.

Footsteps sounded to our left as my husband and stepson appeared. Both were wearing evening dress. Francisco, my husband, wore a red sash and several of his orders and decorations. Chuck had a modern-style evening dinner jacket with the high Russian style collar. He was about two inches taller than his father, so at six three, was a very handsome young man. Both were wearing white ties, and Francisco wore his tails with panache.

My dear husband was eighteen years my senior. However, at fifty-six, he still retained his youthful looks. The only hint of ageing was the silver flash above each ear in his otherwise fine head of dark curly hair. His proud Spanish heritage shone through, with his aquiline nose and fine aristocratic features. I love him to bits.

“Jemma, my darling, you look ravishing, as always,” Francisco said, holding out his arm, which I took, kissing his cheek. His accent was almost Queen’s English, with just a hint of Castile. Then, having been educated at Eton, Oxford and then Sandhurst, it was in his breeding and background.

“Is Kirsty going to be there tonight?” I asked my stepson.

He grinned. “Sure, Mama, she’ll be there.”

He had a clear New England accent. Yet a keen ear could just about detect that Spanish accent of his youth. He was broad in the shoulder, having played American football for Harvard. He was a superb example of manhood. The pair of them warmed my heart, no less than had they been my own children.

“  ¡Avance, mi familia, el Presidente espera!” said my husband, and we, the Count and Countess of Valdarez and our two fine children stepped out into the Washington evening sunshine and into the limousine that was to take us to the White House for a private dinner with the President of the United States and a few select guests.

As we entered through the main gates, I smiled, the bars on the gates reminding me of the Young Offenders Institution in which I served eighteen months, many years ago.

Different life, different world and a totally different person.

James Thomas Gardner, the wrong person, in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the body of the wrong gender. Who’d have ever dreamed that one day I would be who I was now?

Not I, for one.
 
 
Part 1
 
 
The Soviet Socialist Republic of Hackney, or in layman’s terms, the London Borough of Hackney, lies to the north east of the City of London. The German bombers devastated it during the Blitz of World War Two.

Gruesome estates rose out of the rubble in the 1950s and followed by the equally gruesome concrete tower blocks of the 1960s. It was to one of the former that I was brought home weighing just over 7lbs in 1956. My mother already had six children, so the three-bedroom flat was over populated even by slum standards.

My father was a dockworker in the London’s docklands, which meant his days in work were numbered. The rise in union power had allowed him a vision of freedom, or a perception of freedom, as he was about as far to the left as one could go. He was hardly a fine example of the socialist dream; an Irish, lapsed Roman Catholic who drank or gambled most of his pay, leaving pennies for my long suffering and far from well mother to bring up seven children.

I had three brothers and three sisters, but my mother had been convinced that I was to be a fourth daughter. I was baptised James Thomas Gardner, and so I began my squalid little existence in that squalid part of the London sprawl.

My early years were actually fine. My brothers and sisters were, for the most part, at school, so I was alone, at home with my mother. My sister Susan tells me that I was a perfect baby, content to simply sit and play quietly, hardly moving from one spot. I rarely cried and was very little trouble.

In 1959, the eldest of my siblings, Kenneth, who was sixteen, was already working in the docks as an apprentice welder. My father, being a stevedore, realised that a skill or trade was the most important thing for a young man to possess. He was only skilled in the loading and unloading of cargo from the huge ships that used the docks and wanted his sons to have the skills to get jobs outside the docks if it came to it.

The next in line, at thirteen, was Terry. He was still at school and my mother had high hopes for him. He was bright; God knows where he got it from, so he was possibly going to stay on after he was sixteen, thereby breaking the family tradition. Then came the twins, Nancy and Carol. At ten, they were a real pain in the proverbial. They were both quite pretty, both blonde and identical in all the worst ways. They made a young boy of three quite miserable, as they used to dress me up as a bloody baby all the time.

John was next, at seven, and he was the real tough nut. He was already at the boxing club and was always coming home bleeding after fighting at school. Lastly, and nearest me in age, was Susan. She was dark, unlike the rest of us, and I always thought she was my mother’s special one. She was five, so was just two years older than I.

We were quite close, so when I was very young we used to play together a lot. Later, it came as a shock to me that I wasn’t supposed to play with dolls and have tea parties. I realised that my mother’s conviction was right, but for the wrong reasons. I should have been a girl. I think I was about four when I realised it properly, but I was somewhat confused for a year or so.

When I was five, I tried to remedy the mistake with scissors and sticky tape. At the hospital, the doctors unfortunately succeeded in saving the parts. I was destined, therefore, to continue being a boy, at least for the immediate future. I never lost the realisation as to what or who I should have been.

School was an utter nightmare. Added to by the fact I was one of the youngest in the year group. The word had yet to be in general use, but Dyslexia was not really part of the educator’s vocabulary. I couldn’t read, so they considered me an educational loser. They called me stupid, thick, dense - and everything else that had similar meanings. Not only that, but also I was small and relatively weak.

Our diet was pretty awful, with my dad and Ken taking the lion’s share as they were working. My portions of food were pitiful. I was undernourished so, as a result, I was a slow developer in every aspect. Not only that, I was dressed almost exclusively in hand-me-downs. Most were the girls’ clothes, as the boys wore theirs out too quickly. I didn’t mind. In fact, one day I was playing in the communal area at the foot of the stairwell with Susan when the postman came past.

“Morning girls, having fun?” he said.

I was so happy, as someone had seen me for what I believed I really was. I adored that postman from that day on.

The 1960s in London was the time of the beatnik and the Teddy boy. Violence was a part of everyday life, and it permeated down the ages to the primary schools. I was beaten up regularly and as a result, my father sent me to boxing club in Hoxton with my brother John.

I hated boxing, as I was forever coming home with a bloody nose or a black eye. I learned to look after myself. I found this out when I first experienced a time of red mist.

I was thrust into the ring with a small boy who was obviously related to a primate group that was so far uncharted by zoologists. Sufficient to say he proceeded to pummel me, and I suppose I just had enough.

I don’t recall the incident, but my brother John, who had the dubious honour of holding my towel, related the incident thus:

“Robbie (the primate) was weighing in to Jimmy, while Jimmy had both gloves up protecting his head. Robbie called him a girl and Jimmy lowered his gloves and stared at Robbie for a second. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he came out flailing indiscriminately with both arms. Two consecutive flails connected with Robbie and down he went. He was counted out by the ref, but Jimmy was unaware and tried to take out the ref.”

I did not make many friends at school, so it seems I was destined for the lowest stream of the low. My reading ability was totally abysmal, but I would take myself off to the local library, and with the help of a lovely lady called Samantha, I slowly learned to read.

Samantha was the daughter of the local vicar of St John’s church in Lower Clapton Road. She worked at the library and took pity on me. That girl was a saint. So it was only thanks to her I managed at least to read a bit.

Commando magazines were popular amongst all the boys at school, and for a shilling¹, one could buy a 50-page booklet with illustrated adventures of the great British soldiers, sailors and airmen against the despicable Jerry and Jap. Most boys could read one in fifteen minutes. It took me all day, but I refused to give up until I had read every word. However, I really preferred my sisters’ magazines, so by the time I was ten it was even more apparent to me that I was very different to other boys.

The local Roman Catholic Church managed to imprint such a guilt complex upon me that I vowed to avoid church for as long as I lived. The black-clad priests and black-hearted nuns terrorised me until I spent many an evening wearing my knees out praying for God to forgive me my thoughts and pleading with him to make me think normal thoughts.

He didn’t, for the thoughts remained, as strong as ever. My prayers changed to wanting to be a girl. I figured that if the thoughts hadn’t been taken away, that is what I should be. I was twelve when I started cross-dressing, which was not an easy task in such a cluttered house as ours. We had moved to a new council house, which had four bedrooms. Ken and the twins had left home. Ken was married and lived just down the road. He was hoping to get a job with Fords at Dagenham as the docks were dying. The Port of London was dying, as the day of the container was dawning and my father had been laid off.

Terry had joined the RAF, even though the Tories abolished National Service. He was training to be a radar technician. And the twins were both due to get married very soon. Carol was already expecting.

I was 13 when 1970 arrived, and the fashions became totally different from the 1960s. The Beatles led the way, hair became longer and clothes became colourful and way-out. Suits and winkle pickers were a thing of the past; while flares and sandals were in. I started to grow my hair and gradually the names started - fairy, fruit, queer, queen, iron (Iron hoof = poof. Cockney rhyming slang) poof, faggot, and many more. The East End was not the place to be anything other than the macho stereotype. There was no doubt that I was effeminate, but I knew that this was because underneath it all I was actually a girl. I may have had the body of a boy, but I had the heart, soul and mind of a girl. The hand-me-downs were still there and I would always choose the girls’ stuff. I was sad that I could not wear the skirts and dresses, at least not outside my bedroom.

By now John, Susan and I were the only siblings left. I was to share a room with John, while Susan had a room to herself. However, although we were in a nice big house, Dad was drunk for much of the time, and would lash out at any one of us.

At the same time, Mum’s health was deteriorating rapidly. She had cancer, but refused to go to the doctor until it was too late. She died when I was fourteen. It was a real blow to me, as I was already terrified of my father. When dad was sober, he was fine, but he was rarely sober. John was eighteen, having already been arrested several times, as had my father, for drunkenness and violence.

The social services were looking at us critically, although I was blissfully unaware of this. John was sentenced to two years for robbery, leaving Susan and me alone with Dad.

My cross dressing was serious now, and I had my own secret cache of girl’s clothes. Susan found me when she returned unexpectedly one day, and far from being surprised, she told me that she had suspected it for years. It became our secret, and she christened me Jemma. She helped with makeup, clothes and everything. One day, when Dad was in the local nick for being drunk, she took me out dressed as Jemma. I had a mini skirt and high heels on, and we had stuffed socks down my bra. It was the best day of my life, until a man groped me at the bus stop. It scared me, yet in a way it excited me. I then started to fantasise about having sex with boys. Having any form of sexual contact with a girl was wholly distasteful, as I told Susan, “I’m not a lesbian!”

In the summer of 1971, I was nearly fifteen, and we went to Southend for a week’s holiday. It seems the social services thought we could do with a break. I had never been on holiday before, and it was the first time I had seen the sea.

I took a few bits of Jemma with me, just in case. Dad would spend most of the time in the pub, so Susan and I were free for much of the time. Then Susan met David.

David was a local lad. His Dad owned the fish and chip shop near our boarding house. He saw Susan coming in a few times, and fancied her. This was hardly surprising, as Sue was a very pretty girl. So he would watch for us and one day he invited her to the pictures. I was happy to let her go, and decided to sit on the front and read. I had a book about Christine Jorgensen, the American Soldier who had a sex change in the 1950s. I was totally captivated by her story and it was as if a door I never knew about was suddenly revealed.

I was sitting on a bench by the beach when I became aware that a man was on the bench next to me. I looked up.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I replied, somewhat guardedly.

“What are you reading?”

I showed him the book, slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, brave woman, it’s a fascinating story,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

He was in his late twenties, I suppose, and was dressed in jeans and a white shirt. He was quite well spoken.

“I have a few books like that at home. Would you like to see them?”

“Like this?”

“Yes, of boys who want to be girls.”

The warning signals should have gone off, but I was too intrigued. It was amazing, as I thought I was the only boy who ever wanted to be a girl. I went with him.

He lived in a nice flat a little way from the beach.

“I thought you were a girl when I first saw you,” he admitted. I did have long fair hair and my jeans were flared and the pink tie-dye tee shirt was hardly butch.

“What is your name?”

“Jim,” I said.

“Hello Jim, I’m Mike,” he said, and then shook my hand.

He gave me some orange squash, and brought a photo album out. He put it on the table by the sofa and I sat next to him. He opened it, and I saw black and white photographs of boys dressed as girls. I got an erection almost immediately.

“Do you like dressing as a girl?” he asked.

I nodded, captivated by the pictures. They were all so pretty, and wore make up and everything.

“Would you like to dress up for me?” he asked.

I looked at him.

“My clothes are at the boarding house,” I said.

He actually looked surprised.

“You dress up as a girl?” he asked.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“I have some here that would fit you,” he said.

He took me into the bedroom, and showed me the clothes. They were fantastic, all frilly and sexy. I was very excited, and it then dawned on me what he was after. I could have run then, but chose not to. I was too interested in what was going to happen.

He left me alone and I dressed for him. I put on a black bra and panties, with stockings and a suspender belt. There was a mini dress, and sexy high-heeled boots. I brushed my hair out and put on some mascara and eyeliner. I glossed my lips and pouted at my reflection.

I tried to wedge my penis between my legs, but it kept springing out, and it annoyed me.

“I can stop it doing that,” Mike said, he was watching me. He was wearing only his shorts and his erection was as evident as mine.

He got onto his knees and put my little cock into his mouth.

I wasn’t long. I ejaculated within seconds and he licked me clean. My cock subsided and he tucked it away in my panties.

He stood up and kissed me, forcing his tongue into my mouth so I tasted what was in his mouth. I found myself hugging him tight, and holding his enormous erection with one hand.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, pushing me onto the bed.

He pulled my panties off, and I opened my legs. He took off his shorts and I stared at his cock. My mind was in a whirl. Everything told me this was wrong. Yet this was what girls did. I had seen this in porn mags, and I wanted so much to be a girl.

“Don’t hurt me,” I said, but wanting him inside me.

He took out a tub of jelly and told me to smear his cock with it. I did and I loved seeing him writhe and hearing him moan as I touched his cock. It gave me a feeling of power over him. It was as if I controlled him, at least for a while. Then he smeared some up my crack, and into my bum. It hurt.

Then he lay on top of me and I held my legs so he could penetrate me. It hurt and I cried out.

“Relax. I’ll go slow,” he said.

It hurt very much, but I did what he said and it was better. Soon he was up to the hilt. And then he started thrusting into me and withdrawing.

“You are a beautiful girl, so beautiful. I love fucking you. You are so tight, so good,” he said as I held his back as he fucked me.

The pain subsided and I started to enjoy the sensation. I felt a warm glow spread over me. I saw there was a mirror on wardrobe door and I watched his bum as he thrust inside me. It looked like he was fucking a girl and I was the girl. My little cock started to get hard again. He was fucking me hard now and it was really nice. Suddenly, he gave a lurch and a grunt, thrusting deep inside me, as we came together. My spunk was all over my suspender belt and I felt him slide out of me.

He kissed me. “That was so nice. Did you like that?” he asked.

I nodded.

He went and wiped himself, picking up a camera and starting to take pictures of me. I rolled onto my tummy, blowing him a kiss. I was a girl, and it was lovely.

He fucked me three times that afternoon and I was so naíve that I thought he loved me. By the end of the week, I was ready to leave home and move in with him. We had fucked every day at least twice and I wanted to be with him forever. I told him this.

“Fuck off! Queer little boys like you are ten a penny on the sea front.”

I had gone to see him before going home. I was standing in his doorway and I could see another boy in girl’s clothes on his couch. There was a window lever on the landing, so I picked it up. I don’t really know why. The red mist came down. The next thing I knew he was lying bleeding at my feet. I ran away, but it was only a matter of time. The Essex Police arrested me, taking me to Southend Police station.

Mike had conveniently lost the photo albums. He was a teacher, and so as such was a respectable member of the community. I had attacked him for no reason and, using a weapon, I had inflicted grievous bodily harm upon him. They charged me with attempted murder, but it was dropped to GBH at the Crown Court.

Surprise! Surprise! There were no other witnesses. Yet I was convicted. I couldn’t tell the truth without telling everyone, including my father, that I was a homosexual catamite.

They kept me in custody for three months on remand, which was in a young offenders’ institution. Being on remand wasn’t too bad, as we could wear our own clothes and even had our own rooms. I kept to myself, and as the turnover was rapid, people never got a chance to make friends or enemies.

When I finally got to court, it sentenced me to two years in a Young Offenders Institution. I said nothing to anyone all the way through. My Dad washed his hands of me. But Susan knew the truth as I told her what really happened just before I was hauled away.

The plain green Ford Transit with bars on the inside took me to the place I was to stay for the next two years. It was 1971 and I was only just fifteen.

From the outside, Garside looked exactly what it was, a place to lock people away. Built by the Victorians to lock up lunatics, it became a prison after the First World War. It had been used during that Great War for soldiers suffering from the after-affects of gas attacks in the trenches. After the last soldier had been discharged, it was used as an over-spill for the London Prisons, later becoming a borstal.

The old gothic Victorian part was hideously functional. Typically Victorian, it let hot air out in winter and stifled in summer. There was a new wing bolted onto the side, constructed in the 1950s and imaginatively called, ‘the New Wing’. It was a red brick monolith, devoid of character and with small soulless windows, heavy with metal bars visible from the outside.

My soul cried out in anguish, yet no one heard!
 
 
Part 2
 
 
“Stand with your feet behind the line!” the warder bawled at me. He shouted, yet I was only a foot away and, apart from the other warder behind the desk, we were alone. I looked down, noticing a faded yellow line painted on the bare floor. I shuffled my feet back so to be behind it.

“Name?”

“Jimmy Gardner.”

WHACK!

Something hard hit me in the ribs. I was winded, but resisted the urge to cry out in pain and surprise. I stumbled forwards, inadvertently stepping over the line.

WHACK!

“Stand behind the line, you ’orrible little runt!”

I staggered behind the silly line again.

“You will use only your surname and you will prefix and suffix each sentence with the word ‘SIR’, do you understand, runt?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Name?”

“Gardner, sir.”

WHACK!

“Uh! Sir, Gardner, sir.”

“Date of birth?”

“Sir, 12th August 1956, sir.”

And so it went on.

“Right, Gardner, strip.”

I stripped everything off, standing, shivering with cold and embarrassment, naked behind the line.

A bored looking man in a white coat and thick black-rimmed spectacles came out and gave me a cursory examination. He treated me like an object, prodding and poking me, occasionally asking me to cough or whether I was in pain. Not that he cared!

“Bend over,” he said, finally.

I complied and felt his breath behind me. He was examining my bum.

“Hmm, queer boy?” he asked.

Red mist time.

When I came round, I was in the infirmary.

“You little bastard. You attacked the doctor,” the medical orderly informed me.

I had broken the good doctor’s spectacles, yet I had a cracked rib and purple bruises all over my body. I had also been unconscious for three hours. They must have been very valuable spectacles.

The next morning, dressed in my ill-fitting new blue uniform, with hairy blue shirt, I was marched into the governor’s office.

“Gardner, sir. Two years for GBH. Attacked Dr Goodson yesterday,” said the warder escorting me.

“Thank you, Mr. Simpson. Is the Doctor alright?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. Now, young Gardner, what am I to do with you?”

I stared at a spot over his head. Frankly, I didn’t care and I was thinking of ways to take my own life.

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk.

“I wonder?” he said.

I stared.

“Mr Simpson, please ask the good doctor to join us. There’s a good chap.”

“Yessir.”

Warder Simpson marched out, returning a few minutes later with the doctor. He stared at me, but kept his distance. I noted sticky tape held the two halves of his spectacles together.

“Ah, John, thanks for coming. I have received this from the Home Office. This case seems to fit the criteria. What do you think?”

The doctor read the document, and nodded.

“If it curbs his violent behaviour, why not?”

“Right, I’ll leave the details up to you,” the governor said and then he turned his attention to me.

“You, young man, must understand that I will not tolerate violence towards any of my staff. Do you understand this?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good. Now, I was going to punish you, but it seems there may be another way. There is a revolutionary new treatment for violent young men, and you will be the first to try it here. You will be given a drug that will stop your violence and calm you down.”

“Sir, no sir.”

“No? You don’t have a choice. You will have the hormone injection every week. Whether you like it or not.”

“Hormone?”

WHACK!

“Sir, hormone, sir?”

“Yes, you will be given oestrogen every week until you calm down.”

I could hardly keep the smile back. That was the female hormone that Christine Jorgensen took to change her gender.

“Sir, yes sir.”

“So I should think. Mr Simpson, take him out.”

“Yessir. Gardner, about turn, quick march. Left right left right.”

He marched me directly to the infirmary. The good doctor used the bluntest needle in his box, jabbing it nastily into my bum.

“Doctor, what is it?” I asked.

“A mixture of androgens and oestrogen. Not really appropriate, but it will calm you down,” he said as he looked at me with something almost resembling pity in his eyes.

I nodded, and then they took me back to the main wing.

The main wing was in the old building and contained convicted prisoners with either a history of violence or long sentences. It consisted of three floors with an open central landing, with eight cells on either side of the landing, on each floor. Each cell had a double bunk and toilet bucket with a lid. There was a table and one chair, despite the fact that two boys shared each cell.

The New Wing contained dormitories where twelve boys were bunked in each room. Only remand and short term, non-violent prisoners went to the New Wing.

Being all under eighteen, the longest sentence any of us got was two years, which for teenagers was a long time. I was the youngest and smallest, but arrived with a violent reputation. They put me in a cell with two bunk beds. An older lad was on the top bunk smoking a cigarette.

He was about six foot and dark. His hair was past his collar. He had a good-looking, but hard face. There was no doubt in my mind that he was here because he probably deserved it. He held himself with an arrogant, self-confident air, as if nothing scared him. I tried to emulate him, but probably looked even more scared. I put on a brave face, but inside I was terrified.

I put my stuff on the lower bunk and sat down. He turned and looked at me.

“You the lad who hit the doc?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“He called me a queer.”

The lad laughed.

“He calls everyone queer when they arrive,” he said, “Smoke?”

He held out the cigarette packet.

Knowing that cigarettes, or ‘snout’, were the main currency inside, I declined.

“I don’t.”

“You will. Wot’s yer name?”

“Jim.”

“Well, Jim, I’m Larry Sparks. Wot you in for?”

“GBH.”

“No shit?”

“It started out as attempted murder, but got dropped to GBH. You?”

“Forgery and deception. Forged my own prescriptions and then some cheques,” he said, grinning as if it was some great feat.

“Oh, when are you due to get out?” I asked.

“Six months, if I’m good, otherwise at least a year. How long did you get?”

“Two years, but I already done three months on remand.”

“You’ll be out in eighteen months. What did you get for hitting the doc?”

“Some drug treatment to calm me down.”

He looked at me.

“You poor bastard. They tried that at Bovingdon and the kid went loopy.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, it was some form of LSD or something.”

“Well they are not giving me that; it’s hormones or something.”

“How old are you?”

“I was fifteen yesterday. You?”

“Seventeen. You poor little bastard. You’ll have to be careful, looking like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like a girl, with the hair and everything.”

“Oh,” I said, rather indifferently.

“There are a few guys here who like pretty boys.”

“So, there are people out there who like them too.”

He looked at me, nodding. I knew what I was and now he had guessed.

“Whatever turns you on,” he said.

“Look, as long as no one interferes with me, I’ll just mind my own business,”

“No such thing in ‘ere. Your business, my business, everyone’s business, it’s all the same.”

“I don’t want no trouble,” I said.

“Trouble has a nasty way of findin’ everybody, sometime.”

I said nothing, as I was fighting not to cry.

“So, got a bird?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Ever had one?”

I stared at him, and with a smile shook my head again. He stared into my eyes and nodded, slowly. Then he lay on his back and blew smoke at the ceiling.

“I got a bird. She is called Marie-Anne.”

“Good for you,” I said and he looked at me again.

“This is going to be a tough place for you?” he said.

“And out there wasn’t? I’ll cope.”

“You ain’t that tough. There are people in ‘ere who’ll eat you alive.”

“Out there wasn’t exactly fun.”

He stared at me again, but then smiled.

“Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you. You need all the friends you can get in ‘ere.”

I could feel the tears welling up behind my eyes, but I was determined not to cry. I think he could see that, so he stood up.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Larry showed me the ropes, and the main ones were who to avoid.

“All the screws are bastards. Don’t trust any of them. The main lags to watch are those on Main wing. Gary Kemsley is in for rape, Mark Lewis for robbery and Karl Hoener, he’s a German kid, and he did over a girl pretty bad. They all have a taste for pretty boys, so watch them.”

“Do they bother you?” I asked.

“Nah, I’m a black belt at Karate. Gary tried to push me around, but I put him in the infirmary. We have an understanding.”

“Could you teach me?”

He looked at me.

“If you want. It’s not easy.”

“I want. I need to be able to protect myself. I accept what I am, but I don’t want to be raped,” I said, brushing my hair back with my hand. I was conscious that many of my mannerisms were feminine, so could be red rags to testosterone-laden bulls in here.

He nodded. “Okay, I’ll teach you, but want do I get in return?”

I smiled and looked at him from under my lashes.

“What do you want? There’s not a lot I can offer. Just what you can see.”

He stared at me, and I could tell he was tempted.

“Shit, that easily?”

I shrugged. “It’s all I have.”

Larry didn’t become my lover that night. It took him three days.

I was in the canteen on the third day, when, having just collected my food tray, I was looking for somewhere to sit. One large boy, I found out later it was Gary, pulled his chair back and showed me his lap. His erect cock was out, and he pointed to it.

“Come and sit here girly-boy,” he said, and the two guys with him laughed. I turned away, noticing Larry watching me.

“I’ll see you in the showers later, darling,” Gary said, as I sat down at a space some distance away.

Larry collected his food and sat next to me.

“Fuck off, Gary. Hands Off,” he said.

Gary stared, then nodded and left shrugging his shoulders.

That night, I was in bed, as Larry was on the upper bunk. I wasn’t asleep. I was trying to work out how to avoid getting raped in the showers. I didn’t sleep very much, at that stage.

Larry swung off his bunk and relieved himself in the bucket provided, closing the lid when he’d finished. He stood there for a second, and I could tell he was watching me in the darkness.

“Shift over,” he said. So smiling, I moved over. I slept in the nude in any case.

He slid in beside me and I reached out and felt that he already had an erection. I was hard as soon as I touched him and he wasn’t as big as Mike, so it hardly hurt. In fact, I enjoyed it much more than with Mike. He was slow and gentle, and I think I got more pleasure than he did. He used some Vaseline, sliding into me really slowly from behind. I felt like a girl when he was inside me, feeling a warm feeling deep in my tummy. I enjoyed being able to please a man. That gave me more pleasure than the physical feelings that the penetration gave me.

The second night he came to me, I made him lie on his back so I knelt astride him. I was able to watch him as he fucked me. On the third night, he actually kissed me and that sent shivers through my whole body.

We were now lovers. He would fuck me most nights and then return to his bunk.

After a couple of weeks, he started to stay with me and we would sleep cuddled together. I began to do little chores to try to make myself pretty for him. I would have liked some make up, but I only had felt pens, so I would redden my lips with them.

It didn’t take the other Main Wing lads long to notice me, but Larry warned them off. It became publicly known that I was his and a sort of peace reigned.

I went to work in the kitchens. Although I washed up miles of plates and peeled millions of potatoes, it wasn’t hard and I almost enjoyed it. My favourite chore was when he got in from the farm where he worked. He had a shower and returned all clean in his towel to the cell. I would dry him off, take his cock in my mouth and suck him to orgasm. I made a point of taking a really long time about it, making him squirm with pleasure until he begged me to bring on his climax.

I loved the feel of his cock as it was just about to ejaculate. It sort of quivered, so I knew he was coming. I always swallowed his spunk and licked him clean. I then liked to kiss him so he could taste himself in my mouth. It turned me on so much.

I settled into the routine, work during the day and then sex at night. Larry was very gentle and loving. In the spare moments, he taught me Karate and I was quick to learn. I actually found a degree of happiness for the first time in my short life. However, I knew that I would only really be completely happy once I was a girl.

It was strange, but I was in no doubt even then, that I would achieve this improbable ambition. How? I had no idea, but I knew that I would.

Every week I would get my injection, so after a few months, I noticed some changes.

My nipples were growing and the area around them was sensitive and tender. I thought I was developing fatty tissue on my bum and hips, and my muscle tone was not as well defined. I was developing a feminine figure and I was thrilled. Although I was acutely aware of the potential risks, once it became too obvious. My voice hadn’t broken in any case and still did not seem to want to do so. Plus, I was still lacking facial and body hair.

The real bonus was that my acne cleared up and my complexion became lovely and soft. I started to learn to sew, making myself some tailored feminine clothes. I even made a miniskirt and matching top out of some old black material. I kept it hidden in the cell and wore it one evening for Larry.

He took one look and fucked me so passionately, that I thought I would die of pleasure. He began to call me ‘Missy’ and I loved it.

I tried to keep the pretence of being masculine, but it became increasingly difficult. My mannerisms, voice and sheer presence was so feminine that it was a real effort to keep concentrating on being as male as possible.

Things came to a head one day, and predictably, in the showers. I used to take my showers either very late, or very early. That way I would avoid the rush and get some peace and quiet. One evening, late, I was in the shower, when I head a voice. It was Gary and the other two. They had towels wrapped round their waists, but when they took them off, their intent was more than obvious.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Larry’s kye-tye,” said Gary.

I was standing, so naturally assumed the ready stance in karate.

“Ach, she sinks ve be avraid of her now she plays silly kung fu games,” said the German, Karl.

The other lad, the big black Mark Lewis, rolled his towel and flicked it, hitting my bum and stinging painfully. Before I could react, they had my arms and Gary’s bad breath was in my face.

“I’m going to have your pretty little arse, Missy, and then my mates are. You’ve been shoving it into our faces for the last two months, so now, you’re gonna to have some real men,” he snarled.

Karl and Mark held me face down against the cold hard tiles. Gary soaped his cock and rammed it into my arse. It hurt, despite the fact I tried to relax and much as I could. He was pounding away, when he suddenly stopped and came out.

He hadn’t come, but my right arm suddenly free. I didn’t think, I just lashed out at whoever was on my left, Karl, I think, and heel palmed his chin with all my strength. He went down hard.

I turned round to see Larry rendering Gary unconscious. Mark had run to his clothes and was returning with a blade.

“Larry, knife!” I shouted, picked up a towel, flicking it at Mark’s head.

It got him in the eye and he screamed, dropping his knife. Larry kicked him very hard in the groin when presented with the opportunity. Mark went down.

“Out of here, now!” Larry said, and I followed him. I grabbed my clothes, dressing while still wet. I noticed I was bleeding from my behind, and it hurt like hell.

The screws arrived after we’d gone and the guys were in front of the governor. They remained silent, as did I. After that, a peace of sorts ruled. They respected me for keeping quiet, but I knew that if I was ever alone, they would exact revenge.

My bum got better, but Larry didn’t fuck me for a few weeks. He didn’t even come to bed with me. I felt dirty and abused. I would cry myself to sleep. Then one night, he came to me again, and was so gentle that I cried for a different reason. I think fell in love with him a little then.

After the first six months, the main antagonists were released, and there were no real threats to me. I was generally accepted as a strange girly boy, as Larry’s reputation protected me. Then Larry was told he had three weeks to go and he seemed to lose interest in me. In fact, he began to distance himself from me. I accepted it and understood. For some people, their life went on hold inside, so they did things that were out of character for them outside. Now that he was going back out, he slowly purged himself of the bad habits he had acquired and I was one of them.

He didn’t touch me and I didn’t ask him to. Finally, the night before he was due to be released, he apologised.

“You don’t need to. I understand,” I said. “You’ve been good to me. I wouldn’t have survived without you.”

He nodded. “Nothing personal, but I’ve a life to pick up,” he said.

It was my turn to nod, but I could not help the tear from sliding down my cheek.

“Oh don’t cry. I never meant for this to happen.”

“This?”

He stared at me.

“Missy, you don’t want a shit like me. You deserve a bloke to love and cherish you. I’m a shit-bag, so I’ll probably be back inside soon.”

“This?” I repeated.

“Missy, I like you a lot. You have brought me tenderness where I never expected it, even love.”

“Love?”

“Yes, you stupid girl, love.”

“Girl?” I asked, smiling.

“You’re more a girl than half the girls I’ve been with, so forget the queer crap. You’ve brought me love and I’ll never forget you.”

We made love for the last time that night, and we wept together afterwards.
 
 
He was gone by 9 am, and I cried.

I reported for work in the kitchens as usual. Returning to a lonely cell, I cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I reported to the doctor as usual, and he said he was not going to give me the injection.

“I think you’re cured now,” he said. I think he was feeling sorry for me and my profound physical changes were frightening him.

I stared at him.

“If you don’t give me that fucking injection, I’ll fucking go for you and I won’t stop until you’re dead,” I screamed.

He gave me the injection.

I had accumulated a little cash through my work, and they sometimes allowed me to buy things at the limited shop inside the prison. Occasionally, a catalogue would be circulated, so postal orders could be purchased and goods sent for. I sent off for some make up, nail varnish, sexy girl’s underwear and a couple of skirts and tops. I even ordered high heel shoes. The screw on mail screening asked me what I wanted them for, so I told him I was in the drama group and needed makeup and costumes. He knew I was lying, yet still passed the order.

“You’ll have to let me see you once you get into costume,” he said, with a strange look. I suddenly twigged. He fancied me! I hadn’t thought about trying my luck with a screw, but now the opportunity presented itself.

“Okay, is that a general viewing you’d be after, or in private?” I said with a flash of eyelashes.

He swallowed and looked around quickly.

“Private?” he said, questioningly.

“I could do with some decent nylon stockings and some perfume,” I said, and he nodded.

I walked away, conscious that he was following me with his eyes. I smiled. It had never occurred to me to use my body to get favours from the screws.

Therefore, I joined the drama group, volunteering for the girl’s parts. Over the next few weeks, I began to wear make up and nail varnish, and even started wearing my altered clothes. I took to tying my shirt front tails under my breasts, and had someone pierce my ears so I could wear earrings. The warders tolerated it, and if I went beyond the bounds, they told me and I backed down.

The screw, whose name was Mr Smith, (yeah, I swear it’s true) found me in the laundry room one day. I was reading a magazine and it was taking up all my concentration as always. I didn’t notice him for a while, and then he thrust a small package into my hands.

“Your order has arrived,” he said.

He stood there as I opened it. In it was makeup, some girls’ underwear, a couple of pairs of nylons, and a surprise, a suspender belt and a crimson basque. There was also a bottle of perfume.

I took out the lipstick and immediately applied it to my lips.

“Well, can I thank you now, or what?” I asked.

Nervously, he shut the door, so I undid his fly.

It was the first of many such rendezvous and my cache of gifts multiplied amazingly after that.

I arranged to stay behind after one rehearsal for a play. I was still dressed in a dress, with all the sexy underwear and made up beautifully. My longhair was flowing and I know I looked good. Mr Smith met me in the dressing room and he locked the door. He was ever so nervous again, as it was well known he was married. His bisexuality was deeply hidden, and I now had him over a barrel, even though he enjoyed having my ass that night!

After one short play, in which I played the lead female, I started getting more attention than I wanted. Now Larry was gone, there were even some fights as to who was going to have me. I saw Mr Smith every week at least once and he started to pay me in cash.

“For your discretion,” he said.

In return, he kept an eye out for any trouble. I knew I wasn’t bullet proof, but I did feel a lot safer.

I told them all that I wasn’t interested and they backed off. Occasionally, I would crave a particular boy who took my fancy and I would let him fuck me. I had a supply of condoms, and insisted they use them. Despite my experience with Larry, I had been reading a good deal, educating myself about sexually transmitted diseases. I was terrified of disease. With the condoms, I felt in control and had a male harem of fifteen good-looking boys that I could dip into whenever I felt like it. They all would give me little presents of sweets and cigarettes.

I still didn’t smoke. I had built up quite a cache of cigarettes to use to get cash and other luxuries. I realised that I was little better than a prostitute. For in return for sexual favours, I would receive luxuries and bartering items, such as cash and cigarettes.

For the first time in my life, I was actually not afraid and I was making the system work for me. I liked the female persona that I had created and nearly everyone called me Missy now. Occasionally there were fights over me and I was probably a real bitch. I enjoyed the attention, as they treated me as someone special.

Mr Smith suddenly left. No reason was given, and in a way it was a shame. I was now relatively wealthy by the standards of the institution and it had been good while it lasted. He was even quite affectionate and treated me with some respect.

One evening I returned from the kitchens to find a young lad in my cell. I had been by myself for several months and had come to like it. I felt mildly annoyed, but realised that my luck would never have lasted forever. I was wearing some mascara and my nails were looking particularly good. My long hair was tied back and I shook it free as I walked in. He stared at me, his mouth hanging open. He was about the same age as I had been when I came a year or so before, and was equally shocked. He was about 5’8”, so was two inches taller than I was.

“Hi, I’m Missy,” I said, taking off my prison issue trousers. I was wearing black silk panties underneath, a last gift from Mr Smith. I took off my shoes and socks. My legs were hairless and my toenails were crimson. I slipped on a skirt and sat at the table, taking out a nail file. I quickly smoothed the nails and looked at him. He hadn’t moved. He was staring at my crimson toenails.

“Do you speak?” I asked.

“You’re a girl?” he said.

“Shh, don’t tell anyone,” I said, smiling.

I took off my hairy blue HMP shirt and he stared at my chest. My breasts were visible now, a firm A cup and swelling, with large nipples and brown surrounding aureoles.

I put on a black padded bra and slipped on a black blouse. The bra gave me the appearance of at least a C cup, and I had a fair cleavage.

I then applied my make up.

“So, what’s your name?” I asked, as the mascara went on.

“Pete,” he managed to stammer, staring at my breasts.

“What you in for?”

“Burglary.”

“How long?”

“Eighteen months.”

“Well, Pete, I hope you manage to relax, otherwise we are going to have a boring time.”

I then picked up a woman’s magazine, and had my daily hour of reading. I still struggled with reading, but made myself do at least an hour a day.

He just gawped at me. I always dressed like this in my cell as it made me feel good. I knew I couldn’t dress like this anywhere else, so it gave me a little spell of being Missy.

I read an article about a man who was given too many female hormones to try to combat violent rages. After five months, his testicles started to shrivel and he was rendered infertile, permanently. He sued the doctors, winning a lot of money.

I wrote my first letter.

I wrote to my sister. I told her everything, and asked her to get me a solicitor who specialised in civil litigation. I saw my way of exacting revenge of the system that was abusing me. My balls had ceased to function ages ago and I was rarely able to experience even a partial erection any more. My cock had shrunk too. So, I was never going to be a real boy again.

I was actually pleased, but they didn’t have to know that.

I addressed the envelope, putting the letter into it. We normally had to submit letters for censorship, but there were ways and means. I took off my skirt and blouse, slipping on my uniform over my bra and panties.

“Come on, Pete, let me show you round,” I said.

I took his arm and gave him a guided tour. Everyone whistled as I passed. Even some of the warders called me Missy these days. I headed for the kitchens where I introduced Pete to the chef supervisor. All the kitchen help were inmates except the head chef or chef supervisor. He was called Ron Clarke and was an elderly retired warrant officer from the Army Catering Corps.

Ron was on his second marriage when he found his pension wasn’t enough, so he had come back to work. He was a kindly old guy in his late fifties. He was over-weight, smoked and drank too much, but over the months, he had built up a soft spot for me. He was one of the first to realise what I was and, apart from Larry, was the first to call me Missy and treat me as a girl. Unlike Mr Smith, there didn’t appear to be any sexual motive for his attitude. He realised what I was and I think he felt very sorry for me. He always treated me with respect, even pity at times.

I started off resenting his pity, but realised that he wasn’t patronising, he just felt I didn’t belong inside, as I wasn’t like the others at all. I initially thought he fancied me, suggesting we go to the storeroom for a quickie. He stared at me as if I’d slapped him and then walked away. He didn’t speak to me for three days, but when he did, he apologised.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been naíve, as I hadn’t realised what they’ve turned you into. You poor soul!”

After that, Ron used to bring me little treats, girls’ magazines, items of makeup or clothes. He also taught me the rudiments of his trade. When it was quiet, he would teach me some cookery skills. In him, I found the father that I’d never had. My drunken bastard didn’t count!

The kitchens became a special place for me, as I had a genuine interest in learning a skill. Reading was hard for me. However, doing things with my hands - that was different! I enjoyed creating, and creating finished dishes from basic ingredients was a challenge. Not that the food was that good or imaginative, but it was still challenging. Trying to feed that many people with the limited budget and types of supplies was hard.

As I breezed in, Pete seemed bemused that everyone accepted my makeup and effeminate manner.

“Hi Missy, how’s things?” Ron asked.

“Ron, darling. This beautiful boy is Pete. He is my new roomie. So be nice to him, there’s a love,” I said.

“Pete, you behave yourself, and don’t be giving my girl any trouble,” Ron said. He was putting his jacket on, just about to get ready to go home.

Pete was completely bemused and simply nodded.

I slipped Ron my letter, which disappeared quickly into his jacket pocket.

Pete looked away when I kissed Ron’s cheek.

“Thanks Ron, you are a love.”

We continued our tour. Returning to the cell, I stripped off my hated uniform, putting on my Chinese wrap. I lay on my bunk, reading my magazine. I adored reading about high society and dreamed of being a duchess or countess. Pete stared at me.

I lowered the magazine and looked at him.

“Look, Pete, I have no designs on your body, unless you’re in the market and can pay for what you see. So, we’ve got to at least try to communicate on the same level, otherwise, it’s going to make time drag something awful. If you want to ask me anything, then ask. But don’t just stand there staring at me.”

“Sorry. But you look like a girl.”

I explained the hormones and that I was changing, regardless of whatever I wanted. I also told him that, sexually, I was attracted to men. So, in more than one way I was a girl.

He began to relax and told me of his experiences. He came from an estate in Harlow, Essex and they had never had any money. He had two sisters and his dad had buggered off after the younger one had been born. He was the eldest, so his mother relied on him a lot. However, she met another man and they all moved in with him. He was a lazy, abusive man who sent Pete’s mother to work as a cleaner while he did nothing, except gamble and drink.

I smiled; we had that in common at least.

The girls never had clothes or anything, so Pete started to break into houses to raid the coin boxes attached to the gas meters. He gave his mother the money to pay for shoes for his sisters and things seemed to be okay. However, there was always a need and one day he got caught.

On the seventh time, he was found in a house of a local magistrate, so he was sent down for eighteen months.

I told him my story and he looked shocked.

“The bastard, and he’s a teacher?”

“Yeah, so guess whose children are not safe?”

“Did you hurt him bad?”

“He had a four inch scar across his face, and I broke his jaw and a tooth. He’s disfigured for life.”

“Would have been better if you had killed him.”

I shrugged.

“How long have you got now?” he asked.

“Eight months for the full sentence, but I should get out in two or three.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know, have a sex change and take my chances in the world. I’m certainly not coming back inside,” I said.

He smiled.

“What?” I asked.

“I never thought I’d be sharing a cell with a girl,” he said.

“You’re sweet, but I’m not quite there yet,” I replied, smiling.

“You are, it is just your body hasn’t quite caught up.”

It almost made me cry, so I turned away.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.

“You didn’t offend me; you just said the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me.”

We got on very well after that. He was not interested in me, sexually, that is, but we became friends.
 
 
Part 3
 
 
Stuart Collins was a neat man, his suit was always pressed and he wore a different shirt and tie each time he came to see me. I noticed things like that.

The governor was a bit wary that I was seeing a solicitor, but he could not stop me, and neither could he force me to tell him why I wanted one so near to my release date.

We sat in a small room, called ‘Solicitor’s interview room’, showing that imagination was not lost on the Prison Service. It had a table and two chairs. I sat opposite him, with a warder outside looking through the glass. He couldn’t hear us, but at no time was I out of his sight.

I deliberately did not wear any make up, jewellery, or female attire. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and tried to look as ordinary as possible.

“I have asked an independent doctor to come and examine you. But certainly, I believe that you have a case. If the medical findings show you are irreparably infertile and chemically castrated by the treatment, regardless of the alleged provocation, the Home Office is guilty of several illegal acts upon you. Your basic human rights have been impinged, as you signed no consent forms.

“I have sought advice on this matter from chambers and one of the top QCs is willing to take this all they way.”

I smiled, a little sadly. I wanted him to be convinced that this was all a terrible thing to happen to me.

“So what can I hope for, not money, but medically?” I asked.

“There is a problem. The doctor I’ve asked to examine you, Dr. Marcus Brown from Barts, is one of the top men in his field. He has been involved in the development of sex reorientation surgery over the last few years and he tells me that if you have been rendered useless as a male, then there are only a couple of options.

“One, they can give you testosterone boosts, but this may never bring you sexually back to being an active male, but you will have the appearance and outward signs of a male. So your build and voice will be more masculine. If you’ve any breast development, then that can’t be reversed, so you’ll have to have a mastectomy.

“Two, you can insist that they finish what they started and demand that a full sex change be conducted, at least giving you some form of normal existence. It’s really up to you.”

“You mean I’ll never father a child?” I asked, even managing to squeeze a tear out, but inside I was screaming, ‘Yippee.’

“I don’t know, but if you have been on the hormones for as long as you say, then in all probability, no. I’m sorry.”

I looked down, so he could not see my grin.

There was a knock on the door.

It was Mr Simpson, the warder I particularly loathed since he beat me up on that first day.

“Mr Collins, a Doctor Brown is here. The Governor has had him shown to the infirmary. I am to take you and Mr Gardner to him now.”

Mr Gardner. Normally he called me, ‘the little Queer.’

The examination was the most thorough I had ever experienced, particularly the rectal examination.

“Have you had anal sex?”

“I was raped in the showers several months ago, why?”

“That would explain it. You have scar tissue here, which would indicate forced penetration. Have you reported it?”

“Don’t be stupid, how long do you think I’d have lasted if I had?”

He looked at me.

“My God, I never realised. You poor child.”

“You’ve no fucking idea what it is like in here, have you?” I asked.

“No, perhaps it’s time the world did.”

“Don’t be naíve, doc, the world doesn’t give a shit. We’re the scum. Innocent or guilty, we’re the scum of the earth.”

I then told him why I was here, I told him about Mike, however, I insinuated that I was tricked and repeatedly raped, being blackmailed into allowing it. I told him about my attack on the doctor, who was just outside the door. He was amazed and very shocked.

He finished his examination.

“Well?” I asked.

“My findings will be made known to your solicitor. But I can confirm that you have been the victim of state sponsored torture. I will do my damnedest to see justice is done and that you receive some compensation. Though, no amount of money will ever make good what they have done to you.”

A screw took me back to my cell and life went on.

One day, I was working in the kitchen, when a screw came to fetch me.

“Gardner, Governor, now,” he said, so I was taken up to his office.

As I stood in front of his desk, I could tell he was an unhappy man.

“I have been informed by the Home Office that you are taking me and the prison service to court. You would have been out of here next month. However, now it looks like you will have to stay for your full term. Unless of course you wish to drop this silliness.”

“Sir, may I speak to my solicitor, please sir?”

He stared at me.

“No, you may not.”

“Sir, please record your refusal to allow me my rights, sir.”

He started to shake, and I knew I had him.

“You little shit. How dare you sue me? I have been scrupulously fair to you, so tell me, why?”

“Sir, go fuck yourself. Sir.”

He went red in the face and slapped the desk with his hands.

“How dare you speak to me like that? For that insolence I am refusing your release any earlier. You will stay here for your full term, do you understand?”

For the first time, I stared at him, right in the eyes, and he looked worried.

“You do what the fuck you like. Do you think I care? You pathetic little creep. I have you fair and square and as soon as my solicitor hears about this little exchange, then that will be an extra ten grand and you can kiss your precious pension goodbye. So, kiss my ass.”

I turned and walked out. He was screaming for me to come back in, but I just left him alone. I went straight to the pay phone in the hall. A warder was standing by it and he tried to stop me. I just looked at him.

“Can you afford to lose your pension, too?” I asked.

He frowned, turned and walked away.

I called my solicitor, told him what had happened and left him to deal with things.

Things happened very quickly. A Home Office Inspector of Prisons arrived, suspending the governor on full pay, pending an enquiry and the doctor was replaced. The tabloids got wind of a scandal and my case was instantly reviewed. I was informed that I was to be released in three weeks.

I panicked.

What the hell would I do?

Things tightened down as tensions became high inside. Rumours were rife. In a short time everyone knew that I was suing the Prison Service. Lads who had never spoken to me now became aware that I had been forced to take hormones. Nearly everyone openly supported me, even those who didn’t like what I was.

It hit the newspapers. There were no real specifics, as because of my age they were legally bound to leave my personal details out. The Home Office announced that all drug therapy for anger management in prisons was suspended.

The replacement governor called for me.

Mr Collins and the doctor who had examined me were there, as were a man from the Home office and a man who was introduced to me as my barrister.

We sat in a small conference room with the man from the Home Office chaired the meeting.

“The purpose of this meeting is to try to offset the expensive and embarrassing option of a lengthy court case. So quite simply, I will make you an offer which I hope will compensate your client. But I should make it clear that in doing so the Home Office in no way accepts liability or any wrongdoing, but makes the offer in good faith to avoid disorder in Her Majesty’s Prisons.”

I looked at the barrister. He simply sat there, twiddling his thumbs.

“The Home Office is prepared to pay your client the sum of ten thousand pounds.”

That was a fucking fortune.

My barrister simply stood up.

“See you in court,” he said and made to leave.

“Mr Carmichael, be reasonable, please. We are only thinking of your client. This is a considerable sum and this way he may be spared the indignity of having the details splashed across the newspapers.”

“Mr Robinson, my client will be happy to spread this iniquitous story across the papers. Indeed, I am instructed that a full press conference is planned when he is released. For a start, there is a good chance that this story will be worth a fortune for him. Secondly, we will not consider any figure below one million pounds as an out of court settlement, together with full surgical restorative procedures to render my client in as near normal physical state as he requires.”

They were standing across the mahogany table from each other and I was captivated. It was so exciting.

“Fifty thousand and the medical procedures.”

“I am sorry, the sum is not negotiable. One Million, or we go to court.”

“I am not authorised to offer that amount.”

“Then we are all wasting our time. I suggest that the Home Office find someone who is authorised to negotiate. Good day.”

Mr Carmichael nodded to me and walked out.

Mr Robinson stood there, looking pained. He had hoped to avoid court, but one million. I gasped. I was aware that the solicitor and barrister would take a fair slice, but the surgery - that was what I was after. The money was a bonus.

In a side room, Mr Collins told me that he had arranged for me to stay with a family in Windsor. He advised me to change my name by deed poll as soon as possible and keep my head down. I asked him about the doctor’s report. The doctor, who had been sitting in silence up to that point, let me know where I stood in no uncertain terms.

“I am afraid it is not good news. You’ve been totally emasculated, so there is nothing left to recover. You are, I’m afraid, no longer a functioning male. I am stunned that this has been allowed to happen in this country in this day and age. I shall do whatever I can to ensure that this is taken to the highest authority.”

Where does that leave me?” I asked.

“You have to consider the two options I gave you last time I was here,” Mr Collins said.

I looked down, some choice.

I pretended to give in some thought.

“Mr Collins, I have no desire to be a pretend person, male or female. I have been feeling very odd in recent months, and I now identify myself more as a girl than as a boy. If I go to being a man, then I will be a pretend man, but if I become a girl, then I can lead a fully normal life except for having children.

“I’ve thought about little else, so I’ve decided that I want a full life. I’d prefer to be a girl, as I was crap at being a boy.”

He nodded and smiled.

“I thought you might, as it’s hard to see you as a boy, as everything about you is so feminine. But it will not be an easy road. You’ll get a lot of stick from the press and life could become very hard. Notwithstanding the surgery, which is extensive and painful.”

The doctor nodded his agreement with that part.

“I’m prepared for that. My life has hardly been a bed of roses so far,” I admitted and both men smiled.

The solicitor collected up his papers, putting them in the briefcase.

“Would you like me to arrange the change of name for you?”

“Possibly.”

“What do you want to be called?”

I smiled, I had thought about this too.

“Jemma Yvette Adams.”

“Why Adams, the Jemma I can understand, but Adams?”

“Adam was the first man and from his rib Eve was made. Well, it is kind of symbolic for me. Also, I want to be at the top of lists, instead of being half way down.”

He laughed.

“I’ll set that in motion. I’ve brought deed poll form. If you sign it, I will complete it and submit it on your behalf.”

“Can I think about it, and do it later?”

“Why?”

“Well, deed polls are open and one can leave a record. I want to try to disappear, so as to leave no trace of my past. So the fewer people who know about this, the better my chances of starting a completely new life.”

“I understand, but it will be bloody hard to just disappear.”

“I realise that. But I want to keep my options open.”

He smiled, at stood up to leave.

“Mr Collins?”

“What?”

“Will they settle?”

“Mr Carmichael thinks they will, but we’ll be asked to sign a non-publicity agreement. They have an awful lot to lose, as the judgement will open a floodgate. So it will be cheaper for them to settle out of court.”

“What, a million quid?”

“Yes, even that. The cost would take any award over that in any case.”

I was stunned.

I went back to my cell and found Pete was anxious for me.

“Are you okay?”

I smiled, as he was becoming quite fond of me, despite our platonic relationship.

“Fine, I was offered fifty thousand and a sex change.”

“Did you take it?”

“No, my barrister is holding out for a million.”

“A million quid. Fucking hell!”

“That’s what I thought, but I’m out of here in any case.”

“What will you do?”

“Take one day at a time.”
 
 
The three weeks dragged, but I noticed that my standing inside had changed. Having been considered a bit of a deviant, I was now patted on the back and was generally popular. I had not worn my makeup or female attire for ages, but my body was still changing.

My breasts were a good 34B, and I had a very narrow waist. But my bum and legs were the most feminine features. I ached to be a real girl, and knew that it was now just a matter of time. I had an appointment with the same doctor, Dr Brown, as soon as they released me. He would get things in motion. It all depended on the Home Office. Mr Collins told me that delays were not to their advantage.

The day came, a Monday, so I got up on my last morning feeling very nervous. I had been inside for nearly eighteen months. I was now sixteen and it was February 1973. I had breakfast, experiencing conflicting emotions. Although I hated this place with a passion as they had shut me away from the world, this place had protected me, after a fashion. It had also helped me to discover who I was and enabled me to educate myself a little through reading. It was a very different thing being free and I didn’t know if I was prepared for freedom.

Old Ron Clarke gave me a big hug and told me to come and visit him anytime. I burst into tears and promised I would, but I knew I probably would never see him again.

I went back to my cell where I collected my personal stuff. I then went to the office to have my release papers signed. The screw looked miserable and hardly spoke to me. He gave me an envelope with  £156.50p back pay and the clothes I had worn when I came in. I put the money in my bag with all my makeup, clothes and few personal belongings. I had managed to save  £300 that Mr Smith had given me for sexual favours.

I dressed in my jeans and tee shirt which hardly fitted me any more. The jeans were far too tight in the bum, and yet the waist was loose. I slung on my old green parka with the fake fur round the hood. I handed back the hated uniform and walked out.

My father had not even written to me and I had not had any visits from anyone. Susan was now engaged to Dave from the chip shop, but she didn’t want to advertise she had two brothers in prison. John was now in Brixton for armed robbery, with eight more years to do. I had lost track of the others; however, I knew Dad was very ill.

As I walked across the courtyard towards the gate, there were shouts and whistles coming from every window in the place, so I turned and blew them all a kiss. A huge cheer rose and I almost cried again, the hormones were a real sod. This bloody place was the nearest place I had ever had to home. I approached the big gate and the screw opened the small door.

“Good luck,” he said.

I stopped. “Can you pass a message on to Mr Simpson for me?”

“Sure.”

“Tell him he was a first class shit and I hope he gets raging piles,” I said, walking through the gate to the open air.

There was a ladies toilet in the archway for visitors who might get caught short whilst waiting to gain entry to see their loved ones. I went in and dressed in a skirt and top, tights and high heel shoes. I let my hair down, put my makeup on, did my nails and walked out without looking back.
 
 
I left James Thomas Gardner behind in that toilet. He was never to see the light of day again.
 
¹ In those days, twelve pennies made a shilling and twenty shillings made a pound. Now, with decimalisation in 1969, one hundred pennies to the pound, so a shilling would be five new pence.

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To Be Continued...